‘Liberated from what,’ Bob said, rolling his eyes, ‘that’s what I don’t understand.’
‘Before we can produce a blueprint for praxis we have to understand the ideology behind the revolutionary consciousness—’ Heather broke off her one-sided conversation to tell me I was late. ‘You’re late.’
‘So?’ I said.
Heather had recently declared that separatism was the way forward for women and the logical conclusion of this, she explained, was that we must all become lesbians. Heather was having some trouble finding anyone willing to take her up on this theory, let alone the praxis, although Philippa had volunteered (‘Well, I’m willing to give it a go,’) as if we were talking about playing a new rule in lacrosse.
Heather glared at me and then continued zealously, ‘The subordination and oppression of women within capitalism is the real issue. We all know that male hegemony leads to the oppression and subjugation of women.’ Kara nodded in vigorous agreement, without taking her eyes off the piece of petit-point she was absorbed in stitching.
~ Who’s Kara? Nora asks.
‘You were asleep.’
Proteus had been shucked from a Moses basket and was being dandled on Olivia’s knee. He smelt like sour milk and he was drooling like a dog all over Olivia’s velvet dress. Foolishly or ironically or riskily – almost any adverb would do for this situation, Olivia was sitting next to Sheila, Roger Lake’s stay-at-home wife. Sheila had no idea that Roger was having an affair with Olivia, a fact that always added a certain frisson of tension to these meetings for everyone else. Heather, before becoming a lesbian separatist, had also had a fleeting affair with Roger Lake – an affair that Sheila Lake did know about – and which added even more of a frisson to the proceedings.
Olivia smelt of Miss Dior while Sheila was wearing babyscent, which is a perfume made from Milton fluid, curds and vomit. The newest little Lake was outside in the corridor in a handed-down Silver Cross pram built like a tank.
‘Engels says that the emancipation of women remains impossible as long as women are excluded from socially productive work . . .’ This was just like being in one of Archie’s tutorials, except I could tell Heather to shut up when she got too overbearing.
‘So you don’t think being a housewife is socially productive work?’ Sheila snapped at Heather. Proteus turned his head and gave her a surprised look.
‘Well, Sheila,’ Heather said carefully, ‘in a society defined by the white, western, ruling-class male—’
‘Exactly,’ Kara said. Philippa barged into the room at that moment, lugging a mountain of student essays and a bag of hamster bedding and apologizing loudly for her lateness. ‘I was doing the Cartesian Circle with first-years,’ she said, making it sound like an exotic eastern European folk dance or a forgotten play by Brecht.
‘We were talking about the sexual imperialism of housework,’ Heather said.
‘ You were,’ Sheila said tartly.
In my opinion, these meetings would have been much improved by the presence of a few men. Seeing Philippa reminded me of Ferdinand – I wondered if he was awake by now and if I could find the time to visit the McCue house today and come upon him as if by chance.
I was distracted suddenly from these pleasant thoughts by noticing that, like the eyes in certain portraits, Heather’s nipples seemed to have the uncanny ability to follow you round the room. This is the kind of observation that once made, cannot be unmade. Unfortunately.
‘Some of us have to stay home and rear the children,’ Sheila spat at Heather. ‘If it was left up to you, the human race would die out.’
‘It won’t be long before men are relegated to a biological footnote anyway,’ Philippa said breezily and then, apropos of nothing, ‘We’re having a party tonight, by the way, everyone’s welcome.’ In my experience, a party is simply an invitation to disaster but everyone in the room nodded and murmured enthusiastically. Everyone except Sheila who reared up like a cobra in front of Heather and said, ‘You think that screwing anyone that takes your fancy is a gender equality issue.’
‘Well, Sheila,’ Heather said querulously, ‘if you want to be the private property of some man, that’s up to you.’
‘Better to be private property than to be a public whore,’ Sheila hissed triumphantly. Heather suddenly grabbed a chair and prodded it at Sheila like a lion tamer (this is how accidents happen) and screamed, ‘At least I’ve worked out how to use birth control.’
I decided discretion was the better part of valour and made my apologies: ‘I’ve got an essay to do.’ Olivia followed me out, handing Proteus back to Kara who gestured vaguely at the Moses basket at her feet. Olivia replaced him in the basket and pushed it under Kara’s chair as far out of harm’s way as it would go.