Implosion, p.13
Implosion, page 13
Julia was studying herself carefully in the looking glass as he emerged from the bathroom.
“Julia, my dear.”
“Yes, John?” She answered absently, much preoccupied by the hang of her skirt. It did not seem a very propitious moment, but Bart had a flair for choosing unpropitious moments.
“Julia, I just wanted to say how sorry I am that I’m such a dull fellow in bed these days …”
She turned, her smile was warm, understanding. It changed into a shriek of laughter as his towel came undone and dropped to the floor. “John darling you’re such a fool! It just serves you right for putting the thing on.” She walked over and laid her cool hands on him. “Darling, please don’t go putting on towels for my benefit. I know what you look like, and I think you quite beautiful. As for what you were trying to say—forget it. It’s just another part of the price we all have to pay. Never mind. It really isn’t that important, and we’ll have a simply lovely time in the spring.” She kissed him, and went on easily, “Golly! That talcum you’re using is pretty super, what is it—Old Driftwood?” She let him go, and returned to the looking glass. “Now, tell me, John, d’you think this looks too dressy for the dining hall?”
Bart was forced again and again to the conclusion that her attitude was quite genuine. His propaganda, plus the incident outside Harrods, had had a fundamental effect on her attitude to the outside world. Her philosophical acceptance of his inability as a lover was genuine, and hurt. Then again, there was the question of their child. Both of them had preserved a conspiracy of silence about her. Julia had deliberately cultivated the Roman matron attitude, which was very understandable. She seldom spoke of her, and never brought the subject up herself. Significantly, she never referred to her daughter as “Diana,” always “poppet.”
“Oh yes, poppet’s wonderful. Thriving away like anything.”
Bart understood this. He too made no attempt to see the child after the first month or so. But to accept the loss of her child, her outside life and her husband as a lover, and to accept it, not with sad resignation, but with an air that these things, however nice, desirable, were now in the past— This was a new life, and comparison was pointless. Moreover, this was, in some ways an exciting life for the “in” people. There was a satisfying job to be done. The unborn descendants of Shakespeare, Milton, Drake and Nelson, Darwin and all the rest cried out for life, and only the Mums could give it … Not that Julia said all this in so many words—in any case, much of it had originated in the Ministry’s propaganda branch—but it was clear she believed it, almost as a religious revelation. To Bart it was very frightening indeed; he watched for other evidence of subliminal indoctrination, but she did not repeat the “gift to the nation” phrase.
Dressing, Bart tried to disentangle the many factors that made up his wife’s state of mind, but it was all too complex, and he gave it up. He thought of other Mums he had seen, recalling the midnight service Julia had insisted they attend. Secretly, Bart found the whole thing dreary beyond words, but looking round the dim-lit chapel, he had felt humble before the quiet faith of the hundred or so Mums. His mood had changed to irritation as he listened to their voices, swooping lovingly up and down the sugary slopes of “Silent Night” … yet they might be right, the material, so carefully constructed in his “publicity” department, might be right …
Christmas dinner was all paper hats and crackers. The Barts shared a table with three Mums and one husband. They were an ill-assorted group. One woman, a girl really, had become firm friends with Julia in the labor room, and afterward in adjoining beds. Bart noted that neither spoke of their babies. He did his best to be convivial, buying wine for his table and trying to keep the flow of chatter going, but it was understandable that none of his fellow diners could forget that this was The Man. Bart knew that his lightest remark might be regarded as significant. He tried to pass the ball to the other man, but without success.
The ice was to some extent broken when a Mum at a nearby table announced loudly that she was in labor. She added, with flushed bonhomie, that she had hoped to enjoy her Christmas dinner in peace, but now it was clear to her that she was not going to make it, and, seeing that it was Christmas Day, she did not propose walking to the labor ward. Amid cheers, a stretcher was brought, and she was carried out triumphantly to the lusty singing of the Home’s own version of “Knees up, Mother Brown.” The evident good spirit of the Mums, even allowing for the Christmas cheer, impressed Bart. They had a solidarity amounting almost to an esprit de corps. He returned to his interrupted dinner with more understanding of the friendship between Julia and the ex-shop assistant. More understanding, but less personal comfort.
The Matron’s sherry party gave him something more to think about, something he found even less comforting.
Her sitting room, pale green walls and flowered chintz-covered furniture, was quite full when Bart arrived.
Matron, now resplendent in Julia’s gift twin-set and tweed skirt, gripped his arm firmly and steered him, nodding and smiling, through the crush to one corner.
“Good of you to come, Minister.” She produced a glass of sherry, all ready on a silver-frame filled side table. Bart had a feeling that this was all carefully stage-managed, a feeling that grew when she raised a beckoning finger and her eyebrows to a tall, cadaverous man standing nearby. For one ostensibly lost in admiration of a colored photograph of the Duomo in Florence at sunset, his reaction was remarkably rapid.
Matron breathed confidentially in Bart’s ear.
“Like you to meet Doctor Parsons; splendid chap.”
The splendid chap joined them, giving Bart a nervous, guilty smile. They shook hands.
“Bill Parsons is my right-hand man,” said Matron. “We were at U.C.H. together. He can put you in the picture rather better than I can.”
It was Bart’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
“It’s this question of Home harmony, Minister,” Matron lowered her voice slightly. “Getting to be a bit of a headache.” She laughed unconvincingly. “As I told you the other day, they’re not all saints, and this is a problem that is bound to end up on your plate. Thought you might like to get it straight from the horse’s mouth.”
Matron used the term “Home harmony” quite naturally, but it stuck in Bart’s throat. Matron slapped Parsons on the shoulder. Clearly she did not want to take part in any discussion. She had opened the meeting, and was keen to be off. “Over to you, Bill. I must see that the rest are happy.” She ploughed back into the throng.
Doctor Parsons spoke in a high, clear, fluty voice. “It’s really quite simple, Minister. We have here about three thousand women. Perhaps one percent are not entirely amenable to discipline. That means thirty troublemakers, not a lot, but enough in a tight, enclosed community like this.”
Bart was pleased he called it “discipline” and not “harmony.” He said so, and went on, “Frankly, I’m agreeably surprised that you put the figure as low as one percent.”
“It is low,” admitted Parsons, “but I am allowing for others who, although a bit of a nuisance at times, are gradually accepting the reorientation. The one percent are the hard cases who will never come into line.”
“When you say troublemakers, what sort of trouble do you mean?”
Parsons waved a deprecating hand. “A lot of it seems minor, but this is a small community. Some are born agitators. ‘Why should mothers be expected to work in the camp’ is a favorite. Then some are thieves, and that really is serious—it strikes at the very root of the community spirit. Then the back-biting—”
“Don’t tell me that the rest don’t gossip!”
“Oh no, I don’t mean that.” Parsons stared for a moment at his drink. He looked up, and shook his head. “You can have no idea, Minister, of the sort of things they dream up.” He looked down again quickly. “To give you one example. There is a rumor being spread right now that you don’t take the sterile test, that your wife’s children are yours—”
Bart was speechless for a moment, then, “Of all the—”
Parsons looked up, grinned nervously, “Yes, I know, Minister. But from our point of view there is worse to follow. It is being said that if you have enough money, you can fix a similar arrangement with the camp staff.”
“Good God!” said Bart. “Sheer maliciousness!”
“It’s malicious all right,” agreed Parsons. “Some of it is silly, but damnably dangerous. Some rumors we cannot trace, but we pin down a surprising number of them, and they all come from the one percent. The strange thing is that once they are pregnant, most of them are quite reasonable, but during recuperation, and the first month or so of pregnancy—” He looked in supplication at the ceiling.
Bart spoke almost to himself. “It’s extraordinary. I’d expected that we might have masses of women hammering on the gates to be let out. Instead I find the bulk of the women surprisingly cheerful, almost frighteningly susceptible to our indoctrination. My own wife—” he broke off. That was something he could not discuss. He changed direction, “What are you doing about it?”
Parsons grimaced, shrugged. “That is why I’m bothering you, Minister. I do not imagine that our experience is any different to any other camps, and it is getting to be a real problem, believe me. May I put it this way? What would you do?”
Bart frowned, “Well, I suppose you’ve tried talking to them.”
“Yes, we’ve done that.” Parsons sighed at some unpleasant memory. “I’m sure you know the sort of mentality we’re dealing with, and can you see that doing much good?”
Bart did not answer. Parsons went on.
“There is so little you can do. If you stop their pocket money it is a greater incentive to steal. Withdraw privileges? Stop them going to bingo? They’d laugh at you. We did think of making them wear a special, distinctive dress, but all these measures presuppose a system of control which we do not have—or want to have. Identity cards, ration cards, tickets for shows. The whole thing would get more and more like the Services, and would do more harm than good.” Parsons fingered his now empty glass. “And we can’t turn them over to the law outside. For a start, their fear of the steriles is a power factor in reconciling them to this life, and we cannot afford to lose any productive effort.”
Bart’s glass was empty too, and he wanted a drink. “Well, Doctor, you’ve certainly given me something more to think about. This is a tricky one.”
“Tricky, yes. But I think there is one simple answer, much as I, personally, don’t like it.”
“And that is?”
“Corporal punishment.”
Again Bart did not answer. Now he understood why Matron was so keen to leave.
Bart returned to London in a very curious state of mind. Julia, the Parsons episode, the evident success of the Ministry’s propaganda with most of the Mums, each subject crossed and recrossed his mind. His parting with Julia had, for him, a hint of flatness. Now for the first time, he wondered if she was, consciously or unconsciously, getting back at him in her attitude. Whereas previously his departure had been a dreadful moment of separation, on this occasion it had coincided with Julia going on duty. Superficially, their leave-taking had seemed no less intense, yet he was aware that Julia was eager to get to work, he had not missed the surreptitious glance at her watch …
Hunched up in his overcoat he stared out at the chilling gray scene of a winter dawn, the car swishing through the sleet. He pictured Julia, bright and cheerful in the warm, inevitably optimistic atmosphere of a maternity ward—and felt guilty that he was not more pleased with the vision. He switched quickly to Parsons.
Perhaps solitary confinement? Many objections to that; the very idea of cells in the camp, and what of the effect of such treatment on the woman’s health? A special camp for the hard cases? That would be too drastic, and there would be staff difficulties, and if Parsons was right that these problem women were reasonable when pregnant, what about the effect of hard-case women, not in production, on those who were? Bart returned from his holiday very unrefreshed.
Immediately he saw Miss Parkins’s set expression, he knew there was more trouble. His frayed temper flared.
“All right, Miss Parkins—just let me get my coat off, will you?”
Her expression did not alter. She left, returning with a cup of coffee. Bart gave her a quick apologetic smile. “Sorry.”
Miss Parkins’s expression softened very little, but she inclined her head a fraction.
Bart sipped the coffee with evident pleasure. “Well, tell me the worst!”
“I am very sorry,” she said simply, and handed him a message.
Mary and Roger Flavell, returning from the country, had had a car smash. Mary was injured—how badly was not yet known—but one thing was certain. Roger Flavell was dead.
14
Bart had an early appointment with the Premier, and left Miss Parkins to get details of the accident.
Although Bart had never been particularly close to his brother-in-law, he was deeply shocked. He walked with unusual slowness to Downing Street, oblivious of everything. Roger Flavell, smooth and urbane, clever yet kindly, was dead. No more would the sun warm that bronzed face …
Someone relieved him of his overcoat, and he nodded absently. He would have to tell Julia. That, he decided thankfully, could wait—it all must wait. He wrenched his mind off the subject, and went into the Prime Minister’s study.
“Morning, John.” Farmer hesitated. Bart suspected that it was on the tip of the Premier’s tongue to ask him if he had enjoyed his holiday. “Sit ye down.”
Bart sat down in the chair he knew was carefully placed opposite the Premier. There was none of the clutter usually found on statesmen’s desks, no signed portraits, no silver inkstand or blotting pad. The sole permanent feature was a large brass ashtray, which moved around as required. Not that Farmer went to the other extreme, maintaining a clear desk. Farmer’s desk was a worktable, not a prop for his personality. The absence of the usual furnishings meant that the desk was not orientated toward the Premier’s chair, and if he chose to sit his visitor on the other side, then both were using it and there was the unspoken suggestion that they were working together as equals. This privilege was reserved only for the Chancellor and Bart. All others sat in the chair beside the desk, where they might be treated with anything ranging from sharp geniality to a very good impression of Moses handing down the Tablets of the Law.
The Premier thumbed through a red-striped folder, and produced a green sheet of paper which he flicked across the desk. “There,” he said carelessly. “That’s a nice warmer-upper to start the week.”
Bart knew red-striped folders and green paper. Both had become all too familiar when he had sat in the Premier’s chair, and the flaring red “Top Secret” on the paper came as no surprise. The stripes meant Intelligence, and green was reserved solely for PROLIX material.
PROLIX INTELSUM 34/74. Intelsums 27/73, 45/73 and 10/74 refer. The suspected use of Prolix in HARLEM, NEW YORK confirmed. Some evidence to indicate that it was administered by militant right wing white movement via local cola bottling plant. The recent colored raid on downtown MANHATTAN stems from this, and the attempt to blow up the PAN AM Building may have been the work of militant black extremists.
2. TAIWAN/FORMOSA now graded Class 3. While no evidence exists, staff appreciation is that HONGKONG must be regarded as Class 3.
Bart drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. There was a loud clanging sound as Farmer knocked out his pipe. “No need to look so damned sad, John. It has to happen.”
“No, it’s not just that, although God knows that is bad enough, but I am getting weary—”
“Who isn’t?” retorted Farmer sharply. “Your trouble is you are so busy with immediate problems, you do not see the big overall picture—”
“Yes, I know,” Bart nodded, “I’m parochial.”
Farmer frowned, sucked noisily on his pipe, and stared at Bart. “Um. Well, we’ll get round to your troubles in a minute. You’ve got to hoist in that the big picture has a big effect on your parish … want you to see my latest toy.” He got up and led the way out of the office and down the corridor. He paused before a door. “Took a tip from Churchill.” He ushered Bart into a small windowless room, fluorescent light flooded the office, the strip lamps reflected in the highly polished brown linoleum floor. Three walls were covered with government-green rep curtains. Against the fourth wall, which contained the door, was a large gray metal desk. A teleprinter stood on one side of its olive-green top. At the desk sat a neatly dressed man, who started to rise as they entered.
“No, don’t get up, Manningham.” The Premier turned to Bart. “This is Commander Manningham, duty map officer. There are two others, and their job is to keep this lot,” he waved in the direction of the curtains, “up to date, and to inform me of any particular item they think I ought to know. Most of the material is T/P’d on that machine from DGI.”
Bart nodded at the Naval man, who gave him a bleak, professional smile, and returned to his paper work.
“This is the big broad picture,” went on Farmer. He pulled a cord at one side and the curtains on one wall slid back, to reveal a large map of the world which covered the entire wall.
At first glance it looked like a map of a new and strange British Empire. The United Kingdom was colored red, as was part of southeast Europe, Malta, Sicily. There were thick red rings round Lisbon, Tel Aviv, Cairo, and farther east, one round Singapore. Planted on the projection-distorted wastes of Greenland was a Perspex tablet, bearing the legend “PROLIX, Class 1. Updated to …” And neatly inserted in black Chinagraph was “1200Z, 25.12.74.”
“Now take a look at this.” Farmer reached up and pulled a transparent plastic blind down. It fitted neatly over the map, clipping at the bottom.
“That lot were the certainties,” said Farmer. “This is the Class Two overlay, the probables. DGI is very hard to convince—and rightly so—but personally I regard these certainties too.”
