Truth Sister

by Phil Gilvin

  ‘And we’re only going as far as Suthick,’ put in James. ‘Her mother’s there.’

  ‘Better get on then,’ said the sergeant, wincing.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ said Clara. ‘Your neck’s all bruised. Oh! And you’ve lost some teeth. Do you need a doctor?’

  The sergeant wiped blood from her lips. ‘Look, Miss, can you just get along now?’

  ‘I … I want to thank you,’ stammered Clara.

  The sergeant winced again, then held out a hand. ‘Miss Perdue,’ she lisped, ‘you’ve been very brave. Sergeant Tori F. Shavila at your service. I hope we meet again.’

  It was a dismissal. They shook hands, while James climbed onto the box and coaxed the still-quivering Alf forward.

  ‘And see you get in before curfew,’ Sergeant Shavila called.

  There was no breeze as they crossed the bridge, and a mouldy stench rose from the river beneath. Clara threw off her cloak and pressed a hand to her heart. Her ears were still ringing. ‘I’ve never been so scared,’ she said to James. The images loomed fresh in her mind: the bloody stump of an arm, the yelling woman with the club, Shavila’s bruised and bloodied neck.

  They’d covered about two-thirds of the bridge when James reined Alf in and steered the cart aside. Then, without a word, he climbed down and leant upon the parapet, peering down at the dark river.

  ‘James!’ called Clara. ‘Why have you stopped? Didn’t you hear the sergeant? We have to get to the inn before curfew.’

  There was no answer. Clara jumped down, stepped over the gouged holes where old iron railings had once stood, and went up to him. ‘James, I need to get to Mother. She’ll be waiting.’ She glanced back along the bridge. ‘And what if there’s more trouble?’ Then she noticed that James’ shoulders were shaking. His hands covered his face, but little gasps escaped. He was crying.

  Clara didn’t know what to do, so she leant on the parapet next to him. Down river, they could just make out the dark shapes of Old Tower Bridge. The bridge itself was long gone, its spans taken to reclaim the ancient ironwork, but the stone towers remained, silent sentries guarding the old city. Below, the waters gurgled and splashed as the river fought against the high tide.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled James. He tried to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, and Clara remembered she still had his handkerchief. She handed it back to him, and he made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a choke.

  She thought she’d better make some conversation. ‘I was so scared. Sergeant Shavila was very strong, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Mm,’ said James, blowing his nose.

  ‘Tori F. Shavila. I wonder what the “F” stands for. Did you see she had an “F” tattooed on her wrist? I noticed it when we shook hands. The servants at the Academy, they’ve got “D”s on their wrists.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ said James, giving a final sniff and shoving the handkerchief deep into a pocket.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Clara.

  ‘Yes, Miss. I’m okay. It’s upsetting, watching innocent people die. They never stood a chance.’

  Clara’s first thought was that the rioters had been breaking the law, and had deserved what they’d got; but when she remembered the gunfire, the blood and the death, she wasn’t so sure. James climbed wearily back onto the cart, and Clara clambered up beside him and held on as they started off once more. The lamps cast swaying shadows on the road. ‘Do you think those people really were starving?’ she asked.

  ‘Well,’ said James, sniffing, ‘I reckon so. You’d have to be pretty desperate to tangle with Repsegs. Them having guns, and all.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Clara. ‘Is it like this everywhere?’

  ‘It’s even worse out of town. At least here in London, the Republic makes sure there’s food. Even if not everyone can get it.’

  Clara thought of Amy again. Naturals, sub-socials. Would Amy be rioting one day? Like the woman with the club, the woman without her hand, the people dead in the doorway? Woman, child, man. Bricks flying, scattering over the floor. The stone that landed in the cart.

  ‘James?’

  ‘Yes, Clara? Sorry, I mean, Miss Clara?’

  ‘I have to thank you. I could have been hit by one of those bricks. I don’t think I could have survived like Sergeant Shavila. You saved me, too, James.’

  He didn’t answer, but Clara thought he’d got his handkerchief out again.

  ‘And I didn’t mind you lifting me off the cart,’ she said. ‘You’re allowed to touch me, you see, if it’s to keep me safe. You know,’ Clara went on, ‘I feel quite safe with you. It’s like I can trust you, more than I can trust some women. More than some of my friends,’ she added, thinking of Bella. ‘Do you think that’s wrong? I mean, I’ve done so many bad things–’

  ‘I sure you haven’t, Miss.’

  ‘What do you think, James? Is it all right for a Truth Sister to trust a man?’

  ‘Well, it’s like before, Miss. I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. But – well, thank you, James.’

  As they reached the south side of the bridge, Clara glanced to her right. Some distance upstream, there was a cluster of bright yellow dots, reflecting in the turbid waters. ‘Look at those lights,’ she said. ‘What a lot there are!’

  ‘Looks like someone’s generating electricity,’ said James. ‘Probably a government building. They don’t hand out many permits these days.’

  At the river’s edge they passed the half-demolished skeleton of a building; exposed girders and reinforcing rods stood out against the darker sky. Dust swirled about the conical heaps of smashed concrete and shattered glass.

  ‘I’m so looking forward to seeing Mother,’ said Clara at last. ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’s well, Miss. She works hard, so she’s often tired. But life’s hard. Or maybe it won’t be hard for a Truth Sister. I suppose you’ll have everything done for you, now you’ve got your diploma.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Clara. ‘They’ve told us about our responsibilities, and how there’s lots to be done. Though I’m not sure what, exactly. It’s only Prime Sisters that have personal servants. Although, I suppose we did have servants at the Academy.’

  ‘And there’s men, of course,’ said James. ‘We’re all servants nowadays.’

  His tone was cheerful, but Clara thought she caught an undercurrent of bitterness. Didn’t James know how lucky he was?

  ‘How’s Aunt Grana? Is she here too?’ she asked.

  Spots of rain began to fall. James pulled a hood from somewhere under his collar and threw it over his head. ‘’Fraid not,’ he said. ‘Someone had to stay at home and look after things. Besides, it’s a long way to come, with the roads not safe. Couldn’t make your mother stay behind, though.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see Aunt soon. It must be nice, having her around the farm now.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s useful, right enough. Another pair of hands is always good.’

  ‘Her letter said she gave her old house to the Sorority. What for?’

  ‘Oh, good enough reasons. They’re turning it into a hostel or something. And it’s cheaper for her, living with your Mother.’

  ‘And, is she well?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said James. ‘She’s fine. A lot more severe than she used to be, though.’

  It rained harder, and Clara put her own cloak back on. ‘Severe?’

  ‘Spends most of her spare time at Sorority meetings. You’d think it’d make her happier, doing something different. But I never seem to know what she’s thinking these days. She’s not the Grana I used to know … Oh! Sorry, Miss Clara – I shouldn’t be speaking about your Aunt like this.’

  They left the bridge behind and reached the Provis food depot that had, in the old days, been a big church. Thick walls and high windows made these places defensible, so nowadays this was where food stocks were kept. Women and their families came here to exchange their coupons for rations. A
huge poster displayed images of plentiful fruit, vegetables and meat above a slogan that read The Republic Provides. The three Repsegs guarding the depot glanced up, watching as they passed. Further on, a couple of young women hurried along the street, laughing at some shared secret. Clara felt the rain on her face as they turned into the south wind.

  ‘Not far now, Alf,’ said James, flicking the reins. ‘Come on, lad.’

  They travelled on, between shadowy yellow-brick buildings and fenced-off ruins, until after a few hundred yards they turned left, down an alley. Flaring paraffin torches guided them into a courtyard, and as James eased Alf to a stop, Clara felt a great weariness sweep over her. The rising wind capered through the yard, swirling pungent smoke over the cobbles while dark figures flitted in and out of the wavering patches of light. Three other horses were already stabled in a ramshackle shed, and a skinny lad was sweeping the dung and straw into a foul-smelling heap. Over the doorway hung a faded board, dripping in the rain. It bore the words The Georgina; Clara couldn’t make the picture out.

  A tall woman with a worn woollen coat dangling from her shoulders loomed out of the darkness. ‘You stayin’ the night, boy?’ she grunted at James.

  ‘That’s right,’ he replied. ‘Party by the name of Perdue. Young lady’s here to join her mother.’

  Clara jumped as a couple of women who’d been lounging in a corner guffawed at some joke. One of them staggered in a small circle before slumping and sliding down the wall, still clutching a bottle of ale. Clara could have sworn that she was leering at her. Jumping down from the cart, she huddled close behind James as he passed a coin to the tall woman and handed her the reins.

  ‘Come on, Miss Clara,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you inside.’

  A feeble amber light spilt out of the doorway. They dodged around a group of women standing right in the way; Clara couldn’t make out their faces, but she heard them muttering about trouble on the north bank. ‘Won’t be the last,’ she heard one say. And when they noticed Clara, did they fall quiet? She couldn’t be sure.

  She followed James through the inner doors. Despite the light from a couple of tallow candles guttering in their brackets, it was nearly as dark indoors as out. By the light of one of them, Clara could read several yellowed notices: one denouncing a magistrate for secretly practising religion, another giving details of the next public executions, and a third offering a hundred boudicks reward for reporting unlicensed Naturals. Someone had slashed it with a knife.

  As they went down the passage a wave of smells met them: the steam of long-boiled vegetables, the bitter smoke of tobacco and cheap coal, the vapour of a hundred unwashed people.

  ‘Sounds like the bar’s full tonight,’ said James.

  ‘Where’s Mother?’ asked Clara.

  ‘Just upstairs. We’ll have to go through there,’ he added, nodding in the direction of the noise. ‘All right?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Clara.

  ‘The south side inns are a bit rough,’ said James, ‘but this one’s better than most. Lots of travellers use it, see, so they’re careful. They don’t want to lose their custom.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Hey, don’t worry. They won’t mind a girl of your age. We’ll just slip through the back, and soon we’ll see Soph-, er, your mother.’

  Worse and worse, thought Clara – now he wants to call Mother by her first name!

  She followed as James pushed his way into the bar. Shouts, jeers, laughter; the clink of glasses, the stamp of feet – all rose and fell, echoing off the low ceiling. Tobacco smoke coiled through the thick air, stinging Clara’s eyes. A throng of women with – Clara saw to her disapproval – a smattering of men, were seated around the scattered wooden tables. Dark bottles and greying glasses stood on each, amongst bowls of stew and crusts of pale bread. She stuck close behind James as he edged around the room, behind tables and between benches. As they squeezed behind one fat old woman, she dropped the spoon into her soup and grabbed James’ arm. ‘I haven’t had a man since Nile Flu, darling’ she jabbered. ‘C’mere.’

  James grinned and pulled away. ‘You couldn’t afford my prices, love,’ he said, and beckoned Clara onward. In a moment they were passing through another grease-streaked door, and up some stairs.

  ‘What did she mean?’ said Clara.

  The stairs boomed dully beneath their feet. ‘Nile Flu,’ said James. ‘Killed off ten times as many men as women. Happened about sixty years ago.’

  ‘Well, I know about Nile Flu. But I mean, that woman was never that old! And what did she want anyway?’

  ‘It was a sort of joke, Miss Clara. Look – here we are!’ James knocked on one of a row of doors in a short corridor.

  Clara’s heart leapt.

  The handle rattled a few times before the door swung open and Clara was half-hugged, half-dragged into the room.

  ‘Clara,’ cried Sophia. ‘It’s so good to see you! Look how you’ve grown.’ Smiling broadly, she stood back and took both of Clara’s hands. ‘You’re such a woman now,’ she said, giving her another hug.

  ‘Mother,’ Clara said. ‘It’s all right. I’m fine.’ She tried to disentangle herself; nobody had touched her so much since – well, since last time she’d seen her mother. ‘Please, Mother,’ she said, pushing her away.

  Sophia, a little taller than Clara but with the same slim build and mousy hair, stood back. ‘What’s the matter?’ she said.

  James was standing in the doorway. ‘We got caught in a riot,’ he said. ‘At London Bridge.’

  Sophia put a hand to her mouth. ‘You’re not hurt?’

  ‘Clara’s fine,’ he said. ‘Just a bit shaken, I think. They came from Whitechapel way. Hundred or more. Repsegs shot ’em all.’

  ‘Shot them?’

  ‘And we more or less had to watch.’

  ‘Oh, my love,’ said Sophia, stretching out her arms to Clara again.

  James held up a hand. ‘I think she just needs a bit of quiet.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophia. ‘Right, yes.’ Turning to Clara she said, ‘Look, I’ve a nice fire going. We’ll soon dry you out. Sit down and take that wet cloak off. Are you hungry? I’ve given the coupons to the landlady, so our food will be here soon.’

  James cleared his throat. ‘Better get down to servants’ kitchen,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll check Alf. I don’t think he got hurt, but he was pretty frightened. I’ll see he gets a good feed. See you in the morning.’

  ‘Don’t you want to join us?’ said Sophia.

  ‘No,’ said James, stretching his back, ‘it’s all right. We weren’t in the thick of it. Very kind of you Ma’am – good of you to think of me.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Sophia, ‘yes. See you in the morning, then.’

  Clara, slumped on the worn sofa, had heard little of the conversation. She stared into the fire, feeling the heat on her face. Sophia came and sat quietly next to her; Clara heard her breathing. This is my mother, she thought. I’m a Clone, our genes are identical. We look the same, but why does she behave so differently? Out loud she said: ‘It’s hot in here.’

  Sophia frowned. ‘I heard the rain. I thought you’d like a fire. We can open another window if you like …’

  ‘You – you hugged me a lot.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Clara rubbed her arm. ‘I suppose it’s all right. After all, you are my mother.’

  ‘I should hope so. If a mother can’t hug her child–’

  ‘I have to behave respectably, now I’m going to be a Truth Sister. We’ve been taught not to–’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ cried Sophia, leaping up. ‘How did you get on? Did you get your diploma?’

  Clara’s mind was still full of rioters, and of Amy, but she couldn’t help smiling briefly. ‘Yes I did, and I got a first. I did a good essay on the Indo-Chinese Wars–’

  ‘Well I’m going to hug you again, like it or not.’ Sophia hauled Clara up and twirled her around. ‘Well done, well done! I’m so proud of you, my dear.’

  ‘Calm down,
Mother,’ said Clara, staggering back. ‘But I am pleased. Very pleased. I can get a well-paid job. You won’t have to worry about money anymore – I can help.’

  Sophia laughed. ‘Oh, how lovely, how kind of you. But we do very well, you know, James and Grana and I. We have enough food, and we make some money from the clothes I mend. But let’s not talk of jobs – you’ve got a nice holiday now.’

  ‘But I can send you money, Mother – you’ll be able to make ends meet.’

  ‘Make ends meet?’ said Sophia, laughing. ‘Clara, please don’t worry. You’ll have expenses of your own. We’re fine at the farm, we really are.’

  The food arrived, and Sophia helped the sullen waiter lay the table. Clara watched, puzzled. I thought I was going to help them, she said to herself, but she doesn’t seem to care.

  ‘Here we are then,’ said Sophia, as they sat down to a bowl of thin stew consisting of bits of unidentifiable meat and occasional cubes of what looked like carrot. It wasn’t quite Academy food, but it did the job and Clara began to take more notice of her surroundings. The walls were a nondescript, age-stained brown, and the ceiling was darkened with smoke. Shreds of something once-festive hung in a corner. Behind her, the door to the bedroom stood ajar.

  ‘Do they have electric light here?’ asked Clara, looking up at an empty socket.

  ‘I don’t expect so,’ said Sophia. ‘That’s just a leftover from the old days. Isn’t this delicious?’

  They ate in silence for a few moments. Clara watched her mother, trying to decide what she was thinking. She’d never really wondered before; Sophia had always been – well, just her mother. She did what mothers always do, and that was that. It had never occurred to Clara that there might be a real woman inside there, someone just like her, just like Harriet Butcher, just like Medea Carrow (well, not quite like Carrow, she hoped). The real woman sitting opposite her still wore the same surprised expression that her mother always wore, and still tore her bread with the same long, expressive fingers. But now Clara wanted to know more.

  A squall of wind rattled the windows, letting some rain in. Sophia got up to close them.