Chapter 7 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

7

I would die for my country
but I could never let my country die for me
Neil Kinnock

The community room was less full than was usual at that time of the evening and those who had come over appeared to be in no mood to talk. The TV was on and most of them were staring at it, a few, like Ken and Cynthia, were reading in corners. Mags was playing patience. Val had joined Alb and Gerry at one of the tables, congratulating herself for her bravery given the fact that everyone else was giving them a wide berth. She'd got changed after supper into something pink, loose and filmy; to Gerry's untrained eye it looked suspiciously like a negligee.

"We fought across the empire," muttered Alb, his voice thick, "and we all swore an oath to protect this land." He took another swallow from the glass in front of him, a late night toddy to help him sleep.
Val shifted uncomfortably in her seat, then leaned across the table and patted his hand, "I know you care about all this, love, but you frightened them a bit."

As she leaned forward the material rustled, billowing at the neck, offering a slight hint of cleavage. Gerry wasn't complaining; he didn't like Val but there was no denying she was the best looking woman in the place, if you liked the obvious sort, as well as being the youngest. At the sound Ken's head went up from his book; Mags looked over, cards forgotten; Alb, for whom no doubt the rustling was intended, was oblivious.

“But what have they got to lose?" Alb was baffled, "We’re all nearly dead, what’s the problem?”

Gerry nodded, "n’ just 'cause we're old doesn't mean we don't have the right to an opinion."

"Or that we've given up," said Alb, at this moment looking very much like he had done just that.

"I have to ask…” Val’s voice was quiet and she leaned in as she spoke, “is this a racist thing? Because if you've gone all Klu Klux Klan on me, Albie......"

Gerry nearly corrected her – Ku Klux Klan – but thought better of it; at least she was talking to them.

"No, no" said Alb, sighing deeply, "we're not racist; all we're saying is the indigenous population, which is predominately white, has the right to defend its homeland and culture."

"Because a lot of black people were born here, you know," said Val, continuing her theme, "and they're as British as you and me."

Gerry blinked and Alb sighed again. “We’re not saying anything about that, Val.”

"Although, you're right," her voice a whisper, face thoughtful, "There are mosques springing up everywhere, I mean to say, you can go through some places and pass more mosques than churches yet there must be more Christians in this country than Muslims."

Alb leaned back, not sure where this was going.
Gerry’s face was a picture and he seemed about to speak when Val called out to the group round the TV, "Isn’t that right, Sticky? The mosques are everywhere. Sticky? I said..."

At the repeated sound of his name Sticky roused from his TV induced torpor, "Eh? What’s that?" He pushed his glasses back up his nose and looked across at her, “What you saying?”

"The mosques," Val repeated patiently, "when I was doing your feet the other day, you were telling me about all the mosques, in Southampton?"

The image popped into Gerry's head of Val ministering in some way to all the men in the complex, attaching herself to their various appendages and applying her wiles. He couldn't imagine his own parts in her hands but it was beginning to look like he was in the minority.

"Mosques...too right," Sticky responded, interest awakened, "how's that happened, that’s what I want to know? We give 'em their bloody mosques and they repay us by blowing stuff up."

"Because those with power have determined it," said Alb, sensing an opportunity.

"Eh? What’s that mean in English?" Sticky challenged, looking over at Gerry for translation.

"Politicians he means …” Gerry obliged, "an’ it’s about time someone made it clear to them that the White Anglo-Saxon Protestants have had enough."

"I'm Catholic," Cynthia retorted sharply, looking up from her book, her face pinched in disdain. She'd noted Val's inappropriate attire; mutton dressed as lamb, couldn't miss the flouncing that had accompanied her entrance. She'd determined to have nothing to do with that 'crowd' as she thought of Alb et al, and had brought the book in with her as camouflage.

"I am too, Cyn," said Bill reaching across and increasing the volume on the TV, "ignore him."

"I'm lapsed," said Ken. Alb looked at him, thinking 'you would be.'

"No offence meant," said Gerry, hands smoothing the air, "forget the proddy bit."

"The coloured people...sorry, I mean, the black people have been here for decades," said Val, head shaking, "you can't send them home."

"East Europeans are Christians, aren't they?" added Ken, joining them at the table.

"They haven’t been here for decades though, Ken," Val reproved gently.

"Okay, Ken, East Europeans are white and Christians as well," said Alb, "but they're not British."

"You can't send the blacks home," said Harry, still seated in front of the TV, eyes staring, recalling the streets of his youth, "that wouldn't be right."

Gerry rated Harry Porter, he was a decent bloke, ex-infantry, ex-Londoner, a salt-of-the earth type. They could do worse than get him on-side.

"Anyway, they were a part of the Empire and the Commonwealth," offered Mags, her face wreathed in smiles now that it was ok to talk to Alb again.

"I know some very nice East Europeans," said Jonesey, emerging from behind his newspaper, "They help out at the Community Centre. You know 'em, don't you, Harry. Mind you," he added, "they’re not Poles, I think there're too many Poles in the country, that I'd agree with."

"Oh, I know a Polish chap and he's..." started Ken.

"Hold up, Ken," Alb held his temper in check, aware Val was watching him and not wanting to start the whole Ku Klux Klan thing off again, "it's not a question of who knows a Pole or black person or Muslim, I'm sure that individually they’re decent people. The problem is that they've turned up in vast numbers, swamping communities."

"Like the mosques in Southampton," Sticky chimed in.

Alb flashed him a grateful look.

"Okay," said Val, patting her hair busily, "as long as
this isn't some racist thing."

"Anyway," said Cynthia, book abandoned, "who's going to listen to us?"

"Yeah, who cares what a bunch of old fogies think?" Jonesey surged up, the movement denying his age, newspaper sliding down his legs, arriving in a heap at his feet.

"Exactly," said Harry to no-one in particular, "even my grandkids don't listen to me."

"So, what are we going to do about it?" demanded Val.

"We're gonna fight," said Gerry, slapping his hand on the table, forgetting for a moment the arthritis that plagued him. He sat back, gritting his teeth against the pain. Alb passed him his toddy, with a nod of understanding. "We're going to fight," Gerry repeated, more quietly and without the hand gesture.

Alb watched Val, willing her compliance and approval.

"Fight?" she cried, "What do you mean, fight? Have you gone mad?" Clearly, approval was in short supply.

"Mad as hell," said Gerry, eyes crinkling, the toddy warming his throat, pain forgotten, enjoying the effect of his words.

"Are you serious?" said Mags. She'd moved from her table to theirs; the movement signifying potential support.

"Deadly," said Alb.

"What're you talking about?" said Bill, muting the TV, his voice a sneer, cynicism out in force, "What do you mean 'fight'? A pensioners’ protest rally or something?"

"What's the point of that?" demanded
Harry, "Nobody will listen to us, will they?"

"Nobody in their right minds, anyway," Val said rudely.

"Oh, I've had enough of this," said Bill, putting the TV back to full volume.

"Wait a minute," pressed Alb, "just listen for a bit."

Bill turned back, eyebrows raised, one hand steadying himself on the back of the sofa.

"The way Gerry and I figure it, we're at war, but the government isn't fighting like it's a war, they're not fighting the real enemy, they're too busy trying to satisfy all sides to get re-elected."

"We're never going to win," said Gerry, "'cause they're always sucking up to the minority communities."

"So someone else has to take on the fighting," said Alb, "someone has to fight the real war."

"I don't approve of violence," Cynthia chipped in.

"And a lot of us in the Village have seen active service of some sort or another.” Alb raised his hand to forestall Ken’s protestations, “I said 'a lot', not 'all', Ken…."

"So?" said Bill, still in two minds.

"So, the way we see it, we’re more than qualified to do something."

"Do what?" said Bill. He was interested despite his better judgment, his ‘war wound’ was the scar left by a lanced boil and despite a field promotion to captain he had unresolved issues although he’d long since given up hope of ever covering himself in glory. Now maybe Alb and Gerry had an idea that could change that.

"Fight back," said Alb raising his right fist.

"With guns," added Gerry.

Bill sat down abruptly, it was what he'd been pushing for but it was still a shock. Cynthia made a slight sound like someone had sat on her. Val's hand went to her mouth. Ken muttered something unintelligible and walked over to the window. Mags moved closer, her eyes widening as she stared at Alb.

"Alb?" Harry's voice sounded odd, as if it were coming from a long way away.

"We're all trained, Harry, remember," said Alb, "you know, infantry; you, me, Gerry, and Johnno. Jonesey, you were in the Paras; Wilf was a Marine and a mercenary."

"But that was years ago, we were young men then, Alb." Johnno held Alb in deep regard and his voice was gentle despite the rebuff.

“Pete was in the engineers," said Gerry.

"Dave was REME," offered Bill, getting caught up again.

"You're beginning to scare me, Albie," said Val.

"Come on, Val," said Gerry, "think about it, you were in the WAC."

"You're mad, all of you," said Val, "are you really suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"Surely you see it," said Alb, "how this country is being destroyed."

"Yes," agreed Val, "but that's not our business now."

"Why not?" asked Gerry, "Just 'cause we're old doesn't mean we can't resist."

"We're at war," stated Alb, "and if someone doesn't do something we'll lose. The England that we all know, the Britain that we and our friends fought for, and many died for, will be lost forever." He paused, staring at her, "so if that means hurting our enemies...."

"You mean kill," said Val, "don't say 'hurt' when you mean 'kill'."

"If that means killing the enemies of this country..." said Gerry, "Then yes, we intend to kill people."

"But only those who are trying to destroy our country," said Alb, still hoping to persuade her, "we're at war, Val, why can't you see it?"
She stepped back from him, ignoring the plea in his voice, and walked over to join Ken at the window.

Bill stood up, his voice incisive, with an emergent officer-like quality, “Fiona was right - we should meet up again ...those who want to," he paused, casting a meaningful glance across at Val and Ken who were now engaged in frantic whisperings, "and discuss it then.”

 
Cheers for reading

Arun





More books in the 'Corpalism' series















Compendium editions