Sclater Street, Brick Lane, and Cheshire Street don’t quite form a crossroads. There’s half a house difference, where 182 Brick Lane forms a dog leg with Cheshire Street. But that’s what the comrades called it.
“Meet you at the Brick Lane crossroads,” Mikey said at the branch meeting. “Sunday. Early. Make sure you get there before the trots.”
Rich and Larry nodded, joined in with the Internationale, then wandered off into the Whitechapel night, hoods high against the rain, not talking. Rich didn’t like Larry. He was flaky and didn’t have the level of commitment Rich thought appropriate for a true revolutionary, so it was no surprise when he found a note pushed through his door the next morning. It said, “Can’t make it, sorry. Larry.”hoods high against the rain, not talking. Rich didn’t like Larry. He was flaky and didn’t have the level of commitment Rich thought appropriate for a true revolutionary, so it was no surprise when he found a note pushed through his door the next morning. It said, “Can’t make it, sorry. Larry.”
“Flake,” thought Rich as he washed in his porcelain sink. He brushed his long hair in the broken mirror over the mantelpiece, picked up a thin bundle of Morning Stars and hurried to his patch on the corner of Sclater Street outside Trower’s newsagents.
“Morning Rich,” said a voice. He turned to find Mikey holding out a bundle of newspapers. “No Larry? Looks like you’re on your own today. I’ve got to go to King Street for a meeting.”
His heart sank. The only good thing about selling the Morning Star on Sundays was the banter you could generate with the Trots, and Rich was too shy to do that on his own.
“Fuck my luck,” he thought as he watched Mikey stroll confidently down Brick Lane.
“You don’t look happy, Rich,” old man Trower said from the door of his shop.
“I’m not. I’m flying solo today, Mr Trower.”
“We are always on our own,” the elderly shopkeeper mused. “I learned this lesson as a young man. I was playing in a jazz band in the old Con Club. The band leader was extemporising and went into the wrong key. We all noticed, and being a well-rehearsed combo, we followed, bringing him back on track. It sounded great, but after the concert, he gathered us in the dressing room and angrily claimed we’d thrown him. Then he sacked us all except the drummer, Billy Studz.”
“That’s unfair,” Rich bristled.
“No, it was a good life lesson,” the old man answered. “When you are at a crossroads, it doesn’t matter which way you take. The road ahead is lonely, and you only have yourself to rely on. The people with power will always blame you if it is wrong for them.”
“I’m at a crossroads right now.” Rich said. “The Party always seems to abuse my good will. I’m thinking of leaving.”
“You must do what you must do.”
Rich thought about that for a moment. “You know what? You’re right. I don’t want to do this anymore. Can you take these for me?”
He handed the bundle of Morning Stars to the old man, then without a backward look, walked down Brick Lane into the bright sunshine of a new life.
