The undercroft was already filling up. As he walked down the center aisle beside the line of posts, Rory tried to make a rough headcount: he estimated that there were chairs and benches for at least three hundred people, as well as some standing room at the back. Perhaps two thirds of the seats had already been taken. He found a chair near the front at the end of a row.
Nobody was on the platform. A microphone had been set up on the table. A man who could throw his voice wouldn’t really need a public address system here. But Rory remembered the political meetings he had attended in India, and how an amplified voice had power over those that were not amplified. You had to hand it to the Fascists-they knew how to organize a meeting.
Two tall Blackshirts marched down the center aisle holding what Rory assumed to be poles. Behind them came a third, who was even taller. It was Marcus Langstone. The three men climbed onto the stage. Not just poles, Rory thought-flagstaffs. They set up the two flags in a cast-iron stand behind the central chair. On the left was the British Union’s symbol; on the right was the Union Jack.
Fimberry bustled through the crowd, rubbing his hands together and smiling at no one in particular. He caught sight of Rory. “Hello, Wentwood!” he said in a high, slightly tremulous voice. “Already taking notes, I see.”
Rory nodded. Langstone turned around. His eyes swept from Fimberry to Rory at the end of his row. Rory bent his head over his notepad and pretended to write. Sweat pricked along his hair-line.
No time to think, which was probably just as well. Lydia came through the wicket from Bleeding Heart Square and almost immediately turned right into the little forecourt in front of the chapel. The door to the cloister was ajar. She pushed it open.
Soft, gray light filtered through the line of windows on the left-hand side. Two tall men were standing near the door to the undercroft. Nobody else was in sight. She walked rapidly along the cloister, her heels tapping on the flags.
The men straightened up. They were standing either side of the steps leading down to the undercroft door, which was closed. Their black tunics made them look sinister but the first thing Lydia noticed was how young they were. One of them had plump, pink cheeks and pale, straight hair like straw. He looked as if he belonged in a ploughboy’s smock. The other was smaller and darker, with bow legs and a wizened face like a monkey’s.
“Good afternoon,” Lydia said. “I presume this is where the meeting is?”
“Sorry, madam,” said the smaller Blackshirt. “You can’t go in at present.”
“Why ever not?”
“Sir Rex’s speaking. If you care to wait for the interval-”
“I don’t care to wait at all.” Lydia threw back her head and thought: How would Mother handle this? “Do you know who I am, young man?”
“Madam, my orders are-”
“Mr. Langstone is my husband,” Lydia said imperiously, raising her voice and hearing it resonating down the corridor, bouncing off the stones. “And Sir Rex is a close personal friend. Please open that door immediately, or I shall have to take your names.”
It was the ploughboy who wilted first. Then the monkey said, “All right, madam. But you will be as quiet as possible, won’t you?”
“I don’t think I need your advice on how to behave,” Lydia said. “Do you?”
The smaller man lifted the latch of the door with infinite care and pushed it open. Lydia went down the steps. Rex Fisher’s amplified voice swept out to meet her.
“Dozens of you men here today will have fought in the war, as did many members of the British Union. Neither we nor you have forgotten the lessons we learned in those dark days when we stood shoulder to shoulder together against the foe.”
The door closed behind her. Lydia paused for a moment on the last step. The undercroft was full of people. She took in the tables on the left, the crowd standing at the back, the packed seats in the body of the undercroft and the dais at the end.
Five chairs behind the table on the platform were now occupied. Marcus was on the far left. Sir Rex was in the middle. He was on his feet, with his hands planted on the table. His eyes traveled around the hall, capturing his audience. She hoped he hadn’t seen her.
“And what have we seen since the war?” he was saying. “I will tell you the sad and shameful truth. We have seen a succession of fumbling and inconsistent British governments composed of old men who learned their trade, in so far as they learned anything at all, when Queen Victoria was on the throne. Under their bungling direction, we have seen this country’s influence gradually diminish in the world. We have seen great cracks opening up in our empire; and our empire should be not only our greatest glory but also our greatest safeguard, both politically and economically. It is no coincidence that at the same time Britain’s economy has plunged further and further into gloom. We have seen the country paralyzed by a general strike fomented by foreign agitators. Our economy has been blighted by a depression that was entirely avoidable. Yes, I emphasize that word-avoidable.”
By now Lydia had mingled with the crowd. She had turned up the collar of her coat and she wore a scarf over her head. It was a pity there were not more women here. She couldn’t help but stand out.
Fisher paused. “However, one politician has been neither fumbling nor inconsistent. One politician has come forward to offer clear and effective leadership. As early as February 1930, the British Union’s leader, Sir Oswald Mosley, who was then in the government as Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, produced a memorandum for his colleagues. It outlined a comprehensive policy which, had the government had the guts to adopt it, would have reversed this downward trend and brought the country to unparalleled levels of prosperity. We must protect our home markets, Sir Oswald said-and the only way to do that, both then and now, is by the introduction of tariffs to regulate trade. We must control the banks to promote investment. Nor can we allow agriculture to languish, Sir Oswald pointed out, because we shall always need to feed ourselves. The government must create jobs with road-building and other projects that will in time have the further benefit of enabling our economy to function more efficiently than ever. And what of our industries? We cannot do without them. Yet they are still run on piecemeal nineteenth-century principles. The government must give a firm lead. That, after all, is what governments are for.”
Lydia sheltered behind a tall man in a black overcoat and hat.
“Our great industries,” Fisher continued, “because of this lack of direction, have failed to take account of the changes in science and technology so they can no longer compete effectively with the industries of countries that have modernized more quickly and more effectively. The solution is in our own hands. The British Empire is the greatest empire the world has ever seen. We have the means of production; we have the raw materials; we have the expertise; we have the dogged determination and courage-and of course we have the markets as well. This country and its empire can and should stand alone. That is where our future economic prosperity must lie.”
Lydia glanced around her. Unfortunately she couldn’t see Rory. But she accidentally caught the eye of Mr. Smethwick, standing near the tea urns, who immediately looked away.
“Since the war,” Fisher was now saying, “one government after another has led us deeper and deeper into the mire by promoting the import of foreign goods. They have allowed the big City financiers to feather their own nests by making loans to foreign countries, thereby damaging British manufacturing and British agriculture. As Sir Oswald has said, and I quote, ‘These are alien hands which too long have held their strangle grip on the life of this country and dominate not only the Conservative Party but the Socialist Party as well.’ There’s one thing you can trust the British Union to do when we come to power: we shall not allow aliens”-he paused, laying stress on the last word-“to dictate economic policy for selfish reasons of their own.”