Snuff and Temperance , livre ebook

Title Page
SNUFF AND TEMPERANCE
Tales of Luton and Lutonians

Paul Harrison



Publisher Information
Snuff and Temperance
Published in 2015 by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The right of Paul Harrison to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
Copyright © 2015 Paul Harrison
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



Acknowledgements
To Kevin and Nilva, who have long tolerated my escapes into fantasy, Neil Rowland and Clive Gresswell for their ongoing support, Peter Norrington for his proof-reading and editing, Sophie Gresswell for her front cover illustration, Zsofia for her belief that I can do this
In memory of my parents and late brother, Peter Harrison, an eternal Lutonian.




Foreword
‘It is estimated that, before the Cretaceous period, a more substantial river Lea shaped a large valley through what we now know as the county of Bedfordshire. Curtailed at its source by the ice age that followed, the waters no longer flowed southwards. Glaciers destroyed much of the elevated chalk lands, leaving only rare outcrops of harder ‘Totternhoe Stone’ such as found at Far Cawley Knoll, an imposing chalk escarpment lying to the south of Luton town centre. During the late Victorian period a particularly inventive engineering project resulted in the construction of a railway tunnel through the base of the Knoll, improving connections from Luton to the Home Counties and London.
The south-facing ‘cliff’ at Far Cawley provides a steep and distinctive landmark for new arrivals to the town. The gentler north-facing slope, became heavily populated during the mid-to-late Victorian period, initially by home workers in the burgeoning hat industry and remains a characteristic area of cottage terraces and small factories with other reminders of the town’s early industrial growth still present. A high degree of mineral deposits present in local aquifers has led to the official recognition of Luton as a ‘hard water’ area.’
‘The Cretaceous Period and Sedimentation in Bedfordshire’
Dr. Timothy Marx-Hill
Bexley Hill Publications (1954)



Keep the Home Fires Burning
The rain fell without mercy. It was hard to believe it was July, even more difficult to believe it was nineteen-nineteen and we were finally celebrating the peace. Ernest Greer stood on that makeshift platform in front of Luton Town Hall in a sodden straw hat, shaking his fist and preaching Bolshevism to the crowd.
Greer wore my vestments and the dog collar torn from my throat. Such was the antagonism from the crowd that the attendant police were too pre-occupied in defending the Town Hall to worry about appearances. But I knew He would find it hard to accept the explanation of my drunken loss at the hands of so ungodly a man. Only He could let the heavens pore down in retribution. I sensed there was a lot more rain to fall on this land once fit for heroes.
I caught only fragments of the Bolsheviks’ rant because the crowd was rowdy and numerous. Then I noticed I was almost sober and the rain was soaking through Greer’s thin municipal trousers. We were of a similar height and his working man’s clothes fitted well enough, but with the moisture clinging to my thighs, I felt as though he was becoming absorbed into me, like some terrible poltergeist. I further felt the irritation of something heavy and metallic inside a grimy pocket. At first I assumed it was money that we had somehow failed to drink during our furious debate at ‘The Abbot’ public house. Then I realised it was a set of keys.
Even they were moist, as though left poised in an external door on a cold January day. But I realised they were too big to be normal house keys. And that set me searching for those of my parish. Fortunately, they were left there amongst a crumpled wrapping that I identified as a half-ounce of Greer’s tobacco. At least I would be able to return home once I had recovered my clothing from the mindless reprobate.
Even my church keys smelt of stale ale after the long afternoon’s argument and my ultimate humiliation. I lost the wager and at about four o’clock was defrocked in the lavatory at ‘The Abbot’. Despite all the privations and horror at the front, nothing so humiliating had ever occurred before. I could only imagine the Bishop’s fury when he would hear of the events of the nineteenth of July in Luton. My name would surely be mud. Unless I could save the day somehow, I feared I was looking at a second defrocking of a more permanent nature.
And I assumed so wrongly that the vote would go with me, that even less than sober, the discharged troops would side against Greer’s murderous intentions. That they would choose to ignore his plea for blood and leave the Mayor in peace. That I had been a Pal with many of them after Gallipoli, that although I did not carry a weapon, we stood and fell together as Lutonians. I wagered my frock on their decency and the Bolshevik took me up on the offer.
Ernest Greer limped across the bar room towards me. I know his mind held anger but his face was flat, almost expressionless, as though ironed of emotion from the shaking palsy. His eyes hinted at inebriation and half-forgotten horrors. But his tongue was like a lasso, winding in support for those who wanted rebellion.
He said Mayor Impey ignored the common man. That he wanted to charge unemployed soldiers to attend the Peace Banquet and had ignored their plea for a Memorial Service at the pleasure grounds in Wardown. All of this was true of course, but it was no excuse for a lynching.
Ernest Greer was a big man, a career soldier. He looked too old to have been injured at Sulva Bay, too old to have fought in this last war at all. Surely, he should have been retired from the 5 th s after Spionkop? His breath smelt of cheap sausage. When he brought his face near to me in the gloom of ‘The Abbot’, I saw that it was tanned brown. The other Pals were also bronzed or burnt from a summer of idleness, from wasting away the hours on the streets of New Town.
But I remembered Greer was a caretaker of some description. I offered him spiritual guidance on his return: such wasted words. His face bore an unhealthy, flame-thrown glow, reflected back from the hard rock of Gallipoli. He grimaced at me with the frozen smile of a puppet.
‘You are a man of God and a follower of false truths. But you were there, Chaplain, with the boys, and we bear you no malice. I will give you my own clothes in return rather than see you naked and foolish. If the men in this hostelry agree with you, I will follow their counsel and leave Impey alone. But if they vote with me, I will rub salt in your wound and lead us to Impey dressed as a clergyman.’
And when it came to the vote I was comprehensively beaten, Christian values refuted. Only a couple of men, too ancient to have served in the Great War, lifted reluctant, pacifist hands. The rest raised their arms and roared with Greer. Amongst them I recognised burly blockers from Hightown, the ‘Yellow Devils’, who led the fight up Kidney Hill but returned to a hat industry bereft of work.
That heroism was exhausted now. The men were a disgrace to their insignia, to the name of the Bedfordshire and Hertfordshire regiment, to the good name of Luton and to the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ. Greer approached me. He called out:
‘Hey, whiskey priest, time to get stripped down...’
In a moment of sanity, and no doubt mindful of his license to a degree, that fellow traveller of a landlord intervened. A wire-haired terrier of a man, he stood with his arms folded in front of the godless mob:
‘Ernest Greer, if you are to swap clothes with the Chaplain, I want no scenes of embarrassment in the public bar. Behave like gentlemen and carry out the exchange honourably in the lavatory.’
And we would have done, but some drunken hooligans followed us in and fair ripped the clothes off my back. Greer stood by grinning inanely before stripping to his underclothes and climbing into my holy vestments. As he left he said:
‘I told you so, Chaplain. The days when you could stop working men and soldiers from reaching their destiny are finally over. The days of snuff and temperance are past.’
His uniform of the Water Board was left behind in an untidy heap on the floor like droppings from the devil. Eventually I climbed into it. Only my drunken state prevented me from registering fully the shame of being witnessed in such apparel. There was no choice but to follow Greer to the Town Hall and recover my belongings after his inevitable arrest.
After my assailant’s incoherent rambling up on the platform, Cecil Barber spoke. Barber that shell-shocked projectionist, who should have stayed in the darkness of the cinema rather than let his pale face rouse so much fury in the warm summer rain. Worse of all he shouted that he knew where Impey lived and could lead the crowd to him. Egged on by Greer, a bad five hundred men, women and children followed Barber down George Street.
I had no choice but trail behind as though the clothing on Greer’s back demanded I follow. Surely, they would not harm the man in the bosom of his family ho