by J S Hollis
“Nah. I reckon, you sleep with enough people so that you get to a point when the sleeping with people no longer excites you. Like smoking a hundred cigarettes per day. And then your body is desperate for something more meaningful.”
Cecil put Sylvio’s rubbish into a discarded pizza box. “How many women are equivalent to a hundred cigarettes a day?”
“A thousand?”
“Over what period? Don’t answer that,” Cecil said, sitting down on the short side of the L. “The numbers don’t matter. The problem is that cigarettes are bad for your health. Women are not.” Cecil spotted the grin spreading across Sylvio’s face. “Necessarily. You get my point.”
“I’ll take the risk.”
“Of not being able to settle down?”
“Look, we all make excuses. If I sleep with a hundred women, I’m a nymphomaniac. If I settle down young, I haven’t got it out of my system.”
“Does it have to be one or the other?”
As Cecil said this, Sylvio moved his hand and, consequently, the view of the screen. “Wanna know what I particularly like about this lady?” Cecil didn’t respond. Sylvio moved the view so that they could both see clearly that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.
Cecil turned away from the screen (a little later than he should have) and shifted to hide the unconscious movement in his trousers. “Come on Sylv, you are better than that,” he said. “You’ll get in trouble for that kind of thing.”
“Don’t worry, Alice. I’ll have my face in that tomorrow night. And the other’s will forget in time. It’s a good job people are so forgiving.”22 He winked at Cecil.
But while Cecil may well have been in love and had a progressive view of relationships, it is unlikely his invitation for Clara to move in was romantic. In Cecil’s view, looking beyond the relationship at his whole life, the move may not have seemed imprudent at all. The danger it posed to Cecil and Clara’s relationship was outweighed by the benefits. By sorting out his love life, Cecil could fully focus on his work and largely avoid cultural pitfalls. Cecil was fully aware of the fact that the majority of controversies that could befall a man of his political ambitions revolved around sex. He could party but go home at a sensible time. He could talk to women without the implication that he was trying to charm them. And he could bring Clara into his home and whittle her into the wife of his dreams.
Clara fell into the trap as compliantly as a frog into cool water. She naively (it would be unfair to accuse her of arrogance) thought Cecil had been changed by her personality. No longer was he the timid boy, too scared to ask her out. Nor was he the Victorian suitor that Jude had tried to portray him as. He was spontaneous and romantic. She had made him into a man (and thus she had become a woman). When Clara told Jude her news, she said it in a “by the way” tone that made it sound like the obvious, mature thing to do. Jude’s surprise that Clara wanted to commit at so young an age only spurred Clara on. She and Cecil were not just interested in sex. They connected at some “deeper level”. They knew they were right for each other. “There are more important things to do than mess about with pointless relationships.”
Undoubtedly, this left Jude more bemused than impressed. Not least because Clara was implying that the men Jude was seeing were somehow lacking. She also wondered whether it was Clara rather than Cecil who had changed. Clara had always clung to her independence like a former colony. Jude said nothing more. She never managed to change Clara’s mind so she preferred to stay aligned and, if needed, be a source of comfort if the relationship collapsed.
Unlike Jude, Donatella, Clara’s mother, had the adequate mix of love, concern and distance to question the move. She didn’t intervene immediately – she waited for Clara to tell her. Dealing with Clara required a strategic approach. Clara had no reason to trust her spinster mother on relationships anyway. The doubt needed to be sowed into Clara’s mind so that when it sprouted, she would think it had grown of her own free will. They would need to dance a dance of feigned indifference.
The intervention came during a routine conversation. Clara was watching Donatella’s thin fingers kneading a ball of dough and she decided to send her an invitation for a chat. Donatella flinched when the notification flashed up on the work surface. She flicked a temporarily webbed hand at the vision and saw her daughter appear.
“Hi Mama,” Clara said knowing Donatella hated being called that.
“How are you, darling?” Donatella asked, pouring more flour on the dough to stop it sticking and picking clumps off of her hands.
“Good, thanks. And you?”
“Same ol’ – wait! One second.” Donatella scribbled something in the air.
“You know you can reject my calls?”
“Can I?” her eyes widened for less than a breath. “Sorry, quite right, what’s new?”
“Nothing much.” Clara had begun to doodle the old building opposite. Its green stilts had become little legs and it was running away from the structures overshadowing it. “Oh, Cecil asked me to move in with him.”
“Oh, really, how exciting. Bit soon, I’m guessing.”
A line of the doodle darkened. “It is a bit soon but I said yes.”
“Oh, you did? Well, Cecil seems lovely. It must be serious?”
“Either it works or it doesn’t work.”
“Yes, yes, that’s true. But the more you invest in a relationship, the harder it is to leave. And of course, there are implications of moving into his home.”
“That’s not the story. This isn’t the woman submitting to the man. Couldn’t it be that I am taking over his space?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean his home, as in some sort of feminist thing. That’s not what I meant.” Donatella slapped the dough back onto the work surface. “I meant space is important. Not just for couples. For all of us. You don’t know who you are yet.”
“Don’t worry, Mum,” Clara said without really knowing what Donatella had said. Clara gave the building a green beard.
“I’m not worried. I totally trust you. I’m only repeating everything you would have thought about it already.”
“Exactly, I’ve thought about it.”
Donatella didn’t believe a word she was saying. She knew Clara would have acted on instinct. But it was too late for a full intervention. What would be gained from an argument other than anger and motives of resistance? She had to put her faith in time and the germination of ideas.
On a damp September morning, Clara and Cecil sailed into Seven Sisters in a small white van through streets missing the yelps of children, who had returned to school. Despite Cecil’s claim that the van would have more than enough space, Clara spent the journey from Bethnal Green staring at the word FRAGILE, which was emblazoned across the large box of painting equipment on her lap. Cecil did not yet feel in a position to ask Clara if she really needed each item. “Wow, you have a lot of stuff,” was the most he could muster.
Clara’s belongings transformed the interior of the house from the unmistakable dwelling of male students. It had been clean and well kept but it had suffered from the dull vacancy of a cheap hotel room. There was nothing in the corridors to suggest they had any purpose other than to convey persons from one room to another. The living room was an austere chapel directed towards a screen, which sometimes shone a flickering light onto the not quite white walls. Whether Clara consciously sought to vitalise the functionality is unclear but she began to disseminate her bits and bobs among the gloom. Vases appeared in the living room, her art in the corridors and bathrooms and the simple indications of life such as yoga mats, celebration cards and photographs grew like ivy over the floors and furniture. No one could argue that Clara’s dedication to consumption cast a certain humanity onto the household.
Sylvio was delighted with the change. He particularly liked the throws and pillows Clara had placed on the couch where he spent much of his time. He asked Cl
ara if she could also renovate the front of the house. “Every time I return home,” Sylvio said, “I expect to find a mad pensioner living here. Eating the food he’s found on the street.” But she never got round to it. In a street of pastel façades and shiny solar tiled roofs, the house was conspicuous for its cracked front patio, postbox and peeling white paintwork.
The storm of Clara’s possessions had flushed Cecil’s bedroom. The medals announcing his successes in the university and school football teams were stored away, and his collection of pens was given to a charity shop. Clara had suggested he keep the pens but Cecil told her that “it’s about time I stopped pretending collecting is something worthwhile”. And with the swish of a few bin bags, out went the unhelpful past.
His bed was dismantled and replaced by a shikibuton mattress, which may or may not have been an active attempt to dampen the sounds of any intercourse. The white duvet cover was replaced with a brightly patterned one.
Cecil seemed happy to take the opportunity to eschew the trappings of university life and childhood. Perhaps he never really liked them but accrued them to fit in. Some items survived: the Mondrian poster, which Clara accepted as a “memory” piece rather than aesthetically; a pot of Sansevieria cylindrica, which Cecil had attentively kept alive in the limited light that came through the north facing windows; a floor lamp, out of necessity; and some beautifully carved wooden board games, which Cecil admitted to never playing but had charm all the same.
Although there was little of Cecil in terms of possessions, Cecil and Clara’s lives became increasingly intertwined. It was hardly surprising that their friends began to call them “Mum and Dad”. Cecil laughed at this description but enjoyed the indication of respect. He was always on hand to counsel friends in times of need. Clara was less comfortable with the perception of her as “Mum”. When Sylvio said “alright, Mum”, she tried to put him off by saying “yes, my child”. But that only encouraged the role play so she went with ignoring him instead.
When in October Cecil hosted the first meeting of the Green Shoots for the new academic year, he asked Clara if she could help him prepare for the event. She had no reason to say no and the preparations were not particularly burdensome. Clara spent an hour cutting up vegetables into crudités and another half an hour clearing the living room so that it could host the expected fifty attendees. As it happened, far more than fifty people turned up. They crowded around the doorway to hear or ended up watching the event on whatever AR device they had.
Cecil picked his way through the crosslegged students until he stood at the back of the room like a dour children’s entertainer. The chatter continued until he said in a loud whisper, “Hi, hi, everyone.” The noise dissipated and the audience turned to see that Cecil had appeared from somewhere. Cecil’s whisper, while audible to all, had the effect of making everyone feel they were about to hear a secret.
“Welcome everyone, thank you so much for coming to our first meeting of the new university year. Especially any new members. Drinks and canapés are available” – Cecil looked around and stood on his toes – “somewhere.” The audience giggled.
Clara had seen Cecil like this on W but never live. Undoubtedly she found it attractive. It was hard not to. He never seemed to have more than just enough confidence to stand there and speak. One hand remained in his pocket and the other gestured. He didn’t shout. His soft voice travelled far enough to draw the audience in but went no further. They could trust a man who didn’t stride but who believed enough in himself to stand there and cast his faint shadow over them.
“Please feel free to interrupt. This is a democratic movement. Just to introduce today’s meeting, we have some announcements from Victoria, our secretary, on upcoming events, etcetera. We will then discuss how you can get involved in the Green’s latest campaign and then we will have a live presentation from Sylvia Peters MP on the effects of further social security cuts.”
Victoria spoke and then Cecil announced the new campaign. “As you all know, air travel is incredibly detrimental to our environment. With more and more people able to afford air travel, there has been exponential growth of flights and the oil companies have been focusing on it as cars have electrified. It has also been harder to tackle air travel because people still see it as unavoidable. We need to counter this view. Maybe then airlines will get their act together and find new ways of powering aircraft. We will therefore begin a campaign of enlightenment.
“We want you to use W to find those people about to book flights for holidays or business trips and to kindly ask them whether there is an alternative. Could they attend the business meeting via W? Could they go to a holiday destination in England, Wales or Scotland? Suggest that they support the home countries in this time of economic uncertainty. This is not mobbing. We will not be aggressive. We will just convince through rational and sensible argument. We cannot force people to change their minds. This is enlightenment.”
Applause broke out, started by the committee members. Clara clapped too but would she be able to stop flying? She could certainly see a benefit in thinking more carefully about it. But if she wanted to go to visit her family in Sicily, she would. She had already taken four flights the previous summer. She was probably thinking about the implications of this when she heard her name.
“Clara,” Cecil said. She looked up and saw dozens of unkempt faces looking at her expectantly.
“Sorry, I didn’t … err, hear.”
Victoria clarified matters. “We need someone to take over as head of marketing and Cecil suggested that you might be interested.”
“Sure, I mean, why not? But I’m not even a member.”
She wasn’t going to say “I can’t because I am not even sure I agree with your policies”, at least not in front of a room of people who did believe in them and, especially, not before she had some solid reasons to stand behind. She knew that if she had hesitated, the net would only have drawn tighter.
Once the members had left, Cecil came over and hugged her. While she was tall, her head still fell onto his chest. “I’m so pleased you decided to take up the marketing role,” Cecil whispered in her ear.
Clara released herself from the hug and looked into Cecil’s goofy face, the whites of his two front teeth creeping out from below his top lip – genuine pleasure didn’t suit him. “Well, about that. I’m happy to do it. But I am not sure I totally agree with all the Party’s policies. Maybe I am not the right person.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Cecil said, taking the slight dent of Clara’s waist in his hands and drawing her closer to him. “Do you want to protect the environment?”
Clara nodded.
“Do you think that we need to reinstall the social security system?”
“I suppose so, but stopping people flying … It might be a bit much for me.”
“Honestly. Don’t worry. You are never going to agree with every policy but as long as you back the fundamentals of the movement then you’ll enjoy supporting us. You’ll feel part of a community.”
Clara was convinced. Cecil was very hard to disagree with. She similarly found it hard to reject his suggestion that she mentor a group of sixteen year old schoolgirls who were wondering how to prepare themselves for university and working life. Clara asked Cecil how the girls could ever respect her. What had she ever done? But Cecil disagreed. Clara was an impressive woman, he said. Intelligent, passionate and artistic. And even if she wasn’t respected, these girls had no one else to help them so what was the harm.
With the minimum forty hours university work per week, volunteering for the Green Shoots, mentoring, daily meditation and exercise, and the slow eating Cecil had encouraged her to practice for each of her three meals, Clara rarely had a moment for relaxation or for her art. She became consumed by Cecil’s world and didn’t know how to push back against it. It all seemed so reasonable. Healthy, kind and stimulating. She wasn’t even sure she w
anted to resist. She wanted to be a good person too.
4
Texture
Hopefully you have begun to see how it happens now. How two people, full of the vitality of life, of their own ideas, of their own independence, can find themselves trapped and suffocated by the stubborn logic of their interweaving identities. They become dehumanised by their lack of hypocrisy.
Clara believed that she had drawn Cecil into her web of heterodoxy and had changed him. When she discovered that she was the prey, tightly in the grip of Cecil’s mandibles, squeezed between his unforgiving Neocalvinism and her own meaningless free will, she thrashed about, trying to escape.
She first felt the squeeze when Cecil, university unfinished, accepted a job at Future Fabrics. At least, that was how it seemed. She vaguely recalled an application but he had made no fuss about it. And when he told her that he had been offered the role, it took her by surprise like a punch in the stomach.
Clara had no idea about what she wanted to do when she finished her course. She fell into a junior marketing position with the Green Party but, even after she had signed the contract, she continued to trawl job opportunities looking for a dream she hadn’t yet had. She pretended to enjoy marketing, and her seniors reassured her that she was doing a good job. But she found it disheartening. However good she was, the Greens would never win an election as long as they planned to increase taxes. Open Democracy23 showed eighty-six per cent of voters in favour of tax cuts irrespective of the effects on education, healthcare and transport.
Clara tried to embrace being a Green woman but the pressure began to take its toll.24 As much as she tried to push back against it, by laughing at her errors and avoiding W, Clara began to develop a moral paranoia. The irony that Cecil was working in fashion, admittedly in its nerdy underbelly, while she had ended up in politics, made her suspicious. When she mentioned this point to Cecil, he said “that’s funny” without so much as a smile. Sometimes she blamed him for her situation, felt bad for doing so, and then blamed him for her guilt.
