widow’s door behind them.
‘Breakfast,’ said Luke. ‘Then we might have a look at this Anarchist Press.’
Later that morning their route to Jubilee Street took them along Stepney Way and down Sidney Street. Small clumps of sightseers were still poking around, pocketing slivers of charred wood as mementoes and staring about them, although there was nothing to stare at except the forlorn carcass of number 100, half-burned timbers poking up through the rubble of brickwork and fallen tiles. A group, halfway down the street, was being addressed by a small, stout person with an aggressive moustache and a red nose.
‘So what do they come ‘ere for?’ he was saying. ‘And where do they come from? I can tell you that. I’ve bin watching ‘em. They come from up there.’ He jerked one thumb over his left shoulder to indicate the upper class end of London. ‘They come to see what poor people like us is forced to live in.’
Luke though that the chain of gold links looped across his waistcoat was not one of the more obvious signs of poverty.
‘Forced, we are, to live among furren muck, men who think as little of using guns and bombs as we think of blowin’ our noses. So let me ask you a question. ‘Oo let ‘em in?’
He waited for his audience to oblige with an answer. One of them offered. ‘Parliament let ‘em in.’
‘And oo’s responsible to Parliament?’
This defeated his listeners, so he supplied the answer himself.
‘It’s the bloody ‘Ome Seggeratry oo’s responsible. Mr Winston bloody Churchill. If I’d my way, ‘e’d ‘ave bin tossed into the fire along with ‘em.’
A policeman on the outskirts of the crowd, who had been listening absentmindedly with his thoughts on his relief and his next meal, now sharpened up. It seemed that the orater was stepping outside permissible limits.
‘And what did our blessed ‘Ome Seggeratry do? ‘E came down ‘ere to enjoy the fun. I seen ‘im with my own eyes, standing on this very spot, gloatin’ over the destruction.’
At this point the policeman drew out his book and made a note and it occurred to Luke that they would be better away. As they moved off down the side street they saw another policeman at the corner of Lindley Street, and a third one at the point where Jubilee Street ran out into the Mile End Road; strategic points where they could keep an eye open for trouble.
Joe said, ‘The Anarchist Press is number 37. That’ll be right up the far end.’ When they reached it and could see round the corner, they were in time to witness a more serious piece of trouble.
A group of four toffs, on a spree, had grabbed a passing youngster. When they found he was Russian they had evidently decided, for no very good reason, that he must be a terrorist and two of them were devoting their attention to teaching him a lesson. They had forced him to his knees and the shorter of his assailants had grabbed his hair and was hitting him in the face. The taller one was kicking him, choosing his targets carefully.
‘Bullying,’ said Luke. ‘And enjoying it. We’ve got to stop this before they damage him badly.’
‘The odds aren’t too steep,’ said Joe. ‘Help is at hand.’
He had noted the policeman at the Lindley Street corner and before charging in, he blew a blast on his useful whistle. As they arrived, the tall attacker aimed a last kick at the boy and transferred his attention to Luke. The taller they come the harder they fall, he thought. Pivoting on one foot, he hooked his opponent’s ankle from under him and put him on his back with a satisfying thump.
When the policeman cantered up, Joe had the shorter one with his head in chancery under his arm. The other two had bolted, pausing at the corner to look back and signal violently. The message was clear. Luke’s opponent scrambled to his feet and ran to join them. Luke watched him go, but made no attempt to follow. Joe loosened his victim, who was purple in the face, grabbed one of his
‘Breakfast,’ said Luke. ‘Then we might have a look at this Anarchist Press.’
Later that morning their route to Jubilee Street took them along Stepney Way and down Sidney Street. Small clumps of sightseers were still poking around, pocketing slivers of charred wood as mementoes and staring about them, although there was nothing to stare at except the forlorn carcass of number 100, half-burned timbers poking up through the rubble of brickwork and fallen tiles. A group, halfway down the street, was being addressed by a small, stout person with an aggressive moustache and a red nose.
‘So what do they come ‘ere for?’ he was saying. ‘And where do they come from? I can tell you that. I’ve bin watching ‘em. They come from up there.’ He jerked one thumb over his left shoulder to indicate the upper class end of London. ‘They come to see what poor people like us is forced to live in.’
Luke though that the chain of gold links looped across his waistcoat was not one of the more obvious signs of poverty.
‘Forced, we are, to live among furren muck, men who think as little of using guns and bombs as we think of blowin’ our noses. So let me ask you a question. ‘Oo let ‘em in?’
He waited for his audience to oblige with an answer. One of them offered. ‘Parliament let ‘em in.’
‘And oo’s responsible to Parliament?’
This defeated his listeners, so he supplied the answer himself.
‘It’s the bloody ‘Ome Seggeratry oo’s responsible. Mr Winston bloody Churchill. If I’d my way, ‘e’d ‘ave bin tossed into the fire along with ‘em.’
A policeman on the outskirts of the crowd, who had been listening absentmindedly with his thoughts on his relief and his next meal, now sharpened up. It seemed that the orater was stepping outside permissible limits.
‘And what did our blessed ‘Ome Seggeratry do? ‘E came down ‘ere to enjoy the fun. I seen ‘im with my own eyes, standing on this very spot, gloatin’ over the destruction.’
At this point the policeman drew out his book and made a note and it occurred to Luke that they would be better away. As they moved off down the side street they saw another policeman at the corner of Lindley Street, and a third one at the point where Jubilee Street ran out into the Mile End Road; strategic points where they could keep an eye open for trouble.
Joe said, ‘The Anarchist Press is number 37. That’ll be right up the far end.’ When they reached it and could see round the corner, they were in time to witness a more serious piece of trouble.
A group of four toffs, on a spree, had grabbed a passing youngster. When they found he was Russian they had evidently decided, for no very good reason, that he must be a terrorist and two of them were devoting their attention to teaching him a lesson. They had forced him to his knees and the shorter of his assailants had grabbed his hair and was hitting him in the face. The taller one was kicking him, choosing his targets carefully.
‘Bullying,’ said Luke. ‘And enjoying it. We’ve got to stop this before they damage him badly.’
‘The odds aren’t too steep,’ said Joe. ‘Help is at hand.’
He had noted the policeman at the Lindley Street corner and before charging in, he blew a blast on his useful whistle. As they arrived, the tall attacker aimed a last kick at the boy and transferred his attention to Luke. The taller they come the harder they fall, he thought. Pivoting on one foot, he hooked his opponent’s ankle from under him and put him on his back with a satisfying thump.
When the policeman cantered up, Joe had the shorter one with his head in chancery under his arm. The other two had bolted, pausing at the corner to look back and signal violently. The message was clear. Luke’s opponent scrambled to his feet and ran to join them. Luke watched him go, but made no attempt to follow. Joe loosened his victim, who was purple in the face, grabbed one of his
Similar Books
