Ironmonger's Daughter by Harry Bowling Page B

that was only the start. Outside the synagogue some young lads rushed the column. My God, it was terrible! Young Bernie Meyer got pushed through a shop window and another young boy got a bottle in’is face. The fightin’ spilled into the side streets an’ the swine were kickin’ out at everyone. They’ve got to be stopped, Solly. We’ve got to get more organised or we’re done fer.’
    The big fishmonger’s face darkened with anger and he laid his hand on Hymie’s shoulder. ‘Listen my friend,’ he said softly. ‘We all know about the sufferin’ of our people in Germany, an’ we all know we mustn’t let it ’appen ’ere. I’ve already called a meetin’. Rest easy, I’ll keep yer informed.’
    Two days later Solly gathered his group together in the backroom of his local pub, The Swan and, to enthusiastic applause, he vowed that the Blackshirt swine would live to regret it if they ever set foot in Bermondsey. Solly held his hands up for silence and when the cheering and clapping died down he introduced the guest speaker.
    Joe Cooper stood up and hooked his thumbs through his wide braces. ‘Yer might ask, brothers, what’s a gentile doin’ at a Jewish gatherin’,’ he began in a loud voice. ‘Well I make no excuses fer bein’ ’ere ternight. I’m a trade unionist, an’ your fight is our fight. If we allow this fascist scum ter ride roughshod over us ordinary people, then we deserve the consequences.’
    Loud applause greeted his statement and Joe leaned forward, his clenched fists resting on the bare wooden table. ‘Let me ask yer somefink, bruvvers. Is there anyfink in yer teachin’ that ferbids yer from bein’ trade unionists? Is there anyfink that ses yer can’t vote, or can’t be as equal as yer gentile bruvvers? ’Course there ain’t. But I tell yer. There’s a lot in the manifesto of the British Union of Fascists that ses jus’ that. The Blackshirts are comin’ fer you lot terday. They’ll be comin’ fer us termorrer, an’ they’ll be comin’ fer Gawd knows who the next day.’
    The clapping and cheering went on as Solly slapped Joe Cooper on the back and clasped his hand in a show of gratitude. Joe waited for the noise to die down then he hooked his thumbs through his braces once more. ‘I only wanna say one more fing, bruvvers. When yer face the Blackshirts my lads’ll be there wiv yer.’
    The meeting had broken up and Solly stood beside Joe in the public bar. Jack Rabin, the landlord, had been talking to a small group of men and when he came over he leaned over the counter. ‘There’s some more wanna sign up, Solly. If this keeps up we’ll ’ave a bloody army by next week.’
    Joe sipped his beer. ‘I’ll muster a good crowd, Solly. A lot o’ the lads remember the Armitage trouble way back. They ain’t fergot what ’appened to us when we was out on the cobbles. The firm got the ’ard men in. It’s them sort o’ gits that’s marchin’ wiv Mosley, yer can bet on it.’
    Solly nodded his agreement. ‘We gotta be careful, Joe. We ain’t gonna be dealin’ wiv know-nufinks. Them Blackshirts know the score. They got right nasty in Mile End. A few of our boys got a pastin’. One got aimed through a plate-glass winder. It got ugly, I can tell yer. The law’s gonna be out in force on this march. We’ve gotta be shrewd or we won’t get anywhere near the fascist bastards.’
    Joe finished his drink and put his hand up when Solly offered to buy another. ‘I’ve gotta get goin’, Solly. My Sadie ain’t too well. She don’t like me bein’ out fer long.’
    The Jewish fishmonger watched as Joe Cooper walked out through the door, then he turned to Jack Rabin. ‘’E’s a good man, Jack. We need the likes of ’im ter stand wiv us,’ he said.
    The landlord looked thoughtful. ‘I dunno, Solly. I’m always a bit cautious about that sort. I don’t want us ter be used as fodder fer their battles.’
    Solly laughed aloud. ‘Jack, yer gettin’ suspicious in yer