by Ben Elton
'You made a miracle,' she said on the evening when the authorities officially declared the plague to have run its course, 'and I love you.'
'I didn't make a miracle,' Trafford replied. 'Miracles can't be explained. You know exactly why Caitlin survived. Her immune system had been primed to withstand the epidemic.'
'I don't care how it was achieved, it's still a miracle,' Chantorria said, 'and I think it's a sign.'
'A sign?'
'Caitlin's survival means she wants us to stay together.'
Trafford was astonished. 'Please tell me you're not serious,' was all he could think of to say.
'Of course I'm serious. She's here because she wants to help mend our marriage.'
'Chantorria, Caitlin is less than one year old. She doesn't "want" anything apart from more booby.'
Trafford was horrified at the direction Chantorria's mind had taken. How could it be that the very thing which should have turned her away from bogus self-serving spirituality seemed to be drawing her towards it?
'Our daughter,' he said firmly, 'is alive today because of the intervention of man-made science. Her survival has nothing to do with her wanting us to stay together.'
'I still don't want a divorce. Not now. Not after what we've been through.'
But Trafford did want a divorce. He wanted his freedom: freedom to read and to learn. That was his passion now. Every moment spent in the real world, working through the mundane detail of day-to-day life, was a moment lost in his search for knowledge, understanding and experiences of the imagination.
He wanted privacy and time to concentrate. If he and Chantorria split up he would get it. She would keep their flat because of the child and he would have to find a roof elsewhere. Most men would have viewed this prospect with horror; the housing shortage was permanently acute and single men usually ended up in a hostel or at best a bed-and-breakfast. In terms of physical comfort this would be a huge step down for Trafford: family apartments were cramped certainly and damp, rat-infested and insanitary, but compared to the tiny plasterboard cupboards offered in bed-and-breakfasts or the sardine-can dormitories of the hostels they were palatial. But it was not comfort for the body that Trafford needed, it was comfort for the mind and the soul. He wanted simply to be left alone. A cockroach-infested bunk in a crowded dorm would be fine by him as long as he could shut out the world by tuning his communitainer to some bland, forgettable New Age chillout and disappear into the vast unmapped universe of history, science and literature.
Besides, he was in love with Sandra Dee.
After the night at the Community Confession when Chantorria had named her in the divorce testification, Trafford had restrained himself from visiting Sandra Dee's site. Even so, she remained at the forefront of his mind and the fact that at the last Fizzy Coff she had furiously avoided his eye had only served to increase his fascination. In his mind all the heroines in the stories that Cassius gave him to read looked like her. Elizabeth Bennet was Sandra Dee, Heathcliff's Cathy was Sandra Dee, Anna Karenina, Juliet and Ophelia were Sandra Dee. Even the women in the history he was reading took on her likeness: Marie Curie developing radium, Emily Pankhurst ensuring female suffrage, Elizabeth I, all had the face of Sandra Dee.
'I just think we should continue as we planned,' Trafford said to Chantorria. 'After all, we've made the public announcement and everything.'
'That doesn't make any difference,' Chantorria said. 'Some couples break up and make up once a fortnight.'
'We're not them. We should see through what we've started.'
'Don't you love me any more?' Chantorria asked, tears welling in her eyes.
'Chantorria, we both agreed to divorce. You don't love me either.'
'But in these last weeks, we've been so close again.'
'Because we thought our daughter might die.'
'I thought . . . I thought . . . there was more to it than that.'
And the tears came. Chantorria wept and wept and of course Trafford went to comfort her.
'Don't cry,' he said, hugging her. 'Let's leave it a day or two and see what happens.'
'Caitlin needs us,' Chantorria sobbed. 'She wants us to be together.'
24
Life at Inspiration Towers now changed dramatically for Trafford and Chantorria. Trafford had half feared that their good fortune over the measles epidemic would provoke resentment among the other parents in their community and he was at first extremely relieved to discover that the opposite was the case. He and Chantorria suddenly found themselves being admired as people who had been especially favoured by the Lord.
Confessor Bailey set the tone by mentioning Caitlin Happymeal's miraculous survival from the pulpit at the first weekly Confession after the lifting of the quarantine.
'As you all know,' he said, 'the Inspiration Towers estate recently suffered a terrible reckoning. But in his wisdom the Lord favoured one baby girl to survive. I want to tell you that all the lost children live on in her. I say to the bereaved mummies and daddies of Inspiration Towers, when you see Caitlin Happymeal, see in her the spark of what is gone but which you will find again. Who knows the Love's purpose in preserving Caitlin Happymeal, but it is my belief that he has preserved her for some higher duty which is a mystery to us.'
Bailey pointed his finger to where Chantorria and Trafford sat.
'Nurture her, Chantorria, protect her, Trafford, for she is truly blessed and you are blessed to be the parents of such a child. So let us hear no more talk of divorce!' he added. 'The Lord and the Love has saved your baby. He has saved her for a purpose. He loves your family. He believes in your family. Go home in peace. Dance like there's nobody watching, sing like there's nobody listening and tonight make love like it's the first time.'
Out of the blue, Trafford and Chantorria became celebrities in their tenement. The gang of which Chantorria had previously been the most peripheral member now came knocking on her door. Any person whom Confessor Bailey saw fit to acknowledge from the pulpit was a big figure in the community and must be courted. Tinkerbell visited all the time now, having announced on her video blog that Chantorria was her new best friend.
'Would you like Lexus to pop down and look at that shower for you? I know Trafford's not much of a handyman, bless him, and I'm sure Lexus could get it working for you.' Tinkerbell always made a big point of holding and hugging Caitlin Happymeal and saying over and over again that being so close to Caitlin made up in some small way for the loss of KitKat.
'I just know that Gucci KitKat and Caitlin Happymeal would have been the bestest bestest mates,' she said, wiping away her tears. Then she added, with heavy emphasis, 'Does Caitlin have a godmother?'
'Only Barbieheart,' Chantorria admitted with some embarrassment. Barbieheart was godmother to all the children in the tenement so having her was nothing special. Chantorria could probably have assembled a better show if she had tried; most women were happy to take on the role of godmother because apart from getting drunk at the christening the post carried no special duties or responsibilities. When Caitlin was born, however, Chantorria had not been brave enough to ask anyone for fear of rejection. Even now she could not quite summon up the courage to ask directly.
'I mean, perhaps you . . . would you . . . ?' she stuttered.
'Oh my God!' Tinkerbell shrieked. 'Oh – my – God, I'd be honoured! We'll have to have her christened!'
'Well, she's been christened of course . . .'
'We'll do it again! But properly this time! A really big party! We'll get all the girls and just fucking go for it.'
Tinkerbell was as good as her word and a large celebration was organized in which all the women in the tenement queued up to offer their services as godmothers and to hug the last surviving baby in their building, no doubt in the hope that somehow Caitlin's luck or divine favour would rub off on them and that their future babies might also be protected by the Love.
Chantorria did her best not to appear too exultant at her new status – after all, it was only we
eks since the plague had ended and the building was still in mourning – but with so many visits and gifts of cake and chocolate it was difficult for her to hide her delight. Barbieheart took to organizing her social diary, acting as an indulgent mother to a wild effervescent daughter.
'You've got Velvet Secret for coffee at eleven but you must get rid of her by twelve because Tinks and Flaming Ruby are taking you to lunch at McDonald's, no less, so Caitlin can have her first McFlurry.'
Chantorria's days passed in a whirlwind of visits. There was always chocolate and cake and usually plenty of fizzy wine, and always the golden daughter must be hugged for the Lord and the Love had selected her to survive.
All this suited Trafford very well. Chantorria had previously been rather a needy person, clinging on to Trafford and demanding his attention. Now she had so much to occupy her time that Trafford was able to find many hours a day in which he could sit and read. It was of course remarked upon that he seemed to have developed an extraordinary interest in self-improvement, but this was seen as a positive thing and evidence of the special plans that God had for him and his family.
'He's getting himself ready,' Barbieheart remarked, 'preparing himself for whatever task the Love has waiting for him.'
25
As Trafford emerged from the office lifts on the morning of his next Fizzy Coff, his mind as usual dwelling on Sandra Dee, he saw that he was not the only person to be focused on her that day. Princess Lovebud was standing before her desk. The simmering dislike which the office bully felt for Sandra Dee was always in danger of coming to a head and now it looked as if Princess Lovebud had found an excuse to engineer a major confrontation.
'Sandra Dee,' Princess Lovebud said, standing uncomfortably close to her proposed victim, 'I notice that you have stopped paying into the cake and doughnuts fund.'
'Yes, that's right,' Sandra Dee replied without looking up from her computer.
'Oi! I'm talking to you,' Princess Lovebud barked.
'Yes, I know. And I've replied. We are at work. We're paid to process information, not to discuss doughnuts.'
'Are you disrespecting me?'
'I am trying to get on with my work.'
Trafford glanced around the office. As usual it was divided between those in Princess Lovebud's camp who were all ears, relishing the mayhem to come, and those who kept their heads down, trying hard not to draw focus, hating the scene but grateful that it was not they who were the objects of the departmental bully's disapproval.
'Why ain't you paying into the cake and doughnut jar?'
'Because I don't eat any of the cake and doughnuts. I never have done and yet for quite a long time, out of politeness, I still put money in. I've paid for lots of the cake and doughnuts you've eaten but now I've decided to stop.'
'Don't you want to muck in? Don't you want to be a part of the team?'
'I don't think that forcing everybody to pay for the things that you and your mates want to eat means that we're a team, Princess Lovebud.'
Trafford was astonished. Nobody had ever challenged Princess Lovebud's authority before. It was utterly unprecedented and for a moment the team loudmouth was at a loss, clearly not knowing what to say next. Briefly there was silence, during which Sandra Dee continued to tap away at her computer. Then Princess Lovebud rallied.
'You think you're better than me, don't you?' she demanded.
'No, I don't.'
'Yes, you do. You think you're better than me.'
'Actually, I don't think about you at all.'
'Are you a racist?'
Trafford was surprised. This was a very serious allegation and took the confrontation to a whole different level.
'Of course not.'
'Because, as you know, I am a person of mixed race.'
'That is entirely irrelevant to this discussion, which is about a cake and doughnut fund that you set up and to which I do not wish to contribute.'
'Are you calling my race irrelevant?'
'Irrelevant in this case.'
'Which is the case we happen to be discussing!' Princess Lovebud said triumphantly, as if she had scored a major point.
Trafford knew it was useless for Sandra Dee to attempt to reason with Princess Lovebud. The quarrel had taken on a life of its own and anything that Sandra Dee said would be wilfully misinterpreted by Princess Lovebud in support of her own argument.
'Have you got a problem with the fact that I'm a quarter Irish, a quarter Croatian, part Cornish and one-sixteenth Afro-Caribbean British?' Princess Lovebud continued. 'Because I'm proud of who I am.'
'Actually, I don't care what you are.'
There was an audible gasp from the bully mob at this.
Princess Lovebud had listed her antecedents and the only socially acceptable response to that was to gush with ecstasy and exclaim at full volume how much one loved all the racial and national groups that had been mentioned. Sandra Dee should have assured Princess Lovebud that she loved Irish people, she loved Croatian people, she loved the Cornish and she loved Afro-Caribbean British people. Her indifference to Princess Lovebud's pride in her racial mix was truly shocking.
'That is totally and utterly RACIST!' Princess Lovebud screamed. 'I can't believe you said that! I cannot BELIEVE you said that.'
'Said what?'
'You said you didn't care about Irish and Croatian, Cornish and Afro-Caribbean British people. You did! You said it! You need counselling, you need re-educating! You need to start growing, woman, because you are out of order.'
'I said I didn't care about you.'
'Yes, well, I am all them things and if you don't care about something then you don't have any respect for it and that is being disrespectful and disrespecting someone because of their race is racism and I am going to blog you up! I am going to complain to the tribunal.'
This was a very heavy threat indeed. Ostensibly workplace tribunals existed to provide 'arbitration' and 'reconciliation' services to employees who felt uncomfortable or threatened by the behaviour of a colleague. In reality they were kangaroo courts transparently manipulated by office bullies to settle scores and secure advancement, mini show trials in which Temple favourites could destroy anybody they wished to, simply by accusing them of socially unacceptable thinking. Any person at any time could find themselves accused suddenly of racism or sexism and be forced to appear before these tribunals, usually without understanding what it was they were supposed to have done. The charges were impossible to deny because over the years the words had come to be so widely and loosely interpreted as to be almost meaningless. In fact blatant racial discrimination and sexual harassment continued unchallenged, entirely separately to these trials, and often perpetrated by the very people who were claiming to be their victims.
Trafford decided that he must intervene. If Princess Lovebud were to take her complaint to a tribunal there was every chance that she would destroy Sandra Dee. She could with ease assemble many witnesses to support her grievance and if Sandra Dee was deemed to have made a racist remark the minimum punishment would be a course of re-education. She might easily lose her job.
'Princess Lovebud,' said Trafford, rising to his feet, 'I totally respect you big time and sincerely applaud the pride you take in who you are and where you came from. As a strong woman of Irish, Croatian, Cornish and Afro-Caribbean British heritage you are totally beautiful. However, I suggest that no way was Sandra Dee being racist and that you are well out of order, missus, so deal with it.'
Princess Lovebud swung round on Trafford in full attack mode. But then, just as the verbal assault was about to begin, she paused. Even a few weeks earlier she would have destroyed him. She was queen bee in their workspace and nobody told her she was out of order or to deal with it. She would have unleashed an expletive-ridden stream of invective that would have resulted in Trafford's total ostracism, and he might even have found himself being bundled into some dark stationery cupboard and physically attacked. However, things were different now. Trafford was no lon
ger an irritating nonentity, a saddo and a weirdo who could, if the mob chose, be bullied at will. He was a Temple favourite. He had been mentioned from the pulpit by his Confessor and singled out for the Lord and the Love's special purpose. His child had survived a holy plague when all others in his building had succumbed. If Princess Lovebud were to disrespect him she would be disrespecting the will of the Temple, the will of the Lord even, and in that moment all her authority would evaporate. Suddenly it was she who would be the victim, naked and defenceless against all those who had previously feared her. And there were many.
'Yeah, well . . . all right,' Princess Lovebud said. 'If she wasn't being racist then that's fine, isn't it? I was only saying about the cake fund.'
'It is a voluntary fund though, isn't it?' Trafford asked.
'Of course it is. There ain't no rule, is there?'
'Then surely those who want to be a part of it should pay in and eat the things you buy and those who don't should simply opt out.'
'They can if they want.'
'Then I think I will,' Trafford said, 'if that's all right with you.'
'Whatever,' Princess Lovebud said and, taking up her money tin, she returned with it to the social hub where with exaggerated indifference she ate a doughnut. Nobody else took up the opportunity to withdraw from the fund; the power in the office might have shifted somewhat, but only for Trafford. For most people the idea of confronting Princess Lovebud remained unthinkable.
Slowly the office returned to normal. Trafford looked towards Sandra Dee many times during that day to see if he could catch her eye but she never once looked in his direction. He saw Cassius smile at him, though, and once more Trafford was struck by the thought that there were only three real, fully rounded human beings in the office. Himself, Cassius and Sandra Dee. There must be others, of course; he knew that. Kahlua he imagined was real and there were one or two more whom he suspected of hiding elements of individuality, but he could not be sure. In Trafford's mind, evidence of humanity was the keeping of secrets and he had no knowledge of theirs.