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of men followed him and I noticed one
of them was Jeffrey Hamm, another Alf
Flockhart and another Bill Dodds. When
we got outside into the cold and dark,
there were hundreds of people milling
around smoking, shaking hands and beating
their arms around their bodies to keep
warm. Mot<strong>or</strong>bike riders returned after esc<strong>or</strong>ting
Mosley half-way to his house in
Chelsea and later rode off into the night.
We returned to Blandf<strong>or</strong>d Square by
another circuitous route. My father said
that after a meeting like that you couldn’t
be too careful because the Jews would be
out in f<strong>or</strong>ce and they had f<strong>or</strong>med a vicious
gang called the ‘43 Group. We had to
watch out f<strong>or</strong> them all the time.
We drank tea bef<strong>or</strong>e we went to bed. Lovene
was exhausted and said she wished
she hadn’t gone. She had a headache. She
told my mother that she had never seen
Mosley bef<strong>or</strong>e in the flesh and she didn’t
really want to again. “He looks like a fox,”
she said. My mother said she couldn’t believe
her ears, her own daughter saying
something to appalling about The Leader
on the night he returned to Britain.
“A crafty fox,” Lovene added.
“He only mentioned the Jews a couple
of times, Edna,” said my father. “Do you
think he’s gone soft? I mean, he virtually
condemned Fascism and said we’d gone
beyond it. Beyond Fascism . . . beyond de-
26 | ColdType | October 2010
Trev<strong>or</strong> Grundy
❝
In the
playground the
following day
I called vilma
Cohen a
Jewish bitch.
She ran away
and mr Simon
found her
crying in the
cloakroom
mocracy . . . I’d say beyond comprehension.
But he still knows how to w<strong>or</strong>k you
up, doesn’t he? But I’m beginning to wonder
if this is the same OM, <strong>or</strong> whether he
went soft in prison.”
I climbed onto my father’s knee to kiss
him, goodnight, something I rarely did
but this was a special occasion. I told him
that if he thought Mosley had changed
and wasn’t still anti-Jewish he must be
“bloody joking” and my parents laughed.
In the playground the following day I
called Vilma Cohen a Jewish bitch. She
ran away and Mr Simon found her crying
in the cloakroom.
The next day I was placed in front of
the school and caned by Mr Walker, three
strokes on the right hand, three on the
left. F<strong>or</strong> the next week I was kept inside
at lunchtime and made to write lines. Vilma
was swiftly taken away from St Paul’s
and sent to a school f<strong>or</strong> Jewish children
in Golders Green, so I couldn’t have said
‘s<strong>or</strong>ry’ even if I’d wanted to.
A week later I told my parents what
had happened and tears stung my cheeks
as I spoke.
My father stared at me and there was a
long silence. Then he looked at my mother
and said,
“We’ve got a right little Jew-baiter here,
haven’t we Edna?” l