Citizen Survivor Tales (The Ministry of Survivors) (6 page)

‘Just smile comrades and hopefully no one will mention Wind-bag at our party conference in Margate…’
- Southern Herald

MOS Archives, ref. INF9/909 (endorsed)

THE VISCOUNT

Name: Viscount Alfie Sark
Location: Cliveden, Berkshire
Occupation: Proprietor of Cliveden
Threat level: 4
Article clearance: Silver
Case file: 68/3323/GBE

My interview with Viscount Alfie Stark was requested by the interviewee, an unusual state of affairs and one with which I was not, and am not, entirely comfortable. The following is verbatim and I will leave my readers to make up their own minds about this extraordinary man, the new Lord of Cliveden.

Viscount, thank you for agreeing to meet me.

Oh none of that now, just call me Alfie, sweetheart. Welcome to Cliveden Communal Estate, in loyal obeisance of His Majesty and the Ministry and proud trade partners of the John Bull Co-operative Society.

Could you explain some of your background?

I had a pretty standard upbringing really, nothing out of the ordinary. My ma and pa were good enough folks in their own way. We grew up in Reading where my old man worked in the steel factory. My brothers and sisters mainly kept out of trouble. As for me? I was a big reader believe it or not, I loved big, epic stories. You know, the sort of adventures that a boy dreams of, cowboys and Indians, fighting the fuzzy-wuzzies, exploring lost islands. That’s how I ended up in the merchant navy. A nice little life it was, not quite what I’d read in my books, but I did have a few adventures in my own way. My ship was my home. Old Sally we called the girl, and the crew were the best, roughest gentleman you’d ever know that I sailed with. See this tattoo –
It is of a fish wrapped around an anchor, done by a blind tattooist in the dark, if I am any judge
– I got that in Singapore would you believe. I’ve got a few more but I’d have to be naked to show you, so maybe later, only pulling your leg sweetheart!

What were your experiences of the war?

We were shafted, as simple as that; my ship was commandeered by the Government and we were forced to go where and when they sent us, our unarmed ship. We were making a crossing across the Atlantic and we got it from a U-boat.  I don’t want to forget it, but I don’t want to remember it either. All my mates got it, it doesn’t matter if you can swim like Esther Williams, you can’t beat the ocean. Terrifying it is, you wouldn’t believe, you would never understand and the cold, the icy cold, that freezes you up like a statue. I still have nightmares. I won’t ever go to sea again, the bitch spared me once in her pity.

How were you rescued?

It was the U-boat itself, it’d come to the surface, there were a few dozen of us I suppose. I can’t say I’m grateful, they were the ones that sunk us, but nothing makes sense in war, and Jerry did his best. Hours must have passed and then a bomber appeared in the sky, it was one of ours I think, and it began firing on the U-boat; everyone was waving frantically, couldn’t they see the deck was full of us. I was able to get below, only a handful managed it before they closed the hatch and dived to avoid the bomber, condemning everyone on deck to death. Could you imagine the horror of that? Being rescued only to drown again? I could forgive Jerry, even if I didn’t like him, it was war, but for our own men to attack us, and these weren’t even fighting men remember. No, no I never forgot that.

How were you able to return to Britain?

That doesn’t matter. It took the best part of three years, and every day was as long as a life-time. Here, what do you think of these cigarette cards? This one’s a cricketer, here’s a boy scout, a strong man, a ventriloquist’s dummy, I designed these. See, I’m something of an entrepreneur now, these are the cigarette cards for Cliveden cigarettes. We grow the tobacco here, with a little trial and error, would you believe. You see on the edge, each one says Remember Old Sally, that’s my little tribute to my mates and a little order for myself. Oh, it’s a small operation of course, but I’ve a few trade deals going on and it’s a start. I’ll be honest, the cigarettes are a load of crap, we’re still learning and I don’t think we cure the leaves long enough but you’ll smoke anything if you need it won’t you?

Why did you come to Cliveden?

The country was in a strange place when I got back, I couldn’t believe what was going on. I didn’t know what to do. All I’d known was the sea, but I never wanted to go back again. Not that it mattered by then of course, there were no jobs. I made it back to Reading, but the place was in ruins, my ma and pa’s house was flattened, and those that were left had no idea what had happened to them. I scraped a living for a while doing odd jobs and eventually I ran into my old mate, Harold, from when I was a nipper. He told me he was off to Cliveden, to join the Land Army, the Viscount had a communal farm of sorts, I suppose, a promise of work, a meal and a roof over your head. It was better than Reading so I went with him.

It all seemed alright at first, I suppose, we got there and were ‘processed’; that was the word they used, I remember. The whole estate had turned into some sort of farm, like something from the dark ages, I reckon, peasants scattered about doing their bit. Me and Harold were put to work on the lower fields and it was back-breaking work. I didn’t mind that too much, it kept me busy, but the conditions! Oh, the conditions we were under you wouldn’t believe. The Viscount had fellas, and I’m not pulling your leg here, who would beat people they didn’t think were working hard enough. It was barbaric, anyone who spoke up met the same fate. If we didn’t like it, we could go we were told, but we all knew there was nowhere else to go, we were nothing better than slaves. We were put on rations, just enough food to keep our strength up to go to work. Here we were, hundreds of us, surrounded by food and we were all starving. The punishment for those sneaking food, well, you’d think we were slaves on some plantation. One man, and I can still picture it in my mind’s eye, was lynched for sneaking cheese back to the quarters. Eventually, this sort of punishment became more common and people stopped noticing after a while.

It was all very confusing for people, and it would be wrong to judge people for tolerating it, mind. What choice did people have? Most men had wives and kids, what were they meant to do? People would tolerate anything for their families, I know that now. Me and Harold, and a few dozen of the other men, we were lucky in a way, we were single men. We didn’t have to look out for anyone else, we could take risks, chances that men with families can’t.

I’d never seen the Viscount or his family, but I couldn’t believe they didn’t condone or were even ignorant of the horrors at Cliveden, none of us could. Starvation, daily humiliation, beatings, lynchings, no, no one should have to endure that. We began talking, in secret, those we knew had nothing to lose, and we knew we had to do something and we knew, we knew we were going to kill the Viscount and his men or die trying. I’m not proud of that, but you don’t know what we were suffering.

Can you explain how the uprising started?

I wish I could tell you it was some heroic rally, with big flags and noble men storming the gates to the cheers of the women and children, but it was nothing like that, it just happened. I remember the day before, being forced to watch as Harold got lashed for back-chatting one of the guards, his back was ripped to shreds, it was inhumane but do you know what was the final straw for me? Silly, really, I suppose, but it was a three-year-old little kid playing in the fields while his mother worked, a guard walked passed and grab him by the back of the neck and threw him violently to the ground. The mother wept, the guards laughed, but it was the boy’s face. He bawled and looked at me, the guards told the mother to keep her brat on a leash. But the boy, he just looked at
me
with uncomprehending eyes, why had that happened? What did he do wrong? And do you know what I felt, I felt ashamed, and I remember, believe it or not, hunching over, and sobbing to myself, clawing the dirt with my fists, my eyes red and blinded with tears, the injustice of it all. And just like that it happened, with no thought, I got up and shouted at the guard and demanded he apologise, the guard laughed at me and went to swing at me, I blocked it and got him clear in the chin and knocked him out. I then took his lash and beat him, beat him for all my life; he stopped moving after a while. The other guards came running over to deal with me, and Harold impaled one of them with his pitchfork, one of the other lads took a scythe to another guard’s neck, half hanging off his head was, half gurgling until another scythe blow to his back ended all that and then it, it just erupted. Those men who were involved, probably about thirty of us, just fought, we fought our away through the guards, through the grounds, into the estate itself, until we got to the Viscount who was with his family. His family cried and pleaded but we were deaf to it, we took him up to a window on the top floor, threw a rope around his neck, and hanged him. Then, there was nothing, no cheers of applause, no cries of protestation, no guards coming to storm us, just quiet, and the workers looking up at the window in curiosity.

We weren’t monsters though, we let his wife and kids go with their servants and whatever they could carry. We did in the rest of the guards who we rounded up and we ordered everyone to the steps of the estate. We explained what had happened, those who wanted no part of it could go with no reprisals, some did and we let them go as we promised. Those who stayed would be welcome, most did. Me and the fighting lads drank that night, did we drink! We were like hooligans, smashing windows and statues, throwing paintings and books onto the fire, parading in fancy clothes; that was a night I’ll never forget. The next day, when we had calmed down, we started talking about what we were going to do but, truth be told, everything was already in place, we’d just taken the figurehead and hanged him. The lads talked, and it was agreed that I should be the new Viscount for now, but it wouldn’t be like before. The fighting lads all moved into the estate too and became my barons and we decided it’d be put to another vote in a years’ time for who would be the new viscount.

Was there no repercussion?

That’s the most bizarre thing, there were none, not really. We had a load of coppers turn up at the Estate once, we fought them with petrol bombs and hand to hand, it was glorious. Me and the Barons were like Bowie and his lot at The Alamo, except we won. The workers stayed out of it, but soon we had a nice set of custodian helmets to add to the collection. After we dealt with them after that – nothing, except one thing. We had some bloke in a bowler-hat and suit turn up in his car and tell us he was from The Ministry. He spurted out some nonsense and told us if we pledged allegiance to His Majesty and supplied a percentage of our crop to them, they would officially recognise the change in leadership at Cliveden. Of course we agreed, I don’t think either us or the Ministry had the stomach for a scrap, and they probably wanted Cliveden to be in order so there we were. I was now Viscount Alfie Sark! I suppose I don’t really belong in the world of privilege, but then again who does?

How do you feel about all the pain and suffering you’ve experienced?

The thing about life is, it's a load of bollocks ain't it? You can try to find meaning to it; your nippers, your job, your partner, but it doesn't mean anything, except in your head.

No, no, life doesn't mean a thing and what you do won't be remembered for long. That's why there's a time limit on gravestones ain't it? You get through this life and cling on to whatever symbols and causes you like if it gets you through the day, but no one cares. Nothing you do matters, which I'm sure is a great disappointment to those who've wrapped themselves in illusion, but an absolute blessing to those to those who ain't. The lower down the ladder you are the less you have to fear.

That's why suicide rates increase the older you get, time ain't a healer, it's a cruel, viscous bastard who peels away all the layers of illusion you've made for yourself.

When you think about it, that's what's so pure and good about it all, death is the great equaliser. We all entered this world bloodied and screaming, we all leave this world on equal terms too, everything in between is just a bit of a laugh.

Try not to be scared though, death is easy, it's just like having a kip at the end of a long and bizarre day. The more tired you are, the more you appreciate it.

How has the situation improved since your uprising?

It’s clear ain’t it? Look at me, I live like a king now, I drink and smoke, have my choice of the girls, wear the finest suits and have servants and everything. As long as my Barons are kept in booze and women they’re all happy as a pig in mud. Cliveden cigarettes, my little pet project has been going from strength to strength, and I have quite a lucrative deal with the John Bull Co-operative Society now.

How has the situation improved for your workers?

Oh, the Barons keep them under control. Some of them get a bit too big for their boots sometimes and we have to deal with them, to keep the peace you know? But I think they’re happy with our glorious revolution, and if they’re not, then they should be.

Do you think it would be unfair to say that nothing has changed for the people who you rebelled for?

Well, I don’t know. Remember Old Sally, that’s what you get for keeping your head down and your nose clean in this life I’m afraid. Anyway, I’m much more attractive than the old Viscount, so at least there is that. Would you care for a cigarette darling?