by J S Hollis
“You’re quite right. I’ll let go.” Their embrace continued. The physical in full denial of the psychological. Some have argued that they communicated their negative feelings through these touches. That all the anger, jealously and frustration was transmitted from skin to skin: a kind of biological Morse code. There is no evidence of this. Instead the pain emerged in petty and carefully disguised manoeuvres and backhanded complements.
The pressure of politics is sadly (and deliciously) unrelenting. After Cecil won the Pentonville seat, the public continued to scrutinise. In ’56, following the Chan incident, the spotlight turned onto Clara.
Rory Chan, a young teenage boy, took his sister with him on a daytime walk into the woods. They meandered until they reached the place furthest away from help. At that point, he picked up a log and swung it against the back of her head, causing her immediate collapse. He took off her clothes and used them to tie up her hands and legs, precisely knotting the fabric like a scout so that it wouldn’t budge if she came to. Then he raped her.
The investigators were convinced he had planned the attack and he admitted that he had practised it routinely in Mind Games. “It hadn’t seemed to do any harm,” he said.
The public became suspicious of the motives behind Mind Games. Why did people need to play games without surveillance? What other reason could there be than to hide their depraved thoughts? W had brought unusual practices out of the shadows and into the light. Clara was reported to be “complicit”, “an accomplice”, “the gatekeeper to the underworld”.
Before his ratings had a chance to drop, Cecil told Clara that he needed to release a statement on Mind Games. “You do your job and I’ll do mine,” she said.
Cecil sat at his desk and interlocked his hands in front of him. He looked at his knuckles and felt them rub up against each other. He looked up. “I have always been clear on the subject of Mind Games,” he said. “While I’m not a fan of them, I have always strongly believed that people should be free to think what they like. Actions matter, not thoughts. We cannot police people’s minds and nor should we want to. We may fear what goes on beneath the skin but we must accept that people will have bad thoughts. Their morality depends on their ability to accept or reject them. Each person should be free to use Mind Games to explore themselves. That said, I implore the manufacturers of these games to create positive worlds that do not draw on sex and violence.”
“Thank you,” Clara said when Cecil entered the bedroom that night. But his fellow MPs were less pleased. At a meeting of the parliamentary party the next day, they criticised Cecil for delivering a statement before the party had agreed its position. Leslie Haworth MP said, “It is remarkably convenient that your policy, which you say is our policy, is consistent with your wife’s job.”
“I’d say it is remarkably convenient that my wife’s job is consistent with my policy.” There were some smiles but no laughs. ”Look, I understand that I broke with procedure but is anyone seriously suggesting that we should try to watch people’s minds?”
The party debated the point and eventually arrived at Cecil’s position, after giving him a slap on the wrist for his breach of protocol. Cecil said nothing further to Clara about Mind Games. Although on a couple of occasions he talked up job opportunities she might be interested in.
Then, seemingly by chance, the Ministry of Defence approached Clara to become a Drawer, a position requiring her to develop complex military strategies solely in her head.32 Cecil discussed it with her in bed. He ran his fingers through her straight black hair and said, “I want you to know that I support whatever choice you make, but let’s discuss the pros and cons.”
“I’ve thought about the pros and cons,” Clara said, and batted Cecil’s hand away, “and I enjoy my job. I don’t want to change.”
“Don’t you want to do something good for society?”
Clara swallowed. “I may be wrong but I do believe that my games are helping to reduce mental health issues. Did you see how much they have gone up over the past thirty years? God knows there are few other escapes.”
Cecil tracked the roots of her wrinkles. “I think the mental health figures have largely gone up as a result of improved detection as opposed to increased problems.”
“People need escapes, Cecil. I am happy to provide one. You focus on the environment.”
Cecil’s position made sense. If Clara was defending England, as opposed to creating escapist games, it would have sent Cecil’s reputation rocketing, especially among those on the right of the party.
Clara turned the job down and Cecil said he “understood”. But did he? Or did he decide this wasn’t a battle worth fighting? If he pushed too hard the public eye would have turned on him. Better to be a “Mind Games supporter” than a bullying husband.
Even though he backed down, the damage to his marriage was irreparable. Another barely spoken disagreement became an additional thread weaving Cecil and Clara together. Each thread increased the repercussions of tearing away. To protect themselves from the threat of painful separation, they worked harder to disguise their imperfect symbiosis. Cecil held back from criticising Clara’s work or her endlessly changing range of hobbies. And Clara otherwise morphed into what Cecil imagined her to be. The mess of colour and inconsistency he had met whirling had become a grey line with white teeth. To avoid the risk of confrontation, their conversations tiptoed and, amid the silence, they began to talk about sounds they heard outside, the buzzing, the whirring, the odd bird chirping.
6
Gloss
Yevgeny Lebedyan could have been looking down the barrel of a gun. His left eye almost closed. The right wide and peering down an invisible sight. His mouth stretched into a crescent. He sat forward in a simple wooden director’s chair. Cecil and Clara drowned on a large brown sofa that, like quicksand, forced them to slip back each time they tried to move forward. With the set up perfectly to his tastes, the interviewer greeted the new Secretary of State for Commerce and his wife, who was wearing her recently acquired face veil.
“Good evening, Cecil and Clara, and thank you for coming on my show.”
“We are delighted to be here, Yevgeny,” Clara replied with measured elocution bordering on parody.
“Cecil, I would like to start with you. You have been pushing for positive discrimination in the workplace. You are convinced that this is the only way to tackle the vested interests of the wealthy. Do you consider yourself to be an egalitarian?”
“Yes, of course I do. We must work harder to raise the living standards of the majority of our country and of the world.”
“Well, it’s interesting you add ‘the world’ there. You offshored the manufacturing side of your business, taking jobs out of England. Is this ‘do as I say’ and not ‘as I do’?”
Cecil’s cheeks rose, like flaps of origami. “Yevgeny, we have been through this before. I moved jobs to Mali and the Western Sahara not because it was cheaper. It certainly wasn’t. But to raise the living standards of the poorest people in the world.”
“Still, what about the poor in your own country?”
“Look. The company I set up employs over one hundred people. They all have shares in the company. It pays them a good wage. And we have worked hard to employ those from the poorest backgrounds.”
“I wonder if your personal life reflects this egalitarian model. You are influenced by appearances. You have experienced criticism for overly dominant bedtime practices. And some feminist groups have described you as a silent tyrant.”
The origami flaps dropped. “Those criticisms are ridiculous. You would think we were some nightmare couple. We have had a wonderful life together.” He looked at Clara, who rotated her head towards him on cue. “I love Clara and have always treated her well. There was only one occasion where I lost control but I quickly realised my error and apologised.”
“You might think that. But E
quality Everywhere has released a report stating that while your intercourse uses the approved positions, you tend to take control using unnecessary force with your hands to control the pace.”
“I think it is rather farfetched to describe my husband as some sort of misogynist,” Clara said.
“The same groups have suggested that you, Clara, are a bad example to young women. Too deferential to your husband. They see your decision to wear a full face veil as deeply conservative.”
“Yevgeny.” She starred back at him. “You will always be able to find people who criticise. I am confident that the views you are raking up are those of a tiny vitriolic minority. I have a full time job and have had for almost twenty years. Some have criticised my recent decision to turn down an offer to become CEO of Mind Games but I made that decision for my son, who I wanted to see more of. When they offered it to me again with the condition that I can work as flexibly as I see fit, I took it.”
“And the veil?”
“I just feel more comfortable in the veil. It is the opposite of conservative – it is liberating. I am sure Cecil would be delighted if I removed it.”
“People think you want to avoid scrutiny.”
“How so? I am sure you have programmed your Eyescreens to see my face in any case.” Yevgeny nodded. “This is a personal decision. I like the feeling of privacy it gives me. I’m not asking for actual privacy and nor would I.”
“Your son is another area I would like to touch upon. How do you think Sebastian’s antisocial behaviour and unusual writings reflect upon you both?”
“Our son is an individual, as we all are. We believe strongly in letting him find his own way,” Cecil said.
The conversation continued along these lines. Dissecting Cecil and Clara’s characters on everything from their toilet habits, to their treatment of employees. They were reaching the end of the interview – Cecil had given into the quicksand sofa and was draped over the armrest – when thought tracking came up. “We can’t help thinking,” Yevgeny said, “that your opposition to thought tracking, like the veil, is your attempt to hide something.”
“What would we be hiding?” Cecil asked. He knew he shouldn’t have asked a question. He saw Yevgeny’s face light up and lips quiver, ready to launch a hundred ensnaring words. The net had fallen upon him. And as it fell, Cecil must have felt the winds of change cool his cheeks. He had gone as far he would ever go. Moments earlier, the studio lights had fallen on his face like rays of sunlight on a winter’s day. He thought he had emerged unscathed. He could get onto policy. He was “passionate about policy”. He knew “how to make this country a better place”. But with that Promised Land in sight, he had slipped.
“Hmm, I wouldn’t like to guess,” Yevgeny said. “Your desire to be leader of the country? Your long term plan to steal from the hard working and give to the unemployed? Sexual perversion and unspeakable violence? The options are endless but we only have a few minutes left. I understand you want to talk to us about a new ethical taxation system.”
“Yes, yes,” Cecil stuttered, forgetting to respond to the insults. “We have agreed today to launch a new value added tax that is dependent upon the ethical rating of the product. For instance, a product that is damaging to the environment and is manufactured by a company that has poor labour standards will have a higher level of tax than one produced sustainably. All in the name of compassionate consumption.”
Yevgeny’s nostrils flared. His left iris became almost visible. “How do you respond to this criticism from the English Business Association? They say that ‘the proposed tax will do irreparable damage to the English economy. Not least by undermining consumption but also by adding further regulatory burden’.”
“This is a proposal we have had for a while and have consulted on. Business is very supportive.” Cecil shifted on the slick faux leather.
“Well, it seems your consultation missed the largest business association in England. Do you dispute that consumption with be reduced?”
“Consumption may come down but we want that to—”
“Sorry to interrupt, Cecil. But, as Secretary of State for Commerce, you are admitting that you will be reducing consumption?”
“In quantity, yes, but not in quality.” Cecil jabbed his hand to hammer home the point.
“And you will be the judge of what is quality?”
“That function will be independent.”
“And we also have the Labour Party arguing that this is a tax on the poorest. That this is a bourgeois tax, for those who can afford more expensive goods, but that the poor will be priced out.”
“As I said, we have consulted—”
“I’m not sure how your consultation is relevant. You have clearly succeeded in alienating the business community and the poor.” Yevgeny suddenly leaned back and smiled. “And that is all we have time for. What will we have next, the Department of Health opposing medicine? International Development arguing that aid doesn’t work? I look forward to seeing you, seeing me tomorrow. Good night.”
Cecil and Clara shook Yevgeny’s hand and stepped out of the room. Sam Clark was waiting for them, his normally vibrant face had an earthy quality like carrot peel.
“What are they saying?” Cecil asked.
“Well, there is a lot of discussion about what you are hiding.”
“Why is everybody so sure I am hiding something? Are they happy with the new tax?”
“Well, there is very little discussion of it. The ‘What is Cecil hiding?’ discussions have gained more traction. They say that the tax is just part of your masterplan.”
“How can we get them to trust me?”
“They would say, ‘be yourself’.”
“I am myself,” Cecil said, more loudly than usual, causing the other people in the room to turn around. Cecil muttered an apology to Sam and left. Clara followed a few steps behind him.
Cecil’s Tax was introduced but limited to certain industrial goods and only for a trial period. Cecil was frustrated. During a Sunday morning walk, he gave Sebastian (and us) a rare insight into his psyche.
“You see, Seb. This is the problem. Everyone can see we need change.” He looked around him at the windowless skyscrapers looming over Mile End Park. “Not here. But go outside. Those people are just surviving, crammed into tiny spaces that they are forced to rent. All our studies say they are deeply unhappy. More unhappy than ever before. And I believe we need to do something about a society that is fundamentally unhappy. But that something is probably radical. You can’t just tweak taxes or benefits. We may even need to restrict or destroy the things everyone believes is keeping them happy. Endless choice, the chance of great wealth, immediate entertainment, stuff. How do you convince people that their happiness can only come through temporary suffering? That this isn’t just another elitist plot to rob them of their dignity? How do you even get their attention in the first place? Maybe the best you can do is lead by example.”
“Yeh,” Sebastian said, his head craned down towards the pavement.
“Maybe, maybe. I really wish it were easier to be good.”
“I guess if it were easy, it wouldn’t be so good,” said Sebastian, lifting his head up for a moment in temporary recognition of his revelation.
“Or maybe we make it difficult by seeking perfection?” Cecil reached out and touched his son’s shoulder. They were passing by the relic of a petrol station and Cecil stopped. Part of his interest in Sunday morning walks was to explore the historical fabric of the city. He tried to give Sebastian a sense of how things used to be. “I used to think petrol stations were the ugliest buildings we had. Indistinctive, neon, concrete. Now I miss them.”
Clara was absent from the walk. At that moment, she was drifting towards the earth beneath the canopy of her parachute. “Nothing clears the mind like gravity,” she had told Cecil. Skydiving was Clara’s perfect escape. Q
uiet, alone, and in the hands of the Gods. It allowed her to remain civil towards Cecil.
Sebastian, however, sensed all was not well between his parents. Donatella had encouraged him to write, and his writings are revealing.
S wanted the truth. so he found reading tolstoy to be a real pain. tolstoy started anna karenina – which S hadnt finished – with “all happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way”.
first, all happy families were not alike. that much was obvious. some were happy because they were kind and supportive. others had fun together. some were built up from happy individuals, who happened to be in a family.
second, some families were unhappy in exactly the same way. while they thought they loved each other, they actually hated each other. or life was too tough to be happy. or they had experienced a tragedy that ripped the heart out of the entire family.
S didnt know any really unhappy families though. they all seemed to get on just fine.
tolstoy started with a blatantly untrue statement. but he said it confidently. if you follow a confident statement with hundreds of pages, it begins to be true.
S may have missed the point. S often did. was tolstoy being sarcastic? tolstoy didnt seem to be one for humour. if he was happy to joke, he could have written a much shorter book.
anyway. truth. S wanted his writing to be true when it was written. not to become true after it was written. S took a thought: “i have never killed a cat.” was it true? did he know if it was? should he have thought “i don’t remember ever killing a cat”?
Disharmony pulsed through the Stanhope household in these unseen waves. Only now can we see that they were bubbling up to the surface. Only now can we identify the causes from their effects. Clara and Cecil were happy, people say. They never argued. They laughed together. They lay in bed together. They were wealthy. They were doing what they wanted to do. We are too content to dwell in these illusions. Everyone is happy. Look deeply. Disharmony was there. Sebastian could sense it. Why was he grasping for truth? Some part of him saw the sham but he didn’t know what to make of it.