The Turing Test by Chris Beckett

Author:Chris Beckett [Beckett, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Elastic Press
Published: 2012-03-19T06:00:00+00:00

Jazamine in the Green Wood

Memorial Day.

I got out of bed and opened the window. Birdsong rippled through the mild creamy air and a fat old woman pushed her bike up from the allotments with its basket laden with a spring harvest of leeks and sprouting broccoli.

“Morning has broken, like the first morning…”

She was singing that old hymn.

Well, yes, I thought. I suppose it is on days like this that we should thank God for all Her munificence: for light, for air, for sunlight, for the great dance of the planets and stars… But let us not forget to mention tuberculosis too, and beriberi and cholera and TTX.

(TTX. Ah yes, now, there is proof, if any more were needed, that God is truly a She!)

I pulled on my jumper and jeans and struggled into my specially adapted boots.

And do I thank God for my feet? I demanded. Do I thank Her for the curse of being born a boy? Do I thank Her for my good kind reasonable parents, who have cut me off from the whole world with their good intentions, their damned principles?

I closed the door of my flat and hobbled off down the road towards Peace Square, where the Memorial Statues wait under the cherry blossom for the annual speeches and tears.

On the way I met Harry Higgins, a big burly man with a red beard, always wearing the same brown jacket with the little MRP badge on the lapel.

“Going to the ceremony, eh, Jack?”

I nodded guiltily. “Well, yes. My mum and dad, you know…”

He winked.

“Yeah, of course. Don’t worry mate, I understand. But pop over to the Men’s Pub later, eh Jack? At the end of the day we blokes have got to stick together.”

“Yes, sure, I’ll be there.”

“Good man, good man,” Harry said, patting my arm. “Well, enjoy the ceremony. Your mum is sure to make a good speech. She’s a strong woman, your mum. I admire her. Even if we are on opposite sides.”

I noticed he didn’t mention my dad.

*

Outside the Mother-Church I saw Beatrice walking with a girl-friend: Beatrice with her curly blonde hair and her milk-white teeth, Beatrice with her beads and her many rings and her lacy dresses, so nonchalantly flung together but always so stylish and funny and graceful.

God, she is so beautiful that she makes my blood run cold.

“Morning, Beatrice,” I croaked.

She smiled and waved, “Hello Jack!”

I wanted to say something else. I actually stopped to do it. But before I could think of anything, she’d turned away, slipping her arm through her friend’s and giving her a kiss. They were probably lovers.

Alone in a cruel cage of sunlight and blossom and birdsong, I watched them go.

*

Under the cherry trees, Mother was giving her customary speech as Town Convenor.

“We’re here to remember the victims of the plague: our husbands, brothers, fathers, sons…”

She touched the statue of the sad woman who looks down at her dead male shadow. Plenty of women there cried. Apart from my father and me, no other men were there.

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