Black Out by John Lawton Page B

duty but uniformed. Speakers’ Corner had seen too many incidents that summer of general Jew-baiting and wog-bashing. A small surge of xenophobia that was untypical of the British, and untypical of this war – Mosleyites excepted. Without telling the old man he had privately undertaken to afford him some measure of protection. It seemed curious to think that Nikolai drew a regular crowd, as though he had a personal following, year after year, but, as Troy recalled, Robinson, a Bill-Sykes lookalike with a fair, even hatred of all foreigners, had had his cake and eaten it by dubbing Nikolai a ‘Russky, Commie, thick-lipped, Jew-boy arsehole who had better bugger off back where he came from’. Nikolai had no such plans. In 1919 when Troy’s father, some ten years older than Nikolai, had raised the issue of naturalisation for the family, he had made the decision for his wife, his daughters and himself – his youngest son, after all, was British-born – but had merely urged it on his younger brother and his eldest son, both of whom he felt should decide for themselves. Neither had bothered. Hence Rod, thanks to his birth in Vienna as the Troys crossed Imperial Europe at a snail’s pace, had found himself an Austrian and a categorisable alien at the outbreak of war, and Nikolai had found it impossible to clarify his allegiance by becoming British – no one had been allowed naturalisation for nearly five years. Yet British was how he saw himself. Britain was his home. He loved it dearly. Troy doubted if this could ever be conveyed to the crowd, but why else did the old man get up on the stump week after week on the endless subject of Britain if not from love of country?
    ’We,’
he said with an italicised emphasis, ‘were promised homes fit for heroes. A promise we all knew to be hollow within a few short years. Now we are told it is different. This war has been total war, it has required such a degree of motivation on the part of the British that government has been obliged to inform and to educateus almost as much as it has deceived us. And as the culmination of this new-found awareness of the basic fact of life on earth that if we do not pull together we shall most certainly sink together, they have come up with a notion that startles them, and they expect us to be startled by it too. Sir William Beveridge has spoken of a system, an organisation of our human resources that could offer us care, protection and education – from the cradle to the grave. And it goes by the name of the Welfare State. Who are we to believe? Are we to believe that Churchill will allow what he clearly believes to be a thief’s charter to become the way of the land, even the law of the land. Are we to trust the victor of Tonypandy?’
    Troy heard a murmur buzz through the crowd. Churchill had survived a spectacularly ill-organised vote of no confidence in the House a couple of years ago, and since then had been virtually unassailable. He had survived cock-ups such as Dieppe, and withstood the constant pressure at home and amongst the Allies for a second front. But, as far as the public were concerned he was royalty – and behaved like it. An attack on Churchill could hardly be well received. Where was Nikolai’s argument heading?
    ‘Are we to trust a man who opposed the British worker in 1926, at a time when the miners were fighting for a living wage against the pay cuts imposed by profiteering mine-owners?’
    The buzz had become louder. Heads began to turn. Muttered exchanges. The man next to Troy said flatly, without tone or movement, ‘He must be barmy to knock Winnie at a time like this.’ Troy glanced quickly around to see if there was a uniform in sight. If he had to step in in civvies he would likely as not get his block knocked off.
    Up at the front a heckler took up the invitation that Nikolai had proffered with a pause. ‘What are you tellin’ us? Vote Labour? I don’t need no one to tell me that. What I need is a chance. I