Wilt on High Read online

  ‘I’m not having that old bag polluting the atmosphere with her fags and her filthy habits,’ he had shouted so loudly that even Mrs Hoggart, who had been in the bathroom at the time, didn’t need her hearing aid to get the gist of the message. ‘And another thing. The next time I come down to breakfast and find she’s been lacing the teapot with brandy, and my brandy at that, I’ll strangle the old bitch.’

  ‘You’ve got no right to talk like that. After all, she is family –’

  ‘Family?’ yelled Wilt, ‘I’ll say she’s family. Your fucking family, not mine. I don’t foist my father on you –’

  ‘Your father smells like an old badger,’ Eva had retaliated, ‘he’s unhygienic. At least Mother washes.’

  ‘And doesn’t she need to, considering all the muck she smears on her beastly mug. Webster wasn’t the only one to see the skull beneath the skin. I was trying to shave the other morning …’

  ‘Who’s Webster?’ demanded Eva before Wilt could repeat the disgusting account of Mrs Hoggart’s emergence from behind the shower curtain in the altogether.

  ‘Nobody. It’s from a poem, and talking about uncorseted breasts the old hag …’

  ‘Don’t you dare call her that. She’s my mother and one day you’ll be old and helpless and need –’

  ‘Yes, well maybe, but I’m not helpless now and the last thing I need is that old Dracula in drag haunting the house and smoking in bed. It’s a wonder she didn’t burn the place down with that flaming duvet.’

  It was the memory of that terrible outburst and the smouldering duvet that had prevented Eva from giving in to her better-day intentions. Besides, there had been truth in what Henry had said, even if he had put it quite horribly. Eva’s feelings for her mother had always been ambiguous and part of her wish to have her in the house sprang from the desire for revenge. She’d show her what a really good mother was. And so on one of her better days, she telephoned her and told the old lady how wonderfully the quads were getting on and what a happy atmosphere there was in the home and how even Henry related to the children – Mrs Hoggart invariably broke into a hacking cough at this point – and on the best of days, invited her over for the weekend only to regret it almost as soon as she’d put the phone down. By then it had become one of those days.

  But today she resisted the temptation and went round to Mavis Mottram’s to have a heart-to-heart with her before lunch. She just hoped Mavis wouldn’t try recruiting her for the Ban the Bomb demo.

  Mavis did. ‘It’s no use your saying you have your hands full with the quads, Eva,’ she said, when Eva had pointed out that she couldn’t possibly leave the children with Henry, and what would happen if she were sent to prison. ‘If there’s a nuclear war you won’t have any children. They’ll all be dead in the first second. I mean Baconheath puts us in a first-strike situation. The Russians would be forced to take it out to protect themselves and we’d all go with it.’

  Eva tried to puzzle this out. ‘I don’t see why we’d be a first-strike target if the Russians were being attacked,’ she said finally, ‘wouldn’t it be a second strike?’

  Mavis sighed. It was always so difficult to get things across to Eva. It always had been, and with the barrier of the quads behind which to retreat, it was practically impossible nowadays. ‘Wars don’t start like that. They start over trivial little things like the Archduke Ferdinand being assassinated at Sarajevo in 1914,’ she said, putting it as simply as her work with the Open University allowed. But Eva was not impressed.

  ‘I don’t call assassinating people trivial,’ she said. ‘It’s wicked and stupid.’

  Mavis cursed herself. She ought to have remembered that Eva’s experience with terrorists had prejudiced her against political murders. ‘Of course it is. I’m not saying it isn’t. What I’m –’

  ‘It must have been terrible for his wife,’ said Eva, pursuing her line of domestic consequences.

  ‘Since she happened to be killed with him, I don’t suppose she cared all that much,’ said Mavis bitterly. There was something quite horribly anti-social about the whole Wilt family but she ploughed on. ‘The whole point I’m trying to make is that the most terrible war in the history of mankind, up till then, happened because of an accident. A man and his wife were shot by a fanatic, and the result was that millions of ordinary people died. That sort of accident could happen again, and this time there’d be no one left. The human race would be extinct. You don’t want that to happen, do you?’

  Eva looked unhappily at a china figurine on the mantelshelf. She knew it had been a mistake to come anywhere near Mavis on one of her better days. ‘It’s just that I don’t see what I can do to stop it,’ she said and threw Wilt into the fray. ‘And anyway, Henry says the Russians won’t stop making the bomb and they’ve got nerve gas too, and Hitler had as well, and he’d have used it if he’d known we hadn’t during the war.’ Mavis took the bait.

  ‘That’s because he’s got a vested interest in things staying the way they are,’ she said. ‘All men have. That’s why they’re against the women’s peace movement. They feel threatened because we’re taking the initiative and in a sense the bomb is symbolic of the male orgasm. It’s potency on a mass destruction level.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Eva, who wasn’t quite sure how a thing that killed everyone could be a symbol of an orgasm. ‘And after all, he used to be a member of CND.’

  ‘“Used to”,’ sniffed Mavis, ‘but not any longer. Men just want us to be passive and stay in a subordinate sex role.’

  ‘I’m sure Henry doesn’t. I mean he’s not very active sexually,’ said Eva, still preoccupied with exploding bombs and orgasms.

  ‘That’s because you’re a normal person,’ said Mavis. ‘If you hated sex he’d be pawing you all the time. Instead, he maintains his power by refusing you your rights.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Well, I would, and it’s no use your claiming anything different.’

  It was Eva’s turn to look sceptical. Mavis had complained too often in the past about her husband’s numerous affairs. ‘But you’re always saying Patrick’s too sex-oriented.’

  ‘Was,’ said Mavis with rather sinister emphasis. ‘His days of gadding about are over. He’s learning what the male menopause is like. Prematurely.’

  ‘Prematurely? I should think it must be. He’s only forty-one, isn’t he?’

  ‘Forty,’ said Mavis, ‘but he’s aged lately, thanks to Dr Kores.’

  ‘Dr Kores? You don’t mean to say Patrick went to her after that dreadful article she wrote in the News? Henry burnt the paper before the girls could read it.’

  ‘Henry would. That’s typical. He’s anti freedom of information.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t a very nice article, was it? I mean it’s all very well to say that men are … well … only biological sperm banks but I don’t think it’s right to want them all neutered after they’ve had two children. Our cat sleeps all day and he’s –’

  ‘Honestly, Eva, you’re so naïve. She didn’t say anything about neutering them. She was simply pointing out that women have to suffer all the agonies of childbirth, not to mention the curse, and with the population explosion the world will face mass starvation unless something’s done.’

  ‘I can’t see Henry being done. Not that way,’ said Eva. ‘He won’t even let anyone talk about vasectomy. Says it has unwanted side-effects.’

  Mavis snorted. ‘As if the Pill didn’t too, and far more dangerous ones. But the multi-national pharmaceutical corporations couldn’t care less. All they are interested in is profits and they’re controlled by men too.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Eva, who’d got used to hearing about multi-national companies though she still didn’t know exactly what they were, and was completely at a loss with ‘pharmaceutical’. ‘All the same, I’m surprised Patrick agreed.’

  ‘Agreed?’

  ‘To have a vasectomy.’

  ‘Who said anything abou
t him having a vasectomy?’

  ‘But you said he went to Dr Kores.’

  ‘I went,’ said Mavis grimly. ‘I thought to myself, “I’ve had just about enough of you gallivanting about with other women, my boy, and Dr Kores may be able to help.” And I was right. She gave me something to reduce his sex drive.’

  ‘And he took it?’ said Eva, genuinely astounded now.

  ‘Oh, he takes it all right. He’s always been keen on vitamins, especially Vitamin E. So I just swapped the capsules in the bottle. They’re some sort of hormone or steroid and he takes one in the morning and two at night. Of course, they’re still in the experimental stage but she told me they’d worked very well with pigs and they can’t do any harm. I mean he’s put on some weight and he’s complained about his teats being a bit swollen, but he’s certainly quietened down a lot. He never goes out in the evening. Just sits in front of the telly and dozes off. It’s made quite a change.’

  ‘I should think it has,’ said Eva, remembering how randy Patrick Mottram had always been. ‘But are you really sure it’s safe?’

  ‘Absolutely. Dr Kores assured me they’re going to use it on gays and transvestites who are frightened of a sex-change operation. It shrinks the testicles or something.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very nice. I wouldn’t want Henry’s shrinking.’

  ‘I daresay not,’ said Mavis, who had once made a pass at Wilt at a party, and still resented the fact that he hadn’t responded. ‘In his case she could probably give you something to stimulate him.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘You can always try,’ said Mavis. ‘Dr Kores does understand women’s problems and that’s more than you can say for most doctors.’

  ‘But I didn’t think she was a proper doctor like Dr Buchman. Isn’t she something in the University?’

  Mavis Mottram stifled an impulse to say that, yes, she was a consultant in animal husbandry at that, which should suit Henry Wilt’s needs even better than Patrick’s.

  ‘The two aren’t mutually incompatible, Eva. I mean there is a medical school at the University, you know. Anyway, the point is, she’s set up a clinic for women with problems, and I do think you’d find her very sympathetic and helpful.’

  By the time Eva left and returned to 45 Oakhurst Avenue and a lunch of celery soup with bran magi-mixed into it, she was convinced. She would phone Dr Kores and go and see her about Henry. She was also rather pleased with herself. She had managed to divert Mavis from the depressing topic of the Bomb and on to alternative medicine and the need for women to determine the future because men had made such a mess of the past. Eva was all for that, and when she drove down to fetch the quads it was definitely one of her better days. New possibilities were burgeoning all over the place.

  2

  They were burgeoning all over the place for Wilt as well, but he wouldn’t have put the day into the category of one of his better ones. He had returned to his office smelling of The Pig In A Poke’s best bitter and hoping he could do some work on his lecture at the airbase without being disturbed, only to find the County Advisor on Communication Skills waiting for him with another man in a dark suit. ‘This is Mr Scudd from the Ministry of Education,’ said the Advisor. ‘He’s making a series of random visits to Colleges of Further Education on behalf of the Minister, to ascertain the degree of relevance of certain curricula.’

  ‘How do you do,’ said Wilt, and retreated behind his desk. He didn’t like the County Advisor very much, but it was as nothing to his terror of men in dark grey suits, and three-piece ones at that, who acted on behalf of the Minister of Education. ‘Do take a seat.’

  Mr Scudd stood his ground. ‘I don’t think there’s anything to be gained from sitting in your office discussing theoretical assumptions,’ he said. ‘My particular mandate is to report my observations, my personal observations, of what is actually taking place on the classroom floor.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Wilt, hoping to hell nothing was actually taking place on any of his classroom floors. There had been a singularly nasty incident some years before when he’d had to stop what had the makings of a multiple rape of a rather too attractive student teacher by Tyres Two, who’d been inflamed by a passage in By Love Possessed which had been recommended by the Head of English.

  ‘Then if you’ll lead the way,’ said Mr Scudd and opened the door. Behind him, even the County Advisor had assumed a hangdog look. Wilt led the way into the corridor.

  ‘I wonder if you’d mind commenting on the ideological bias of your staff,’ said Mr Scudd, promptly disrupting Wilt’s desperate attempt to decide which class it would be safest to take the man into. ‘I noticed you had a number of books on Marxism – Leninism in your office.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ said Wilt and bided his time. If the sod had come on some sort of political witch-hunt, the emollient response seemed best. That way the bastard would land with his bum in the butter, but fast.

  ‘And you consider them suitable reading matter for the working-class apprentices?’

  ‘I can think of worse,’ said Wilt.

  ‘Really? So you admit to a left-wing tendency in your teaching.’

  ‘Admit? I didn’t admit to anything. You said I had books on Marxism – Leninism in my office. I don’t see what that’s got to do with what I teach.’

  ‘But you also said you could think of worse reading material for your students,’ said Mr Scudd.

  ‘Yes,’ said Wilt, ‘that’s exactly what I said.’ The bloke was really getting on his wick now.

  ‘Would you mind amplifying that statement?’

  ‘Glad to. How about Naked Lunch for starters?’

  ‘Naked Lunch?’

  ‘Or Last Exit From Brooklyn. Nice healthy reading stuff for young minds, don’t you think?’

  ‘Dear God,’ muttered the County Advisor, who had gone quite ashen.

  Mr Scudd didn’t look any too good either, though he inclined to puce rather than grey. ‘Are you seriously telling me that you regard those two revolting books … that you encourage the reading of books like that?’

  Wilt stopped outside a lecture room in which Mr Ridgeway was fighting a losing battle with a class of first-year A-level students who didn’t want to hear what he thought about Bismark. ‘Who said anything about encouraging students to read any particular books?’ he asked above the din.

  Mr Scudd’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t think you quite understand the tenor of my questions,’ he said, ‘I am here …’ He stopped. The noise coming from Ridgeway’s class made conversation inaudible.

  ‘So I’ve noticed,’ shouted Wilt.

  The County Advisor staggered to intervene. ‘I really think, Mr Wilt,’ he began, but Mr Scudd was staring maniacally through the glass pane at the class. At the back, a youth had just passed what looked suspiciously like a joint to a girl with yellow hair in Mohawk style who could have done with a bra.

  ‘Would you say this was a typical class?’ he demanded and turned back to Wilt to make himself heard.

  ‘Typical of what?’ said Wilt, who was beginning to enjoy the situation. Ridgeway’s inability to interest or control supposedly high motivated A-level students would prepare Scudd nicely for the docility of Cake Two and Major Millfield.

  ‘Typical of the way your students are allowed to behave.’

  ‘My students? Nothing to do with me. That’s History, not Communication Skills.’ And before Mr Scudd could ask what the hell they were doing standing outside a classroom with bedlam going on inside, Wilt had walked on down the corridor. ‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ said Mr Scudd when he had caught up.

  ‘Which one?’

  Mr Scudd tried to remember. The sight of that bloody girl had thrown his concentration. ‘The one about the pornographic and revoltingly violent reading matter,’ he said finally.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Wilt. ‘Very interesting.’

  ‘What’s interesting?’

  ‘That you read that
sort of stuff. I certainly don’t.’

  They went up a staircase and Mr Scudd made use of the handkerchief he kept folded for decoration in his breast pocket. ‘I don’t read that filth,’ he said breathlessly when they reached the top landing.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Wilt.

  ‘And I’d be glad to hear why you raised the issue.’ Mr Scudd’s patience was on a short leash.

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Wilt, who, having reached the classroom in which Major Millfield was taking Cake Two, had reassured himself that the class was as orderly as he’d hoped. ‘You raised it in connection with some historical literature you found in my office.’

  ‘You call Lenin’s State and Revolution historical literature? I most certainly don’t. It’s communist propaganda of a particularly virulent kind, and I find the notion that it’s being fed to young minds in your department extremely sinister.’

  Wilt permitted himself a smile. ‘Do go on,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing I enjoy more than listening to a highly trained intelligence leapfrogging common sense and coming to the wrong conclusions. It gives me renewed faith in parliamentary democracy.’

  Mr Scudd took a deep breath. In a career spanning some thirty years of uninterrupted authority and bolstered by an inflation-linked pension in the near future, he had come to have a high regard for his own intelligence and he had no intention of having it disparaged now. ‘Mr Wilt,’ he said, ‘I would be grateful to know what conclusions I am supposed to draw from the observation that the Head of Communication Skills at this College has a shelf full of works of Lenin in his office.’