A Fox Under My Cloak (25 page)

“You don’t see any cats round here,” chuckled Thomas Turney. “They have long ago gone into the pot.”

A boy ran past with a loaf under an arm, swiftly, dodging in and out on bare feet. Farther down the street they passed a woman wheeling a battered pram with several loaves hidden under two grimy babies wrapped in bits and pieces of cloth, old stockinet and brown paper wound round them and fastened with string. Other people came by, clutching bundles under coats and aprons.

Farther on they saw the reason: a shop front was shattered, glass lying on pavement and in gutter, a crowd jeering. “
Germans
! Boo, Germans!” The name painted above the shop was STRACHAN. As a policeman approached the crowd scattered.

“It’s happened to other shops as well, sir. Over a hundred so far, and more being reported. This man is Scotch all right, but the name looks German.”

“Poor fellow,” said Thomas Turney. “No compensation, I suppose, is payable?”

“I could not tell you, sir. In some cases, of course, it’s done to rob. It’s housebreaking within the meaning of the law.”

“Have a cigar,” said Thomas Turney. Thanking him, the constable put it inside his helmet.

“The sooner we leave this neighbourhood, the better, Hetty. We come into the extension of Bishopsgate at the end, and then to Liverpool Street. This place is a rookery, you know. You’ll never get these people to change their ways, I’m afraid, despite what Dora and her friends say. ‘The poor are always with us.’ I had an idea that I would sell some of my paper shares, and find out about iron and steel. The sinkings of our tonnage will increase, I think, for Germany is still very strong, and imports of pulp and newsprint will have to make way for more necessary raw materials, and manufactured armaments from America. This is the time, I fancy, to buy shipping shares, now slumped.”

The neighbourhood of the Stock Exchange, narrow streets and tall stone buildings drab with smoke, was in some
excitement
, similar to that of the district of small factories and
tenements
they had just left. While Hetty waited below on the marble floor by the lift-cage, Thomas Turney went up to the fifth storey to his broker’s office. There he learned that business in the House was virtually suspended; prices were so irregular, said his broker, as to be highly speculative; he advised waiting until they settled somewhat. He had a list of his client’s securities, and promised to post a statement when some sort of stability re-established itself.

While they sat there, an office boy came in with a gleaming silk hat, explaining that he had had to wait his turn, for many others had been waiting before him, at the ironing basement.

“I am one of the Members of the House marching to the Palace of Westminster this afternoon, Mr. Turney, to demand the internment of all Germans in London for the duration. It is an open scandal how our war effort is being hamstrung in high places. The City is riddled with spies. Deputations are coming from the leading banks, from Lloyds, and other City Houses. The sinking of the
Lusitania
has brought matters
to a head. I will write to you as soon as the market is more settled. Good day to you, sir.”

Hetty and her father had brought sandwiches, as usual on their jaunt; and going into an A.B.C., ordered cups of coffee and ate while discussing how best they might see the forthcoming procession.

“History is in the making, my girl. What would not Samuel Pepys have made of our times? The pity is, life is so short; but you will read of it in due course, when the war is over; so will Phillip, and Bertie and Gerry—well, we must hope for the best. They are safe for the moment, thank goodness. This war will, as Kitchener said at the beginning, take a long time; and Europe will be devastated at the end of it. Did ye read of that fellow Bernard Shaw’s pamphlet last autumn? I cut out a quotation from the
Telegraph,
and remember it well. ‘There are only two flags in the world henceforth: the Red flag of democratic Socialism, and the Black flag of Capitalism.’”

“Yes, Papa, I remember Dickie reading out about it. I’m afraid it is all above my head.”

“History tells us that there is usually a revolution in a country which loses a war, Hetty. ‘Nothing succeeds like success’, they say; and the converse is true. Come, eat up your food, my girl; you mustn’t starve yourself, on account of the world’s troubles, you know. It will be all the same in a hundred years time, so we must make the best of life as we have it.”

“Of course, Papa,” smiled Hetty, thinking that Phillip would be all right. Perhaps the war would be over before he would have to go out again.

They rode on top of an omnibus, open to the air and light of the spring day. Hetty felt happier away from the spiritless interior of the tea-shop. Passing Trafalgar Square with the pedestal of Nelson’s memorial enclosed by hoardings advertising the new Government 4½% War Loan,
£
100 of stock being purchasable at
£
95, Thomas Turney pondered the advantages of gilt-edge over industrials. The bus ran down Whitehall, past the Horse Guards now in khaki, while Hetty looked at the varied uniforms of the officers to be seen there: Russian, French, Belgian, Italian, Montenegrin, among the top-hats and
frock-coats
of men whom she supposed to be members of the
Government
. How strong it all looked, the massive buildings, the calm of the people, the company of Royal Navy men marching by,
spick and span, on the other side of the road, the gleaming wings of pigeons, white clouds sailing by in a sky of purest blue. O, things would come all right in the end!

They waited by the front of Westminster Abbey, opposite the Houses of Parliament, enjoying the sun. At last the procession appeared, top-hats gleaming and bobbing with here and there a straw-yard, umbrellas held under the left arm like shot-guns, and a patriotic stiffness about the marchers, the more noticeable as on either flank of the column hastened a straggling crowd of excited nondescripts and small boys.

“You know,” said Thomas Turney, holding his daughter’s arm, as she looked a little timid, he thought, “it is agin the law to march in procession within a mile of Parliament while it is in session, for the purpose of influencing its decisions or debates. I wonder how many policemen accompanying this lot know that?” as the head of the column actually passed through the iron gates, while the two constables on duty there stepped aside.

After hesitation, the two followed across the road, and into the Palace Yard. There seemed to be no objection to their following into the Central Hall with the deputation, so they went on, Thomas Turney holding his rolled umbrella under his left arm, as befitted the occasion, and the Chairman of Mallard, Carter & Turney Ltd., of Sparhawk Street, High Holborn.

“I hope,” he chuckled, “that the chairman’s head will not be found on one of the railing spikes after it is all over!”

The crowd pressed into the hall; the two managed to get into a free space by the side, at the back, beside a burly constable. There arose a chant, “We want Asquith! We want Asquith! ——” while other sections began a counterpoint slogan, “We won’t wait and see, we won’t, we won’t wait and see!” while the noise increased. The Prime Minister did not appear; but two Members of the Commons did, one instantly recognised as that grand old seadog, Lord Charles Beresford, bluff, broad-faced, frock-coated, with another, whom the constable said was Sir Henry Dalziel, a Liberal Member.

There was so much cheering and shouting or “Order! Order!” that the two speakers were heard only in snatches; but that they expressed the feelings of the assembly was obvious from the roar that went up with every sentence.

“I am convinced,” shouted Admiral Lord Charles, “nay, I
can prove it! That if ever Zeppelins drop incendiary bombs on London, on this great city, heart of the Empire, then many of those Germans, our hated enemies, the destroyers of civilisation, of fair play, of God Himself—I am convinced that when that happens, as it will happen, my friends—that Germans now free among us will be out and about, to set fire to the City in twenty or thirty different places!”

When he could be heard again, “German barbers, German waiters, German bakers, they are potential dangers, I grant you, but the Germans who are the greatest threat to life and property are those in high social places! I would put them, one and all, behind barbed wire!”

Then his fellow parliamentarian spoke, “I have consulted with the chief of one of our Government Departments, and that authority confirmed what we all already knew: that there are many men of German origin holding high positions of confidence and responsibility in all departments. They are sons of
naturalised
Germans, born and brought up in England. I asked him if they were pro-German. ‘Not necessarily,’ he replied, ‘but they are not exactly pro-British.’ That was the gist of his reply. But what if, through only one case of treachery, arising from doubtful loyalty, some of your sons and brothers were lost in a troopship upon the High Seas? Is it not better to put them all out of harm’s way, I mean by internment, rather than take such a risk?”

A messenger came in; passed a note to Lord Charles Beresford. “The Cabinet is at this very moment considering the position of naturalised Germans, so you may rest assured that the will of the people will prevail!” and to more cheering, and the National Anthem, the deputation broke up; and Hetty found she was trembling.

*

Two days later Richard was declaiming, from his armchair as he read
The
Daily
Trident
,
that the Prime Minister was an Old Woman.

“He has not done enough, Hetty!”

Naturalised Germans were to be left at liberty, unless there were special reasons in individual cases.

“
The
Trident
says, ‘Intern the lot!’”

Male Germans of military age, between seventeen and
fifty-five
, were to be interned; over military age, including women
and children to be repatriated. Hitherto they had been registered, and kept under observation.

“Well, we knew that,” said Richard. “I’ve spent many an hour watching that fellow Krebs’ windows, to see if he is signalling; and others, too, but that’s a secret, Hetty. We are not asleep, you know, on our beats!”

He snorted.

“Asquith all over! What he gives with one hand, he takes away with the other! An advisory body is to be set up, if you please, to give some Germans a chance to claim exemption from both internment and repatriation! Most of the naturalised Germans, he says, he believes to be loyal British subjects! And would you believe it, Hetty, just listen to this! He goes on to say, ‘Even the majority of the aliens who are not naturalised are, I believe, decent honest people! To initiate a vendetta against them would be, I contend, not only disgaceful from the moral point of view, but impolitic from the point of view of the country’s best interests.’ Good God, and that is the man whose wife visited the Prussian officers in their luxurious quarters in Donington Hall, whom she had known before the war as friends!”

Richard was about to say, as he had many times before, that the Prussians under Bismarck had destroyed his mother’s family, killing her father and brothers, but he stopped himself in time: after all, half of him was
Bayerischer
blood, and the least said about that nowadays, the better. The thought calmed him down; and taking advantage of her husband’s easier mood, Hetty said she was just going next door for half an hour or so, to play piquet with Papa.

*

The following night he was happier about the enemy in the midst.
The
Daily
Trident
congratulated its readers on their patriotism and common sense, which had led directly to the command of His Majesty, issued the previous day, that the names of the German Emperor, the Emperor of Austria, the King of Württemberg, the Crown Prince of Germany, and other German princes, including the Duke of Cumberland (who was the cousin of King George V) be struck off the Roll of the Knights of the Garter.

“Good,” said Richard. “Listen to this, Hetty.”

He proceeded to read an article on the Ancient Order of Chivalry to his wife. It declared that, in the seventeenth century
a knight was publicly degraded in Westminster Hall, his spurs being hacked off his heels, his sword-belt cut and his sword broken across his head. The last expulsion had occurred exactly one hundred and one years before, in 1814, when Admiral Cochrane, M.P. was, despite his declaration of innocence, convicted and imprisoned for fraud on the Stock Exchange. He was expelled from the House of Commons, and his banner as a Knight of the Order of the Bath, hanging over his stall in the Chapel of Henry VII in Westminster Abbey, was torn down and kicked across the floors on to the sidewalk outside.

That, however, had been a mistake, Richard’s voice repeated —unlike the present expulsions from the Roll of Garter Knights. In 1844, Cochrane, then Lord Dundonald, was proved innocent; he was restored to his Knighthood, but his banner was not put up in Windsor Chapel until he was dead. “‘In these enlightened times, no such mistake could be made: Louvain, Dinant,
Tirlemont
, and other Belgian towns, cry out the justification for the expulsion of the self-styled All-Highest from our most notable Order of Chivalry.’”

In the next house, Hetty, sitting opposite Thomas Turney, fortified by a steaming glass of Irish whiskey with lemon and honey in it, was given a less illiberal point of view. “You know, Hetty, for the King to have to accede to the cries of the mob is a bad thing, and in this case a significant thing, the consequences of which will be felt when the war is over, if not before. It is a sign of the times, of the dissolution of the old order. On a smaller scale, consider what has happened to Krebs ——”

When Hetty returned to play, chess with her husband, a game which she had lost consistently, with one exception, for the past twenty years, she wanted to tell him about Mr. Krebs, the German on the Hill; but dreading what he would say, she kept her thoughts to herself.

Mr. Krebs had been arrested during the previous night, and taken away, where, his wife did not know.