A HANDFUL OF STARS An enthralling story of poverty, passion and survival: one of the Tyneside Sagas by Trotter Janet MacLeod

Author:Trotter, Janet MacLeod [Trotter, Janet MacLeod]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: MacLeod Trotter Books
Published: 2011-12-21T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

To Clara, the days galloped by and their short honeymoon was over too soon. They took walks through the frozen parks, gazed at the opulent buildings and visited the sights. Outside Westminster Vinnie said contemptuously, ‘All that power and what do our politicians do with it? Nowt!’

They took shelter from the bitter cold in Lyons tea rooms, eating well and listening to the orchestras. One night they went to a musical, The Cat and the Fiddle, the next to the pictures to see Greta Garbo in Mata Hari. On a third they went to a club where they danced until two. Vinnie’s energy was boundless. After a packed day of sightseeing and an evening out, they would retreat to their cosy bedroom and make love. Clara would fall into exhausted sleep, always to find Vinnie awake and reading in the early morning.

On the final evening, they ate early at the hotel with the young men and went to hear Mosley speak. Clara thought how Reenie and her brothers would disapprove. She was a little uneasy too, but kept her scepticism to herself for Vinnie’s sake.

The hall was full and heavily stewarded by bare-headed men dressed soberly in black. Clara noticed them on duty outside too. The drab interior had been decorated with striking black flags emblazoned with the fascist emblem, an axe and a bundle of sticks. They were early enough to get seats near the front. Clara was intrigued by a group of smartly dressed young women in black tops and grey skirts, sitting on the front row. A military band on stage played stirring music and the hall buzzed with excitement.

Suddenly the band struck up ‘Rule Britannia’ and people around them rose to their feet. A phalanx of young men in black uniform marched down the aisle. In their midst was a tall, handsome, mustachioed man in a smart suit. Applause rippled down the hall as he made his way on to the platform. Clara thought he looked bigger and more imposing in the flesh than in newspaper pictures. Even before he spoke, Oswald Mosley had a strong presence about him, exuding authority.

He smiled and held up his hands in greeting. His stewards and the eager young women on the front row raised their arms in a fascist salute. Clara thought them comical and tried not to laugh.

‘Bit over the top,’ she whispered to Vinnie. But he was still clapping and misheard.

‘Aye, grand, isn’t it?’

Imperiously, Mosley signalled for everyone to sit down. The music stopped and the audience took their seats. He stood at the podium surveying them until there was complete silence; then, with a disarming smile, welcomed them for turning out on such a wintry night.

He began by speaking about Britain’s heroic past, its many heroes and patriots who had sacrificed so much to make the country great. What would they make of the present mess? Democracy was failing them, Mosley pronounced, and politicians were corrupt and selfish.

‘They are only interested in lining their own pockets,’ he declared, ‘buying honours instead of earning them.

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