The uniforms ran off ahead, while he and Stiles marched in step, both with their long strides. They said nothing as they walked, their ears pricked for warning signals. But none came. Only as they turned into Trafalgar Square did the scene present itself – and not as they had expected. There were far too many policemen; anyone would have thought it was a gathering of constables and sergeants. They slowed their pace as they approached what was a peaceful crowd. Flummoxed by the quiet, truncheons were stealthily replaced in their holsters and the uniforms stood around the edges of the people who were collected in the square. Their faces were turned in one direction: a man in a dark suit and white shirt, standing on a plinth beneath Nelson’s column, coal-black hair combed back and a full moustache, talking with great animation.
Stiles stopped and put his hands in his pockets, raising his eyebrows. ‘We’ve been had,’ he said.
‘Sir?’
But Stiles said no more, gesturing that Guy should follow him, and they ducked into the crowd, making their way closer to the man on the plinth. It was only when they were near that Guy realised it was Sir Oswald Mosley. He knew who he was, but not for the usual reasons – Guy was not interested in the minor machinations of politicians – but because Louisa had told him about the man that Nancy called ‘Sir Ogre’. He was Diana’s lover, though the pale woman standing close to him now, with two boys of around ten and twelve years old, was definitely not Mrs Guinness. Eight men in black shirts and dark grey trousers flanked them on either side, arms folded while their darting eyes belied their confident stance at the sight of all the police pouring into the square. Of the people watching, there were a few women here and there, like rogue poppies in a wheat field, but for the most part they were young men, in grey shirts and flannels, and only a few wore jackets. Guy wondered if they left their houses that morning in shirts and trousers? It seemed a strange decision, especially with the threat of a change in the weather at this time of year. Unless it was a collective choice, a uniform of sorts. That thought put Guy on edge, somehow. Uniforms on police and soldiers, even for firemen and nurses, were reassuring. On civilians, he wondered what they were trying to say and suspected it was more defence than protection.
There was a movement between some people on the right of Sir Oswald, and Guy saw him register it with a brief flicker of his black eyes: Unity Mitford, her thick fair hair sticking out stiffly beneath her hat, her face expressionless but for parted lips as she gulped in big breaths. Behind her, standing awkwardly, shielding herself behind her statuesque sister, was Diana, her expression clear for all to see: total, unadulterated admiration.
Sir Oswald’s voice rose in volume; his jabs with pointed fingers were even more forceful. Guy tried to listen to what he was saying but couldn’t latch onto anything that made sense. Each sentence seemed disparate from the previous one, a series of instructions or exhortations to his followers, acknowledged by raised voices and the occasional clapping of hands. One thing was clear: Sir Ogre saw himself as a leader, the only one who could take the people out of the chaos and disorder that surrounded them. This made Guy laugh – everyone was standing quietly and listening, and they were surrounded by the well-organised ranks of the London Metropolitan Police. He quickly shut up when one or two of the folded-arm brigade turned their fierce gaze upon him.
Guy whispered to Stiles, ‘What do you think happened?’
Stiles gave a small shrug. ‘Who knows? My guess is that either someone from the BUF tipped off the police because they were expecting bigger numbers and didn’t want any fights, it being the first gathering outside, or one of their objectors wanted to rattle them and sent a false message to Scotland Yard.’
‘We must fight for the freedom of our speech,’ Mosley was saying. ‘We will resist the Communists who would inflict their vile oppression upon us. We will not give an inch. If they fight, then yes, my friends, we will fight back.’
At this, as if it were a signal, the guards unfolded their arms and Guy felt the crowd move, though whether it was forward or backwards he couldn’t say. The flankers were agitated, their elbows jutting, their heads flicking to the side at the merest prompt. They looked ready for a fight. A cry went up near the front of the crowd, close to Mosley, followed swiftly by three or four voices shouting indistinctly. Hecklers, presumably, and only to be expected.
Mosley continued talking, but his gestures were edgy, his stance retreating into himself. The woman beside him pulled her boys in closer; her nervous smile had disappeared altogether. From various points in the crowds, a chant formed until the few objectors were singing loudly and in unison:
Hitler and Mosley, what are they for?
Thuggery, buggery, hunger and war!
Things descended into mayhem at speed then, as the fascists turned on the chanting men and women, fists flying and yells of indeterminate curses roaring above. Mosley stopped talking and Guy observed him gather his family around, before they were marched through the crowd and out to, presumably, a car that waited for them. Guy tried to find the Mitfords, but they, too, had vanished.
Stiles pulled at Guy’s arm. ‘Leave this to the uniforms,’ he shouted. ‘Follow me.’
As they pulled out of the serried ranks, Guy realised that most of the men were leaving with them. Only a few had chosen to stay behind and fight. He guessed that that was what they’d been after all along. Was that what Mosley had wanted, too? Guy hoped not, but it was an obvious tactic: create disorder and then be the one to create the order out of it.
Back at the car, Guy felt the oppressive tension fall away, and in spite of the chill air, he was sweating beneath his shirt. As if he had forgotten the fact and only now remembered it, Guy turned to Stiles.
‘It’s my wedding day, sir. I’d like to get back to my wife.’
Stiles smacked his hand on Guy’s back. ‘My lad, I’m sorry about what happened. But I don’t think we’ve seen the last of those bastards. It’s just as well we know what we’re up against.’
‘Sir.’
Stiles gave a wry smile. ‘Now’s not the time for lectures. Off you go. Good luck. I’ll see you on Monday morning.’
Guy looked at his watch. Only ninety minutes had passed since they’d left the party. Fingers crossed Louisa would still be at the pub. He would fetch her and, hang the expense, they’d take a taxi to the station and catch the train to Brighton. He knew she had a small suitcase packed and ready, and he didn’t need much beyond a toothbrush and razor. In a matter of hours, he would hold her close to him beneath the hotel bed sheets and the rest of the world could disappear. He would get back to rescuing it next week.
CHAPTER THREE
23 May 1933
Louisa knocked on the side door of 26 Rutland Gate. The day before, a letter had arrived from Nancy asking Louisa to call in on a ‘matter of urgency’, without specifying what the matter was. Guy had teased that it was probably no more than a request for a seamstress, and Louisa had agreed. Even so, she could not help but answer the summons. Standing now, by the side door, she told herself that she was only there because she wanted to say hello to Nanny Blor first, not because she was avoiding the front entrance. She was no longer a servant but a married woman and almost-trained court stenographer, perfectly entitled to walk up the steps and knock the brass ring firmly. But she didn’t do it.