There was a spattering of applause among the audience. The tall man in front of Lydia muttered something under his breath and stirred as though he wanted to scratch.
“Fascism can provide the answers. Not Fascism as it flourishes in Germany or in Italy-but a truly British Fascism adapted to our native genius. A Fascist government will be a strong government. But it will be first and foremost a British government presided over by His Majesty the King.”
“What about Parliament?” a voice cried somewhere near the front of the hall.
“I’m glad you mentioned that, sir,” Fisher said urbanely. “All governments work with Parliament, and we shall be no exception. However, under our system government departments will consult the various economic influences, whether employers, workers or consumers, and then determine what is best suited to the country as a whole. We shall set targets for output, wages, prices and profits within each industry. It is the only way to develop a coordinated and fully efficient economy. Parliament will play an important role in this, and so of course will the monarch. I cannot emphasize enough that Fascists are, above all, loyal subjects of the Crown.”
“What about the Jews then?” somebody else shouted.
Fisher ignored this. “We were talking of the war a moment ago. We live not only under the shadow of the last war, but under the shadow of a future war, into which our present government may lead us through its blundering and inadequate policies. The British Union of Fascists has a domestic program that does not depend on preparing for war. Our foreign policy is based on the maintenance of peace.”
There was more applause, this time louder and more prolonged.
“Make no mistake, with a Fascist government, this country will be stronger and more formidable than ever on the world stage. But we will be an international force for peace. We know too well, as you do, the folly of war. We know too that prosperity depends on the maintenance of peace. In the second half of this meeting I propose to deal in more detail with how the British Union intends to regulate the distributive trade by coordinating competition and controlling what is sold and by whom, through a distributive trades corporation that would issue licenses, a system that would prevent both the growth of too many suppliers of a particular sort of goods in any one area, and also the unhealthy dominance of large retailers. We shall insist too, as part of the terms of the licensing, that retail outlets deal in British goods. Alien combines will be closed down and their retailing operations will be redistributed to private traders or cooperatives. Moreover, a cooperative central buying organization would allow small shopkeepers to take advantage of low wholesale prices through bulk purchases. It would also provide a safety net in the event of bankruptcy.”
This led to more applause and even a few scattered hurrahs. A man at the back of the hall called out, “But what about the Jews?”
“British Fascism is the only British political party that takes a firm, clear line on aliens,” announced Fisher’s calm, patrician voice. “Britain should be for the British.”
“You’re just like the Nazis, are you?” shouted the tall man in front of Lydia. “Is that what you mean?”
At that moment, in the silence that followed the question, Lydia realized that the man in front of her was Mr. Goldman from Hatton Garden.
“We have no quarrel with those of Jewish blood per se,” Fisher said.
“Your Mr. Joyce says, and these are his very words: ‘I don’t regard the Jews as a class, I regard them as a privileged misfortune.’ That was in January. Your Mosley says that Fascism has accepted the challenge of Jewry. What challenge?”
“Thank you, sir. The British Union requires the Jews, as we require everyone else, to put the interests of Britain first.”
“And your Mr. A. K. Chesterton said-”
“That will be all, thank you,” Fisher said. “You seem to have forgotten that I am addressing this meeting, sir. It’s time for you to return to Jerusalem. See the gentleman out, please.”
An eddy rippled through the standing crowd as three Blackshirts pushed their way toward Mr. Goldman.
“Answer the question, sir,” somebody else shouted. “What challenge do the Jews pose? Are you aware that-”
“I’m aware that another gentleman would like to leave,” Fisher said. “To return to the matter in hand-”
“Do you realize that in Germany-”
The question ended in a gasp, as if someone had hit the questioner. At least a dozen people were shouting now and fighting was breaking out sporadically throughout the audience. Lydia watched in a daze as Fisher beckoned to a young man at the end of the platform and murmured something in his ear.
The Blackshirts reached Mr. Goldman. Two of them grabbed him by the arms. The third man put his head in an armlock.
Lydia snapped out of her trance. “You stop that!” she shouted, and kicked the man as hard as she could in his calf.
He looked at her, open-mouthed in astonishment. “Here,” he said, not relaxing the armlock, “you can’t do that.”
“Why not?” Lydia asked, and kicked him in the other leg.
The Blackshirts began to drag Goldman toward the door to the cloister. Suddenly the public address system burst into life. “Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1” boomed through the undercroft. Marcus was advancing into the audience with a couple of Blackshirts behind him. He pointed to his right. Lydia followed his finger and saw Rory, notebook in hand, in the act of standing up.
Behind her, one of the urns toppled off its table and somebody shouted, “Watch out! The water’s bloody boiling!” The table itself went over with a clatter, and crockery smashed on the stone floor. “Pomp and Circumstance” pursued its stately course, a serene and triumphal counterpoint to the racket.
They hauled Goldman onto the short flight of steps up to the cloister. He lost his hat and his overcoat was ripped down the back. Three respectable-looking middle-aged men, none of them in Blackshirt uniform, shouted in unison, “Jew out, Jew out.” They looked like a trio of tobacconists or ironmongers on an outing, determined to extract the utmost fun from the occasion.
A large blond man in ridiculously wide Oxford bags took a swing at one of the Blackshirts manhandling Mr. Goldman. The blow missed and the Blackshirt punched his attacker in the mouth, knocking off his glasses. The man reeled back, a hand to his mouth and blood seeping through his fingers.
“Jew out, Jew out.”
A small woman slipped under the blond man’s arm and punched the advancing Blackshirt in the testicles. He screamed and doubled up. The scream was high and loud and so like an animal’s that it shocked everyone except Elgar into a moment’s silence.
Lydia felt a momentary but painful twinge of jealousy. The woman was Fenella Kensley.
The noise began again. Mr. Goldman’s attendant Blackshirts turned aside to deal with the blond man, Fenella and a couple of other men who had come to their support. Taking advantage of their absence, Lydia ran across to Mr. Goldman and helped him to his feet. He groaned and swayed.
“Quick,” she urged. “We’ve got to get out.”
Linked together, they staggered down the cloister. The blond man ran after them, and took Mr. Goldman’s other arm. Fenella followed them. Mr. Goldman was flagging badly. At the door to the chapel forecourt, Lydia glanced back over her shoulder. Marcus had come up the steps from the undercroft. He saw her: his face was white and twisted, a stranger’s.
“The house over the road,” Lydia snapped. “I’ve got a key.”
They half-dragged, half-carried Mr. Goldman between Fisher’s car and the black van, both of which were empty and unguarded, over the road to the doorway of number forty-eight. Lydia dug into the pocket of her coat and pulled out the latchkey. Her hand was shaking so much that she couldn’t get it in the lock at her first attempt. The second attempt succeeded. The door opened into the high, musty hallway, with the dark linoleum stretching away to the stairs.