Free Hunger Town by Wendy Scarfe Page B

rain. Our footsteps on the bare wooden floor echoed eerily and chairs pulled back screeched a protest. We were the first there and found ourselves tiptoeing to seats in the middle of the room. ‘Let’s go up front,’ Harry said, but I shook my head. I could see Nathan seated at a table at the front of the hall and after the incident in the gardens I had determined to keep my distance. He shuffled through a heap of papers, diligently taking notes, only occasionally looking up to comment to a man who leaned over his shoulder. The other man was Jock from Glasgow. There was no mistaking his squat pugilistic stance. There was no sign of Bernie-Benito.
    â€˜How many come?’ I whispered to Harry. It seemed irreverent to speak out loud.
    â€˜I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve been. Nathan invited me. He asked me to bring you along. He said he knew you, that you’d met at The Chew It and Spew It.’
    â€˜Yes,’ I said, non-committal.
    â€˜Then you do know him?’
    â€˜Sort of.’
    I wouldn’t be dragged into any relationship with Nathan. He was more unpredictable than Harry, and that was saying a lot.
    â€˜He admires you. He says you’re a true proletarian.’ Harry was not to be put off. ‘Come on, Jude, tell me what’s between you two.’
    â€˜Mind your own business, Harry. There’s nothing between us.’ I was annoyed.
    â€˜Wow,’ he said, putting up his hands in mock self-protection. ‘Sorry. Didn’t know you felt like that. Tell Uncle Harry all about it.’
    â€˜Shut up, Harry. Don’t try to wheedle me as you do my mother. I’m up to your tricks.’
    He put a careless arm about me and gave me a squeeze. ‘OK, Miss Larsen, I’ll be good.’
    More people had drifted in, about three dozen in all. They looked ordinary, cleanly but poorly dressed, tired and subdued. Winnie would have called them earnest but I felt they were there to fulfil a duty. Bernie-Benito was amongst them. With his loose frame and ungainly gait he looked like a benign rag doll. He drooped into a chair in the front row and, like one who speaks English as a foreign language and feels the need to shout, yelled, ‘Good evening, comrades.’
    Jock replied cheerfully, ‘Shut up, you little fascist bastard. Can’t you see we’re working?’
    Bernie-Benito doffed his cap, grinned and lolled back in his chair, rocking it precariously on two back legs. ‘ Avanti popolo ,’ he hummed under his breath.
    I felt that Bernie-Benito would carry a knife and smile charmingly while he used it.
    There were no women present, except myself, so when two other women entered I took particular notice of them. Harry with over-done gallantry jumped up to welcome them. His greeting interrupted their conversation and their glance of dismissal was a hurtful rebuff. He returned flushed and embarrassed. ‘I suppose it’s our first night here and I shouldn’t have intruded.’ I looked at him with pity and he blushed again.
    â€˜You should recognise when people are downright rude to you, Harry.’ I was going to add, not everyone will like you, and thought better of it. After all, I knew what it was to be mortified.
    I studied the two women. They were dressed in sombre clothes: black skirts and coats, with matching cloche hats. One wore a fake fur tippet about her neck. Thin sandy hair escaped in wisps from under their hats and their complexions were colourless, unaided by rouge or lipstick. They looked like a pair of unpleasantly self-sacrificing acolytes.
    â€˜I’d say, Harry, they lacked moderation and probably lead a thoroughly unhappy life. I hope all the comrades are not like that.’
    Harry did not appreciate my reference to Aristotle and now, recovered from his moment of embarrassment, was looking about him with bright expectant eyes. My eyes followed the two women as they walked to the table.