Among Others (23 page)

“Do you think
Triton
was intended as a response to
The Dispossessed
?” he asked, interrupting me. I hadn’t thought about it, but I did then, and I could sort of see it.

“Because
The Dispossessed
is an ambiguous utopia and
Triton
is an ambiguous heterotopia?” I asked.

“I wonder if he looked at Anarres and said, why does it have to be so poor, why does it have to be in famine, why is their sexuality so constrained, what other sorts of anarchy could you have?”

“What a fascinating thought,” I said. “And also how brilliant of him to show all that complexity of choice through the eyes of someone who isn’t happy with it.”

“There would be people who drifted about like that even in paradise,” Wim said. “Bron’s always looking for something he can’t have, sort of by definition.”

“Why did Bron—” I started.

“Time to go now, Mori,” Greg said.

“See you after Christmas,” Wim said as I got up, carefully.

On the other side of the table, Keith and Hussein were still arguing about Princess Leia.

T
HURSDAY
20
^TH
D
ECEMBER
1979

I can’t believe I’m leaving here tomorrow. Suddenly it seems so soon. We had to clear out our lockers this morning. I wasn’t expecting that. In addition to my bag and the satchel and the neat anonymous case I came with, I have six carrier bags of books and two of Christmas presents. I had to go down to the laundry, the first time I’ve ever been there. The school employs someone full time to wash and iron our stupid uniforms. Usually they’re delivered back to our dorms and put on the ends of our beds, and I’d scarcely thought about it before. But today Deirdre didn’t have all her shirts, and we need to take everything home. She wanted me to come with her, so off we went to the bowels of the building to a room with six heaving washing machines and four roaring tumble-dryers and a girl only a year or two older than we are pulling the clothes out of one machine and tossing them into the other. I’d hate us if I were her. It was hot in there today; I can’t imagine it in June.

Deirdre’s going to Limerick for Christmas. There’s really a place called Limerick! Of course, as soon as she said, I couldn’t help saying “There was a young lady from…” but I stopped as soon as I saw her face.

I’m all ready to go as soon as Daniel comes for me tomorrow. I can’t wait.

F
RIDAY
21
^ST
D
ECEMBER
1979

First thing this morning was the Prizegiving. I won a copy of W. H. Auden’s
Selected Poems
for English, and Isaac Asimov’s
Guide to Science
for chem, and Winston Churchill’s
A History of the English-Speaking Peoples
for history. As everyone who got over ninety in anything got a book for it, it rather dragged on. I suspect Miss Carroll’s hand in the choice of books, which may mean that the Churchill isn’t as dire as it looks. Then the sports prizes were handed out, at even greater length. They let me sit down for assemblies, which is nice, but as everyone else is standing it does mean I can’t see, not that I especially want to. The teachers, who are lined up at the sides of the hall, can see me quite easily if they look, so I don’t dare read. Looking at everyone’s backs in their identical uniforms I can compare heights and wrinkles and how their hair falls down their backs, but that’s about all. It’s surprising how much variety there is in something that’s at first glance identical, a row of uniformed backs. I gave the girls in the row ahead marks for posture and neatness, and mentally rearranged them by height and by hair colour.

Scott won the cup, in a narrow victory over Wordsworth. I’m supposed to be very excited about this but as far as I’m concerned it’s right up there with arranging people by the shades of their hair.

I went to the library afterwards to give Miss Carroll her chocolates. She seemed very touched to have them. She gave me what I’m sure is a book, wrapped.

I found Deirdre and gave her the soap box. I hadn’t wrapped it because I hadn’t thought to buy wrapping paper, but I put it in a pretty bag from the shop where I bought the scarves and things. She didn’t open it, but she thanked me very nicely. She gave me a thin wrapped present. It also feels like a book. I wonder what on earth it could be? I’ll have to read it and say I like it whatever it is.

Then it was all down to waiting for cars. Some girls weren’t being picked up until this evening, poor dabs, but Daniel came for me just at one, not the first, but quite early in the process. Everyone was rushing about and shrieking even worse than normal. I’m sure he thought it was Bedlam.

Daniel drove me back to the Old Hall in time for tea—very dry mince pies, almost as bad as school food. His sisters were delighted about Scott winning the cup. They opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate. I thought it was horrible, and the bubbles got up my nose. I’d had it before, at Cousin Nicola’s wedding, and I didn’t like it then either. Daniel offered to mix mine with orange juice and make something called a Buck’s Fizz, but I declined. If there was one thing that was going to make it worse it was horrible orange juice. Really, I only like to drink water. Why do people have such a problem with that? It comes out of the tap for free.

It’s the solstice, the shortest day. After today the darkness starts to roll back a bit. I won’t be sorry.

It’s nice to have a door I can shut and a bit of privacy. I went to bed early. I thought about thinking about Wim while I masturbated, because that breathless feeling is definitely sexual, but it felt intrusive, as well as hard to imagine. There’s also the Ruthie thing, which, whatever the ins and outs of it, gets in the way. So I just thought about Lessa and F’lar and Nicholas in the sea. It’s funny that
Triton
has so much sex in it but is so unerotic. And—because I’m still thinking about connections between them—there’s sex in
The Dispossessed
too, but not the sort that makes you feel breathless. I wonder why that is? Is there a way Fowles wrote Nicholas in the sea that’s essentially different from the way Delany wrote Bron and the Spike having exhibition sex? I think there is, but I don’t know what it is.

S
ATURDAY
22
^ND
D
ECEMBER
1979

The aunts took me shopping in Shrewsbury. They wanted me to get something nice for Daniel. I told them I’d already bought him
The Mote in God’s Eye
, but they just laughed and said they were sure he’d like it. They bought him—in my name—a charcoal-grey jacket with lots of pockets. It looks like the kind of thing he wears, but honestly I’d never have bought it, and he’ll know that. At least I got some wrapping paper. They took me for lunch in a posh department store called Owen Owens. The food was overcooked and slimy.

When we got home, I offered to make scones, in as deferential and polite a way as I could. They really didn’t want me to, I could see that, but I can’t quite see why. I can cook, I’ve been able to cook for years. I can cook a lot better than they can. They can’t think it’s beneath me, because they do it themselves. Maybe they don’t want to let me into their kitchen, but I wouldn’t mess it up.

I hardly saw Daniel today. He was working at something. I’ve borrowed a great pile of his books and am working my way through them. I wish the light in here was better.

I don’t think I am like other people. I mean on some deep fundamental level. It’s not just being half a twin and reading a lot and seeing fairies. It’s not just being outside when they’re all inside. I used to be inside. I think there’s a way I stand aside and look backwards at things when they’re happening which isn’t normal. It’s a thing you need to do for doing magic. But as I’m not going to do any magic, it’s rather wasted.

S
UNDAY
23
^RD
D
ECEMBER
1979

Church. The aunts inspected me when I got up as if I’d be on display, and one of them suggested that I should find something a little smarter. I was wearing a navy blue skirt and a pale blue t-shirt, with my school coat on top. It wasn’t a cold day, though it was raining. I thought I was fine. I gave in though, and went up and put on a grey pullover. I don’t have many clothes that aren’t uniform. I left most of my clothes when I ran away, obviously.

Apart from the inspection, church was normal enough. St. Mark’s is a nice old stone church, with gothic arches and a crusader tomb that’s probably one of their ancestors, but I didn’t go and look. It was an English service, as I’d expect, and a normal enough Advent sermon. There was a crib set up in the church already, and the hymns were carols. The vicar talked to us nicely afterwards, and they introduced me as Daniel’s daughter. Daniel wasn’t there. I wonder why not?

He was there for lunch, overcooked roast beef with oversalted potatoes and carrots. I wish they’d let me cook. I can understand why they wouldn’t want me to cook Sunday dinner right off, but they could have let me make some scones. Three more days. This is as bad as school. Worse, because no book club and no library to disappear into.

I went for a walk after lunch, despite the rain and my leg, which actually isn’t too bad today, just grumbling, not screaming. It’s just like around school, not real countryside, just farms and fields and roads, no wild, no ruins and not a fairy in sight. I can’t think why anyone would choose to live here.

M
ONDAY
24
^TH
D
ECEMBER
1979, C
HRISTMAS
E
VE

The Russians have invaded Afghanistan. There’s a terrible inevitability to it. I’ve read so many stories with World War III that sometimes it seems as if it’s the inevitable future and there’s no use worrying about anything because it’s not as if I’ll grow up anyway.

Daniel brought home a tree and we decorated it, with brittle Christmas cheer. The decorations are all very old and valuable, mostly glass. They’re exquisite, and very magical. I was almost afraid to touch them. Even the lights are antique—Venetian glass lanterns that used to hold candles but they’ve been refitted for electric bulbs. Two of the bulbs had gone and I changed them. I miss our old Christmas decorations, which Auntie Teg will be putting on the tree even now. She’ll be doing it on her own, if they’re only letting Grampar out for the day. I hope she can get it to stand up all right. The trouble we’ve had getting trees to stand up! Last year we had to tie it to the cupboard door. But it’s better not to think about last year, the worst Christmas of all time. Of course, the good thing about that is that no matter how awful this is, it can’t even compete.

Our Christmas decorations are also old, mostly, though some of them are new, bought in our lifetimes. They’re mostly plastic, though the fairy that goes on the top is china. The Old Hall tree doesn’t have a fairy, which seems strange. It has Father Christmas on the top. Ours don’t match, except in being such a mixture they do match, and we have lots of tinsel, not thin silver strands, big thick twists of it. I hope it isn’t too much for Auntie Teg to do all on her own. I hope my mother doesn’t turn up there tomorrow like the bad fairy at the christening. At least that won’t happen here.

I have wrapped all my presents and put them under the tree. My paper’s nice, dark red with silver threads. We lit the lanterns when everyone had put their presents under—and another bulb went, and I changed it. Then we lit them again and admired it. I put my presents from Deirdre and Miss Carroll under it too.

Christmas is a time when people ought to be at home. If they have a home, which I suppose I don’t. But I wish I could be with Grampar and Auntie Teg, which is the closest I can get. When I’m grown up, I’ll never go anywhere for Christmas. People can come and see me if they want, but I’ll never go away anywhere.

They’re playing a record of Christmas carols down there now, I can hear them through the floor. What am I doing here?

But it’s worse in Afghanistan where the tanks are rolling.

T
UESDAY
25
^TH
D
ECEMBER
1979, C
HRISTMAS
D
AY