Benefits

by Zoë Fairbairns

  And that was just the very young. Older children roamed free. They played ball games in churches and took rides on public transport without paying. Or they stood around in gangs, frightening people. When broken windows or piles of litter were spotted anywhere, people knew who to blame.

  ‘It seems they’re being looked after though,’ the women told each other, ‘in general.’

  ‘But when are we going back?’

  The government promised a statement.

  A FAMILY woman said, ‘If they make the slightest concession I think we should go back.’

  There was agreement. ‘Yes, we must allow them room for manoeuvre.’

  But the feminists held fast. ‘You talk as if we should be grateful for anything they give us. We have our demands. Benefit for all mothers. No selectivity. And no experiments. Women all over the country are holding out for that —’

  ‘How do we know? How do we know they don’t want to compromise?’

  ‘Because it was agreed! It’s a decision! We can’t set ourselves up as leaders and negotiators just because we’re in London!’

  The FAMILY women were restive. ‘How can you say it’s a decision when there’s no mechanism for changing the decision?’

  ‘How long is this going on?' the prime minister demanded, ‘We’re an international laughing-stock, a nation brought to its knees by some tiff about who should change the nappies.’

  ‘Yes, why can’t we get back to real arguments?’ Laing said sarcastically.

  ‘I don’t know what’s got into you, Laing.’

  ‘Why don’t we just give them what they want?’

  ‘We’ve offered to see their leaders.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with Mr Peel,’ said the prime minister, ‘the whole thing is getting beyond a joke. Do you think you can handle it, Peel?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Then I’m sure Laing will have no objection if I ask you to.’ ‘None at all,’ Laing growled, ‘you want me to resign?’

  The prime minister flapped. ‘Of course not, my dear chap.’

  ‘Not yet,’said Peel.

  This time Peel did the broadcast. He preceded it with several hours in the film archives and several more ordering technicians around in the editing rooms. Now he wore a shiny suit and his FAMILY badge. His hair was combed and the rims of his nails were white. He sat in the studio and waited for the signal to speak. The broadcast began with close-up film of babies crying, from the irrational howls of the newborn to the unhappy sobbing of toddlers. The wailing and shuddering persisted in the background as Peel leaned forward on the screen, his eyes sincere but stem.

  ‘It’s a sad sound, isn’t it?’ His voice glittered. ‘I know it tears at my heart. Can you hear your child, you mothers out there? It’s been said — it’s been scientifically proven — that a true mother can spot her own child’s cry in the midst of thousands. And we’ve had no difficulty making this film over the last few days, I can assure you.’ The volume went up on the crying. ‘Over the past few days, isolated areas of the country have suffered a unique and particularly unpleasant form of social disorder. I say particularly unpleasant because it has been directed against those least able to retaliate — little children. Look again.’ Now the film showed five- and six-year olds, limp and bewildered.

  ‘I can only express surprise and relief that more suffering has not been caused. It’s well known that separating children from their mothers, particularly in traumatic circumstances such as these, can do lasting damage, and this remains to be seen. What of the damage now? Well, the girls of Young Families of Tomorrow have rallied round and coped magnificently, and so have the fathers. A special tribute to the fathers. And of course the overwhelming majority of mothers who have remained at their posts, as it were, have helped by taking in the little strike orphans, as we have come to call them.

  ‘Yes, it is thanks to them that more little limbs have not been sheared off children playing unsupervised on factory floors, that more small bodies have not been fished out of canals or found in the gutters of main roads. Thanks to them that we haven’t had much more to deal with than tears — though there have been plenty of those.’

  Now the screen split down the middle. On the left a child shedding tears. On the right a ‘spinster’ with a bun and a women’s liberation symbol on her flat bosom.

  ‘And what is the reason for this tragedy? The women, we are told, are on strike. Very nice. They think that because an enlightened government sees fit to reward them for their efforts, they have no more responsibility than ordinary workers. Such a position would not have been reached, need I say it, by ordinary, loving, maternal, patriotic women acting on their own. No. Their minds have been poisoned by forces not far to seek. By counterfeit women who do not know what it is to mother and are thus able to see mothering in terms of cash and strikes. Is that you?’ A birth — a real one, but clean and majestic, an awed mother touching the baby not yet out of her body, a complete circle dissolving into a silver coin. ‘Is that how you see it?’ Now his voice trembled with theatrically controlled anger. ‘I fume, you know. I fume with indignation, with vicarious indignation ... I share the anger that many of you must feel when you realise that not only have you been hoodwinked but that those who have hoodwinked you have arrogated to themselves the title of The Women! The Women! These, I think, are the women of Britain.’ FAMILY processions down the years. Women getting married. Women cleaning floors, helping old people across the road, lying beneath the men who were having violent sexual intercourse with them. ‘These, you, are the women for whom they most certainly do not speak, women fully deserving of your Benefit, which will be withdrawn pending thorough rehabilitation from any mother who does not resume normal duties within twenty-four hours.’

  Peel paused for drama, then became gentle. ‘I am sorry if that seems severe. It is the only language some of these persons understand. There is one more point. Some of them have been putting it about that there is some kind of science-fiction conspiracy to put contraceptives in the drinking water or some such thing. You know, I do wish you would get your facts right before you get into such a state.

  ‘The facts are that there is a world population problem, and this country is going to contribute to its solution. We have been specially selected because of the specially responsible attitude of our mothers. It’s an honour, for goodness’ sake! All we’re going to do is provide some information for surveys and so forth. It’s a bit complicated to explain and it’s not settled yet. But you may rest assured that nothing is going to happen to you without your understanding and agreement ...’

  The relief in many of the strike centres was palpable.

  ‘There we are then,’ said the ones who wanted to go back.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said the hardliners.

  ‘No experiments. We’ve won.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything about selectivity.’

  ‘And we mustn’t give in to threats.’

  Some women left quite openly. Others wanted to check that their children hadn’t suffered accidents; if they were okay they would come back. Others sneaked out secretly. The feminists tried not to be despondent. It couldn’t go on for ever and something had been achieved — hadn’t it? Something had been proved — hadn’t it? Nothing would ever be quite the same again — would it?

  Peel extended his amnesty three times. Rumours abounded. The government was turning children loose on the streets. Children had strayed on to an airport runway and been mown down by a jet. Families in Europea were offering foster homes. Ships equipped with toys and nurseries were preparing to depart from Dover.

  Everyone tried to keep it friendly as the last of the FAMILY women left Collindeane.

  ‘You will stay in touch, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course, and I’m not going back to cleaning the floor more than once a day I can tell you.’

  ‘I mean, we do have things to say to each other.’

  ‘Oh yes ...’

  The towe
r seemed very empty. Emptier than ever before.

  ‘Some of our own women have gone too,’ Marsha noticed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lynn.

  ‘Will they come back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Have they all joined FAMILY?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The Protection of Women Act reaffirmed FAMILY values as the moral bedrock of the nation. Views subversive of those values were subversive of the state. Women must not band together for the purpose of propagating them. Public expression of sexism (defined as hatred of women in their natural role) was an offence.

  Lesbianism became illegal for the first time, and heavy penalties attached to the unqualified practice of medicine.

  But the PoW Act was not all stick. There were carrots too. Benefit went up for those women entitled to receive it. And the princess was involving herself personally in a new programme to reverse the injustices that had led to the recent unpleasantness (to which further reference would not be made). Benefit or no Benefit, it had to be realised that the housewife’s lot could be a hard and lonely one. She was prone to isolation, prey to doubt. It was good for women to come together. A Europea grant would allow family to expand its helping centres so that every woman in the country would be registered at one. Depending on her age and status in life, various services would be offered. Domestic advice, sexual counselling and help with birth control would be available. They would be the agencies for the payment of Benefit and the administration of rehabilitation (now called Domestic Education) programmes. There would be the usual hints on fashion and cookery, and creche facilities for women who had good reason to leave their children for a few hours. The centres would be called Women’s Centres.

  Peel felt sure that the president of Europea was impressed by his speed and thoroughness but would not show it.

  ‘The point is,’ Peel explained, ‘getting them all under one roof.’

  ‘All right, but what about The Women?’ he spoke the capitals, ‘as opposed to the women.’

  ‘You’re getting those,’ Peel grinned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The ones we’re rehabilitating. Ah, domestic educating. We send them to Europea, live in carefully selected homes for a bit of work experience. Bit of free help for your wives. Bit of the other for you from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘No.’ The president was not amused. ‘Not in our homes.’

  ‘Factories then. Food processing.’

  The president permitted himself a flicker of interest.

  ‘They are not popular places to work.’

  ‘Women are good at food processing.’

  The organisation known as The Women was declared banned, and a special detachment of investigators was formed to root out the leadership. Flippant colleagues dubbed them the Sex Police but they took their job seriously. They spent a lot of time interviewing former strikers who, back now in the bosoms of their families and registered at a government Women’s Centre, were easy to persuade to give information. They had many stories as to where the leadership of The Women lay.

  Hundreds of women were dispatched to Europea for six-month courses. Some took their children, others were allowed to leave them with approved foster families. A magistrate trying some women for performing an illegal medical procedure offered them a Domestic Education course as an alternative to prison. There was no law or precedent for the offer but it stood. And the example was followed in other courts.

  Feminist pamphlets were impounded as sexist. There were more and more attacks on women going unescorted on the street. Sometimes the victims were devout adherents of FAMILY; The Women were clearly to blame. Sometimes they were feminists, but who was to say the attacks were not stage-managed, particularly when they stopped short of rape? Court orders were taken out in the name of dead landlords and long defunct local authorities for the repossession of squatted buildings.

  The fashion industry responded to the new mood of femininity by creating a new Olex textile which was spun thin like lace. Long frocks, ruffs and collars were all the rage. Olex lace had to be washed by hand but it didn’t matter because red hands were thought alluring. Special creams could be bought to enhance their colour.

  Sex therapy at the government Women’s Centres proved popular. Many women who had abandoned their children now suffered deep guilt and their marital relationships were impaired. They were told to remember the strike (if at all) as a bad dream. Latest research showed that complete passivity of mind and body were the pathway to pleasure in women. If sensations in the clitoris distracted from the joys of intercourse it could be excised, but this was not generally necessary; a correct attitude of mind should be enough.

  It became dangerous to picket the Women’s Centres urging women not to register. Gangs of police and other men were never far away. And meanwhile the government was running a massive campaign to fit contraceptive pellets in every woman of childbearing age. Special badges advertised who was wearing one, and the devices were removable on demand, more or less. Many famous women (some post-menopausal but keen to show they were not afraid) testified to their trouble-free up-to-dateness. It was the younger women who remained cautious, and so photogenic girls were sought who would have them fitted and appear on posters, smiling as reassuringly ‘after’ as ‘before’. Star of the publicity drive aimed at engaged girls was Jane Carmichael, nee Byers.

  At last Britain went into Europea, all its flags flying.

  It was the strike that had made up Jane’s mind. Until then she swore she’d been trying to find a way to peace through the antagonisms that lay between her and her mother. After all, whatever Lynn might think, the FAMILY message was always that a child's duty to love and respect his parents was second only to a mother’s duty to nurture her children.

  It was ironic too, considering Lynn’s dislike of Martin (she’d dislike any man having the nerve to love her daughter, Jane brooded) that it was he who had led Jane to reconsider her attitude to her. ‘You really hate her, don’t you?’ he’d said once, and it was not just his manifest disapproval that had stopped her short. It was that word hate. Lynn herself had made the same accusation when Jane first joined YFT. It was four years ago but she remembered it well. She had been wondering how to tell Lynn she’d decided to join, and had let her come upon her admiring herself in her new uniform. The jacket and skirt were skilfully designed. They made a flat bust look round and softened angular hips. The green flattered her red hair and even her pallor looked intriguing rather than pitiful.

  Lynn had cut right through it. ‘What on earth are you wearing?’

  ‘You can see.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘You don’t have to be embarrassed about me getting charity. There’s no charity in YFT, we just help one another.’

  ‘And hate your parents!’

  This had hurt. And the same charge hurt again, years later, coming from Martin. She didn’t hate Lynn. She just sensed resentment and returned it. At least that was the only explanation she could think of now, as an adult, for her admitted perversity as a child. The treatments for her illness had been the classic opportunity for conflict. The memory made her blush a bit. She’d realised much earlier than she let on that they were a life-saver rather than a skilled scheme of sadism dreamed up by Lynn to make her life a misery, yet she’d got into the habit of sulking and martyring herself and enjoying the attention this earned. What an appalling daughter she’d beenl What would she do if she got one the same?

  Happy in Martin’s courtship, she made a special effort to be helpful and polite to Lynn. He encouraged this. When they got married he wanted a big ceremony with at least the outward signs of approval from both her parents. She started respecting Lynn’s political opinions and concealing her suspicion of Marsha’s visits. She was welcoming to Jim and read books that enabled her to have useful conversations with Derek. Once she even got Lynn to admit that Martin was quite a nice boy even though she wished Jane would take up Derek’s offer t
o pull a few strings and get her at least a year of university education before she married. Jane said she wouldn’t need it. Some sort of peace reigned.

  And then came the unbelievable news that over half the nation’s mothers had walked out on their children. Deliberately, cold-bloodedly, as a political gesture. And not only did Lynn approve, she had helped organise it. Even Derek seemed to have had a hand in getting the information, sour though that fact would make the feminists if they did but know! It was the sickest thing Jane had ever heard of, and she walked out too.

  Martin had been stern and anxious. ‘Whatever they have done,’ he said, ‘They are still your parents.’

  ‘I won’t go back.’

  ‘Where will you live, then?’

  ‘With you, I’d hoped.’

  ‘Jane!’

  ‘Married, I meant.’

  ‘I had hoped your parents would be at our wedding.’