Her mother laughed. She sounded strained. She said, “Then I wish you luck. Now I think we both need another drink …”
She was getting confused again. He was going to tear something apart, she didn’t know what. She hoped he wouldn’t hurt the horses. She closed her eyes, in the near-dark; and sleep claimed her.
She did dream, toward morning; but the dreams were harmless enough. They were of her mother, and the campaign she helped to run when David was re-elected. She remembered the cheering and the placards, the Party song roaring from loudspeakers; and herself with a great favour pinned to her lapel, handing out broadsheets from the rostrum while the microphones boomed. Later she remembered drowsing and waking, on and on through the long night while the votes were being counted; and the Returning Officer shouting the results and the whole place going wild, Pamela hurling papers in the air and running to where he stood on the Town Hall steps with Helen, planting a great kiss on his face while he raised his arms to the crowd, hair tousled and laughing, and she thought her heart would burst and couldn’t understand why.
Somebody was shaking the bed foot, gently. She opened her eyes, saw the sunlight streaming in. She asked fuzzily what day it was, and Pamela laughed. She said, “It’s Sunday, and it’s nearly twelve o’clock. How do you feel?”
She said, “I’m all right.” She pushed herself up a little. She said, “Pamela, I’ve got something to tell you.” But Pam laughed. She said, “And I’ve got something to tell
you
.” She flicked the tip of her nose, playfully. She said, “David came last night. While you were asleep. He left you a present.”
“What was it?”
Pamela said, “Come on lazybones, find out for yourself.” She handed her a gay-wrapped parcel. “
Careful
…” Liz picked at the string, then the packing of the square cardboard
box. She lifted out a model of a horse. A palomino. His harness was of real leather.
She turned her face away quickly, and Pamela said “
Ohh
…” She plucked the thing away, and kissed her cheek. She said, “Come on, silly bunny, no need for that. He’s really very fond of you.”
But Pamela was wrong. The drug had left her; the tears were not of gratitude, but grief. She could never go back to the horses, not now. Everything, the life she had hoped to lead, was ruined. The Duke had taken it, all of it, in his hands; and made it foul.
2
The doctor had given her a week’s leave from School. She spent it mostly in the house and about the garden, walking Sheba in the mornings while her mother worked. Pamela asked no further questions; and Liz realized she was studiously being a Wise Parent. On Wednesday Pam took the midmorning shopping bus to the town. She wanted her daughter along, but Liz demurred. She would go with Sheba, up through the woods. She would be all right.
She sat awhile after her mother had left, staring at the little horse in its place of honour on the sitting room mantel. Then she got up, walked to the outhouse. She came back with the carton in which the model had been packed, still with its filling of creamy woodwool. She took the palomino down, put him away carefully. To her mother she merely said, “It’ll be all right. I’ll put him back soon. But not now.”
The Properjohns had gone up to London; and Pamela herself seemed prey to some inner excitement. Liz greeted her hinting with indifference; but on Friday evening she made an announcement. “Bunny,” she said, “I’d like you to watch TV with me this evening. At eight o’clock. Something rather
special’s going to happen. On BB1.”
Liz picked the paper up, and shrugged. She said, “It’s only a Party Political.”
Pamela said, “I know. But it’s an important one. And it’s being given by a very special friend of yours.”
Liz stared at her. She thought dully, ‘Not you, too.’ But her mother’s face remained bland.
At five to eight the set was turned on. At eight the time signal flashed up, and the British Broadcasting announcer introduced Mr. David Properjohn, MP.
Television suited him. He looked, as ever, smart and at his ease. He sat in a lowbacked studio chair, a table at his side with a water jug and glass; he stayed quiet, fingers steepled, while the Party song boomed into silence. Then he smiled.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen and
children
. I’m not going to bore you tonight with all the good things my Party has done since we came back to power; or our record of successes over the last ten years. You already know most of it in any case. What I am going to do is tell you about something completely new.”
He leaned forward, seeming to stare at each of his audience individually. “At our last election,” he said, “we made a number of promises. Most of them we’ve kept. A few, unfortunately, we’re still working on; because as you know, the last two years haven’t been easy for the country. Economically or any way. But one particular promise was very important to me personally; and I pledged, in my own campaign, to do everything in my power to see it was carried through. Tonight I’m able to tell you that I have succeeded.”
They were just words, and meaningless. This wasn’t the person she knew, who owned horses and grew roses and had a red-haired wife. It was like watching a sort of talking mask. She would have risen; but Pamela laid a restraining hand on her arm.
David Properjohn was saying, “It will come as a shock to most of you to realize that in this Welfare State of ours we still have a class of underprivileged people. A class many of whose members live—and this I know personally—in deprivation and misery, sometimes in fear. These people are the children of
this country; maybe some of you listening to me tonight.”
She thought, ‘What’s he trying to do? What’s he
saying
?’ It was all so absurd. He knew nothing; as Ian knew nothing, and her mother. Nothing of what it was really like. What did any of them think they could
do
?
She had missed several sentences.
“I know,” he was saying, “that you have your School Committees. I know that today you’re taking a greater part than ever before in the management of your own affairs. But”—and he pursed his lips—“this I also know. That it isn’t enough.” He glanced down briefly. “A year ago a girl called Susan Kilpatrick died, in greater Manchester, of malnutrition. She was nine. Six months ago—just at Christmas—a little boy called Jimmy Hal-loran was beaten so badly by his parents that he lost his sight. And I could go on, and on.”
He took a sip of water. “I’m not being alarmist,” he said. “Neither am I criticizing the social services we already have, because I think they’re the finest in the world. What I am saying, to all of you watching tonight, is that mistakes can happen, errors can creep in. Because we’re not perfect; and no system we set up, however careful we are, will ever be perfect either. We need something more. It’s a need this Government has recognized for a long time; now, it has been fulfilled. From tonight, a new Ministry is coming into existence. It’s been set up specially to deal with children’s problems; their wants, their needs, their welfare. We’re calling it the Ministry of Children; and I feel proud—and humble—that I have been asked to head it.”
Pamela said, “It’s splendid, isn’t it, bunny? I’m so pleased for him.”
Liz turned, startled; and for a moment it seemed she saw her mother in a wholly new light. She thought, ‘It doesn’t matter what he
does
. What any of them do. Or what they’re like.’ Pam was basking, now, in reflected glory; she’d helped to install, not just a rank-and-file MP, but a Minister.
David—she supposed she must get used to calling him The Minister as well—was winding up his speech. She knew he was nearly finished; she had listened to him, and watched,
so many times before.
“In just a few moments,” he was saying, “you’ll see an address on the screen. I want you all—each one of you watching—to get a pencil and paper, and write it down. Then I want you to promise me something. If you’re worried, or frightened, or in trouble; if there’s something wrong, either big or small, and your parents can’t help, or your school, I want you to write to me. And I’ll make you a promise myself. I shall read every one of those letters. I maybe won’t be able to see each of you in person; but I, and my Department, will do everything we can to help. That’s what we’ll be here for.”
He smiled again, and spread his hands. “Write the address down now,” he said. “Remember it; and remember what I’ve said. Goodnight; and God bless you all.”
Later that evening Pam said, “You’re looking a whole lot better now, Liz. I really think next week you could go back to school.”
“Yes,” said Liz. “All right. That’ll be OK.”
It was Tuesday night. No, Wednesday morning of course. Very early, barely four. She stirred, half-awake. She had been riding the bus again, in the endless din. She had finished
Bevis
, she finished him last week, and had tried to read
Hassan
. The prayer to Yasmin was beautiful, it had made her want to cry; but later the violence of the play distressed her and she had laid it aside.
The days had been like any others; the bus, then the run for the lavatories, the noise and heat of School; uproar in the Study Halls, the trannies, sun through the hot high panes. She had been counting the hours, nearly the minutes, each one a victory; but the enemy was Time itself, and she could never win. There was too much Time; even the eight days to end of term stretched like an eternity, and there was another whole year to run. There would never come a Last Day, a last time for the bus, an evening when she could walk away and be free, never to return. She knew now, she would stay at the School for ever.
Her absence had been noted, she was certain of it; it would
be all they needed, the last piece of proof. The Fourths and Fifths were watching her, she was nearly sure. She had been jostled, badly, in Canteen and on her way to her Study Group; and a filthy note had been somehow slipped into her pocket. So the word had gone round.
The Duke had a new girlfriend now, or so they said; Janey Hollis, from the next village but one. She usually caught one of the other buses but she’d started coming on hers, her heart nearly stopped when she saw her fair hair in the little group by the halt. She’d seen him with her at break times, twice now; she was a tall girl, really pretty, you couldn’t miss her. And once she’d turned and stared—straight at Liz—and said something to the rest and they had all laughed as she hurried away, trying not to run. She knew they turned and stared, she felt their eyes burn hotly on her back. Kolaszynski had been there and Osgood and two broads, Sheila Brent from 5X Second and another girl, Patricia something, she was very tall, even taller than Jane. She was wearing silvery stretch pants and she was really beautiful; dark, like an Indian, with long narrow black eyes. They said it was Pat who’d held the kitten for him.
She jumped, and the whole bed started; one of those great starts that happen when you’re dozing, half asleep and half awake. Nearly like falling off a cliff. They said you always woke before you hit the ground, if you didn’t you would die. But she had woken. She clenched her fingers, stared out at the bright night patch of sky. She could see things in the room even though it was dark; the chairback and her skirt and shoes, pale patch that was a fresh-pressed shirt, hanging on the wardrobe front. She was sure something had roused her, some sound. But there wasn’t anything. Else Sheba would be barking.
She had had a dream that he was in the house. The Duke. She drew her breath in sharply, bit her lip. She had thought of an idea, a way to stop him hating her. He wouldn’t let her be beaten, not then. She would be safe, for ever. She tried to make the idea go away, but it would not. Her mind recoiled at the very idea of fucking. She didn’t even like the word, though Pamela used it freely enough.
She’d have to get an invite to a party. And maybe it would
be better to get a little drunk. Then she could … well, she’d have to see. You couldn’t plan these things. She practised making eyes, in the dark. She didn’t think she was really all that sexy; but she supposed she could learn. She’d have to be on the Pill a good time of course first. A month at least, she thought it was. No problem about that anyway. You could get them from most of the girls, even some in her own Study Groups; they sold them to each other, or traded sometimes for cigarettes. She supposed to make it easier she’d have to wear a mini.
She was definitely dreaming now, because the Duke was there. And it seemed she’d changed herself; she was tall and slender, nearly as pretty as Jane. Her eyes were on his face; she was touching him, light at first then hard and harder, feeling her own heat grow, pulling at his belt buckle, the zipper of his jeans. It seemed the fastenings melted; then they were both undressed and she was pushing against him, trying to reach his … well, his
thing
. Only she couldn’t, she couldn’t hold it, it was so small and getting smaller all the time. Then her fingers went … sort of
in
and she recoiled in terror. It was too late though, she knew his secret, that he was a woman. She saw his face, the hatred, saw him raise his fist. She tried to run but she was rooted; and the blow hit her on the ear, on the side of the head. Like an explosion.
She sat up. Her ears were ringing; and there was a queer light in the room, flickering and pink. Sheba was barking in the kitchen, great volleys of noise; she could hear her crashing at the door. She shouted and heard Pam answer. She said, “It’s all right, I’ve called the police.
Bunny, it’s all right
.”
Liz tried to shove her away. She said, “What
happened?”
Pamela said, “You’d better get dressed, they’ll be here any minute. I’m going to let Sheba go.”
Liz said, “No, they’ll kill her too.” Queer words. She didn’t know why she’d said them, they just came out. She was struggling with her skirt. She heard the side door open. The barking moved down fast, alongside the house.
She opened the window. Flames were licking up where
the outhouse had been. She supposed her bicycle had gone. The side was out of the summerhouse too. The summerhouse her father had built. She thought, ‘I won’t be able to go to the Properjohns’ any more.’ But she hadn’t intended to in any case.