Implosion, p.7
Implosion, page 7
As an example to others, several private houses, which appeared to be empty, had their locks picked by police experts and were searched thoroughly, as were all houses entered. By late afternoon the operation was finished. Seven hundred odd women had been interviewed, over a hundred and fifty were taken in for testing.
Savile Row HQ was besieged by Press and TV. Near-frantic reporters clamored for entry to the zone, for news—anything—and were refused, but by midmorning they did get an uncompromising statement from Bart. By the next morning, no one was in any doubt about the Government’s determination. Most women, who had been through the ordeal, firmly agreed with the action, and the Press was cautiously approving. Bart had also announced a week of grace for the “tardy.” After that, any woman caught without a certificate would be prosecuted, and liable to a month’s imprisonment. The rest of the week was a busy time for the test centers.
On Tuesday Bart struck again. Timed for midday, when few men would be at home, part of Teddington was the target. With the river as a good barrier on one side, patrolled by police launches, the area was easily combed.
Bart hinted that there were further operations pending. He casually said that areas “north of London” were being considered. By the end of the week the percentage had reached ninety-four. The MOH computer estimated that about four hundred fertile women remained unlocated. Bart switched his tactics. Spot-checks were made in shops, supermarkets and offices. Few uncertified women were found, but it kept a small dribble of “voluntary” women for testing and was economical in personnel—and Bart had other, more important, matters in hand.
The first of the converted holiday camps was now ready. Bart mentioned that he was going to inspect it, and to his surprise Julia said she would like to go too. He warned her that there would be TV coverage, but she still said she would go. Bart did not comment; after his complete failure to recognize or appreciate her point of view—before Farmer stepped in—he was extremely careful.
They drove down to Clacton on a beautiful golden October morning. They spoke little, inhibited by the presence of the Ministry driver. Bart pretended to be immersed in official papers, in fact he wondered how Julia would react to the camp. It was close to London and an obvious choice for her. He wondered too, how well he would get to know this road, how many times he would drive this way … As they entered Clacton he felt her hand seeking his; he was overwhelmed by a sickening feeling, long forgotten. He had loathed returning to boarding school. He squeezed her hand and released it abruptly, making a mental note that whatever camp she chose, he would see they arrived in the dark …
Considerable alterations had been made. As billiards seemed unlikely to attract pregnant women, these halls had been converted into offices and clinics. Ballrooms had been transformed into maternity and labor wards. A small operating theater had been erected and a covered way connecting it with the labor ward was in hand. The smell of the sea fought a temporarily losing battle with the new paint. The camp perimeter had been discreetly strengthened—but the barbed wire was not visible from the inside.
They were met by the newly installed MOH Matron and the owner’s manager. The Matron, a doctor, fiftyish and mother of five, oscillated in manner between authoritarian and diffident.
They saw a ward, then were led to a row of chalets. A specimen chalet was ready for occupation. It was trim, neat—and impersonal.
Bart tried to sound enthusiastic. “It’s not bad, is it?” he smiled brightly as he tested a bed with his hand. “Feels jolly comfortable.”
Julia also tried a smile. Like his, it was no more than a grimace. For all her preoccupation, the Controller was not without tact.
“Will you excuse us for a few minutes, Minister?” She flashed a hard stare at the manager.
As soon as they were alone Julia sank down on one bed, and Bart sat down on the other. He reached across and took hold of her hands.
“Darling.” He felt self-conscious about the word. “There’s so little I can say …” He hesitated, and tried again. “You know, once you’ve got a few of your own things in here …” He tried the appreciative look again, but it was no good. It might be a splendid place for a holiday, but it was not Stanhope Mews—it was not home—yet that was precisely what it must be …
“Will I have to share?” Julia said, almost timidly.
“Not if I’ve anything to do with it!” He battled on with synthetic eagerness, “That’s your bed—this is mine. We’ll have a phone beside your bed, so that I can talk to you.” He saw one side of her mouth was beginning to quiver, he pulled her to her feet and held her tightly. There was nothing to say.
“Testing, testing,” the loudspeaker system outside boomed hollowly round the camp. “One, two, three—”
Julia laughed a little unsteadily, “That’s just about all I needed!”
Bart released her and turned to the open door. He dare not look at her. Outside, beyond the white painted verandah was a tarmac path, beyond that a well-kept lawn. Bart took a deep breath. “It’s certainly a better view than Stanhope Mews—and healthier.”
Julia disregarded that one. “John, you say husbands will be allowed to stay, but if AI is to be used, how is that going to work?” Her voice was steady once more, calm and practical. Bart turned. She had sat down on the bed again, nervously fingering her engagement ring.
Bart was glad to get back to the general from the particular. “That’s not difficult. Husbands will be allowed to share at any time, provided they take contraceptive pills. It’s the young unmarried Mums that are the real problem.”
“You mean these new things?” Julia gave a short, hard laugh, “If ever there was a discovery that was an utter dead loss! How can you be sure they’ve taken them?”
“Simple. All men take a urine test on entry—the drug shows. If the result is satisfactory they get let in, taking another pill on entry, and every week they stay in the camp, under medical supervision.”
“What did you mean about the unmarried ones?”
“We’re going to do all we can to make the women happy. We’ve got to do that—”
“Contented cows give more milk,” observed Julia bitterly.
“No! Well, yes. In part that’s true, but not the whole story. We’ll do all we can to give a full life,” he hurried on as he saw the obvious retort taking shape. “Take an extreme case, a girl just fifteen. She may well spend the best part of her life, perhaps thirty-five years in this environment. She may be initially a child, keen on games or something, but pretty soon she’ll be as boy-mad as most. We have to cater to both phases. We have to provide some male company some of the time. But it’s damned tricky. We’re in enough trouble with the Church as it is—”
Julia, more alert than her husband heard the Controller’s voice. “Come on darling, we must get on.”
There was a short press and TV interview and they had to reinspect a chalet for the benefit of the cameras. Bart was astonished how well his wife took it all. Naturally, the interviewers were more interested in her than him. She was asked to give her views of the camp and she said that it was a good deal better than she had expected. True, it was not home, and she did not look to the future with pleasure, but she recognized that the relatively few women in her state had a duty to perform. The Prime Minister had said that now it was the turn of some women to fight for the nation, and she was proud to be one of them. Bart tried not to look surprised before the cameras. She sounded very sincere.
Driving back, he gently felt around this point. “My dear, that was a splendid little speech you made.”
“Surprised you?”
“Well, frankly, yes. You were so sincere.”
“It rather surprised me too. The silly thing is that part of me is really sincere. Being personally involved has tended to obscure the main issue. You as Minister, not John Bart, husband, know very well this is the only chance of our survival as a nation. Part of me sees that too, although the selfish side is horrified at the prospect, at the separation—yet for all that—”
Bart took her in his arms. The driver was forgotten, a dim figure in the darkness growing around them.
For two months life went on much as usual for most. By Order-in-Council, all pregnant women had to be in a MOH camp for the last two months of pregnancy. Bart had not rushed this matter, it was more important to get the non-pregnant women into production. A week’s warning was given, then, area by area, the fertile women were taken under control. There was some trouble; one or two committed suicide rather than go, and some fought like tigers. Once in camp, even the most recalcitrant became docile under the careful use of sedatives. The Press was strictly controlled, no reports of trouble were published. Farmer saw to that.
Lavish diversions were laid on. The current West End musical hit Honeybell was closed down for a fortnight and sent on a tour of one-night stands at the camps—by order. The latest films were shown, dress shows and parades held, and piped TV was fitted in all chalets and wards as fast as the sets could be produced. Each camp had its own closed TV circuit, complete with a small studio. This was not really for entertainment, but to implement the policy of indoctrination. Mothers of the Nation, as they were tentatively named, had to be made aware of their vital importance. Pride must be engendered, and if eagerness was too much to expect, then at least a sense of dedication must be induced.
Some women brought children with them. This had been catered for, and the kindergarten was in itself a valuable diversion. Bart had no intention of allowing children over the infant stage to remain in the camps, but it was necessary to proceed slowly …
Pressure eased on Bart, and he was able to spend more time at home. With their acceptance of the situation the tension had eased; Bart could even make slightly shy jokes about her “fourteenth century” figure. They went to films and cinemas two or three times a week; there were almost gay excursions at weekends in that long and lovely autumn. They tried not to count the days and to ignore the lengthening shadows. They were very happy.
It was in the week before Christmas that the shadows suddenly grew larger, darker, and more menacing.
9
Bart first heard about it at a Cabinet meeting held to discuss the takeover of children. Farmer put his views on this subject in his usual blunt manner.
“Children are the future. We’ve done what we can for production, now we must consider those we already have. They’ll have to take the full weight of this situation, we’ve got to see they’re fit for the job. They must be conserved and educated—we can’t accept a single avoidable accident. Last year over a thousand died on the roads, and only a few less in other accidents. That has to stop. Education. No wastage of brain can be accepted, all must be educated to the limit of their capabilities. Agreed?”
There was a general nodding of heads, but no one spoke.
“Right,” continued the Prime Minister. “How it’s done. I’ve discussed this with Bart as his Ministry will be responsible. We are agreed that the only thing we can do is to “nationalize” all children over two—there aren’t many under—and send them to state kindergartens, junior or senior schools, according to age, all as boarders. Permanently.”
“It’s impossible!” There was anguish in the Minister of Education’s voice. “Public reaction will be strong, to say the least, and we just do not have the schools or accommodation! I may add that I think I might have been consulted—”
The Premier favored him with a long stare. “You’re being consulted now. As for the public, they’re going to accept a lot more than this before we’re through. Accommodation. We’ll boot the Army off Salisbury Plain for a start. Also there are a number of holiday camps still available—” He stopped, frowning. The Home Secretary was holding one finger aloft. “Yes?”
“On this question of public reaction, I think you should know that there has been a significant increase in abductions and assaults recently. This past week the figures have risen sharply. Forty-four cases of baby-stealing and assault by women, all sterile, upon other women who were pregnant or thought to be pregnant.”
“Why?”
The Home Secretary shook his head. “Jealousy between the “have-nots” and the “have’s” is clearly at the bottom of it. The increase may be due to the unconscious thought that this season, Christmas, is really for children.” He shook his head again. “Still, there you are. If it goes on, you’ll have some justification in the action you propose.”
“D’you think I need justification?”
“No! I didn’t mean that, Prime Minister,” replied the Home Secretary hastily. “What I meant was that people will be more willing to accept these measures. There is another point.” He stopped, hesitant and uneasy.
“Go on.”
“Well. These assaults on pregnant women.” The Home Secretary looked fixedly at the Premier, trying hard to ignore Bart. “I have to say that I think it would be better and safer if the affected women went into the camps earlier than the last two months. I’d suggest they be sent in for the last four months.” He coughed, and looked down at his blotting pad.
Farmer answered before Bart could speak. “That’s a case for individual treatment. Some women show more than others. Bart, I suggest you inform all doctors that they can tell their expectant mothers they may go in as soon as they wish. If the situation gets worse, we’ll think again.” Farmer watched the tense lines round Bart’s mouth relax a little. “Agree?”
Bart nodded, and scribbled a note. He dare not trust himself to speak; the Premier was bending over backwards to help him personally, and Bart knew it.
“Baby-stealing is another matter. Keep the assaults out of the press, but give abduction the full treatment.”
“It may encourage other deprived women to baby-snatch,” put in the Home Secretary.
“Good!” Farmer sounded almost pleased. “Within limits, just what we want. Strengthens our case. Right?”
“Well, yes—”
“Right, then. The women won’t harm the kids. Anyway, we’ll soon sweep them all in.” The Premier reverted to the question of schools. There was no real disagreement with the proposals, only discussion how it might best be done. It was decided to set up a committee of three—Home Secretary, Minister of Education and Bart—to examine the situation and report in a week. Bart suggested that as Service accommodation was involved, a representative of the Ministry of Defense should take part. Farmer gave Bart an enigmatic smile.
“Tell MOD to give you details of all camps in the UK.”
“But supposing we select a camp they have to keep?”
The smile remained. “Never mind. Just list what you want.”
The meeting broke up. Subconsciously Bart noted that not all the Cabinet were leaving, and in the entrance hall he recognized the Chief of Air Staff in subdued conversation with DGI. Clearly there was a meeting of the Defense Committee. Bart recalled the PM’s smile, then the matter dropped from his mind. He tried to concentrate on the child nationalization question, but all too easily his mind slipped to thoughts of Julia, and what the Home Secretary had said.
Bart’s plainclothes detective saw him through the inevitable crowd in Downing Street. Without really thinking, Bart crossed the Horse Guards Parade and turned into St. James Park. Striding along, breathing deeply the cold, sharp air, he tried to think about the children, but Julia kept intruding. He stopped abruptly beside the lake, staring at the muddy water. Some waterfowl paddled hopefully up. If he, the Minister, could have an escort, could not he, with his own private army, provide an escort for his wife? He resolved to have Julia covered by a plainclothes MOH guard. The decision gave him gratification, if not pleasure, at his power. Less preoccupied, he would have been shocked at this reaction. Plain Dr. Bart of Wimpole Street had little taste for the more obvious forms, or trappings, of power.
He resumed his walk and turned out of the park into Birdcage Walk. Now he was able to concentrate on the children, he looked with a sharper eye at Wellington Barracks. Then he remembered the newer Chelsea Barracks; that really was an idea. With a footbridge over the Chelsea Bridge Road it could be linked with the grounds of the Royal Hospital. He must find out how many Chelsea Pensioners there were … Bart quickened his pace.
Three days later the National Schools Committee had completed a preliminary survey. The difficulties were endless, but Bart’s emergency powers made a great difference. He had taken the Premier at his word, and the list of suitable properties included Chelsea Barracks, the RN College, Greenwich, all the remaining holiday camps, and a number of hotels that had the benefit of rural surroundings. A vital factor in selection had been to find sites where the risk of road accidents was minimal.
All schoolteachers were warned they would be required to take up resident posts. This caused some complaints, but Bart stamped on that from the very beginning. An Appointments Bureau would do the best it could, but once a teacher had been allocated, that would be it.
The Premier’s reception of the list could only be called impassive. He studied it, pulled thoughtfully at his nose, grunted, and scribbled “Approved” and signed it.
“Go ahead as soon as you like.”
Bart, keyed up and expecting some opposition, felt vaguely thwarted. “Very well. I’ll see Defense tonight.”
Farmer nodded. It was evident he was not deeply interested. Many features of his administration were without parallel; one was the speed of action. Where previous governments had spent weeks on a matter, Farmer’s acted in hours. There was astonishingly little paper work. An idea was produced, discussed and if approved by the PM, put into effect at fantastic speed. There was, of course, some argument and dissension; three Ministers had resigned in the first month, and several senior civil servants had collapsed under the strain. But all concerned with the ship of state were imbued with a deep sense of urgency—and Farmer was very much the captain.
