“I don’t like to be late,” said Catherine Lang as the door was opened for her at 6:50pm. Kate had said 7pm and not to bring anything. Her friends called her Clang. Not unkindly of course but because of her initials C. Lang. And also, a little bit she suspected, for the way that sentences swung with the weight of her confidence, out of her mouth and struck against the conversation. Sure she was opinionated, but so were all the women in her family. Her grandmother: a local MP for many years, had campaigned vigorously around maternity issues, and her ideas shaped not one, not two, but three major legislative amendments in the course of her career. And her mother: former head of the Council of Higher Education and now steering the Education Action Group in their reformation of inner city schools.
Kate took Clang’s hound’s-tooth coat and hooked it onto the stand in the hall.
“Would you mind terribly, if I just freshen up?” asked Clang.
Kate and Andrew’s house was exactly the type of house that Clang would have herself one day. The broad wooden staircase curved and creaked up to the first floor where bedrooms peeled off from the landing. Clang’s house would have three bedrooms rather than just the two and a separate bathroom for the guests of course. She stood at the basin and washed her hands, warming them under the water, turning the bar of lavender soap over and over between her palms. Her hair had got so long! She always liked long hair; the elegance and shine of it falling over her shoulders. She pulled down her jumper, revealing just a little more cleavage, scooped her breasts up into her bra and ran a finger under her eye to catch a small dash of mascara she missed.
Andrew was in the kitchen peeling chestnuts. It was a beautiful kitchen, the windowsills dense with pots of herbs, saucepans and skillets hung from stainless steel clips against the wall and a huge antique maps filled the back wall. The pastel blinds were half drawn and the green glass tiles behind the cooker sparkled. It’s only a shame they did not have an Aga. And the shelves where Kate’s antique bottles and jam jars stood gathering dust would in Clang’s kitchen groan beneath the weight of the preserves that she would make herself – pickled lemons, apricot jam – that sort of thing.
Clang kissed Andrew on each cheek. Andrew was exactly the type of man that Clang would marry one day. Oh yes, his quick witted charm, his feisty intelligence so cheaply accentuated with those little round glasses, his muscular forearms, would be all that she required.
“Clang darling, how are you? Pour yourself a glass of wine,” he said gesturing with his elbow at the collection of glasses on the sideboard.
“There’s a burgundy and merlot open or a desperately good pinot grigio in the fridge. And before I forget your fruit basket is in the conservatory.”
Every autumn their garden dripped with fruit and no one went home without a basket of pears or apples, or cherries or last year: butternut squash, under one arm. Clang could see two woven baskets waiting on the stone floor of the conservatory. One for her, one for Sean and Amina. They sat between the antique leather chair, and the two pairs of Wellington boots, flower pot full of gardening tools, lit by the silver floor lamp, it looked like a photograph out of Country Living, rather than a terraced house in Peckham.
Kate came through from the dining room.
“Oh Clang, you don’t have any wine!”
Sean and Amina arrived some fifteen minutes later. Clang was on her second glass of wine and was talking them through a column she’d written for the newspaper. It was an enormously significant thing not all the secretaries were given this kind of chance. Clang attributed the honour to her outspoken intelligence. (here) The plan of course was to work in journalism for few years (anyone after all, could work in journalism) and then get into lobbying.
Amina had lost weight, she took off her coat and Clang sucked her teeth at the thin little arms protruding from her jumper sleeves. Sean walked her through to the kitchen his hand on her back.
Andrew and Kate had a large dining room wallpapered in retro flock design that beautifully offset the huge mirror hanging above the fireplace. Of course it wasn’t a working fireplace, but the attractive arch of the original brickwork had been elegantly exposed. The pine floorboards were stained a rich mahogany to match the dresser set against the back wall. A large glass chandelier dangled above the dining room table on which Kate had created a centrepiece of autumnal leaves that danced in the light of the candles.
“Wow,” said Amina, “This looks amazing!”
Clang ran a finger down one of the wallpaper seams where the glue hadn’t quite taken and the two edges were peeling apart.
“Did you do the papering yourself?” said Clang
As Kate laid the first course of roasted figs and parma ham before them Sean was complaining about a decision taken by the town planning council of Sefton, just the week before, to remove Antony Gormley’s collection of 100 naked cast iron men from the beach.
“It’s this type of thing that gives us town planners a bad name.”
“But they must have had a reason,” asked Clang.
“Well a few fools had to get rescued because they wandered out to see the furthest ones and got caught by the tide,” he shrugged his shoulders, “and the fisherman are all panicked they’re going to scrape the bottom of their boat-y-kins.”
“Oh I read about that,” said Andrew, “I liked the idea of the accessibility of the art. Apparently people painted their bollocks. It an interesting way of engaging with sculpture that you just don’t get in a gallery. What a shame.”
“Sure,” said Kate, slipping back into place, “but the council aren’t going to take the risk of being blamed for a fatality. Art so good it kills!”
Clang loves these types of discussions. She only ever seems to have them here at Andrew and Kate’s house with her three Uni friends. And Amina. Shaun has Amina now. Amina, who doesn’t often say very much. The argument will go round and round and she watches wide-eyed flicking her shiny black hair over her shoulder and squeezing Sean’s hand under the table. But then of course Amina works in a bank.
“Well that’s just it isn’t it?” said Sean, “Where do you draw the line between the council’s responsibility for keeping you safe and the individual’s responsibility to take care of themselves?”
Clang gave charity only where there was also an opportunity to encourage and correct. She carried in her head a small number of phrases that she deemed appropriate to inspire street sleepers away from their pavements and cardboard boxes. “This fifty pence is not going to save you, only you can do that.” If possible she liked to press the coin into the palm of a grubby hand and close the fingers over it, showing that she was not, like most people, afraid to touch them. She didn’t give to those men who walk up and down on the train apologising insincerely for ruining her journey. Because they do ruin it. With their false platitudes and their complete lack of humility. Or is it deference?
This is the kind of person that Catherine Lang is. She sees the world in black and white and carries a great deal of responsibility for keeping it just so. She follows where the women of her family have led. There have never been meagre expectations for Catherine Lang. Her family wait breathlessly in the front row for her to take the stage. She stalks about in the wings, awaiting her cue.
“I’ll tell you where the line lies,” said Clang, and she drew on the white linen tablecloth with her finger. She’d tucked her foot up under her on the chair so that she was sitting just a little higher at the table, resting on an elbow on the table, her finger curled around her chin, she leant forward and spoke.
“The council and or government’s responsibility and or organisation’s responsibility (let’s not forget about employers and health and safety now), is to provide the means for the individual to take care of themselves.” She thumped on the right of her invisible line with the side of her extended hand.
“And the responsibility of the individual,” she thumped on the left of the line, “is to utilise the means.”
Clang leant back in her chair, lifted her wine glass.
“So Sean, in your Gormley example, the responsibility of the council should be, and should never go beyond, providing the individual with the means to take care of themselves in that particular situation – we’re talking warning signs, tidal markers. That sort of thing. For the fisherman, buoys!” Clang waved her hand as she said this admiring how she had cut so deftly to heart of the matter.
“Anything more is a blatant infringement of the individual’s right to make their own decisions.”
“Sure,” said Kate, standing to clear the plates, “until someone dies because they didn’t read the sign or because they had left their reading glasses at home or because they don’t understand English.”
Clang took another sip of her wine.
The main course was marinated pork fillets roasted on rhubarb and served with roast potatoes. Each fillet had been stewed in oil, garlic and sage overnight, then hand wrapped in proscitto, and carefully cooked in greaseproof paper. Andrew had cut them diagonally and laid them across the plates, dribbled with sauce. Clang thought the roast potatoes looked a little insipid.
There were mutterings of approval from around the table. Clang had to raise her voice to return attention to the point of discussion.
“So Kate, do you mean to say, that those individuals who do take responsibility for their own lives, who actively make use of the facilities around them to protect their liberties and freedoms, should be denied those liberties and freedoms because some individuals can’t be bothered to take responsibility for themselves?”
Sean picked up his cutlery and began on the pork.
Kate sipped her wine.
“Andrew, this really is amazing!” said Sean. Amina nodded.
“No, Clang, that’s not quite what I meant. I was just trying to say that the theoretical ideal often falls down in practice. Mostly because people have what I like to term, legislative angst.” She smiled, “I agree with your principles but the reality is that councils, governments, organisations, the whole lot, are all just scared shitless of being sued. And I’ll concede, on occasion, disproportionately so.”
“But that’s just wrong,” said Clang, resting her fork on the edge of her plate, she reached for the napkin on her lap, drew it roughly across her mouth and then smoothed it back over her skirt.
“Legislation has to ensure that there is at least an onus on the individual to take care of themselves. I mean you see it all the time in employment law don’t you? You can’t just sue a company because someone is harassing you. You have to show that as an individual you’ve used the means that the company has provided to protect yourself.”
As Clang spoke, Amina, sitting on her right, set down her cutlery. Her chin dropped onto her chest and her long hair, as sleek as a black velvet curtain, hid her face so that Clang couldn’t see that she had begun to cry.
“If you’re going to sue for harassment, you can’t not have lodged a complaint, been through the tribunal, the whole thing. That’s why it works. If the individual has taken responsibility for themselves, and the company has provided them with the means to do so, then the company isn’t at fault.”
Sean reached out and took Amina’s hand. No one responded. Outside a car passed on the street. Just a bit too close to the road, thought Clang.
Kate said, “Amina?” and Andrew set down his knife and fork.
“She’s going through some stuff at work,” said Sean, lifting the curtain of Amina’s hair with one finger, stroking her cheek, “This guy she works with… Shall I tell them?”
Amina nodded but didn’t look up. Kate gestured at box of tissues on the top of the dresser and motioned for Clang to get them.
“Her boss,” said Sean, “has been saying stuff. Nothing major. Just odd little remarks that seem, you know, vaguely inappropriate. It’s hard to know whether he means anything by it.”
Amina sniffed, wiped her nose, but still didn’t look up.
“It sounds so stupid. Look, don’t stop eating,” she picked up her cutlery again.
“Last week we had this working lunch thing and we were half way through, talking about how we work together and he suddenly said ‘Oh I think there’s something else there, I really like you Amina.’”
She took a mouthful of pork, chewed, slowly, swallowed.
“It seems innocuous don’t you think? But it was the way he said it, long drawn out words. I just didn’t know what to say.”
“And then on the Sunday he sent her an email about some work and he’d signed it ‘You are brilliant and Wonderful, Love Roger’”.
“The work wasn’t that good,” said Amina, smiling.
Clang swallowed a mouthful of pork.
“Oh please, it’s so clear. He’s having a go! If you were a kid this would be grooming.”
Amina looked up. “Well no, I don’t think it is that clear really. He’s just not the type. I can’t tell whether he’s deliberately crossing boundaries,” she took a sip of wine, “Or whether he’s not even aware of them.”
“Married?” asked Kate
Amina nodded.
Clang reached for the salt, “You have to say something.”
Amina dropped her chin again, put her hands in her lap.
“But I don’t feel sure enough to say something. What if it’s just me being oversensitive you know? What if I’m wrong? Imagine how mortifying it would be if it was all a horrible misunderstanding.”
“Oh for godsakes, this is exactly what I meant earlier. The bank will have very clearly laid out policies on this type of thing. It doesn’t matter whether you’re right or wrong. It’s the equivalent of the tidal markers. Read the signs and get of the water, Amina.”
Clang set her cutlery down, and this time with both palm banged on the left hand side of her invisible line.
“Its up to you. I mean you just have to do it. Otherwise he gets away with it doesn’t he?”
Amina tugged at the napkin on her lap.
“Yes Clang, I hear you,” she said looking up, her cheeks flushed with colour “But to do anything about this kind of thing you have to be absolutely sure you’re right. One hundred percent certain ‘that’s’ what’s going on. It has to be the truth before you can speak it because by speaking it you make it real and hard and tangible and you can’t take it back. You have to believe it so much that you stop listening to anything that anyone else is telling you because if you listen to what they’re saying you might loose you conviction and stop seeing that you’re right, you’re right, you’re right.”
She stood up, her chair squeaking on the wood floor, the end of her napkin balled in one hand, “You have to say it to yourself, over and over again, standing on your soap box, ringing your bell.” She waved the napkin, “I’m right. I’m right. Clang, Clang, Clang.”
Amina dropped the napkin and turned out of the room. The CD had come to an end and over the soft hissing of the speakers, they all heard the creaking of the stairs and the click of the bathroom door closing. Sean got up and followed. Andrew sat dead still, cutlery poised on either side of his plate, mouth slightly open. He turned to look at Kate.
Clang stood up, “I’ll just get a glass of water.”
Above the kitchen sink, her reflection glared back from the black window. She looked at the dark rings beneath her eyes and the tatty ends of her hair on her shoulders, in need of a cut. Behind her at the other end of the imperfect kitchen that wasn’t hers, stood the two imperfect men, who also weren’t hers, talking in low voices. She could hear the soft patter of Amina’s small feet in the bathroom above. Sean said to Andrew, “Look I think we’ll probably head off, sorry mate, it’s been a long week you know. We’re both really tired.” The toilet flushed.
Clang walked out to face them. “No, it’s me who should go.”
She walked past them into the hall and lifted down her coat.
“I really am genuinely and completely sorry,” she said pulling her arms through the sleeves.
“Sometimes, I just don’t…” She swallowed. “I really, really never meant to upset anyone.”
“I know,” said Sean, “And so does Amina.”
“I’m a crap bell ringer huh? Missed my timing, came in too loud. Ruined the whole piece.” She smiled.
Kate came through from the dining room and she kissed her on the cheek. “I’m off to practice, darlings, and I am so dreadfully sorry.”
She swung the door closed behind her and stood for a few brief moments on the walk.
The train was packed with the Saturday night crowd of south Londoners sallying their way into town. She didn’t bother with a seat, and stood near the doors, her back against the glass partition.
Across from her was a black guy wearing jeans and white trainers, the wires of his music player disappearing up beneath his hooded top, possibly in his teens. As they drew into the next station at an elderly woman got up from her seat and brushed past Clang to get to the doors. She addressed the young man in a loud voice:
“Are you getting off?”
He took out an earphone, and cocked his head slightly towards her.
“Are you getting off?” she repeated without looking at him.
He shook his head.
“Well then get out of my way,” she burst.
There was more than enough room for her to pass him; he was leaning against the wall, she had the whole width of the doors. The train had stopped and so he reached for the ‘open’ button on her behalf. She shot out a hand and slapped his wrist out of the way. It made the hard sharp sound of whip.
Rage rose in Clang like a fire. How dare this woman? How dare she! He was clearly trying to help. He had been minding his own business. Clang took a step forward to intervene, to say something on his behalf, to strike back. But the boy took a step back into the carriage, one surprised hand still holding the earphone. His head dropped slightly and she felt the heat of his humiliation. How much worse would it be rescued by a young white woman?
But she felt she must say something, something to encourage the boy, to restore his sense of self worth. Something to remind him that not all white women are like that. That we live in a country, and in particular, a city, where do not, and will not tolerate such behaviour. The thing that Clang would say was: “Don’t worry mat, she’ll get what’s coming to her.” And she would say it when no one else could hear. It would be just what the boy needed to make him feel better.
As they stepped off the train he walked quickly towards the ticket barriers as if he was fleeing. She strode to catch up and was about to reach for his arm when she realised that he was humming; a soft but distinct melody. He lifted a hand, snapped his fingers, smiled.
Clang fell back.
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