Truth Sister

by Phil Gilvin

  ‘How are you, Mother?’ asked Clara.

  ‘How am I?’ Sophia paused to think. ‘I’m well, and I’m so proud of my daughter.’ She patted Clara’s shoulder as she made her way back to the table. ‘I want to make the most of this summer. After you start work, we won’t see very much of you – so I want to make this the best summer for us. We’ll go for walks together, and make cakes, and we’ll make you some new clothes. And maybe we can get James to take us on a trip – would you like to go to the sea?’

  Clara frowned. ‘Mother, I wanted to talk about James. He seems a bit too familiar – a few times he’s touched me – but then, I suppose he saved me – I mean …’

  ‘Ah. And you’re going to be a respectful Truth Sister?’

  Clara felt a strange tugging in her chest. ‘Yes, a Truth Sister. I am, aren’t I?’

  Sophia leant forward, and whispered: ‘I’ll have a quiet word with him. And,’ she went on in her normal voice, ‘now that you’ve finished your stew, you can tell me all about this riot. Then it’s off to bed.’

  But sleep would not come, and Clara lay on a lumpy mattress listening to the rain. Sophia had been aghast at the story of the riot, and had had to hug her again; then Clara had thought herself tired enough to go to bed. Sophia had not yet followed. But still Clara’s head throbbed, and right now it wasn’t the riot that was bothering her. Mother doesn’t want my money, she thought. What was the use of that diploma anyway? The image of Mater Hedera’s creased face swam before her. Why had she, Clara, let that old witch fool her into giving Amy away? ‘What have I done?’ she whispered to the wall.

  Low voices came from the next room. Sophia’s, gentle and crooning; a lower one, barely audible. Rubbing her eyes, Clara shuffled to the door and pressed an eye to the gap between it and the frame. The room was dim, lit by a single candle. Giant shadows quivered as the flame flickered in a draught. Plink, plink – Sophia, bending over an enamel bowl on the table – a cloth, wrung out. A man sat at the table, his back bare, a red weal striping it from shoulder to waist. Gently, Sophia dabbed at it with the cloth, her other hand resting on his neck. The man sucked in a breath.

  ‘Sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered back. It was James.

  Clara hurried back to her bed and pulled the bedclothes over her. Her heart was beating fast. What had she seen?

  The next morning was bright, with a cool breeze coming up from the river. Clara scrambled out of bed and hurried to the window. Beyond the courtyard there was a commotion and, looking out through the gates, Clara saw a line of soldiers in camouflage fatigues, marching north. Riders on horseback passed along the line: captains, shouting orders. As the stamp of boots faded away she became aware of a little bird – a silverbill, she thought – chirruping in the stubborn old tree that grew in the courtyard. A knot of girls, who had been watching the soldiers, broke up and went their separate ways. Clara wondered who they were, and what life was like for girls who didn’t get to the Academy. What on earth did they do?

  Breakfast was in the big bar room, where a breeze from the open windows freshened the air. People bustled in and out, women talked business, and men ran errands. A few women sat at solitary tables reading news-sheets; nobody sat near the two Repsegs eating by the window. A dog lolled in the corner.

  Clara gulped down her porridge and slurped weak tea from a chipped mug.

  ‘You used to be able to get coffee here,’ said Sophia, watching. ‘It’s been years since they’ve had any though. Just this horrid tea.’

  ‘Don’t they grow coffee in Suffolk? We learned about it in Food Econ.’

  Sophia shrugged. ‘It’s too expensive, I suppose. How are you this morning?’

  Clara looked at her mother. Until now she’d forgotten all about the night before, the sight of James’ bare back, Sophia’s tender hands, the sound of water. But Sophia’s gaze was direct and honest. ‘Not bad, thanks,’ said Clara. ‘The night was a bit noisy, wasn’t it?’

  ‘But about the riot – you’re all right?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Clara.

  A serving-boy brought Sophia a plate of fatty bacon, wet and glistening. Clara’s nose wrinkled at the smell; her eyes widened when Sophia patted the boy’s head.

  ‘How’s Isabella?’ asked Sophia. ‘She was having that tummy trouble, wasn’t she?’

  ‘She’s all right,’ said Clara, thinking of the cold stare that was the last thing that had passed between them. ‘Her mother gets her this spring water from somewhere. It’s supposed to help.’

  ‘Bottled water,’ said Sophia. ‘Miranda always was well off.’

  Clara put her spoon down. ‘Mother?’

  ‘Mm?’ Sophia’s jaw was engaged with a tough bit of bacon.

  ‘At the Passing-Out – one of the girls – they, er, found she was a Natural.’

  Some of the bacon went down the wrong way, and there was a minute of coughing and of swigging tea before Sophia could answer. She wiped her eyes. ‘A Natural, you say? What happened to her?’

  ‘Well,’ said Clara, ‘I don’t know for sure. She and her mother had to see Mater Hedera.’

  ‘Mater Hedera was there?’

  ‘She was presenting the certificates.’

  ‘She was, was she? I wonder what she did to the girl. Nothing nice, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Mother, what do you think about Naturals? I asked James, but he didn’t want to say.’

  Sophia considered for a moment. ‘Who was it? Who was the girl?’

  ‘Amy Martin. D’you know her?’

  ‘I think so. Plump child, with dark hair?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clara. ‘It, er, turned out her Authentication was forged.’

  ‘Clara, listen. Suppose Amy is a Natural. How does that make you feel?’

  Clara shrugged. ‘Well … she’s not pure, is she? You know, not a Clone?’ Animals are natural – Naturals are animals …

  ‘And what about her? How do you think she’s feeling right now? Clone or no Clone, she’s got feelings.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Clara, frowning. ‘Naturals must be weaker, I suppose. I mean, they’re not the pinnacle of evolution, are they?’

  ‘And how do you think evolution works, Clara?’ said Sophia, pushing her plate away. ‘Come on, I’ve had enough of this muck.’

  Clara followed her mother up the creaking stairs. ‘Did you see James last night?’ she asked.

  Sophia wasn’t listening. ‘One more thing,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to be careful, Clara. You mustn’t show too much interest in Naturals.’ She reached the top and pushed open the door of their room. ‘Don’t talk about them unless you have to, okay?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well,’ said Sophia, picking up her cloak, ‘it’s not the sort of thing a Truth Sister should be interested in, is it? Now, let’s get going.’

  The morning was already warm by the time they set off. Clara had noticed that James climbed very stiffly onto the cart, wincing as he did so: exactly as if he’d injured his back. But he’d also kept his place better today, standing back and speaking only when he had to. So what, if Mother had been dressing James’ wounds last night? Sophia had a duty to look after her servants, didn’t she? What was the problem?

  She shook her head and tried to take an interest in their route. Horse-drawn carts carried sacks of flour, beans or potatoes; cabs carried women in suits; men pulled handcarts under the watchful eyes of their mistresses. They all jostled each other up and down the street, noisy and urgent, while a Waterco motor-van chugged by, drowning out the notice-crier yelling something about the Army’s latest successes. But further on, they came to roads where all was silent except for scrawny dogs scavenging in street-corner rubbish heaps.

  A small crowd had gathered around a twisted oak at the edge of Clapham Common. Sophia called to James to stop, and beckoned to one of the Repsegs who were trying to keep order.

  ‘What’s going on, officer?’ she said.

  The Rep
seg, muscular like Sergeant Shavila but even taller, took off her cap. ‘Bad business,’ she said. ‘The youngsters round here, they’ve turned themselves into vigilantes.’

  ‘Oh, dear. What have they done?’

  The Repseg shrugged. ‘Illegal Naturals. Beat ’em up and hanged ’em off that tree. I mean, I’m not too worried about the Naturals – but we don’t want people taking the law into their own hands. It’s not a good sign.’

  ‘Thank you, officer,’ said Sophia quietly. ‘What’s happened to the bodies?’

  ‘They’ve just taken ’em for disposal, Ma’am. Weren’t nice to look at.’

  ‘No, I imagine not. But I take it the road is safe?’

  ‘Of course, Ma’am. These girls only come out at night. Too cowardly to do it by day.’

  They drove on, and Sophia was thoughtful for a while. Then she said: ‘How dreadful. Just because they were Naturals.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clara. ‘They shouldn’t take the law into their own hands.’

  ‘Exactly. But let’s forget about horrid things. Tell me about your apprenticeship. What are your plans?’

  Clara wondered how her mother could be so callous, in changing the subject so soon. Out loud she said, ‘They’re going to write to me. I’ve applied for the Ministry of Knowledge.’

  ‘And do you know what you’ll be doing?’

  ‘We had a tour before the exams started. I might be working on the Knowledge Project.’

  For the first time since they’d set off, James spoke. ‘That’s about recovering the old skills,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Books.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Sophia, ‘you’ll be allowed to go into the big libraries. How interesting!’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Clara. ‘I expect there’ll be lots of security. They won’t let just anyone in.’

  Then she fell to wondering if she’d ever see Amy hanged from a tree. Maybe she’d been hanging from the one they’d just passed.

  At Tooting Bec, a work gang were walling up the entrance to the old station while women with batons and whistles shouted directions. Further on they came to a checkpoint, a cabin at the side of the road. Its walls were covered with security announcements and notices offering rewards for known members of the Underground. While Sophia handed the Repseg their papers, Clara studied the faces staring out from the posters. She’d expected vicious snarls, sunken eyes and deep scars: but she saw only normal people with worried expressions. All she knew about the Underground was that they were terrorists who wanted to bring down the Republic, to put men back in power. But the people in the posters didn’t look as if they could organise a march, let alone a revolution.

  After searching the cart, the Repseg waved them on.

  The heat grew as they passed on through Morden and Epsom. Clara was hungry and thirsty, but James was reluctant to stop in the wild edges of town. By early afternoon they found themselves crossing a bridge over a wide trench, some thirty feet deep and filled with weeds.

  ‘Here’s the old Twenty-Five,’ said Sophia. ‘See how sad it looks. All those years ago, they had motor-cars going up and down this road, all the time. Can you imagine it? Of course, there were a lot more people in those days.’

  ‘I know, Mother. We’ve done it in history, till I’m fed up. Then men brought us disease, blah blah, blah, like all the other evils. Ms Carrow says it was justice that so many men died.’

  James turned his head as if to reply, but Sophia was quicker. ‘Oh, come,’ she said. ‘I don’t think that’s true. It was simply overcrowding. There were too many people living too close together. So when a disease came along–’

  ‘Or got out of a lab,’ put in James.

  ‘Yes, or got out of a lab, then it would spread and spread.’

  Clara wanted to argue, but checked herself. There were so many things she’d learnt at the Academy, things her mother would never know. Without an education like Clara’s, how could she? So all she said was, ‘I can’t imagine there being so many people. I suppose all of those buildings – the ones they’re knocking down – they’d have had people in them.’

  ‘All of them. And they’d have been full,’ said Sophia.

  ‘Speaking of full,’ said James, ‘there’s a nice field there.’ He pointed with the whip. ‘Let’s stop for lunch.’

  Clara wondered if James knew who was really in charge. Who was he, to decide when they stopped?

  They found their way into a green, relatively fly-free meadow, and sat in the stooping shade of a chestnut tree whose roots fanned out like buttresses. A gentle breeze rattled the leaves and brought some relief from the afternoon heat. James had hauled a wicker hamper from the cart, and with an intake of breath he set it down. Clara was going to ask about his back, and whether Sophia had bathed it last night – she didn’t know why it bothered her so much – but then, James opened the hamper and pulled out some lemonade.

  ‘Oh!’ cried Clara. ‘Oh, let me have some.’ She stretched out a hand, but James held it just out of her reach, and as she made a grab for it, he spun to one side and jogged behind the tree. ‘Come here. James! Give it to me this minute.’ But he laughed and dodged away again.

  Sophia was examining the contents of the basket. ‘James,’ she said without looking up. ‘I command you to let the poor girl have some lemonade.’

  James rubbed the small of his back. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  Clara grabbed the bottle and poured the stuff down her throat, hardly pausing for breath. She felt James watching her, his pale-blue eyes twinkling. ‘Hate you,’ she said. ‘What else have you got for us?’

  ‘Ooh, look,’ said Sophia, pulling things out of the hamper. ‘Cold ham. And a nice loaf. And look at this butter.’

  Clara was at her side in a moment. ‘Where did you get all this?’

  ‘I sent him,’ said Sophia, nodding at James. ‘He knows a good market, off the Kent Road.’

  ‘One the Repsegs haven’t found yet,’ said James, standing over them and swigging from his own bottle.

  ‘We’re not going to let the servant have any of our food, are we, Mother?’ said Clara. Sophia turned sharply to look into her daughter’s face. Then she put a hand to her mouth and giggled. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘James, Clara says you may not have any food.’

  ‘Have I been a bad boy, Miss?’ said James, bowing his head.

  ‘Very bad,’ said Clara. ‘I shall scold you all the way home.’

  James gave a squeak. ‘Oh, no, Miss. Please don’t scold me. No, don’t scold me, no!’

  ‘Well, shut up and eat this sandwich,’ said Clara, handing him a plate.

  Through the hot afternoon they trotted on, past the shimmering mirror of Micklam reservoir, past the compound gates where two burly Waterco women were unloading sacks of something white and dusty, and on to more open country.

  ‘Looks like they’re growing aubergines over there,’ said James. ‘You can get anything to grow nowadays. And look at the size of this corn, too. Look out – whoa, Alf!’

  The horse stamped in astonishment as three speckled sika deer, small as dogs, leapt out from among the corn. They crossed the road and bounded across the aubergine field, their dappled flanks flickering in the sunlight.

  ‘Well,’ said James, ‘you don’t see many of those around, do you, Alf?’

  The horse snorted and shook his head.

  ‘Mm,’ said James. ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  Clara sniggered.

  ‘I think he’s been sleeping in the stables too long,’ said Sophia.

  ‘But Alf likes it in the stables,’ said James. ‘Hey, look at that scarecrow. What’s he doing here at this time of year?’

  In the middle of the field, a coat hung from a cross-shaped stick, with an old pillow for a head and an ancient hat crammed on top. A rook was perched on one of the arms.

  ‘Not doing very well, is he?’ said James. ‘I could do that job. You wouldn’t have to do much, just waggle your head now and again – like this.’

  Clar
a burst out laughing. Sophia said, ‘Don’t encourage him, dear. If we’re lucky we’ll get home before dark.’ And she gave James a dig in the ribs.

  Clara said nothing, but deep inside her she could feel a small ball of happiness – something that hadn’t been there for weeks.

  As they came at last into the village, Clara saw a checkpoint. There was no sign of the Repsegs.

  ‘They only come out now and again,’ explained Sophia. ‘To annoy us.’

  Beyond the checkpoint stood a cottage in red brick and tile; but its garden was strangled by thistles, and a rampant rose had torn the trellis from the wall. Fresh boards covered the windows.

  ‘Have the Bradleys moved away?’ said Clara, staring at the desolation.

  Neither of the others spoke for a minute. Then Sophia said, ‘They disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’

  Sophia nodded. ‘One day they were there, the next they were gone. They never told a soul about it. A couple of days later, some workwomen came in from Billingshurst and boarded the place up. They didn’t know who’d ordered it. Or so they said.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, we know that Emily had applied for a cloning licence, a while ago. In May a letter came, and she went up to London. We don’t know what happened there, but she wasn’t herself after that. She kept indoors, and those who did see her said she wouldn’t talk about it.’

  ‘So what happened then?’

  Sophia shrugged. ‘That’s all. Then they disappeared – Emily, her mother and her sister.’

  James half-turned in his seat. ‘I heard it’s not the first time it’s happened. The word is, if a woman’s cloning fails, they’d better not say anything about it. If they do, they get spirited away in the night.’

  Clara turned to Sophia. ‘What does he mean, Mother? What makes him say that?’

  ‘It’s just what people are saying, dear. Nobody knows for sure. But, well – why didn’t the Bradleys say goodbye?’