Hairy London by Stephen Palmer Page B

all a human being needs. No need for gold and opulence, is there? Plenty for all, if the confounded aristocracy would just share it out fairly.”
    “I know what you mean,” Velvene said, nodding. He glanced at the others, settling down to tea and toast, then said, “I notice you have three women here.”
    “Yeah. Women are part of the revolution. Men and women are equal, as Marx and Lenin pointed out.”
    “But politics is a man’s job.”
    “You need to disabuse yourself of that idea soon as maybe,” Pertrand said. “And don’t go repeating it inside these walls. I can chuck you out, you know.”
    Velvene felt uncomfortable. A woman’s place was in the world of women. Everything else was the world of men. He decided to use Pertrand for a brief time, get himself back on his feet, then move on. Bedwards House lay less than a mile away.
    “This afternoon I’m going out on a scouting mission,” Pertrand said, “to a hidden factory using cheap labour. You should come, guv.”
    Velvene nodded. Just this once...
    “It’s not situated too far away,” Pertrand continued, “so the hair won’t make the walk impossible. Grafton Place by Euston Station, it is.”
    “A small trek,” Velvene replied, recalling treks of his own that had stretched for hundreds of miles across jungle and desert.
    After a luncheon of mouldy cheese on toast and weak tea, Velvene and Pertrand departed the flat and headed north. Velvene said as little as possible, not wanting to give his Belgravia background away, but also hoping to entice hints from Pertrand as to what his intentions were for the group.
    “Bring down the aristocracy,” Pertrand said. “Simple ’nuff. By any means, guv, know what I mean? We got all sorts of plans. Maybe one day I’ll let you into a few little Marxist-Leninist secrets, depending on how well you serve the cause.”
    “Serve the cause, eh?”
    “I can see it in your eyes. You hate ’em as much as me.”
    Velvene said nothing. He hated his family, of course.
    The Grafton Place factory stood in a yard hidden behind a mercantile row, small windows piercing high brick walls, one great chimney belching smoke, and one great door strengthened with steel; upon the main gate a plate: Black-á-Nor Developments, Private Property, NO ADMITTANCE.
    “Private property,” Pertrand chuckled. “We know what Marx has to say about that, don’t we guv?”
    “I certainly do,” Velvene replied. “What do we do now?”
    “Climb round the back. I wanna see how the master works his crew. Gonna make it the front page report on the next Marxist-Leninist Times – tomorrow with a bit of luck. C’mon guv, quiet like, else the dogs’ll hear us.”
    Tip-toeing through mud, discarded paper and mats of hair, the pair rounded the factory to see a high wall behind a tall chainlink fence.
    “That wall can be climbed,” Pertrand observed. “See, they’ve put stays out to hold up the sheds round this side. Reckon we could jump across to ’em, then crawl along and shin up that drainpipe.”
    “You could be correct,” Velvene agreed, recalling a similar situation at the Brown Temple of Berber-Time. He sized up the leap. “It may be done, Urricane. But we must hurry, eh?”
    Like skulking squirrels the pair clambered up the fence, jumped upon the nearest stay (a two yard leap not for the fainthearted) then crawled over to the wall and the drainpipe. Velvene, his confidence increasing, took the lead for the climb, explaining to Pertrand the safest way of ascending.
    “Sheesh! I’m impressed, guv.”
    At the top of the drainpipe Velvene leaned across and clambered upon a wide sill, shuffling along so that Pertrand could follow. A hundred foot drop below; the wind whistling around his ears.
    He turned to look through the window, and was astonished at what he saw.
    It was indeed a site of cheap labour. Hundreds of half naked darkies sat at steaming machines, all of which produced something familiar to Velvene. Soft leather