The Year of the Ladybird (8 page)

‘It’s the mad scientists,’ said the boy in the back with bad teeth, ‘puttin’ ice seeds in the clouds.’

‘Oh fuck off with that,’ Colin said, and he snapped off the radio.

After he’d put another few miles on the clock, without taking his eyes off the road Colin said, ‘Where from?’

It took me a couple of seconds to realise he was asking me a question. I hardly finished answering him before he asked me another question.

‘What’s yer Dad do?’

I told him about Ken’s building business.

He sniffed noisily. ‘Movver work?’

‘No.’

He had an odd style of driving, tucking his chin into his chest and looking up from under his brow. It reminded me of a boxer’s defensive stance. We drove through the Lincolnshire
countryside with all the windows of the Minx wound down. The land was dusty and parched and we occasionally passed roadside signs: Danger You Are Entering A Drought Area Conserve Water. But somehow
it didn’t concern me and I had faith that every natural order would soon be restored.

Eventually we drew up at a pub with a thatched roof. It was called The Fighting Cocks and it had a lovely beer garden with a tall slide and a play area for children. Though there was no breath
of wind to move the flag, a smart Union Jack hung from a freshly painted white pole. A number of cars were drawn up in the car park but Colin stopped at the entrance.

‘Out,’ said Colin. ‘See you inside.’ I made to open the door but Colin put his leathery hand on my arm. ‘Not you.’

The other two lads got out as directed and hurried into the pub. I noticed that they were both wearing highly-polished Doc Marten lace-up boots. Even though it was ridiculous footwear in this
heat it made me feel exposed in my open-toed sandals. My stomach fluttered. Colin eased into the car park at the back of the pub where a steward beckoned him into a reserved space. Two tall and
rather impressive men in dark suits were leaning next to a highly polished Bentley. They were exchanging a few words and both were smoking cigars.

We got out of the car and Colin walked over to the smoking men. I assumed I should follow. Colin shook hands with each of them in turn. If they noticed me loitering in the background they
didn’t show it.

One of the men, completely bald and with a very thick neck, said, ‘Mills has cried off.’

‘Oh the cunt,’ Colin said.

‘About two hours ago, what do you think of that?’ said the second man. Unlike his colleague he had a thick head of black hair, swept back and fixed with Brylcreem.

‘That’s what happens,’ the thick-necked man said, ‘when you give people like that the opportunity.’

Colin rolled his neck as if to relieve some muscle stress. ‘Tony here?’

‘He’s in the pub,’ the second man said. ‘But he says he don’t want to do it.’

‘He’ll do it,’ Colin said. ‘He’ll warm ’em up til Carter gets here. No worries.’

At last the bald man acknowledged my dithering presence. ‘Who’s this then?’

‘This is David,’ Colin said, ‘Student. Just here to take a look at us.’

The man held out his hand and gave me a warm handshake. ‘Good to have you here, David. I’m Norman Prosser and you are very welcome amongst us. Student, are you? Well, good for you,
lad. We need more students. You see, we need to get amongst the students and explain properly what we are about.’ He took a step back and looked me up and down. ‘If Colin spotted you,
you must be all right. You look smart, handsome and you look the part.’

What
part
I was supposed to look in my T-shirt and sandals I had no idea. But then the second man with the oiled hair stepped forward and gave me a very firm handshake – too hard
– and told me his name. ‘John Talbot.’ Though he didn’t say any more, he looked hard into my eyes as if to prove some kind of a point.

We went into the pub and, as I blinked into the darkness of the bar after the brilliant light outside, I felt Norman Prosser’s hand in the small of my back gently steering me. ‘Now
let’s buy you a drink, young man. What will it be? A fine single malt or a pint of ale?’ He spoke like he’d already adopted me. ‘And you just remember the name Norman
Prosser and you come to me for anything, you understand? Any problem, however big or small, come to me. Because once you’re in our circle we look after each other.’

Colin, crowding me on the other side, winked at me. I had no idea what the wink meant. It did nothing to put me at ease.

‘Can I be honest with you, David, can I? Do you want a cigar by the way?’

‘Thanks, I don’t smoke.’

I was given a pint of bitter and a glass of malt whisky, even though I hadn’t asked for the latter.

‘The truth is we don’t get as many students as we’d like. This is because we get a very bad press. Those newspaper people, they hate the working classes and they want to keep
them down. So they misrepresent us over and over. But we do want to get amongst the students, so I’d like to get your views. But not now because I’m going
through
.’ Prosser
nodded to his left and gathered up his own beer and whisky. His cigar he left smoking in the ashtray on the bar.

I glanced around. The pub wasn’t busy. A few elderly couples were enjoying a lunchtime drink and chicken-in-wicker-basket type meals; a pair of young lovers holding hands and flirting,
oblivious to the world. I couldn’t see anything distinctive about the place.

‘Bring those,’ Colin said, ‘we’re in the pavilion at the back.’

I picked up my drinks and he led me through an echoing corridor that ran behind the bar. We passed into a large concert-type room illuminated by harsh electric strip lighting and there it was
immediately apparent as to where I’d been brought. Though I think I’d already guessed; I just hadn’t wanted to be right. Because Tony had been the source of the original
invitation, part of me still clung to some preposterous idea that I’d been brought to an exclusive entertainment-business elite; perhaps a meeting of the Magic Circle; or even an afternoon
strip-club.

Well, there were no strippers on show. The entire room was decked in the flags of the British union: the same flag that looked so cheerful and harmless and reassuring hanging from a painted pole
outside the pub. Every inch of wall space was draped with the red, white and blue. At one end of the room was a platform with tables and a microphone at the ready. These tables were draped instead
with the white background and red cross of the flag of St George. The wall immediately behind the platform was also decorated with the flag of St George.

About sixty or seventy plastic chairs were drawn up in neat rows before the platform and most of these were already occupied, mainly by middle-aged males, many of whom wore a collar and tie on
this hottest of days, but there was a fair scattering of women there too. In some of the seats but also patrolling the room were a number of young skinheads in bomber jackets and high-laced Doc
Marten boots. They had a paramilitary swagger. It was obvious that they regarded themselves as foot-soldiers, or as some kind of unofficial security force.

Some years earlier, when I was thirteen, I walked home from a youth club happy at having got my first kiss from a girl. I had to pass by a chip shop and a group of skinheads in Docs and braces
were laughing and joking outside. For no apparent reason they attacked me – maybe I made the mistake of making eye contact with one. There were five of them. Kicked to the ground, I cradled
my head in my arms as I felt the boots going in all over my body. I was rescued by an elderly lady who told them they should be ashamed. I got to my feet and limped home. I managed to hide my
bruises from my parents, but from that day I always treated any skinhead in the same way you would regard a rabid dog.

One of these skinheads immediately approached me, peddling some publication pitched between a magazine and a newspaper. It was called
Spearhead
. I became aware of a lot of eyes on me. My
clothes were all wrong. The long hair, the open-toed sandals. Whatever the ‘other side’ might be I was pretty sure I resembled it. Some self-preservation instinct kicked in and I found
myself digging in my pocket for a few coins. The skinhead became friendly and let me know that someone was going around with a great pamphlet about how we should support Welsh nationalists’
campaign of burning holiday homes. I said I’d look out for it and he gave me a wink. Colin had disappeared and something was about to start so I quickly took a seat.

Of course I was furious with myself for being so naive. If someone suggests you follow them your initial question should be:
where to
? You don’t just go along with the first person
who charms you into following them. Or do you? I think that’s what I’d done pretty much all my life. I still think that it’s what most people do, whether we are talking about
social activities, or about politics, or about falling in love.

After a short delay in proceedings, the two men whose hands I had just shaken in the car park took their places on the platform. I noticed one chair remained empty. Then a familiar figure leapt
onto the stage.

It was Tony from the holiday camp. Just like Colin, he’d found a suit and tie for the event. He blew into a microphone to check it was working and then launched into a relaxed welcoming
speech, saying how good it was to see so many old friends and so many new faces, too. He came down from the stage and strolled about the place, smiling, winking and shaking hands with one or two
people on the front row without breaking his patter. Then he effortlessly segued into a few Paki jokes.

They were new jokes and he was very funny. He easily drew laughs from the audience and I found it impossible not to laugh with them. A very edgy joke about the Jews followed and that went down
very well, too. At some point a third man arrived and without fuss took his place on the platform. I assumed this to be the man they’d referred to as Carter.

Tony threw in another Paki gag about an Indian family eating dog-food and while the audience were howling he handed the microphone back to Norman Prosser. Prosser got to his feet and thanked
Tony not only for his ‘wonderful humour’ but also for his lifelong commitment and dedication to the serious business for which we were all assembled. And, he pointed out, while we can
all laugh, and that it’s good to laugh, the things that were happening to the country were no laughing matter. The Reds and the Jews and the Immigrants were hand in glove – and on this
phrase he paused and looked searchingly round the audience –
hand in glove
, presiding over the demise of a once great nation and the government were like the Emperor Nero, fiddling
while Rome burns. Well that’s all coming to an end, he said, the party was growing and change was coming. There was evidence of all sorts of new people coming forward, workers, school
teachers, people from industry and students. In this latter category I knew with absolute certainty that I was his evidence. I even felt a few eyes flicker in my direction. Prosser went on to say
that we were fortunate today in being able to welcome Harold Carter to the meeting who will outline for us the Way Forward.

Prosser handed Carter the microphone and Carter got to his feet, taking some early applause from the floor. He was a tall, slightly stooped man with thinning sandy-coloured hair. In a cut-glass
accent he told us that the people of the country were awakening. Evidence of this was to be seen in the numbers of votes the party had received in the last election and the number of deposits that
were not lost in that election. Furthermore, he told us, memberships of the party had increased by several thousand in the last two years alone. Awakening, he said ominously. The people are
awakening and beginning to arise.

This last bit of rhetoric not only got enormous applause but it got a standing ovation. It also pulled me to my feet. Not because I thought that what he was saying was either brilliant or even
convincing but my sense of self-preservation was working overtime. Perhaps I’m a coward. It’s possible. But I’m not stupid. This wasn’t a rational position to be in. To have
resisted the mob in this context would have been like standing in front a herd of stampeding cattle. As I joined in the hand-clapping, as lightly as I could, I noticed the way that Carter, lapping
up the applause, darted his tongue rapidly between his lips, or shoved his tongue into his cheek to bubble out the side of his face. It was a tic I observed in him every time he paused in his
oratory to take the applause from the floor.

The Way Forward was very clear. Immigrants who were stealing our jobs would be repatriated. They would be deported. Incentives would be found to encourage them to leave the country and if that
was not acceptable then secure methods would be found to make the deportation happen. When that was done legislation would be passed to disengage the Jewish monopoly of the financial institutions.
After that the Reds would be systematically exposed and their stranglehold on all public national and local apparatus of the state would be broken.

I give you only a summary of the Way Forward, but this speech went on for an hour, punctuated by regular outbreaks of wild applause. The audience got to its feet on numerous occasions, and I of
course with it, even though nothing I heard made any kind of sense to me. Maybe I was too fixated on the man’s darting tongue.

The speeches concluded and the platform group rose to disperse. As the audience stood up the skinhead foot-soldiers went around with plastic buckets encouraging donations. Norman Prosser and
some others at the front made a show of putting large denomination notes into the buckets but I noticed most people dropped in a bit of loose change and when the bucket came my way I clattered in a
few pennies.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘Couple o’ minutes an’ we’re out of here.’ It was Colin. He shoved a fiver into my hand. ‘Get another drink and a whisky for
me.’

I was grateful for the role. I dodged another bucket and an incoming
Spearhead
vendor and made my way to the bar. There was nothing I could do but wait out my time before getting a lift
back to the camp. At the bar I bought myself another pint of bitter, a whisky for Colin and a whisky for myself. I didn’t want the latter but I felt like I needed it. I leaned against the bar
sipping my drinks and watching buoyant party-members leave in small groups, some of them resting ceremonial flags on poles across their shoulder.