by MARY HOCKING
She proffered scones and went on, ‘I only hope she is not overdoing it. We are all going to this meeting on Thursday. I do wonder whether that is really wise.’
‘Which meeting?’ Rodney asked irritably. He had reached a stage, Deutzia was sad to see, when he took offence if anything was said which he did not immediately comprehend.
‘Why, this nuclear jamboree to which we are all invited.’ Deutzia was pleased to sound so au fait with current affairs. ‘Are you not going?’
‘Going?’ His face had turned plum colour. ‘You will be joining the Communist party next, Deutzia.’
‘Hardly that,’ Deutzia said, as though this was a possibility she had indeed contemplated and rejected. She was excited by his disapproval. ‘One must be tolerant. I always like to hear what other people have to say.’
‘I can tell you what they will say without your putting yourself to the trouble of attending their meeting,’ he said loudly. ‘A lot of bloody rubbish. They haven’t an idea between them.’
‘Then you don’t need to worry about them, dear,’ Patience said.
‘But I do worry.’ He turned to her, shouting even louder. ‘I fought a war for them. To keep this country free. And now what do I find?’
‘That people are free to disagree with you, dear,’ Patience said irritatingly.
As a result of this conversation any doubts which Deutzia might have had about attending the meeting were dispelled. She looked forward with pleasure to recounting her experiences to Rodney and Patience, who had so little to recount other than problems with their gardener and the question as to whether Rodney should have a cataract removed. Moreover, she was encouraged by their reactions to hope that she might even surprise her own children.
But what to wear? Perhaps because of a tendency to grey and black in their posters and publicity she thought sober colours were called for at any meeting involving nuclear protestors. One did not, after all, go to a funeral arrayed for a garden party; and it was the funeral of the world to which these people seemed to look forward with such passionate intensity. Nothing light-hearted would be appropriate, certainly nothing joyful. It was a hot, sultry evening and she chose a navy cotton with a defiant little scarlet scarf at the throat.
Ann Bellamy had gone into town to have dinner with her husband and they would join the contingent from the village at the hall. The vicar and his wife were dining with the incumbent of St Peter and St Paul and they, too, would make their separate way to the meeting, Deutzia was sorry that neither pair had thought to ask her to join them. Other people from the village had assumed she would travel with Janet. She had hoped that Murdoch would be persuaded to attend, or at least to drive them to the meeting, but he had agreed to look after his grandchildren. Janet seemed content to put herself in Patsy’s charge, Deutzia sat in the back, not because she felt any safer but because she could see less. Patsy, in fact, was quite a good driver, the fault lay in her car. This was not a distinction which seemed material to Deutzia.
‘Now, tell me again,’ she said to Patsy once they were on the long, straight section of the main road and she felt able to carry on a conversation. ‘This is organised by CND.’
‘No,’ Patsy corrected her, not for the first time. ‘It is not organised by CND.’
‘Really?’ Deutzia was disappointed, just as she might have been to discover that it was only the touring company’s production to which she had been invited at Glyndebourne.
‘It was thought very important that this meeting should be broadly based,’ Patsy explained. ‘We want to bring in all shades of opinion. Some people can’t quite take the things which CND stands for.’
‘You mean they stand for something more than peace?’ Deutzia asked.
‘Rather that some of the hangers-on stand for something a little less than peace,’ Patsy retorted. ‘Also, CND is very well organised and some people don’t like that.’
‘They have cells,’ Deutzia said triumphantly. ‘And people who are trees and branches and trunks. At least, if television serials are to be believed. It all sounds rather fantastic – and a bit silly – to me. But I daresay I shall be convinced.’
‘This is not a CND meeting,’ Patsy said patiently.
‘Really! I quite thought . . .’
‘Of course, CND members will be there. All the peace organisations will be represented. Including the Christian peace movements – such as they are. No doubt you belong to one of them, Deutzia.’
Deutzia was prevented from pleading her age by the memory of pictures in the local paper of a doughty ninety-year old who had spent a weekend at Greenham Common. She contented herself with saying truthfully, ‘I have never been one to belong to movements.’
They arrived early at the school at which the meeting was to be held because Patsy had been mistaken about the time.
‘We shall have to sit near the front,’ Deutzia said when they entered the assembly hall. ‘People do mumble so nowadays. It’s the effect of television. We have lost the art of speaking out. I have quite given up going to the theatre.’
‘I expect there will be microphones,’ Patsy said.
‘But do you remember when David Steel came to speak at the Town Hall?’ Deutzia asked. ‘Not one of the microphones worked.’
Janet had the feeling of being in a theatre and as they seated themselves in the second row she experienced that sense of anticipation which not even bad notices could entirely quell.
Apparently it had been considered undemocratic to set the speakers above the audience, so the stage had not been used and the heavy gold curtains were drawn across it. On floor level, there was a modest table behind which two people could sit in comfort. It was doubtful whether it would be visible from any but the first few rows. A young man trailing yards of flex was testing the microphone which coughed and spluttered spasmodically. To one side of the table a bearded man was leafing through an untidy folder watched by a middle-aged woman with a wiry thatch of hair brushed across her forehead like a well-trimmed hedge from beneath which she regarded his labours with scepticism.
‘I know I brought them with me,’ he said despairingly.
‘You will have to manage without them,’ she told him. ‘There isn’t time to go back for them.’
They were joined by a younger man carrying a sheaf of papers. ‘I think I’ll just make a few announcements before the meeting gets going,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Not too many,’ the woman said.
‘It isn’t often we have so many groups all together and it will save postage,’ he continued as if she had not spoken.
In the event he made a considerable number of announcements while people greeted one another and formed their own groups. The clergy, watching the Chairman’s ineffectual protests with sympathy, thought that by contrast the parish notices were commendably brief.
As soon as she arrived Patsy had been surrounded by friends. Deutzia had gone to talk to Mr and Mrs Beaney. Janet stayed with Patsy. This turned out to be a mistake because Patsy introduced her to her friends who greeted her with touching generosity, embracing her in a sisterhood to which, simply by virtue of being with Patsy, she was immediately granted admission. They talked of matters with which they assumed her to be conversant – answers to letters in newspapers, success with a question on a phone-in programme, the wording of a questionnaire, plans for a projected demonstradon at the County Library, whose committee had transgressed in some way of which Janet was unaware. As they talked Janet felt an increasing awkwardness accompanied by a desire to please, to ingratiate, to be as caustic, witty, well-informed and strongly motivated as they; in fact to establish an identity other than her own which would justify their acceptance of her. It was not their fault that she reacted in this fashion. They were not manipulative or, individually, dominating women. The impulse to find favour sprang from no pressure on their part, rather from a need in her to identify with these women, to draw on their energy, to find a warm, secure place among them. But she could not manage the
ir language, nor match the spontaneity of their feelings. She was reminded of her attempts to join in a prayer group at which, week after week, her feeling of alienation had increased and all her notes had rung false.
As is so often the way with outsiders, Janet began to look for faults to justify her inability to make significant contact. And, faults never being hard to come by, she soon noted how easily Patsy’s friends categorised other people – officials, politicians, security forces, policemen became something less than human, creatures of a lower order to whom the worst motives could be casually ascribed, politicians being accorded the most virulent abuse. There was real hatred here. These women might preach peace but their vocabulary was more likely to promote discord. Several of them had recently attended a demonstration at Molesworth and as she listened to the description of the conflict between the protestors (gallant, high-spirited folk sharing snatches of song as they linked hands) with the forces of order (hard, brutal, grey-faced men) she was left in little doubt that she was now among a new kind of chosen people. She sat back a little relieved thus to have tarnished their bright image and was glad to see that attempts were now being made to call the meeting to order. The bearded man had taken the chair and had been joined by another man who was looking around with lively interest as though he, like Janet, was a stranger to such gatherings.
The Chairman tried to speak into the microphone, abandoned the attempt and rapped on the table. ‘If you have any more notices, they must wait until afterwards, Kevin.’
Kevin said rapidly, ‘A vigil is to be held as close to the war memorial as we are allowed to get to commemorate Hiroshima and Nagasaki . . .’
A gaunt man who was sitting next to Janet said, ‘Will it also be in remembrance of the men who died in Japanese prisoner-of-war camps?’
Several people sighed audibly and Kevin said quietly, ‘I don’t think we want to make this an occasion for controversy.’
‘Why should it be controversial?’ The gaunt man was wounded by this response. ‘Can anyone tell me what is controversial about remembering our own dead as well as those of the Japanese?’
The Chairman intervened, ‘Well, I hope you have all jotted down those dates in your diaries. But if anyone missed anything, Kevin will be glad to answer any queries after the meeting. Incidentally, the microphone doesn’t seem to be working, so perhaps those further back would like to move forward. There seem to be plenty of empty seats. I know that the southern contingent couldn’t come because they are mounting a demonstration outside the hall where Michael Heseltine is speaking.’
During the ensuing shuffling the gaunt man said to Janet, ‘This happens every time. If they don’t like what you say they simply do not listen.’
The Chairman said, ‘I am afraid I have lost my notes. But as we are running a little behind schedule, I don’t suppose you will object if I am brief. I will simply emphasise that this is not a meeting about disarmament. It is about something more fundamental. Do we want nuclear power at all? Do we, in fact, really need it?’
A woman said, ‘Yes, we most certainly do!’ in an authoritative tone. Patsy whispered to Janet that this was the leader of the Conservative Party on the local council.
The Chairman said, ‘You will have your chance to speak to that later, Mrs Dobbs, and I am sure we shall be very interested to hear how you justify that choice.’
Mrs Dobbs evinced a readiness to justify it at once. The Chairman continued, speaking more loudly, ‘I have to emphasise that this is not a discussion about weaponry. Of course, we are concerned about weapons, indeed that is our prime concern.’ He looked severely into the body of the hall as though seeking to quell unspoken opposition. Janet tried to control her growing impatience by telling herself that this was like a bad rehearsal and it would all come right once the meeting started. The Chairman was saying, ‘But it is felt – by some of us, it is felt – that there has been too little positive discussion about nuclear energy generally. The Chernobyl disaster has highlighted the fact that we do not need a war to put us in peril.’ He continued for some minutes to justify the decision not to discuss weaponry, about which he appeared to have some misgivings.
A dark, saturnine man rose from the rear of the audience and said, ‘As the meeting started twenty-five minutes late, Mr Chairman, perhaps we could all agree not to talk about weaponry and you can take it from there.’
The Chairman, flustered by this intervention, said rapidly, ‘The first part of the meeting will take the form of a talk on alternative forms of energy. This is a matter to which we must give increasing attention . . .’ As he was interrupted by further protests from the rear of the audience, he said irritably, ‘I must make this point. If we are not to be justifiably accused of being purely negative in our outlook and concerned only with gloom – and doom . . . I quote, of course . . .’
At this point a ginger-haired young man erupted into the hall and strode down the aisle waving a sheet of paper in his hand. ‘Before we start, Dave. This is urgent.’ Ignoring protests from the Chair he turned to the body of the hall and said, ‘This is the statement which we agreed to let Cliff have for the Recorder.’ He appeared to assume that everyone present was acquainted with Cliff and began to read, “The Chernobyl disaster is a preview of what could happen here in Dorset. At Chernobyl only twenty-three people may have died . . .” I think that’s the latest figure?’
The woman at the information desk called out, ‘I don’t think we ought to say “only”, Bill. It might sound as if we regretted that the numbers were so low.’
‘I take your point, Kay. “Twenty-three may be the number who have died so far, but . . .” ’
‘I don’t like “so far”, either. There are people – and we all know who they are – who would be only too ready to read into that that we are hoping for more deaths.’
‘Then how do you think it should be worded?’
‘I don’t think we ought to mention numbers at all.’
The Chairman said loudly, ‘I am now going to call on Dr . . .’
‘This statement has to go to press tonight.’
‘Later, Bill, we’ll stay on after the meeting.’ The Chairman said with some desperation, ‘I am now going to call on . . .’
‘Later isn’t any good if we are going to get this in the paper.’
The man at the rear of the audience was on his feet shouting, ‘Do you realise, Mr Chairman, that eleven of us have travelled over twenty miles by bus to this meeting, that the last bus leaves in forty minutes, that you propose to have a talk from the platform before any of us has a chance to speak, and this meeting has not yet started?’
Janet shouted, ‘Here, here!’ and then clapped her hands to her face. Patsy looked at her reproachfully and Deutzia fanned herself with a glove.
The Chairman said unhappily, ‘Yes, yes, yes. We really must . . .’
‘Perhaps we can rustle up some transport to get you back.’ The ginger-haired man looked round hopefully.
‘How? How do you propose to rustle up transport for eleven people at short notice when you can’t even begin to think about “rustling up” a statement for the paper until the presses are rolling? If this is a sample of what is in store for us this evening I might as well have stayed at home and watched Crimewatch.’
‘Yes, well . . .’ The Chairman braced himself. ‘I think we must make a start now. I call upon Dr Harrison.’
Dr Harrison leaped to his feet, almost knocking over his chair, which he steadied with one hand while rapidly introducing himself to the audience as a scientist engaged in research into environmental health hazards. Janet saw one of those lean, long-faced men with the look of the visionary who crop up from time to time on the English scene, the T. E. Lawrence of the laboratory. He compelled her immediate attention as he embarked at a spanking pace on a survey of the development of various types of energy, beginning with coal and describing in graphic detail the devastation of the Welsh valleys. He spoke very fast and it was not until he said, ‘We are tol
d coal is safe and underground, a hazard only to those who mine it and increasingly benign even for them – don’t you believe it!’ and proceeded to ask his audience to consider various matters unpalatable to Mr Scargill, including the fact that many of the old coal tips still gave off poisonous gas – it was not until then that it became apparent he was not speaking to his brief. A man of undoubted integrity and, as befitting his occupation, formidable energy, it was almost impossible to stop him once in motion. Regardless of protests, whose nature he genuinely appeared to misconstrue – ‘later, later, any questions you like to ask, later’ – he passed on to attack the oil industry. ‘The worst health hazard with which we are faced today is created by the motorcar. The cancer rate, the number of respiratory complaints in big cities, can be linked with lead in petrol. You may have heard this before, but I guarantee you have yet to organise sit-downs outside petrol stations and that you will, in fact, continue to queue outside them! Yet people are in greater risk than those who live in the shadow of a nuclear reactor. And why is this not better known, why does it so singularly fail to disturb our sleep?’ His voice soared above those seeking to provide him with comments, if not answers, as serene as a great tenor effortlessly dominating the chorus line. ‘Because unlike the nuclear reactor, the motorcar is loved by us all. The problem is not even given a serious airing, so effective is the combined power of the manufacturer and the car user. We are a car-owning civilisation.’
