Rule Britannia Page 7

  “What are they going to tell us?” hissed Mad in a whisper so loud that it carried at least four rows ahead, and people turned round.

  “I know darn well what they’re going to say,” replied Jack Trembath, “and that is that we’re to behave ourselves and do as we’re told.”

  “Or else?” queried Mad.

  “Or else,” he repeated. He hesitated a moment, and then he whispered in her ear, “You know they shot poor Spry?”

  “I saw them do it. That’s what I wanted to tell you. It was over at once. I went out later and buried her. She’s just beyond the gap in the hedge.”

  He turned and looked at her. “I wish I’d known,” he said. “I’d have spared you that job. Never mind, I’ll repay you one of these days. My feeling is that there’s more trouble to come. It’s all been done too sudden, in my opinion. I may be wrong, I hope I am, but I don’t like it.”

  “Nor do I,” replied Mad, and she pinched Emma’s arm. “That makes three who feel as we do—you, your sister-in-law and Tom Bate.”

  Jack Trembath smiled. “Ah, Tom,” he said. “There’s a good man to have to your side in a scrap. Plenty of belly to him.”

  The hum of voices ceased. The speakers were coming onto the platform. Emma wondered if everyone was supposed to stand, as in church, but nobody did, which was just as well because her grandmother, who had been persuaded greatly against her will to get into a dress at the last minute, under an old tweed coat, had put it on back to front, finding it more comfortable that way, and the zip had snapped coming down in the car, revealing a cast-off vest of Terry’s. No such borrowed clothing adorned the Member of Parliament. Mrs. Honor Moorhouse was a very good-looking woman and she knew it. She was escorted by Colonel Cheeseman, smart and erect in his uniform, and another woman whom neither Emma nor her grandmother had seen before.

  The proceedings were opened by the Commander of Marines himself.

  “Good friends one and all,” he began, “I am not here on this platform to detain you any longer than is necessary.” (He’s so keen on not detaining people, Emma thought—that’s what he said to Mad when he arrived from the helicopter.) “I’m just here to say thank you for your steady nerves and your kind cooperation during the past six days. It wasn’t easy for you, and we knew it wouldn’t be easy, but we had a job to do, and because of the way you’ve backed us up that job has been completed. It’s true that you will have us with you for a while—security precautions make this necessary; but I know, from what I’ve seen already, that we’re going to have a grand time together. I’m ashamed to say it, but only today I learned your Cornish motto, ‘One and All.’ Now that’s just one of the finest mottoes I’ve ever heard, and it’s going to apply to all of us right here, in this little section of your beautiful west country. Friends, this lovely lady doesn’t require any introduction from me. Your member, Mrs. Honor Moorhouse.”

  The gallant Commander of Marines stood back and the Member of Parliament rose to her feet. She had a sheaf of papers in her hand but she did not consult them. She was evidently fully briefed, and indeed it was her confident manner and capable handling of statistics that had won her the seat in parliament.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, fellow Cornishmen and women, we live in stirring times…”

  “Oh God,” murmured Mad to her companions, “I know exactly what she is going to say from beginning to end.”

  The Hon. Member for Mid-Cornwall went over the events of the past weekend, and elaborated on the necessity for U.S. intervention and the forming of the union between the two countries. Everyone had heard it on the radio and television from the Prime Minister, but somehow, because she was a woman, and was speaking to her constituents in their own town hall at Poldrea, she made it all sound more intimate, more parochial, as if the creation of USUK had come about for their especial benefit. After all, London was “up country” and still some distance away, despite the motorway, and nobody really minded what happened in the east or the north or the midlands, so long as the people who lived there came west for their holidays. It made them all feel they were the center of attention, beaches roped off, barricades on the main road. It was new, it was sensational, it gave them a feeling of importance. Men squared their shoulders as Mrs. Moorhouse spoke, women lifted their heads and wondered where she had bought her smart lime-green jersey suit; and as their Member continued, with eloquent phrases tripping off her tongue, about the lassitude into which the country had fallen, the lack of backbone among the young, the apathy of the middle-aged and the dismal plight of the old, all of which could be changed and whipped into a frenzy of new life through union with “our cousins from across the Atlantic” (rather like the Biblical phrase, thought Emma—was it St. Paul?—“we shall all be changed in the twinkling of an eye”), cries of “Hear, hear!” rang through the hall and a young woman in front of Emma began to cry.

  “Wait for it,” whispered Mad. “We shall have the English-speaking peoples in a moment, and enemies within our midst who would destroy all tradition, all sentiment, all those things which our forefathers and the Pilgrim fathers strove for when they sailed in the little Mayflower…”

  Emma waited, and it came. Even the bit about the Pilgrim fathers.

  “And so,” Mrs. Moorhouse continued, her voice rising to a higher pitch as she wound to her conclusion, “before I introduce our good friend Martha Hubbard, here on the platform beside me, who has flown over from New England especially to talk to you, I want to remind you once again of what the Prime Minister told us last week—that, if we are to survive, we must give the forces of the United States, here in our midst, our full cooperation and our friendship too. More than this, we must be on our guard against subversive tongues, and one and all put our shoulders to the wheel to make our contribution to USUK.”

  She paused, to be greeted by a storm of applause from her listeners nearest to the platform. The middle rows were possibly more moderate in their enthusiasm, and the stamping of feet from those who were standing at the back could have been taken either way. The clapping died away, and the Member, with a smile of encouragement, looked at her supporters and said, “Any questions?”

  Emma, with horror, felt her grandmother move beside her, and before she could tug at the half-zipped frock Mad was on her feet.

  “I am sure we are all very grateful to you, Mrs. Moorhouse, for speaking to us this evening, but I would like to know—and I hope you don’t think it impertinent of me—but when did you last put a shoulder to the wheel, and what wheel was it that you actually moved?”

  There was a murmur throughout the hall, somebody cried “Shame!” and the voice of a spectator at the rear of the building, sounding uncommonly like that of Tom Bate the fishmonger, shouted, “Go to it, me old ’andsome.”

  The Member for Mid-Cornwall, trained to deal with heckling, remained unruffled. She did not immediately recognize the strange-looking elderly woman who confronted her from the middle of the hall. Some eccentric, she supposed, who had come to the meeting after a prolonged session at the nearest public house.

  “A figure of speech,” she said, smiling graciously, “not very original, perhaps, but I am sure everyone knows what I meant.”

  Those standing at the back of the hall were beginning to enjoy themselves and to express their enjoyment in laughter, which was not what the organizers of the meeting had intended. All said and done, it was a serious occasion. Emma, scarlet with embarrassment, stared at the back of the man immediately in front of her. Mrs. Moorhouse turned to Colonel Cheeseman with a little shrug of her shoulder and a raised eyebrow. Colonel Cheeseman, even more embarrassed than Emma because he had recognized, in the questioner halfway down the hall, the figure and features of the Lady Macbeth who had entertained him to tea, whispered into the Member of Parliament’s ear. Illumination appeared upon her features. She nodded, and her smile vanished.

  “May I remind the questioner,” she said, “that I am here to answer questions of a serious and practical nature, and this is no
t a theater or a music hall.”

  “I know that only too well,” replied Mad. “If it were, I should be up on the stage where you are, and you perhaps, though not necessarily, would be down here.” (Cheers from Tom Bate and several of his cronies.) “However,” Mad went on, “I should like to ask a question of a serious and practical nature, and it is this. If we are to give the gallant forces of the United States our full cooperation and friendship, will they guarantee in return not to shoot our farm dogs, and to permit all of us, men, women and children, free access to the roads, towns and beaches that belong to us?”

  This time the applause from the back of the hall was deafening. Mrs. Moorhouse made a little gesture of resignation and turned to the Commander.

  Colonel Cheeseman stood up, conciliation written all over his lantern face.

  “Dear lady,” he said, addressing himself to Mad, and his tone was indulgent, suggesting he knew, and the spectators knew, that the question had been put by someone for whom they all had affection and respect, but after all she was touching eighty, was understood to be rather odd, and was possibly suffering from a state of delayed shock.

  “Dear lady, I was, and am, grateful to you for your hospitality, as I told you, when I had the pleasure of taking tea with you last week. I also told you at the time that I knew nothing then of the unfortunate incident of the farm dog. The matter was later reported to me, the necessary action was taken, and compensation has been paid to the owner. But—and this I must repeat again and again—we are determined, and your government is determined, that all measures must be taken to maintain law and order in every part of the United Kingdom. Nobody in Cornwall, or in the rest of your wonderful country, wants to see a repetition here of the violence that has taken place in other parts of the world, and it is because of this that a small measure of freedom must be curtailed at the present time. Believe me, it is for your good, for the good of your neighbors. No harm will come to anyone who goes about his business in a peaceable, orderly fashion. We are here to assist you, not to repress you. USUK must be made to work, and we are here to see that in the west country, as well as elsewhere, it works one hundred percent. I hope, dear lady, that answers your question.”

  Mad did not reply immediately. Possibly she was reminded of days long past when, standing in the center of the stage, she had a final line to deliver before the curtain fell. A slow, singularly mocking smile appeared upon her lips. She allowed her eyes to travel the length and breadth of the hall, until they rested once more upon the colonel.

  “Yes,” she said slowly, “it most certainly does, and, what is more, it confirms me in the opinion which I have held ever since the first helicopter flew over my house on Thursday morning—that the exercise you are engaged upon has been planned by your government and ours, with the backing of financiers in the United States and the United Kingdom, for many, many months, and that it is nothing more nor less than the biggest takeover bid the world has ever seen. Whether it succeeds or fails, the future will show.”

  She touched Jack Trembath on the sleeve and he rose to his feet, quick on cue like a fellow-actor. So did his wife, and Emma likewise, and the four of them walked slowly down the gangway amid a silence only known in days long vanished at the Theater Royal. It was not until they were safely outside the town hall that the uproar started. Cheers and counter-cheers, protests and whistles, calls for order smothered by the stamping of feet.

  “That’s cooked his goose for the evening, and hers too,” said Mad with satisfaction. “Now we can all go home.”

  She waited until the noise had subsided, then proceeded towards the car, followed by the Trembaths. Others flocked from the building, among them Tom Bate.

  “Lovely job, m’dear,” he said to Mad. “As good as a play.”

  Back in the town hall order had been restored, and the salesman from the supermarket who had sliced the ham for Mad earlier that day had risen to his feet. He wanted to know what effect the presence of the marines would have upon the tourist season next summer if they were still occupying the caravans and the bathing huts on Poldrea beach.

  6

  When Emma went in to her grandmother the following morning she found Mad sitting up in bed intent upon the local newspaper, which was spread out on the bed in front of her.

  “It’s here,” said Mad delightedly, “bang in the middle of the center page. ‘Famous actress holds floor at local meeting. Pertinent question asked. Is nation being subjected to a takeover bid?’ So you see, I’ve started something, and a jolly good thing too.”

  She leaned back on her pillows triumphant. Emma was reminded of days long past when as a child she had gone into her grandmother’s bedroom in London, and found her gloating over the notices of the new play in which she had performed the night before. Now, touching eighty, notoriety in the Poldrea town hall had become an equal triumph.

  “What else do they say?” asked Emma, leaning over the bed.

  “Read it,” said Mad. “I’m going to have my bath. Oh, there’s nothing else about our part in it—after all, we’re small beer and so is Poldrea—but read the leader about the state of the country as a whole, and what’s likely to happen. Freedom of the press, my eye! The editor’s been bought.”

  Emma settled herself on the bed while her grandmother went into the bathroom. It was true, there was only the very small paragraph about the meeting in the town hall, but the headline did stand out with its “Famous Actress Sensation.” If by any chance it got picked up by the national press they would have Pa on the line again. She turned to the leading article. No mention of Mad here, of course, but a great welcome for USUK, which, so the writer insisted, was to be the saving of the country, since the fiasco of the entry into Europe some years previously. “At last we can hold up our heads… not a small offshore island but part of a vast union of English-speaking peoples, etc., etc.” Emma skipped through it, because she seemed to have been reading this sort of thing ever since she had started reading newspapers at the age of thirteen, and it was all so boring.

  She turned to the news itself, and the whole thing of the union certainly was rather overwhelming, because apparently the U.S. troops were everywhere, standing by at power-stations, telephone switchboards, TV studios, along with the U.K. forces and the police, in case, so it said, there should be trouble from these mysterious subversive elements everyone kept on talking about. But the welcome from all sections of the population was tremendous. “At last, at last…” people were saying, from financiers in the city (Pa, thought Emma) down to the old-age pensioners (not Mad). There was plenty more about free movement between the countries, joint nationality, jobs for all, opportunities open to young people, a common culture; and it seemed that Australia, New Zealand and South Africa were also to have some sort of stake in USUK—the paper did not specify quite what, but there was a rather sinister allusion to the nuclear deterrent, and how USUK could wholly control the present situation. Australia, southern and central Africa, the United States and Great Britain would then have nuclear command all the way from the Atlantic to the Indian Ocean.

  “I don’t follow all this nuclear stuff,” Emma called to her grandmother in the bathroom. “Do you?”

  “Yes,” shouted Mad. “You remember what they wanted to do in Europe—make it a third force? Well, the idea fizzled out, some people blamed the left-wingers, others blamed the right. Anyway, the Europeans didn’t agree. Now, reading between the lines, I’d say we have it here, the nuclear deterrent, with the U.S., the South Africans and the Australians. Four compass points of destruction. Very pretty.”

  Emma shrugged and began to make Mad’s bed. She had grown up with the word nuclear deterrent, and it meant those things rearing out of the ground and blasting off missiles thousands of miles distant that could wipe out whole areas and their populations. There was nothing anybody could do about it, except invent anti-missiles, and then somebody else had to invent an anti-anti-missile. There was no end to it. Perhaps the U.S. forces were going to cordo
n off Poldrea beach so that builders and technicians could install an anti-anti-anti-missile…

  Mad came back from the bathroom, dressed this morning as a Siberian peasant prior to the Russian revolution. The baggy bloomers had been purloined years ago—they had formed part of the wardrobe for a provincial tour of The Cherry Orchard. She surveyed herself in the looking glass with satisfaction. The heavy goat-chain round her waist gave the finishing touch to serfdom. (Mad had allowed Joe to keep goats once, but had given them away when the largest had found its way onto her bed.) Alexei Vladavitch was ready for battle.

  “Madam?”

  It was Dottie at the bedroom door in her usual post-breakfast state of bustle.

  “What is it, Dottie?”

  “There’s that Lieutenant Sherman suddenly turned up, and he has a lady with him, an American lady, he introduced her to me as a Mrs. Hubbard. I had to show them into the music room but I said I wasn’t sure if you were up. I can easily say you are still in bed.”

  “Let me go,” said Emma quickly, “I can cope.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mad, “we’ll both go. Mrs. Hubbard… Wasn’t that the name of the woman sitting between Colonel Cheesering and the Member at last night’s meeting?”

  “Yes,” replied Emma, “I believe it was.”

  “H’m,” observed Mad, twitching at the goat-chain, “we’ll soon get rid of her.”

  She led the way downstairs with a determined air and, followed by her granddaughter, advanced into the music room. Lieutenant Sherman was standing at ease, but he sprang to attention as she entered. Mrs. Hubbard, a pleasant-looking woman of about forty-five with a rush of teeth to the head, was staring in ecstasy at the dried hydrangea heads that filled the vases. She turned towards the Russian serf who confronted her and held out both her hands.

  “Martha Hubbard,” she proclaimed, introducing herself like someone at the captain’s table on a pleasure cruise, “and many, many apologies for intruding upon your privacy. I’m so enchanted by your flower arrangement that I’ve hardly breath to speak. My, my, what a lovely home you have! And is this dear spotted doggie your especial pet?”