LOVER AT THE GATE [5 Contd]
‘Perhaps we should go on holiday?’ Bernard suggested to Ellen. Perhaps that was what she wanted: a holiday abroad might make her eyes look at him and not beyond him.
‘Oh I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I think going on holiday is a very bourgeois sort of thing to do.’
‘How do you know? You’ve never been on one.’
‘Neither have you,’ she said. It was true. He longed to go. His elder brother had been to Yugoslavia, one of his sisters to Greece.
‘In Russia,’ he said, ‘workers most definitely go on holiday. They even get sent to health farms, to relax.’
‘The Soviet Union,’ said Ellen, ‘and herein lies the tragedy, has become a revisionist state. We can take no lessons whatsoever from the Soviet Union.’
If he lingered in front of travel agents, she hurried him on. ‘Poor exploited things,’ she’d say of the couples who entered, hand in hand, full of pleasurable anticipation. ‘How they fall for it! The sop from the bosses: the holiday abroad!’ And she’d take him off to the second-hand bookstall which specialized in the politics of the left, or to attend a useful meeting, and stand around with banners.
‘All the same,’ he said, when the spring buds burst on the seven trees that grew in Mafeking Street, along which Wendy had once half-run, half-walked, on her way to give birth to Apricot, ‘it would be nice to be somewhere different, just for a time, just for a couple of weeks.’
‘You will see the same pattern everywhere you go in the world,’ Ellen said briskly. ‘The exploitation of workers; the disruption of native cultures; evidence of the military-industrial ethos, you will walk like a fool amongst other fools: a tourist, staring at the remnants of the past, memorials to worn-out cultures, galleries dedicated to the ostentation and decadence of slave-masters. Bernard, if we have any time to spare, better to stand and gaze at the name of the very street we live in, “Mafeking”, and contemplate its significance. How many died, how many wretches suffered and starved in that particular disgraceful military episode, so that the workers should be duped yet again in the name of the Empire? Worker set against worker, race against race.’
‘You’re quite right, of course,’ he said. What else could he say?
He wanted to buy a car, but she said that was a waste of money and anyway what was the matter with buses, why should they ride, filling the air with fumes, while others walked? She put all spare money into her bank account. ‘You’ll only waste it,’ she said, and she was right and he knew it.
At the beginning of every term he filled in a form habitually distributed to all teaching staff, requiring details of authorized absences from college; for sabbaticals, or the marking of outside examinations, or simply because contractual staff-student contract hours had been fulfilled.
‘You shouldn’t complete that form,’ she said. ‘What are you thinking of, Bernard? This is nothing more or less than an abuse of your professional integrity.’
The degree of his paranoia rose and fell, easily and rhythmically, like some distant lake she had once heard of, which locals claimed breathed in, then out, as if a living thing, among pleasant groves: if she dropped in notions, like stones, when the lake was at its fullest with what power did the ripples surge and spread. Bernard took the matter of the offending questionnaire to the union forthwith: the local dispute quickly turned national: Bernard spoke to the press, rallied his colleagues; but alas, all too many wanted no more than a quiet life: Bernard confided that sometimes he had to eat alone in the staff dining room.
‘The point is not to be liked,’ said Ellen. ‘The point is to seize the day! There were times when even Lenin stood alone! If we stand firm, the bosses will collapse. All the same, Bernard, I suppose you could sometimes talk about other things.’
Ellen now worked at an adventure playground – the Christabel Focus – for underprivileged girls in an ethnically mixed section of the city. It was a wasteland of sour earth waiting development: wooden structures had been hastily erected: old tyres swung from ropes: a lean-to hut provided shelter. The Focus, as it was called, had been organized by separatist feminists. Muslim parents favoured it for their daughters because men were barred the premises. Ellen was no longer a student – she had been asked to leave, having flung a pot of paint at a visiting Minister of Education. She had planned both the paint-throwing and the expulsion. She really could not bear to sit and listen for a minute longer, as she explained to Bernard, to the lies of the imperialist lackeys. Besides, she wanted to give more time to the Focus.
‘But Ellen,’ said Bernard, ‘if you’d only stuck it another month, you’d have got your degree and we could have begun to live quite comfortably.’
‘I don’t work to be comfortable,’ said Ellen. ‘Why should we be comfortable when all around us are living in poverty?’ On Friday nights, when Bernard thought she was supervising Karate for Girls at the Christabel Focus, she met Jed in a motel. He fumbled and humped and heaved and never mastered the art of supporting himself on his elbows so she would arrive home quite squashed and breathless; which was only appropriate.
Bernard’s second sister went to Corfu for a holiday and came back with holiday snaps.
‘Sometimes,’ said Bernard, ‘I too feel like going to a hotel somewhere and looking out over a blue Mediterranean sea. You and I could have breakfast in bed, Ellen. Wouldn’t you like that?’
‘And who would bring us our breakfast, wash our dishes?’ she asked briskly. ‘The underpaid, the overworked, the exploited? How about us going to the study group on Marx and the Hegelian Fallacy next month in Blackpool? That’s by the sea.’
They went. Bernard fell asleep mid-seminar, and Ellen wept, or was seen to weep, from the shame of it.
There was an unfortunate incident at the Christabel Focus: two young girls, aged six and eight respectively, hitched up their trousers to better climb a rope ladder in the presence of a visiting male observer from a possible funding body. Flesh had been exposed. The elders of the local Muslim community objected: the girls were withdrawn from the playgroup. Bernard, by now spokesman for the local race relations committee, accused the Christabel Focus of racism: of wilfully offending the religious sensibilities of a minority group. Then a group called ‘Mothers in the Majority’ accused the Christabel Focus of lesbian activity – not without some justification – in front of the children; Ellen accused Bernard of being anti-feminist, and attempting to ghettoize ethnic minorities; he accused her of racism and white elitism. Bernard slapped Ellen. Ellen slapped Bernard back, and the next day, after a meeting of all parties at which the local Director of Social Services tried to please everyone and offended everybody, lingered after the meeting, provocative and yawning amongst the filing cabinets, until he caught on, locked the door, and embraced her thankfully. That affair continued for some months. She felt the balance of her marriage with Bernard was thereby restored.
Bernard and Ellen went to visit Belinda, who had renounced her separatist tendencies sufficiently to marry a graphics designer. He was poor when she married him. Now he was rich. They had an expensive apartment of minimalist decor: spindly lamps, metal and glass furniture, real paintings on the wall and not a pot plant in sight. Bernard loved it, and said so, as they returned to the dingy familiarity of Mafeking Street.
‘Bourgeois decadence,’ sneered Ellen, and he shut up.
They went to visit Liese. Liese’s father had died. She had inherited a chain of garages. Leonard had given up architecture to help with the business. It flourished. There wasn’t a book in the house, but there was an indoor fountain.
‘Inherited wealth!’ said Ellen when they got home, before Bernard could say a word. ‘The very prop of capitalism.’
They went to visit Brenda and Peter. Brenda was teaching PT in a secondary school. Peter was now a colleague of Bernard’s at the poly. They had a new car, and went to the cinema and ate out.
‘These days it takes two people’s wages to keep one household going,’ observed Bernard.
‘We’ll manage on one wage,’ said Ellen. ‘That is to say, yours. I have no time to work, I’m far too busy.’ Ellen had retired from the Christabel Focus over a question of principle. The polytechnic staff were now on a work to rule, though only at local level – a vote or so at national level having gone against them in spite of a good deal of cooking of the agenda – and she was, as she said, too busy getting a strike fund to so much as think of earning, let alone working; let alone getting to bed before Bernard had long since fallen asleep. They had no television, of course: Ellen scorned it. The new opiate of the people, she jeered; now that religion had failed, TV had taken its place: the gods and goddesses of the new world were the stars and staresses of soap: the bosses’ latest plot to keep the minds of the proletariat addled. Bread and circuses! Holidays and TV! There was enough political theory for Bernard to read, God knew, without turning on the box. Let him get on with Das Kapital! ‘Praise Marx,’ Ellen was fond of saying, eyeing Bernard, ‘and pass the ammunition.’
One day Bernard sat up in bed and noticed the bruises on his wife’s neck. He didn’t think he had put them there but couldn’t quite be sure. He shook her awake.
‘Ellen,’ he said.
‘I have to sleep,’ she said. ‘So do you. We have an important meeting in the morning. If we’re clever we can win a procedural point on the Matters Arising Item 4 (2).’
‘Ellen,’ he said. ‘You win. I don’t think I can describe myself as a Marxist any more. I am resigning from the strike committee. I want a proper life the way other people have it. I want a car, a nice home, a working wife, a child, and to go on holiday.’
‘Capitalist swine,’ she murmured, and sank back into a sleep in which she tossed and stretched and he was sure muttered someone else’s name, but in the morning went with him to a garage and they actually bought a car, albeit second hand, and she let herself be dragged into a travel agency and they booked a holiday to Spain just like anyone else. And for some time after that they went to bed at the same time and Ellen gave up both Jed and the Director of Social Services; and when both threatened, in grief, spite and unreason, to report her infidelity to Bernard, said, ‘Tell away!’ and neither of them did, which rather disappointed her.
She felt no particular guilt: merely that marriage was a kind of old-fashioned scale: a tray on either side in which the fors and againsts had somehow to be kept in balance, and that extramarital sex had sometimes to be heaped on one side just to keep it steady because indefinable things were piling on the other. Were Bernard to be unfaithful to her, she was convinced, she would leave him at once. But she did not think he ever would be. Now he could see the world ranging round him, as it were, free, exciting and full of possibilities, neither limited by the encircling arms of Jesus, nor somehow squared off in a kind of boxing ring, with Marx, Engels, Lenin and Hegel fierce at every corner, barring all the exits. Now he could go inward, freely, into his own mind, Ellen had great hopes for him. She thought they could even be happy.
She thought she could in the end be legitimized, be more than just the girl who had married the first man who came along in order to get away from home: daughter of a mother who’d shacked up with her own mother’s boyfriend at that own mother’s unconscious behest – and had thereby had her life negated forever. Wendy betrayed by Rhoda’s desire for Ken: betrayed by the author of her own being: no wonder she had faded out of the world so quietly and gently and quickly, as if understanding it were better she had never been born. Apricot the accidental: Ken the instrument: Rhoda the foolish but all-powerful. Apricot, who, like Wendy, should never have been born. Apricot, now Ellen, reborn. Windscale the cat stopped coming into the bedroom: lay on one of the new chairs in the living room instead. At least that didn’t keep moving all night.