Damien Broderick - Strange Attractors

would let them use that splendid room, rent-free?’
‘I had a guilty conscience,’ he said and went into the kitchen to grill
more cheese. I sat down and picked up the nearest book — W ing’s
Short-Title Catalogue, hardly enthralling reading. Vini reappeared after
some time, with a tray.
‘It was a pretty clever ploy,’ I said. ‘I mean, I don’t see teachers much
in my line of work, but horror stories seep through to the bureaucracy.’
All true, all true,’ he muttered. ‘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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communicate that enthusiasm.’
I took a gulp of tea. He added, ‘How kind of Uncle William to make
me his heir. It saved my life.’
I nodded, swallowing the sweet tea.
‘The education system is based on one premise: blighting the lives
of young people.’
‘You enriched the lives of thirty little delinquents.’
‘I’m not so sure. Lipton Village is their obsession — 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.’
‘They fascinate me.’
‘They have that effect. Sometimes I think I should sool a sociologist
onto them. It would make an interesting case study — Collective Hallucinations among Unemployed Youth — bah!’
‘They just told me they intend to live in Lipton Village.’
‘That’s been their aim from the start,’ he said. ‘It’s taken them eight
years to make the place viable: maps, crops, food animals, detailed
preparations. When Jeri couldn’t get hold of the information he
wanted, he got himself a job in a University library.’
‘I know, I’ve seen the books.’
The thread of his discourse had been broken, ‘Goosegirl and Strawberry were appalling pupils, in one earhole and out the other. Yet I’ve overheard the pair of them talking about chemistry!’
He reached for the tea pot.
‘There’s nothing we can do. Have some more tea.’
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 children’s classic; a gaggle of cartoons; the news again
(with update); and a silly American comedy about a ‘slum’ 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.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Me, Thursday.’
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Lucy Sussex
‘And Jeri.’
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 headmaster’s office.
‘Did we upset you?’ asked Thursday.
‘A little. It’s so strange.’
They swapped glances, with an air of deja vu.
‘How can you live in an imaginary place?’ I asked.
‘It’s there’ said Thursday. ‘It exists for us.’
A play-Utopia,’ I sneered.
‘It need not be for good,’Jeri said defensively. ‘We’ll be back for
visits. The quality of life here could improve. Then we’d return.’
He made that sound a most unlikely contingency.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘who’s to be tribal elder.’
‘Nobody. It’s an anarchy.’
‘I see — hence the Bakunin.’
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.
‘Taa,’ said Thursday, and they sat on the bed to eat (heartily). I continued to argue. ‘Bet it soon degenerates into fascism.’
Both had their mouths full, which put them at a disadvantage. Finally Jeri said: ‘We don’t expect it to be perfect.’
‘But better than here,’ said Thursday.
That remark defeated me, in an odd way. After some time I asked,
in a little voice, ‘W hen do you go?’
‘Not long now.’
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 couldn’t cope with the extra work. It was simple stuff really — 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 week’s notification.
Thus it happened, in the month I was away, that I missed the grand
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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