So who are the Beat Kids?

So, who are the Beat Kids?


It goes back to 1959 and the Great Clampdown. The Resistance, under the leadership of Mike Jazz, were getting cocky, daring to do things they had never done before. The authorities had no choice; they had to clamp down.

Order must be maintained.

Sector 8 was once Great Britain, until the fateful Battle of Britain in 1940 and the resulting occupation. Now, two decades later there were many sudden orphans, young boys and girls, some teenagers.

They gathered together in the Chislehurst Caves united by two things. Dr Janet Fisher, disbarred for no other reason than being a female doctor, brought them together and cared for them deep below ground. She became their mother and they became her kids.

The other unifying factor was this strange new music from America. It spoke to the oppressed because it came from the slaves. Yet it was not all despair, giving sounds of hope, of rebuilding defiance, of something to live for.

They made their own rock and roll hundreds of feet below the ground. And through their music they hoped.

The authorities soon heard of the Beat Kids but, try as they might, they could not find them. Everything that came from America was degenerate, lacked discipline and order, had to be stamped out.

But to stamp something out, you first have to find it.

The Stuff of Heroes is the first in the Semblance of Order Trilogy, depicting a valiant struggle against the odds, showing the differences and, ultimately, the similarities, between chaos and order.


For more information: https://chrisoswaldbooks.com/stuff-of-heros/

Or read a sample chapter introducing the Beat Kids at:

The Stuff of Heroes: The Beat Kids

Or on Amazon at:




The Stuff of Heroes: The Beat Kids

In a deliberate echo of the Cavern made famous by the Beatles, the youngest members of the Resistance have their own cavern, a series of them and really caves, deep below the surface of southeast London.

This is the story of the Beat Kids from The Stuff of Heroes, a full chapter from the middle of the first book in the Semblance of Order Trilogy available at:

The Stuff of Heroes

Read more at: https://chrisoswaldbooks.com/2020/04/27/so-who-are-the-beat-kids/

Or on Amazon at:


The Cavern


It looked like an ordinary office block. It was just such. There was a paper importer on the ground floor. Upstairs was a conveyancing office over two floors. The top floor often changed hands. It had been a photographic studio for a while, then empty, most recently a fruit importer, but the ‘For Let’ signs were up again. It was a modern office building, built of concrete pre-fabricated slabs trucked in on the back of extra wide lorries with little buzzer cars ahead and behind, lights flashing.

The owner was a gentleman by the name of Horace Stoakes. He was a successful butcher, operating a chain and had for many years now supplied all the meat to the RUDD kitchens. Stoakes did not own a single cow, lamb or pig. He bought and sold on, made a killing more times than he could remember, hardly ever had a deal that went sour.

“I have the bovine touch” he used to laugh. “Every time I buy a cow it turns to gold!” He laughed a lot, was popular all around, especially with the authorities.

But this was not reciprocated. For Horace Stoakes had a secret and a past.

Now sixty-two years old he had been too young for the First World War, but both his brothers had died at the Somme; one on the first day blasted to pieces by a shell, the other not until December 1916 after a festering wound to his leg had laid him up since August. He had been shipped back to England to a hospice in Bexhill. There he had lingered on through his final autumn, giving up on life on Christmas Eve, the night his saviour had been born, except there was no god and, therefore, no saviour.

Horace had visited his brother frequently in those last days, staying with a distant cousin who had moved out of the East End. He had been with him when he died.

He had also been with his son almost a quarter century later when he had died. Bernie Stoakes had been full of life, doted on by his parents and grandparents. He was the only Stoakes in his generation, both Horace’s brothers having died without children.

“You’re the one to take the Stoakes name forward, my lad” Horace’s father used to say. “We’re all depending on you.”

But that had not happened for Bernie had joined the Royal Air Force in 1938, quickly becoming a pilot. The burns he incurred during the Battle of Britain were awful. It was almost a relief when this bright young thing closed his eyes a final time and died quietly in his sleep. The invasion was over. He would not have wanted to live anyway, so in many ways it was for the best.

In fact, on reflection, Horace Stoakes and his wife, Betty, had two secrets. The first was they were Catholics, the most forbidden of all religions. They practiced at the dead of night with priest holes and clandestine masses open air in the woods, deep in the Kent countryside. Betty considered their faith all-important. For Horace it was a very close second to revenge.

The other secret was that they were beat parents, despite not being parents any longer at all. And this is where the office block he had purchased in ’58 came in.

The key was the cellar, now used as a boiler room with a large caretaker’s cupboard in one corner. Open the cupboard door, carefully remove the mops, brushes and drainage rods and fumble for a minute or two with the panels at the back. Eventually the upper right panel will move three inches to the left. Place your hand in and turn the lever one half turn to the right. Without a sound the entire back of the cupboard swings out to the side leaving a pitch-black interior. Hopefully you have remembered your torch, otherwise, for safety purposes, you need to replace the panel and retrieve it. To go on without some form of light would be foolhardy for the pitch-blackness covers a steep, winding staircase that goes down 112 stone steps, deep underground. When you eventually level off you are deep under Chislehurst, deep in a little-known adjunct of the Chislehurst Caves.

Horace and Betty had done the journey many times. They could do it without light but would not recommend you try it.

This was the home base for the beat kids. And Horace and Betty Stoakes were their principal sponsors.

“Can’t stand the music myself” Horace would laugh. “But it’s the principle that counts.”

More importantly right now, it was the perfect place to hide Georgia and Edmund.

And being a Catholic beat parent put you very close to the resistance. It was inevitable that Jo would think of location C as a hiding place for her captured pair.


The funny thing about Helmut Brandt was he was not English at all, but from the homeland. His father, also Helmut, was a Senior Engineer attached to RUDD in this sector. His job was to ensure consistency of engineering production, whether aircraft or teaspoons. He was enormously important and knew it.

But his son was different. He was a beat kid.

Helmut, being from the homeland, was assigned to look after Georgia and Edmund. He immediately demanded that they be untied and allowed some freedom of movement.

“But we don’t want them to escape” Jake had argued.

“If we untie you and allow you some freedom of movement do you undertake not to try and escape?” Helmut had asked.

“No” said Georgia.

“No” said Edmund, following his sister’s lead.

They reached a compromise. Hands tied when outside the one room they used for sleep, but so long as hands were secured they could roam through the immediate tunnels and caverns provided they were accompanied also.

“Why do you speak English?” Georgia demanded of Helmut as he led the two of them into their room.

“Because it is a superior language.”

“What?” both Nullgebens were incredulous.

“Well, what I mean is that it is more poetic, more expressive. It’s like…more artistic.”

“Stuff and nonsense” said Edmund.

But Georgia was more interested in practical matters. She asked who he was and where they were.

“I can’t tell you where we are but my name is Helmut Somebody. I am a beat kid.” Said with pride, immense pride.

Georgia had heard something of the beat kids, Edmund nothing. What Georgia had heard was not flattering. They were indulgent layabouts, wanted to wear American clothes and listen to dreadful music. Helmut was actually wearing a pair of blue jeans, carefully torn on one knee. Georgia had never seen blue jeans before. He had a rounded neck shirt on top with no collar and short sleeves, a little like a vest. It was multi-coloured with no obvious pattern, more like a toddler’s proud painting.

“It’s a ‘T-shirt’” he explained. “They’re all the rage in America. See the shape of a ‘T’!” Helmut traced the shape of a ‘T’ across his chest.

Georgia thought his shirt awful, both colours and style.

But her eyes kept coming back to the blue jeans.

At that moment someone in a room nearby put a record on a turntable and strange sounds filled the room. There seemed some structure to the music, but the melody was coarse and the backing simplistic, loud and repetitive.

“That’s Bill Haley’s ‘Rock around the Clock’” said Helmut.

“More like ‘Rock around the Bog’” replied Edmund.

“But I prefer the later music. Have you heard of Jefferson Airplane?”

Of course, they had not.

“Most of it is American, but there are some English too, a few brave souls.”

“Can you turn the volume down?” Georgia asked. To her ears the bass was a relentless thump, reverberating deep down into her ears, hurting her brain, preventing clear thought. Helmut walked to the door and made a request. The volume halved with a new song.

“The Doors” he said. He knew them all. “But wait until you hear the live music. Tomorrow, Friday night, there will be plenty.”

“Heaven save us” Edmund replied. “Only there is no heaven.”

But Georgia liked this song much better. It had a way of winding around her mind, opening doors to rooms never visited before.


They had no choice but to settle in. The rules were enforced. If they wanted to leave their room they had their hands tied. Edmund refused to leave, other than to use the bathroom which he did as seldom as he could manage. But Georgia was far more restless, hated being cooped up underground in one small room, no more than twenty feet square. She accepted Helmut’s offer of a guided tour when he came in after school on Friday. It seemed strange to see him still in his school uniform, so familiar to them, but he quickly changed into his jeans.

There was a whole world underground. Helmut led Georgia through the dance floor and into the bar, then through to the kitchens. He showed her several sitting rooms opening off the main cave, all lit with subdued lamps, casting shadows on the cave walls. There was a band setting up on the long low stage that stretched from the bar all the way along the length of the dance floor. They had large amounts of amplifiers, drums and guitars. Wires were trotted out all over the place.

“Quite a hazard” Helmut commented. “Last month someone tripped and broke their arm when they fell.”

“Gosh, what happened to him?”

“It was a girl” Helmut replied. Then, rather than explain, he took her along a dark stone passageway with doors built into openings on either side. “Dorms” He said as they passed.

“You mean people sleep down here?”

“Of course, some all the time because they are orphans and some stay over on Fridays and Saturdays when the music goes on long after curfew.”

“But you don’t have to worry about the curfew, you’re not an English. Do you not go home after the music stops?”

“No, I stay.” The way he said it made Georgia realise that here was a fellow citizen of hers, albeit nowhere near an aristocrat, but one that wanted above all else to be an English. It was an incredible thought.

“The English smell” she said. “How can you sleep in the same dorm with them?” Then wished she had not said what she had said.

“Don’t be foolish” he replied. “Everybody smells of something or other. Now, here is the sickbay. This is where we bring anybody who is hurt. This is where the girl with the broken arm came. I helped her get here. And this is our matron. Actually, she is a doctor, well sort of.”

He made the introductions. Janet Fisher had been a doctor many years ago, but was struck off in 1943 when the Zentrale Medizinische Autoritat realised that J. Fisher MD was a female.

“I got my degree from Southampton University under the auspices of the old GMC. That was good enough for me.”

“What do you do here, Fisher?”

“I look after the kids.”

“The beat kids?”

“Yes, the beat kids. Some of them live down here. I am doctor, teacher and mother combined to forty-eight of them.”

To the obvious question of where their parents were and why were they not looking after their children, Janet just sighed crossly and moved away from all possible conversation, pretending to attend to a vague medical situation at the other end of the sick bay.

“What did I say?” Georgia asked Helmut when they were back in the passageway.

“Have you never heard of the Clampdown?”

“Yes, but that was for adults who broke the law. I studied it last year in ‘Empire and Politics’. There were no children involved.”

He stopped his rapid walk quite suddenly, turned to face her in the dark, stone-chiseled passage. He was much taller than her, looked down. “Did you never think that some of those adults who ‘broke the law’ may have had children?”

“Goodness, no. You mean these children…?”



The first band started a little after 8pm. Helmut took Georgia, wrists tied securely, into the dance area. Edmund refused to leave their room, complained of the noise as soon as the band started and was ignored, kicking his boots against the rock floor, shouting insults against the tide of music sweeping through. Georgia took a half position, going into the main cave but refusing absolutely to change from her camp uniform into jeans.

“There’s no way I’ll dress like an American” she said, wondering what it felt like to wear them.

The music hit her immediately. It was like diving into a very warm pool. The rumbling, bubbling base seemed to get into her bones, seemed to be of her very self. The dark-haired singer had collar length greasy hair and a sneer as he sang. The words were too slurred for her to make out all the English but she understood it to be about his baby, his girl and dancing all night long.

Then the guitar started, gently at first echoing the singer in a haunting way. Georgia closed her eyes and saw slaves in America bussing out to the cotton fields. She had seen a film at school when she was younger.

“Are these slave songs?” she asked Helmut.

“Yes, originally but now they are everybody’s” he replied, foot tapping and body swaying.

“I like the rhythm, it sort of…”

“Yes, go on.”

“Well, it sort of talks to you.”

“Yeah, right on” said Helmet, eyes closed and body moving. Everyone around Georgia was dancing, but she did not know how to do it. She had had no lessons. The steps were confusing. They almost looked improvised.

“Improvisation has no place in music. Precision is what counts.” Her mother’s clear voice rang out in her mind, above the thump of the bass. But even if she made up the steps she could not move her arms with her hands secured in front of her. Instead her toes wriggled inside her camp boots, could not keep still.

“Can I go back now?” she asked quietly, then louder, but Helmet was nowhere to be seen.

Much later she saw him on a sofa in the corner. He was with a girl, an English. The girl had long straight brown hair but was not as pretty as Georgia. They were kissing, long slow kisses, not like the ferocious, urgent ones she had shared with Mark. These ones, to an observer, seemed to tease the senses, inviting the partner in and then shutting them out. Georgia raised both hands to her face and wiped the tears away.

Much later still he came to find her. She half lied when he asked her whether she was having a good time.


She loved the music. It spoke to something deep inside her. She loved the casualness of everyone, never thought she would. But she was totally alone, lost and friendless, acutely conscious of the differences between her and the beat kids.

Moreover, if she gave in to these new pleasures, what would remain of her and what she was?


Three weeks later, gone through her spare camp outfits, Georgia tried on her first pair of blue jeans. She and Elisa and Sarah were alone together in a small sitting room.

“Go on!” They had been urging her for over an hour.

“I don’t know. It’s so disrespectful, I mean for someone of my status.”

“Just try ‘em, Georgie.” It was still a shock to be called by her first name, let alone a derivative of it. “No one need know. If you don’t like ‘em you can pull ‘em straight off.” Sarah was all cockney, Elisa the genteel daughter of a wealthy landowner, both had lived underground since the Clampdown. Both were beat kids and orphans. Not that they did not see the light of day. They sneaked up in twos and threes to visit parts of London; the museums, the art galleries, the window-shopping. Then there was the Grove, where a long passage from the caves suddenly broke the surface and they were in a glorious secret valley no more than twenty acres in size. It belonged to a farmer, a sympathiser, who left it strictly alone, farmed instead his other acres and sold his beef to Stoakes and Co., getting the best prices.

Georgia allowed her new friends to take off her skirt and pull up the tight blue jeans.

“You’ve got the legs for ‘em” Sarah said, a tinge of envy circling her voice.

‘Too true” said Elisa. “I’d give my right arm for legs like that!”


The jeans were wonderful.

She never wanted to wear anything else. In an instant she had become a beat kid. Elisa slipped a disc on the record player and Georgia felt the rumble of the bass, the rhythm in her bones, in her soul. She was on her feet now, could not remain sitting with that beat going, feet shuffling, body bending, arms…but she could not move her arms, being tied at the wrists.

Georgia stopped suddenly, stood motionless despite the music urging her on, felt foolish being so still when all around was movement.

“It’s too much you being trussed up like a chicken” said Sarah. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.” Sarah nipped out to the sickbay and returned with a pair of scissors, just as the disc finished.

“You shouldn’t do this” Georgia said into the silence, instinct for order winning through.

“Live dangerously!” Elisa cried, holding both Georgia’s hands up high.

“Don’t fret, Georgie, I’ll square it with the ‘guvnor’! Now let’s dance.” She put a new record on, by an underground British band called the Warm Bodies.

And Georgia danced to the music as if the pent-up emotion of her entire life was let loose at once.

She also secreted the scissors, large surgical ones, by breaking two buttons on her shirt and slipping them inside.


Her plan was quite simple. Nobody had really noticed Edmund since their arrival. Some had called him the “Great Sulk” since he scowled at anybody who spoke to him, but the novelty had worn off.

They had forgotten about him. Other than three times a day to go to the bathroom, they left him alone in their room.

The bathroom was close to the steps. The steps led to the cellar of the office. The office led directly to the real world. And to rescue.

She gave the scissors to Edmund and told him her plan.

He executed it perfectly, escaping on Friday evening, when everyone was getting ready for the live music. He had several hours of darkness to get from Chislehurst to RUDD HQ at Westminster.

Why Write?

Why write when the world is in lockdown? Who will want to read while NHS workers and many others are putting in long hours to save our nation? What place do the frivolities of reading and writing have to play in such huge times of national uncertainty? Surely, all non-serious occupations should be laid down, like children putting down their toys as adulthood approaches?

A lot of questions that can be summarised as ‘why write when life is on hold?’

That’s what I thought at first, throughout week 1 and well into week 2. I stopped writing, started listening intently to every news broadcast, debated with those around me as to duration, impact, methods to counter.

And so it went on.

But just a minute, I was asking the wrong question, I realised as week 2 came to a close.


Why not write?


This is how the new logic goes: Reading creates tension in the reader as the story evolves, as plots and problems move towards their climaxes. Yet it also eases the tension of everyday life.

It’s not just escapism, it’s something extra. It is reassuring to pick up a book and lose oneself in a damn good read. But it also reminds us of other times, other places, other things. Consequently, it follows that there will be an end to whatever troubles currently encompass us. Reading involves hope.

And without writers, we would be out of books.


In weeks 3 and 4, I’ve listened to one or two news broadcasts a day. I’ve still talked about coronavirus amongst my family but mainly in wonder at so many people doing so much for us all.

And I am back to writing and doing it with joy, tinged with the sorrow of what we are going through but still with joy.

Social Media Shock


It really threw me, the unpleasantness of it all.

And the hatred. In fact, more than the hatred in itself, it was the rapidity with which that hatred came out that shocked me.

I replied to someone on Twitter – we’re not following each other, nor would I knowing what I know now. I replied to a tweet that seemed unbalanced. I tried and failed to provide a little balance. It comes down to a question I am very interested in:

Whether good people are all good and bad people are all bad. This theme features in my books a lot.

I believe that, with a few obvious exceptions, it is a spectrum. Good people do bad things and bad people do good things. I tried to explain that, in my opinion, history, like life, is not simple, that motivations can be huge and varied. People do good and bad for bad and good reasons respectively.

Almost everyone, I believe, has redeeming features.

Not so according to this fellow and his group of supporters. They lashed out, leaving me stunned. They seemed to be saying  “how dare you suggest so-and-so has anything to possibly redeem him/herself. You must be a…”.and the insults started flowing.

And the clever tricks too. I replied to the main person as a reply, not re-tweeting it, thinking this a more private way to do it. He replied to me and then re-tweeted his reply. Thus my side of any argument was hard to find but his was spread across the screens of all his followers.

I would never give names. I’ve used “his” for convenience; it could easily be a “her”. In fact, we never  know the people we converse with on social media, unless they are real-life friends or acquaintances. I think it unlikely that this person will ever read this article. But if they do, I hope they will reflect and ultimately agree that almost everyone has redeeming aspects somewhere about them. Perhaps the nature of true evil is a lack of any redeeming features. Parchman, the main baddie in my Dorset Chronicles series of historical fiction set in the late 17th Century, might be such a character. But so often in my writing, the bad people find an opportunity to reform – or have it thrust upon them by either kind-heartedness or circumstance.

And I would not put it past Parchman to be capable of some reform – indeed am tempted by the prospect, however slight a hope it is.

I suppose it is the parable of the Prodigal Son/ Daughter all over again.

Because, everyone is someone’s son or daughter. At least since Adam and Eve.

See more about The Dorset Chronicles at https://chrisoswaldbooks.com/books/

Book 4, One Shot in the Storm, coming out very soon, takes the relationship between good and bad to a new level, with redemption firmly in there somewhere.




Lessons Learned (About The World Around Us)

Do you remember the ‘I told you so person’ of your youth? Glasses worn half-way down the nose to increase the angle of condescension, exhibiting a remarkable ability to predict future mis-happenings after the fact. Other favourite sayings would be, “Did I not predict this, young man?” with each word a bullet to my hopes, or even, “If you think that, you’ve another thought coming.” They were always right, whether discussing the world at large or any particular corner of it.

My response to this? Do it again and do it in spades. Like many young boys, I refused to learn from my mistakes, preferring to suffer each time around. I knew better than anyone around me and wore my arrogance with pride.

Recently, this has been brought into stark perspective through two directly contrasting activities during lockdown. I, like many millions around me, have turned to gardening, specifically vegetables, I suspect in some primeval yearning to return to our ‘roots’. With gardening, I have little control; nature and the weather are my masters. I can tinker, providing protection against an early morning frost, but it is operating at the fringes of the big, broad sweep in which we, as humans, are just scattered seeds in the wind. Of course, I rebel. I plant out early. I sow in April when the instructions say to wait for May. I plant too close to cram my crops into the space available, believing against reason that this will produce a bumper crop.

So where is the contrast? Well, my other activity is writing and here I am in total control. When writing fiction, nature becomes my servant. I can call up a storm with a few pen strokes, threaten it upon my hapless characters and then withdraw it when I choose. A fiction author controls their world totally; nothing happens unless I approve it. Yet it is not restrictive but wonderfully liberating.

Two worlds in contrast. In one, I am a pawn, a foot soldier. In the other, I am a King or a general, directing the vast hordes that make up my army. Why operate without control in one world and with total control in the other? What is the relationship between controlling and being controlled? Someone once said to me, “rebel by silently submitting”. I can’t pretend to understand it but am working on it.

As I work through the first draft of The Agent Within, book 2 of the Semblance of Order Trilogy, I realise that this is part of what the trilogy is about. But there is another ‘standing the ideas on their head’ moment to come, for in the Semblance of Order Trilogy, the whole point is the pointlessness of control for control’s sake. Hence the title of the trilogy, The Semblance of Order. During the course of these three semi-dystopian, semi-alternative history novels, order and control and the accepted way of doing things are turned on their heads, in fact are turned inside out so that order becomes a form of submission and submission becomes liberty.

Add in a healthy amount of action and suspense, some humour and romance and I think you have a cracking good read – I just wish I could order you to do so!

The Stuff of Heroes, Book 1 of the Semblance of Order Trilogy, was released in 2019. The 2nd book, The Agent Within, is due out in September this year. For more information on The Stuff of Heroes, go to:

The Stuff of Heroes

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