“That’s all right,” said Bill. Pointing to the Spitfire he added, “It’s very nice but you ought to have let me fit it together.”
“I meant to but got carried away.”
“And now perhaps Bill would like tea?” suggested Gordon.
“Yes please,” said Bill sprawling very low in an armchair with his hands in his pockets, “though it’s only fair to tell you I take much more sugar than is healthy for a growing boy. Has your city a name, Colin?”
“Can’t say. Never thought of one.”
“You could call it Glonda. It’s a name I’ve just invented.”
7
As Mavis unpacked in the bedroom Colin said, “This is a bleak-looking room because I’m a natural Spartan. Change it how you want. Put up posters. Spread things around.”
“But Gordon will come in and tidy it up.”
“I’ve told him not to. This is our room and from now on he won’t set foot here.”
“Thanks but I want something else from you — a rent book.”
“I’m not taking money from you!”
“I need it to prove to the Social Security office that I’m your lodger. If they know I’m fucking with you they’ll cut my allowance.”
“But you will be … cohabiting … with me. And I’ll give you an allowance.”
“In return for what? For housework? I don’t want to encroach on your dad’s territory. For fucking with you and you alone? That would be as bad as marrying again. Of course marriage is what you want — it’s a game you’ve never played. I’ve played it. I don’t like it. I need independence. Thank God I live in a country that will allow me some if I have a rent book and a landlord who signs it once a week.”
“I’ll give you a rent book,” said Colin, sighing, “and even take your money, if you insist.”
“I don’t insist on that,” she said, smiling. They were on the bed now, embracing. He said, “I hate lying to a public service but it won’t be for long. You’ll soon get a job.”
“You don’t realize how hard it is for me to find work. Women who interview me are always suspicious and men either have sex in mind and show it or try not to show it and act worse than the women. They all think they have the right to ask impertinent questions and I can’t help showing how I despise that attitude.”
“So you don’t get a job.”
“I don’t get a job.”
“Keep trying dear. It will make you less lonely while I’m at work and Bill is at school.”
8
A fortnight later a community of three sat in the circle of rosy light cast by the standard lamp round the living-room fireplace. Mavis read a detective thriller. Bill sprawled on the hearthrug tracing pictures of aircraft from an illustrated book. Colin was altering a turret, replacing the propeller with a tiny spool. Beside him on the sofa a tray of turrets awaited the same treatment. Behind the sofa stood the big table supporting Glonda.
With stately steps Gordon arrived from the kitchen, flexing his arms and murmuring “aaaauch” like a man after worthwhile effort. Taking horn-rimmed spectacles from the mantelshelf he donned them, lifted a newspaper and settled in his chair to read.
“Gordon,” said Mavis without looking up from her book, “you didn’t need to wash the dishes.”
“I don’t mind washing a few dishes Mavis.”
“I was going to do it later but after a meal I like to relax.”
“Our difference is mibby due to early training,” said Gordon amiably. “You can relax with dirty dishes near you. Not me! I’ve washed up automatically after meals for the last fourteen years. You cannae expect me to stop just because you’re here.”
“Good,” said Mavis, glancing briefly at Colin who did not seem to notice. She went on reading. Gordon concentrated on his paper. Once his eyes rose when Mavis flicked ash far beyond the blue china ashtray close to her hand but there was silence for several minutes
until turning a page he said, “Aye aye. I see old Enoch is shooting his mouth off again.”
“He’s a menace,” said Mavis sharply.
“A very clever man.”
“The man’s a menace.”
Gordon smiled and laid the paper down with an air of opening an interesting debate.
“Now there I don’t agree. You, as an educated woman, have to admit that Britain is overpopulated.”
“The race issue has nothing to do with that. A third of the immigrants into Britain are Irish. A third are whites from Europe and our former colonies. Only a minority are black or brown or yellow.”
“I don’t say Powell is right on the race issue; I do say he’s right on the immigration issue. Keep out the lot, I say — Irish and ruddy Australians included.”
“I wish you two were quieter,” said Bill. “I find it hard to concentrate.”
“You forget that the British have been invading and exploiting the countries of coloured people for well over two centuries,” said Mavis coldly. “We owe them something back, I think.”
“Who haven’t the British upper classes exploited for well over two centuries? My father was a docker in the thirties, he could have told you about exploitation. It’s only since old Clement Attlee started breaking up the ruddy old empire that the British worker has had a decent livelihood and trade unions who can defend him against the bosses. And now you upper-class socialists lecture us on what we owe the coloured races!”
“I am NOT upper class!” said Mavis furiously stubbing out her cigarette.
“You’ve all the traits, Mavis.”
“What traits?” she asked, glaring at him.
“Well the first that springs to mind is the way you smoke. You smoke all the time but never take more than a few puffs from each fag. If you’d known real poverty you’d smoke them to the tip like most folk do.”
“What’s the next trait that springs to mind?”
“Dad,” said Colin quietly, “Bill is right. You’re making too much noise.”
“What’s the next that springs to mind?” said Mavis as if Colin had not spoken.
“Nothing Mavis. I’m sorry,” said Gordon in a low voice. He went on reading. So apparently did Mavis for a moment
then suddenly fired at Gordon with, “Do you know how much money Britain has invested overseas?”
“Sorry! Cannae help you there Mavis,” he murmured, amused.
“Over a thousand million sterling: money bringing us wealth and goods without us giving back a thing to the third-world countries where it’s invested. These investments don’t just benefit the rich. Our tight little island floats nicely and evenly on a sea of dark-skinned poverty. And when some of the exploited climb aboard we scream that they’re swamping us.”
“You a Communist?”
“No.”
“For someone who isnae a Communist you know a hell of a lot about British foreign investments,” said Gordon with a hint of passion.
“Dad,” said Colin. Gordon subsided
and two minutes later said cajolingly, “Mavis.”
She did not look at him until he said, “Shall I tell you why I admire you? I admire you because you’ve opinions — strong ones — so you and I can have good brisk arguments with no holds barred. See my Colin? You couldnae start an argument with him if your life depended on it. He won’t pass an opinion on a single thing.”
Both Gordon and Mavis looked at Colin who carried the tray of turrets to his model city and began clipping them onto the walls. Bill sprang up and knelt on the sofa, watching.
“He used to have opinions,” said Gordon. “He defended pacifism in his school debating society. When he was fourteen he marched to Aldermaston. He was the youngest member of a committee — what was it called? — The Committee of a Hundred. Him and me had some fine old argy-bargies in those days, because though I’m for the Labour Party I’m definitely moderate. Do you remember the arguments we had about that Colin?”