The Memoirs of a Survivor

attack: we could not run away easily up there, whereas here it would be a question of jumping out of a window. This was why she said 'no' to his offer of a 'a large flat, really Emily, very big, and full of all sorts of food and stuff. And I could fix it up with power in a day — couldn't we…?' he appealed to the children, who nodded and grinned. They sat on either side of him, those little things, about seven or eight years old: they were his, his creatures; he had made himself theirs; he had his gang, his tribe… but at the cost of doing what they wanted, serving them.

What he wanted was to have her back. He wanted her to go up with him, to live with him, as queen, or chief lady, or brigand's woman, among the children, his gang. And she did not want this; she most definitely did not. Not that she said it, but it was clear. And the children, sharp-eyed and alert, knew what the issue was. It was hard to know what they felt-there were none of the familiar signals to tell us. Their eyes turned from Emily to Gerald, from Gerald to Emily: they were wondering if Emily, like Gerald, could become one of them, kill with them, fight with them? Or they were thinking that she was pretty and nice and it would be pleasant to have her around with them? They saw her, or felt her, as filling the place of their mothers — if they remembered mothers, a family, at all? They were thinking that they should kill her, because of Gerald's, their possession's, love of her? Who could say?

Their eating habits were disgusting. Gerald said Use a spoon, look, like this… no, don't throw it on the floor! — in a way that showed that in his own rooms, his own cave, he no longer bothered with such niceties. His glance at Emily said that if she would be there with them, she could influence and civilise… but it was all no use, and the three, the man and the two little children, went off at midday, They would bring us fresh meat tomorrow: a sheep was going to be killed. He would come and see Emily soon: he spoke to her, it was Emily's place now. My flat was Emily's, and I was her elderly attendant. Well, why not?

She was silent when he had gone, and then Hugo came and sat with his face on her knee: he was saying: I can see that you have really chosen me at last, me against him, me instead of all the others!

It was funny and pathetic; but she flashed me glances that I was not to laugh: it was she who suppressed smiles, bit her lips, breathed deep to hold down laughter. She fussed and caressed: 'Dear Hugo, dear, dear Hugo…' I noted, and watched. I was seeing a mature woman, a woman who has had her fill of everything, but is still being asked from, demanded of, persuaded into giving: such a woman is generous indeed, her coffers and wells are always full and being given out. She loves — oh yes, but somewhere in her is a deadly weariness. She has known it all, and doesn't want any more — but what can she do? She knows herself — the eyes of men and boys say so — as a source — if she is not this, then she is nothing. So she still thinks; she has not yet shed that delusion. She gives. She gives. But with this weariness held in check and concealed… so she stroked her Hugo's head, made love to his ears, whispered affectionate nonsense to him. Over his head her eyes met mine: they were the eyes of a mature woman of about thirty-five, or forty… she would never willingly suffer any of it again. Like the jaded woman of our dead civilisation, she knew love like a fever, to be suffered, to be lived through: 'falling in love' was an illness to be endured, a trap which might lead her to betray her own nature, her good sense, and her real purposes. It was not a door to anything but itself: not a key to living. It was a state, a condition, sufficient unto itself, almost independent of its object… 'being in love'. If she had spoken of it, she would have spoken of it so, as I've written. But she did not want to talk. She exuded her weariness, her willingness to give out if absolutely necessary, to give without belief. Gerald, whom she had adored, the 'first love' of tradition; for whom she had waited, suffered, lain awake at nights — Gerald, her lover, now needed and wanted her, having worked through the cycle of his needs, but she no longer had the energy to rise and meet him.

When, later that day, Gerald came down again, alone, in an attempt to persuade her to return with him, she did talk to him. She talked and he listened. She told him what had happened to him, for he did not know.

After the community he had built up in his house had been broken up by the gang of 'kids' from the Underground, and when he had seen that none of his own household would return, he had put all his effort into getting Emily to stay with him, to make a new household. He had returned to the pave — ment, to attract the nucleus of a new tribe. But this did not happen, it had not happened. Why? Perhaps it was believed that he was in contact with the dangerous children, or that any new community he formed must attract them; perhaps the fact he had shown openly that he was prepared to settle for one woman, for Emily, instead of being free in his choices, bestowing favours on whoever he found in his bed, put off the girls — whatever law it was that operated, the result was that Gerald, formerly a young prince, perhaps the most regarded of all the young men on the pavement, found himself unfollowed, merely one of the youngsters who had to attach himself to a leader in order to survive… Gerald listened to all this, thoughtful, attentive, disagreeing with nothing Emily was saying.

'And then you decided it was better to have the children than to have nothing, or to be patient and wait. You simply had to have a gang at all costs. And you went back to them and took them over. But they have taken you over — can't you see? I bet you have to do exactly what they want, don't you? I am sure you never can stop them doing anything they want? And you have to go along with whatever it is?'

But now he had retreated, was not prepared to take this, could not listen.

'But they are just little kids,' he said. 'Isn't it better for them that they have me? I get them food and things. I look after them.'

'They had food and things before,' Emily said drily.

Too dry… he saw her as critical of him — that, and nothing more. There was no affection for him — so he felt it. Off he went, and did not come again for some days.

We were organising our life, our rooms.

We were supplied with clean air at the cost of sitting and turning a handle to recharge batteries from time to time. It was warm: Emily went out with an axe and returned with great bundles of wood. And, just as I was thinking that the shortage of water would drive us to the roads, there was a clop-clopping outside, and a donkey cart made its appearance, loaded with plastic buckets of water, wooden buckets, metal buckets.

'Wa-a-a-ter! Wa-a-a-ter!' — the old cry sounded through our damp northern streets. Two girls of about eleven were selling the stuff, or rather, bartering. I went out with containers, and saw other people coming from the various blocks of flats around us. Not many, not more than fifty or so in all. I bought water dearly: the little girls had learned to be hard, to shake their heads and shrug at the prospect that people would do without water. For two buckets of good water — we were at least allowed to taste it before buying, I paid a sheepskin.

And then Gerald appeared, with about twenty of his gang — came with containers of every sort. Of course, there were all those animals up there, they needed water: but in a moment the gang had taken the water, simply grabbed it: they did not pay. I found myself shouting at Gerald that it was their livelihood, the little girls' — but he took no notice. I think he did not hear me. He stood on the alert, all vigilance, his eyes coldly assessing, while his children lifted down the buckets and ran off into the building with them, while the sellers complained, and the people who had come to buy water and had not yet been served, stood shouting and screaming. Then Gerald and the children had gone and it was my turn to be robbed. I stood with two filled buckets, and one of the men from the block of flats opposite held out his hand, lowering his head to glare into my eyes, baring his teeth. I handed over one bucket and ran indoors with the other. Emily had been watching through the window. She seemed sad. Also irritated: I could see the words she would use to scold Gerald forming in her mind.

A dish of clean water was put down for Hugo and he drank and drank. He stood beside the empty dish, head lowered: we filled it again, and he drank… a third of the bucket went in this way, and in our minds was the same thought — Hugo's, as well as ours. Emily sat by him and put her arms around him in the old way: he was not to worry or grieve, she would protect him, no one would attack him; he would have water if she had to go without or if I did…

When the water sellers came a couple of days later, they had men guarding the water with guns, and we bought in orderly queues. Gerald and his gang were not there. A woman in the queue said that 'that rotten lot' had opened up the Fleet River, and had started selling water on their own account. It was true, and for us, Hugo, Emily and me, a good turn of events, for Gerald brought us down a bucket of water every day and sometimes more.

'Well, we had to do it, we have to keep our animals watered, don't we?'

From the defensiveness of this, we knew that some hard battle had been fought. With the authorities? With other people using that source? — for of course old wells and springs had been opened everywhere over the city. If with the authorities, then how was it that Gerald and the children had won? — they must have done, to be able to reach and tap the supply.

'Well,' said Gerald, 'they haven't got enough troops to keep an eye on everything, have they? Most of them have gone, haven't they? I mean, there are more of us than there are of them, now…