‘Julie?’
They both looked up. Mr Eaves poked his head through the doorway, his steely eyebrows knotted. Marvin stepped away from her, and only then did Julie realise how close he had been, close enough to smell, to feel the warm steam off the top of his tea.
‘Charles,’ she smiled, aware that he liked to listen in on conversations that didn’t concern him, and had long-since gained the nickname Mr Eavesdropper. ‘Don’t tell me, Mr Hall wishes to see me?’
‘It’ll be the biscuits,’ Marvin murmured in an undertone.
‘Not Mr Hall, I’m afraid.’ Mr Eaves half stepped into the room, reluctant to be pulled too far from his busy schedule. ‘Dr Ravioli wants to discuss your latest set of reports with you.’ He eyed her sympathetically. ‘Did you forget to follow protocol?’
‘Oh, probably.’ Huffing, Julie strode across to the sink and emptied what was left in her mug. ‘Has he spoken to you at all?’
‘Not yet; I’m hoping that I’ve been spared this term,’ Charles said without a smile. He ducked out of the staff room and sped off down the corridor.
‘Perhaps we can continue this some other time?’ Julie said, turning to Marvin. ‘I always feel we’re rushed, talking in the staff room like this.’
‘Why, Ms Appelbauer, are you asking me on a date?’
‘Of course,’ she teased. ‘And what better way to spend it than talking about Milton and his simpletons?’
‘Just let me know when you’re free, and we’ll work something out.’
‘I’ll check my schedule,’ she promised.
‘Until then, staff room tomorrow?’
‘Staff room,’ she agreed.
They parted, and set off to opposite ends of the building.
* * *
‘So what are you reading at the moment?’
They were sitting at a table for two, nestled at the back of the small room, as close to the corner as they could get in an already full restaurant. It was Thursday evening, and Gwenhwyfar was working her way through her pizza, which was crispy, thin, and bigger than the plate it was served on.
‘Something called Capitalism, the One True Religion. It basically argues that capitalism and environmentalism can’t co-exist. In order for capitalism to be “successful”, the environment has to be destroyed.’
‘Is it good?’
Arthur shrugged. ‘It’s all right. It’s a bit Americanised. The last book I read was better.’
‘You mean The Human Condition?’ He nodded. Gwenhwyfar bit off a mouthful of crust and took a moment to swallow. ‘I’m just going on a hunch here, and ignoring what Marvin said about it. I’ll bet it’s worth reading.’
‘It is worth reading,’ Arthur agreed. ‘I can ask Marvin if you can borrow it. He won’t mind as long as you’re careful.’
Gwenhwyfar glanced down to his plate. He had nearly finished. ‘Won’t someone else be reading it?’
‘I doubt it. Shall I ask him?’
‘Why don’t you give me the highlights?’ Gwenhwyfar suggested. She took a sip of lemonade. ‘I wouldn’t want you getting in trouble with Marvin or anything.’
‘You just can’t be bothered to read it, can you?’ Arthur teased.
‘Well, I am in the middle of something else right now,’ Gwenhwyfar admitted, buoyantly. ‘It’s about a struggle to claim a kingdom’s throne, but the true heir is a bastard-born pauper living in the slums. She’s only just discovered her true heritage after earning her freedom as a slave and sailing across to new lands.’ She grinned. ‘I’m on book four. My aunt gets me them for Christmas.’
‘What’s it called?’ Arthur asked.
‘Empire’s Call. Well, that’s the name of the series. The first book is Untold. Want to read it?’
‘Of course! I’m wondering why I’ve been wasting my time with politics books now. Compared to that they sound boring.’
‘You can have my copy, if you like.’
‘Thanks.’ He folded his cutlery and let his arm rest across the table. Gwenhwyfar still had a quarter of her pizza to go. She was flagging.
‘So what’s The Human Condition about? You never really said. Give me all the details, come on.’
‘Well,’ Arthur leant across the table, and Gwenhwyfar did the same. ‘Mostly it’s looking at the social state of the country at the time of publication. Investigating things like the need and use of CCTV, the purpose and effect of hierarchal systems such as the monarchy—’
‘It was written before the abolition?’
Arthur nodded. ‘In 2001. The most interesting bit is about big businesses and their involvement in politics. It explores how corporations control governments through lobbying and donations. Given that the party with the most money usually wins the election, once in power you could argue that they’re indebted to those who gave them funding. If company A gives party B a million new-pounds for their election campaign, and party B wins and comes into power, party B are hardly then going to pass any laws that negatively affect company A, otherwise they won’t donate next time.’
‘I’ve heard about this,’ Gwenhwyfar said, remembering what her father had told her. ‘It happens all the time. With the highest-funded party winning every election, you’d think they’d just cut out the whole voting process and declare the party with the biggest campaign budget the winner.’
‘I suppose it would save everyone the trouble of getting to the ballots,’ Arthur remarked with an appreciative smile.
‘Did the New Nationals have the highest budget?’
‘I don’t know,’ Arthur admitted. ‘But as they’re currently in power, I should imagine so.’
‘I’ve heard you can’t trust the news, either,’ Gwenhwyfar added, glancing to her left as a waitress hurried past. ‘Often they have interests in particular industries, historically oil and fracking, but currently coal, right? So they peddle the particular viewpoint that benefits them. Such as claiming that climate change doesn’t exist—you know, like they used to—and maintaining that it’s under control now, that a little more coal burning won’t hurt. To guide public opinion and justify continued investment in non-renewable energies.’
‘Well, it works to an extent,’ Arthur agreed, his voice lowered to a suitable murmur. ‘Public opinion on the matter is definitely confused. We have the resources to curb climate change—we’re just not investing ourselves in it. I suppose the required steps have always been considered too radical.’
‘Or not profitable enough,’ Gwenhwyfar remarked.
‘I just don’t get why it is so hard to look at things differently,’ Arthur frowned. ‘Everything is a short-term fix. People just keep going. They change some habits, but not quickly or thoroughly enough, and look where it’s getting us.’
‘People only change when it becomes too dangerous to stay the way they are,’ Gwenhwyfar mused. ‘Didn’t Rollo May say that?’
‘Whoever said it was right. Then again, I’d argue that things got too dangerous some time ago, and still we’ve seen little change.’
‘I think I will borrow that book, if Marvin’s all right with it,’ Gwenhwyfar declared. ‘The one you’re reading at the moment, as well. I’d like to know more about capitalism.’
‘I’ll ask him.’
There was a moment’s silence as they considered all that had been said. Eventually Gwenhwyfar looked down to her pizza, and then to Arthur. ‘Would you like the rest?’
Eagerly he swapped their plates so he could finish her food.
‘We should do this again sometime,’ she suggested, pleased that they had chosen a restaurant instead of the cinema. They had been talking non-stop for nearly two hours.
‘We will,’ he promised. ‘How about we go for pancakes after school next week? I think I have one afternoon off.’
‘Sounds great,’ she beamed. The waiter came by to ask how they were doing, and Gwenhwyfar ordered another drink.
‘So how are you finding Logres?’ Arthur asked when the waiter had gone. ‘Is it very different
from Swansea?’
‘Yeah, completely,’ Gwenhwyfar said. ‘There’s a different vibe here. Everything’s really busy. The Welsh countryside is wilder, but it’s green here, which is nice. I don’t think I’d have coped if it was like London.’
‘London’s not so bad,’ Arthur reasoned, polishing off the last of her pizza. ‘It has some nice parks.’
‘The smog is horrible, though. It makes it nearly impossible to breathe. They need to plant more trees.’
‘We need more trees everywhere,’ he agreed. ‘I know they say that this government is the greenest ever, but where’s the proof?’
Gwenhwyfar didn’t know. She looked up with a shrug, her hand resting on the table, and when Arthur clasped it her heart skipped. She still couldn’t believe how handsome he was.
‘Pudding?’ he suggested, offering her a lop-sided smile.
Gwenhwyfar nodded, rubbing her thumb across the back of his palm. ‘Pudding.’
* * *
‘Arthur! Good to see you.’
Marvin moved aside to let him into the musty hallway, and took his coat. ‘Can I offer you a drink—? Tea? Coffee? I’m not sure if I should crack open another bottle of wine just yet. We can’t be drinking it like it’s water. I can do orange juice?’
‘Orange juice is perfect, thank you,’ he said. After a moment spent reabsorbing all the artefacts he remembered from his last visit, Arthur followed Marvin into the kitchen. It was cosy, and nearly as cluttered as the hall, with several pots and cooking utensils hanging on the walls. ‘Aren’t the others here yet?’
‘Not yet, you’re the first.’ Grinning, he handed him a cold glass of orange juice. ‘Did you refresh yourself on Orwell?’
‘I did.’ Arthur took a large gulp. The sugary drink made his mouth water. ‘I’d forgotten how grim it is. Even now, I was rooting for Winston. I always choose the wrong characters to back.’
Marvin rubbed his hands together as he leant against the stove. ‘It’ll be interesting to see what the others think,’ he remarked. ‘Though I don’t want to dwell too long on it. At the moment I’m more interested in what’s been happening in these Mobilisation Centres.’
‘Those are the institutions that take in the homeless, right?’
‘The homeless, the poor and the less able: those reliant either upon the state or in breach of quality of life laws. Such places are supposed to be platforms of reinvention, but… let’s just say that I suspect such a definition may be far too generous.’
Frowning, Arthur downed the last of his juice, the glass chilling his fingers. It was cold outside too, though not as cold as it was going to be. Last winter had been a bitter frost from November until March, with six feet of snow decimating transport and cutting off supplies.
‘I suppose we’ll soon see what comes of it.’ Marvin busied himself with clearing away the washed pots. ‘I’ll be keeping an eye on events, that’s for sure.’
Arthur put his empty glass down on the side. ‘Merlin? I was wondering… you remember that you originally wanted to invite Gwen? Well, I was wrong. I think she would be interested in this, very interested. Could I ask her to join us?’
Marvin’s bushy eyebrows bristled to meet over his hooked nose. ‘I think it’s best if you don’t, for now.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘Morgan and Bedivere will want to invite someone if you do, and that would double our group. I would like to get a handle on the members we already have, first.’
‘But what if you were to invite her yourself?’ Arthur tried. ‘Could that not work?’
‘That doesn’t seem fair on the others,’ he fretted, but upon seeing Arthur’s disappointment, he offered a more lenient smile. ‘Maybe next week… this is only our second session, after all. Have you looked into the Eco Party yet? You’ll want to sign up quickly, before everything shuts down for Christmas.’
Thankfully, Arthur didn’t have to think of a suitable excuse to mask his laziness. The doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of the rest of The Round Table. Marvin gave a loud exclamation and hurried to let them in.
They discussed 1984, though Bedivere seemed to find their interpretation less engaging than Morgan. Marvin highlighted parallels that Arthur himself had drawn for his shredded Politics paper, but the topic soon shifted. Sitting exactly where he had been last week, opposite the window, Bedivere looked to Marvin curiously.
‘The New Nationals… how is it that they got elected?’
Marvin eyed him sharply. ‘Well, it’s called voting, Bedivere.’
‘Yes, I know that.’ He blushed as Arthur and Morgan grinned. ‘I mean, how. How did a party like this get into power? Who voted for them, and why?’
‘Lots of people voted for them,’ Marvin said, still standing from his speech on Orwell. ‘Despite what people say, I don’t think it’s true that the New Nationals rigged the elections. What people forget is how frightened everyone was back then. Milton came along with a hard stance on all things pressing, pledging this and promising that.’ Stiffly, he lowered himself into his chair. ‘Make no mistake, he is charming. He seduced people. Everything about the New Nationals seemed exciting: their uniforms, their policies. People called them crazy at first, and other parties ridiculed them. Perhaps they were crazy in the beginning, but soon the jester dropped his façade and revealed a monster.’
‘I don’t even know if the façade has completely fallen,’ Arthur added, looking to Marvin. ‘Many people will vote for them in May.’
‘I’m sure people will vote… but willingly?’ Marvin gestured at them all. ‘Morgan,’ he barked. ‘Morgan could vote for the New Nationals in May, but why would she? Did you know, Morgan, that if you and Arthur were to have the same job, at the same firm, with the same experience, Arthur would be paid roughly twenty to thirty percent more than you? How does that make you feel, Morgan, working for that percentage of the year for free? Would you vote for the New Nationals? No? What if they called you to ensure that you did? What if they dropped by your house? Isn’t it right, after all, that women are paid less? It’s not feminine to want to earn as much as men. Women are less able. The New Nationals have backpedalled on gender equality quickly and effectively, and now the majority agrees with them, too.’
‘But that’s not fair,’ Bedivere exclaimed.
‘Fair? No, it’s not fair,’ Marvin snapped, wheeling on Bedivere, who sat bolt upright and retreated into the back of his chair. ‘But what are you going to do about it? Gender equality is your issue, too. Why is it such a horrific thing for you to be seen as feminine? What is so desirable about what we consider to be masculine? It’s women that continue to show true strength despite their marks of repression. If anything the phrase “grow some balls” is entirely misdirected. It should be “grow some ovaries”.’
‘No,’ Morgan said suddenly. ‘It should be neither. Determining between men and women in the sense that one is superior to the other is the root of the problem in the first place.’
‘True,’ Marvin conceded. ‘My point is, there are all kinds of reasons why people shouldn’t vote for the New Nationals, but people will; either because they are ignorant and therefore happy, or because they will be too frightened to vote for anyone else.’
‘Cowards,’ Arthur muttered.
‘Cowards, or sensible?’ Marvin countered. ‘It’s survivalist. If they themselves are unaffected by New National rule to a liveable extent, then why would they risk stepping over the line?’
The table fell to silence. Arthur, Morgan and Bedivere all exchanged a glance as Marvin huffed deeply and then leant into the round table.
‘Our time is nearly up,’ he told them. ‘I think we’ll do something different this week. You all have your copies of 1984? Yes? I’ll take those, please. Instead of reading, your task is to find one event in the news—just one, any you like—and research it on the Internet. Probe for the truth; compare accounts. See if you notice anything odd. I think you’ll be surprised.’
He smiled at them all and collected up their books. After
they had taken their empty glasses into the kitchen, he bade them farewell on the threshold. Arthur left with the others, hurrying out into the night.
* * *
Gavin undid his tie the moment he came into his bedroom, throwing it onto the bed.
‘I hate Mondays,’ he muttered, as Lancelot walked in behind him. ‘English. Maths. Cadets, work. Not to mention feeding Gareth and Gideon.’ He unbuttoned his shirt, whipped it off, and then pulled an old t-shirt over his head. ‘I mean, how old is Gideon? Thirteen? When I was his age I was cooking spaghetti for the both of them.’
‘Parents not back?’ As always, Lancelot investigated anything new or out of place in Gavin’s room. He paused by the bookshelf and extracted the thickest novel he could find, knocking over a photo frame in the process. ‘You could always teach him. I don’t know why they have to eat before six, anyway.’
‘Mum’s on a late.’ Gavin kicked off his school trousers and stepped into some jeans. He bundled up his discarded clothes and threw them on his chest of drawers. ‘Anyway, she won’t let him use the stove, not since he set fire to it. I suppose I should count myself lucky that I get to go out at all.’
‘The joys of being the eldest child,’ Lancelot remarked. He righted the picture and returned the book, and stalked along the perimeter of the room. ‘Though you wouldn’t catch Bobby cooking for Luke. He’s too busy smoking his brain away to do much of any real use.’
‘Your uncle allows that?’ Gavin scowled, sitting in his desk chair. Lancelot came to a standstill at the middle of the room. ‘He hardly even lets you use painkillers.’
‘Not unless we’re dying,’ Lancelot remarked. ‘Of course he doesn’t allow it, he doesn’t know. He smells it, though. He thinks it’s me. It’s insulting. It’s my room he searches, not theirs.’
‘He’ll search their rooms too,’ Gavin told him. ‘They just won’t know. My mum looks in my room all the time—it’s infuriating. I don’t know if she does it on purpose, but I’ll find she’s moved something, on the top shelf, or under the bed. Is it that she can’t remember where she found it? Or is it her way of telling me she’s snooping?’
The Future King: Logres Page 24
