Child Garden

by Geoff Ryman

  The School Nurse smiled indulgently. 'He was asking, really, how it was that Plato could bear to write when he found writing so artificial. He thought of it as an artificial knowledge that people could lay claim to without really having experienced or learned anything.'

  You always talk down to us, thought Milena. You make us jump through hoops that are nothing to do with us, and then smile so sweetly when we fall over.

  'Sounds like the viruses,' said Milena. 'Just like the viruses. Plato would have hated the viruses, too.'

  The School Nurse laughed. 'Very good, Milena, yes, yes he would have hated the viruses. As we all know, he and Aristotle founded the Axis of Materialist and Idealistic thinking, both of which the Golden Stream swept away. Plato believed in dictators. He certainly would have hated the Consensus, our democracy.'

  The School Nurse looked pleased. Got a nibble, huh? Thought Milena. I bet you tell people there are glimmers of intelligence in my face.

  'I agree with him,' said Milena.

  The Lumps all laughed.

  'Are you an idealist, then Milena? Do you think you are just a shadow on the wall of a cave? Perhaps you disagree with Plato and are a materialist. Perhaps you want a Materialist state, with its choice of dictatorship or capitalist, economic terrorism?' The School Nurse was still smiling. 'Compare that to an idealist state, a theocracy perhaps? Being told you are damned, and that God wants to burn you in Dante's Inferno?'

  Milena was neither a materialist nor an idealist. Browbeaten, she withdrew into herself. But I know what Plato meant. All of you get everything you know for free without working for it. It isn't yours. I have to fight for every word. So maybe I am just grumpy old Plato, upset because people have a new tool that makes things too easy.

  The School Nurse turned her attention to the other Lumps. 'Now how did Derrida point out how Plato resolved the contradiction of writing against writing?'

  The Lumps chorused, 'Pharmakolikon.''

  'Yes,' said the Nurse. 'The root for our word pharmacy. Healing drugs. What people used to call medicine. But in Plato's time it meant both poison and cure. So Plato regarded writing as a poison that could also cure.'

  Milena remembered something. 'He doesn't use the word!' she yelped.

  The Nurse faltered. 'That's not relevant,' she said.

  'Derrida says he doesn't! Not once! Plato doesn't call writing Pharmakolicon. Not once. He just calls it poison.'

  'Anyone like to comment?' the School Nurse said, on firm ground again.

  The beaming faces turned to Milena, hunched on the ground.

  'It's implicit in the culture,' said one of them.

  'It can be in the text without being there.'

  Milena dug her hands deeper into her armpits. 'So Derrida can make Plato say anything he wants him to say?'

  The School Nurse shook her head. 'No. But he allows himself the freedom to fully understand Plato in context.'

  Anger flowered inside Milena, a rich and vital growth. 'I'll tell you why Plato wrote when he hated writing,' she said. 'He wrote because he knew that he had lost. He had lost, and everyone was writing, and so he had to write. But he still hated it.'

  Like I hate the viruses. But I need them, now, here, to keep up.

  Plato lost? The Lumps laughed. How they laughed. Milena had got it wrong again. Plato, the great voice of Idealism did not lose. He had founded the stream of discourse that ruled for two thousand years and nearly destroyed the planet.

  The School Nurse scowled and shook her head at them. 'Remember,' she said. 'Now remember, team,' she said. 'Milena has no viruses. We're to use what the viruses tell us, aren't we? What do we think Derrida would tell us about Milena?'

  There was a pause. What was the right line, then? The Lumps waited to be told.

  'Milena is speaking from her own personal experience. She thinks of the viruses as Plato thought of writing. She is viewing the text in her own, unique way. This is inevitable, isn't it? Milena is a reader of books, after all. One of the few we've got left, and Derrida was writing about reading as well.'

  The School Nurse smiled at her with indulgence. Then she turned to Rose Ella, the new Nurse, and held out her hands, as if presenting Milena to her. The new Nurse smiled again.

  Make me smile back. Go on, challenged Milena. See if you can. She turned grimly back to Ms Hazell.

  'You always use that word "remember",' said Milena. 'You say, "remember, team". You never tell us to think.'

  They all were silent at that. The Lumps knew everyone thought they were stupid. Milena grimly resisted feeling unkind for reminding them of that.

  'That's another large topic, the difference between memory and intelligence. Let's break now. Thank you, everyone. That was a very fruitful discussion. I certainly feel like I've learned a lot.'

  The Nurse leaned over the table and began to discuss each Lump's individual project. Pauline was knitting a sweater. 'Very good!' exclaimed the School Nurse and held it up.

  The new Nurse, Rose Ella, approached Milena.

  'Were you measuring how fast we are? I didn't see you counting,' said Milena.

  'I wasn't here to time you,' said Rose Ella. She knelt down in front of Milena. She was twelve, thirteen years old. An adult.

  'We're too slow, huh?'

  'It must be terrible for you,' said Rose Ella, and reached out with her hand. 'You're so intelligent. And not to have a memory.'

  Milena rolled her eyes. It must be hell, she thought, to be so pretty and so stupid. Leave me alone.

  'Did you specialise in Learning Disabilities?' Milena asked.

  Rose Ella turned around and sat on the ground next to her. 'Not particularly,' she said. 'No, there was a new emphasis when I was doing my practicals. You know, the new fashion. There are fashions in everything.'

  Milena liked that. It was honest. It seemed to treat Milena with a measure of respect. 'So what's fashionable now?' Milena asked feeling herself going shy.

  'Originality,' said Rose Ella. 'They're telling us to look for originality, and Develop that. Nobody's coming up with anything new. Not in science, not anywhere.'

  'So I'm original, huh?'

  'I think so,' said Rose Ella. 'I've never heard anyone say those things about Plato.'

  Milena's eyes seemed to go hot and heavy. Praise made her heartsick; she was so unused to it, and needed it so badly.

  'Lot of good it does me,' murmured Milena, looking down.

  'You like theatre,' said Rose Ella gently.

  'They briefed you, eh?' Milena wished she had something to do with her hands, some leather to stitch, some brass to polish. Her hands were always empty. 'I don't know. I just like to imagine things on a stage. You know, costumes, lights. I put on the Christmas show.' Milena was going to tell her about the costumes, the golden shoes, and the brass ice bucket that was supposed to contain myrhh.

  'Oh, yes, they told me about that!' exclaimed Rose Ella, forgetting herself. She pulled her curly blonde hair back behind her ears. That made her ears stick out. 'It sounded lovely! I was really sorry I missed it.'

  'They told you all about it, eh,' said Milena. She fell silent. For a moment there I thought you were being friendly. Milena shifted where she sat, jerking her buttocks nearer to the wall, sitting up straighter. She would tell Rose Ella nothing else. She answered the next few questions with a yes or a no.

  Rose Ella looked chastened. She had forgotten some of her training. Never tell a Disabled Person that you already know about what they're going to tell you. Milena could see the new Nurse think that. Milena could see her try to make amends. Rose Ella started to talk about her family. Her father restored furniture. Her mother was a glass-blower.

  'Have you ever seen the glass-blowing?' Rose Ella asked. 'It's lovely to watch.'

  'Sizing up a future Placing for me?' said Milena.

  'No,' said Rose Ella. 'I'm just proud of my mother.'

  'Mine's dead,' said Milena. 'She was an idiot. Well, not really. But we ended up here. We were from Czechos
lovakia. But you already know that.'

  'I didn't,' said Rose Ella, shaking her head.

  'Don't tell me they left something out of my case history,' said Milena.

  Rose Ella sighed. She looked down at her hands, and then back up at Milena. 'It doesn't work like that,' she said quietly. 'They don't brief us like that in case it affects what we think.' Her eyes seemed quite sincere. 'Look, let's go look at the glass-blowing. At least it will get you out of here.'

  Away from the Lumps.

  'Fine,' said Milena, trying to shrug as if it were all one with her. But her eyes were heavy. She wanted to be with Rose Ella.

  Milena had rarely seen inside the School. She did not have relatives or friends who worked there. She had never really felt part of the Estate. Rose Ella pushed open the large, grey gates; they seemed to float backwards on their hinges.

  'I love the smell of the wood, don't you!' said Rose Ella, looking back over her shoulder as she swung the gates shut behind her.

  Milena felt vaguely as if her own feelings had usurped. 'It's all right,' she said.

  Rose Ella walked briskly to a window in the wall by the gate. She waved for Milena to stand next to her. They peered into the Senate House of the School. It was the timber store. There were honey-coloured planks all in ordered racks. Beyond the doors across the room was a pile of huge logs. Men and women sawed the wood in perfectly straight planks, guided by virus. Men with brooms swept up the chips and yellow shavings.

  'What do they do with the sawdust?' Milena asked.

  'Use it for packing. Some old kinds of sofas were stuffed with it. We also use a lot of it to store ice in the ice house. It keeps it all through the summer. Most of the time though, we just use it on the fires. We aren't supposed to. Don't tell anyone.'

  'I don't have anyone to tell it to,' said Milena murmuring shyly. This is how it is for other people, she thought. They talk and find out things. 'Is the world a great big wicked place then?'

  'How do you mean?' asked Rose Ella, appearing to take her very seriously.

  'Is it full of secrets? Little bits about things. Like that. About the wood.' Damnable shyness overcame Milena, and she stuck her hands in her pockets and could not look at Rose Ella.

  'Sometimes. Little things. Such as...' Rose Ella paused. 'Such as I really, really like Senior Fenton.'

  The Senior ran the Medicine. He was very old, twenty two, mature and handsome.

  Milena was overwhelmed. 'You do? Are you going to marry him?' It was a wonder to talk to someone about such things.

  'I shouldn't think so.' It was Rose Ella's turn to be surprised. She kept her hands behind her back, behind the white uniform, and looked down at her feet. 'He sings,' she said. 'He sings evenings at the Row, when we all get together. Oh! He has such a beautiful voice.'

  'Senior Fenton sings?' Milena asked. She couldn't imagine it. No, she could. She could see his handsome face open wide with song. She wished she could say she liked Senior Fenton too, but the image of him did not move her. She began to worry, a little. Her heart never rose at the idea of men, or a particular man. Who did she like? No one, she was forced to conclude. She liked no one.

  'Is there a lot of music at the Row?' Milena asked. She had never had time to learn a musical instrument. She sat in the conference room and watched the other children play.

  'Ach! Oh yes!' said Rose Ella. 'Oh, such music we have at the Row, every evening! Have you never been?'

  'No,' said Milena.

  'Well, you come along tonight, then,' said Rose Ella. 'Come to supper.'

  Milena found herself hesitating out of habit. She had her laundry to do and her book to read; and then she thought: Milena, why ever not?

  'Yup,' she said, moving her shoulders from side to side, in a way that was supposed to suggest casual acceptance. 'Thanks.'

  Rose Ella's mother worked in what had once been the School of African and Oriental Studies. The east side of the building was a foundry and glass works. The windows were open wide, but it was still hot. Milena felt the heat on her face. Almost as if she could feel her pores open, sweat welling out of her forehead. The furnaces were lined up along the back wall. One of them was working, its door hooked open. Inside the furnace, there was an even, unvarying orange light. A row of Restorers stood in front of it with long metal poles. Metal! Milena looked in wonder at the metal poles, hoping to see a marvel, but metal did not look all that different from dirty resin, except that it didn't melt.

  Rose Ella introduced Milena to her mother. Rose Ella's mother was very small and slim with grey steady eyes and perfect smile. The eyes had a fixed light in them that Milena found difficult to warm to.

  'Mala,' Rose Ella, calling her mother by her first name. 'This is my friend, Milena.'

  My friend, thought Milena, she called me her friend. She was too pleased to remember to speak.

  'Hello, Milena,' said Rose Ella's mother, pleased to meet her. There was something in the smile that would have been pleased to meet anybody. 'I'm making a pitcher. Do you want to watch?'

  Rose Ella left it to Milena to say yes. They stood well back. Rose Ella's mother dipped the long metal pole into the orange light. A bubble of glass came out attached to the pole. Around the edges glowed orange, where the glass was thickest. Rose Ella's mother put the pole to her lips and blew, just a little, and looked, and blew again. She wore no gloves, no apron. She picked up a kind of scoop with a long black handle, and rolled the glass on it. The glass went rounder as it was rolled and it began to glow green as it cooled. Then Mala turned it on its base, flattening it against what looked like a small raised stool. 'That's it,' she said.

  Rose Ella jumped forward and took the pole with an easy flip of the hand, and Milena stepped back in fear and admiration. Rose Ella fixed the pole in a vice, and turned it. She took a triangle of wood, ordinary wood dipped in water, and as the glass blob turned, she ran the wet wood around the lip of the pitcher's neck. The wood flared into flame. Striding quickly, lightly, Rose Ella tucked the pole into another oven, twisted it once, and pulled it out again. The glass was gone.

  'Where did it go?' Milena asked.

  'It's in the oven now. Eighty degrees. It will harden there,' said Rose Ella, with a grunt. She took her black metal pole and dipped it in a bucket. There was a bubbling and a sputtering of steam. 'Stand back,' said Rose Ella. She chopped away at a crust of crystal left clinging to the mouth of the pipe.

  'I'm doing a net too, if you want to stay and watch,' said Mala.

  'Ach! Oh, that's special, Milena. You're in luck!'

  Her smile still sharp and steady, Mala sat in front of a little table. 'The order came in just today,' she said. 'It's for a house being done up out in Uxbridge.'

  'She weaves with glass,' said Rose Ella, and in her excitement gave Milena's hand a little squeeze.

  It really was the most beautiful thing. The glass was teased into strands like toffee. Mala used chopsticks to stretch and catch and weave the strands over and under each other. The strands would sag and droop, and each time Mala would seem to catch them only just in time, lifting one strand up to nip another strand underneath.

  Like wool, the glass was knitted. The criss-cross pattern rested as it grew on a gently warm shoulder of metal. Very suddenly, Mala was cutting the strands with a pair of scissors, which were passed to Rose Ella, to be dipped into water and bashed clean. New strands were drawn up, and red hot tongs were used to stroke them, cajole them into melting with the previous strands.

  'This... glass,' said Mala, distracted by her work, 'is for ... decorative panels. Screens really. Between beautiful wooden benches.' Milena realised that Mala was talking to her.

  Mala looked up, straight at her. 'They're beautiful when they catch the light.' Milena smiled back at her, lost for a reply. 'They'll be about a metre square each when I'm done.'

  Rose suddenly dipped in front of her mother, as if curtseying. From under the shoulder of metal, she pulled out another shoulder, to support new sections of the net. Th
e clear putty of the glass slithered up and over itself as if alive; the chopsticks clicked like frightened insects. 'Ah!' sighed Mala with satisfaction. Suddenly it was time for lunch.

  They all went to Russell Square together. The lawns were full of people photosynthesising. Mala bought each of them a drink, and a communal cup full of fried squid. They sat on the grass and protected their fried squid from the sniffing market dogs.

  'It's not like they tell you,' said Milena, mustering her words.

  'What do you mean, Milena?' asked Mala, as if from a respectful distance. She was still smiling.

  'Restoring. There's nothing of the Golden Stream about it. It's all about moving glass.' Milena had found the whole experience deeply reassuring. She had found some grounds for hope. Life would be more practical than she had thought. Life was not about memory.

  Mala's smile shifted, finally. It grew more broad and took a slightly rueful slant. 'We don't sit around talking, no. The only way to learn this stuff is to do it. They can give a virus, and you can know all about it here.' She pointed to her kerchiefed head delicately, with a circle of squid. 'But your hands still won't do the right thing. You've just got to learn it.' Mala's hands held the squid with a perfect grace.

  Milena was so pleased she had to look away. She had to look down.

  'Well,' said Rose Ella. 'I'm a Nurse, not a glass blower. I've got to get back.'

  They all stood up, and Rose Ella and her mother kissed each other on both cheeks, a curiously formal gesture. Mala's hand rested slightly on her daughter's shoulder. Then, to Milena's surprise, Mala kissed her as well.

  'See you later,' Mala said. 'Supper at six.' Then, without a backward glance, Mala walked away. Even the way Mala walked was perfect, one foot placed exactly in front of the other. Everything was so simple.

  'Isn't she lovely?' asked Rose Ella.

  Milena said yes, but only because she thought Rose Ella was. Together they walked back to the Medicine.

  All that afternoon, as some of the children practised music, as others set up imaginary stalls selling saws or soap, Milena smiled. As older children came and went on real business, selling roasted corn to the Tarty grandees parading up Tottenham Court Road, or sweeping the streets of other Estates for money, Milena sat, legs folded on the floor of the courtyard and didn't move. Parents murmured to Nurses about possible lines of Development. It was said the Estate needed chemists — was any work being done in chemistry? How many Places were there, just in general, for statistical work?