'Downturn' Chapter 1

1. Happy Returns 

[Simon and Maloney are driving around North London trying to produce an important newsletter for the members of their union branch. In the early 1980s, this required two separate machines and a lot of paper and patience. To begin with, the typed copy had to be transferred onto electro-stencils - one stencil for each A4 page - then each stencil had to be wrapped around the ink-filled drum of a duplicator and the copies cranked out. They have access to a duplicator but need to find an electro-stencil machine first. Got that? Good. Don't ask how did the Bolsheviks manage in 1917. Just read on!]

'Jesus F. Christ,' said Maloney.

He changed back into first. They must have gone a hundred yards at least.

'What is it?'

'The exhaust. It's hanging off again.'

Simon listened to the sharp metallic clunks as it knocked the ground beneath them.

'Marvellous,' he said.

They crawled onward, peering through the windscreen for a parking space. Car lorry, car motorbike, car van, caravan, car Land Rover, car Invacar, car abandoned, car with Nuclear Power No Thanks sticker, car occupied but going nowhere, van occupied with man doing paperwork. Unbroken lines of metal and glass on a street built for horse-drawn cabs. As they turned to the left at a T-junction, a smell of petrol began to seep through the interior. Simon wound the window down until it stuck halfway.

'I have this strange horror of dying on my birthday,' he said.

'I'll fix it. Same thing happened last weekend coming back from Birmingham. I had to get out on the hard shoulder... fucking great juggernauts thundering past.'

'You mean you take this thing on the motorway? Is that allowed? This crate? This deathtrap?'

'It runs like a dream most of the time.'

Simon leaned his head against the window. If it ran like a dream, it was a bad dream. But what did he know about cars? Nothing. Except this one was a Viva, fourteen years old according to Maloney, bought 'dirt cheap' during the summer. No service log, doctored mileage and a broken passenger door.

'Here we are...'

Simon sat up and squinted at a school coming up on their left. The whitewashed No Parking letters were partly obscured by two other vehicles but there was enough space for Maloney to back into. When he switched off the engine, they sat for a moment in blissful silence.

'What do we do now then?'

'Simple, Simon. I get out and tape the exhaust back up again. If I can't, we're fucked.'

He twisted round and grabbed a roll of duct tape from the back seat, then leapt out and vanished to the rear. Half a minute later, his head popped up again on Simon's side.

'Can you throw the blanket out. It's filthy under here.'

Simon pushed it through the window, then slumped back into his seat. This, or something like it, always seemed to happen on his birthday. It had seemed innocuous enough. Take the morning off from the Institute, meet Maloney at the Finsbury Park bookshop which was only ten minutes walk from his current abode, get the stencils made, drive to Maloney's 'Centre' and spend half an hour cranking out the Branch Newsletter on their duplicator. But the Bookshop's stencil machine was out of action and they were now stranded in the back streets of North London.

Last year, he'd spent part of the day with twenty or so comrades on a fascist hunt. It was known that the Front had split into different factions after the election and one of the factions was rumoured to be meeting at a Camden pub. The comrades, none of whom Simon knew, had gathered on the pavement just before high noon. At first, nothing much happened except for hostile looks from some of the punters as they arrived and an invitation to 'fuck off back to Russia.' They were all white, but whether they were fascists or just pissed-off pubgoers was hard to gauge. Were the comrades wasting their time? Had the mole got it wrong? Then just after the quarter hour, the door of another pub across the main road had swung open and four men marched in disciplined style twenty yards along the pavement, over a Pelican crossing and twenty yards back towards them. No-one mistook these fuckers. They were muscular hardmen, part of the Front's 'protective force' bearing down with contemptuous confidence. The tension erupted into shouts of 'fascist scum' accompanied by gobs of spit and push-and-shove scuffles before the bastards somehow got into the pub. Word went round that one of them had a knife! And Simon had slipped away amidst all the excitement.

The year before that had been less dramatic. His birthday had fallen on the day of an anti-cuts march through South London. It had rained on and off and Clapham Common had turned into a quagmire under several thousand pairs of feet. He remembered the long trudge through Stockwell, Vauxhall and along Millbank, holding the Branch banner with Don Gable most of the way, then speeches in Parliament Square before slow, shuffling dispersal. The year before that was Thatcher's first year in power and his last in the SWP. But that was far back enough. In the playground a few yards away, the cries of small children were piercing the autumn air.

He decided to get out of the car, but the door handle went down without effect. He pushed and shouldered the door, leant sideways and kicked it, put his arm through the window but could only just reach the outside handle with his fingertips. After that, he lacked the will to clamber over the driver's seat. Instead, he watched the school children through gaps in the railings as they ran back and forth, circling, pushing, confiding and mocking, as he'd done once in another place, another time. He did the calculation and felt a pang of fear: twenty years, more or less. How could so much precious time have gone by? The window seemed to sigh as he wound it back up. He looked around the car. On the back seat sat a stack of Workers' Struggle and a pile of leaflets promoting a march in support of Solidarnosc. Next to them...a box of badges, a scarf, some tools, a dried-up oily rag and a traffic cone. Turning back, he bent forward and picked up a couple of books that his feet had been grinding into the floor. One was a London A-Z which he dropped down again. The other a paperback copy of Trotsky's My Life. He opened it halfway through and began to read:

'The twelfth hour of the revolution was near. The Smolney was being transformed into a fortress. In its garret, there were a dozen or so machine guns...'

A minute or so later, Maloney resurfaced. He flung the blanket and duct tape into the car, then stood in the road dusting himself down.

'That should hold it for a while.'

'Oh, good.'

Back in the driver's seat, he cleaned his silver-framed glasses on the front flap of his shirt.

'What's the book?'

Simon showed him the cover.

'I found it on the floor.'

Maloney started the engine and began to manouevre the car out into the road.

'It must have slid off the seat. I don't normally keep books on the floor of my car. Not the classics, anyway.'

They set off again.

'I tried reading it a few years ago when I was in the SWP,' said Simon.' Didn't get very far. It seemed to be all about his childhood on some farm in the Russian steppes...'

'That's only the first few chapters. It follows his life from student to Commander of the Red Army. His exile, the 1905 revolution, his relationship with Lenin, the 1917 revolution, the rise of Stalin... Absolutely essential reading. I'm about to use it for a Workers' Struggle educational class, otherwise I'd lend it to you.'

'An educational class. Does that mean you've actually got some new members?'

'Don't be cynical, Simon. There are people who want to join us.'

'How many members have you got now, then?'

'I don't know. Not exactly. Over a hundred, easily.'

'Over a hundred. Easily. That's progress.'

'Simon, we've had this discussion before. We're not like the SWP recruiting anything that moves. We look for people with some kind of record in union branches or community action groups. Now do something useful and find the A-Z.'

Simon picked up the tattered copy from the floor again and held it aloft.

'Okay. Hold on to it. We might need it soon. Jesus, look at the fucking traffic. What's going on this morning?'

They'd reached a junction with the main road and Maloney kept the car rolling forward, ignoring the honking horns until someone let him in. After that, they trailed along behind a bus and Simon gazed at the shops as they crawled past. Last week's headlines were still in the evening paper stands. PRINCE WILLIAM NEW PICTURES, POUND SINKS AGAIN. A queue stretched out of a Post Office along the pavement.

'Look at that,' he said. 'And it's not even giro day.'

'Every day is giro day now. They can't send out three million cheques at once.'

'True. Maybe you should try recruiting there? That's where the workers are these days.'

'No, we're active in the claimants unions because they have a structure and some unity and anger and potential power. We don't trawl along queues just on the off chance.'

'I've seen the SWP leafleting outside post offices.'

'So have I. It's a waste of time. Just leaves a mess on the pavement.'

'Well at least it keeps the roadsweeper in work.'

Maloney shook his head.

'Simon, you're a liberal really. Your politics are fatally undermined by sentiment. If you're serious about revolutionary change, you have to ask yourself where are the levers of power? There are no levers of power on the road sweeper's barrow.'

'Oh, yeah? What about the winter of discontent? All that rubbish piling up in the streets? Anyway, I can't be serious about revolution, obviously, because I'm not a member of Workers' Stuggle.'

'The real levers of power are with the workers who provide essential goods and services to big business. Oh, fuck. Look what's coming up in front.'

Simon looked. They'd managed to overtake the bus, but a mounted policeman now came into view about twenty yards ahead. In navy raincoat and peaked cap, perched high and straight-backed in the saddle, he was cantering steadily past parked vehicles while the cars ahead pulled round him one by one. Even from behind, Simon could sense the smugness of authority.

'This could be serious,' he said. 'He'll be looking at your car, checking it for faults, noting the registration number and the stickers - oh, you haven't got any stickers.'

'Car stickers are petty-bourgeois, Simon. Anyway, the modern-day police officer has a lot on his mind. He'll be checking the pavements for anything suspicious, looking for tax discs on the parked cars... we'll only get a glance. As long as I don't have to brake, we'll be fine.'

It was their turn and they moved out smoothly into the middle of the road. Simon had a view of the dark brown flanks of the horse and a booted leg in the stirrup as they passed by. He glanced back and as Maloney had predicted, the policeman was looking away from them at the pavement.

'Looks like we're safe,' he said. 'Though he could easily catch up with us in this thing.'

'You won't see them chasing anybody along the street. It's more about being a deterrent. And exercising the horses, keeping them fit for demos.'

'Yeah, that's where I first saw police horses - some demo or other.'

'Grosvenor Square '68 in my case.'

'Of course, you go back that far. March or October?'

'March. I didn't get to the October one. Apparently, that was peaceful on the whole and ended up at Hyde Park. The Maoists and a few anarchists did go to Grosvenor Square and tried to charge the embassy, but it was well defended. Stupid fuckers.'

'They haven't changed much, the Maoists.'

'They never will. They're Stalinists, basically. They taunt us with chants about ice picks. Who on earth would want to live in a society led by those bastards?'

'Indeed. Anyway, what was the March demo like?'

Maloney paused.

'How did we get onto this? Oh, the horses, the mounted police. They charged the people up at the front and then pushed the rest of us back.'

'Whaaat?! You mean you weren't on the front line?'

'Simon, I was eighteen, still in sixth form. I came up to London with a friend to see what it was all about...and to see Vanessa Redgrave. We couldn't quite believe that a famous actress would get involved in a street demo.'

'And did you see Vanessa?'

'We did. And Tariq. We saw them by the National Gallery as a matter of fact, just as the march was setting off up Charing Cross Road. We followed it on the pavement at first, then when it got to Oxford Street, we joined in.'

'So did you get Vanessa's autograph?'

'Very funny, Simon. We were naive but not that naive. Actually, we were very naive - we thought it was supposed to be a peace march. Then we realised they were chanting about Ho Chi Minh and victory to the NLF...'

'Oh yeah.'

'Then we turned into a side street which led to Grosvenor Square. The police had blocked it off at the end and people kept piling in. It was a crush but everyone knew the police line would break. Sheer weight of numbers. I remember a small child being passed over people's heads for safety, but towards the front. No question of retreat...'

'Wow!'

'When they gave way, we ran into the square and that was it. Battle commenced. We were overawed by it, me and my friend - I have to admit. We stayed at the back. I remember one guy being led away with blood pouring from his head and other people lying on the grass looking dazed, but we didn't see much of the actual fighting. I remember a young copper wandering around without a helmet, looking shell-shocked, and somebody throwing a tin can that bounced off his head. He turned round and said - All right, who's the wise guy? We just laughed. As if anyone was going to own up. Then the police horses moved forward through the square and this Inspector started lecturing us from the saddle, telling us the march was over, go home, we'd no right to be there and so on. Arrogant bastard...'

Simon was impressed. He'd never heard Maloney reminisce quite like this before.

'As if he owned the place...'

'Well the police do, more or less. Foot soldiers of the state - they can go anywhere. Just check the A-Z - we're looking for Grosvenor Avenue.'

'Grosvenor Avenue!' yelled Simon. 'What a fucking coincidence. Hang on...' He pushed his finger across the map. 'Next left. Can you Adam and Eve it?'

'Calm down. Anything called "Grosvenor" is probably owned by the Duke of Westminster. He owns half the fucking country. He's richer than the Queen.'

They turned into a long straight road lined with plane trees, their leaves now the light green, almost yellow, of autumn. Behind the trees were substantial Victorian houses interspersed with small blocks of modern flats.

'That didn't say Grosvenor Avenue.'

'Keep going. It leads on to it.'

And it did. Soon they were parking outside a large semi-detached house with a huge pile of rubbish bags and old furniture almost obscuring the basement windows. Maloney leaned across the car and showed Simon how to jiggle the handle and thump the door so that he was freed. Then they climbed the entry steps and found that the black front door opened at a push into a large hallway. A sign in hand-coloured letters directed them up a flight of stairs to an office on the first floor. Here, behind a desk and a large typewriter, sat a woman of refined features and advanced middle age with greying hair sprouting over a purple headband. She gazed up at her visitors with a perplexed unhappy look on her face as if second thoughts about volunteering had already come to the surface. Nevertheless, she answered Maloney's questions with measured concentration.

Yes, she believed there was an electrostencil machine somewhere, but she was sorry, she had no idea where it was kept or how to use it. On second thoughts, it was probably in the workshop but that was locked and she had no means of access. She was sorry, but everyone else was out for the morning on the local nursery campaign march. If they could come back that afternoon?

'No, we have a meeting this afternoon.'

'Oh dear. Well I'm terribly sorry, but I'm just holding the fort.'

They returned to the car.

'Middle class dabblers,' said Maloney.

'They do their best. Where now?'

Maloney dug a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and studied it.

'Hackney People's Centre, Balls Pond Road. I've never been there before, but I'm told they have a machine. If that's no good, there's a women's centre we can try in Islington.'

'Can I tell you about my defining moment?' said Simon as they drove off. 'On the road to revolutionary awareness...'

'If you must. This place is only around the corner though.'

'Grunwick.'

'Grunwick? A beautiful word.'

'11th August 1977. No - 11th July. Three months after I started at the Institute.'

'Don't remember the date. Was that the National Day of Action?'

'Probably. I'd heard about it on the news and heard you move a motion of support at a Branch meeting, so I went along. I was supposed to be meeting a friend outside the tube station, but I couldn't see him - there were so many people milling about. After a while, I just let myself be swept along in the crowd. It was an amazing feeling. Fists in the air, everybody chanting - the workers, united, will never be defeated. The miners marching behind their banner. The mounted police were there too, but we just kept on going. We came to that road around the back - I forget what it was called but it led to the back gates...'

'Chapter Road,' said Maloney. They'd stopped at traffic lights and he drummed impatiently on the steering wheel. 'I was there every morning during that period. No, wait a minute - not Chapter Road, that was at the front...Cooper Road.'

'Sounds familiar. Anyway we filled that road completely and the police didn't like it. They sent in this long line of coppers to defend the gates - forty or fifty of them threading their way through the crowd in single file. And of course everyone was jeering at them and jostling them...and I was stood in the midst of this huge mass of people, not actually doing anything, just watching these coppers struggling past a few feet away. And suddenly one of them got pushed quite hard, lost his cool, swung round and hit out at the nearest person - which happened to be me. He hit me once on the jaw and once in the stomach. Then he went on his way. People shouted at him and someone checked that I was okay, which physically I was. They weren't hard blows - he was off balance. But inside I was stunned - well, I was shocked that I should have been attacked by - you know...'

'The long arm of the law?'

'Well, yeah. It's a criminal offence isn't it to assault someone?'

'And that was what got you into revolutionary politics?'

'The whole experience, but that in particular.'

'You're a romantic, Simon. A couple of lame punches and you're ready to storm the Winter Palace. The police are always attacking people - didn't you know that? Look at Blair Peach - killed from behind by a copper...'

'Hmm...'

'I became a revolutionary socialist after studying Marxist ideas and after meeting certain people who lived by those ideas. Anyway, we're almost there now - as you can see...'

They'd turned on to Balls Pond Road and were heading towards what Simon knew to be Dalston Junction. Following Maloney's gaze, he saw a building hard to miss on a stretch of highway marked by boarded-up windows, hoardings and all-round decrepitude. Built in the shells of two former shops, the entire frontage was painted bright yellow and a large multi-coloured sign announced its name. They found a parking space further along the road and this time Simon managed to fight his way out of the car unaided before pursuing Maloney along the pavement.

The ground floor of the building was given over to a bookshop and coffee bar, while a staircase at the side led to the local law centre, a counselling service and various function rooms above. The bookshop counter acted as a reception desk for the whole place and behind it sat two nice young people with new wave haircuts. After listening briefly to Maloney, one of them smiled apologetically and shook his head.

'I'm sorry but we can only let you use the electro-stencil machine if you're having your work duplicated here as well. Unless you're a registered supporter and even then you need to book in advance.'

The girl sitting beside him echoed the word 'sorry', hunching her shoulders, her eyes shining in sympathy. Maloney stared from one to the other in disbelief.

'But you're the Hackney People's Centre. How exactly do you serve the people?'

'Well you see, the Law Centre and the other community groups based here have first call on our facilities.'

Simon wandered off to scan the book shelves. When he returned after two minutes of pleading and haranguing by Maloney, a look of prim obstinacy had settled on the boy's face while the girl had turned her back. As a last gesture, Maloney pulled some leaflets about the Solidarnosc march out of his carrier bag and slapped them down on the counter.

'Well at least stick some of these up somewhere. On your notice board...'

'In your window,' said Simon.

The boy looked at the top leaflet.

'Sure,' he said. 'I'll have to pass it by the Centre Manager-'

'Okay, well don't ring us. We'll be engaged in the struggle. That's the class struggle by the way, in case you haven't heard of it...'

They walked out onto the pavement where Maloney once more pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket.

'We'll just have to try Eden Grove. It's a women's centre. Never been there before but one of our female comrades has worked with them. Just off the Holloway Road...'

'Eden Grove - sounds promising.'

Simon checked it out in the A-Z while the Viva did a stately five- point turn in the Balls Pond Road.

'It's near Paradise Park as well. That must be a good sign.'

'There's no such thing as a good sign.' Maloney nodded at the yellow building as they drove past it. 'Look at that one. People's Centre...it means fuck all. Purveyors of first aid and political pap - that's all they are.'

'Actually, you missed a chance back there. You could have said something like we're part of the solution, you're part of the problem.'

'Too clever-clever, Simon. It would have washed over their heads anyway. They were still in nappies when Cleaver came up with that one.'

Simon felt aggrieved.

'So far today, you've called me a liberal, a romantic and now clever-clever. Why d'you have to take your frustrations out on me?'

'Oh, come on Simon. If you're going to be a revolutionary, the first requirement is to grow a thick skin. Even thicker than the skins of the ruling class and its legion of lackeys. There isn't time for bourgeois hysterics.'

'Legion of lackeys. Bourgeois hysterics. You could write the Little Red Phrasebook.'

'And cynicism is the flip side of romanticism. You should know that one too.'

'You drive me to it, Tony. You drive me to it.'

'Look, Simon, you're not a liberal yet - okay? But that's where you could end up because you're not anchored in anything. Being a revolutionary socialist is about being guided by a clear set of Marxist ideas and principles. It's not based upon an emotional reaction to injustice, though that might be a starting point. And it's not just about attending pickets or going on marches and demos. It's more like this - a day to day grind of holding the line, trying to make small advances like publishing a newsletter or organising a meeting, trying to build class consciousness against all the odds. It's always been like this - back in the sixties and before...'

'But that's going to take forever. It sounds as if we're going round in circles. Or cycles. When is the revolution actually going to happen?'

'It will happen when capitalism finally starts to collapse. When the working class are thrown out of work and the poor have to start scavenging for food. I can't predict when that will occur because capitalism itself is unpredictable and because it doesn't just depend on what happens in this country. It has to be an international development as Trotsky said. But in globalising itself, capitalism has done us a favour by creating interdependency. Economic collapse in one country will have a chain reaction in other countries. And in the UK, Thatcher is doing us a favour by basing all her policies on the free market. People will see how unstable that is, how it's never going to deliver a fair and just society - and isn't intended to. The post-war consensus has collapsed? Good! It was never anything more than a shield against revolution for the right and a failure of nerve by the left.'

'But the working class are being thrown out of work while we speak. Three million unemployed while we fart about trying to get electro-stencils made for something that'll be read by two hundred people. And what do the opinion polls say? Tories well ahead.'

Maloney waved his hand dismissively before returning it quickly to the steering wheel. They were toiling around the Highbury Corner roundabout by now, switching lanes with a horn beeping in the background, grinding past the tube station onto Holloway Road.

'Yes, but that's the Falklands effect. Her ratings are slipping already - she'll still be kicked out whenever they get round to calling an election. The point is, the Parliamentary Show is irrelevant to the interests of the working class. Whoever replaces her won't be up to the job. Anyway, how far have we got to go? Is it on the left or the right?'

'How far have we got to go? Is it on the left or the right? D'you want me to consult Trotsky or the A-Z?'

Maloney laughed.

'Good one, Simon. You really should join Workers' Struggle. We could do with a comedian in the ranks, I'll admit.'

'You've already got comedians in the ranks. You just don't realise it.'

He opened the street atlas again and began to leaf through its grubby pages.

'Failing that, why don't you rejoin the SWP?' said Maloney. 'At least it would be a commitment. Seriously...'

'A commitment to what though? I can't just blindly follow the party line in an organisation where there's no real open discussion. Here we are...Holloway Road...Eden Grove. It's on the left. What's this street?'

He squinted at the black and white sign coming up.

'Okay, it's the one, two, third on the left.'

'You'd still be doing some good. And you'd have more contact with the real working class than you do at the moment.'

'Nah, it'd be like taking two steps back, then going round in circles again. All they really want you to do is sell papers and go on demos to advertise the so-called Party. Hand out leaflets and placards, chant slogans and recruit.'

'That's better than being a floating socialist, picking and choosing your causes. Anyone who commits himself or herself to a revolutionary socialist organisation, I'm prepared to call a comrade - even if I have disagreements with their policies.'

'I'm a union comrade, Tony. That's as far as it goes at the moment.'

'A union brother,' said Maloney. 'There's a difference between brother and comrade.'

He changed down into first again and they crawled into Eden Grove which seemed unlikely to live up to its name. A redbrick corner pub followed by council flats stretching down one side and some kind of disused warehouse along the other. Bins, strange graffiti, Arsenal posters in windows and an England flag acting as a curtain.

'Hmm,' said Simon. 'I have a bad feeling about this.'

'Front territory?' said Maloney. 'That runs through my mind when I see the England flag, but they're no big deal around here. This is solid Labour territory. Well...until Cunningham fucked off to the SDP.'

He braked abruptly outside the disused building.

'Something tells me this is it. The window grilles for one thing.'

When they stood on the pavement, it became obvious that this was it. Posters in the arched windows, each bearing the women's liberation clenched fist, spoke of abortion rights, childcare, male violence and self-defence classes. Simon felt tense. The feminists that he knew were sisters in the main political struggle. This looked hardcore.

The door from the street pushed open and allowed them into a corridor, but the door into the women's centre was locked. Maloney rapped on its glass panel and they watched as a woman rose from behind a desk and walked towards them. Short black hair, black trousers and a dark blue denim jacket, unsmiling, she half-opened the door.

'Yes?'

In stream of consciousness sentences, Maloney explained their mission, their problems, their desperation and the fact that his comrade Ruth had worked with the Centre on this project and that.

'Oh, Ruth - yes.'

The voice softened. The door opened wide and they entered a large L-shaped room with desk, meeting table, a dozen or so chairs and a bank of shelves stacked with books, pamphlets and leaflets. Another woman was seated at the table sorting through paperwork. She paid no attention to the two men who were led past her into the little rear annex. The electro-stencil machine sat on an old workbench against the wall.

'Do you need me to show you how it works?'

Maloney peered at the buttons.

'No, I should be okay.'

He slipped off his jacket and began to roll up his sleeves.

'The duplicator isn't working at the moment if you wanted to use that. We have a woman coming to service it this afternoon.'

'It's okay thanks. I can use the duplicator at our Centre.'

The phone started ringing at the desk in the main room and the woman went to answer it. Maloney got the machine going.

'Simon, did you happen to notice that kebab place just before we turned off the Holloway Road?'

'Vaguely. Does that mean you're hungry?'

'I've had a single piece of toast...'

'Okay, I'll go. You don't mind paying though, do you? Given it's my birthday...'

Swearing softly, Maloney dug into his pocket and pulled out a couple of crumpled pound notes.

'I'm not sure they'll want you to bring food in here though.'

They hesitated and looked into the main room. The black-haired woman was talking on the phone, the other woman still sat at the table with her back towards them.

'I'll wait till you've nearly finished.'

'That's wasting time. Go and ask.'

The woman at the table seemed to have heard this and turned around. Simon strolled towards her as casually as he could.

'We were just wondering if we could get some food from that kebab place around the corner and bring it back here.'

'Sure, no problem - as long as it's vegetarian.' She looked at her watch. 'They should be open by now.'

She had a soft transatlantic accent, fair frizzy hair and rather cherubic features. Simon liked her grey jacket with striped epaulettes as well.

'Do they do vegetarian?'

'Well we got halloumi and salad kebabs there once. I'm sure if you ask nicely...'

'Okay. Er...can I get you-'

'No, we're fine thanks.'

'Okay. Which part of the US are you from, by the way?'

'I'm from that part of the US known as Canada.'

'Oh, right. Sorry...'

At the Golden Kebab, where a fat hunk of meat turned succulently on the spit, they made two warm pita bread envelopes of halloumi and salad which Simon carried back to Eden Grove. The black-haired woman let him back in and he perched on a table where he could see into the main office. They ate quickly and for the most part in silence as Maloney finished off the stencil making. Two mugs of tea had been produced, Simon's decorated with the words When God Created Man She Was Only Practising! while Maloney's merely said Sisterhood Is Powerful. The two women spoke to each other from time to time, but their conversation was inaudible for the noise of the machine. When it stopped, Simon was struck by the atmosphere of calm diligence.

Maloney wrapped an elastic band around the stencils and they went over to the desk.

'Thanks for that. How much do we owe you?'

The amount was so small that Maloney asked if they could make a donation.

'Sure, if you think that's appropriate.'

'It's on behalf of our union branch if you could let me have a receipt.'

The woman scribbled something on the back of a leaflet.

'That reminds me. If you could possibly take a few of these...'

He pulled some Solidarnosc leaflets from his bag and handed them to her. She studied them carefully.

'Yes, of course. After all, it was a woman worker who started the whole thing...'

Maloney's eyes registered alarm. Simon watched him struggling to recollect.

'Ah, yes...yes...Anna...Anna?...'

'Anna Walentynowicz. She was a crane operator.'

'A female crane operator?' broke in the Canadian woman behind them. 'It almost makes you think Poland isn't so bad after all.'

'Almost.'

The two women smiled at each other.

'Unfortunately, it's not quite that simple,' said Maloney.

The black-haired woman held up her hand to interrupt.

'It's okay. Ruth explained the Workers' Struggle position to us some time ago. We'll circulate the leaflet.'

'Okay. Well thanks again.'

They were ushered out into warm sunshine.

'Well, she certainly caught you napping, didn't she?'

'I'm kicking myself, Simon. Hard.'

They got back into the car. The engine spluttered and died, but fired up after Maloney pulled out the choke.

'They were quite helpful really,' said Simon. 'I didn't get the impression they see us as the enemy. More as...irrelevant.'

'They're separatist feminists, Simon, but a relatively mild version. Separatists see all men as oppressors, or potential oppressors, regardless of economic status, position in the hierarchy, etcetera.'

'Yeah, I know that. But those two let us in, let us use their machine, didn't rip us off. They even made tea for us as if it didn't matter. They indulged us but kept control - did you notice? There was almost something matriarchal about it.'

'Matriarchy's just the opposite of patriarchy. Their basic position is they're willing to work alongside men on specific issues, but they won't let themselves be absorbed into any organisation that's run by men, which I suppose Workers' Struggle is.'

'And every other group on the far left. Gosh, that was another impressive five-point turn.'

'Whilst explaining the protean nature of modern feminism.'

'Oooh, protean.'

They edged out of Eden Grove back onto Holloway Road.

'Talking about women, is your latest going to be there tonight?'

'Molly? Yes, hopefully.'

'How long has that lasted now?'

'Depends when you regard it as starting. A few weeks...'

'And Lizzie?'

'Should be there.'

'Joe?'

'Joe. Ronnie. Matt. Everybody who's anybody.'

'Okay. I'll be late but I'll get there,' He looked at his watch. 'Shit - it's gone twelve already.'

He had got the car up to third gear and they were approaching Highbury Corner.

'Listen, Simon. I'll have to drop you here.' He started to pull over. 'The Committee meeting's supposed to start at two, right? I'm not going to make that. You need to go back to the office, ring around and reschedule for two-thirty.'

Simon sighed. He'd been looking forward to seeing the anonymous but fortified headquarters of Workers' Struggle.

'Okay.'

He'd begun to walk along the pavement when two short blasts of a horn sounded. He went back to the car. Maloney was leaning across and winding down the window.

'I didn't realise your horn actually works.'

'Simon, listen. I've run out of money.'

'That's a shame.'

'Lend me a fiver.'

'Fucking hell.'

'I'll give you a cheque tonight.'

'No way.'

He peeled a note off the roll in his pocket and handed it over.

'I want one just like that with a black line running down it.'

'I'll see what I can do. Oh - and Simon?'

He was winding the window back up but paused a couple of inches from the top.

'Yes?'

'Many happy returns.'