Darkest England (30 page)

This struck a chord with the House and he was loudly cheered on all sides, and I was interested to note that the press joined in the acclamation, showing, yet again, how these people will sink their differences when the national interest is at stake.

But then, as Bishop Farebrother made plain, in Parliament one's enemies are seldom found amongst the opposition. I was baffled by this comment, when, to my great surprise, there now rose a Member to the rear of the Minister who asked an apparently innocent question: he wished to know where the Minister's duty lay. Whether or not the Minister had been playing away was a matter of conjecture; however everyone seemed agreed on the fact
that wherever the Minister might, or might not, have scored (laughter), it looked very much like an own goal (cheers). And if the Minister had the interests of the nation truly at heart, he would not have ventured so far offside (cries of Shame!). Was it not the duty of the House to show him the red card and to say to him that the only honourable thing to do was to leave the field?

Of the ruthless effect of this attack there was no doubt. A dagger to the heart. The victim turned at bay, but I think we all felt the wound was fatal. His colleagues scented blood and knew that one of the big cats of the political jungle was badly mauled and bled mightily.

Now the Minister looked to me much as a sheep does that has been set on by hyenas. One catches his victim by the throat; several more take deadly hold of legs and tail. And it becomes a race to see whether those with their teeth deep in its flesh will gnaw their way through to the heart before their comrades, at the other end, tear the wretched victim limb from limb.

In the early days of my expedition, I might have baulked at such apparent barbarity, such cynical cruelty, but I was, increasingly, an old English hand, and had learnt that you do not judge these people by mores and conventions suitable to the Bushman traditions of amity and solidarity. Rather, one saw things from an English perspective, which, if carefully examined, revealed a form of fellow-feeling, in Members on both sides of the House, who, rather than allow a colleague to be slaughtered by the Party of the Press, preferred to destroy him themselves.

It was with great emotion that we watched as the former Minister stumbled blindly from his seat and vanished into the outer darkness. A moment charged with emotions; several Members unashamedly blew their noses and stiffened
their upper lips. I imagined that now they would offer up some short form of thanks for the divine grace which safeguarded the Chamber, or observe a minute's silence.

But, as so often, I was proved wrong. For there, on his feet, was none other than young Mr Conbrio, our professional consultant, and he put the following question to the Prime Minister.

Is the Prime Minister aware that, in some of our cities, the numbers of indigenous inhabitants have dwindled to a minority? And that every day, by devious routes, illegal immigrants are being smuggled into the country in numbers no civilized people will tolerate? Will he comment on information passed to me by reliable sources indicating a fresh invasion by so-called Bushmen or San nomads from Southern Africa? The same vagabonds who had sorely troubled Her Majesty's forces during their late occupation of the Cape of Good Hope? When they were described as a pernicious and vexatious vermin. And that were these nomads to settle in England, they will send stock-theft figures soaring, as well as being a drain on vital resources? Will he not agree that the time has come to say
no
to illegal immigration,
no
to the slackening of border controls;
no
to creeping metrification that threatens to replace the imperial measurements of free men with the thumb-in-the-scale mumbo-jumbo of a discredited Bonapartism.
No
to those who urge that after centuries sharing the homes of others, on islands, peninsulas and archipelagos around the globe, sharing with them our virtues of loyalty, honesty and common sense, we should now share with them our island home. Enough is enough. Will he assure the House, better still will he tell the country, that the time has come to put a wall of English oak between ourselves and bogus asylum-seekers, and assorted aliens of every stripe – from Bushmanland to Bongo-Bongo-Land.

Such was the excitement aroused by this question that pandemonium reigned in the Chamber; Members jumped to their feet and waved pieces of paper in the air and cried out, ‘Knock 'em for six!'; some cried, ‘Shame!' though that looked the least of their feelings; and they broke into that curious chant I had heard among the sports lovers on the train to London, that double-beat of the war cry ‘Eng-land! Eng-land!' accompanied by the steady stamping of the right foot. And I realized that the Members on the green benches were but the parliamentary faces of the gangs on the train. Several were staring hard at the gallery where we sat, and I murmured to my mentor that I thought Mr Conbrio's question showed a lesser understanding of parliamentary process than I had hoped.

The ex-Bishop, rising quickly to his feet, indicating that it might be polite to withdraw from the gallery at this juncture, muttered that, far from misunderstanding our needs, Mr Conbrio had showed a knowledge of parliamentary process, and a feeling for what the House wanted to hear, which would take him a very long way.

Getting out of the gallery was not easy. Several members of the public took hold of the Bishop, showing no respect for his cloth; others tried to grab me, though Heaven's ex-aviator thrust me behind his skirts.

It was then that my field training came into its own. Turning to the menacing crowd, I announced in pleasant tones that, personally, I blamed the French. Whereupon those who had tried to stop us leaving fell into such a prolonged state of nodding approval that we were able to slip safely away.

Once outside, I was astonished to see, hobnobbing with members of the Party of the Press, who had so recently
contributed to his downfall, the very ex-Minister who had slunk from the Chamber crushed and defeated. Yet he exhibited a gaiety which seemed extraordinary.

How was it that he had recovered his spirits so quickly? Minutes before he had been ruined. Yet now he was shaking hands with the very people who had destroyed him with a series of accusations, merciless and unprincipled, unleashed with the sole aim of driving an effective Minister from office. How could he extend the hand of friendship to such individuals?

What I was seeing, Mr Farebrother explained, was not the hand of friendship; it was the handshake of the newly employed journalist on a good contract. For such was the strength of English democracy that a politician destroyed by the press on Monday would very often be asked to write for them on Friday.

But what would happen, I demanded, if this individual then accused his accusers?

My guide replied that I still had some way to go before I really got the hang of things. If the ex-Minister attacked the press in the press, why, that was his democratic right. More likely, he would defend in print the right of any newspaper to destroy him. That was why no other country could hold a candle to the freedom of the English press – if I did not mind him saying so.

I did not mind him saying so. After what I had witnessed, I would have said so myself.

I had seen that a man is not cast aside when he falls from grace, but is taken up by his enemies, who bind his wounds and set him on his feet. How very different from our poor country, where a man broken on the wheel will be thrown to the butcher-birds or made a supper for jackals.

My reception in the Mother of All Parliaments had not
been all we might have hoped for, declared the wingless holy one, but we were not cast down. Not a bit of it. A spot of local difficulty, certainly. But once more into the breach… My camouflage was sound, my demeanour acceptable, my phrasing spot-on, my leather satchel stuffed – all vital attributes marking out the man who was going places. What we needed now was a fast track to the top, and he knew just the one for me.

Oh, really? I replied.

While commending my mastery of the language, he deplored the scepticism he detected in my voice. Small men with facial failings, or language difficulties almost as bad as mine, culturally deprived, financially challenged, from preposterous countries with unpronounceable names, had found England the land of opportunity. Some had begun in the Old Country in a modest way, selling raincoats; others rubber goods, or batches of cheap newspapers which they had parlayed into a press empire, and pension funds so magnificent people could not see where they began or ended. A sheaf of aliens had risen to become peers of the realm in two shakes of a duck's tail. In our case, time was so tight the proverbial duck would be allowed no more than a single shake. And he said this with that curious glance I had earlier noted and had not much liked.

He took me then to a grand hotel, a palace in itself, situated beside a park they call Green, guarded by a jolly fellow dressed in crimson coat and tall chimney-pot hat who greeted each guest at the door, swearing what an honour it was to have me staying with them once again, as if I had been doing this all my life. He showed me to a room as large, I swear, as the old synagogue in Calvinia, and a bed as big as a potato field. Any misgivings about my friend's curious haste to leave me at such short notice were
swept away when I saw that this very establishment, at its southern extreme, provided a wonderful view of Buckingham Palace. He seemed to have thought of everything. My fears were stilled, my resolve steeled, my ears ready to hear his plan. Which was as follows.

I must be marketable, said the failed aviator. I must appeal widely. So he would announce me to the great and the good as an Egyptian gypsy. A millionaire from the slums of some dusty desert place. And now dreaming of settling in England. Yes. For, once upon a time, I had been plucked from my hovel by an elderly maiden Englishwoman who had taught me the language and the National Anthem. Ever since, I had harboured feelings of affection for the Old Country. My huge fortune, acquired selling English tea and roast beef – in a word, groceries, so dear to the English heart – was a burden to me. Now this grateful Egyptian gypsy wished to repay his dear dead benefactress, and the greatest country on earth, by making a series of donations to important national institutions.

From that point on, it would be plain sailing, the ex-Bishop promised. And he would quietly bow out. He had absolutely no doubt that I would receive the rewards of generosity. In fact, he would not be surprised if – very soon – I found myself kneeling before the throne, while Her Majesty enjoined me to Arise, Sir David! Even as likely, he continued, warming to his theme, was my elevation to the nobility. If you looked at the numbers of those business people ennobled for giving generously to certain funds, you saw that such wise donors were destined for greatness far more often than any other branch of society.

I was caught up in his enthusiasm now and begged him to stay at least until the call came from the Palace, but he lifted a lofty hand and reminded me that he had erred in
making me follow his timetable. He now held to his resolution to encourage Third World persons to run their own lives. He was providing aid without strings. Did I fish? No? Well, if I had done so, I would have known that when you give a man a salmon you feed him for a day, but give him a fishing rod and you feed him for life.

Then he fell on my neck, begging me to remember him to Her Majesty if ever I found myself kneeling before her or, more likely still, when I donned ermine and took my seat as Baron Booi of the Karoo or wherever it was I came from … Running his hands through his dark, sharp tufts of hair, which reminded me again of the spikes of the aloe, and turning his anxious eyes full on me for one last time, he bade me goodbye, for ever. And he set off to spread my name amongst the greatest in the land: a grateful grocer come to town with a well-stuffed wallet, eager to express his appreciation to Queen and Country.

I am ashamed to confess I barely missed him because within hours I was besieged by visitors, party chairmen, fund-raisers and political leaders of every complexion, who took me to their bosoms; all of whom, after brief opening compliments about Egypt, its pyramids, its warmth, its culture, followed by succinct expressions of admiration about Romany life, its mobility, its caravans, its lively dances and so on, went on to say how very touched they were to meet a foreigner so wedded to England and English institutions: cricket and clergy and monarchy and groceries and so on. How very much they hoped I would make my home amongst them. How very grateful they would be for any donation I made to party funds. If I took their drift?

I took their drift. I had met Mr Conbrio, had I not?

Yet I was still foreign enough to be amazed at the extraordinary adroitness of these political chieftains and
their wonderfully understated acceptance of my donations, very often non-vocal; the wink, the barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement, the ghost of a smile or twitch of the nose. And, before you could blink, my leather satchel was suddenly lighter. Some of my visitors so enjoyed meeting me that they spent the night in the hotel, accommodation which I was careful to pay for, and I drew from the chieftains much praise for my legendary gypsy hospitality. So many foreign benefactors confined their offers of free hospitality to important persons in hotels abroad: it took rare insight to offer free hotel rooms to important persons where they needed them most. At home, in England!

I was delighted with the speed at which my pouch emptied. What had seemed so plentiful vanished like snowflakes that fall in the desert. And once all my money had gone, my visitors stopped arriving to enjoy my hospitality. It was, I supposed, testimony to their calibre. Again that delicate understanding of the English gentleman showed itself. One simply did not barge in on a fellow who has given his all and is awaiting the call.

But someone did barge in. A very vulgar fellow, the guardian of the hotel, who without even doffing his hat, demanded money, saying that I had settled for the rooms of my friends, but I had paid nothing on my own account. And he was not having Egyptian gypsies running up huge bills in his hotel.