Chapter 6 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

6

It's not the size of the dog in the fight,
it's the size of the fight in the dog.
Mark Twain

It was early evening, the sun low and reddening in the sky, 'warm enough if you wear a light coat' as Alb had got tired of saying to each resident's complaint about meeting outside. Despite their reservations all those on the list were gathered in the Rose Garden, the centre of what Alb referred to as 'their' courtyard. The close proximity to apartments 1 - 16 gave them ownership in his eyes, by the same token, apartments 17 - 32 could keep the ornamental shrubbery.

Having started with their ex-forces mates Alb and Gerry had widened the list to include those with other skills that might be useful like Esmé Fotheringey, ex-Greenham Common stalwart and ardent revolutionary, and those like Cynthia Carlyle and Dora Ashburton (Little and Large as Gerry thought of them) whose personality meant they could not be excluded. Mags Pickles was on the list, ostensibly for her Angel cake; Gerry wasn't about to admit that he had his eye on her for more than her baking. It had been agreed that it was too late to exclude Ken and in the end it appeared that nearly everyone they knew had a potential use, or was a particular friend or like Val, a prospective paramour.

Thus the group that gathered in the Garden constituted almost the entire complement of the Village with the exception of Doris Miller, too infirm to leave her room, the new lady in no 5, name as yet unknown, and Sir Nathaniel Longbottom, who in the 3 years of his sojourn had retained his right to privacy and thus far had refused to hobnob with hoi polloi (his words).

It was tight, squashed roughly four people to each of the six benches that outlined the central rose bed and that was even with Gerry and Alb standing.
Mags positioned herself near her cake trolley and was perched on the edge of the bench, the better to be up and about when the time came. She'd responded to Alb's request for Angel cake with something approaching joy; he'd noticed her cake if not her, it was a start.

"Cake anyone?" she asked, not about to let her big moment pass, rising up from the bench with difficulty.

"Oh yes please, Mags," said Ken, a diversionary tactic, delaying the inevitable 'call to arms' that Alb was planning. He rose from his seat next to Val and crossed to the cake trolley. "Val?"

Val nodded, any reply she may have been about to make was drowned out by a chorus of, "And me" that rippled round the benches.

Gerry's hand went to his head, he wanted cake and had no wish to detract from Mags' cake-making efforts but, for crying out loud, let's get the meeting started.

"Over here Mags," said Alb, going with the flow, nudging Gerry to relax and do likewise.

"Of course, Alb," said Mags, blushing prettily, pushing everyone else aside and delivering a very large piece of cake to Alb personally.

"Ok ...me too," said Gerry; Mags passed him a thin slither on a less than clean saucer and with barely a second glance.

"Cuppa would be nice." This from Reg Trimble, one of the oldest residents, his voice a whisper, his hand trembling on his plate, invited for reasons of kindness rather than potential usefulness, brought over on the arms of his good friends Gil Owen and Dilwyn Gravenor, aka Gray.

"No," said Gerry, quiet but firm, "Sorry, Reg, no tea. You can have tea when you get inside."

Reg shrank back, using Dora's ample frame and an Arthur Bell standard rose as a shield.

"Alright then," said Alb, striking an incongruous pose, something mid-way between 'attention' and 'at ease', “some of you know why we've called this meeting but some of you might not."

He'd dressed for the occasion; his best worsted trousers nicely pressed, the grey shirt he'd bought for a funeral a few years back and topping it, his Harris tweed jacket.

He felt good as he glanced round at the benches, at the people he and Gerry had known for many years, men such as Ken, Wilf Murchison and John Cavendish, known but not all necessarily trusted, Ken being a particular case in point. He made deliberate eye contact with the ones he'd got to know well during the 10 years he'd been in the Village, confined to barracks as he still thought of it, good mates like Basil 'Sticky' Bennett, Lenny Freeman and Frank Gough.

He made a mental note of their varying expressions.
He was buoyed by the look of interest shown by Gil and Gray; like two peas in a pod, slim and dark and dapper. He'd never had much to do with them, they being residents of the 'other' compound, numbers 19 and 21 if he remembered correctly, moved in at the same time as each other, although he knew little about their backgrounds.

He was surprised by the keen-eyed expectancy of a few, Bill Carpenter looking especially alert and for once with no trace of cynicism in his eyes. Esmé was frowning, her face all concentration and with potential for disapproval writ large across it. She'd swapped her normal combat outfit for a shapeless brown sack-like garment and a green cardigan; he wasn't convinced it was an improvement. He noted anxiety on Reg's face, unsurprised but somehow disappointed by the extent of it, registered Mort's vacancy; Mortimer Claypole, victim to the vague and muddled characterisation of dementia. He was pleased they had all responded to the summons; he had expected a few absentees.

"Well, I'm sure I don't know why we're here, Albert," said Dora, twisting awkwardly to address Reg, "do you know?" He muttered a negative, shrinking back into himself and she turned back, "We don't know, so why don't you tell us?"

Alb smiled tightly, never good with crowds, "Trying to, Dora, trying to..." He looked at Gerry who nodded encouragement, "well, obviously thank you all for coming -I know it's not too comfortable on these benches so I'll be quick about it - to cut a long story short - we're fed up with the way this country is being run."

"Yeah," affirmed Gerry, "we're fed up with lousy politicians ruining everything we fought for."

"And we think something should be done about all the foreigners coming in."

"To stop the 'Invasion via Immigration' as I call it," said Gerry, he'd thought of it that afternoon and
wanted to try it out on an audience.

"That's very good," said Alb patting Gerry on the shoulder, "very catchy."

"It's the damned Labour Party," said Bill to several calls of 'here here'. He looked pleased, nodding his own satisfaction with his comment.

"Bloody Tories," snapped Ron, savagely, to yet more support.

Gerry shook his head; he'd told Alb this would happen, chalk and cheese Ron Holehouse and Bill Carpenter, different ends of the spectrum, with opposite politics and from opposite ends of the country. Thank the Lord they were sitting on different benches or they'd likely come to blows.

"We should give the Liberals another chance," offered Ken, with a sideways look at Val who rewarded his temerity with a small smile.

"Sod off, Ken," this from Ron, trying to rise but wedged in by elbows on either side, "They had their chance - no one's ever goin’ta vote for those bastards again." At times like these his accent became almost incomprehensible and he sounded like he'd just emerged from 't'pit'.

"Language, please Ron - there're ladies present", Gerry reminded him with a nod at Mags.

"Okay, okay," said Alb, his hands in the air, gesturing for calm, "look, as I see it it's not Labour, it's not the Tories and it's not the LibDems, it's all of them, they're all in it together."

"That's right," said Mags.

She was standing, using her cake trolley as a prop, having lost her seat on the bench, the gap closing like a sigh as soon as she'd vacated. It was worth it to be able to move surreptitiously over to Alb and stand staunchly by his side. She too had dressed for the occasion, had eschewed a coat and was buttressed into a royal blue shirtwaister with a white collar; someone had once told her it brought out the colour of her eyes.

Gerry glanced over, frowning. Val got up from her seat next to Ken, and bustled over, sliding between Alb and Mags with an "I agree", statement of support.

"It doesn't matter which party is in power," said Alb, slightly flustered, boxed in, needing to adjust his stance, "they always seem to do the same thing, let more foreigners in."

"To do the workers down, bringing in cheap labour," yelled Ron. For a small man he certainly had a loud voice.

"Hey, come on now, Ron, keep it down," Ken looked round worriedly, "the warden'll be out to see what the commotion's about."

"We pay enough for the privilege, Ken," Cynthia's cutting tone was sufficient to silence any further objections.

"It's the damned Labour Party, soft on immigration, bringing in votes," said Bill. He threw a glance at Ron, his words a gauntlet.

"It's the bloody Tories bringing in cheap labour," said Ron, half-rising to make up for the lowering of his voice, "to drive wages down."

"It doesn't matter what it is," stated Alb, "or who's doing it for whatever reason, the result is the same, too many foreigners corroding the British way of life."

"It's not affecting us up in the highlands," said Tom Rutherford, getting to his feet.

He couldn't abide being confined, and sitting on a bench squashed up even with friends was too much for him to take. "We don't have that many up there."

Alb looked over at him, tall and rangy, his accent still strong after years down south, holding himself erect with a military bearing, a good chess player with a sharp intellect, he could be useful.

"Well, whatever," said Gerry, “we’ve had enough of this multi-cultural rubbish, we're British."

"I'm English," stated Bill, his voice clipped and authoritative.

"English," repeated Sticky and Frank followed by several others.

"I'm not English or British," said Ken. They all stared at him. "I'm Italian by birth."

Val giggled behind her hand, irritating Alb instantly, "Ken? Italian?" he said, thinking, typical two-faced Ken Grewcock, known him for years and this is the first anyone's heard of it.

"Ken's my middle name, my first name's Antonio."
He stroked his hair as he spoke, smoothing the gleaming Brylcreem.

"As in ‘o, o Antonio with his ice cream cart?" This came from Frank with a lascivious snigger.

"My parents went back to Italy so I could be born there."

They stared at him, awaiting further explanation.

He complied, saying importantly, "My mum would only marry my dad if their first born son was born in Italy. Her dad, my Italian granddad wanted me to be a footballer and play for Italy."

"OK, so you were born there," said Alb, "but you grew up here?"

"Oh yes, so in essence I'm truly English but I was...."

"Yeah, yeah," said Alb dismissively, "moving on, any other foreigners?"

There were general shakes of the head, then, "I'm Welsh," said one. Alb noted him; Alfred Jones, known as Jonesey, ex-Para, sniper, good bloke to have beside you in a scrap.

"Me too," said Gil, "and so's Gray."

"Scottish and proud of it." This from Tom Rutherford.

"Right, Tom's a Jock, we got any paddies?" asked Gerry.

“I’m a Scot as well, Gerry,” Cynthia’s voice cut across the general muttering, “and as proud of it as Tom, I may say.”

"Noted,” said Gerry, crisply, Cynthia Carlyle of the caustic comments and tight iron-grey perm not being his favourite person, "no paddies?”

"That's Irish to yous."

Gerry looked over at the speaker, one Robert 'Nobby' Clarke, as English as bangers and mash. "You're not Irish," he said.

"I know," said Nobby, "I was just taking the piss."

“Ladies present,” Gerry murmured. Nobby made a face.

"Be serious!" said Alb, his voice rising in irritation, "We're British, that's the point. It's about being British, our culture, our way of life. It's about them trying to make us believe we're a mixed race of god knows what, when over 95% of us are still White Anglo Saxons.” He was raging now, waving his arms, in serious danger of losing his balance on the uneven paving, “We've been brainwashed into thinking this is a multi-cultural society, when it's still British but they’re working all the time to destroy the British way of life. They've been importing foreigners from all over since the fifties and you've got West Indians here, Pakistanis there, Muslims across the Midlands and now there's East Europeans all over the place. It's an invasion!"

He paused, then added fiercely, "Our grandparents and our parents fought to keep this island safe and the bloody government have just opened the doors and let every bugger in without a by your leave.
Well, we're not going to accept it – not without a fight, by god.”

Alb thought Wilf looked quite excited but apart from him, the rest of them looked blank. There followed quite a bit of shuffling. Alb looked at Gerry and made an eyebrows raised face. Gerry shrugged, glancing at Val who was standing stiffly, seemingly struck dumb.

“Excuse me, Alb – might I say something here?”

All eyes swivelled to Fiona Pilkington, a tiny, small-boned woman whose complexion matched perfectly her stock in trade beige twin-set and pearls. She'd been forgotten by both Alb and Gerry on their first mental trawl of the Village' inhabitants, living as she did in the 'other' complex, and had been invited solely because it had seemed rude to exclude her.

She pulled herself up with the aid of her stick and the arm of the bench. She gained a semi-upright position and addressed them all; her quiet voice gentle in their ears, a balm following Alb’s outraged tones.

“Alb has given us a lot to think about this evening,”
She got a few murmurs of agreement from the stunned group. Gerry saw Pete Curtiss nodding energetically and watched curiously as Fiona bestowed a small smile in his direction. “However, I think we would all benefit from taking a break for supper and re-convening tomorrow, perhaps this time in the ornamental shrubbery, those of us that want to do so, to continue the discussion and see where we might go from here?”

She glanced round but the benches were already emptying, the group dispersing as swiftly as old bones would allow. Fiona nodded at Alb and turned away, quickly followed by Mags trundling the cake trolley in front of her like a makeshift Zimmer frame.
Val waited a few moments, indecision apparent on her face then she too walked away. Alb and Gerry stood alone, wondering where it had all gone wrong. 
Cheers

Arun




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