‘If they are,’Jane said fiercely, ‘I won’t be.’
So they married fast. Martin was reluctant and embarrassed: FAMILY was encouraging the practice of long, chaste engagements during which girls should attend preparation classes. If a girl attended these after her wedding rather than before, everyone assumed she’d had to get married. This was another reason for Martin’s suggestion that she have her contraceptive pellet fitted before the wedding with full publicity.
Now Jane wasn’t sure how she felt about being married. She didn’t know what she’d expected from sex (she had ignored everything Lynn had told her) but it certainly hadn’t been this combined sensation of being fantastically important and yet not there at all as Martin prodded and pumped away. His bossiness as a husband didn’t worry her unduly, it was the underside of his strong sense of responsibility, and he only bossed her to do things that she accepted as her job anyway, like housework. She knew she wasn’t very good at housework yet but he had a nice sister called Astrid who often popped in, full of advice. What did worry her — embarrassed her, though she told nobody — was the way she kept wanting to wake up in her own bed at home. It wasn’t that she was unhappy or regretted getting married, she just felt childish and homesick. She had pooh-poohed the importance of a ceremony, of parental approval; now she felt that the transaction of her marriage had not been properly completed, that she had been kicked out (or had flounced out) of the world of childhood, without being properly honoured as an adult.
Martin had just finished giving her her physiotherapy. She got up from lying sideways over cushions, feeling slightly sick as she always did, and a mixture of aroused and grateful and humiliated at her husband’s willingness to take this on. Her poor old ribs. It was a wonder they were still there.
She started to cough to clear her lungs. What a disgusting business. Yet he stayed with her for company. Just as Lynn had. Jane wanted to avert her eyes from her own body on these occasions, yet the people who loved her stayed. Would she be able to love like that? Well, she’d have to.
‘Thanks,’ she muttered.
‘It was a pleasure.’
‘You’ll get tired of it.’
‘On the contrary. It’ll save me beating you.’
She smiled, a bit disturbed. ‘I want to have this pellet thing taken out and have a baby,’ she said.
‘What, now?’
She pretended to consider. ‘Tomorrow would do.’
‘You’ve only just had it put in.’
That was for the posters.’
He frowned. ‘We’ll do whatever you want, love. But why?’
‘Why?’ she shouted, ‘Why do you think? Don’t you want to?’
‘Of course I do. But it’s preferable not to have children in the first year of marriage, it’s been proved by statistics.’
‘I’ve always wanted to be a mother,’ she said. It was true. Well, if she was fair, she had to admit that the first time she thought of it was in a skirmish with Lynn. Lynn was always saying ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ and Jane used to go through the normal answers — a doctor, a nurse, a journalist, a professor. One day, almost at random, she’d said, ‘I just want to be a mother like you,’ and Lynn had tried to hide the pursing of her lips as she turned away. But Jane had noticed and stored it up as a weapon. In time it became a real wish. She wanted babies, lots of babies. She’d loved the brief time when they used to go to Collindeane because there were babies and children there, and then the time in the reception centres. Children’s questions were so fabulous because they made you wonder about real things. Why are trees that way up? Why can’t I see words? Why do sounds stop and where do they go when I can’t hear them any more? Say why? and people will talk to you. The child wants to be talked to and reassured. The adult likes to be confirmed as superior and knowledgeable. A partnership. Sealed by why? So many exquisite little symmetries in the bond, Jane mused, yet these mad feminists talked and acted as if motherhood were no more than a job!
Why did Lynn have her if she didn’t want to look after her? But she had looked after her. But she’d resented it so. But she hadn’t resented it, she’d been devoted. But ... oh damn it. She was grown up now. She was off Lynn’s hands. Lynn could do anything, cavort with lesbians in a clapped-out block of flats if that was what turned her on. And Jane would have a baby. And the circle would be completed. And Jane would go to Lynn and say, guess what, you’re going to be a granny, and there would be peace between them.
Next day she slipped disdainfully through the feminist pickets and into the government Women’s Centre.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to the clerk who sat on a tall stool picking his fingernails, 'I’d like to make an appointment to — er —’ She hunted for the right word, surprised at herself.
He glanced at her breasts. ‘Starting a family?’
They really ought to have women to staff these places. It was bad enough for an emancipated, articulate girl like herself, who knew her rights; some women would feel intruded upon. ‘Hope so. Hardly worth having it put in in the first place really, but I, er, did it for the posters.’ She nodded at the pictures of herself on the wall; she’d hoped he would recognise her. 'How long will it take?’
‘That’s up to you, my dear.’ He leered. ‘Or your husband, should I say.’
‘I meant getting it removed.’
‘No time at all. It’s a simple operation, you can do it in a lunch hour. Make a day of it though, it’s best. Name?’
‘Carmichael, Jane Carmichael.’
‘I’ll look you up.’
By what right did he look her up? They really should have women ... he was pressing keys on a humming lighted board. The board covered a box which contained information on all the women registered at this Centre. The box coughed and spat and emitted a tapeworm of paper. The man ran his bitten fingers over whatever secrets it contained. Jane felt dirty, as if he held her underwear. She shivered.
‘You don’t appear to exist,’ he said, smiling with a mockery that was only partly directed against himself.
‘Of course I do.’ She frowned. ‘My maiden name was Byers, if that’s relevant.’
‘Of course, of course. Come back tomorrow.’
Suddenly she was afraid. She shouldn’t have given her maiden name. Maybe they’d match it with a list of subversives and find Lynn. Maybe they’d tell her she wasn’t suitable. The thought formed: what business is it of theirs? It was disloyal. She brushed it away. The man was still fiddling with dials and buttons.
‘Byers?’
‘That was my name.’
‘Any hereditary illness in your family?’
She turned very cold. Her voice came out as a croak. ‘I have cystic fibrosis, but I’m —’ The man’s face stopped her. Stupid, humiliating to plead. She knew what was coming.
‘CF, eh?’ He moved to the other side of the box, pressed different keys. ‘Must’ve been well looked after to last this long.’ Another strip of paper oozed out. He read it and smiled the smile of a man who has solved a knotty problem, ‘CF. You’re in a different category, never occurred to me, you looking so well. ’ He was reproachful. ‘I don’t suppose they’ll recommend removal in your case.’
She said quietly, ‘Who the hell do you think you are? I demand to see a doctor.’
‘Suit yourself. Tomorrow? But I’m telling you, you’re wasting your time. You’ll find other outlets, bright girl like you. They’re trying to wipe out these illnesses, you see.’
Chapter 9: Terrorists
Someone said kindly, ‘Go up and share lookout duty with Judy, Marsha.’ It was necessary of course. Judy couldn’t keep her mind reliably on one thing and she had taken some little girls up with her which suggested some game was in the offing. But Marsha knew this wasn't the only reason. Judy wasn’t the only person who needed looking after.
Marsha’s feet were heavy with the long climb, and her chest ached. The physical failings of middle age were such a boring nuisance; back in the
old days she could take these stairs two at a time. Her breath came fast and her blood beat in her ears. What would it matter if her heart stopped altogether? Who would be worse off if she bent dizzily over a banister and it broke and she smashed spreadeagled on to the stone ground floor? Well, the women would if she did it right now because she was meant to be keeping watch, but what about later when she was off-duty? Who would care? Not Lynn. Lynn wouldn’t even notice.
Her toe caught the lip of a step. She slipped, barked her shin, sobbed. She forced her legs to lift higher than they needed, as a punishment.
What did I do wrong? she wailed inside, then mocked viciously the cry of the thwarted lover. What had she done wrong indeed? How could she ever do anything right? When even people sensible enough to fall in love with members of the opposite sex and backed up by a culture, an etiquette, a religion, whole industries, whole fictions and mythologies, whole genres of joke telling them how to behave, when even for those people things went wrong occasionally (just occasionally she added bitterly, thinking of millions of couples down the years at their ceremonies swearing ‘till death do us part’ and then swearing it again with a new partner, and again with another). What chance is there for us?
Why waste time and tears on straight women anyway?
She’d been so careful. She didn’t know how many lovers Lynn had had in her life, or even if there had been any other than Derek; but she was damn sure none of them had been as ethical as she was. There were many forms of pressure that could be applied in a women’s community to a straight woman who spumed the love of a sister to run home to her husband, but Marsha had tried none of that. Nor had she presumed upon the greeting kisses and congratulatory or sympathetic hugs that were part of the women’s normal life together, even though Lynn seemed to like those as much as anyone. She’d made sure that their bedding lay close together when Lynn stayed nights (the roads being unsafe after dark) but she’d felt Lynn’s tension like beams through the darkness when the couples around them started shifting and whispering, and held off. Was that right? Had it really been tension? Was that conversation they’d had the day the news of Posy came forgotten, or had it just been to comfort her? Last night, at last, she’d thought not. She’d laughed at herself — the tension had been her own. Now she wondered.
How had it happened? In the end not by seduction, not by blackmail. Just gentle frankness. The departure of the strikers had left empty spaces in Collindeane Tower.
‘You know I love you, Lynn.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Is it the same for you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can we try?’
Lynn sighed. ‘I don’t want to think of you as an experiment. What are you laughing at?’
‘Lynn, you’re so wonderful. I’m the one who’s supposed to feel guilty.’
‘God damn it!’ Lynn was shouting, the comers of her eyes were wet, she was laughing and her fists were clenched. ‘Why is it that whatever we do we feel guilty?’ and they hugged each other and didn’t let go. It was a sweet polite night. Once Lynn raised herself on to Marsha as if to mount her, then exploded into laughter and fell on her side, hiding her face. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot.’
‘Is that what you do with Derek?’ said Marsha — unforgivable, but Lynn forgave. ‘What’s Derek doing in the women’s tower?’ she demanded, and it was an answer Marsha could not work out her reaction to because it said I’m not thinking about Derek at this moment, Marsha, so you don’t have to —, but it also said what Derek and I have is safe from the likes of you, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.
They slept. Marsha woke when it was still dark and felt Lynn’s soft hand on her.
‘Fascinating,’ Lynn murmured.
‘What?’
‘Your body.’
‘Same as yours.’
‘Not really.’
Lynn yawned. ‘No wonder men like us so much.’
‘Never mind about that. Come close.’
‘You’re shivering.’
‘It’s a bad time of the night.’
'What time?’
‘Three o’clock. Bad things happen. Time stops, People die. Your heart slows down, you know? Police raids happen at three.’
Lynn said, ‘The guards will warn us.’
They lay together. Marsha stiffened. ‘What’s that?’
‘I didn’t hear anything.’
‘There it is again.’
Lynn repeated her owl noise and snorted with laughter.
‘Shut up, you’ll wake the bloody hens.’
In the morning they were tired and sunny-eyed and slightly drunk. They volunteered to shovel chickenshit and spread it on the window boxes. ‘Fancy eggs for breakfast?’ asked Marsha, and Lynn said, ‘mm.’ The other women turned a blind eye to the great bowls of yellow curds they prepared for themselves (one egg per woman per week was strictly the ration) and they ate and nudged each other like puppies.
When did the mood change? Marsha remembered a moment of stillness. One minute Lynn was wiping a bit of bread round her plate with her fingers, scooping up egg. Then she stopped. It was as if a film had changed mid-reel. She picked up her knife and fork and cut the bread delicately. Marsha raised an eyebrow. Lynn met her glance and looked away.
‘Lynn.’
‘What?’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What is it?’
Lynn spread her hands. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You didn’t like the experiment.’ Marsha tried to make her voice light.
‘It’s not that.’
‘Ah. You did like it.’
‘Yes. I did, but that’s not ...’
‘It’s all right you know,’ said Marsha, ‘I’ve been assuming you’d go home.’
‘Yes.’
‘I can spot a woman who doesn’t want to shovel any more chickenshit.’
But Lynn stayed till all the nesting boxes were clean and the wood of the floorboards was clearly visible. ‘You can power engines with this stuff, you know,’ Marsha remarked. And Lynn said, ‘Oh really,’ and the moment froze.
Someone called that Lynn had a visitor. Derek, Marsha thought. But it wasn’t Derek. It was Jane.
‘Jane’s come here?’ said Lynn, her eyes wide.
And then what a touching scene! Marsha couldn’t bear to look and couldn’t turn away. The return of the prodigal daughter — falling on her mother’s neck, floods of tears all round, more joy in heaven for the lamb that was lost and is found etcetera. Jane wailing and coughing: yes, yes, the feminists had been right all along, FAMILY was a monstrous organization, the Europop project an abomination, and all the women coming rushing to the sound of tears and listening in sympathy and welcoming Jane to the fold and Marsha just watching, numb —
And Lynn tactfully shepherding the girl into a quiet room and not saying, ‘You come in too, Marsha, you’re one of the family now,’ but closing the door on her — giving her a kind, woman-to-woman you-do-understand smile, yes, but closing the door on her nonetheless —
And later, when Marsha was pretending to find more chickenshit to clean, hearing Lynn and her blubbering daughter helping each other down the stairs — and feeling murderous anger, a wish to hunt out Derek (whom she liked, damn it, and never wanted to hurt or compete with) and say: look! She wouldn’t leave me for you, you know! just for that snivelling brat!
‘Are you off then, Lynn?’ she called, her voice casual, strangled. Their eyes met, and again that woman-to-woman, can’t-you-see-she’s-upset, don’t-make-it-more-difficult-than-it-is look that was worse than a rebuff. ‘Are you coming back?’
‘Of course.’ Lynn’s voice was too bright. ‘I’m taking Jane home so we can talk things over.’
‘See you then.’
And then there was nothing, only a great blank of pain and someone saying, ‘Go up and share lookout duty with Judy, Marsha.’ Someone kind. Someone who knew the top of the building was the best place to be
when you were glum, surveying the suburb and the city beyond it and the dizzying tiers of windows in the diminishing column beneath you and knowing it was full of women who were their own women.
At the top of the tower in the leaking cavern that she called the woom (after the error of a child) Judy Matthews, robed and veiled, lit thirteen scarlet candles on a red velvet cloth spread across the floor, diamond-shaped.
She hummed as she placed things in order, and laughed, little ripples of giggle swelling into hysteria which frightened her till she had to comfort herself. The light was dim, the windows were covered, the walls were draped with red and there were vases of crimson roses that Judy cultivated while the others were bothering with beans.
Someone whispered outside the door. Someone tapped.
Judy frowned. ‘Just one minute, honey. You got to be patient.’ She surveyed the room. She asked herself, ‘Is that okay? Yes, that’s okay.’ She opened the door. Twelve little girl-children, red-dressed from head to toe, filed in, subdued and very reverent.
Judy’s face tensed and relaxed as they took their places round the diamond. They crouched. Doing as they had been taught, each girl made of herself a red bundle, knees drawn up to her chin, hands folded round her crotch. Judy positioned herself at the head of the diamond. She sat flat, her bent thighs horizontal, her feet returning to meet each other. She raised her arms diamond-like over her head, her elbows pointed with sharp symmetry. Her fingertips touched.
A giggle escaped from a child. Judy turned a terrible face on her, then smiled. The girl blushed. ‘Are we ready?’Judy said.
She started to hum. The girls hummed a few notes lower. Judy stood and her hum became a chant. She chanted the names of fruits and flowers and herbs, months, seasons and festivals, goddesses and heroines. Suddenly she approached one of the bundles and kicked it.
‘What is this?' Her voice was mighty with contempt.
The other girls got up and made great play of pretending to examine the bundle, asking each other:
‘Is it dirt?’
‘A vessel of sin?’
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