mouth like a baby’s dummy, hand on holster. At each end of the street were crowds, watching. Placards and banners shifted to and fro uncertainly above shoulders, already looking sheepish and forlorn. There were black vans waiting, side-doors open, lorries with tail-boards down. A sergeant yelped something. There was a jostling at one place, the vexillae advanced. The whistled shining inspector unholstered his pistol. He peeped one silver blast, and a carbine spat at the air. ‘Get the sods,’ called a worker in torn overalls. A tentative thrust of a phalanx of crushed men gained momentum speedily, and a greyboy went down shrieking. The whistle now pierced like toothache. Carbines opened out frankly, and shot whined like puppies from the walls. ‘Hands up,’ ordered the inspector, whistle out of his mouth. Some workers were down, gaping and bleeding in the sun. ‘Get ‘em all in,’ yelped the sergeant. ‘Room for everyone, the little beauties.’ Tristram dropped his tin of synthelac. ‘Watch that one there,’ cried the officer. ‘Home-made bomb.’
‘I’m not one of these,’ Tristram tried to explain, hands clasped over his head. ‘I was just going home. I’m a teacher. I object strongly. Take your dirty hands off.’‘Right,’ said a bulky greyboy obligingly, and carbinebutted him fairly in the gut. Tristram sent out a delicate fountain of the purple juice that had diluted the alc. ‘In.’ He was prodded to a black lorry, his nasopharynx smarting with the taste of the brief vomit. ‘My brother,’ he protested. ‘Commissioner of the Poppoppoppop –’ He couldn’t stop popping. ‘My wife’s in there, let me at least speak to my wife.’ ‘In.’ He fell up the rungs of the swinging tail-board. ‘Speeeeak tub mah wahf,’ mocked a worker’s voice. ‘Haw haw.’ The lorry was full of sweat and desperate breathing, as though all inside had been kindly rescued from some killing crosscountry run. The tail-board clinked up with merry music of chains, a tarpaulin curtain came down. The workers cheered at the total darkness, and one or two squeaked in girly voices, ‘Stop it, I’ll tell my rna’ and ‘Oh, you are awful, Arthur.’ An earnest breathing bulk next to Tristram said, ‘They don’t take it seriously, that’s the trouble with a lot of these here. Let the side down, that’s what they do.’ A hollow voice with slack Northern vowels ventured a pleasantry: ‘Would anybody lahk a fried egg samwidge?’ ‘Look,’ almost wept Tristram to the odorous dark, ‘I was just going in to have it out with my wife, that’s all. It was nothing to do with me. It’s unfair.’ The serious voice at his side said, ‘Course it’s unfair. They never have been fair to the working man.’ Another, hostile to Tristram’s accent, growled, ‘Shut it, see. We know your type. Watching you, I am,’ which was manifestly impossible. Meanwhile, they roared along in convoy, as they could tell, and there was a sense of streets full of happy unarrested people. Tristram wanted to blubber. ‘I take it,’ said anew voice, ‘that you don’t want to associate yourself with our struggle, is that it, friend? The intellectuals have never been on the side of the workers. Sometimes they’ve let on to be, but only for purposes of betrayal.’ Tm the one who’s been betrayed,’ cried Tristram. ‘Betray his arse,’ said someone. ‘Treason of clerks,’ came a bored voice. A harmonica began to play.
At length the lorry stopped, and there was a grinding finality of brakes, an opening and slamming of the doors of the driver’s cabin. A noise of unslotting, a chainy rattle, and then great daylight blew in like a wind. ‘Out,’ said a carbined corporal, pock-marked Micronesian. ‘Look here,’ said Tristram, getting out, ‘I want to register the strongest possible protest about this. I demand that I be allowed to telephone Commissioner Foxe, my brother. There’s been a ghastly mistake.’ ‘In,’ said a
‘I’m not one of these,’ Tristram tried to explain, hands clasped over his head. ‘I was just going home. I’m a teacher. I object strongly. Take your dirty hands off.’‘Right,’ said a bulky greyboy obligingly, and carbinebutted him fairly in the gut. Tristram sent out a delicate fountain of the purple juice that had diluted the alc. ‘In.’ He was prodded to a black lorry, his nasopharynx smarting with the taste of the brief vomit. ‘My brother,’ he protested. ‘Commissioner of the Poppoppoppop –’ He couldn’t stop popping. ‘My wife’s in there, let me at least speak to my wife.’ ‘In.’ He fell up the rungs of the swinging tail-board. ‘Speeeeak tub mah wahf,’ mocked a worker’s voice. ‘Haw haw.’ The lorry was full of sweat and desperate breathing, as though all inside had been kindly rescued from some killing crosscountry run. The tail-board clinked up with merry music of chains, a tarpaulin curtain came down. The workers cheered at the total darkness, and one or two squeaked in girly voices, ‘Stop it, I’ll tell my rna’ and ‘Oh, you are awful, Arthur.’ An earnest breathing bulk next to Tristram said, ‘They don’t take it seriously, that’s the trouble with a lot of these here. Let the side down, that’s what they do.’ A hollow voice with slack Northern vowels ventured a pleasantry: ‘Would anybody lahk a fried egg samwidge?’ ‘Look,’ almost wept Tristram to the odorous dark, ‘I was just going in to have it out with my wife, that’s all. It was nothing to do with me. It’s unfair.’ The serious voice at his side said, ‘Course it’s unfair. They never have been fair to the working man.’ Another, hostile to Tristram’s accent, growled, ‘Shut it, see. We know your type. Watching you, I am,’ which was manifestly impossible. Meanwhile, they roared along in convoy, as they could tell, and there was a sense of streets full of happy unarrested people. Tristram wanted to blubber. ‘I take it,’ said anew voice, ‘that you don’t want to associate yourself with our struggle, is that it, friend? The intellectuals have never been on the side of the workers. Sometimes they’ve let on to be, but only for purposes of betrayal.’ Tm the one who’s been betrayed,’ cried Tristram. ‘Betray his arse,’ said someone. ‘Treason of clerks,’ came a bored voice. A harmonica began to play.
At length the lorry stopped, and there was a grinding finality of brakes, an opening and slamming of the doors of the driver’s cabin. A noise of unslotting, a chainy rattle, and then great daylight blew in like a wind. ‘Out,’ said a carbined corporal, pock-marked Micronesian. ‘Look here,’ said Tristram, getting out, ‘I want to register the strongest possible protest about this. I demand that I be allowed to telephone Commissioner Foxe, my brother. There’s been a ghastly mistake.’ ‘In,’ said a
Similar Books
