by Gavin McCrea
—I thought it’d be worthwhile to bring the female minority together and have a quick encounter. To see where we is, and what we might come up with, apart from the pack.
On the quiet, Doris had called Iris, Eva and Barbara out to the yard. It was a muggy day, the sun’s heat trapped under a thick blanket of cloud. Coming from the dark and musty building, it felt like a different climate. The light was white and diffused, scorching Eva’s eyes on first contact; she had to squint and shield her face until her vision adjusted.
Doris was standing near the warehouse wall, her boot lifted onto a pallet in order to raise up her thigh, which she was using as a ledge to rest both forearms on as she leaned forward. She had taken her shirt off and draped it around her neck, as a boxer does a wet towel. Positioned as she was, her breasts drooped into the cups of her bra, offering a privileged view of her cleavage and the upper curves of her large olive-coloured nipples.
Eva made a visor for her eyes by interlinking her fingers and holding them across her forehead:
—What is this, Doris? she said. A tit-in?
Doris scratched an itch on her belly, just above the line of her belt:
—Is I offending you?
—Pff, said Eva. Can we just get right to it? We shouldn’t leave the children unsupervised for too long.
Following Doris’s lead, Iris had tied a knot in the front of her tunic in order to reveal her own stomach, which had the added excitement of a piercing in the navel.
—I’m sure the men can hold the fort for five fucking minutes, she said.
—I just wanted to have a quick convo about our progress, said Doris. I’s worried that the people in the group are working at different speeds and have different strengths.
—With respect, said Eva, that’s always how it goes in groups.
—I get it, said Doris. But I do think there’s an unevenness in this group that could turn into a problem. Most of the men—
—Oh, I see.
—ain’t even read Miss Julie yet. I suspect some of them ain’t ever going to bother.
—I bought thirteen copies, said Iris, out of the collective budget, so that everyone would have one. They have no excuse.
—Everyone here’s read the play, I take it? said Doris.
The other three kicked pebbles and scraped the ground with the soles of their shoes. Then looked at each other and nodded: yes, they were good girls, they had done the homework.
—Listen, Doris, Eva said, you won’t know this because most of your performances are solitary, but the group dynamics here are pretty normal. There’s nothing to worry about. When it comes to the crunch, everyone will do their bit. The men included.
—You’s right, said Doris, I do normally work alone, but I’s been around.
She took her foot off the pallet and straightened her torso. Took her shirt from around her neck, spun it into a tube and replaced it. She then put her hands on her hips. As she breathed, the bones of her ribcage emerged from and sank back into her flesh.
—I’s seen me fair share of group happenings. And as far as I can make out, they have one thing in common. They reflect the inner resources of the group. A chaotic group produces chaos. A bored group produces boredom.
—And this group? said Eva.
—It’s plain to me, said Doris, that the resources of this group—
—Emanate from the yoni, Iris finished for her.
—From the what? said Eva.
—You heard me, said Iris. Stop playing dumb to be difficult.
—The vision for the happening is Iris’s, said Doris. Its origin is female. And its engine—
—Is also female, said Iris. Us four here. This has happened organically. We didn’t impose it. And it works, it’s beautiful. Now we need to make sure that, as we give the happening its final shape, it retains its female quality. Its cunt-identity.
—Meaning? said Eva.
—Meaning, said Iris, that it should keep its feminine power and not be taken over by the dicks, and claimed as theirs, after we’ve done all the groundwork. The birthing.
Eva was surprised by how angry Iris sounded. She looked at her sister, tried to find her eyes. But Iris had turned her head the other way.
Doris took a folded page from her pocket and passed it to Barbara.
—Take a look at this. It’s from Iris’s scrapbook. An interview with Alissa.
Barbara unfolded the page.
While Barbara read, Doris walked from one end of the pallet to another, stepping up on it, then stepping down, knocking it with the cap of her boot.
—Reading that article, she said, I was reminded why I don’t read fashion magazines.
Once Barbara had got the gist of the article, she passed it to Eva. It was an interview promoting Miss Julie. Already in the second paragraph, in response to a question about feminist criticisms of Strindberg and his play, Alissa was delivering a rant about the women’s lib movement.
—I’d take what my mother says with a pinch of salt, said Eva, handing the page back to Doris. She’d say anything to annoy the Left and get herself some attention.
Doris folded the page and put it back into her pocket.
—I ain’t never taken your mother’s bait before, she said. But this article flicked a switch in me. By attacking other women, she’s made herself my business. I can’t ignore her any more. I’s satisfied she’s a legitimate target.
—I’d go further than that, said Iris. She’s the right target for this moment.
—I disagree with the woman in the article, said Barbara as she tucked her fringe, which had come loose, back into her military-style beret. But it has to be said, a lot of people don’t like the lib women. I’m not sure that alone makes her the right target.
—I’s surprised to hear you say that, said Doris. The lib women is basically Maoists. They want to drive buses and play football and use beer mugs and not glasses. They want men to take the pill.
—Come on, said Eva, how many men you know are ever going to take the pill?
—It’s not that I oppose the lib women, said Barbara. They just come across as immodest to me. Women should resist pressure to enter into movement activities that are focussed solely on themselves. They shouldn’t close themselves off like that. Only a general revolution, a proletarian one, will bring equality for all.
—Women ain’t going to be liberated, said Doris, if they spend all of their time fighting other people’s battles.
—Women who are angry should read Mao and join the Revolution.
—You say revolution, but there ain’t just one any more, right? There’s many parts that make up this larger thing called revolution. When the history books is written, they’ll say that the biggest part was the struggle of women against men.
Barbara shrugged, agreeing to disagree.
Doris stepped one foot forward to rest it on the pallet edge.
—Speaking of women against men, I went to your mother’s play last night.
This made Eva unexpectedly furious:
—You should have told us. We’d have come with you.
—I wanted to go alone, to see for myself. And I has to give it to her, your mother I mean, she’s still good at what she does. She’ll be the making of our happening.
—Sounds like you have something to tell us.
Doris swayed slightly, as she transferred her weight between the front foot and the back.
—Here’s what I’s thinking. The only way our interruption is going to work is if it don’t actually interrupt the play. We do our procession, one. We gain access to the theatre, two. We storm the stage, three. But, at that point, the play itself shouldn’t stop. It should continue, as if nothing has changed, even though everything has changed because we’s in it.
—That would mean convincing the actors to continue acting, said Eva. How
would we do that? Surely once the actors see us come on, they’ll run off or refuse to keep going.
—That’s the risk we run, innit? said Doris. When we take over the performance, it’ll be up to the original cast to decide if they want to join us or not. The radical ones will, the reactionaries won’t.
—Are you saying we should mount our own performance of Miss Julie? said Iris.
—Something like that, said Doris. We’ll learn the parts of the play in advance so we can continue where the original cast has left off.
—And Mama? said Eva.
—She’s the crux, i’nt she? The rest of the cast will be more or less disposable, but we’ll have to try to keep Alissa on stage. The telly cameras will be expecting to see something involving her. They won’t be interested if she ain’t there. Our aim has to be to make her perform with us.
—How though? said Eva.
—Dunno yet. Whatever we come up with, we need to remember that Alissa will always have the power to stop the performance. Short of killing her, we can’t prevent her from stopping it. At some stage she’ll decide she’s had enough, and she’ll stop. Then that’ll be it.
—So the point, said Eva, is to see how far we can push Mama, before she tips over?
Doris shrugged:
—She can tip over all she likes, as long as she stays on stage and in front of the cameras.
Later, when the children had been sent home, Eva went to see Doris in her room.
—I wanted to ask you something, she said. Not about the happening. About Papa.
Doris had been washing her face at a bowl. Now she dried her face and hands. Threw the towel into the corner.
—You don’t have to worry about him. He’s alone at home but has everything he needs. He always makes sure of that.
Eva stayed by the door because she had not been invited further in. She rubbed away a hot feeling on her neck.
—That’s not what I meant. I was going to say, did he ever—?
Doris leaned back against the wall. Bent her left knee and brought the sole of her foot to rest against the bare brick.
—What?
—Did he ever hold you back?
Doris changed foot: brought the left to the ground and the right to rest against the wall.
—What do you want from me?
—Sorry, it’s just—
—What is it?
—Álvaro asked me to marry him. And I don’t know what to tell him.
Doris sighed and put her hands in her trouser pockets.
—You could start by telling him whatever it is you’s thinking.
Eva put a hand over her right cheek and shook her head: no.
—You don’t want to marry him? If that’s the case, he has a right to know, as soon as possible.
—I don’t know if I want to marry him or not.
—Then why don’t you tell him that? Express your doubts.
—How could I?
—It’s the truth, so just tell him.
Eva shook her head again:
—I should probably just do it. I feel he’s a lonely person and would be lost without me. His family in Spain are Rightists. He thinks he can go back, but I don’t think he ever can.
—You’s wrong, Eva. People always go back. People return to what they was born into, eventually. The question is, would you go with him?
—No.
—Well, tell him that. Truth is always the best option, because it’s the radical option, because it’s true.
Eva felt like she wanted to cry.
Doris saw Eva’s distress, though she did not appear softened by it.
—Eva, look at me.
Eva lifted her face.
—You should know something, said Doris. They all try to hold us back.
—You can’t say all.
—All. In our society—
—But he’s Spanish.
—I’s talking about the West, everywhere.
—All men in the West are the same?
—In one aspect. Their education about us. Men of all different classes, everywhere, has that in common. They’s taught to respect us, yeah, but they believe that by respecting us they win the right to set the limits of what we can and can’t do, and to punish us if we cross those limits.
—Was China different?
—You’d have to ball some Chinese blokes to find that out. But I doubt it. When I look around the world, at all the different cultures, the only difference I can see between them is the openness of the violence that’s used in our punishments.
—Isn’t it a bit better here, though? In England? Papa helped you, didn’t he?
—Until he thought he’d helped enough. Then he started wanting to control me. I had to fight him to get where I is today. Still do.
—Sometimes I think his head is still in the thirties.
—Well, things was different then. If your father was asked what was wrong, he knew. If he was asked what should be done about it, he also knew. When I joined the Party after meeting your dad, that’s what I were looking for. That certainty from before. Because I didn’t really have it for meself. I felt lucky to’ve met your father because he had the conviction I thought I needed. And he still has it.
—All the bloody Christian stuff?
—I don’t need that kind of conviction any more. But it’s part of his mindset.
—Well, Álvaro isn’t Papa. He’s an atheist. And I do think he wants the best for me.
—Chances are he also wants to choose what’s best for you. Or he will, when the time comes.
Eva fought not to show her upset at hearing this.
—But what do I know? said Doris. Álvaro could be the one golden exception.
—So you regret marrying Papa?
—I don’t regret nothing I’s done. I don’t believe in regret. Everything that happens is necessary.
—Bit drastic?
—I don’t think anyone really regrets what they’s done. What do you regret?
Eva looked out the window where the white light of the day was fading.
—This is really about your work, innit? said Doris then. You’s ashamed to admit it’s your first priority.
—Maybe.
—I’s a hard time being relaxed about my work, too. Performance is a matter of life and death for me. It’s serious. I don’t have a sense of humour about it.
—I don’t think I do either.
—So then the question is, is you going to let Álvaro hold you back? Whether you marry him or not, is you going to let him? Because in the end it’s up to you.
—I never knew you were such a—. Sorry.
—You ain’t thought about these things before?
—A bit. Not much.
Outside a pair of crows was perched on the gutter, their heads jerking this way and that, never settling. Eva watched them in silence for a while. Then:
—D’you have something against my mother?
—I’d have plenty of reason to, but no, I don’t.
—She’d have plenty of reason, as well, to have something against you.
—Back then it was messy, but I don’t think she hates me.
Eva went red and looked down:
—Isn’t it weird, though? That she’s made a career out of Miss Julie. Because it’s a triangle, isn’t it? Christ. We probably shouldn’t be talking about this.
—You’re right, we shouldn’t be.
Doris crossed the room and took hold of the door by its edge:
—But you should know, Eva, that I don’t hate your mother. I don’t want to see her harmed. I don’t do extreme things any more. That phase of my career is over. And anyway, in those crazy early performances, I never harmed anyone else. It were only ever meself.
Do you, comrade Bradb
urn, want to unite yourself to comrade Thurlow so as to constitute a communist family, to serve the people of Britain in its march towards a popular insurrection and the installation of a revolutionary government?
The oath itself was a lie, given that the Party no longer really believed that Britain was about to have a revolution, and that the leadership were at that moment redefining the whole idea of revolution itself so that it no longer meant violent overthrow of the state and instead only meant a change in the way current society was run. Had it been her parent’s plan to make their lie official? Had they intended, at some stage, to get the legal certificate and the stamp? Possibly. But they never had. Much to the delight of her mother’s family. Overnight, her grandparents became enamoured of the idea of communism. Communism — the good fight! — was keeping opportunists like her father clear of the Thurlow money. Communism meant that her mother would keep her name, and that Eva and Iris would benefit from the family connections. Long live the Revolution!
For her father, the lie had been based on principle. He wanted the Thurlow money, but he did not want to want it. For her mother, principles were not the first concern. She wanted to know what marriage was like before properly committing to it. To have joined the ranks of the legally married women, just like that, would have felt like a renunciation; too fast. Caution prevented her choosing a future that might be poisoned by remorse. She wanted to see if there could be a marriage which was a beginning and not, as she feared, the end of life.
So a swearing ceremony in a community hall, covered with pictures of Lenin and hammer-and-sickle flags, and with a big banner saying THE UNITY OF THE COMMUNIST FAMILY FOR THE PEOPLE’S UNITY ON THEIR WAY TO SOCIALIST REVOLUTION was the flimsy thread that tied her parents together. Yet it had never snapped. Obsessively they pulled their own way, and obsessively they returned to each other. They intimated in each other things they could not understand in themselves alone, but nothing was ever explicitly said, so they never unravelled the power of the connection between them, until it had actually unravelled and was gone.