Implosion, page 18
When, on the second day, the girl did not turn up as arranged—Julia was going to take her to the clothing store to be fitted out—Julia sighed and went in search for her. After looking in all the more likely places, including the kitchen—a place the girl had raided in the first six hours—Julia became a little puzzled, then worried. No Mum could get lost, but this one seemed to have done it. Julia went to the Home Controller’s office—the term “Matron” had lapsed with the departure of the first one—and knocked.
“Come in.”
The Home Controller was a mannish woman of fifty-five or so. Her iron-gray hair was not so much cut as cropped. Her strong face, devoid of makeup apart from a little powder, was not unattractive, and her clear gray eyes were large and well-set. Among the Mums she was known as “Smiler,” largely because of her invariably solemn expression. She was a good, just administrator, but lacked the warm humanity of the old Matron. She was, of course, a mother and a doctor. Home wits said her husband died early to get some peace, which was very unfair. The Controller had been a good, if somewhat brisk mother, and her husband would not have lasted as long as he did, without her care. All the same, sitting erect behind her desk, dressed in a gray two-piece costume, which somehow contrived to look, on her, like a uniform, it was easy to see she was a capable, diligent woman, and without a trace of humor.
“Ah, Mrs. Bart.” She put down her pen. “What can I do for you?”
Julia explained.
“Yes, I know the girl.” It sounded more like “gel.” “I have sent her to the gym for punishment.”
“Gym—punishment?” Julia could not believe her. It could only mean one thing, and that was impossible.
“Yes.” The Controller glanced at her watch. “I think you’d better postpone the rest of her joining routine until tomorrow morning.”
“But I don’t understand!” cried Julia. “What punishment?”
“She was caught smoking cigarettes. Must have brought them in with her. These schools—” The Controller shook her head.
Cigarette smoking, a danger to health, had been banned for Mums for the past four years. There had been a little trouble at first, but with the withdrawal of stocks from the Home shop, only those smuggled in were available, and here the control was tight, and with the reduced flow of visitors had sunk to negligible proportions. Pipes and cigars were permitted, and the inveterate smokers had made the change.
Julia began to believe her ears. “Do you mean this girl is being whipped?” Her tone was hard, belligerent.
“Yes. I ordered six strokes. That girl could be a troublemaker, and punishment now can save more trouble later.” The Controller’s tone was equally hard.
“By what right! You can’t do it!” Julia was pink with anger.
The Controller’s stare was cold and hostile. “Mrs. Bart, in view of your position here and the new situation, I am prepared to explain my action, but do not imagine I can always be called to account by Mothers.” She produced a paper from a folder, “You may care to read that.”
Julia frowned, and took the paper.
FROM: M.O.H. & R
TO: All Home Controllers.
All Commandants, MOHS.
COPIES TO:
Adjutant-General’s Office.
Cabinet Office.
SUBJECT: HOME DISCIPLINE.
DATE: 18th May 1978. REF: MOHAR 107/3/LX/78.
In view of the steady increase in petty crime in the Homes, the following measures are approved.
2. Any Home Controller, or, in her absence, her Deputy, may award up to nine lashes at any one time for petty crimes, subject to the Standing Orders regarding medical fitness. (Section 4, Appendix Charlie refers.)
3. Petty crime may be taken to be any offense likely to be harmful or dangerous to life, or likely to disturb the good order and harmony of the Home, yet does not warrant bringing the offender before the Home Harmony Committee.
4. All punishments are to be carried out in strict accordance with Standing Orders. Details are to be entered in the Home Register, and reported in the usual way, in triplicate on Form 9486 B to M.O.H. & R Section 4 G.
5. Amendments to Home Standing Orders will be promulgated in due course.
Julia stared unbelievingly at the paper, especially the almost illegible signature above the “for Minister.” “It can’t be, there must be some mistake!”
The Controller reached up and took the order back without asking. “There’s no mistake, Mrs. Bart. We Controllers have been pressing for a long time for some measure of power to back up our authority.”
“But there’s always been the Harmony Committee! That has worked perfectly well!”
“You may think so; from our point of view that is not so. The committees are slow in action, and all too frequently far too lenient. In any case, this does not affect the handling of more serious cases. That remains with the HHC.”
Julia fought back. “But this very offense, cigarette smoking, has been up before us! There was a case two or three months ago!”
“Yes. And do you recall the result? The woman was cautioned—and it was the second time she had been caught!”
Julia changed ground. “But this girl, she hasn’t even had a second chance!”
“In my judgment, after this sharp lesson, there won’t be a second time. A sore back now is better than lung cancer later.”
“You know damned well the girl will never get hold of a fraction of the cigarettes she’d need for that!” Julia was trembling with rage. “The poor little soul, I must go and see how she is!”
“No, Mrs. Bart!” The Controller had risen. “I forbid you to go and see that girl today!”
“If you think you can order me about—”
“I can, and I do.” The Controller remained cold and calm. “Don’t imagine you have a special, privileged position, and do not imagine that I am incapable of enforcing my authority!” She glanced casually down at the order, lying on the desk, and then back at Julia.
For the first time Julia felt a personal fear. “You wouldn’t dare!”
The Controller knew she had the upper hand; some of the hostility went out of her voice. “I don’t think we should be talking like this, Mrs. Bart. You are a prominent and valued member of this community, and you must not force me to action I would certainly dislike very much.”
Julia recognized the olive branch, but did not overlook the iron hand that held it.
“It’s horrible!” she said at last. “You can punish as you like, and without reference to anyone.”
The Controller knew she had won. She sat down, put the order in its folder, as if removing the cause of their dissension. “That’s not quite true, Mrs. Bart. As you saw, all cases have to be reported to the Ministry, and I can assure you they will be watching most carefully. You can be sure no ill-disposed person will be allowed to abuse their power.”
To Julia the nightmarish quality about it was the sheer reasonableness of it all—given the circumstances of Home life. She did not like the Controller, but equally she knew the woman was honest and conscientious. Yet this girl had been delivered into the hands of three brawny MOHS women, women of a totally different caliber, whose enthusiasm would only be restrained by the presence of a MOHS officer—and how sure could one be of her?—and the duty Home doctor. This, at the order of the honest, conscientious if unimaginative woman before her!
Julia burst into tears and ran from the office. But she did not go near the gym. Somehow she reached her chalet, and lay for a long time on her bed, crying. Crying at first for the girl, and then for herself. She had never felt so frightened and alone. She thought again, and in detail, of the overheard conversation, and of Parsons reluctant acceptance of much that had been said. She thought of old Margie, now more important and unattainable in death—the one woman she might have confided in … a disconnected vision of the girl, strapped to the bars in the gym, screaming … the MOHS guard, trying not to show her pleasure … Above all, she thought of that order, and the signature on it. That was the final betrayal; that marvelous old poppet, the late Matron, had signed it.
It was then, amid the disordered confusion of her mind, that the idea of escape was born. John must be told, and somehow, somehow, he must save her.
2
Fear thrust her mind unwillingly on, she had to decide, and fear made the final decision. She could not go on living this life, knowing that there was no hope, nothing to look forward to, and that even self-deception was denied to her. Gradually she controlled her quaking heart, forcing herself to be practical.
Getting out of the Home was not a major problem. A much more serious difficulty was money. For a long time the Homes had had their own currency. Mums were not allowed money from outside, inequality of incomes could lead to jealousy. Instead, all received a generous monthly allowance from the Ministry—of Ministry tokens. These were valid in all Homes, but useless outside.
At first Julia thought of asking some of her friends if they had any real money, but the revelation in the recovery room had made her suspicious of practically everyone. There was also the nagging thought that someone had reported the girl for smoking, and as it was Home policy not to risk implanting the institutional idea in young minds, all School new entries were handled only by Mums for the first three or four days. But someone had told, and there was a strong chance that it was a Mum. A month earlier Julia would have scoffed at the idea of informers, but not now.
She remembered John’s few things hanging in the cupboard, untouched since his last visit. She felt a wild wave of hope; a pound or two was all she needed. Eagerly she searched his jacket, trousers. Sixpence, found in a ticket pocket raised her hopes, but that was all.
Julia sat and cried, clutching the single coin, hating her husband for his carefulness. And that, plus a threepenny bit in an old handbag, was all she found. Frantically she searched again, feeling the bottom edge of the coat lining and probing her handbags in the vain hope that perhaps there was a hole. Just a single rotten pound note! Enough to get her on a train away from the Home area. She swore childishly, and cried again.
For a long time she tried to think of how to get money, but in the end she gave it up and concentrated on any small portable items that she might readily sell. It was risky, but there was no option. She reviewed her jewelry; she had no regrets at the idea of selling anything, including her engagement ring, she was long past such considerations. What worried her was how to make the sale. How could she sell a diamond ring in a place like Clacton, at night? In the end she shelved that problem. She would just have to do what she could.
Clothes were no difficulty. The Home authorities had always encouraged dressmaking and any interest in clothes, and many Mums had enormous wardrobes, limited only by shortage of space. Julia selected a new tweed costume and a light fawn raincoat which would pass muster in practically any situation she could imagine. For the rest, a pair of brogues, a headscarf and her wisp of a nurse’s cap would do.
With these clothes carefully laid out on what had been John’s bed—already she thought of the Home in the past tense—she sat and stared at them, clutching her two coins. If only she had a few shillings, it would make all the difference. There was so much she did not know—what, for instance, was the price of a short bus ride? Prices could have changed a lot in five years. Suppose she offered sixpence, and the minimum fare was more? The last thing she wanted was any attention, and that could really get it. And that was another problem, transport outside. Her knowledge of life was limited to what was shown on TV, and from believing everything she saw, she now believed nothing. Were the trains to London still working—just supposing there was a station anyway. Her knowledge of Clacton was confined to two or three car or coach rides. There was so much to plan.
She had missed lunch, she dared not miss dinner as well. She took a shower, dressed with great care—for no other reason than to boost her teetering morale, and against Home Standing Orders, drank a stiff whiskey, which was only in her chalet because it belonged to her husband. The drink did her good, and the defiance of the rules helped as well.
If Julia needed any extra incentive to overcome her difficulties, she had it when the auburn-haired girl reported to her the next morning.
There was no cheeky air now. Instead of the sparkling gay look, two sharp eyes, haunted by fear, looked out through red-rimmed and puffy eyelids. The girl would not speak, and for some time could only regard Julia with terror. She went through her joining routine like an automaton, and Julia’s only consolation was that the girl regarded other Mums they met in the course of the morning with even greater fear. The only real show of feeling came when the girl clutched her hand convulsively when they caught sight of a distant MOHS uniform. That clutch told its own story. They lunched together, both, for their own good reasons, eating little.
Afterwards, Julia took the girl for a short walk along the Home’s private beach. She did not try, as she had so often done, to point out the advantages of Home life. For a time they sat in silence, gazing at the sea, and the girl relaxed enough to glance warily at Julia. It encouraged Julia to say they might as well go back to her chalet for an early cup of tea. But still the girl did not speak.
On the way back, Julia bought a large box of chocolates in the shop. It was a far larger box than the girl could ever have seen at her School. Sweets were not good for children’s teeth, and Julia knew sweet rationing was enforced. But even the gift did not break the silence.
In the chalet, Julia had the tact to seat the girl on a stool. The child sat there, very upright, her eyes following every movement Julia made in getting the tea, her fingers played nervously with the red ribbon on the box which she held tightly, but did not attempt to open.
Julia put down the teapot and looked at the girl, frowning slightly. She could not let the poor child go like this, somehow she had to shake her out of it, leave her with a memory that someone cared. Much would be clear to her, later. She spoke sharply.
“Come on now! You can’t go on like this—it’ll only get you into more trouble.”
The effect was horrible, the girl’s eyes widened with fear, she clutched the chocolate box ever tighter, and she began to whimper … the dreadful sound changed slightly, now it was a high pitched whine, exactly like a dog, asking, begging to be let out …
Forgetful of the state of the child’s back, Julia clasped her in her arms, and they cried together.
With the girl safely back in her chalet—it had been dreadful leaving her—Julia felt a deeper, colder fear, settle in her. The girl would recover, life would be bearable, the Controller might be right, and the girl would not get into trouble again, but also she could never be quite the same.
The mere thought that she, Julia, might suffer—indeed, had been vaguely threatened—made her feel sick. She could not long sustain her facade to the other Mums, and in any case some had already remarked that she was not her usual self. She had to go soon, very soon.
She managed to find an old AA Road Book in the small reference library and she was able to look up Clacton without being seen. Map reading had never been a strong point, but she noted the names of one or two streets. Her attempt to memorize the road leading to London failed miserably, forgotten before she left the library.
But luck was with her in some ways. The punishment of the girl had been the first under the new order, and provided a new topic, which overrode most comment that might have been made about Julia. All the older Mums, feeling as Julia had done about such treatment, were in full agreement with the order. “Some of these youngsters need a lesson” and “You’ve got to be cruel to be kind” were very overworked phrases. The sheeplike acceptance, the blind faith in “Them” filled Julia with unreasonable dislike and contempt for her fellows. Now hypersensitive to any indoctrination, however faint the trace might be, Julia thought she detected in the general chorus of approval, signs of undercover cheerleaders; that heightened her mistrust.
The other stroke of good fortune was recognizing the driver of a medical supplies truck. As a nurse, she had helped to unload some of the more delicate items, and had got to know some drivers slightly. She also knew the routine. Wednesday and Thursday afternoons were the delivery times, and the same driver usually did both. This was Wednesday and she hoped desperately that Curley would do the Thursday run as well. Curley knew her as a nurse; there was no reason why he should suspect she was also a Mum. If she could time it properly, she could just happen to pass as he was about to go. Dressed in her raincoat, and with a nurse’s cap, she could easily be one of the staff going off duty. What could be more normal than to cadge a lift off old Curley? The only risk was accidentally meeting one of the staff, but that had to be accepted.
Watching the van drive off, the perfunctory wave from the guard as the van slowed at the gate, decided matters for Julia. With a thumping heart she accepted that tomorrow was the day.
Back in her chalet she made the final preparations. She packed her handbag. In went an unopened bottle of Patou’s “Joy,” half a dozen bars of chocolate. If the Home News was to be believed, chocolate and scent had practically disappeared from outside, and these might be readily salable. She packed her own cosmetics, a few clean handkerchiefs, her precious ninepence—and a pair of sharp pointed scissors. There would be no repetition of the Harrods incident.
Thursday morning was endless, and Julia, after a sleepless night, was restless and jumpy. A Kitchen Committee meeting, under the chairmanship of the Controller, was unavoidable.
She forced herself to take part in a futile discussion, the perennial question, why not chips as an alternative to boiled potatoes for all meals? While one Mum, a devotee of chips, as her figure showed, held forth, Julia sat back, and allowed herself to think of other matters. She glanced up from the table, and saw the Controller’s thoughtful gaze resting on her. Julia flushed, and forced a smile.
