Chapters 13-14

Today, Issy meets her school careers adviser and Peter continues to get closer to Miss Mary Hain.

If you prefer to listen, the audio will be here soon.

Chapter Thirteen Winter 2015 Isabella

We have to meet with the school careers advisor this week, and my meeting is scheduled for today. I really think about not going, not because I don’t care about my future or because I want to break any rules, but because the appointment time they have given me is during Sociology with Mr Harrison. I know it’s only one lesson, but I still hate to miss it, and not because I’m worried about exams or anything like that, but because the things Mr Harrison teaches us about are interesting, not to mention that I always get an idea to blog about from his classes.

So, when I arrive at my appointment, I must admit I’m not in the best of moods and I’m feeling quite jittery. It’s like when you’re at the cinema, waiting in the confectionary line and it’s taking forever to go down and, just when you think you’re about to be served, the person in front of you orders about twenty hot dogs, a hundred drinks and a mountain of popcorn. And it wouldn’t matter so much if you knew when the film started, but they don’t tell you because they want you to arrive early to take in all the adverts. So, when the person in front orders so much, you really start to panic that you’re going to miss the start of the film.

The careers advisor’s office is on the same corridor as Mrs Bridges’, so it helps that I’m sat in a familiar comfy chair, looking up at the paintings I’ve seen so many times before. The Wanderer looks different today. I imagine that he’s looking out on his future, and somewhere in the sea of mist is the path that he will take, but right now, even though he is stood above everything but the sky itself, on the precipice of the world, he can’t see it.

Inside the office – it’s Mrs Hunter’s, which I think is quite fitting – I notice that it is very similar to Mrs Bridges’ office, except that the shelves are lined with more brightly coloured books, no doubt hundreds of university prospectuses and government publications about apprenticeships and student finance; I don’t resent the colours too much because I know that when things are brightly packaged they do catch the eye more.

Mrs Hunter doesn’t offer me anything to drink. I suppose it’s not that sort of meeting, and I’m only supposed to be here for fifteen minutes, so it would be a bit of a waste, her making tea for every student who comes in every fifteen minutes or so. She invites me to sit down in a comfy looking arm chair. Mrs Hunter is an interested looking woman, if a little severe in the angles. I suppose she has the right balance for her job: you can’t have everyone molly coddled into doing something stupid with their future.

Once we’re sat down and she asks me what I want to do after sixth form, I think of a million different things but don’t feel like I have anything to say.

I know I always wanted to keep studying, and maybe try for Oxbridge like Sarah’s sister, Briony, did. I picture myself walking through old buildings, reading dusty volumes of old books and drinking coffee in old cafes – I think I’ll drink coffee, not tea, if I go to university. My mind drifts along with this image of my academic future for I don’t know how long, and eventually I tell Mrs Hunter that I’m torn between studying English Literature and Sociology at university, but that Philosophy has sort of caught my eye recently too – I’ve been reading up about different courses. I know I don’t have to apply for another year, but I think it’s good to get a head start on these sorts of things.

What I really think though, is about the introduction to Songs of Experience. Looking at the pages of the Cambridge prospectus in front of me, they turn to blank, white sheets of paper, and then words appear on them, as if written by some invisible hand, each letter appearing in turn. I read each word as it appears on the pages before me.

O Earth O Earth return!

Arise from out the dewy grass;

Night is worn,

And the morn

Rises from the slumberous mass.

It’s the last two lines that really stand out to me. They dance off the page. Whatever I study, I want to learn how to rise from the slumberous mass, and I want to learn so that I can show other people how to do it too.

‘Issy?’

I realise I’ve zoned out. I shake my head and pretend that I had just been reading. I don’t say what I’ve been thinking, because it would sound ridiculous and crazy out loud.

‘Sorry, I was just engrossed for a moment. What did you say, Miss?’

‘I think you might like the sound of studying PPE. It stands for Philosophy, Politics and Economics. I know it’s not quite what you mentioned, particularly with English Literature in mind, but it would cover Sociology and Philosophy. At any rate, it may be something to look into before our next meeting in the summer.’

‘Right, okay. Thanks, Miss.’ It really doesn’t feel like we’ve been talking for long, but Mrs Hunter digs out a few more prospectuses, bookmarks some pages for me to look at, and smiles as she sees me out, and another student in. It’s Emma Morrison.

I smile, and she smiles back.

Then I’m running down the corridors to get back to Sociology.

I’m writing my essay for Mr Harrison, about robots and AI and technology. I watched the film Blade Runner, and I thought it was quite good, although I sort of felt that it had an excellent idea, but then it was all action and the plot never really went anywhere. The best thing about it was the title of the original novella, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? It sounds more like the title of an interesting essay than a novel. I wonder what the answer is, but I suppose that if everyone’s an android then it doesn’t matter does it? It’s like in the series, Humans, that Mr Harrison recommended too: the sentient robots don’t wish they were more like human beings, because they’ve got all the best bits a human has plus they’re immortal and quicker at everything than a human being is. Their only problem is that humans are scared of them, and that’s because people always fear what they don’t understand. What people really fear is that the group who are different will want to destroy them. It’s the same with gangs and racism: we just assume that every group wants to be the only group around, and that makes everyone who is different to us dangerous. But then, if the other group does think that, then they are dangerous, aren’t they?

I re-watched Dead Poets’ Society over the weekend too. It’s about a group of students at a 1950s private school in America, who are taught to conform. But then this inspirational teacher turns up, Mr Keating, who encourages his English class to become free thinkers. He doesn’t want them to break rules and start a revolution or anything, he just wants them to think about things for themselves. He cites a poem by Robert Frost that says, ‘Two roads diverged in a wood and I, I took the one less travelled by and that has made all the difference’. I like the idea because I think there are a million people that I’ve met in my life who I’m nothing like, and who I don’t want to tread the same path as. But I’m not sure that the idea plays out perfectly, because sometimes people take the wrong path, and that’s why it gets so well-trodden, but what you really need then is for people to take the other path – the right one. Then what happens is that the wrong path becomes less trodden, and the right path really well-trodden, and the line from the poem doesn’t make sense anymore.

- Do you know what I mean?

- Yeah. It’s like sometimes it’s good if people do the same thing, if the alternative is for people to do the wrong thing. Like imagine if Hitler was actually obsessed with avoiding conformity, and that’s why he did such crazy things. I mean, he might have been a one of a kind, but that doesn’t make him a good one of a kind, does it?

- Totally. But then, sometimes the best things are different aren’t they. Like The Beatles weren’t like any band that had ever come before them, and that was a good thing, wasn’t it?

- Yeah, I suppose so. I wanna hold your hand. I can’t wait for half term.

- Ha. Yeah, me too!

After watching Dead Poets’, I couldn’t get the image of the smoking gun out of my head.

I met with Mrs Bridges again today, and I said a lot. I cried a lot too, especially when all of a sudden, the big, dark, black clouds swept in and the room went unnaturally dark and I could hear rain and thunder like bullets in my brain.

Chapter Fourteen Winter 2035 Peter Harrison

When I wake up I think it’s twenty years ago. I allow my eyes to remain closed and stretch every muscle in my body. I arch my back off the bed and hold before allowing my body to drop down onto the soft mattress. I feel the tension of muscular inactivity liberated, and tingle in the calm and relaxation. I breathe deeply and again think it must be twenty years ago, for my nose detects the bitter smell of hot coffee, just brewed. I breathe again. I want to open my eyes, to see where I am and how this is happening, but I fear that if I do, it will be today again, and this half lucid dream will drift away forever.

As I hold onto the moment, I hear a sound from across the room. It sounds like the chink of china. I imagine the French press, the jug of milk and I think of Janine sneaking out of bed and returning with breakfast and the papers for a long Sunday morning in bed. I allow the moment to fill the space between my eyes and the world, a space where anything and everything is possible.

I hear another sound and then footsteps. I turn over and finally open my eyes to dispel this wonderful dream. I see a pair of legs walking towards me, illumined in white. I begin to smile: the dream is now so lucid I can see it. The winter's morning sunlight fills the room and the smell of coffee wafts closer to me as the long, feminine legs draw nearer. Slowly I lift my gaze, revealing more of this angelic bearer of the past. She is expertly balancing a tray of cups and jugs and food, just as I imagined. I lift my gaze yet further. I am about to say a name, about to complete the dream. The words begin to form on my lips, and as they part I am suddenly caught short.

‘Ja…’ I stare, my mouth half parted, the rest of the name unspoken. And the memory of where I am and who I am with rushes back to me. I see her smile as my gaze finally reaches her face, her long, golden hair hanging untamed over her shoulders. I am not dreaming.

‘Mary. It’s like waking up in a wonderful dream. I’ve not had coffee for a lifetime.’

I have spent as many nights as has been possible with Mary Hain for a month now. It is not always possible for it seems that her work keeps her far busier than mine keeps me, but as often as not we are able to have dinner at the very least and wake up together at most. Tonight, as we eat dinner together in our usual spot at our usual time, I find myself wondering about the long hours she keeps, of which I know little, but the tiredness in her eyes and the exhaustion painted on her face is enough for me to know that even if she wanted to talk about her work in more detail she would not have the energy to do so.

And in this moment, I realise that I envy her fatigue – the way she rubs her eyes and absentmindedly drifts off into space, before pulling herself back with a faintly murmured apology and a sigh of capitulation. At this moment something awakens within me that has been silently sleeping beneath the surface for some time. I cannot fully identify the sensation, or name it, or know where it might lead me, but it is a powerful feeling – perhaps a sort of longing, but for what I am not sure. Perhaps she sees a change come over me and says,

‘Peter, you look as if the greatest insight ever known to man has just struck you like a burst of lightning. Your eyes are so bright. Oh, they really must make mine seem even darker by comparison. I’m sorry, Peter, that I’m so tired. But really, I want to know. What are you thinking?’

I wonder what to say, for I do not know what I am feeling and I am not sure that saying I envy her fatigue will make any sort of sense at all: it may even sound sarcastic and provoke an argument, and then I begin to speak before my mind has even really worked out what it is going to say.

‘Mary, does career progression exist here at NewState? I mean, you say that the point of this half of the world is to satisfy the needs of those who live here, needs that aren’t satisfied by SSC, so what happens when those needs are only partially met. Is there other work that I might be qualified to do here?’ The words tumble out so that I am left considering what they mean as much as Mary Hain must be. She takes a moment to respond, before speaking slowly, perhaps cautiously.

‘Hmmmm, I think you know, Peter, that NewState is a vast and complicated government, and so, of course, there are all sorts of facets in which people work and develop. I hope you also know that your gradual initiation into the way of life here has been intentional. There are all sorts of things that you will know in time, things that new recruits from NSEducation learn and experience far quicker than you have done.’

She pauses momentarily, allowing me to think about what she has said. This has been niggling away ever since we discussed The Bell Jar and ever since we first spent the night together. I have wondered at the relatively solitary life I still lead here. I see people when I work, or in the recreation room or at meal times, but there has remained a certain atmosphere of isolation that does not feel consistent with the explanations that she has given me about the freedom from SSC that NewState workers are supposed to enjoy.

If our tastes and desires are consistent with life before the change, why is there not, for example, more accessibility to information? Does anyone create art and exhibit it? Does anyone write anything and want to share it? We do not have to love the extravagant overindulgence of the inside world to still crave some form of media. I have been predisposed to ask little, for it has been my suspicious way of life for so long, and I have been sensitive not to over-stress Mary Hain with incessant questions about the work that she clearly needs to retreat from in her precious free time, but now the fire has been lit and I cannot help but ask: what else is going on in this place? After her momentary pause, Mary continues,

‘Our doctors believed that your gradual initiation was a necessary precaution. You have lived so long as a solitary unit, not like others of course; others are not solitary because they are absorbed in the world of communication and communion. For them, the world is as it was, only even more accessible and satisfying. But for you, who never fully embraced that reality, your mind was fragmented. At least, that is what the doctors suppose. You must have been incredibly lonely, and angry, and, well, were you utterly depressed and hopeless?’ She pauses and then she continues.

‘And so, Peter, you have been slowly brought out of that state of mind, for fear that too sudden a jolt would have confused you even further. An enemy cannot immediately become a friend, and one cannot have all of one’s self-preserving beliefs disproved at once. How would it have felt if you had walked in here with suspicion and hate, to only be told that everything you could possibly want is here and has been here for years? You may have stubbornly held onto your suspicion and hate, or else felt so overwhelmed with lamentation at your lost time, that you may have drifted into a debilitating numbness. And so, Peter, your induction has been slower than most. But now…’ she reaches across the table to take my hand. ‘… now you can be sure that this is a place that can, and will, fulfil your every need. It is a place you will be able to call home. And because of that, it will soon be opened up to you in all its wonder.’

Her words sink in quickly and I am bolstered. I begin to see a future ahead of me, and I begin to see the possibility of revealing that I know of others like me – my fellow runners – who could be saved from their unhappy lives inside too, whilst the rest of the population continue in their state of contentment.

Once I see what else there is to do here, I will be able to imagine my fellow runners joining us and will be able to bring them in to do their own work and their own living alongside me. This vision of the future allays some of my last and most concerning reservations about what I have been slowly coming to see since arriving.