Truth Sister

by Phil Gilvin

  Clara turned away and tried not to feel sick. At Croydon, where deserted tower blocks stood like gigantic weeds, they changed horses. Clara sat with Grana under the shade of a plane tree, shielding her eyes from the afternoon glare. She managed to eat some raisins.

  ‘So,’ said Grana. ‘I was quite surprised when your mother told me you wanted to start straight away. But, all things considered, I think it’s a good idea. Better to have you sorted out now.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clara. ‘Thank you, Aunt.’ She looked away. Now she knew how Amy must have felt, all down the years at the Academy. What could you say, and what mustn’t you say? How should you behave? How careful did you have to be? Well, she thought, she was going to have to get used to lying. She hoped it got easier with practice. For now, she resolved to say as little as possible.

  Grana didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. ‘Did your letter say what you’d be doing at the Ministry?’ she asked.

  Clara tried to sound enthusiastic. ‘Cloning, I think, Aunt. I’ll be looking for information to help with cloning.’

  ‘How appropriate,’ murmured Grana.

  ‘Appropriate?’

  Grana was watching a stable-boy hitching the new team to the carriage. ‘Take him, now,’ she said. ‘Clone or Natural? You can never tell who’s Pureclone, and who’s not.’

  Clara didn’t like the way the conversation was going. ‘We have to keep cloning going,’ she quoted. ‘It keeps us pure.’

  Grana nodded. ‘It’s the only way we’ll get rid of men.’ She offered Clara some nuts she’d bought, then crunched a few herself. ‘Men,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘So many things they got wrong! You’ll have heard about Geemos, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Clara, glad of the change of subject. ‘That is, they didn’t tell us much. It’s banned, isn’t it?’

  ‘So typical of men. Selfish, greedy, always wanting more. Wanting to be stronger, or faster, or to live longer. Messing about with their genes.’ Grana flapped a hand as a mosquito whined close to her ear. ‘And what did they make? Monsters, that’s what. No wonder they stopped it.’

  ‘Ms Carrow said it was the worst thing men ever did. And Geemos are worse than–’ She broke off. In that particular lesson, Ms Carrow had gone on to say that Geemos were worse than Naturals. It had all seemed so simple then.

  At last they reached Kennington Park, where some old tennis courts had been turned into a post terminus. After an urgent visit to some foetid toilets, Clara and Grana took a cab across the river, its brown water stinking in the afternoon heat.

  Grana shook her head. ‘I’m really not sure what’s the best thing to do,’ she said. She looked at Clara, glanced at the river, started to say something, then thought better of it. Clara didn’t trust herself to speak.

  ‘Ah,’ said Grana, after another minute of frowning and tutting. ‘I know. There’s an old school-friend of mine. She teaches at the Academy, as a matter of fact. I haven’t seen her for years, mind you, but she may be able to help.’

  ‘Who, Aunt?’ said Clara; but Grana was busy giving instructions to the driver. Instead of turning into Whitehall, they continued towards Jane’s Park before turning down a narrow street of red-brick buildings.

  Clara saw her before her Aunt did: a tall, thin woman, familiar despite the wide-brimmed hat, was just leaving one of the houses. Could things get any worse?

  ‘Stop the cab,’ ordered Grana. ‘Medea,’ she called to the woman. ‘Medea, it’s me – Grana.’

  It was indeed Medea Carrow, but looking as Clara had never seen her before: pale and wide-eyed, her mouth slightly open. If she’d thought it possible, Clara would have said Carrow was worried.

  ‘Oh,’ said Carrow. ‘Grana. I’m sorry I can’t stop. I’ve been–’ Then she caught sight of Clara, and her eyes widened still further. ‘Oh!’ she said again, and actually took a step backward.

  ‘Hello, Ma’am,’ said Clara.

  Carrow stared at her, and made a little choking noise. She might have gone on staring, but Aunt Grana seized her chance. She told Carrow all about Clara needing to start early, and how they’d come to town, but they weren’t sure what to do, and how she’d suddenly thought of her old school friend, and how she was sure Carrow could help them.

  Eventually, Carrow managed to focus on Grana. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Look, it’s good to see you, but I – I have to go to a meeting. With a Prime Sister.’ She glanced briefly at Clara. ‘So, can’t wait, you see. Um, when will you be in town again? Come and look me up. Must go now.’

  Grana raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, all right. But what about Clara?’

  ‘Clara? Oh, yes. Miss Perdue.’

  ‘I mean,’ said Grana, ‘do you know how we can get clearance for her to start early?’

  ‘Oh, I should think the Appointments Office,’ said Carrow.

  ‘Which is … where?’

  ‘Yes, sorry. Castle Lane. Got to go,’ said Carrow, and she half-walked, half-trotted away down the road.

  ‘Well!’ said Grana.

  For her part, Clara was relieved. The last thing she needed today was an old-fashioned scolding from Carrow, and she’d been spared that. But what could have made her old teacher so preoccupied?

  The process, it turned out, was quite simple. The Appointments Office already had Clara’s name down for starting in September. The woman was very helpful, and after she’d got them to sign half a dozen forms, she said they’d send a message to the Ministry first thing in the morning. Best to arrive after lunch, she said.

  The rest of the afternoon was spent finding somewhere to stay. Clara and Grana finished up at a guest-house in Fulham where they ate a barely digestible but expensive dinner and fell asleep as soon as the mosquitoes went quiet. In the morning Grana insisted on calling on Carrow again, but her friend was out. Clara noticed her Aunt had taken to muttering to herself but once again, she decided to leave her alone. She didn’t want to risk a conversation.

  By afternoon, Grana seemed a little better. ‘Are you nervous?’ she asked. Their cab was in a line of traffic that had been stopped on Birdcage Walk to let a company of soldiers pass. Clara grimaced. Her aunt couldn’t know just how nervous she was. ‘I suppose it’ll be hard for a few weeks,’ Clara said, hoping she sounded brave, ‘but after that, it should get better. And when I get my first pay, I’ll send some home.’ Yet as soon as she’d said it, the thought struck her: No, I won’t. Everything’s changed. They don’t want to hear from me, and I’m not sending them any of my hard-earned cash. I’m going to need all the money I can get.

  ‘That’s very good of you,’ Grana was saying. ‘Your mother may claim we don’t need it, but I know we do.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll never know why she sold the old farm – it was bigger and busier you know, and it made a profit.’

  ‘The old farm was bigger?’

  Grana nodded. ‘Much bigger. She sold it just before she went off to clone you. Up on the South Downs, it was – lovely place. Hundred and fifty acres – cereals, root crops and a milk herd, thirty head. She went off for six months, if you please, then came back and said she was selling up. Just like that.’

  Clara had never heard this before. ‘Didn’t she say why?’

  ‘Oh, just something about wanting the quiet life. Didn’t ring true then, never has since. We had everything you could want – plenty of food, money to buy little luxuries, and plenty of hands to do the work. Now it’s work, work, work, all the hours in the day, and never a boudick left, after the groceries.’

  They had come to where imposing white buildings stood almost on the river itself, separated from it only by a road and some trees that gave welcome shade. ‘Mother never told me,’ said Clara, although privately she thought she knew exactly why her mother had sought seclusion.

  ‘But don’t you worry, my dear,’ said Grana, forcing a smile. ‘I’ll take good care of your mother. And James, and those two boys. Just leave it up to your old aunt.’

  Clara had a lump in her throat. It
wasn’t far to the Ministry now. This was it: in a minute, she’d be breaking with her old life – utterly and irrevocably. She blinked back the tears. And here next to her was her kind aunt, someone who’d never betrayed her. Grana would never see her again, and she’d never know why.

  ‘Grana,’ said Clara, swallowing. ‘About Mother, and James–’

  ‘What about them?’

  Her courage failed. ‘Er, promise you’ll write, Aunt? I want to know – I mean – how they are. How you are.’

  ‘I understand, dear. I understand.’ Grana smiled. ‘But don’t worry, you’ll hear from me. I promise.’

  They passed down Whitehall, its great square buildings white and stark in the sun. A flock of pigeons milled around a rubbish bin, dodging the cabs and carts. Clara’s heart was thumping, and she could smell her own sweat. They pulled up; now she was down on the pavement, with the driver depositing the suitcases next to her.

  Grana had climbed out too. ‘Would you like me to come in with you, dear?’

  ‘Oh, no thank you, Aunt,’ said Clara. ‘I suppose I’ll have to do things for myself in future.’ She tried to smile. ‘May as well start now.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Grana, forcing a smile. ‘You are a brave little thing, and no mistake.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s such a shame.’

  ‘I’ll be all right, Aunt,’ said Clara, astonished to see tears starting in Grana’s eyes. She took her hand. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. There was so much to say, so much to avoid. ‘Thank you for being my friend.’

  Now Grana’s handkerchief was out, and she was alternately blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. ‘Well, I must be off,’ she said. ‘Can’t stand here blubbing all day.’ She smiled a pale smile, and climbed back into the cab.

  ‘What will you do now?’ asked Clara.

  Grana stared ahead. ‘I’ll try Medea again. If she’s not there I’ll visit the Sorority hostel, I think. See if I can make myself useful.’

  The driver tickled the horse with her whip, and Grana gave a wave. Carrow again. It was odd to think of Aunt Grana being friends with her. But Clara reflected that, in her own newly-changed world, even the old deputy head would have to count as being on her side.

  The cab lurched off in the direction of the Strand, trailing a cloud of dust and swerving as it dodged the potholes. Clara watched with her hand half-raised, ready to wave one last time, but her Aunt didn’t turn again. The cab dwindled amongst bicycles and carts shimmering in the heat-haze, and when it finally disappeared, Clara’s last link with her old life was gone. She blinked, and made herself remember: Aunt Grana had promised to write. Clara resolved to make sure she did. She’d write to Grana herself, every week. Then she’d never forget. But then, thought Clara, I don’t really want to remember, do I? This is where my life is now.

  She blew out her cheeks and surveyed the building before her. Course upon pale course of dressed stones rose thirty feet up to a long balcony, buttressed by tall columns and pierced by dark windows. In front of her, a short flight of steps led up to a massive pair of oak doors, each bearing the Republic’s Horologe and the Ministry’s book-and-compasses insignia. Above them were carved the words:

  MINISTRY OF KNOWLEDGE

  Knowledge Is Power

  The afternoon heat beat on Clara’s head and reflected back from the whiteness around her. Even the breeze was hot, and her fingers sweated on the suitcase handles. Knowledge Is Power. Yes, to know things – that was to have power. But there was some power she’d rather not have.

  Staring at the doors didn’t make things any better. She wanted to run away, to go and tell Sophia that she must have been wrong, that it was a mistake, that things could go on as before. Or she could run and hide, and never go near the Ministry, ever. But something deep inside told her that it would have to be faced. Sooner or later, you have to take a step that’s yours, and yours alone. No-one else can take it for you.

  She heaved up the cases and dragged them up the steps. It must be because she was worn out by the distress of the last twenty-four hours, she thought, and maybe by the heat, that her legs were trembling. It couldn’t be because she was scared.

  ‘Halt!’ As Clara staggered into the delicious shade of the porch, a Repseg leapt from nowhere and barred her path. ‘State your business,’ she growled.

  Clara gave a cry and dropped her cases.

  The Repseg, a steely-haired specimen, peered at her and brandished a pistol. ‘I said, what do you want?’

  ‘I’m starting an apprenticeship,’ stammered Clara. ‘I’m a Truth Sister, just qualified–’

  ‘Papers?’ interrupted the Repseg, holding out a spidery hand.

  They were there somewhere, Clara knew, but it took ages to excavate them from her bag. And even though the note had arrived safely from the Appointments Office, it was a good ten minutes before she’d satisfied the guard, as well as the less-threatening woman at the reception desk, that she was really herself, and wasn’t about to blow the place up. By then, her legs felt as if they might fall off.

  The receptionist, a slim girl in her twenties, told Clara to wait, and disappeared through a panelled swing-door. Clara slumped down on a hard, wax-polished wooden bench, under the portrait of Ms Teacher that hung opposite the desk. Indoors the stench of the drains was less marked, and a draught of fresher air crept along the floor. She kicked off her shoes and, pressing the soles of her feet against the cool tiles, lay back and closed her eyes while Ministry workers pottered by clutching papers, box files or cups of tea. None of them stopped to stare at the Natural on the bench. She tried to calm her breathing.

  For a moment she was alone with her thoughts; and she didn’t like them. In the space of twenty-four hours her world had been turned upside-down. Outwardly, she was a girl who’d just turned up at the Ministry a month or two early. Outwardly, she was the same little Truth Sister who’d got a first at the Academy, who was just like the other girls. But inwardly, she was an unlicensed Natural, an outcast; and a secret, deceiving one at that.

  She sat up, frowning. From somewhere in the bowels of the building came the thrum of a generator. Of course: the Ministry would have a permit to generate, to consume a little of the Republic’s limited supplies of petrol. She wondered what they were using the electricity for. She recalled that last trip with James, back across London Bridge, after the riot, when James had cried and they’d stared at the lights that gleamed upriver.

  But she’d never see James again. She hated him, she hated Sophia for what they’d done, and she hated the life to which they’d condemned her. That was bad enough. But what was worse, Clara missed them. Her mother, cooking, chatting, stroking her hair, whispering that everything would be all right. James, chopping the wood, showing her how to shear a sheep, laughing by the fireside. She missed them both. And for that, she hated herself too.

  Further down the corridor she noticed a woman drawing a cup of water from a barrel branded with the Waterco badge. Realising how thirsty she was, Clara went over and helped herself. She drank greedily, letting the water slop down her neck and down her front. It tasted sweeter than the well-water at home, and somehow less satisfying. Again she cursed herself. How sentimental! How weak! Why should she call that place home?

  She drew a forearm across her mouth, smearing the last of the water over her cheek. As she turned, she collided with a large woman coming the other way, and was halfway through her stammered apologies before she realised who it was. The woman was large and heavy-boned, and dressed in a loose T-shirt and baggy slacks that stopped just below the knee. Her podgy feet were squeezed into skimpy sandals, and she looked surprisingly cool.

  ‘Ms Butcher,’ cried Clara. ‘Whatever are you doing here? I mean – Ma’am …’

  ‘Clara,’ said Butcher, beaming, and crushed Clara’s hand. ‘There you are. Lovely to see you. Lovely. They told me you’re starting early, yes?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ said Clara.

  ‘We weren’t expecting you till September.’ Harri
et Butcher was smiling, but there was a glimmer in her eyes that made Clara blush.

  ‘Oh, they’re very busy at home,’ Clara said quickly. ‘Mother’s been ill, and wants some peace and quiet.’ She looked away. ‘And, I suppose it doesn’t feel like home anymore.’ Which was true. There was a pause while Clara tried not to fidget under Butcher’s gaze. Then she burst out: ‘But, please, Ma’am, what are you–’

  Butcher’s snort boomed down the quiet corridor. ‘What am I doing here? Well, ah, one can’t stay too long in the same job, you know. I – well, I decided it was time I moved on. New challenges, eh? So here I am!’ She leaned forward and grinned. ‘Secretary to the Knowledge Committee, I’ll have you know.’ Clara had never seen her grin before; it was quite shocking.

  ‘What’s it like here, Ma’am? Do you – do you enjoy it?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Butcher, ‘yes, it’s very interesting. Let me take that bag for you.’

  ‘Er, thank you,’ said Clara. ‘And Ms Carrow? Is she here too? I saw her yesterday …’ She explained about Grana’s idea to ask her for help, and how Carrow had just been rushing off to a meeting.

  Butcher gave a wry smile. ‘Well, thank you for that news, Clara. Sounds like Medea wants to move on to new challenges as well.’ She chuckled. ‘How lovely.’ She waved a hand. ‘But come along, we must get you installed. Nothing too taxing this afternoon – we’ll find you a desk, and get you somewhere to stay. And how about a cup of real tea?’

  Butcher stopped at reception. ‘Martina, meet our new recruit. Clara Perdue here will need some lodgings. Send out, would you? Here, Clara – leave your bags behind the desk. We can come back and see what Martina’s got you later. All right?’

  Clara hurried after Butcher, who was already stomping off down the corridor. They clambered up two flights of hot, dusty stairs and passed through an office where half a dozen women were thwacking away at typewriters. Clara stared – she’d never seen one working before.