17th September 1935
There is no family funeral without a homecoming.
Edgar remembered the same road from before the revolution and before the war. It was darker back then: dirtier and grimier and all so worn. Children with blackened faces and cigarettes hanging from their lips chased footballs up and down the street, dodging horses and carts as they drove themselves from the Essex border down to Spitalfields and then all the way up again. To call the homes of the people there “houses” would have meant raising them to a far higher standard of living. Amidst the bustle and dirt of Mile End Road, however, communities lived and worked and loved. It was a home to belong to and of which Edgar and his family were proud. My home… our home, he thought as he gripped his daughter’s hand in his.
That had all changed with the decades having passed and the levelling of the old slums to make way for the “people’s avenue”, where a clear expanse of road could connect London’s centre to its outer eastern districts. It had been his father’s monument to his home and his people: the beating heart of the East End. Now, as Edgar walked with the funeral procession down Mile End Road, he could feel that beating heart slowing to a halt. Crowds had gathered on either side of the avenue, their faces turned downwards at the sight of the procession. Crimson flags swayed gently in the wind, hanging from the unlit lampposts that lined the way westward to the City. It was as if the trees of autumn had been remade in iron and red cloth, perfected by socialist design and planted in concrete. The denizens of East London who had come to witness their great leader’s memorial stood just as silent, steeled against the dreaded grief that had overcome them in private. Little Angela was equally quiet as she marched with her father, a wreath of roses in her right hand, behind the casket of her own grandfather. The little nine-year-old girl, so doted on and beloved by her grandfather, always had a mischievous word to whisper in her grandad’s ear or a joke to tell him. His uproarious laughter would fill her heart, infecting her until she could control herself no longer and her chuckling became a mirthful fit. To where that little girl had gone, he had no clue. But, wherever it might be, it appears that the entire nation had taken leave there too. Not an encouraging cry or a cheer could be heard. But their father hasn’t died.
Edgar had certainly never known his father to go by without a smile or cheer from the crowd before; Edgar felt like he would never smile or cheer again.
He had asked for a smaller ceremony to be held in Poplar Town Hall, where words could be said about the man and the leader and where the Bible might be read to honour such a devout Christian. But, with little notice and the Council of State in disarray, it fell upon the Home Secretary and his fellow Communists to organise the event. Willie Gallacher had little experience of organising funerals and took little notice of Edgar and Minnie’s pleading to have a private ceremony, meaning all that might have been done for the closest of family members and friends was discarded in favour of a public spectacle where Edgar was suddenly at the very centre. The deathly silence of the crowd might well have proven the Home Secretary’s reasoning true: perhaps Edgar’s father was, in many ways, the grandfather of the People’s Commonwealth and, when the people mourned their leader, they mourned him as a family member. But their father hasn’t died. Gallacher, to keep the proceedings uncontroversial, expressly forbade the words of the Psalms or the Book of Romans from being uttered, especially with the international press watching the event so closely. They had cameras, welcomed by Gallacher, to record every detail for the newsreel crowds at home. Good money had exchanged dirty hands to get them so close as to be just a few hundred yards away from the casket of the late Chairman Lansbury. No priests and no prayers of any kind, Gallacher decreed, for the Commonwealth “must remain secular and free from such dogma in its public affairs”. No priests, no prayers, no sanctity, no family, no love, no respect, no tenderness, no pride, not one thing that made him who he was. He drew his left hand to his throat, feeling the constriction of his collar and fooling himself that he had done up his shirt too tight. In truth, he was welling up.
Not now. Not here.
Desperately, he cast his gaze back and away from the sight of his father’s closed casket travelling horse-drawn up the road, not once letting go of Angela’s hand. A group of flag-carriers, their polearms draped in the red-white-purple tricolour of the Commonwealth, marched in formation as if it were a military exercise. There was no marching band, but the sound of booted feet thudding along Mile End Road reminded Edgar of 1922: the heady days of the revolution, the cacophony of marching militiamen and artillery, and the great spectacle that followed his father’s rise to power. Back then, processions of celebration became an almost daily occurrence throughout London and the rest of the country. The crowds and the parades intermingled and the distinctions blurred, for every celebration was the people’s celebration and every man, woman and child on the street played their comradely part. And now they line up in mourning, penned up on the pavement, Edgar thought as the column of flags suddenly halted and split into two. Cocking his head slightly, he turned and watched as the casket was lowered affront a statue. Where the road was at its widest, parallel to the old Salvation Army mission’s gates, stood the monument centred in the road. In stainless steel, a man and woman clasped their hands together and stood – their bodies almost fifteen feet tall atop their limestone foundation – with their fists raised in socialist salute. There were few monuments to the revolution in London that were so aptly placed, making this one the most obvious choice for the end of George Lansbury’s final journey down the “people’s avenue”.
Spying the Acting Chairman of the Council of State already nearing the casket, which was laid before the steel couple almost like a sacrificial offering, Edgar surmised that Gallacher had chosen the leading lights of the government to be first to pay their respects. God, Arthur looks in rough shape, he thought as Greenwood hobbled along with his tawdry wreath and placed beside the casket. The Acting Chairman had tried so hard to avoid the spotlight of the public, given that soon a vote would take place in the Council of State to decide who should succeed Lansbury. But, plucked from his bunkered home in Westminster and forced to stand in front of the international press and British public, Arthur Greenwood appeared the weaker, lesser man. With Gallacher the prime Communist candidate and Greenwood de jure Leader of the Labour Party, there seemed to be little contest between them: the choice between the decisive Scottish Home Secretary and the confused drunkard was clear. Even now, Willie plays politics. Edgar was barely surprised. Wounded, without a doubt, but there was little beneath the man who had glided so effortlessly into the Council of State after John Maclean’s mysterious death back in the summer of 1926.
Edgar and Angela had little time to wait before they were brought forward to place their wreath. In quick succession, Councillors of State paid their respects and knelt before the man they knew as ‘Comrade Chairman’, and so Harry Pollitt, Margaret Bondfield, William Henry Guy and all the rest were soon flanking the statue to stand and wait for the son of their beloved ‘Comrade Chairman’. Edgar was welling up once more, the lump in his throat expanding to almost choke him as he knelt down to his daughter. In her eyes, he saw the first signs of tears forming. Were they alone at home and his wife were there, he might have joined her in her mournful.
“Come… come on, Ange.” He struggled with the words, his lips trembling as he placed a hand upon her shoulder. He drew her face in close to his and saw her dark blue eyes staring back at him, her mouth momentarily unable to produce a sound. “Come on, Ange. We’ve got to do this… for grandad.”
“For grandad,” she whispered back. I’m so sorry, he thought as she tucked her head between his neck and shoulder. I’m so sorry.
He wiped away her tears with the sleeve of his jacket and took the wreath of roses from her, his hands steadying as he stood back up.
Hand in hand, father and daughter, they strode with the resolve afforded only to the loved ones of the mourned. Letting go of Angela for just a moment, Edgar took the wreath in both hands and proceeded to lay it down. His balance was off, the wreath almost slipping from his fingers as he bent forwards.
Two small hands came up underneath his, helping to guide the wreath down to its central place affront the casket.
He looked into her eyes and, beaming up at him, his daughter repeated the words he had said once more.
“For grandad.”
Edgar remembered the same road from before the revolution and before the war. It was darker back then: dirtier and grimier and all so worn. Children with blackened faces and cigarettes hanging from their lips chased footballs up and down the street, dodging horses and carts as they drove themselves from the Essex border down to Spitalfields and then all the way up again. To call the homes of the people there “houses” would have meant raising them to a far higher standard of living. Amidst the bustle and dirt of Mile End Road, however, communities lived and worked and loved. It was a home to belong to and of which Edgar and his family were proud. My home… our home, he thought as he gripped his daughter’s hand in his.
That had all changed with the decades having passed and the levelling of the old slums to make way for the “people’s avenue”, where a clear expanse of road could connect London’s centre to its outer eastern districts. It had been his father’s monument to his home and his people: the beating heart of the East End. Now, as Edgar walked with the funeral procession down Mile End Road, he could feel that beating heart slowing to a halt. Crowds had gathered on either side of the avenue, their faces turned downwards at the sight of the procession. Crimson flags swayed gently in the wind, hanging from the unlit lampposts that lined the way westward to the City. It was as if the trees of autumn had been remade in iron and red cloth, perfected by socialist design and planted in concrete. The denizens of East London who had come to witness their great leader’s memorial stood just as silent, steeled against the dreaded grief that had overcome them in private. Little Angela was equally quiet as she marched with her father, a wreath of roses in her right hand, behind the casket of her own grandfather. The little nine-year-old girl, so doted on and beloved by her grandfather, always had a mischievous word to whisper in her grandad’s ear or a joke to tell him. His uproarious laughter would fill her heart, infecting her until she could control herself no longer and her chuckling became a mirthful fit. To where that little girl had gone, he had no clue. But, wherever it might be, it appears that the entire nation had taken leave there too. Not an encouraging cry or a cheer could be heard. But their father hasn’t died.
Edgar had certainly never known his father to go by without a smile or cheer from the crowd before; Edgar felt like he would never smile or cheer again.
He had asked for a smaller ceremony to be held in Poplar Town Hall, where words could be said about the man and the leader and where the Bible might be read to honour such a devout Christian. But, with little notice and the Council of State in disarray, it fell upon the Home Secretary and his fellow Communists to organise the event. Willie Gallacher had little experience of organising funerals and took little notice of Edgar and Minnie’s pleading to have a private ceremony, meaning all that might have been done for the closest of family members and friends was discarded in favour of a public spectacle where Edgar was suddenly at the very centre. The deathly silence of the crowd might well have proven the Home Secretary’s reasoning true: perhaps Edgar’s father was, in many ways, the grandfather of the People’s Commonwealth and, when the people mourned their leader, they mourned him as a family member. But their father hasn’t died. Gallacher, to keep the proceedings uncontroversial, expressly forbade the words of the Psalms or the Book of Romans from being uttered, especially with the international press watching the event so closely. They had cameras, welcomed by Gallacher, to record every detail for the newsreel crowds at home. Good money had exchanged dirty hands to get them so close as to be just a few hundred yards away from the casket of the late Chairman Lansbury. No priests and no prayers of any kind, Gallacher decreed, for the Commonwealth “must remain secular and free from such dogma in its public affairs”. No priests, no prayers, no sanctity, no family, no love, no respect, no tenderness, no pride, not one thing that made him who he was. He drew his left hand to his throat, feeling the constriction of his collar and fooling himself that he had done up his shirt too tight. In truth, he was welling up.
Not now. Not here.
Desperately, he cast his gaze back and away from the sight of his father’s closed casket travelling horse-drawn up the road, not once letting go of Angela’s hand. A group of flag-carriers, their polearms draped in the red-white-purple tricolour of the Commonwealth, marched in formation as if it were a military exercise. There was no marching band, but the sound of booted feet thudding along Mile End Road reminded Edgar of 1922: the heady days of the revolution, the cacophony of marching militiamen and artillery, and the great spectacle that followed his father’s rise to power. Back then, processions of celebration became an almost daily occurrence throughout London and the rest of the country. The crowds and the parades intermingled and the distinctions blurred, for every celebration was the people’s celebration and every man, woman and child on the street played their comradely part. And now they line up in mourning, penned up on the pavement, Edgar thought as the column of flags suddenly halted and split into two. Cocking his head slightly, he turned and watched as the casket was lowered affront a statue. Where the road was at its widest, parallel to the old Salvation Army mission’s gates, stood the monument centred in the road. In stainless steel, a man and woman clasped their hands together and stood – their bodies almost fifteen feet tall atop their limestone foundation – with their fists raised in socialist salute. There were few monuments to the revolution in London that were so aptly placed, making this one the most obvious choice for the end of George Lansbury’s final journey down the “people’s avenue”.
Spying the Acting Chairman of the Council of State already nearing the casket, which was laid before the steel couple almost like a sacrificial offering, Edgar surmised that Gallacher had chosen the leading lights of the government to be first to pay their respects. God, Arthur looks in rough shape, he thought as Greenwood hobbled along with his tawdry wreath and placed beside the casket. The Acting Chairman had tried so hard to avoid the spotlight of the public, given that soon a vote would take place in the Council of State to decide who should succeed Lansbury. But, plucked from his bunkered home in Westminster and forced to stand in front of the international press and British public, Arthur Greenwood appeared the weaker, lesser man. With Gallacher the prime Communist candidate and Greenwood de jure Leader of the Labour Party, there seemed to be little contest between them: the choice between the decisive Scottish Home Secretary and the confused drunkard was clear. Even now, Willie plays politics. Edgar was barely surprised. Wounded, without a doubt, but there was little beneath the man who had glided so effortlessly into the Council of State after John Maclean’s mysterious death back in the summer of 1926.
Edgar and Angela had little time to wait before they were brought forward to place their wreath. In quick succession, Councillors of State paid their respects and knelt before the man they knew as ‘Comrade Chairman’, and so Harry Pollitt, Margaret Bondfield, William Henry Guy and all the rest were soon flanking the statue to stand and wait for the son of their beloved ‘Comrade Chairman’. Edgar was welling up once more, the lump in his throat expanding to almost choke him as he knelt down to his daughter. In her eyes, he saw the first signs of tears forming. Were they alone at home and his wife were there, he might have joined her in her mournful.
“Come… come on, Ange.” He struggled with the words, his lips trembling as he placed a hand upon her shoulder. He drew her face in close to his and saw her dark blue eyes staring back at him, her mouth momentarily unable to produce a sound. “Come on, Ange. We’ve got to do this… for grandad.”
“For grandad,” she whispered back. I’m so sorry, he thought as she tucked her head between his neck and shoulder. I’m so sorry.
He wiped away her tears with the sleeve of his jacket and took the wreath of roses from her, his hands steadying as he stood back up.
Hand in hand, father and daughter, they strode with the resolve afforded only to the loved ones of the mourned. Letting go of Angela for just a moment, Edgar took the wreath in both hands and proceeded to lay it down. His balance was off, the wreath almost slipping from his fingers as he bent forwards.
Two small hands came up underneath his, helping to guide the wreath down to its central place affront the casket.
He looked into her eyes and, beaming up at him, his daughter repeated the words he had said once more.
“For grandad.”
