Truth Sister

by Phil Gilvin

  The cart lurched off the road and into a hedgerow-lined lane, where a painted board nailed to a tree told them they had reached Briar Farm. The wheels settled into weathered ruts, jolting Clara and Sophia from side to side; clouds of aphids rose up from the hawthorn and got in their mouths, and the lane smelt of cow dung. But Clara didn’t mind. They were home.

  The cart stopped in the shade of a plum-tree outside a stout stone cottage; the scent of warm lavender filled the air. The sun was settling low on the horizon, painting the billows of cloud that rolled in from the south. Clara leapt down and stretched, inhaling deeply. James stood at her shoulder.

  ‘Despite everything,’ he murmured, ‘we’re lucky, aren’t we? Look at the garden, look at that sunset. We’ve got a good home.’ He drew a forearm across his brow. ‘Not like that mob in the dust.’

  Clara was gazing over the fields. ‘You mean the rioters? You’re still thinking about them?’

  ‘Can’t get them out of my head. It’s wrong, isn’t it? Whoever they are, however much trouble they make, it’s wrong to just gun them down. They never stood a chance.’ He turned away. ‘Sorry, Miss Clara,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m just a bit tired.’

  Clara turned, once again unsure of what to say. One part of her wanted to comfort James, another to tell him to get a grip. The Republic had to keep order. Of course it did. Yet she couldn’t bear to see him looking so downcast. In the end she changed the subject. ‘I see you’ve been mending the well,’ she said, pointing to where, at one side of the lawn, the old shaft displayed a new tiled cupola, a new winding-spool and a thick fresh rope. Three-quarters of the parapet wall had been refurbished, and a pile of stones lay nearby.

  James paused to survey his handiwork. ‘Hmm, it’s not as big as the one on the old farm. But it’s not a bad job. The pipes to the village failed a few months back, and Waterco haven’t come to fix ’em. It’s nice clean water here, though,’ he said, hauling on the handle. The bucket arrived, and he scooped some out with a wooden bowl that had been left on the wall. ‘Tastes better, too,’ he added, offering some to Clara.

  She downed the bowlful. She gasped. ‘It’s lovely. I didn’t realise I was so thirsty.’

  While they’d been talking, Sophia had run into the house. Now she came out again, followed by a short, plump woman with rounded shoulders and greying hair, dressed in a brown country suit of light wool.

  ‘Hurrah,’ cried Sophia. ‘Here’s Grana. We’re all together at last.’

  ‘Grana!’ said Clara, running up to her.

  ‘My dear.’ Grana’s voice was warm. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’ve grown, haven’t I, Aunt?’

  Grana chuckled. ‘Why, yes, you have. Nearly as tall as your mother now, I see.’ She cast an eye over her shoulder. ‘And I suppose James has behaved himself on the way back?’

  Clara was glad to find Grana knew what their manservant’s place was. ‘Actually, he’s been very good, Aunt. We had a difficult trip.’

  ‘Did you now? Well, I shall have to listen to the whole story. But first, come and have a mug of proper tea – then I’ve got you some nice pork chops for your dinner.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Clara. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come to live with Mother.’

  Grana smiled, and her cheeks bunched up like cherries. ‘Welcome home,’ she said.

  Clara followed Grana through the cramped hallway, her nostrils twitching at the familiar smells of wood smoke and cabbage, into the oak-beamed parlour. It was the same cosy place that she remembered: the age-grimed pendulum clock ticking on the mantelpiece; a simple dresser; an ancient sofa; and easy chairs with squashed cushions. No plaques declaiming the Principles, no portraits of Ms Teacher.

  As she went through to the kitchen, Grana looked up from setting the kettle on the hob and smiled. ‘So, you’re a Truth Sister,’ she said. ‘Clara, I’m very proud. I don’t mind saying, I didn’t think you had it in you when you went off to school. Such a timid little thing, you were. But you’ve worked hard, and you’ve proved me wrong.’ She smiled broadly. ‘Well done.’

  Clara reddened. ‘Aunt, thank you so much for your letters. I’m sure Mother would never have told me how bad things were, money-wise. I’ll be able to help now, if Mother lets me.’

  Grana looked away. ‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘Now, see if you can remember where the mugs are kept, and we’ll make that tea.’

  Sophia and James had been talking in the garden; through the window, Clara now saw him unloading the cart. She heard his boots on the stairs, a door opening and closing. By the time the tea was brewed and Grana had asked Clara to pour it, he was stomping into the kitchen, where he poured some water into the sink and washed his hands.

  ‘There,’ he said, splashing his face. ‘Chickens are fine. The lads must have fed them. They’ve done well while I’ve been away.’

  Clara thought that Grana tutted, but her aunt said nothing.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t fixed your window yet, Clara,’ said James, drying his hands. ‘Beg pardon – Miss Clara. It doesn’t let the rain in now, but it’s still a bit loose – rattles in the wind. Needs a new hasp, and the old screws are rusted through. I’ll get on to it tomorrow. But,’ he added, peering through the window at the darkening sky, ‘we might be in for a windy night.’

  ‘Well, we’ll get a fire going,’ said Grana, ‘and we’ll be cosy. Now up the stairs you go, Clara, and get changed out of those dusty clothes. Dinner won’t be long.’

  Clara found that James had already deposited her trunk and her bags in her room, and when she pictured him hefting them up the stairs, she thought of Tom, the great hulking manservant at the Academy, the place that she’d never see again. She swallowed. Then she saw the bed and threw herself face-down, feeling the softness of the pillow. The sound of Sophia singing drifted up from the kitchen below, and Clara closed her eyes for a moment. Then to her right, the window began to rattle. James had been right about that, then. She swivelled onto her back, making the bed quiver.

  At last she could rest, at last she could think. At last she could put it all behind her: Amy, the riot, James’ odd behaviour. At last she could have a few quiet weeks.

  So, she was back at Briar Farm: home, for a few months at least. Clara had hoped that she could breathe deep, sleep long, stretch out her limbs, and forget about Amy. But here, where she’d grown up contentedly, nothing seemed the same.

  James was one problem. She was very fond of him, but he kept out in the fields throughout the long summer days, and when she did see him – briefly, when he came to shovel down some food before turning in – he was silent and morose. And worse than this, Clara sometimes caught him looking at her with such sadness in his eyes that it almost made her cry. ‘Are you all right?’ she would ask; and he’d smile and say, fixing his gaze on her, ‘Yes, Miss Clara. I’m very happy.’ But she knew that something was on his mind. Why else would he keep forgetting to fix her bedroom window?

  She also noticed that there was something wrong between James and Grana. They were never openly rude to each other; indeed, they were always polite. But their silences were seldom broken, and their conversations never long. Sophia, however, didn’t see the problem. ‘James is just so tired these days,’ she said, ‘and your Aunt never was a great talker.’

  But Clara knew that even Sophia wasn’t happy. It couldn’t be that her mother was concerned about James, though. Since their return to Briar Farm, Clara had seen nothing more to make her worry about how over-familiar he was. True, he almost always joined them for meals, and would sometimes sit in the parlour with them afterwards; but he never gave his opinions freely, and never spoke out of turn. From an Academy point of view, his behaviour was as respectful as it could be. Yet in a way, Clara missed the other James, the James who’d brought her back safe from the Academy, through the riot and along all the difficult roads, who’d let her chase him around the tree in the meadow. Sometimes Clara went to bed, followed by Grana (who always kept an early bedtime), to be lulled aslee
p by the low murmur of voices from the parlour below: Sophia, sweet and tinkling; James, deep and steady. And it did her good to hear that reassuring voice, flowing like an old river. Then one night, she heard them chuckling quietly at something; shortly afterwards, the parlour door opened and Sophia was climbing the stairs. James would have gone to his own tiny room beyond the kitchen, where he slept in a little pallet-bed. Clara heard the door of Sophia’s room open and close; then she heard the bed creak. Then, unmistakably, she heard sniffs. And she knew, by the silences between the sniffs, that her mother was crying.

  And there was more. Sent to her mother’s room one day to fetch a clean apron, Clara found herself distracted by the bookcase. She couldn’t recall ever seeing Sophia with a book in her hands. But the shelves here were clean and free from dust, and the books pressed in untidily, as if they were often disturbed. She ran a finger along their spines. A Girl’s History of the Republic – she’d read that one herself. Famous Women, another schoolgirl staple. Story books, murder mysteries. An encyclopaedia. And one called The Family. Clara prised it out and flicked it open.

  Men! There were pictures of men in here – or at least, pictures with men in them. Women, yes – but men, too. And boys, as well as girls. Sitting together around a fire, working with one another in the fields, playing together. There were no words, just page after page of photographs, each one spoiled by the presence of men. Something in Clara’s head told her to put the book away, to forget it; but still she kept turning the pages, until the last image: a woman weeping, as a coffin was lowered into a grave.

  The back of her neck felt hot; her heart beat loudly. Naturals! That’s what these people were. Her mother had a book about Naturals.

  She never asked about it. To own such a book was horrid, and against the Principles; but, Clara thought, the things her mother read in private were her own business, weren’t they? And besides, Clara herself was finding it difficult to walk past her mother’s room each day, without sneaking in for another peek.

  Towards the end of June, Clara’s letters arrived, telling her that she should start her apprenticeship at the Ministry of Knowledge in a month. And a few days after that, it was her sixteenth birthday. Sophia insisted on making a fuss, and they were to have a special meal, cooked by her and Grana (Clara wasn’t allowed to help).

  The day had been grey. As evening came on, the clouds built up in the west, so they had to light the candles early. Clara changed into her nicest suit, checked herself in the mirror and went downstairs. In the kitchen she found James sitting at the table, holding a news-sheet forward into the light while Grana and Sophia served out the meal. They were just letting him sit there. As a man and as a servant, James shouldn’t be allowed to sit by while his betters worked; but by now Clara had come to accept it as a family foible. It was harmless, she told herself.

  ‘… they say the Scrapers have been at work in Horsham,’ James was reading. ‘Better make sure we lock up tonight.’

  Grana caught Clara’s eye. ‘That’s all very well,’ she said to James, ‘but it won’t get the table set. Come on, here’s the knives and forks. Make yourself useful.’

  James threw the paper down. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘do I get a reward?’

  Grana held out the cutlery. ‘Here. Get on with it.’

  Sophia giggled. ‘If you’re very good, James,’ she said, ‘we’ll let you wash the dishes later.’

  ‘Who are the Scrapers?’ asked Clara.

  Grana rattled a panful of potatoes into a dish. ‘Robbers and rapists,’ she said. ‘But the worst is, it’s said they scrape the skin off their victims. Of course, the Scrapers are men. They keep on the run, too, like the cowards they are.’

  ‘Please,’ said Sophia. ‘We’re about to eat. What horrid talk. Here, Clara, please can you take these plates over – that’s it – now let’s talk about nice things.’ She took off her apron and draped it on the back of the door.

  ‘Mother,’ cried Clara, almost dropping the plates. ‘You’re wearing a – a skirt!’

  ‘Why, yes,’ said Sophia. ‘Do you like it?’

  The skirt flared out from Sophia’s waist in gentle pleats; blue and white forget-me-nots glowed in a pale yellow background, luminous in the falling light.

  ‘I – I didn’t see it when you had the apron on,’ said Clara, staring.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Sophia, grinning and stroking Clara’s cheek. ‘I suppose you didn’t see skirts at the Academy. Here. Feel this – it’s such nice cotton. Lovely and soft.’

  Clara took it in her hands. ‘It’s–’ she said, and then stopped. What should she be feeling? Women always wore trousers nowadays, to show that men were no longer in control. Shouldn’t every woman be glad about that? Who would want to turn down the chance to show her independence, by wearing a skirt instead? But, Clara had to admit, it was beautiful. And so was her mother, beautiful and happy … ‘It’s very nice,’ she managed to say.

  ‘James,’ said Grana. ‘Open a window. It’s a bit steamy in here.’

  Clara sighed contentedly as she tucked in. The food was excellent: the swede and kale, Sophia said, had been freshly dug by James that afternoon; and there was some bright red Suffolk wine. Clara had only been allowed wine on special occasions before. This wine was heady and seductive, and Clara was thirsty as well as hungry. She smiled, and she laughed with Sophia, who was in irrepressible spirits; the candles sparkled, the plum tart was delicious. The curtains swayed in the draught from the window, and once or twice the movement made Clara feel giddy; but it was, she felt, all part of the fun. She tried chatting to James, but he shifted in his chair and answered in monosyllables. With Grana she was more successful: when she asked about her aunt’s Sorority meetings, she nodded and smiled.

  ‘Thank you, Clara,’ she said. ‘I go along three times a week. There’s lots for us to do, in these hard times. We support women who live on their own, especially the older ladies, of course. We bring them food and provisions, or we just visit, to keep them company. And we run courses in how to use tools and machines. It’s amazing how many women used to leave all of that kind of thing to men, or servants. But we help them to fend for themselves, to be independent – just as we’ll help any woman who’s committed to the Republic.’

  Clara thought that James stirred at this; but maybe it was just his weary back. For herself, it sounded exactly right. If being a Truth Sister wasn’t about sustaining the Women’s Republic, what was it about?

  James cleared his throat. ‘Grana,’ he said, ‘do you know anything about Emily Bradley? We passed the house the other week – it was all boarded up, and she hasn’t come back. Has the Sorority heard anything?’

  Grana looked at him sharply.

  ‘I wondered if you’d been helping her,’ he added.

  Sophia said quickly, ‘Her cloning didn’t go so well, did it? I heard she was complaining to the Cloning Minister. Didn’t she go up to town?’

  Grana pressed her lips together. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Cloning doesn’t go wrong, anyway; that’s the whole point. And fancy having the effrontery to complain. If the house is empty, then she must have moved. She could easily have gone off without telling anyone – she always was a bit strange. Do you know, she once told me she wished the old days were back? Imagine!’

  James said slowly, ‘What did she mean by that, then?’

  Grana raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, I’m sure I didn’t want to ask.’

  When they had finished, Sophia refilled their wine glasses. Clara recalled mealtimes at the Academy: their ritual, their formality. ‘Should we toast Ms Teacher?’ she said. There was no portrait on the wall, but she supposed they could do it without.

  There was a silence of a few seconds, before Sophia said, ‘Well, why not?’

  And they raised their glasses, although it seemed to Clara that Sophia and James avoided looking at each other.

  Clara felt her cheeks glowing as she followed Sophia unsteadily into the parlour. She fo
und herself staring at her mother’s bare calves: they were like a young girl’s, smooth and white and full of energy. Blinking, she sank into an armchair. The clock still ticked reassuringly, and she felt her eyelids drooping.

  They sat comfortably for a while, and after Grana had asked about Clara’s plans and they’d talked about the duties of a Truth Sister, Sophia said, ‘Now we should toast you, Clara. To our successful little girl!’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said James. And the three grown-ups stood.

  ‘To Clara! Congratulations and Happy Birthday!’ said Sophia, smiling at her, and Clara found herself gazing into her mother’s eyes, her own eyes, made by the same genes.

  And then, somehow, she had spilt her wine. Grana fussed and sent James to get some water to clean it up; then she told him he wasn’t doing it right, and took over. Clara offered to do it, but Grana tutted and said it was all right. In the end, Grana declared the carpet wouldn’t stain, and announced she was off to bed. ‘I’m going up to town tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Sorority business.’

  ‘Thank you for a lovely meal, Grana,’ said Sophia. ‘Sleep well.’

  Grana looked as if she was about to say something, but thought better of it. In a moment they heard her footsteps on the stairs.

  Clara sat back in the armchair and closed her eyes, listening to the willows creaking in the wind. Opposite, James snored softly, chin on chest. Every now and then, Clara could feel the cottage shake as an especially strong gust came along. The wine made her feel heavy, as if she was sinking further and further into the chair. If only she wasn’t so sleepy …

  She opened her eyes to find her mother gazing at her.

  ‘Hello, you,’ said Sophia, with a crooked smile.

  ‘Bleagh,’ replied Clara, stretching. ‘Have I been asleep?’