Chapter 1

Tomline Road, Ipswich. Early 20th Century. Here.

Coatsey looked up from his coffee. It was a rain spattered Monday, little different from all of those Mondays which had pervaded his life since his childhood . “Rain rain, go away, come again another day...” he re[peated softly, to no-one, as he was at this moment alone.

The scrape of a Swan Vesta, the heavy draw upon the hand rolled cigarette now in his left hand."Mien Gott", he ejaculated, looking at the old, heavy cased clock, I must put this fine novel by Zoe Heller down and return to what is truly important".

Shuffling the collection of pamphlets, old newspaper clippings, empty Rizla packets and other hard to identify ephemera which seemed to clutter his life, he spilt the dregs of a rather interesting wine bought from Aldi merely a day before. A stream of the most base, gutter German invective - only shocking if you spoke German like the boys of the butchers and and beer halls of the 'Red' Wedding - spewed forth like a churning volcano from the core of his very being.

"My keyboard! Ruined - " he said, with a hint of irony, because he saw in this seemingly random happenstance, an allegory of the struggle he was so closely involved with - and had been for thirty years- with this simple accident

"There's a tenner down the drain" he concluded, his words shaded slightly with a moment of almost dream like resignation, as he thought of his life in the seventies - Oxford, Worcester College, with the flaxen haired girl - just what was her name- she was 'the' uber- Bennite, anyhow, whose late night secluded get togethers, a few trusted comrades in a cramped flat, arguing over the syndicalist leanings of Ken Coates seemed like utopia.

They seemed so close, but-

He closed his eyes, and he saw her, first suggesting that Kinnock – the precursor to the reactionary fascism now building here in his beloved county of Southfolkshire and across a once fine, good nation – may be right about Strident, the Anarcho-Stalinist entryists. Then she stated that Paragraph 2 subsection V, line 9 of the Party constitution really is a bit old hat, and that Blair had a point. .

That was the break.

Even though it had been written by Coatsey's personal, political nemesis – the Fabian Society – to placate the proletariat in 1918, at the foundation of the Labour Party he had so loved since childhood, he saw something darker than the flaxen girl's desire to modernise the Party. She had become the willing tool – clay to be fondled, formed, moulded, shaped and generally mauled about, more like – of the new Eastern Region Labour Party agent, Dirk Sackville – North. Tall, a flashing smile of perfect teeth, at forty five, not a grey hair or laughter line – he could pass for thirty.

He was returned to reality by the harsh electronic shards of the telephone. He said “Yes?” in a flat monotone, barely any intonation except just enough to make his verbal gesture a question not just a statement. “Yes?” he repeated, as the only sound from the receiver was a muffled heavy breating.

“I'm – huff – sorry, son”, from the caller. “Dick Stotter here -wheeze- matey”, the speaker continued.

So what in god's name could Dick want, he mused silently, staring across the Dockside from the hall window his Wherstead Road home. Dickie - as he was known to the delegates - was a harmless old chap, good natured but bloody hopeless, and a bit in a time warp. His glory days had been the sixties, but his commitment couldn't be faulted, going so far as to hand deliver by foot all the agendas for the Ipswich and District Labour Assembly – he must walk miles to save fifteen quid, thought Coatsey. A lifetime for a dream – and at seventy nine, this dream, mused Coatsey, seemed as far away as ever.