Black August

'That sounds rather grim.'

'Quite shattering, my dear, just think of mother and me cooped up at Banners without a soul to separate us when we fight. The thought appals me.'

Fiona turned as the door opened behind her. 'Hullo, Kenyon, my dear. How are you?'

'Splendid, thanks. Electioneering can be almost as good exercise as polo. How's Peter?'

'He's very fit, but so swollen headed I hardly know what to do with him. Last Sunday he got round the Red course at the Royal Berks in 82. He'll be here in a moment and then you'll have to hear all about it.'

'Good for him but all the same, I flatly refuse to listen to any more golfing stories except from registered voters in my own division.' Kenyon glanced at his sister, 'Well, long legs what about a drink?'

'Brute!' she flung at him, 'how many times have I told you that I absolutely forbid the use of derogatory terms in connection with my delicious limbs. The drinks are in the cupboard, and, my boy may I remind you that it is your turn to pay?'

'But hang it, we were away all last week,' he protested as he opened the cupboard. 'Still there's lots here some fresh bottles, too!'

'Yes, my love I ordered them this morning.'

'Oh, well that was decent of you I take it all back.

Veronica suddenly guffawed with laughter, 'And I put them down to your account at Justerini's! Tra la la!. . tra la la!'

'The devil you did! I owe them quite enough already.'

'Never mind, Herbert pays his bills regularly so they won't worry you.'

'I dare say not, but I hate running up big bills. Electioneering is the most expensive pastime I know after yachting.'

'You forgit the lidies, dearie!' mocked Veronica. 'All the same I think Herbert is a mean old pig to make us pay for our own tipple.'

'Does he?' exclaimed Fiona. 'I thought he was supposed to have one of the best cellars in England?'

Veronica nodded. 'Yes, sweet, and sherry, if you like it, is “on the ”ouse" as they say. But Herbert doesn't approve of cocktails so that great lumping rasta over there and I pay for our three pen'oth of gin in turns.'

The door opened again and a footman in plain livery announced 'Major Hay-Symple.'

'Hullo, Veronica Fiona, how are you? How's Peter, eh? Hullo, Kenyon, old boy!' The rather thickset soldier with lively blue eyes threw a quick succession of smiles at them all. For a moment they stared at him in mild surprise. His immaculate khaki tunic with its little row of ribbons, wide breeches and shining field boots seemed strangely alien upon this intimate friend. That he should arrive at a cocktail party in uniform brought home to them more than any newspaper placard the gravity of the situation.

Then Veronica jumped up, and flinging her arms wide, kissed him with a loud smack on the forehead. 'Alistair, my hero! come and sit here by me. What news out of Flanders, laddie? Stand the King's colours where they stood spare not the gruesome details for we women of England. What news of the War?'

’Eh what’s that? What war?' Hay-Symple looked vaguely astonished at her onset.

'The rioting or whatever you call it, stupid in all these horrid places that no one ever goes to!'

'Oh, well there's been a spot of bother in the North.'

'God! what a man!' Veronica sank back on the sofa, her hands clasped dramatically to her head. 'Details, my good fool details are what we want.'

He grinned good humouredly and took the cocktail that Kenyon held out. 'Well, there's trouble in Glasgow; the wires are down and some of these blackguards have sabotaged a bridge, but it's nothing to worry about. Three battalions of the Highland Division have been concentrated there, and they're great fellows know a lot of 'em myself. They'll soon put things right.'

Veronica shook him gently by the shoulder. 'You divine person, we heard all that hours ago from Fiona's hairdresser. Do you really mean to tell us that you don't know anything more?'

'Not much,' he smiled at her affectionately. 'We're just standing by. Have to give a telephone number if we leave barracks for more than half an hour that's all.'

Kenyon filled up Fiona's glass from his shaker, then he looked across at Veronica. 'Why waste your breath, sweet Sis?' he inquired with gentle sarcasm. 'Don't you realise that Alistair rides one of the King's horses and is one of the King's men. If he did know anything he wouldn't tell you in a thousand years. It's his job to keep his mouth shut.'

'That's true.' Hay-Symple ran the back of his hand under his upturned moustache, 'but honestly I know little more than you can read in the papers. Only odds and ends about what to do in the event of an outbreak of plague and that sort of thing.'

'Gadzooks! these men what children they are,' Veronica exclaimed to Fiona. 'Let's all play robbers but don't tell the girls, they'd spoil everything!'

'The children must have their fun, darling!' Fiona smiled, 'they are, all going to be so important now. Alistair will run up and down in a nice brass hat before he's much older. Kenyon will be given a purple ribbon for his buttonhole, so that everyone will get off the pavement knowing him to be an M.P. and Peter well poor Peter will have to put up with a little red, white and blue shirt just to show he's on the right side in the General Strike.'

'It's all very well for you young women to scoff, but you may be almighty glad we've got an Army before this business is through.' Hay-Symple held out his glass, 'Here, Kenyon, old man, give me another, will you?'

'Why do you compare this with a General Strike?' asked Kenyon curiously.

'Well, isn't it?' Fiona parried. 'They've been having the most ghastly trouble up at Peter's works in Sheffield since they stopped supplying the Balkans with munitions, and he's always said that when steel went down the drain, everything would go too.'

'I agree that all these strikes and stoppages have helped to bring it about, and the Communists have played an enormous part in aggravating the situation; they are so much stronger now, but that's where the resemblance ends. The Trades Unions and the working men are no more responsible for the present state of things than we are. It is the effect of colossal bad debts made through other countries cracking up taxation of industry out of all proportion to the profits made, and the complete stranglehold which the banks have acquired on every form of property and business. As long as they maintain their policy of refusing further advances without adequate cover more and more people are bound to go under, and every crash gets us nearer to six million unemployed which in turn means more taxation for the poor devils who are still striving to carry on. That is the vicious circle we are up against.'

Fiona nodded. 'Yes, the rations for the unemployed have got to be paid for somehow of course, but I don't see why the banks should lend money without security all the same.'

'They are getting it in the neck today,' observed Hay Symple, 'half London was queuing up this morning to get their money out.'

'Effects of last night's moratorium.' Kenyon patted his breast pocket. 'I was on the doorstep round the corner when they opened today and drew out a couple of hundred. The bank was chock a block with people then.'

'But why the panic, lovie?' inquired Veronica.

'Well, I knew there would be a rush, and it's just possible that they may not be able to stand it.'

Hay-Symple swallowed the remainder of his second cocktail, 'I don't see why we're not on gold.'

'Gold has nothing to do with it. The loans made by the banks are always bigger than their deposits which is a queer situation anyway, but if they can't collect their loans they are stuck whatever they are paying out in. They need time to realise their stock just like any other business.'

'I should think it will put the lid on it if they do close down.'

Kenyon's reply was cut short by the reappearance of the footman, 'Mr. Hetherington, milady.'

'Hullo, Peter Hullo! Hullo!..,'