Page 10 of Fire Must Burn

‘The Internationale’ continued to play in her head. What were those lines in the last verse? Something about crows and vultures. Mais si les corbeaux, les vautours disparaissent … But if the crows and vultures disappear, the sun will shine forever.

The crows and vultures have returned, thought Iris. Which one is Tony?

And which one am I?

TWO

Cambridge, 1935

The line of constables guarding the University Arms Hotel stretched from the entrance on Regent Street around to the side facing Parker’s Piece, the large square park where the protesters were gathered. The gates to the hotel were closed and locked, a rare concession to the hostility of the crowd outside towards the dinner party within. The constables, many of whom had been pulled into a second shift to accommodate the needs of the event, knew that they were insufficient in numbers to withstand the protesters should the latter decide to mount an attack. They also knew it was highly unlikely that there would be an attack, given that the protesters were students from the University Socialist Society, more predisposed to making noise than to taking action. Still, in the back of the mind of each officer was the possibility that things could go wrong due to a combination of youthful exuberance, alcohol and political rage, and that even though the police station was only minutes away on the other side of the park, there might not be enough time for reinforcements to arrive.

So despite believing that the sound and fury would amount to less than nothing, each constable gripped his truncheon tightly, looking out at the sea of academic gowns and blazing torches with grim anticipation.

Inside the hotel, the University Fascist Society had taken it upon themselves to invite Sir Oswald Mosley, founder and leader of the British Union of Fascists, to dine, orate and be cheered, presumably because Hitler and Mussolini were otherwise engaged.

‘Really?’ said Sally when Sparks had told him about it. ‘Will the dress code be black tie or black shirt?’

‘Won’t you come?’ she pleaded with him. ‘You have such a good voice for roaring at buildings.’

‘I just got the F key repaired on my typewriter,’ he said. ‘I have a free evening to work on my play. There’s a nice part for you in it, you should know.’

‘You believe that writing a play is more important than changing the world, Mr Danielli?’

‘The fascists and the socialists are both badly written theatre, so anything I can do to improve the art is more important,’ he said. ‘I don’t think the world will change because of what happens in Cambridge tonight, and I don’t think I’d be tipping the balance either way. Besides, you shouldn’t be allowed anywhere with a torch. You’re too short. You’ll be singeing men’s beards off.’

‘If the fascists take over, there will be no decent theatre,’ said Sparks.

‘That will be enough cause for me to put down my typewriter and pick up a machine gun,’ promised Sally. ‘But tonight, I need to go over the manuscript of the second act and put all the Fs into it. It should improve the clarity of the writing immensely, although it might arouse the attentions of the censors in some cases. Have a good roar without me, Sparks. But don’t start the next world war until I’m done with the third act.’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’ said Sparks. ‘But I promise I’ll carry a torch only for you, darling.’

‘Would that were true,’ he said with a laugh.

She punched him in the arm affectionately and walked away, belting, ‘I’ve Got to Sing a Torch Song’ to the bewilderment of passers-by.

Which is how she found herself in the midst of two hundred or so like-minded colleagues, screaming, ‘We want Mosley, dead or alive!’ and singing ‘The Internationale’ at the tops of their lungs. All the verses. In the original French, of course, because they were Cambridge students and liked to show off. Much of the preparations for the protest had in fact been devoted to learning the song, which was as much of an introduction to socialism as many of them had had up to that point in their lives, chalking up the evening’s gathering to enjoying a moment of rebellion that had as much to do with being independent and away from their parents as anything else.

Sparks, however, was genuinely committed to the cause, havingbeen raised through her teens by her very progressive mother after her parents’ divorce. She held her torch high (she had to – Sally was right about the dangers of combining fire with her lack of height), and after an hour of heartfelt speeches mixed with some bad revolutionary poetry by John Cornford and Maurice Cornforth, followed by a discourse on Marxian economic theory by Maurice Dobb, a don at Trinity College, her arm was in agony.

How does that statue in New York manage it so easily? she wondered.

Thankfully, the decision was made to march through the town to Peas Hill, giving her the opportunity to loosen up her joints and bring the torch down to a less painful level, taking care not to ignite her hat. The crowd proceeded up St Andrew’s Street, passing by Emmanuel College, somewhere inside of which she knew Sally was working away on his play.

‘Uck o, Danielli!’ she shouted in his general direction, drawing puzzled looks from her nearby fellows.

The marchers turned left on Downing Street, then right onto Corn Exchange, which was narrower, causing a temporary bottleneck until they managed to sort themselves into an array with five abreast. Two more turns brought them to the marketplace in front of the Guildhall. The stalls were closed for the evening but the area still smelled strongly of fish despite the competing fumes from the torches.

More speeches followed, each speaker denouncing fascism as ardently as they could, but by this time repetition and declining oratorical ability had taken their toll on Sparks, whose mind had wandered to considering the problem of how to dispose of a lit torch without causing a major conflagration. She saw a number of students tossing theirs into a metal rubbish bin, and decided to add hers to what she hoped would be a safe resting place for it. As she did, shrill whistles suddenly sounded from all sides.

‘The bulldogs!’ someone yelled. ‘Run for it!’

Then there was pandemonium as the Proctor’s own law enforcement poured into the marketplace, grabbing anyone they could. Around her, students panicked and dashed off in all directions. She sidestepped a man running directly at herwhile looking back over his shoulder, but was almost knocked off her feet by another crashing into her from behind.

She wasn’t built for being in the middle of a scrum. She broke for the narrow alley to the right of the Church of St Edward the King, then stopped as she reached the left turn past the antiquarian bookshop. There was a pair of bulldogs at the other end where the alley emerged onto St Edward’s Passage. She couldn’t go back. She was trapped.

Then a voice called, ‘In here! Quickly!’

She turned and saw a young man in the open doorway of the bookshop, beckoning to her. He was wearing a black academic gown. There was something familiar about his face, but she wasted no time trying to identify him, choosing instead to scoot inside as he held the door.