A Pearl for My Mistress

If they won’t listen to me, then I’ll find someone, who will.

It was with these thoughts she slipped away one fine afternoon, plainly dressed, to hear Sir Oswald speak.

She had heard many outrageous things about Oswald Mosley. He was a philanderer who broke his poor wife’s heart and finally drove her into an early grave. He made her younger sister Alexandra his mistress even before that.

Of course, the innocent young debutantes weren’t supposed to hear such gossip. However, as no one cared enough to seal their ears with wax, they still did. Lucy certainly did: she was well trained, after all, to keep quiet unless spoken to and listen to what others had to say. And others had a lot to say, especially if prompted gently in the right direction.

Thus, she heard the heart-wrenching story of Cynthia Mosley, née Curzon, and she despised Mosley the man.

However, at the same time she couldn’t now help but admire Mosley the leader.

It was as if they were two different spirits trapped in the same body, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde of the new century. As Mosley rose to the tribune and addressed the crowd, Lucy didn’t see a sleazy adulterer, a patron of the resorts of the French Riviera and a tireless seducer of married ladies. Before her stood an ardent genius, a visionary leader, whose words were as clear and merciless as an Oriental blade.

She had heard that Mosley never resorted to radio broadcasts, that he even disliked using a microphone. Now she saw why. No radio waves could have ever conveyed such a fiery presence.

She also saw why he had initially called his movement the New Party. It was new; it was different. He was different. Who had ever heard before of a peer resigning from a brilliant career in Parliament to lead a street movement? For many, that was a reason to sneer at him in their drawing rooms.

He is strange. He is mad. He is not like the other, normal politicians.

And it was true – he was not. Lucy saw it now, as clearly as the light of the day. He was a fire to their marsh, a strike to their meddling, a thunderbolt to their drizzle. A thunderbolt now adorned the banners of his new movement, and the movement itself acquired a new name: the British Union of Fascists.

Having arrived at the rally with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, Lucy now clung to his every word with ravenous hunger. Every word filled her heart with thrill and her head with new clarity.

Suddenly, everything she had ever heard, or read, or felt or wondered about started to make sense. These vague, disconnected patches of knowledge, rumours, and suspicions were now coming together, intertwining to form a whole picture. She saw the full extent of the danger looming over her country; she also saw the way to save it from this danger. And, above all, she saw the man who could do it.

When, after his speech ended, the burly young men around her shouted in enthusiastic agreement, she shouted too. She must have looked quite comical – a dainty, small lady in white gloves, jumping and flushing and screaming. But she couldn’t help herself – the wave of fire engulfed her, and the fire seeped into her veins. It prodded, propelled her, driving and begging her to do something, to run, to fight, to help the cause.

At present, the only place she could run to was to the respective stall, to sign up for the membership and receive her badge. She had to hide that one, too, as she took care to smooth her appearance over and hurry back home.

But the thoughts didn’t leave her, and neither did the fire.

She had never felt so alive before. She was afraid to lose that feeling, to slip into the apathy and frustration once again; but her fears proved to be unfounded. Soon, she started to fill her diary with furious drafts and excepts from yet-unwritten articles: ‘What do we keep our government for? To organize elaborate processions? What is the purpose of the government, if it stays deaf to the needs of the people it supposedly serves?’

She tossed and turned at night, thinking of how, precisely, she could help the cause. She looked enviously at the glowing newspaper photos of tough Blackshirt girls practising jiu-jitsu. But she couldn’t join them, of course – literal fights were out of the question.

Nominally, she was now a part of the Women’s Section, headed by the motherly Lady Maud Mosley (who was, quite literally, the leader’s mother). Really, Lucy rarely had either time or opportunity to attend their meetings.

Several sleepless nights later, she had worked out a way she could be useful to the new movement. Frankly anyone could distribute leaflets on the street; however, not many could write them.

If her skills looked sufficient for the proprietor of national newspapers, then, perhaps, they would prove somewhat useful for the leaders of a fledgling movement?

At first, Lucy was too anxious to approach Mr Chesterton, the newly appointed editor of The Blackshirt. She had actually feared that her own modest title might create some difficulties, or even bar her from active participation altogether. After all, wasn’t she the very part of the enfeebled old world the new movement vowed to sweep aside?

But her fears proved to be unfounded. Moreover, Lucy discovered that she had drastically miscalculated the situation. Yes, dashing Sir Oswald professed to despise the ‘old guard’ of traditional parties and the cautiousness of landed gentry. However, at the same time he desperately wanted to cultivate some allies among these very groups: the allies, who could lend a measure of legitimacy to his controversial Union.

Not only did Mr Chesterton accept Lucy’s overtures – he welcomed her with open arms. He welcomed her, in fact, even before Lucy managed to show him some of her clumsy drafts.

Once again, her title proved to be an unexpected asset; once again, the arsenal of illusions gave her a weapon. Naturally, this time it was not the flair of elegance, but the might of tradition. It promised to give clout and respectability to the rough young movement.

It was a lesson for her to remember: not even the most daring, inspiring leader could ignore the realities of power. And who said that illusions have no power? They certainly hold significant power over people’s minds, whether those people read The Blackshirt, The Times, or Tatler. And isn’t the power over people’s minds the ultimate power, in the end – the one from which all the other kinds of power stem?

The more she pondered it, the more reasonable it looked. After all, people don’t usually tend to respond enthusiastically to the prospect of being swept aside.

Lucy moderated the tone of her own articles accordingly: fewer exclamation marks and radical statements; more gentle suggestions and solid numbers. The dissatisfied youths from the destitute industrial towns, who joined the BUF by thousands, could be responsive enough to the flaming rhetoric. But smart people, educated people, people holding important posts – in short, people who mattered – would demand a sound proof of each claim.

Well, then Lucy wasn’t going to disappoint them.

Fewer exclamation marks. More gentle suggestions.

I am certainly far from saying, that the current Party system is intrinsically vile and ineffective, she wrote. However, it was designed by and for another century. It worked well enough during the days of Queen Victoria; under its reasonable guidance Britain became the greatest empire in the world. But, as much as we laud the successes of the past, we must look to the future.

A decade ago, we declined to follow other countries’ examples and invest in the research on diesel; we clung stubbornly to our steam technology, the technology that made us so prosperous during the last century. This failure has cost us millions. Now, in a similar vein, we stubbornly refuse to be inspired by the examples of strong leadership, unhindered by the bulky Party machine, which we can see on the Continent …

The North, where she had to spend her winter and spring, certainly provided her with enough research materials as well as inspiration, however horrid. But, deep down, she always longed to return to the capital. That was where everything happened; that was where she could feel the pulse of life.

Besides, this year everything would be different. She was no longer a clumsy debutante, knowing nothing and no one, meeting only at closely supervised receptions with the fellow clumsy debutantes. Now, she had some connections, and an income, and a degree of freedom, and prospects, and a cause …

And, last but not least, she had her Hester.

Lucy smiled softly, thinking of her maid’s (her friend’s!) dark, perceptive eyes. No doubt she would be delighted to see London.

Yes, she thought, drifting at last to sleep. This is definitely going to be an interesting Season.

***

County of Northumberland, May 1929

The crowd outside the cinema was enormous. Even Hester, whom everyone considered to be too tall for her fourteen years, had to stand on her tiptoes to see the end of it. The ‘children’s afternoon’ on Saturdays always attracted hundreds of hungry viewers, but today they looked like an army ready to charge.

Hester resented the name of the programme; she was not a child, after all. She cheered the special prices, though. One penny for the stalls – that was something! The balcony was still off limits, though.

She would always sit in the balcony, once she got a job of her own; Hester promised that to herself.

‘Thanks for holding my spot!’ Susan stood before her now, her cheeks flushed, her breathing heavy. Had she run here all the way from that corner shop?

‘I thought they’d stamp me to death! No need to run, actually. They won’t open the door for five more minutes at least.’

‘Oh well. Didn’t want to be late.’ Susan was still trying to slow her breath down, her fair hair glinting with sweat. ‘If I was, I’d never find you here. It’s madness, isn’t it?’

‘I know!’

The cinema bore the majestic name of Embassy. It was built to resemble an Egyptian temple, a grand structure of black and gold. The craze for Egyptian mysteries, prompted by the discovery of that tomb a couple of years ago, was dying down now; but the cinema remained as alluring as ever.

Every afternoon crowds gathered outside the entrance, and Hester never failed to be annoyed with these people, despite being one of them. She stretched her neck impatiently now, awaiting the signal that the doors were open. Her heartbeat measured out the seconds.

‘Have you got it?’ she asked Susan, turning to her again.

‘They had no more Mint Imperials.’