Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! (43 page)

“If only,” she said wistfully. “I might still be a teacher. Thousands of others might still have their jobs. Thousands would still be alive,” she quickly added, catching herself lest Paul notice the unintended callousness.

Paul scratched his chin, eyebrows raised. “Not be rain on the parade, but…” beats of hesitation. “loss of employment may not be the worst of this grim tale.”

She smiled coldly, which was unnatural for her, and he shivered to see it.

“When a madman appears sane, it is high time to put him in a straight-jacket,” she observed, once more reverting to Poe, one of the few favoured poets of Paul.

“Even for those to whom life and death are equal jests, there are some things that are still held in respect,” he replied with his own, noting that it was inadequate in the face of such nihilism.

“German blood, blond hair and wars of aggression seem to cover it,” she deadpanned back, ticking the three on her fingers.

“Including
Saxon
blood, which miraculously and stupidly includes Britain. In reality we’re all as mongrel as each other, but who’s to tell Hitler that? Hopefully once the dust settles the issue fades instead of being focused on.”

She smiled with warmth, now. “I’m confused. So you think I should stay the course, or go back to my place or leave the country or…” she shrugged, feigning indecision.

His eyes held hers for milisecond too long; just enough time lapsed for him to see the question form in her mind, through her inquisitive eyes, dark brown and Semitic against his Celtic green.

“Stay the course. We’ll ride through this storm,” he said smoothly.

“You seem very sure about that, mister…” Naomi asked, half-hoping for reassurance. It came in the form of a churlish grin, as Paul raised his glass to her.

“
In vino veritas
, missus,” he chuckled, and despite herself, Naomi let an understated giggle escape her lips as their pints met in silent toast.
In wine there is truth
.

The bell tinkled, signalling last orders. There was a time when boos and jeers would greet this noise; that day in the Hyde Park Pub there was barely a stir. Naomi and Paul finished up, ordered a second pint which they drank at a leisurely pace, as Paul briefly, sadly described the unsightly scene he’d witnessed earlier in the day, before leaving for a nearby café that had peeling paper on the walls, furniture that seemed chintzy even for a greasy spoon, and a dumpy little woman with the disposition of a bulldog with venereal disease.

They ordered two coffees, both winning their silent game of suppressing the urge to stare at the woman’s unsightly boils, and asked for two bacon butties. Paul regretted sharing the story of random German violence, and hoped it would not unsettle his friend. But her mind was elsewhere. Sitting down at the thick table of what felt like plastic, Naomi resumed questioning him about the book.

“How are you going to get it printed? Assuming that’s what you’re after…?”

“Don’t worry about that,” he replied breezily, trying to dissuade her from the conversation.

“So how does this book end, if the invasion fails at the start?”

Paul’s eyes lit up as he warmed to the subject, that of his creative juices flowing; basking in the product of his imagination. His animated demeanour was unforced and balanced, which she found endearing, and a yet-more intrusive feeling.

“They come back next year – mid-to-late 1941 – having rebuilt the Luftwaffe and created a load more U-boats for the wolfpacks. Spain, France, Italy all join the hunt, so our Navy gets tied down fighting off four major powers simultaneously.
Stretched
, fighting for our lives. The air force can’t hold out. They land en masse; stabilise their position, and reinforcements flood in. Their stronghold widens; the advance begins. London capitulates, declared an open city…”

“That’s more bloody like it,” she said darkly. He grimaced in reluctant agreement.

“They execute Churchill. Neither he nor the Royals get out.”

“My heart bleeds for Churchill and the royals,” she said again, bitterly. “Wish I was in bloody Canada.”

He blanched, and she felt ashamed of herself.

“I’m
sorry
, sorry,” she cooed hurriedly, a half-smile fixed on her pursed mouth. “You know I didn’t mean that. It’s the beer talking. Canada’s even colder than here. And there’s French people there.
Frenchies
.”

He smiled widely at her. That was more like it.

“Don’t worry. Ride it out, this registration bollocks will die a death.
Anyway
… well, yeah…
viva le revolution
. We rebel. The Scots come down to the northern cities, kind of like what happened but more of them, and the whole populace fights back. Eventually the Germans pull out, because it’s too costly and they cannot occupy England, let alone Britain.
We win
.”

She considered the possibilities.

“Paul…” she said slowly. “That’s not entertainment. That’s a bloody incitement to riot.”

He didn’t respond, fixing her with a sudden look of intent. She recognised it for what it was.

“Oh, bloody hell, Paul.”

“Let’s just see how things turn out.”

“Paul, even owning the paper you
write
that thing on will be a death sentence.”

He shook a young head of slicked

“Don’t worry.”

She folded her arms, crossly.

“I know you will anyway, because you’re bloody-minded and stubborn. And for what you’ve done for me, and my family, I can’t disagree with you. But I think you’re daft.”

He leaned in, something sombre, sorrowful, in the smooth contours of his boyish face.

“Naomi… I’m not a fighter. I never was. Never will be.”

Her eyes searched his. There was fire in them as she’d never seen, and the hair on the back of her neck prickled.

“But we can’t just let the ideals of this country
die
. Even if those at the top are comfortable with that happening, and the classes who flourish regardless of system. I mean the intangibles. The sense of fair play and good conduct. Democracy, even. Civil rights. Everything that wasn’t represented in that scene I witnessed, and the countless others that have happened and
are
happening and
will
happen… And this is how I can help. If I muster people up to fight, at least it would be for the right cause.”

“Plenty of people die for the right cause,” she observed sadly.

He nodded in silent acknowledgment, but in this thoughtful expression, Naomi saw no crisis of confidence, and knew that he’d go ahead with his plan.

~

The pale light faded as the afternoon wore on; obscured by clouds, the sun pierced through with less frequency as a chilly breeze bit the young teachers with sudden force. They returned to Paul’s flat after a lengthy stroll around the park, by which time the sun had fully set, and darkness descended on England’s north.

Neither had acknowledged it, but the sight of Blackshirts marching in Woodhouse Moor – known to most as Hyde Park – had deeply disturbed them. It seemed so raw, so visceral; to celebrate a foreign triumph over countrymen. And why the park? The very centre of the city centre was barely a mile down the road.

“Perhaps they’ve marched here from the city centre barracks. An evening break from licking German boots,” Paul joked. The responding chuckle had been hollow.

Sunlight had pierced the red-brick estate street at intervals, thinly pricked beams of light forcing through the gaps in the park trees. Were it not for the serious, marching men in the park, the leafy parkside lane, nestled away to the far-corner of the wide open space, would look for all the world like a late-summer day in the north of England. Unoccupied, with no antagonistic political force present, nor unwelcome foreign visitors.

And no grieving families. Brothers, sons, nephews and cousins lost. And for what?

“A lad I used to be friends with at school signed up,” Paul found himself blurting.

She looked at him in surprise. Despite some slight crossovers, Naomi and her younger friend had different social circles, but while she had to admit that Paul’s friends were an eclectic mixed bag – an assorted bunch of aspiring artists, writers and fellow teachers with creative ambition – with odd quirks and traits, none of them were particularly disagreeable, let alone malevolent. It was hard to imagine Paul associating with a man who would sign with the British Fascists. Even Oswald Moseley, it was now thought, had supposedly renounced support for a foreign occupier and had been resultingly praised, appeased, publicly elevated and then marginalised.

He caught her look and nodded, glumly. “Tony. Lost touch after school. Used to want to be a fireman. Christ, I wonder what happened to him? The kid’s from t’ Rookwoods, was just an estate kid without a farthing to scratch his arse with. Knew nothing, but he were pretty ’appy. Nice lad in fact. Used to play football together on Sundays; he had no prejudice, no politics, only one or two phrases he’d picked up from his daft old man. Now…” he said bitterly, gesturing to the field, “he’s
that
.”

Paul’s head slowly shook from side-to-side, surreptitiously watching the fascist demonstration in the park – almost detatched from his own movements, bemused. How had Tony ended up a fascist? How had these people? How had so many in Europe done likewise?

The Fascist Blackshirts, or BUF party members, had all taken to walking with newfound arrogance in general, which was received with widespread disgust. Paul had commented on his previous visit two days prior that he’d seen a march in the city centre, some kind of asinine SA mimicry. They were yet to wield clubs, thankfully, and their overall insolence was tempered by a more British approach.

Of course, Paul realised even as he observed their restraint, Britain had not had to deal with the frantic revolutions and bloody mutinies on the home front after defeat in the Great War, nor economic collapse. Germany had, until recently at least, lived through an altogether more dramatic 20
^th
century within its own borders than had Britain. Yet still, as wargames, it was sinister to see the emergence of that blackshirted street dominance. There was something animal about its visage; the alpha behaviour as exhibited in the world of primates, along with the threat of violence as the ultimate victory; reason and restraint dismissed as an all-too
human
quality, representing decadence to the hard young men of the new, strong, fascist continent. A scientific regression, almost religious; the belligerent disdain of softening principles and glory inherent in abandoning one’s own mind to a cult. Fledgling as it may be, neither of the studious young Brits had any doubts that it would not take long for the proud, raw recruits to the cause to evolve from man to machine; violence comes naturally in the right circumstances. Göring, for one, had voiced public approval and praise for the BUF, though Hitler was yet to comment.

And as it was wryly pointed out through Chinese whispers of the knowing, it had been Göring who seized control of the police force in 1933, set up concentration camps and turned the SA loose. Don’t trust the fat man, they said. Fat and jolly men too can do terrible, wicked things. So can bank clerks, and bus conductors. Create the machinery of tribalism and fuel it with fear; enough people will soon embrace it through self-interest. Incalculable suffering and calculated pragmatism often go hand-in-hand.

~

In the end, Paul was too tired to bother leaving, and he once more took a blanket upstairs to the sofa. He bade a swift exit, refusing to hear of her protestations, and in the ensuing silence of the dark underground room, tiredness descended on Naomi. To her surprise, despite only having been awake several hours, sleep came naturally.

She awoke to his knocking on the wooden beam.

“Come in, Paul, it’s your room,” she murmured sleepily, wriggling with pleasure as she stretched her limbs, still in a dozing state.

“
Top o’ the mornin’
. I’ve brought you some breakfast.”

That woke her up fast. She sat up, dumbly rubbing sleep out of her gummy eyes with her knuckles, to see that he carried a tray on which sat a plate of buttered toast and eggs, a biscuit and a cup of tea.

“You’re a star, you know that?” Naomi shook her head in wonder.

“Nonsense, it’s a pleasure.”

Bloody hell, she’s beautiful
, he thought. Even with her hair now tousled and hanging in knotty clumps, freshly awoken from slumber in a basement. She was
radiant
.

“You shouldn’t waste your rations, Paul. I don’t know if I can eat,” she confessed, expecting him to break into his usual repertoire of teasing jokes and silly puns. He didn’t.

“Try, lass. Try.”

And he looked so earnest that she gulped down one of the toast slices.

Paul consciously avoided her with his eyes, after the first bite; feigning interest in one of the discarded books on the couch, he retreated to its distant sanctuary and as casually as he could, tried to read. Her morning presence in his bed, a visage of strange vitality, had shaken him with a visceral quality, and simultaneously filled him with lust and attacked his fragile self-belief. Somewhere in his mind, he was dimly aware that a barrier of sorts in his mind had broken down; a lessened inhibition, or just an epiphany? Or was he simply scared and listless, and twisted by the occupation? He couldn’t be sure, but wired as he was, Paul conceded – almost relieved – that he was definitely not powered, at least primarily, by lust.

Whatever the outcome, Paul was certain that his quality of intent was pure.

Naomi sat calmly, comfortable in his presence. The disorientation of awakening passed in her mind, and the awareness of how life can change drastically in an obscenely short space of time suddenly struck the young teacher again. It was a recurring thought, but instead of dismissing it, Naomi found herself ruminating on the positives of an altogether grim and foreboding situation. Hope stole at her fears like an infusion of energy; a sick, empowering confidence that was inexplicable yet transcending.

In high great humour she tried the tea, expecting the usual ersatz that had been the norm for weeks now, and periodically since the war began. Yet she was rewarded with the sweet taste of sugared,
proper
Yorkshire tea. It was overwhelming, but before she could gush her gratitude to her host, Paul’s voice piped up from across the underground room.