P. James - The Children of Men

Rolf ignored him. “And there are things he could do even without waiting for a general election. He could end the semen-testing programme. It’s time-wasting and degrading, and it’s hopeless anyway. And he could let the Local and Regional Councils choose their own Chairmen. That would at least be the beginning of democracy.”

Luke said: “It isn’t only the semen testing. He should stop the compulsory gynaecological examinations. They degrade women. And we want him to put an end to the Quietus. I know that all the old people are supposed to be volunteers. Maybe it started out like that. Maybe some of them still are. But would they want to die if we gave them hope?”

Theo was tempted to ask “Hope of what?”

Julian broke in. “And we want something done about the Sojourners. Do you think it’s right that there’s an edict prohibiting our Omegas from emigrating? We import Omegas and others from less affluent countries to do our dirty work, clean the sewers, clear away the rubbish, look after the incontinent, the aged.”

Theo said: “They’re anxious enough to come, presumably because they get a better quality of life.”

Julian said: “They come to eat. Then, when they get old—sixty is the age limit, isn’t it?—they’re sent back whether they want to go or not.”

“That’s an evil their own countries could redress. They could begin by managing their affairs better. Anyway, their numbers aren’t great. There’s a quota, the intake is carefully controlled.”

“Not only a quota, stringent requirements. They have to be strong, healthy, without criminal convictions. We take the best and then chuck them back when they’re no longer wanted. And who gets them? Not the people who need them most. The Council and their friends. And who looks after the foreigners when they’re here? They work for a pittance, they live in camps, the women separate from the men. We don’t even give them citizenship; it’s a form of legalized slavery.”

Theo said: “I don’t think you’ll start a revolution on the issue of the Sojourners, or on the Quietus for that matter. People don’t care enough.”

Julian said: “We want to help them to care.”

“Why should they? They live without hope on a dying planet. What they want is security, comfort, pleasure. The Warden of England can promise the first two, which is more than most foreign governments are managing to do.”

Rolf had been listening to their exchange without speaking. Then he said suddenly: “What’s he like, the Warden of England? What sort of man is he? You should know, you were brought up with him.”

“That doesn’t give me an open entry to his mind.”

“All that power, more than anyone has ever had before—in this country anyway—all in his hands. Does he enjoy it?”

“Presumably. He doesn’t seem anxious to let it go.” He added: “If you want democracy, you have somehow to revitalize the Local Council. It begins there.”

Rolf said: “It ends there too. It’s how the Warden exercises control at that level. And have you seen our local chairman, Reggie Dimsdale? He’s seventy, querulous, shit-scared, only doing the job because it gets him a double petrol allowance and a couple of foreign Omegas to look after his bloody great bam of a house and wipe his bum for him when he gets incontinent. No Quietus for him.”

“He was elected to the Council. They were all elected.”

“By whom? Did you vote? Who cares? People are just relieved that someone will do the job. And you know how it works. The Chairman of the Local Council can’t be appointed without the approval of the District Council. That needs the approval of the Regional Council. He or she has to be approved by the Council of England. The Warden controls the system from top to bottom, you must know that. He controls it, too, in Scotland and Wales. Each has its own Warden, but who appoints them? Xan Lyppiatt would call himself the Warden of Great Britain except that, for him, it hasn’t got quite the same romantic appeal.”

The remark, thought Theo, showed perception. He recalled an old conversation with Xan. “Hardly ‘Prime Minister,’ I think. I don’t want to appropriate someone else’s title, particularly when it carries such a weight of tradition and obligation. I might be expected to call an election every five years. And not ‘Lord Protector.’ The last one was hardly an unqualified success. ‘Warden’ will do very well. But Warden of Great Britain and Northern Ireland? That hardly has the romantic ring I’m aiming for.”

Julian said: “We’ll get nowhere with the Local Council. You live in Oxford, you’re a citizen like everyone else. You must read the kind of stuff they paste up after the meetings, the things they discuss. The maintenance of the golf courses and bowling greens. Are the clubhouse facilities adequate? Decisions about job allocations, petrol-allowance complaints, applications to employ a Sojourner.

Auditions for the local amateur choir. Are there enough people wanting violin lessons to make it worthwhile for the Council to employ a full-time professional? Sometimes they even discuss street policing, not that it’s really necessary now that the threat of deportation to the Man Penal Colony is hanging over prospective burglars.”

Luke said gently: “Protection, comfort, pleasure. There has to be something more.”

“It’s what people care about, what they want. What more should the Council be offering?”

“Compassion, justice, love.”

“No state has ever concerned itself with love, and no state ever can.”

Julian said: “But it can concern itself with justice.”

Rolf was impatient: “Justice, compassion, love. They’re all words. What we’re talking about is power. The Warden is a dictator masquerading as a democratic leader. He ought to be made to be responsible to the will of the people.”

Theo said: “Ah, the will of the people. That’s a fine sounding phrase. At present, the will of the people seems to be for protection, comfort, pleasure.” He thought: I know what offends you—the fact that Xan enjoys such power, not the way he exercises it. The little group had no real cohesion and, he suspected, no common purpose. Gascoigne was fuelled by indignation about the appropriation of the name Grenadier, Miriam by some motive which was, as yet, unclear, Julian and Luke by religious idealism, Rolf by jealousy and ambition. As a historian he could have pointed out a dozen parallels.

Julian said: “Tell him about your brother, Miriam. Tell him about Henry. But let’s sit down before you begin.”

They settled themselves in a pew, crouching forward to listen to Miriam’s low voice, looking, thought Theo, like a huddled ill-assorted bunch of half-reluctant worshippers.

“Henry got sent to the island eighteen months ago. Robbery with violence. It wasn’t much violence, not real violence. He robbed an Omega and pushed her over. It was no more than a shove but she fell to the ground and she told the court that Henry had kicked her in the ribs while she was lying there. That isn’t true. I’m not saying Henry didn’t push her. He’s been grief and trouble since childhood. But he didn’t kick that Omega, not when she was down. He snatched her handbag and pushed her over and then he ran. It happened in London, just before midnight. He ran round the comer of Ladbroke Grove straight into the arms of the State Security Police. He’s had bad luck all his life.”

“Were you in court?”

“My mother and I, both of us. My father died two years ago. We got Henry a lawyer—paid him too—but he wasn’t really interested. Took our money and did nothing. We could see mat he agreed with the prosecution that Henry ought to be sent to the island. After all, it was an Omega he robbed. That counted against him. And, then, he’s black.”