girl voice. I smiled at the contrast with her looks and received a glare
from Goosegirl. He opened his mouth but Jeri spoke first: ‘I’ll get the
paint.’
‘Thanks but no thanks, mate,’ said Thursday. ‘I did a spot of work
for Susan, and she paid me.’
‘Very nice,’ drawled Goosegirl, finally getting a word in, ‘but why
bring her along to the meeting? W hat’s she doing here?’
Thursday October told the truth this time.
‘Seeing how people live without drugs.’
He was still holding the sketch, and now he passed it to me,
presumably as a cue for a change of subject .
‘W hat is this a map of?’ I asked.
The L ip ton Village Society
21
‘Lipton Village’, said Jeri.
‘W here is it?’
‘Not — here.’ T hat was Strongarm. ‘Not on the earth.’
It was a strange story, told hugger-mugger, with one speaker
interrupting another, so only in retrospect was I able to make it
coherent.
‘We were at school — ’
‘ — Sunshine Tech — ’
* — we hated it — ’
‘ — used to wag all the time — ’
‘Did you ever get threatened with a “special purpose” school?’ I
asked, interested.
‘W hat’s that?’ said Strongarm.
‘Somewhere to put dead-end kids and forget about them,’ said
Thursday. ‘Yeah!’
‘Oh, the truant school,’ said Jeri. ‘We got close. Then there was
Lipton Village.’
‘ — we were in Geography class — ’
‘ — almost rioting — ’
‘ — and the teacher didn’t know what to do. So he gave us a special
project.’
‘ — instead of boring Iran and Iraq — ’
‘ — make a place of our own.’
‘We took the name off a teabag,’ said Linear, and giggled. The
others remained sombre and I asked: ‘How many are in the Society?’
‘Thirty.’
‘And when you began?’
‘The same. Nobody dropped out,’ Goosegirl said aggressively.
‘It’s just,’ Thursday said, ‘a lot live on the other side of town, can’t
always afford the fare. Some of the girls don’t make the night meetings, ’cos that’s when they work.’
(Several days later I understood what he meant.)
‘Everyone’s still interested,’ said Jeri. ‘Totally.’
Looking around at the five of them, I realised that the imaginary
land, so quaintly depicted on the scrap of paper I still held, was of vital
importance to the Society.
The next day was Saturn’s and the first of the month, the appointed
date for paying rent. I took the money down to Vini in Times Gone,
where he insisted on celebrating the occasion formally, with tea.
‘I met the Lipton Village Society. To be exact, one sixth of it.
22
Lucy Sussex
Thursday October, Jeri, Linear, Strongarm and Goosegirl.’
‘Ah,’ Vini said dubiously. ‘More tea?’
‘No thanks. Where do they get those names from?’
‘Lipton Village.’
‘Silly question.’
‘Thursday is actually Brendan Mahaffy, I think . . . it’s hard to
remember.’
‘I think they’re sweet, really. So serious, about a fantasy world.’
‘It’s not a fantasy, it’s real for them. They genuinely believe the place
exists.’
There was a jangly crash as the door was flung open to admit a
short man in a high temper. He carried a parcel wrapped in the shop
paper. As he opened his mouth to speak, the door opened again
(tinkle) and he received its handle in the small of his back. Thursday
October entered, clutching a carton of paint tins and a roll of paper.
Squeezing past the infuriated obstruction, he gave a nod to Vini, a
half-smile to me, and flitted up the stairs.
The customer rubbed his back and stared at us with distaste.
‘M r Thornton!’ said Vini.
‘Is this the mad hatter’s tea party? Ought to be, in the house of the
mad builder — now about that atlas you sold me . . . ’
I got out of the way, pausing only to slip the rent under the sugar
bowl, for safekeeping. The packet of tea was nearby and I noticed its
brand: Lipton’s.
Thursday had spread the fresh sheet of paper on the floor and was
prising the lids off the paint tins. He glanced up as I entered. ‘Do us
a favour. Can you fetch the map from the chest? I’m messy already.’
He had opened the padlock and I found the map when I lifted the
lid of the box. Underneath it was a sketch of a peculiar horned animal.
‘W hat’s this?’
‘Oh — a reo.’ He chuckled. ‘Harmless little beastie . . . now. The
original version was a nightmare monster — Strongarm was into horror movies at the time. Well, we left the draw-rings lying about and it gave the dancing class the willies. Madame complained to Vim, you
bet she did.’
‘There are reos in Lipton Village?’ I asked cautiously.
‘Yeah, settling in nicely.’
‘You’ve been there?’
‘Just for visits.’
I picked up an unopened paint tin, and rocked it in my hand,
The L ipton Village Society
23
feeling the viscous fluid swell and slurp inside.
‘I can’t decide if you’re crazy or not.’
Someone stumped up the stairs and Thursday called out, ‘That
you, Jeri?’
‘Yeah.’ The boy carried a canvas bag, from which he unloaded
books, mostly with the distinctive sticker of my old University library.
One was unadorned, in a thick leather binding.
‘T hat’s from Times Gone,’ I said,
‘S’right. Picked it up as I went through.’
‘Put it back,’ said Thursday. ‘He’ll skin ya.’
‘Will do, but take a look at this.’
It was a book of maps, their folds neatly mended with strips of white
paper. He opened one out, a hand-tinted panoram a of the West In dies. In the empty sea between islands the cartographer had inserted out-of-proportion sailing ships, giant puffing cherubs, a whale large
enough to swallow Antigua.
‘Inspiration,’ said Jeri. ‘Now I’ll take it back.’
‘Is that Thornton’s atlas?’ I asked.
‘No. Times Gone is full of map-books.’
The argument in the shop was percolating upstairs. I could distinguish words and phrases: ‘incipit missing’, ‘later edition’ and ‘cost’.
Evidently some bibliographical minutia was in dispute. The door
jangled again, then slammed shut.
‘Thorny walking out,’ commented Jeri. ‘He’ll be back . . . next
time he wants an argument.’
He and Thursday exchanged glances, as though to say: ‘all the
world’s mad, save thee and me’. Both of them looked not a little smug.
After a moment Jeri wandered off with the book, leaving Thursday
staring thoughtfully at the blank sheet of paper. He gave me no chance
to establish eye contact, to resume our interrupted conversation; I had
to wait until Jeri returned to continue my questioning.
‘Are you a student? I recognise the library.’
‘I shelve books,’ he replied.
I inspected the titles: a textbook of animal physiology, Bakunin, atmospherical dynamics, the sociology of groups.
‘Wide range.’ (Meaning, do you understand all of that?)
He picked up the zoology book. ‘This was useful with the — ’
‘Reos?’
‘And the rest. It’s difficult to make an animal up from scratch. We
had a few abortions.’
‘Who was it,’ Thursday asked suddenly, ‘who forgot the oxygen?’
24
Lucy Sussex
Jeri pointed to the book on atmosphere. ‘T hat was years ago.’ He
flicked through the pages of the book he was still holding, then put it
down. ‘We’re finished now. These are just refreshers.’ The tone of his
voice altered, as if to exclude me. ‘Eh, Tburs, they’ve been at me again.’
‘Huh?’
‘To do the Library Technician course.’
‘Well’, said Thursday, ‘you can’t.
‘Yeah, but try and think up a good excuse.’
I butted in: ‘Why can’t you do it?’
They ignored me. Thursday said: ‘Tell them you won’t be living
here anymore.’
‘Oh come on Thursday, I know you got out of a job you didn’t want,
but you can’t advise Jeri to forgo a decent opportunity . . . ’
‘You sound like a social worker,’ said Jeri, and that shut me up.
Thursday explained: ‘He can’t do it, ’cause he’ll be living in Lipton Village. We all will.’
Vini, in accordance with the trading laws and his own sloth, had shut
Times Gone for the weekend. The shop was empty except for Rover
dozing in a pool of sunlight beside the elephant folios. I tried upstairs,
avoiding the room where Thursday and Jeri had begun to paint,
working together. Vini was in his flat, eating a bachelor’s lunch:
toasted cheese.
‘Come in and collect yourself,’ he said, after a glance. ‘Care to join
me for lunch?’
Inside there were a num ber of framed maps on the walls, and my
suspicions were confirmed.
‘Can you make some Lipton’s tea?’
He scratched his sandy-grey hair.
‘Ah, you guessed. Yes, I’m responsible for the Lipton Y'illage
Society.’
‘Who else would let them use that splendid room, rent-free?’
‘I had a guilty conscience,’ he said and went into the kitchen to grill
more cheese. I sat down and picked up the nearest book — W ing’s
Short-Title Catalogue, hardly enthralling reading. Vini reappeared after
some time, with a tray.
‘It was a pretty clever ploy,’ I said. ‘I mean, I don’t see teachers much
in my line of work, but horror stories seep through to the bureaucracy.’
All true, all true,’ he muttered. ‘I was a hopeless teacher, only
interested in old books and geography. At least I was enthusiastic
about the subject. Eight years ago I managed, for once, to
The Lipton Village Society
25
communicate that enthusiasm.’
I took a gulp of tea. He added, ‘How kind of Uncle William to make
me his heir. It saved my life.’
I nodded, swallowing the sweet tea.
‘The education system is based on one premise: blighting the lives
of young people.’
‘You enriched the lives of thirty little delinquents.’
‘I’m not so sure. Lipton Village is their obsession — they neglect
reality. I write them references, nag the Social Security people about
jobs . . . and they lose them! Too wrapped up in a dream world.’
‘They fascinate me.’
‘They have that effect. Sometimes I think I should sool a sociologist
onto them. It would make an interesting case study — Collective Hallucinations among Unemployed Youth — bah!’
‘They just told me they intend to live in Lipton Village.’
‘That’s been their aim from the start,’ he said. ‘It’s taken them eight
years to make the place viable: maps, crops, food animals, detailed
preparations. When Jeri couldn’t get hold of the information he
wanted, he got himself a job in a University library.’
‘I know, I’ve seen the books.’
The thread of his discourse had been broken, ‘Goosegirl and Strawberry were appalling pupils, in one earhole and out the other. Yet I’ve overheard the pair of them talking about chemistry!’
He reached for the tea pot.
‘There’s nothing we can do. Have some more tea.’
When I came downstairs again, feeling rather full, I found what must
have been a majority of the Lipton Village Society gathered in the
great room. Some were helping Thursday and Jeri with the painting,
others chatting among themselves. I threaded my way through the
young people and locked myself in my flat. The sound of their voices
was like a swell at sea. To drown the noise I switched on my television.
I watched: a Hollywood extravaganza about Sinbad the Sailor; the
news (with unemployment statistics); a po-faced BBC dramatisation
of an escapist children’s classic; a gaggle of cartoons; the news again
(with update); and a silly American comedy about a ‘slum’ school.
When I felt hungry, I cooked vegetarian stew, using the French
mushroom recipe as a basis, and ate it during the third news bulletin.
As I was cleaning up somebody knocked at the door.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Me, Thursday.’
26
Lucy Sussex
‘And Jeri.’
I switched off the television and, with its blare gone, realised there
was silence in the outer room. W hen I opened the door I could see,
past my visitors, that everyone else had left. Thursday and Jeri sidled
in, looking like a pair of children sent to the headmaster’s office.
‘Did we upset you?’ asked Thursday.
‘A little. It’s so strange.’
They swapped glances, with an air of deja vu.
‘How can you live in an imaginary place?’ I asked.
‘It’s there’ said Thursday. ‘It exists for us.’
A play-Utopia,’ I sneered.
‘It need not be for good,’Jeri said defensively. ‘We’ll be back for
visits. The quality of life here could improve. Then we’d return.’
He made that sound a most unlikely contingency.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘who’s to be tribal elder.’
‘Nobody. It’s an anarchy.’
‘I see — hence the Bakunin.’
They were both hungrily eyeing the pot of vegie stew, which I had
left to cool on the stove. I poured the remains into two bowls and
brought it over to them, with a pair of spoons.
‘Taa,’ said Thursday, and they sat on the bed to eat (heartily). I continued to argue. ‘Bet it soon degenerates into fascism.’
Both had their mouths full, which put them at a disadvantage. Finally Jeri said: ‘We don’t expect it to be perfect.’
‘But better than here,’ said Thursday.
That remark defeated me, in an odd way. After some time I asked,
in a little voice, ‘W hen do you go?’
‘Not long now.’
Not long now. When I returned to work on Monday morning I found
the office in what passes in the Public Service for turmoil. A senior
Researcher, collecting data on rural schooling, had had a nervous
breakdown. The fruit of his labours woul
d have been a report, due
shortly, and his assistant couldn’t cope with the extra work. It was simple stuff really — driving around country towns interviewing school principals. Who could they send? W hat about Susan Gifford? The
Public Service cosh was in evidence, though unstated; a refusal would
mean a quick trip to the unemployment office, the domain of Thursday October and his friends. I accepted with extreme reluctance, also unstated. They had given me only a week’s notification.
Thus it happened, in the month I was away, that I missed the grand
The Lipton Village Society
27
exit of the Lipton Village Society. I sent Vini a postcard with a map
on it, but there was no way, in this itinerant work, that he could reply.
On my return I found the great room completely empty, even the
cedar chest banished from its corner.
‘They said I should have it, sort of a cumulative rent payment.’
Vini had installed it in the living room of his flat where, amid the
books and clutter, it still succeeded in looking lonely.
‘How did they go?’
‘I didn’t see. One day they just weren’t around anymore.’
‘Didn’t they say goodbye?’
‘Yes, well in advance. But I never took them seriously, didn’t believe
they could . . .’
‘Maybe they’re hiding somewhere.’
‘Why?’ he asked, but I didn’t answer the question.
‘I can’t accept this. I have to make further enquiries.’
After some hours, and much nagging, Vini produced a complete
list of the real names behind the monickers of the Lipton Village Society. He could not tell me where they had been living, but I, with access to Education Department records, was able to find about thirty addresses of the nearest and dearest of these dead-end kids, years out
of date.
The following day I made a preliminary venture to the other side
of the city, to interview M r and Mrs Mahaffy, the parents of T hursday October. They refused to speak to me, for I wore working dress, and they rightly suspected a connection with officialdom. I returned
to Hirst folly, changed into casual cheaperie, and went slumming
again.
This time I received cautious help and an occasional insight into
various members of the Society. Strongarm had a brother in jail, and
Strange Attractors (1985) Page 3
