by Gavin McCrea
—Fuck Stalin! a man near Eva shouted as they passed.
Eva liked that. She laughed and clapped and joined in for a round of:
—Fuck Soviet repression! Long live Chairman Mao!
Reaching the factory entrance, the marchers banged on the metal fence and shook the chains that kept the gate bolted. From the outside, two buildings were visible: three storeys on the left, two storeys on the right. Lights were on in the taller building. Groups of workers could be seen moving about in the windows and on the roof. Some were sitting on the sills with their legs dangling over.
—Factories to the workers, the marchers shouted, raising their clenched fists.
The workers began to wave and shout in response.
Ten, twenty times the slogan reverberated around the square, and when finally it died out, a huge cheer arose, for contact had been made.
A number of workers came to the fence to talk. Using Max’s camera, Álvaro took photos of the students as they passed bottles of beer and fags and copies of Servir le peuple through the bars. Eva was happy to see him engaged in this task. She thought he looked attractive doing it and felt a bit less sorry for him.
The marchers asked the workers about what the men inside needed most, and how they could help. They wondered why the gates were locked when at the Sorbonne the doors were always kept open, to everyone. Would the workers allow a student contingent to enter? The workers refused, saying the machines had to be protected. The marchers insisted, saying that a few students, escorted by the strike committee, could not possibly damage anything. The workers, hesitant, agreed to put the idea to the occupation leaders.
Keeping an ear on these discussions, Eva turned her attention to the shorter building to the right, which was in darkness. The lamps on the factory grounds had been kicked out or smashed in order to hinder a police raid, so things were hard to make out, but what looked like two large screens had been hung on the front of the building, and a structure of some kind had been built onto the roof. Dark figures could be seen moving about here and there.
—What’s that? she said.
—A surprise, Max said.
She looked at him:
—What kind of surprise? Let me guess, something to do with Doris.
He put a finger to his lips:
—Shh. Just wait and see.
Max had lost all his hair on top. What remained on the sides he had grown long and brushed into an S-shape that went over his ears and curled upwards midway down the neck. To Eva it was as if he had aged before his time. A Peter Pan whose accumulated years had been added suddenly. Perhaps he appeared this way to her because, seeing him now — upright, dignified, standing abreast of boys half his age and shouting slogans of which he would once have profoundly disapproved as a Party member — he could not but represent the incompatibility of the old and the new generations of the left. In his interactions with the younger militants, Max went out of his way to demonstrate that not all socialists from the preceding generations were hostile to them. He, for one, claimed to be on board with the counterculture and its war against a corrupt technology which was enslaving people in a cycle of production and consumption. He had left behind that old brand of left politics which fully accepted the principle of more consumer goods for everyone, and the deadening assembly line which produced them. Unlike most of his former Party comrades, he no longer believed that the existence of elites was a fact of life. He was one of the few of the old guard who carried a book of Mao’s Sayings and publicly called for the outright victory of the Vietcong, rather than just expressing a wishy-washy desire for a peace accord.
But — it did not go unnoticed by her — his views betrayed a deeper conviction. Which was that Europe since the war was the land of the blessed. Which meant that if Europeans were unhappy, it was just that they had not yet realised their good fortune. A region without conflict, a level of comfort, a range of choices and a degree of social security beyond the reach of all but the wealthiest in previous epochs: Max quietly believed that, for as long as this situation lasted, major social upheaval would not be on Europe’s agenda. Behind the mass demonstrations, however impressive, there would not be revolution.
—Max? Why don’t you ever work with Wherehouse like you work with Doris?
—Wherehouse doesn’t need me, Max said. You’re doing fine on your own.
—So Doris needs you?
As Doris’s collaborator, Max spent most of his time scouring Europe for places — galleries, squares, trains, public toilets — for Doris to mount her performances in.
—Doris doesn’t need anyone. It just so happens that we see eye to eye, artistically, and work well together. It’s just the way it’s worked out.
—But why, whenever we’ve asked Doris to work with us, has she refused?
—I can’t tell you why. She makes her own decisions.
—I’m sure if you told her it was a good idea to collaborate with us, she’d do it.
To warm himself, Max crossed his scarf over his breastplate, and wrapped the lapels of his jacket over it. He put an arm around Cyril’s waist and tried to pull him closer. Blushing, Cyril batted him away. Max stuffed the rejected hand into his pocket.
—To be honest, Eva, you exaggerate my influence over Doris. She has her own mind. She’s the artist, I’m just her, what would you call me?
—Mentor?
—I wouldn’t go that far. I’m closer to being her helper.
—But she listens to you.
—Not in everything. She discards as much as she takes on.
—Do you think it’s a good idea? A collaboration?
Max was keeping an eye on Álvaro, who was standing with his back to the railings and taking pictures of the tumult.
—I hope your boyfriend is looking after my camera.
She poked Max in the ribs:
—You didn’t answer my question.
He put an arm around her. Kissed her on the side of the head.
—Dear Eva. You are a sweet one.
—Max!
—What Wherehouse does and what Doris does are different. Groups aren’t Doris’s bag, and to be honest they’re not really mine any more.
—That’s a pity. And a bit unfair if you ask me.
—There’s nothing unfair about it. If something doesn’t happen it’s because it isn’t meant to be. You can’t force people to be in your gang. I thought you hated Doris anyway.
Eva watched Álvaro turn his lens on the other Wherehouse members, who turned their backs so as not to be captured.
—I’m not a kid any more. The days of hating Doris are long gone.
Max showed her a sincere smile.
—I’m glad to hear you say that, Eva. Your parents’ theatre, those days, they were messy, undeniably so. It can’t have been easy for you. Doris has to take responsibility for her part in what happened. And I think she does, honestly. But remember Doris was young then too. Basically still a child like you and your sister. If you can learn to meet Doris today not just as—
—The Cockney Whore?
—Right. If you can get past that and meet her as a person in her own right, a contemporary, one of your peers, you’ll see what a fascinating person she is. And how talented.
—I’ve tried to make contact with her. Numerous times.
—Through your father? I imagine he’s banned her from going near you.
—She doesn’t return my calls. When I go to see Papa, she leaves the flat, or goes to another room.
—I’ll talk to Paul. It’s probably his fault. Left to her own devices, I doubt Doris would have any qualms about meeting with you.
The first time Eva had met Doris was in fifty-six. At Victoria Station on a Saturday morning in late July, the day she returned from boarding school for the summer vac. She was not looking forward to coming home, if indeed home was wh
at any sane person would call what she was returning to. She had received letters from her mother telling her what to expect. A factory in Somers Town. A boarding house for drunks. Her family and an ensemble of actors living together under one leaking roof. The East Wind theatre, they were calling it. She destroyed the letters and dared not tell any of her friends, not even to prove to them how crazy her family truly were — no wonder her sister had problems! — for she had already decided to hate her new home, and, as soon as she saw it, to demand that she be sent to stay with her grandparents in their new house in the suburbs: the suburbs whose bare mention made her parents apoplectic.
She got off the train and dragged her own suitcase down the steps behind her, thunk, thunk, thunk. She left the suitcase on the concrete where it landed and looked up and down the platform’s length. The crowd around her shifted, then began to move; at first as separate little cells, now as a single unit. She stayed where she was, facing the back of the train, her body open to the stream of people — the other Mountfield girls marked out from the rest by their bright-blue blazers — coming towards her; going past her. She perceived as a physical sensation their vast reserves of indifference: it was like cold water running over her skin.
She made the long journey to the turnstiles in a state of dread of the inevitable. In the station hall she could not see her family anywhere: not her parents, not her uncle Simon, not Max, no one. She walked in little circles, peering about; her suitcase scratched the ground as she went around. It did not occur to her to read the signs with names written in large print that the cabbies and the chauffeurs were holding up; these signs were not intended for her — she was a Mountfield girl but not that sort of Mountfield girl — so they were invisible to her. It was not until someone tapped her on the shoulder:
—You ain’t Eva, is you?
that she became conscious of the letters E-V-A-T-H-U-R-L-O-W drawn in thick black lines across a square of brown cardboard, and a woman, a girl really, waving it up and down, in order to draw her attention to it.
—I thought it might be you, you look just like your mum, d’you know that? I’s Doris, your dad’s assistant at the theatre.
Eva had closed her eyes and turned away a little, so as to conceal what might be showing on her face. Opening again and turning back, she realised she had noticed Doris before, as she was coming up the platform; a number of times her gaze had been drawn to her, and now that she was close up, she could see that Doris was beautiful. From afar, she had not promised to be; from over there, her lustre had been wrapped in shadows, which made Eva think how unjust it was that fair hair was preferred to dark, for it drew us to a dull thing called beauty and blinded us to the brighter thing that lay far down. Black, jet black, Doris’s was, and cut into a fringe that sat just above her eyebrows. Dark lines underscored her eyes, making them look unslept. Her nose was prominent, with the slightest of ripples. She was not wearing any ornaments but she was wearing make-up, too much of it, which was a pity because she did not need it. Perhaps she was unaware of her looks; perhaps she refused to believe in them. Eva thought she probably lacked a woman in her life to advise her.
—Your mum and dad told me to tell you they’s sorry they couldn’t come themselves. They’s in rehearsals all day today.
She was a Cockney, and one of her front teeth protruded so that her sibilants came with a lisp. This touched Eva, and aroused, also, a swelling up of indignation and hatred.
—Don’t take it personal, yeah? They just couldn’t get away.
Despite the pressure of her feelings, Eva managed a casual shrug that said, I don’t care who picks me up. I’d have been just as happy to make my own way back.
—How are we getting there? she said. A cab? I’m not getting the bus.
Doris picked up the suitcase and made a mime for how heavy it was.
—Don’t you worry, I’s driving. This way.
Doris conducted her out of the station. Eva kept herself a pace behind and examined the movement of Doris’s buttocks underneath her light summer skirt and the small muscular changes that took place on her bare calves as she walked. Over the years Eva had witnessed her father in the company of a number of different girls. In her memory were glimpses of him getting out of taxis with them, or passing through rooms, or going through doors, his hand on their elbow, his lips close to their ear. At parties and pubs, in foyers and dressing rooms, he would accidentally touch them with his feet and his hair and his sleeve and even his lap, which would generate responses in them — laughter, blushes, gentle digs, Behave! — to which he then pretended to be oblivious. From a young age she was aware, without ever being told, that these were her father’s girlfriends. Instinctively she knew her duty was to hate them. Yet hers had been an abstract kind of hate, something on which she had not been able to get a full grip, for she had never been introduced to the girls, she did not know where they came from or what they were like, they were ghosts, blurred and weightless, wafting out of her vision as quickly as they had wafted in; when they disappeared, always her hope was that they would not be coming back, and they never did. Now, though, she had a clear face to hate, and that face was beautiful, and coming from it was a voice that was simple and strong and natural, and what it seemed to be saying was, Your papa has given me a job so I’ll be sticking around for a while, whether you like it or not. She felt a rush of painful emotions that must have been what hating in the concrete was like; more complicated than could ever be anticipated, and more overpowering.
Doris took them onto Lower Belgrave Street where, parked parallel to the path, dwarfed by the cars on either side, was an orange Messerschmitt.
—Is this it? said Eva.
—It ain’t a Jag, said Doris, but it saves on the petrol.
—Nope, uh-uh.
—What’s the difference as long as it goes?
—The difference is, I’m not getting into it.
Doris lifted open the roof and gestured to her to get into the back.
Eva stuck her tongue deep into her cheek and looked up and down the road. It was as if her parents wanted to humiliate her. Sighing loudly, then making a spectacle of sucking in her belly, she climbed in. The cramped space obliged her to sit in such a way that her skirt rode up her thighs and her knees almost touched the seat in front: it was mortifying.
Doris lifted Eva’s suitcase onto her lap. Climbed into the driver’s seat.
—Ready?
With the roof closed over, Eva kept her head bent sideways even though there was no real danger of banging it. When they started moving, Doris told her to be careful how she sat: too much to one side and the car would tip. In that moment Eva thought she would like to be dead.
As an extra torture, images came to her of how thrilled her father would be to be seen being driven around in such a contraption. What was shaming for another man would be delightful for him; he would revel in the attention. She pictured him sticking his hand out the tiny window to give pedestrians an aristocratic wave: Yoo-hoo! So long, chums!
—Mama can drive, Eva said to Doris now, but Papa can’t.
—Yeah, I know, said Doris. He’ll have to learn one day.
Then after a minute of silence she said:
—It’s only recent that me own old man has started to allow me to drive this thing. With me job at The East Wind, the late hours and that, he thought it were safer for me to have it. You want it, you have it, he said. Before, though, he’d only ever take me out on the weekends, give me a few minutes at the wheel, then wash it and put it back in the garage. Men and their cars, eh?
Eva listened to this with her arms folded across the top of the suitcase and her face towards the window:
—Huh, she said. Well, Mama drove a van during the war. That’s how she knows how.
—So I believe, said Doris. She’s something, i’nt she? your mum.
—Huh, said Eva again.
Th
e Messerschmitt was like an oven. Doris put the window down to get some air inside. In the breeze, moisture that had brimmed threateningly at Eva’s hairline duly began to trickle down.
—Eva, darlin’, said Doris, is there something lying by your feet, can you see?
Keeping her right hand on the steering bar, Doris used her left to rummage blindly through her bag, then to feel around the floor.
—Me dad keeps a pair of shaded specs here somewhere. Can you see them, love? The light is bloody merciless.
Eva did not move to help her. Noting this with a sigh, Doris gave up her search and turned her attention to a matter more immediately tractable: an itch on her neck where her collar was chafing. She leaned forward, arched her back, and with a clumsy shrug liberated her shoulders of her cardigan. The blouse she was wearing underneath was sleeveless, allowing the rubber of the seat cover to scorch her skin.
—Ay, filthy fuck, she said.
—What’s wrong? said Eva, who was getting nervous.
—Nothing, she said.
Then:
—Swine, you! to the 513 to Holborn Circus which had taken advantage of her fluster to pull out in front, causing her to swerve.
A stop light at the junction of Pentonville Road and King’s Cross gave Doris a chance to collect herself. Eva watched her examine herself in the visor mirror: the discs of rouge blended high onto the cheekbones were resisting well, but the lines cleverly drawn some distance from the eyes were now blurred at the edges. Doris licked a finger and ran it beneath, labouring with rising aggression at the spots that would not rub out. Reciting quiet apologies to her father, she wiped her blackened finger on the side of the seat.
—Oof, I hate make-up, she said, don’t you? It makes me feel dirty. Does nothing for me except have me wanting a good clean. Once it’s on I can’t forget it’s on, d’you know what I mean? It’s there, on me, like a greasy cloth over my face, and all I’s doing is waiting for the time to cream it off.
But Eva’s father would have insisted. Well, you needn’t imagine you’re going to go without, Doris, he would have said. Not while you’re working for us. No, no, you must make a bit of an effort. No need to slap it on or anything, that’s not what I’m saying. Just a stroke here — he would have run a finger along her cheek — and maybe here — her temples — and here — her lips — to demonstrate that you’re conscious of yourself, that’s all, and that you’re willing to prove your worth.