Diary
Earlier this year I discovered the secret of mathematics. Up until then it had eluded me, either because I hadn't serious- ly tried to fathom it or because I was thick. In January, wrestling with an income tax assessment, I was forced to jiggle a few figures and it came to me in a blinding flash, that, whereas I had always thought there was adding up and taking away, division and multiplication, there is in fact only addition and subtraction. Armed with this mind-boggling knowledge I hurried to the Overseas Club to attend a meeting of writers protesting against VAT on books. I arrived late and left early but was in time to hear two very good speeches, one by Frank Delaney, the other by Michael Holroyd. What Mr Holroyd came out with was so sensible that I scribbled part of it down on the back of my cheque book. No doubt mindful of Mrs Thatcher's warning to her backbenchers not to pay attention to spe- cial interest groups, he told us that of all categories of people, students, children, library users, publishers etc, the author already registered for VAT is the one least likely to suffer, in a sense, from its imposi- tion. He or she could always claim it back from Customs and Excise or lose it along the way in some well thought out expenses dodge. And it could well be that all authors, whatever their income, would voluntarily register themselves, thereby gaining an advantage, and defeating some of the Government's aims. Authors, he said, are not financial romantics, they are caustically, tediously, unremittingly realis- tic. Here Mr Holroyd, whom I've always considered a gentle soul, raised his fist and actually shook it. As self-employed people, he thundered, they cannot afford to be anything else. The imposition of VAT Would reduce the numbers of titles pub- lished (not a bad thing) but in the wrong Way. It would be our literature that would suffer, not our coffee table volumes. It was stirring stuff and it was a pity Lord Gowrie wasn't there to hear it. On Channel 4 the Other night, the newsreader mispronounc- ing her way through a commentary on the television of the business of the Lords, mentioned that Lord Gowrie was the poet of the House and a member of the Cabinet. No. one thought it worthwhile to name his Ministry, which is a fair indication of how
seriously we take anything to do with the Arts.
Don't groan, but last week I went to
Greenham Common. I was dragged, or rather driven there, by friends who were taking money, food and firewood to the Peace camps. It was snowing and we Parked the car some distance away and arrived on skis, which caused hilarity, as well it might, of a good-humoured sort among the ladies round the camp fire. Even if I had never heard of Greenham or of its sinister purpose, and there had been nothing outside the wire to distract the eye — no makeshift tents or people — the sight of the place, sprawled out across the bleak winter landscape, would have made me sweat with fear. Of course this moist reaction has something to do with one's politics and Paul Johnson, for instance, might have jumped up and down on the spot for joy, as people are rumoured to do at their first glimpse of the Taj Mahal. I have a photograph of Birkenau concentra- tion camp, and Greenham is the same place, more or less, except that there are five wire fences, one within the other, each one more brutally barbed than the last. There are several gates with an average now of six to ten women camping outside each. The tents aren't tents at all, just bits of cloth slung like dirty washing between the trees. I didn't see any children, thank God, just a few cats and dogs. Reading about the Greenham women is a different experience from visiting them. Before, I'd my reservations, not about the purpose of their vigil but about the women them- selves. I felt that some of them (and I can only have got the impression from 'media' coverage) might be there because they had nothing better to do or no place else to go, and I didn't warm to the idea of small children living in squalor. I also thought it probable that a purely female protest, seeing that women are considered as little short of feeble-minded by the other half of the population, was in a sense damaging the chances of a larger, more united protest, i.e. Mums and Dads. On the first point I've now changed my mind. It's impossible to doubt the women's commit- ment, or to remain detached in the face of their stubborn, crazy and relentless deter- mination. One day, if they manage to achieve their objectives and the rest of us survive, those gallant few — ridiculed, hounded and imprisoned as though they were criminals or lunatics — will be in the history books. I asked one woman what she was most in need of. I had thought she might mention rump steak or a fur coat.
'Perhaps we could discuss the business of the honorary degree over supper, m'dear.'
What she wanted, she said, and any gener- ous, musical reader out there please take note, was a saxophone.
Ayoung woman called Laurie, whom I've known since she was a child, is being encouraged to give up her job and stay at home with her baby. Very good, you cry, best place for her — apart from the fact that she hasn't a home of her own and lives in two rooms with her father and step-mother — but wait on, as they say up north, there's more to come. Laurie works for the Social Services department of Cam- den Council, in a day care nursery for infants. Three members of the staff already have their babies cared for at the same nursery. When Laurie became pregnant she decided not to have an abortion be- cause she wanted the baby, had a good job, and it could stay with her at her place of work. She put her unborn child down on the waiting list for admittance to the nursery, eventually went on maternity leave, produced baby Ben and returned to work leaving him in charge of his natural father as no place was as yet available in the nursery. Two months later Ben went into hospital for a stomach operation. At this point the Social Services department informed her that to allow the baby into the same nursery that employed her (the natural father was only playing the good sport on a temporary basis and was moving on) would seem like favouritism. She was told to put the child in charge of a baby minder, which she refused to do. The cost of keeping Ben at this particular nursery is f25 per week, which his mother is willing and able to pay. The other alternative, they told her, was to give up her job and go on the dole. She doesn't want to go on the dole; she wants her job which she's good at, and her child close at hand and cared for by colleagues she knows and trusts. Some of the infants are in care because their parents are in bad health, some because of special needs, and some be- cause they're at risk. If Laurie announced that she had an overwhelming urge to batter her small boy, or indeed were she to bring him in with a few bruises, no doubt Ben would be given a place immediately. I'm not in favour of single-parent families — I've been one myself for years — but the treatment of this mother seems to be economically daft as well as unfeeling.
I'vejust remembered the time I took part in a protest myself. It was years ago in Liverpool, and had to do with Kennedy and the Bay of Pigs. An appointment was made for me to see the American consul„ and a short speech of condemnation pre- pared. I was chosen for this important role because I had a child in arms; obviously only a swine would remain unmoved at the sight of us. Alas, the consul turned out to be so irresistibly charming that I could scarcely breathe, never mind condemn. I've avoided protests ever since.
Beryl Bainbridge
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