out children – she would never forgive him.
He said, “The children are just being put outside of the Process. It might even be for their own good.”
“If you had ever spent time with children, then you would not be so phlegmatic about it.”
“I’m the bailiff, Ruth. The system was designed so that I have no choice in my actions.”
Ruth washed, dressed and quickly put on her coat. She was late for school. She kissed him on the forehead, and said, “When you get to the Bowles house, look for me.”
Hector’s silent face tracked her exit.
Their flat was the upper floor of a converted nineteenth century needle factory, allocated to them for its centrality, overlooking the winged angel of the war memorial. The rest of the building was a communal kitchen. Below, across the cobbled factory gate, trestle tables served bread and soup for the workers securing the town for the eviction.
The caretaker, Terry, supervised a large crew of men, women and children as they boarded up windows and put buckets of sand along the parade route in case of fire. Posts and string marked out where the crowds could stand, leaving plenty of clearance for the armour to pass through the narrow streets.
Every citizen wore their district colours and conversation thrilled with the sense of occasion. A rumour spread that the douanier had already sighted the distant progress of the totem from Black Cap. The rumour drifted across the town, to the workers of the Paddock, overseen by a rueful pair of piebald horses, and up the avenue of grand Edwardian houses, past the blackened gap where the Walington sisters had torched their home rather than give it up. Here three or four young families, strong and simple yeomen, now occupied each house in return for working and protecting the paddock, the largest of the town’s dozen allotments. With the thaw came wheelbarrows of contorted squash, bags of strong mustard leaf, and the unearthing of parsnips and artichokes.
----
R uth ran down a steep twitten as the church clock chimed nine. The sound of children singing from the nearby school house. Her class ran through their lamentation rehearsal as they waited for their teacher.
In the playing fields, under the shadow of the kiss-kiss tree, Sylvia, a tall girl on the cusp of adolescence, read out her essay on eviction to the youngsters:
“Once upon a time, the grownups used to go far away every day to earn money, for without money you did not have a house or food or clothes. As time passed, the grownups went away for longer and longer and the money they brought home was less and less until finally there was no money left. Where did it all go? Money wasn’t a thing like clothes or parsnips. Money was a promise. And too many people broke that promise so people did not believe in money anymore. The grownups everywhere realized they had been cheated but even the cheats lost out when no one wanted to plough the field or teach the class or even stop the bad men. All over the land, grownups argued about what to do. Except here. In Lewes, the grownups had a plan because they were the first to know that change was coming.
“Every home used to have a window into another world. A wicked monster took over that world and so we had to close it off forever. But before the gate was shut, we rescued the angels of that world and put them in a special place so that they could watch over us from the kiss-kiss tree, and help us with our school work, and to make sure that everyone gets what is fair. We have to work hard, and do our bit, and stick together. But every day cannot be a happy day. The frost comes late and kills the vegetables. People get sick. People get cross. We can’t hold onto everyone. Sometimes we have to let people go. And it’s alright for us to be sad that they go. And they will be sad too and sometimes very cross. We make sure that we say goodbye and they are sent away to help other people make places that are as safe and beautiful as
He said, “The children are just being put outside of the Process. It might even be for their own good.”
“If you had ever spent time with children, then you would not be so phlegmatic about it.”
“I’m the bailiff, Ruth. The system was designed so that I have no choice in my actions.”
Ruth washed, dressed and quickly put on her coat. She was late for school. She kissed him on the forehead, and said, “When you get to the Bowles house, look for me.”
Hector’s silent face tracked her exit.
Their flat was the upper floor of a converted nineteenth century needle factory, allocated to them for its centrality, overlooking the winged angel of the war memorial. The rest of the building was a communal kitchen. Below, across the cobbled factory gate, trestle tables served bread and soup for the workers securing the town for the eviction.
The caretaker, Terry, supervised a large crew of men, women and children as they boarded up windows and put buckets of sand along the parade route in case of fire. Posts and string marked out where the crowds could stand, leaving plenty of clearance for the armour to pass through the narrow streets.
Every citizen wore their district colours and conversation thrilled with the sense of occasion. A rumour spread that the douanier had already sighted the distant progress of the totem from Black Cap. The rumour drifted across the town, to the workers of the Paddock, overseen by a rueful pair of piebald horses, and up the avenue of grand Edwardian houses, past the blackened gap where the Walington sisters had torched their home rather than give it up. Here three or four young families, strong and simple yeomen, now occupied each house in return for working and protecting the paddock, the largest of the town’s dozen allotments. With the thaw came wheelbarrows of contorted squash, bags of strong mustard leaf, and the unearthing of parsnips and artichokes.
----
R uth ran down a steep twitten as the church clock chimed nine. The sound of children singing from the nearby school house. Her class ran through their lamentation rehearsal as they waited for their teacher.
In the playing fields, under the shadow of the kiss-kiss tree, Sylvia, a tall girl on the cusp of adolescence, read out her essay on eviction to the youngsters:
“Once upon a time, the grownups used to go far away every day to earn money, for without money you did not have a house or food or clothes. As time passed, the grownups went away for longer and longer and the money they brought home was less and less until finally there was no money left. Where did it all go? Money wasn’t a thing like clothes or parsnips. Money was a promise. And too many people broke that promise so people did not believe in money anymore. The grownups everywhere realized they had been cheated but even the cheats lost out when no one wanted to plough the field or teach the class or even stop the bad men. All over the land, grownups argued about what to do. Except here. In Lewes, the grownups had a plan because they were the first to know that change was coming.
“Every home used to have a window into another world. A wicked monster took over that world and so we had to close it off forever. But before the gate was shut, we rescued the angels of that world and put them in a special place so that they could watch over us from the kiss-kiss tree, and help us with our school work, and to make sure that everyone gets what is fair. We have to work hard, and do our bit, and stick together. But every day cannot be a happy day. The frost comes late and kills the vegetables. People get sick. People get cross. We can’t hold onto everyone. Sometimes we have to let people go. And it’s alright for us to be sad that they go. And they will be sad too and sometimes very cross. We make sure that we say goodbye and they are sent away to help other people make places that are as safe and beautiful as
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