About Sisterland (18 page)

“Cake was embedded with complex symbols for our ancestors. We’d like to try and understand its allure. There’s an element of sensuality in baking, we concede that. But it mystifies us why Pre-Sisterland women were once negligent enough to feed cake to their children, knowing sugar rotted the teeth. The keeper’s memories may help to unlock the
secret. We’re relying on you, Constance. The porthole
through which to retrieve this information is narrow. Can you take on the interchange, and unravel the moes inspired by cake?”

“I’ll do my best.”

The Shaper Mother’s thoughts turned inward. “Clearly, there’s some fetish attached to baking. Perhaps it’s about power: the knowledge the cake will give pleasure. Even though pleasure is such a transitory state of affairs.” She became intent on Constance again. “Hurry to her side, sweet child. Regrettably, our keeper is on borrowed time. Modesty has forwarded her address to your comtel.”

“With your permission, I have a question, Shaper Mother.” The mother’s expression of polite inquiry had an edge to it, but Constance persevered. “When I returned home from matingplace, I found some women outside my twoser. They’re still there. Paying homage to my other. They call themselves the Silenced.”

A tremor rippled through the Shaper Mother, and her voice shook. “Those poor creatures are under a delusion. We’ve been indulgent towards them. But they try our goodwill.”

“They aren’t annoying me. I just wondered about them.”

“I’m not surprised. The Nine wonders about them, too. About the effect such extravagant behaviour may have on sisters elsewhere. Extravagance is unacceptable. It’s immoderate – it smacks of moe.”

“They don’t make any noise. They just wave their egglights about.”

“They also gather in the Octagon zone, holding hands and singing by the bridge where it happened. Unfortunately, there’s a public square there, they have space to congregate. None of this is helpful. These women are becoming a curiosity. A focal point. An eyesore. Tell me, Constance, have you spoken with them?”

“Just in passing.”

“Do you find them persuasive?”

“I haven’t given it any thought. I just wish they weren’t there. But their numbers are growing.”

The Shaper Mother shuddered, the whites of her eyes showing. “If they approach you, urge them to disband. Perhaps you could tell them it’s what your other would want. Say she’d dislike the attention. Could you do that?”

Constance didn’t believe she could speak with authority about Silence’s preferences. She hadn’t known Silence wanted discontinuation, after all.

‘You’d have dissuaded her if you knew what she meant to do,” said the mother.

Belatedly, Constance tried to close off the mindmapping. “The Silenced are only leaving flowers, mother.”

“One thing leads to another. Red flowers have an air of violence about them. I don’t care for them. But how did these deluded sisters find you?
Does this mean you haven’t moved out yet?”

Constance was confused. “You said babyfused women are no longer required to spend time in communityplace.”

“Yes, yes. But are you still in the twoser you shared with your other?”

“I’ve reported my willingness to go. But the unit allocators have no vacant onesers. They say I must wait.”

“Wasteful.” The Shaper Mother tsked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Tell Modesty to follow it up. We can’t condone waste in Sisterland. Resources are precious, and must be safeguarded.”

“You did kindly say I could stay in Oblong, mother.”

“Indeed I did, Constance. I know you’re a loyal Sisterlander, with much to offer.
Sisterland Prizes
. . . ?”

“
Obedience.
” Constance finished Beloved’s quote.

“Quite so. And we believe in rewarding service.” She tapped her hands together, rings clanking. “I need your memory-keeper interchange by tomorrow morning. The Nine is anxious to know its contents.”

Constance was dismissed.

Chapter 15

The memory-keeper’s frame barely disturbed the patchwork quilt covering the pop-up in which she lay. Constance recognised Honour 19 as soon as she saw her again in mindedplace, although what lay before her was a shrunken version. She remembered her because of the keeper’s hair. It had surprised her then, and still made an impact. Her hair was grey – a pewter shade from crown to tip. An antidote to grey had been discovered, and a monthly shot could hold it at bay. Nobody’s hair needed to change colour as they aged, unless they were willing for it to happen. Few were.

Honour was propped against pillows, eyes closed and breathing laboured. The quilt was tucked under her armpits, and she gripped a corner between her fingers. It seemed to comfort her to have something to hold. Lines from
Beloved’s Pearls
were sewn into the quilt squares.
Mustn’t Grumble
lay close to the shrivelled hand that curled on top.

The medico who brought Constance to her bedside leaned close to the keeper. “This is Constance 500. She’s from Shaperhaus. You asked for her.”

Honour opened eyes with lashes sticky from sleep. “Tired,” she croaked.

“I can come back another time,” Constance offered, at a louder pitch than normal, taking her cue from the medico.

“Time. No. Not much left.” Honour sifted a breath through her lips.

The medico gave a nod to Constance, and left the room.

Her skin lay on the bedside table, reminding Constance to remove hers. She laid it beside Honour’s. An old face and a young face. They didn’t look much different.

Honour’s gaze drifted towards the skins. “I remember when sisters didn’t wear skins. That’s how old I am.” Her laugh was dusty.

“I expect their faces were in a terrible state.”

“They had lines. That’s all.” Honour wet her lips and her voice gained in strength. “Their faces were moe thermometers, showing how they felt. Some said it was ugly. All those moes left tidemarks. But I never minded them. For every groove from grief, there was a laughter line from happiness. You the Emily Dickinson girl?”

Constance touched her bare face, which felt tight after the skin. “I am. You came to Shaperhaus when I was a trainee. You told us why the PS world had to be overturned. And about Beloved, who wanted to safeguard the Sisterland way of life.”

“Didn’t I tell you any fun stuff?”

“When you were leaving, you looked at us all lined up in our uniforms, and said something about the tyranny of good taste. Nobody remembered how liberating tastelessness could be, you said. The progress-monitor looked scandalised, and you said to pay no heed to you – it was just an old woman’s crankiness breaking through.”

Honour hacked out a laugh. “They’ve got you on this new co-keeper programme?”

“Yes.”

Her neck creaked as she moved her head against the pillows. “Co-keepers. Like to see how they expect that to work. A person either has memories, or she doesn’t. Can’t go round taking possession of somebody else’s.” 

“Hardly anyone’s left who remembers the PS days, sister. You’re one of the last.”

The ancient face grew wistful. “Last of the summer wine. I was born in summer time. Won’t see another summer. That’s all right – I’m ready to let go.” Her hands fluttered. “So you’re the Emily Dickinson girl. You told me she used to lower a basket of cakes out of her bedroom window on a rope, to children waiting below. I liked that.”

“My other said so. A recipe for coconut cake was found among the poet’s papers.”

“Come closer. Yes, you’re the girl. I remember those eyes. One among so many memories. Sometimes, I think memory-keepers are nothing but curiosities. Like museum pieces.” Her fingers fidgeted against the quilt. “It’s stuffy in here. I miss the wind.”

“You remember the wind?”

“There were winds when I was a girl. Playful winds and bossy winds and refreshing winds. You never knew what the wind might throw in your path.”

The medico padded back into the room, and adjusted some dials attached to the foot of the pop-up. “Honour, if you feel the slightest twinge, send your visitor to fetch me. I’ll be right outside. We don’t want you to suffer. Not for a minute.”

“All right.”

“You’ll call me if you’re concerned about her?” The medico addressed Constance. “Honour dislikes making a fuss. But pain relief is a right at her age. There’s nothing to be gained by suffering when we can take away the pain.”

When it was just Constance and the memory-keeper again, Honour pulled a face. “That medico talks about pain relief every time she walks into this room. When I feel a creak in my bones, I know I’m still alive.”

“Are you in pain now, Honour?”

“Girl, I have a pain in my heart, if that counts. A dread I might not get a chance to share my secret. With someone who’ll understand it. Been fretting about it for weeks, till you came to me. I knew you were the one. Now, no more chit-chat. We need to press on.”

“Anything you want is fine by me, sister.”

The keeper’s eyelids floated downwards. “What I want is to slip away. Here too long. Living gets tiring, when you been doing it as long as me.” The eyelids were forced open again, and bleached eyes fastened on Constance’s. “I’m ready for the share now.”

Constance tapped a code into the sig on her wrist. Next, she took Honour’s blue-veined hands in hers, guiding the keeper’s fingers to tap the same series of codes onto her own sig. She touched her sig to Honour’s, where they flashed and locked onto one another. Constance rested the papery arm gently on the quilt, her own alongside it. 

It meant that when she shared the memory, Constance would relive it: not just the words, but what underpinned them. The smells, tastes, sights and sounds colouring the memory. To all intents and purposes, it would become her memory. When she repeated it, she’d convey every nuance. Exactly as if the experience had been hers.

“Do you need a drink of water, before we start?”

Honour shook her head. “I was seven the year World War III broke out. My parents owned a bakery, and I used to help out after school. That was a kind of girlplace, but we lived at home while we went there. Even during the war, my parents managed to keep the bakery going.”

“Did you live in Harmony?”

“There was no Harmony then. No Sisterland, either. It went by another name. Only the keepers remember it, but we’re not allowed to use the name any more.”

“What do you remember about that time?”

“Everything. Our bakery was always busy. Customers travelled from a long way away. We sold only cakes – no bread – and our cakes sang of pleasure and indulgence and celebration. They gladdened the dullest day and the saddest face. But I took that time for granted – I never knew happiness would come to be rationed.”

Constance stroked the hand moored to hers, and Honour returned to her story.

“We piled them high on cake-stands. Jam tarts with their lids cut into shapes, and cup cakes in every shade and flavour you could imagine. Millionaire’s shortbread and iced fancies, fruit muffins, and pies sprinkled with sugar crystals. Yes, sugar crystals! And the sky didn’t fall in! There was angel cake, lemon drizzle cake and chocolate biscuit cake, all baked to an old family recipe. There were gingerbread women, men too, and we decorated them in line with the season. In springtime, our gingerbread figures held a bunch of flowers, in summer they wore sunglasses and hats. It was scarves and mittens in autumn, and snow boots in winter. At Christmas – that used to be a holiday, like Sisterday – we made kissing pairs, under a sprig of a plant called mistletoe. They were always my favourite. There’s no mistletoe left any more. Such a pity. No kissing, either.”

Constance thought of Harper, and a smile slipped across her face. The interlocked sigs flashed, reeling her back in.

Absorbed in the past, Honour kept talking. “My parents worked side by side. They were a team. My mom – I know we’re meant to call them sources now but that’s what she was to me – she took care of the shop and the business end. My father was the creative one – his cakes were works of art. Everything was baked by hand. It was labour-intensive. Old-fashioned, I suppose. But he insisted cakes knew the difference, and tasted better with the personal touch. My father told me stories as he measured and stirred, sprinkled and trickled. He spoke of his father, and his father before him, all bakers. I was their only child. People had brothers and sisters back then. But not me. I never wanted any, because I had my father all to myself. He saved his lightest cakes for me – they floated onto my tongue. For my birthday, I had cakes decorated with jungle animals, or the solar system, or a carousel – the year I learned to swim, he showed me doing the backstroke, wearing my candy-striped bikini. Each year, he surpassed himself.”

Constance swayed, her balance affected by all the sensory imagery interchanged into her mind.

“They say people who work in kitchens can be crotchety, with the heat and the pressure, but my parents never exchanged a cross word. He baked, and she sold his cakes, and they were happy together. Our customers were happy, too. They always left happier than when they came in.”

Honour took on a radiance as she reminisced, the years peeling away. For a few moments, she was lost in thought. Constance knew she should move her along – it was a co-keeper’s job to keep the memories flowing, but she left Honour alone. Not all memories were meant to be shared.