Pride and Deceit - Regrets Must Lie in History's Rhyme

“Hey James, it’s getting very late now. You must be up early and join me at the protest tomorrow.

“Dad, the crowds outside are already so loud I can barely hear you.”

Speaking with urgency, James’ father, exclaimed, “We expect nearly four thousand protesters to get very loud in Freedom Park tomorrow.We’ll show those greedy self-dealing industrialists they don’t control us. We worked for a real living. Our voices matter; and we will be heard. Real change is coming. Get some sleep; you’ll need it.”

The small town of Chesterfield, about 150 miles north of London, was usually quiet in the evenings, but the number of businesses that had closed, moved away, or collapsed over the past three years made life there a study in economic depression. It was beginning to feel as if some dark force was taking over.James’ father, Marcus Lundy, was on the forefront of the working-class citizens to demand Chesterfield City Council take strong measures now to restore life with a fairness as once enjoyed years before in this town dramatically reduced to a population of twenty-thousand.

James’ Father, who in his youth demonstrated for causes on London streets decades earlier, was lately newly anxious and increasingly upset at town leaders whose greedy hold on local industry and their jobs left many people out to fend for themselves.

“Aw, come on Dad,” complained James just as his father’s co-organizer, Danny, was leaving after working on last-minute details to support a big turnout. “I can’t get that excited about your sense of believing government owes you everything just because your employer is going broke.” I’ll go with you, but don’t expect me to be as worked up as you and Danny.”

“Listen son, you can already hear the mob just outside our front door running through the streets looking to cause hurt and destruction. I’d say these so-called leaders of Chesterfield need this kind of disruption right in their faces to get our message that we are in no mood to compromise on our demands. We need to rightly take back what is ours.”

James could only respond having heard this same rant too often the past several months, “Dad, Socialism in all of its previously failed attempts would not help our small town and the families who face hardship brought by the downturn of industry and jobs.”

As James dishearteningly left the room, his sister Anne suggested he join her and their younger brother to watch a Sci-Fi program on ITV3 that was depicting a dystopian future of gangs high on drug-induced rampages until the technologically-equipped police took back control. James simply replied, “I really don’t get how you like those kinds of shows. Count me out tonight; maybe another movie a bit less dark would be nice to watch tomorrow.”

As a sixth former in his local high school, James was expecting to graduate at end of the school year. A change could mean a move away from the town of Chesterfield to seek a better life, though he had yet to explain these intentions to his father. For James, life after his mother had died three years earlier made staying even harder. He needed a significant change with a challenge worth the risks. His senior-year school test results for the Ordinary, or O-levels, and some of his favorite A-Level subjects were reasonably high. If only for a lack of money, he would consider college instead of following in the steps of his tradesman father. James had equated his school successes as proof of a potential life beyond the small town which kept his immediate family in its firm grip, one shadowed by the past. His mother had encouraged him to be bold and had imbued a greater faith for his future than James himself even possessed now. In her last years, she could sense her son felt trapped by life circumstances in Chesterfield. She even mentioned his leaving town for better career prospects and a future holding real promise. Part of his dreams died with her, it seemed.

Generations of his family had accomplished nothing noteworthy in the more than 150 years in this ancestral county amid England’s industrial landscape north of London. Absent meaningful assurance of how life would work out for the better, moving away seemed the best next step. If he became an intern or apprentice at an well-established East London business, his chances and prospects would improve.

As James settled into bed, he could not help but wonder how violent tomorrow’s protest might become. He hoped no one would get hurt; but this time felt different, even seriously ominous. At best, he might only get six hours of the sleep he needed.

James pulled the pillow around his ears to muffle somewhat the sound of the TV in the next room. He slowly drifted off whether by exhaustion or worry made no difference. He really needed sleep.

James shouted through the wall to his sister and brother, “Turn the TV down, please. It’s too loud. I can’t get to sleep.” Finally, his sister obliged and a quiet embraced his tired body and exhausted mind.

It what seemed only moments after falling asleep after midnight, the abrupt noise of breaking glass and shattered door awoke a startled James. Almost immediately, James saw two dark figures enter his bedroom, put a hood over his head, and then drag him out into the street. Several thugs shoved him into a van and sped away with no warning or telling him who they were or why he mattered to them. James could only fear that he faced an uncertain fate likely worse than a daytime protest.

The car sped away at such high speed through town center only blocks from his home. James hoped the police would see and follow in pursuit. His house was not only near town center, but two blocks from local police headquarters. Alas, the thugs seemed to possess no fear of interdiction by authorities. Perhaps the late-night protesters were still out in numbers sufficient to capture police attention. If so, a fast vehicle leaving town might be seen as a relief as police gathered their reserves to face the big event to come soon after sunrise.

“Get out now,” shouted one captor when the vehicle abruptly stopped after driving at high speed for what seemed at least 15 minutes outside of Chesterfield. “Make any trouble and it will not end well for you.”

Staying quiet and compliant made James hope he had some chance to quickly come to grips with his situation. With the hood removed as he exited the van and entered a poorly lit building, he could make out a long dark hallway through which he was quickly shoved into a featureless room only filled with multiple cell-like structures.Though he had no bodily restraints placed on him, the containment was of immovable steel bars in a cage about six-feet square and up to the ceiling. The only light came from under the door and a window facing an apparent distant street lamp well outside the building.

Perhaps his father was right after all. The town authorities had seemingly lost control and the respect of most of its citizens.Otherwise, how could such bold mindless violence be brought against him with no fear in the criminals of being caught? The very idea now added to his exhaustion. If he could have joined the protest with his father, perhaps he would then see their angry case for change in a clearer perspective. The anger of loss now embraced James thoroughly. He felt powerless.

Laying on the hard cell floor, James heard no further disturbances and fell into sleep soundly until what seemed an hour or so before full sunrise.

As James awoke in the time just between the full dark and first morning light, he was immediately startled by a visitor seated before him outside his cage who gave an impression of calm but decisive authority. His face was masked and his clothes gave no indication of what he was about this night.

“You do not need to know my identity. You will not ask me questions. Rather, I will expect your responses to my questions of you.”

The interrogator pushed on. “What is your involvement in the protests planned for tomorrow in Chesterfield; and, specifically what is the role of your father to make it a violent show of force against town leadership?”

James was startled by a foreboding sense that his captors were from well outside any of the local town authorities, perhaps a UK-level national anti-terror team sent to quell or control an expected violent outbreak in Chesterfield and in the surrounding towns.

Facing his captor directly, James replied, “Sir, I have no specific role in this event whatsoever. My father, Marcus Lundy, is not planning anything physically violent. It is simply a group of local out-of-work tradesmen and their numerous sympathetic associates who feel sidelined by the economic hardships in our town. They just want their voices heard and respected. And yes; perhaps certain help from the government, too.

The man outside the cell retorted, “But we have information that a series of demands will be made to town leaders – both government and business – and that their ultimatums are expected to lead to violence. Is this your expectation? What are their demands? Are they seeking to overthrow the local government by show of force?

James added, “Sir, I have no knowledge of any specific list of demands. I only thought it was about giving voice to the collective pain so many families in Chesterfield have felt as businesses closed and jobs began to disappear the past three years. Please let me go home. I can’t help you any further.”

The man retorted, “I’ll be back. You should reconsider your lack of cooperation when I return. I have more to ask of you before I can allow you to go.”

The heaviness of his interrogator’s threats hung over James and made him despair beyond anything he had ever felt. It seems his father might have fallen in with a very bad crowd beyond this hometown situation and the seemingly organic local protest. James bowed his head praying for relief that now seemed too late to help him and his family.

Several minutes passed and the door to James’ room opened to reveal a lone woman who appeared to pose no real immediate threat.She was dressed in nice street clothes and none of the dark uniform attire that the others wore. In fact, she seemed completely out of place in this cage-filled room.

She offered, “James, I am sent to help you in your time of need. Unlike the man who was here moments ago asking you very formidable questions, I have no call to do that; but rather to simply help.”

At this moment, James felt a an almost certain peace thinking he might yet come out of this all right.

He replied, “Who are you. How can you help me?”

She gently replied, “I have known you from before you entered High School in Chesterfield. I know of your skills and your varied interests. I even am aware of your desire to leave this town for a better life.

James now became worried that a strange form of psychological manipulation was now in play to get him to talk and to offer criminal evidence against the protesters, especially on his Dad.

She continued, sensing his anxiety, “James, you have excelled in many things in school. You have friends that respect you and teachers who have great ambition to see you succeed in life.”

“I know that one of your favorite subjects in school is English literature. Who would you say is one of your favorite poets?”

James replied out of a newfound consideration, “I guess you could say John Donne is one of my favorites. His poetry is so expressive and often dealt into the depths of human emotion and desire.”

The gentle, yet nameless, woman replied, “Then perhaps you should recall one of those poems now for encouragement. Might I suggest John Donne’s Holy Sonnet XIV, “Batter my heart three-personed God?” In this piece, Donne exclaimed that the God of the Trinity, as revealed in Holy scripture must effectively “seize” you wholly as defining an authentic life. The longing of the poet frames this centrality in God’s purpose by your own desire to be held fully within His will and power. Until such a divine transaction occurs, you cannot be truly free in this life, much less in eternity. Does this sound, might I suggest, fairly ironic; or, even paradoxical to you? Certainly, you remember studying this literature selection in school?”

At this challenge, James answered, “Yes; I do recall that sonnet of Donne’s and even took note that the words used contrast God’s love as if taken over even by a violent act of His ultimate purpose. But, I would rather recall the lines by Richard Lovelace in his “To Althea from Prison” in which he expresses, Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage. To me, it seemed whatever the mind holds as love and truth must at also rule the heart as if free from any physical imprisonment, whether ordered by a king, as in Lovelace’s situation in the mid 1640s England, or by my own unlawful seizure in this cage of steel.”

Strangely, James then looked downward with feelings that combined unrealized hope with a lingering despair of his immediate situation. When he looked up, the lady was suddenly gone.She apparently departed without making a sound.

In that same moment, James thought of Lovelace’s poem. In an almost reflexive action, he pushed hard against the door of steel bars of his prison-like cell. The door easily gave way and opened! He quietly crept out of the cage. He moved toward the door of the room leading out of the building and felt a dizzying buzz in his head that grew louder, so much so, as to make him bow toward the floor.

“James, wake up! It’s nearly time we depart for the rally and protest at Freedom Park.”

The booming voice of James’ Dad, Marcus, broke through the sleepy silence within James’ bedroom after James had slept through into the sunrise of a fateful day.

He continued, “James, I called out earlier and you never responded.

“Dad, I never heard you. Sorry. I’ll be ready in about 20 minutes. Don’t leave without me.”

James felt relief as well in a newfound sympathy for his Father’s cause in organizing the day’s march into town center and their public protest so arranged to seize the attention of the Chesterfield leadership.A certain outcry for help and change in equal measure, perhaps. James could only hope something positive would come of this and that none of the extreme and violent possibilities would arise, as dreamed in the vivid nightmare he just experienced. Fear was now replaced by new expectations. James wished his Mom was still alive with them to see this moment for the sake of his father.

James and his Dad joined Danny, the co-organizer, on the sidewalk outside their home. The three began their walk toward town center to the protest rallying point and prepare the subsequent march into Freedom Park. This would indeed be a big day in Chesterfield. Perhaps an historical one for change for a better future for the citizens of this depressed town of twenty-thousand.

Danny turned to James, “Here take hold of your sign.Be sure to be out front with this message. Let everyone see it. Make sure those petty tyrants who run this town see and begin to understand how much we demand meaningful and immediate change.”

James took the sign with slight apprehension; but then silently read its message. Change is NOW. The Time is NOW. Guaranteed employment for All. SOCIALISM in Chesterfield will WORK for US!

James sighed grasping the full intent. He cares for his family and friends in Chesterfield. How can these people think Socialism built on Marxist Collectivism could ever deliver what it deceptively promises? The organizers now seek to start a new political movement and run for office.

James enjoyed his study of history as much as the English poets. How could he reconcile his doubts? The history of the 20th Century was marked by Marxist and Socialist lies, by wars and the deaths delivered in the millions. Then the quote attributed to Margaret Thatcher as Prime Minister came to mind, “The problem with socialism is that you eventually run out of other people's money.”

As James, his Father, and Danny held their signs, James could hear the distant church steeple bells ringing on the other side of town center. His mind raced to the English history during the Black Death and the plague in London. He painfully saw today as a different kind of modern struggle, one seeking to seize so-called freedoms by popular voluntary means and avoid ending up compelling the minds, hearts and property of their fellow citizens.

Then it fully hit him. James instantly recalled the poem No Man is an Island by John Donne as a meditation on death and its connection to those living. It’s final fateful line now newly alive for James in the shadow of the church steeple bells, “Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” James fell silent feeling only slightly hopeful in the moment.

James Dad asked, “Boy, what now has you looking so dour on this great day?”

James replied, “Dad, we’ve seen this story play out. People rush radically into solutions only to end up worse than the beginning. I think I can believe this time is different. Maybe Chesterfield’s story can avoid becoming a rhymed regret to history’s hard lessons. My doubts are now nearly equal to my greater hopes."