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would let them use that splendid room, rent-free?โ€™

โ€˜I had a guilty conscience,โ€™ he said and went into the kitchen to grill

more cheese. I sat down and picked up the nearest book โ€” W ingโ€™s

Short-Title Catalogue, hardly enthralling reading. Vini reappeared after

some time, with a tray.

โ€˜It was a pretty clever ploy,โ€™ I said. โ€˜I mean, I donโ€™t see teachers much

in my line of work, but horror stories seep through to the bureaucracy.โ€™

All true, all true,โ€™ he muttered. โ€˜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

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25

communicate that enthusiasm.โ€™

I took a gulp of tea. He added, โ€˜How kind of Uncle William to make

me his heir. It saved my life.โ€™

I nodded, swallowing the sweet tea.

โ€˜The education system is based on one premise: blighting the lives

of young people.โ€™

โ€˜You enriched the lives of thirty little delinquents.โ€™

โ€˜Iโ€™m not so sure. Lipton Village is their obsession โ€” 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.โ€™

โ€˜They fascinate me.โ€™

โ€˜They have that effect. Sometimes I think I should sool a sociologist

onto them. It would make an interesting case study โ€” Collective Hallucinations among Unemployed Youth โ€” bah!โ€™

โ€˜They just told me they intend to live in Lipton Village.โ€™

โ€˜Thatโ€™s been their aim from the start,โ€™ he said. โ€˜Itโ€™s taken them eight

years to make the place viable: maps, crops, food animals, detailed

preparations. When Jeri couldnโ€™t get hold of the information he

wanted, he got himself a job in a University library.โ€™

โ€˜I know, Iโ€™ve seen the books.โ€™

The thread of his discourse had been broken, โ€˜Goosegirl and Strawberry were appalling pupils, in one earhole and out the other. Yet Iโ€™ve overheard the pair of them talking about chemistry!โ€™

He reached for the tea pot.

โ€˜Thereโ€™s nothing we can do. Have some more tea.โ€™

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 childrenโ€™s classic; a gaggle of cartoons; the news again

(with update); and a silly American comedy about a โ€˜slumโ€™ 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.

โ€˜Whoโ€™s there?โ€™

โ€˜Me, Thursday.โ€™

26

Lucy Sussex

โ€˜And Jeri.โ€™

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 headmasterโ€™s office.

โ€˜Did we upset you?โ€™ asked Thursday.

โ€˜A little. Itโ€™s so strange.โ€™

They swapped glances, with an air of deja vu.

โ€˜How can you live in an imaginary place?โ€™ I asked.

โ€˜Itโ€™s thereโ€™ said Thursday. โ€˜It exists for us.โ€™

A play-Utopia,โ€™ I sneered.

โ€˜It need not be for good,โ€™Jeri said defensively. โ€˜Weโ€™ll be back for

visits. The quality of life here could improve. Then weโ€™d return.โ€™

He made that sound a most unlikely contingency.

โ€˜Okay,โ€™ I said, โ€˜whoโ€™s to be tribal elder.โ€™

โ€˜Nobody. Itโ€™s an anarchy.โ€™

โ€˜I see โ€” hence the Bakunin.โ€™

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.

โ€˜Taa,โ€™ said Thursday, and they sat on the bed to eat (heartily). I continued to argue. โ€˜Bet it soon degenerates into fascism.โ€™

Both had their mouths full, which put them at a disadvantage. Finally Jeri said: โ€˜We donโ€™t expect it to be perfect.โ€™

โ€˜But better than here,โ€™ said Thursday.

That remark defeated me, in an odd way. After some time I asked,

in a little voice, โ€˜W hen do you go?โ€™

โ€˜Not long now.โ€™

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 would have been a report, due

shortly, and his assistant couldnโ€™t cope with the extra work. It was simple stuff really โ€” 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 weekโ€™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

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