NOTE: I wrote this story in 2007, during my first year at University. It was written as a gift for my favourite lecturer, who was a Northern-Irish playwright named Seamus Finnegan. He had taught me an awful lot about writing and taken me under his wing a little bit. I was grateful, as well as eager to show off what I had learned from him. Seamus had written a play about Anarchists fighting in The Spanish Civil War, and I was very impressed by it, so I incorporated a similar theme into this story.
Some years earlier, I had dated a girl who's family were heavily involved in far-right politics. Despite growing up in a political household, I had resolutely avoided politics throughout my adolescence. However, seeing the girl's brother (a close friend of mine at the time) become increasingly seduced by the atrocious lies and falsehoods of outright fascism (and yes, that is the correct term in this instance), I began my own political journey, if only to counteract his own efforts. Many of our actual discussions are echoed within the fictional one printed below.
The historical events mentioned here (with the exception of the bombing) all actually happened. Sir Oswald Mosely's 'Blackshirts' represent a particularly dark chapter in British political history (and The Spanish Civil War was no picnic, either).
The final scene features two characters that were based on actual people. The first, Terry, was based on my former friend (our friendship ultimately ended after he said that he would never talk to me again if I chose to date a black woman. My brother then forced him out of our house as a result) and the second, Gemma, is loosely based on another ex-girlfriend of mine, an art student and singer in a local (and very cool) garage rock band. Both were extreme personalities and it seemed fitting that they sum up the story together.
On a slightly lighter note, I just re-discovered this old piece on my computer and was frankly amazed that it held up so well. Considering that it is now 7 years old (and I have hopefully improved a great deal as a writer in that time), I was pleasantly surprised. I have made only a couple of minor grammatical changes, but only in order to tidy it up and to make the story more in-keeping with my present writing style. Apart from that, this is the same story that I presented to Seamus back in 2007 (what a swot!). I doubt that anybody besides me, Seamus and maybe one or two others has ever actually read it. I hope you do (and furthermore, I hope you enjoy it).
- CQ
A cold December chill sliced it’s way through the cemetery, causing the assembled people to shiver and huddle under their best winter coats. A blanket of thick snow coated the grass and the church itself. The vicar, a kindly older man by the name of Rupert, shuddered under his coat and continued to address the people gathered in quiet, nervous solitude.
“We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of a good, humble Christian man” he began “Edward MacGuinness was a kind, gentle, good humoured sort of man; the kind of man who can brighten any dark day simply by his presence within it. But do not grieve unduly, for he, as with all God’s children, has been accepted dearly into the arms of his creator. Lost to us though Edward may be, he was never lost in the eyes of the lord God, the Father. Now let us pray”
Henry sat uncomfortably in his seat, staring nervously at the casket sitting beside the hole in the ground. His thoughts repeated upon themselves until they were so loud they all but drowned out the Vicar’s words. “My father’s in that box, my Dad is dead inside that pine box and there’s nothing I can do” Miserably he took off his black flat cap and held it to his chest as he mimed along to the lord’s prayer. “This is so bloody stupid!” He thought to himself, angrily eyeing the congregation “Dad wasn’t even that big a believer anyway”
Henry was gaunt and thin in build; he shared the same hard jaw line as his late father and brother but retained his mother’s kind eyes. Henry had always been sickly as a child; many did not believe he would survive adolescence. But that was Henry all over, ever the non-conformist, ever the iconoclast, always breaking down barriers and proving people wrong.
He stole one more hard glance around the churchyard, thinking darkly that all these idiots saying their prayers would one day end up under the ground as so many before them had. Nothing to mark their achievements on Earth but a small slab of stone with their name and dates of birth and death engraved for all to see. Henry couldn’t help noticing that some of the stones were bigger and better attended to than others “There’s no equality” he muttered gravely to himself “even in death”.
For an overlong second Henry contrasted the great pyramids of Egypt, built by thousands of nameless slaves to house the corpse of one bigoted self obsessed fascist with the larger crypts and tombs in the churchyard; those with brittle looking Victorian angels hovering silently above them in ceaseless vigil. “In the end” Henry reasoned, “these will all be paved over anyway, either in the name of industrial commerce, or else newer graves. Nothing lasts forever after all…”
Oswald sat in quiet reflection, listening intently to the Vicar’s words, doing what he could to find some solace in them. ‘You’re in a better place now, Dad’ he concluded. Oswald was satisfied that so many people had attended his Father’s funeral. After all, his Father had been a good, Christian man, who worked hard for his earnings and was devoted to his family. What could be more decent than that? His thoughts turned bleaker than even he expected when he looked around the cemetery and assessed the graves. ‘One day we will all end up here’ He thought, his late Mother’s sad eyes looking like pools of human despair to anybody who caught his glance.
Oswald was a larger man than most, not to say he was fat, but certainly a man of big build. He was proud of his accomplishments after a life of good, honest Christian work and if his body reflected the life of hard graft he had lead then so much the better.
Oswald wished he had been able to afford a larger headstone to mark his great Father’s burial site, but that would have involved even more money - and Oswald wasn’t faring too well in that department. Nobody in the family was. He tutted under his breath for concerning himself with money at such an inopportune time. Then lowered his head to pray. As he did so he tried to picture his Dad, sitting next to God in Heaven, with the Virgin Mary and Jesus, the image was comforting at first but then became far too incongruous to work visually.
Once the Vicar had finished and the coffin had been lowered into the ground the congregation left to go to the reception that was being held in Uncle Ted’s house a few minutes walk away. Once everybody was gone, just the two figures of Henry and Oswald remained. In overwrought silence the two men observed the gravediggers sluggishly going to work.
“I’m glad you came” Oswald noted, for he had been searching for some time to find an opening gambit that would not offend his estranged brother. Henry looked at Oswald, initially upset, then his big, dark eyes slid down in the direction of his shoes. “I wasn’t very well going to stay at home, was I?” Henry offered, by way of a response.
“Well, I’m glad you made the effort,” suggested Oswald “It’s good to see you, Henry”
Henry shuffled awkwardly for a second and then offered his hand “It’s good to see you too Oz” They shook hands brusquely.
“Edward Chester MacGuinness, born 1862 died 1936. Not a bad innings for the old man, then” Henry summed up. Oswald knew this was just Henry’s sense of humour and let go any objections he had to the comment. “Yes, I suppose so” He muttered.
There was a pause between the two men, each mentally scrambling for a ready topic to save the dying conversation, each trying to avoid the main thought prevalent in their mind as they sought to relight the dying intellectual embers of discussion.
Once again Oswald broke the silence “Are you still…political Henry?”
“Yes” was Henry’s reply “Are you?”
“Oh yes, Blackshirt meeting tomorrow at noon, I’ve taken the afternoon off work”
The larger brother announced curtly.
“Too bad it isn’t today” Sniped Henry “You’re already dressed for the occasion” Henry smiled a slow smile and raised his left eyebrow cheekily, the way he used to as a child. Oswald nodded his head, imitating his brother’s smile with one of his own then continuing with his story.
“Yes, my namesake Sir. Mosley has an important announcement to make regarding the next general election”
“Do you mean how you were already thoroughly trounced before this years election began and thus decided not to vote in protest?”
“I’ll ignore that” Oswald snapped, “At least I do exercise my democratic right and vote”
“Fascism next time?” Henry joked. “Yes” Oswald spat “there’s more of a future in it than anarchy I can tell you”
Henry held up his hands as if dropping an imaginary conversation piece
“Of course, Edward, but consider this: IF Mosley was to be elected the first thing he would do is eliminate the right to vote and keep himself in power indefinitely”
“Preposterous!”
“Think about it, a state governed society where the needs and desires of the people are ignored, do you really want that for your children?”
“I don’t have any children”
“Don’t come coy with me, Oswald” Henry offered bitterly “I’m talking in a hypothetical sense; would you want your children to grow up in a society without choice?”
“Without choice!? My dear brother, you are as laughably uninformed as the rest of your political ‘revolutionaries’-“
“Rather uninformed than uniformed”
“And you’re snide little tongue twisters are no more welcome here than your misguided views!”
“What choice is there in this society torn apart by immigrants, by beurocracy and by an indecisive and dithering government!? Answer me that, Anarchist!”
Henry exhaled sending a cloud of warm air twirling into the frozen atmosphere and fixed his gaze on his father’s headstone.
“My problem is not with the current government, but with all governments. I do not believe any one person should have dominion over any other just look at this bastard that’s trying to dominate Spain-“
This time it was Oswald’s turn to interject “Trying and succeeding! Bringing order to that ghastly country”
Henry shot a flippant look in his brother’s direction and continued his argument.
“But the people don’t want him in power! Only the church does!”
“Well, the people’s opinions are often uninformed and sometimes, in order for strong and decisive action to be taken, they will have to be shown the correct course of action. The Church should function as the countries conscience and moral centre”
“That’s ridiculous!” Henry objected, “The church does nothing but oppress the people and control their minds. Most of their rubbish comes from anti pagan propaganda! The devil? Easter? Christmas its all a lie aimed at governing your life for you! Oswald can’t you see this?”
“No, and I don’t think you really believe it either; I mean, how can you say such blasphemous things in a church ground for God’s sake!? At the funeral of your Christian Father!”
“Come off it! Dad never took that stuff seriously!” Henry protested gesticulating aggressively with both hands.
There was a nervous tension between the two men that remained unbroken for longer than a minute.
“I don’t understand how it has come to this” Oswald muttered “You were always a good boy, albeit a bit of a ruffian, but I never thought you’d turn out like this”
Henry was looking at his shoes again, tensing his neck to one side and grimacing with restrained emotion.
“I was raised to believe in freedom. You are the one who rejected that belief with your Blackshirts. The British Union of Fascists is a farce! Fascism is wrong! Can’t you see that?”
“And I suppose a society of lawlessness and chaos is perfectly justifiable? A society that permits murder, rape, theft? A society in direct conflict with Christian morals? For shame brother, it would seem that your ethos is wrong!”
“At least that way we’d be free!”
“To kill each other? Without commerce, without science, without God, society would descend back into the dark ages, you insufferable idiot!” Oswald blustered.
“Not if society were stripped down to it’s bare essentials and started again, free of corruption, of outmoded nineteenth century ideals or bigotry, hatred and oppression! If the people were united in their freedom they would come together in peace and brotherhood!”
“ Poppycock! If society were toppled, the whole chain of command would fail, people running this way and that, like freshly culled chicken too ignorant to realise their demise until after it has occurred. People would have nowhere to turn to accept God, who would rightly and surely judge them all!”
“Do you think it’s right that the poor in this country suffer so? That healthcare and eating cost so much? They need to be treated as equals!”
“And when they work harder for their earnings, they will be. Until then it’s up to them how they squander their paycheques! I’ll grant you that certain people need some help and we will provide for those in genuine need but I’ll be buggered if we are going to give handouts to every sob-story who minces his way toward us with his shabby hand held out!”
“We anarchists propose that laws need not govern, people can govern themselves! You fascists will never be accepted by the people; remember ‘The Prince’”
“You cannot take a principality without the support of its people, I remember Henry, it was my dog-eared copy of Machiavelli you misread in the first place”
The two men entered another silence, each seething with frustration at the others lack of comprehension, each seeking to end this discourse cordially and with as little fuss as possible, without backing down and thus appearing to support the weaker ideology.
...For what seemed like an age the two men stood rigid at the grave of their patriarch, steadfastly refusing to budge a physical, or philosophical, inch. Henry gazed too long at his shoes while Oswald fixed his stare too harshly in the direction of the grave.
Finally Henry offered his hand once more “It was jolly nice to see you, Oz”
Oswald muttered and made a mental note of the ambiguity of the hand gesture, his response was clipped and, he later thought, a bit too harsh “You too, Hen”
They shook hands. The shake lingered for a little longer than usual and the eye contact of both men suggested that there was much left unsaid in this discussion.
Henry did not mention that he knew the man who had recently been arrested in conjunction with a bomb plot and Oswald had kept his Brother-in-Law’s involvement in the recent violent attacks on known ‘reds’ firmly to himself. Initially both had been deliberately taciturn with this sensitive information almost as a way of ‘keeping it from the enemy’ but deep inside each man knew his brother would be ashamed if he knew of the dark path down which his politics had lead him.
The handshake, brought to an abrupt end by Henry, was the last contact the two Macguinness boys had with each other. Henry was killed in 1946 fighting Hitler’s fascists and his brother Oswald died just eleven months later in 1947, casualties of the same war, martyrs of the same society both sought to overturn.
...
The monument stands large in the middle of the park. Hundreds of names are engraved into its stone surface. The inscription claims ‘These young men valiantly gave their lives in service of their country’ and it is in the shadow of this monolithic testament to the glory humanity still searches for in the bloody wasteland of conflict, that Terry sits, waiting for Gemma. He checks his phone for texts.
“Shit where are you?” He mutters to nobody in particular as he looks for any sign of a missed call. His signal has four bars, so he’s well in range - just as he is contemplating leaving, Gemma arrives; books pressed against her chest and long auburn hair flowing behind her.
“Sorry I’m late” she smiles “my meeting ran over”
“That’s ok” lies Terry with a smile “mine went over as well”
“What would your Dad say if he knew you were dating a socialist?” Gemma beams
“He’d flat out murder me” Terry says, “We’re a National Front house”
“Well that’s just your Dad though, right?”
“Actually…”
Gemma’s attractive smile sours as Terry explains his fascist, bigoted, misogynistic, far-right bullshit beliefs in full. She foresees arguments, tears and pain in his words.
She knows it will never work.
She knows it’s over.
If only it ever was.
FIN.
Some years earlier, I had dated a girl who's family were heavily involved in far-right politics. Despite growing up in a political household, I had resolutely avoided politics throughout my adolescence. However, seeing the girl's brother (a close friend of mine at the time) become increasingly seduced by the atrocious lies and falsehoods of outright fascism (and yes, that is the correct term in this instance), I began my own political journey, if only to counteract his own efforts. Many of our actual discussions are echoed within the fictional one printed below.
The historical events mentioned here (with the exception of the bombing) all actually happened. Sir Oswald Mosely's 'Blackshirts' represent a particularly dark chapter in British political history (and The Spanish Civil War was no picnic, either).
The final scene features two characters that were based on actual people. The first, Terry, was based on my former friend (our friendship ultimately ended after he said that he would never talk to me again if I chose to date a black woman. My brother then forced him out of our house as a result) and the second, Gemma, is loosely based on another ex-girlfriend of mine, an art student and singer in a local (and very cool) garage rock band. Both were extreme personalities and it seemed fitting that they sum up the story together.
On a slightly lighter note, I just re-discovered this old piece on my computer and was frankly amazed that it held up so well. Considering that it is now 7 years old (and I have hopefully improved a great deal as a writer in that time), I was pleasantly surprised. I have made only a couple of minor grammatical changes, but only in order to tidy it up and to make the story more in-keeping with my present writing style. Apart from that, this is the same story that I presented to Seamus back in 2007 (what a swot!). I doubt that anybody besides me, Seamus and maybe one or two others has ever actually read it. I hope you do (and furthermore, I hope you enjoy it).
- CQ
A cold December chill sliced it’s way through the cemetery, causing the assembled people to shiver and huddle under their best winter coats. A blanket of thick snow coated the grass and the church itself. The vicar, a kindly older man by the name of Rupert, shuddered under his coat and continued to address the people gathered in quiet, nervous solitude.
“We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of a good, humble Christian man” he began “Edward MacGuinness was a kind, gentle, good humoured sort of man; the kind of man who can brighten any dark day simply by his presence within it. But do not grieve unduly, for he, as with all God’s children, has been accepted dearly into the arms of his creator. Lost to us though Edward may be, he was never lost in the eyes of the lord God, the Father. Now let us pray”
Henry sat uncomfortably in his seat, staring nervously at the casket sitting beside the hole in the ground. His thoughts repeated upon themselves until they were so loud they all but drowned out the Vicar’s words. “My father’s in that box, my Dad is dead inside that pine box and there’s nothing I can do” Miserably he took off his black flat cap and held it to his chest as he mimed along to the lord’s prayer. “This is so bloody stupid!” He thought to himself, angrily eyeing the congregation “Dad wasn’t even that big a believer anyway”
Henry was gaunt and thin in build; he shared the same hard jaw line as his late father and brother but retained his mother’s kind eyes. Henry had always been sickly as a child; many did not believe he would survive adolescence. But that was Henry all over, ever the non-conformist, ever the iconoclast, always breaking down barriers and proving people wrong.
He stole one more hard glance around the churchyard, thinking darkly that all these idiots saying their prayers would one day end up under the ground as so many before them had. Nothing to mark their achievements on Earth but a small slab of stone with their name and dates of birth and death engraved for all to see. Henry couldn’t help noticing that some of the stones were bigger and better attended to than others “There’s no equality” he muttered gravely to himself “even in death”.
For an overlong second Henry contrasted the great pyramids of Egypt, built by thousands of nameless slaves to house the corpse of one bigoted self obsessed fascist with the larger crypts and tombs in the churchyard; those with brittle looking Victorian angels hovering silently above them in ceaseless vigil. “In the end” Henry reasoned, “these will all be paved over anyway, either in the name of industrial commerce, or else newer graves. Nothing lasts forever after all…”
Oswald sat in quiet reflection, listening intently to the Vicar’s words, doing what he could to find some solace in them. ‘You’re in a better place now, Dad’ he concluded. Oswald was satisfied that so many people had attended his Father’s funeral. After all, his Father had been a good, Christian man, who worked hard for his earnings and was devoted to his family. What could be more decent than that? His thoughts turned bleaker than even he expected when he looked around the cemetery and assessed the graves. ‘One day we will all end up here’ He thought, his late Mother’s sad eyes looking like pools of human despair to anybody who caught his glance.
Oswald was a larger man than most, not to say he was fat, but certainly a man of big build. He was proud of his accomplishments after a life of good, honest Christian work and if his body reflected the life of hard graft he had lead then so much the better.
Oswald wished he had been able to afford a larger headstone to mark his great Father’s burial site, but that would have involved even more money - and Oswald wasn’t faring too well in that department. Nobody in the family was. He tutted under his breath for concerning himself with money at such an inopportune time. Then lowered his head to pray. As he did so he tried to picture his Dad, sitting next to God in Heaven, with the Virgin Mary and Jesus, the image was comforting at first but then became far too incongruous to work visually.
Once the Vicar had finished and the coffin had been lowered into the ground the congregation left to go to the reception that was being held in Uncle Ted’s house a few minutes walk away. Once everybody was gone, just the two figures of Henry and Oswald remained. In overwrought silence the two men observed the gravediggers sluggishly going to work.
“I’m glad you came” Oswald noted, for he had been searching for some time to find an opening gambit that would not offend his estranged brother. Henry looked at Oswald, initially upset, then his big, dark eyes slid down in the direction of his shoes. “I wasn’t very well going to stay at home, was I?” Henry offered, by way of a response.
“Well, I’m glad you made the effort,” suggested Oswald “It’s good to see you, Henry”
Henry shuffled awkwardly for a second and then offered his hand “It’s good to see you too Oz” They shook hands brusquely.
“Edward Chester MacGuinness, born 1862 died 1936. Not a bad innings for the old man, then” Henry summed up. Oswald knew this was just Henry’s sense of humour and let go any objections he had to the comment. “Yes, I suppose so” He muttered.
There was a pause between the two men, each mentally scrambling for a ready topic to save the dying conversation, each trying to avoid the main thought prevalent in their mind as they sought to relight the dying intellectual embers of discussion.
Once again Oswald broke the silence “Are you still…political Henry?”
“Yes” was Henry’s reply “Are you?”
“Oh yes, Blackshirt meeting tomorrow at noon, I’ve taken the afternoon off work”
The larger brother announced curtly.
“Too bad it isn’t today” Sniped Henry “You’re already dressed for the occasion” Henry smiled a slow smile and raised his left eyebrow cheekily, the way he used to as a child. Oswald nodded his head, imitating his brother’s smile with one of his own then continuing with his story.
“Yes, my namesake Sir. Mosley has an important announcement to make regarding the next general election”
“Do you mean how you were already thoroughly trounced before this years election began and thus decided not to vote in protest?”
“I’ll ignore that” Oswald snapped, “At least I do exercise my democratic right and vote”
“Fascism next time?” Henry joked. “Yes” Oswald spat “there’s more of a future in it than anarchy I can tell you”
Henry held up his hands as if dropping an imaginary conversation piece
“Of course, Edward, but consider this: IF Mosley was to be elected the first thing he would do is eliminate the right to vote and keep himself in power indefinitely”
“Preposterous!”
“Think about it, a state governed society where the needs and desires of the people are ignored, do you really want that for your children?”
“I don’t have any children”
“Don’t come coy with me, Oswald” Henry offered bitterly “I’m talking in a hypothetical sense; would you want your children to grow up in a society without choice?”
“Without choice!? My dear brother, you are as laughably uninformed as the rest of your political ‘revolutionaries’-“
“Rather uninformed than uniformed”
“And you’re snide little tongue twisters are no more welcome here than your misguided views!”
“What choice is there in this society torn apart by immigrants, by beurocracy and by an indecisive and dithering government!? Answer me that, Anarchist!”
Henry exhaled sending a cloud of warm air twirling into the frozen atmosphere and fixed his gaze on his father’s headstone.
“My problem is not with the current government, but with all governments. I do not believe any one person should have dominion over any other just look at this bastard that’s trying to dominate Spain-“
This time it was Oswald’s turn to interject “Trying and succeeding! Bringing order to that ghastly country”
Henry shot a flippant look in his brother’s direction and continued his argument.
“But the people don’t want him in power! Only the church does!”
“Well, the people’s opinions are often uninformed and sometimes, in order for strong and decisive action to be taken, they will have to be shown the correct course of action. The Church should function as the countries conscience and moral centre”
“That’s ridiculous!” Henry objected, “The church does nothing but oppress the people and control their minds. Most of their rubbish comes from anti pagan propaganda! The devil? Easter? Christmas its all a lie aimed at governing your life for you! Oswald can’t you see this?”
“No, and I don’t think you really believe it either; I mean, how can you say such blasphemous things in a church ground for God’s sake!? At the funeral of your Christian Father!”
“Come off it! Dad never took that stuff seriously!” Henry protested gesticulating aggressively with both hands.
There was a nervous tension between the two men that remained unbroken for longer than a minute.
“I don’t understand how it has come to this” Oswald muttered “You were always a good boy, albeit a bit of a ruffian, but I never thought you’d turn out like this”
Henry was looking at his shoes again, tensing his neck to one side and grimacing with restrained emotion.
“I was raised to believe in freedom. You are the one who rejected that belief with your Blackshirts. The British Union of Fascists is a farce! Fascism is wrong! Can’t you see that?”
“And I suppose a society of lawlessness and chaos is perfectly justifiable? A society that permits murder, rape, theft? A society in direct conflict with Christian morals? For shame brother, it would seem that your ethos is wrong!”
“At least that way we’d be free!”
“To kill each other? Without commerce, without science, without God, society would descend back into the dark ages, you insufferable idiot!” Oswald blustered.
“Not if society were stripped down to it’s bare essentials and started again, free of corruption, of outmoded nineteenth century ideals or bigotry, hatred and oppression! If the people were united in their freedom they would come together in peace and brotherhood!”
“ Poppycock! If society were toppled, the whole chain of command would fail, people running this way and that, like freshly culled chicken too ignorant to realise their demise until after it has occurred. People would have nowhere to turn to accept God, who would rightly and surely judge them all!”
“Do you think it’s right that the poor in this country suffer so? That healthcare and eating cost so much? They need to be treated as equals!”
“And when they work harder for their earnings, they will be. Until then it’s up to them how they squander their paycheques! I’ll grant you that certain people need some help and we will provide for those in genuine need but I’ll be buggered if we are going to give handouts to every sob-story who minces his way toward us with his shabby hand held out!”
“We anarchists propose that laws need not govern, people can govern themselves! You fascists will never be accepted by the people; remember ‘The Prince’”
“You cannot take a principality without the support of its people, I remember Henry, it was my dog-eared copy of Machiavelli you misread in the first place”
The two men entered another silence, each seething with frustration at the others lack of comprehension, each seeking to end this discourse cordially and with as little fuss as possible, without backing down and thus appearing to support the weaker ideology.
...For what seemed like an age the two men stood rigid at the grave of their patriarch, steadfastly refusing to budge a physical, or philosophical, inch. Henry gazed too long at his shoes while Oswald fixed his stare too harshly in the direction of the grave.
Finally Henry offered his hand once more “It was jolly nice to see you, Oz”
Oswald muttered and made a mental note of the ambiguity of the hand gesture, his response was clipped and, he later thought, a bit too harsh “You too, Hen”
They shook hands. The shake lingered for a little longer than usual and the eye contact of both men suggested that there was much left unsaid in this discussion.
Henry did not mention that he knew the man who had recently been arrested in conjunction with a bomb plot and Oswald had kept his Brother-in-Law’s involvement in the recent violent attacks on known ‘reds’ firmly to himself. Initially both had been deliberately taciturn with this sensitive information almost as a way of ‘keeping it from the enemy’ but deep inside each man knew his brother would be ashamed if he knew of the dark path down which his politics had lead him.
The handshake, brought to an abrupt end by Henry, was the last contact the two Macguinness boys had with each other. Henry was killed in 1946 fighting Hitler’s fascists and his brother Oswald died just eleven months later in 1947, casualties of the same war, martyrs of the same society both sought to overturn.
...
The monument stands large in the middle of the park. Hundreds of names are engraved into its stone surface. The inscription claims ‘These young men valiantly gave their lives in service of their country’ and it is in the shadow of this monolithic testament to the glory humanity still searches for in the bloody wasteland of conflict, that Terry sits, waiting for Gemma. He checks his phone for texts.
“Shit where are you?” He mutters to nobody in particular as he looks for any sign of a missed call. His signal has four bars, so he’s well in range - just as he is contemplating leaving, Gemma arrives; books pressed against her chest and long auburn hair flowing behind her.
“Sorry I’m late” she smiles “my meeting ran over”
“That’s ok” lies Terry with a smile “mine went over as well”
“What would your Dad say if he knew you were dating a socialist?” Gemma beams
“He’d flat out murder me” Terry says, “We’re a National Front house”
“Well that’s just your Dad though, right?”
“Actually…”
Gemma’s attractive smile sours as Terry explains his fascist, bigoted, misogynistic, far-right bullshit beliefs in full. She foresees arguments, tears and pain in his words.
She knows it will never work.
She knows it’s over.
If only it ever was.
FIN.