by Phil Gilvin
Back at the flat that evening, Clara sat by the open window. Bella had just shrugged at Clara’s failure to find somewhere else to stay, but Clara had still thought it best to eat in her own room. As she drank the last of her tea, she fell to wondering why. Why had her parents reverted? Why had they mated like animals? Sophia had said that once, everyone in the world had been Naturals. And, since cloning hadn’t always been around, Clara supposed she was right. So – another question – why aren’t more people reverting, if it’s so “Natural”? Why isn’t everybody? She sighed. We’re the pinnacle of evolution, she told herself. Always remember that.
That night she slept heavily. She wasn’t disturbed by bad dreams, or by the sound of Repsegs beating anyone up. The only thing she did hear during the night was Bella throwing up in the toilet. Once, she would have gone to see if she could help; now, she didn’t think the offer would be accepted.
‘Looks like rain,’ said the stall-keeper, drawing on her cigarette and nodding at the sky.
Clara glanced up at the blue, utterly cloudless expanse above them, and grinned. ‘Morning, Frieda,’ she said. ‘I bet it’ll be just as wet as it was yesterday.’
Frieda laughed, showing an incomplete row of yellow teeth. ‘Yeah, and the day before that, and the one before that. I’ve almost forgot what rain feels like.’
‘D’you know,’ said Clara, ‘before the climate changed, they used to get rain at any time of year. They hardly ever had droughts.’
‘Yeah, well, I hope they appreciated it, that’s all I can say.’ Frieda ran a hand through her steel-grey curls. ‘All this friggin’ dust – it gets me down. Look at these papers – they was clean when I put them out.’
A month had passed, and Clara had begun to settle into her new life. If the work was dull, it was at least predictable – and that counted for a lot. She’d fallen into a routine that involved leaving the flat before Bella was up, crossing the river and walking along the south bank before re-crossing at Westminster Bridge. She loved the river, especially on those mornings when the sun shone kindly or the breeze blew softly, and she found the walk refreshing.
‘Same as usual?’ said Frieda, not waiting for an answer but taking a fresh bun from a stack and bagging it up for Clara.
‘Please,’ said Clara. ‘Anything in here?’ she added, slipping a copy of The Republican Woman from under the stone that Frieda had placed to stop the papers blowing away in the non-existent breeze. She fished out two boudicks and handed them over, then glanced down the headlines. They told her that the war with Milland was going well – Republican forces had raided Coventry – and there had been a punitive raid against the Dutch, at Antwerp. There were to be more public executions of “terrorists”. And for the fourth month running, steel reclamation rates were up.
‘Same as ever,’ Frieda said, leaning forward. ‘These are last Friday’s – not really out of date yet. But it’s what they don’t say that’s more interesting.’
Clara shoved the news-sheet into her bag with the bun. This was really what she came to Frieda for – the unwritten, unofficial gossip. Hearing these things made her feel radical and disloyal, but somehow independent and grown-up. She supposed it was the rebellious Natural in her; but she had it under control. ‘What’s going on?’ she whispered.
‘The Barrier, that’s what. They can’t fix it.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?
‘You remember the last storm-surge?’
‘I spent the day washing the floors down.’
‘The Barrier got damaged, didn’t it? Them motors, the ones that raise and lower it – they’re knackered. And they don’t know how to fix ’em – ain’t got a bloody clue.’
Clara remembered hearing this before: on a rainy night, from a yelling crowd on London Bridge. Out loud she said, ‘Surely they can work it out, though?’
‘Nah, it’s all too long ago. And, they can’t get the parts nowhere – not nowadays. They’d have ter make ’em.’ She shook her head. ‘Mark my words, young Clara – it’ll take ’em years to fix that Barrier. If they ever do. Those flats you live in – I just hope your room ain’t on the ground floor.’
‘No, the second. And yours?
Frieda laughed. ‘No, the basement – but I can swim.’
Clara laughed too.
‘You’re a nice girl, Clara,’ said Frieda. ‘Your flatmate talkin’ to you yet?’
‘Well, she nearly said hello the other day.’
‘Tsk. A girl like you should have lots o’friends.’
Clara looked down. ‘Oh, I’m all right. I’m managing.’
Frieda peered into her face. ‘You sure? You look a bit down this morning.’
‘No, I’m fine,’ said Clara, trying to smile. ‘My Aunt hasn’t written yet, but I’m getting used to that.’
Frieda eyed Clara thoughtfully as she sucked on her cigarette. ‘Look, fancy a fag? Got a few going here, eight boudicks a pack. No? You wanna try it, love. I ’ad some Undergrounders here earlier. Offered me good money for these fags, but I said, hop it. Get back in yer ’ole, where you belong. Looked at me like murder, they did, but they know there’s a Repseg lockup round the corner – they wouldn’t dare cause trouble.’
‘A lockup? What’s a lockup?’
‘Teacher’s tits, girl, where’ve you been? Didn’t they teach yer nothing at school? A lockup’s like a little prison, innit? The Repsegs throw you in there to cool down. Might give yer a kickin’, if they’re not too busy.’
‘What,’ said Clara hesitantly, ‘you mean like Naturals? Sub-socials?’
‘Them, but not just them. Even Pureclones, like you and me – if we want to break the law, it’s our lookout, innit? Keep on the right side of them Repsegs, that’s what I say. You might not like ’em, but they keeps us safe.’
On the bridge, Clara paused to look again at the plaque showing Dorothy Wordsworth’s poem. She loved those lines:
Dull would she be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty.
And the poet had been right: the river was beautiful at this time of day (if you ignored the smell). She stood for a moment to admire the play of the morning sunlight on the sluggish waters, before turning and heading for Whitehall. By now, she’d got so used to the sight that she didn’t even notice the orange-overalled reclamation gang being shepherded along the embankment.
She trudged on, head down. She’d cultivated the knack of nodding to the other women who bore Truth Sister badges, without actually engaging them in conversation. But she sighed as she remembered what Frieda had said, about a girl like her having friends. In Clara’s situation, it was better to do without them. And maybe, despite the longing she felt, it was better that Grana hadn’t written – it would only remind her of her old life.
As she arrived at the Ministry Clara was surprised to see three Repsegs standing on guard, instead of the usual one. They completely emptied her bag and even inspected the bun and the contents of her sandwiches, before grudgingly allowing her in. As Clara made her usual salute to the portrait of Ms Teacher, she noticed that behind the reception desk, Martina was chewing her fingernails.
‘What’s going on?’ Clara asked.
Martina leaned forward. ‘A bloody Prime Sister’s turned up!’ she hissed. ‘No-one knew she was coming. Hell of a fuss. Called a big meeting.’ She jerked her head upwards. ‘They’re all up there now.’
‘What’s it all about?’ said Clara.
‘No idea. She never said much – just called for the minister, then told her to get everyone together in ten minutes.’
‘When was this?’
‘You only just missed ’em.’
Clara was halfway down the corridor when she turned back. ‘Martina,’ she said, ‘who was the Prime Sister?’
Martina shrugged. ‘Didn’t catch her name. Old, wrinkly, walks with two sticks.’
Clara spent the morning fidgeting with her books or staring out of the window. The other women in the file-rooms wer
e quiet too, and the whole place felt on edge. What could Mater Hedera want at the Ministry? Why had she turned up unannounced? Clara tried to tell herself that it didn’t mean she’d been found out. Surely if someone had denounced her as a Natural, they’d have just come and carted her away from the flat, or when she arrived for work. That’s what she told herself.
Emeline Anger’s papers on Aquaster – the stuff that kept the Republic’s water clean – were always hard going. Now, with the added distraction, Clara could hardly tell what she was reading. The document in her hand seemed to be claiming that Aquaster could make you infertile. Well, that wouldn’t affect cloning, would it? Mad. No wonder Anger had done herself in. She gave up on that one and tried a box of cloning papers, but those were too technical for her to understand. There were a few news clippings, all the usual stuff: one mentioned how the cloning laboratories were being re-organised, another described how the improved Repsegs had helped put down a rebellion, and yet another said how important cloning was going to be, as they purged Naturals from society.
Clara shut the box and set off for the archive, trying not to think what it would be like to be “purged from society”. Then, as she turned into the corridor, she had to step back. A group of half-a-dozen women, red-faced and jabbering, stomped past her. ‘It’s impossible!’ growled one; ‘She’s got to see sense,’ said another, her eyes wide. ‘Can’t be done. We haven’t got magic wands!’
Clara watched their retreating backs for a moment. Then she heard heavy footsteps, and Harriet Butcher hove into view. ‘Well, come on,’ said Butcher, flapping a hand. ‘She’s waiting for you!’
Clara hesitated, then dumped the box on the nearest shelf and hurried after her.
‘She’s in my office,’ said Butcher over her shoulder. ‘Don’t know what she wants – it’s all very – well, it’s good of her to visit, of course. Always a privilege to see a Prime Sister.’
‘It is Mater Hedera then?’ said Clara.
‘Who else? She’s had the whole committee in there for an hour – behind closed doors, of course. It’s not for me to know what’s going on. And now she wants to see us.’
‘Who? You mean me? Why does she want to see me?’ asked Clara.
Butcher flung a pair of doors apart. ‘Come on,’ she growled.
Clara had no choice but to plunge after her, down a dark corridor speckled with flies. Butcher, she saw, was wearing a smart blue tunic; but it was too tight, and clung horribly to her sweaty back. ‘Harriet, please,’ panted Clara. ‘Who’s seeing her? Is it just you and me?’
‘Yes,’ snapped Butcher, stopping at the office door. ‘And don’t ask me why. Now, in you go.’
Neither the shutters nor the blinds were closed in Butcher’s office, and Clara found herself blinking in the harsh light. A curtain of steam hung between her and the black figure silhouetted against the window, a phantom in the fog. As her eyes grew more accustomed, she saw that the fog was made by the steam that rose from a large bowl of perfumed water set upon the desk. Then the phantom turned, and it shrank into the stooped figure that Clara remembered from the Passing-Out, an age ago.
‘Ah. Harriet, Ms Perdue,’ said Mater Hedera. The voice still rasped, but Clara thought it sounded stronger than at their last meeting. ‘Sit.’
They sat on low stools. Clara waited, her jaw tight and her palms damp. Hedera couldn’t have found out. She couldn’t, could she?
Butcher sat half-turned, as if watching the door. Hedera did not speak, and Clara heard the sounds of passing carriages and carts drifting up from the street. Then the Prime Sister reached out and rinsed her hands, slowly, methodically. Flicking the last drops back into the water, she took a small towel and dabbed at her fingers. At last she said, ‘Here, Ms Perdue – may I call you Clara?’
‘Yes, Ma’am–’
‘Take this bowl away for me. There’s a table in the corner.’
Clara did as she was told, feeling the heat on her arms and face. As she set the bowl down she heard Hedera say, ‘So, Harriet – how are you liking it here?’
Butcher swallowed. ‘Very much, Ma’am. It’s very interesting …’
Hedera had eased herself into the chair behind Butcher’s desk; but where Butcher would have suffocated the chair into submission, Hedera made it into a throne. She looked down on her subjects. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that there have already been improvements at the Academy,’ she said. ‘The syllabus has been reformed. Discipline improved. Men-servants have gone, too – better for purity. It does the girls good, to do their own chores.’ She gave a half-smile. ‘Don’t take it personally, Harriet. I’m not saying you did a bad job. Had to do something after that incident with the Martin girl, you see. I know there wasn’t anything you could have done, but we must maintain confidence in our institutions, don’t you think?’
Butcher made a noise that sounded like she’d bitten back the words before they escaped; and Clara suddenly realised that it hadn’t been by choice that Butcher had moved to the Ministry. She’d been sacked.
Hedera was grinning. ‘All Authentications are checked regularly now. There’ll be no repeat of that business. Firmer measures for harder times, that’s all.’ She pointed at Butcher. ‘I expect you thought your job was to educate the girls, didn’t you?’
Still Butcher said nothing, but Clara could see her neck going scarlet.
‘But a Truth Sister doesn’t need to know everything, you see. Only enough to help, to become useful to the cause. There’ll be time for education later, Harriet – when the Republic is secure, when we can build a proper world for women. But at the moment we are under threat from all sides, and we have to make sacrifices. All of us. We’re all in this together – don’t you agree?’
Butcher looked straight past Hedera, out at the bright buildings opposite. Her voice came thickly. ‘Of course, Ma’am. All of us.’
Hedera leaned forward. ‘Milland – those religion-ridden men are raising an army against us – a holy war, to drive us women from power. But they have a surprise coming. The Pirates on the North Sea – the Dutch have had more floods, they can’t put their raiding ships out. If any are left, that is. And then there’s the enemy within. Oh, yes, Harriet. Even our own people would betray us.’ Hedera’s breath was coming faster, and her pale knobbly hands were gripping the edge of the table. ‘There’s the Underground, those sub-socials who wallow in their ignorance and think they can turn the clock back – and everywhere there are traitors. Traitors amongst us.’ She shook with anger. ‘Under our very noses.’
Clara was ready to spring to her feet, either to run from the room, or to catch the Prime Sister as she collapsed – but, gradually, the old woman controlled herself. Then a pair of olive-black eyes fixed themselves on Clara. ‘So, my dear – what is the answer?’
‘Cloning, Ma’am.’ Clara had blurted out the answer even before her stomach had turned or her heart begun to race. Where was this question leading? Please don’t let it be a trap, thought Clara.
The Prime Sister sat back in her chair and rattled out a slow breath. ‘Exactly. We must improve our cloning. Better and better, that should be our motto. That’s why I’m here. I’ve spoken with the committee this morning, and told them they’ll be on the next boat to Wight if they can’t make any progress. Firmer measures, I told them, for harder times.
‘Of course,’ she went on, ‘if I have to take that step, I’ll need someone I can trust, who can organise this place efficiently – someone who can get results. Harriet, you’re used to getting results, aren’t you? Think you can do it? It’d be a chance to put the Academy business behind you.’
Silence fell. Clara dared not take her gaze from Hedera, but from the corner of her eye she saw that Butcher had turned as pale as the Ministry’s marble facade.
‘Of course, Ma’am,’ Butcher said at last. ‘No question. I shall turn the place around.’
‘Good. I’ve given them another month. If they’ve made no progress by then, I’ll ask you to set up a new
team. Clear?’
‘Yes, Ma’am. Absolutely.’
‘That’ll be all then, Harriet. I’ll be gone in half an hour, and you can have your office back.’ Then Hedera laughed, wheezing like a broken pump. ‘Not you, girl,’ she added to Clara, who had also risen. ‘Sit.’
Clara looked for reassurance from Butcher, but her mentor was leaving the room as fast as she could, shoulders squared, fists tight. Turning, she found the Prime Sister studying her. Now was the moment. Did Hedera know? Had she just been toying with her?
‘You think I’m being hard on people,’ Hedera said as the door closed. ‘But we have so much to protect, you see. So much to lose, if it all goes wrong. We have to be determined that it won’t.’ Taking her sticks, she eased herself up and turned to the window, gazing at a solitary cloud that had dared to invade the sky. Clara, for her part, began to grip her knees less tightly.
‘I was there, you know,’ Hedera went on, her voice softer, ‘when Ms Teacher died. She was betrayed by a man, of course. Men are always the trouble. She fell – fell down a long flight of stairs. Everyone said it was an accident, but I know better. I was just a girl, bringing her flowers, when I saw it happen. I cradled her head in my lap while she lay there.’ Hedera’s lip trembled. ‘And then she died, and I kissed her fingers.’
From somewhere within her polyester gown, the Prime Sister drew a once-white handkerchief, and blew her nose loudly. She turned back to Clara. ‘Cloning protects us in so many ways, child. Most of all, we’ll never need men again. Do you understand?’
Clara was still staring open-mouthed. ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ she whispered.
Hedera nodded to herself. ‘We must always be on the alert for traitors, Clara. I don’t expect you’ve had much time here yet, but can I ask you: keep your eyes and ears open. If in doubt, come straight to me. Can you do that? It’s such a hard job maintaining the Republic. I think you begin to appreciate that. Truth – that’s all we work for.’