‘A story as well, I hope?’
‘Naturally. But stories take place in societies, otherwise they cannot exist. The first must precede the second.’
‘Don’t we have one already? A society, that is.’
‘I want a better one.’
‘Might it not become a bit boring?’ asked Thompson, briefly pulling the pipe out of his mouth to speak. This time he addressed his remarks to the mirror on the far wall. ‘I mean, I suppose you are aiming at the ideal society, but perfection cannot change. How can things happen? If things cannot happen, then you have no story. Anyway, it’s human nature to change, even if for the worse. Otherwise people die of boredom. If you start out perfect, there is nowhere to go but down.’
‘Besides which, of course,’ added Davies, ‘you risk turning into Stalin. A perfect society requires perfect people. The People are always a terrible disappointment. Not up to it, you know. Damned nuisance, they are. No wonder rulers go mad and turn nasty. You have no doubt read as many Utopias as I have. How many would you want to live in?’
‘True. Anterwold will be a framework for a better society, not a perfect one, which is obviously impossible. Still, I will need your help, my friends. I will, over the next few weeks, bring you the basic outlines of my world. You will tell me whether or not you think it might work. I will modify them until it becomes strong, stable, and capable of dealing with the feeble creatures that are men without collapsing into a nightmare as bad as the one we already have.’
He smiled. ‘In return, I will listen to you again. Persimmon’ — he looked at the man on his left who had not yet spoken — ‘I hope you are driving a coach and horses through the laws of physics? If you would care to remove that look of disapproval at my escapist frivolity, perhaps you would like to tell us what you are doing?’
I want a beautiful, open, empty landscape, bathed in sunlight, Lytten thought as he pedalled his old bike home a little later. Gentle rolling hills, green and dotted with sheep. The very ideal of paradise. At least for an English reader. Mountains always contain evil. They are where people die, or are attacked by wild animals or wild people. We think of mountains as beautiful, but then we can rush through them on a warm train. Our attitude would be different if we had to walk up and down them, buffeted by rain or snow.
It is easy to imagine a world where not only can few people read, few need to or want to. Serious reading can become the preserve of a small group of specialists, just as shoe-making or farming is for us. Think how much time would be saved. We send children to school and they spend most of their time learning to read and then, when they leave, they never pick up another book for the rest of their lives. Reading is only important if there is something worthwhile to read. Most of it is ephemeral. That means an oral culture of tales told and remembered. People can be immensely sophisticated in thought and understanding without much writing.
Such were Lytten’s thoughts as he made his way up the road back to his house. There was bread and cheese in the kitchen; he’d put the kettle on the hob to boil up some water for tea, put coke on the fire and soon enough his study would be warm. No one would disturb him. The doorbell rang rarely; only the tradesmen — the groceries being delivered, the coal man once a month, the laundry man to bring back a sack of damp washing — disturbed his peace, and they were all dealt with by Mrs Morris, who came in three mornings a week to look after him. Most evenings he ate in college, then came home to read or settle down with a record on his extremely expensive record player. An indulgence, but he had always adored music — which is why his imaginary world would place a high value on song.
He felt genuinely affectionate towards many, but needed few. Take Rosie, the girl who fed his cat, for example. Either she had adopted him, or he had adopted her. Or perhaps the cat had been the matchmaker. She came, and often enough they had long chats. He liked her company, found her views and opinions stimulating, for he had no experience of young girls, especially not those of the most recent vintage. The young were very different these days. Flatteringly, Rosie seemed to like him as well and their conversations would start off on some perfectly ordinary subject, then meander into music, or books, or politics. Much more interesting an individual than most of his students or colleagues. She was insatiably curious about everything.
2
Rosie Wilson breathed in the air with appreciation; she was old enough at fifteen (and a bit, she thought fondly) to recognise the first faint tang of winter. Not that she needed such evidence to know it was coming. She was long back at school, after all, and that was a more reliable indicator of the time of year than anything else.
It was Saturday, and she was free until Monday. Of course there were tasks to fill up the time she could have spent enjoying herself. Walking the next-door neighbour’s dog. Doing the shopping. Peeling the vegetables and washing up after meals. Her brother never did any chores. He was at work today and on Sunday would go off with his friends to play football. That was normal. That was what boys did, and she was doing what girls did.
‘I want to play with my friends too,’ she had protested once. It was the wrong thing to say.
‘You don’t have any,’ her brother had snapped back. He was two years older and already had a girlfriend and was earning good money in an ironmonger’s shop. ‘Brainy girls don’t have friends.’
She suspected that her brother’s statement was true; that was why it had hurt, and that was why he had said it. It was her own fault for passing her exams and going to a school where they taught her things. Her parents had almost refused, but she had got her way.
So she shopped, although she took her time, walking along the canal at the end of the road and strolling over the common with the dog first. It was a good dog, obedient and amiable. She tied it up outside the shops and it would wait patiently for her.
Except that now it had disappeared. She shouted, looked around, and then heard it barking, down by the river bank. ‘Come here! Bad dog!’ she called out, not too seriously, as she walked over to find out what it was up to.
‘Come away! Stop that!’ she scolded when she saw the beast, tail wagging enthusiastically as it snuffled at a bundle of old clothes. Then she looked closer. The clothes were inhabited. It was a man, lying on the ground.
Rosie cautiously walked closer; she had read in the papers of murdered bodies being discovered by people out for a walk. As she approached, though, the pile of clothes moved and let out a groan. The face of a man, pale and sick-looking, was staring up at her. He blinked and rubbed his red, bloodshot eyes. That’s a relief, she thought. ‘Are you all right?’ she said loudly, not daring to get too near and making up for her timidity with volume.
He rolled over and squinted as he focused on the figure of the girl in her bright red coat, clutching a large bag with one hand and the animal’s neck with the other. ‘Back!’ she said to the animal. ‘Bad dog! Naughty!’
‘Food,’ he croaked. His mouth moved as he tried to say more but no other words would come.
‘Food?’ she repeated. ‘Is that a good idea? You seem ill. Should I call an ambulance? A doctor?’
‘Just food. Give.’
She hesitated, uncertain about what to do. Then she opened up her bag and looked in it.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘You can have a little cake. One won’t be missed, I’m sure. It’s not very nutritious, I’m afraid. Just sponge, really.’
She held it out, but he didn’t move to take it, so she cautiously put it on the ground beside him, pulling the large animal away as she did so. ‘Don’t you dare!’