Chapter 9 in the serialisation of the book 'Insurrection' 4th book in the 'Corpalism' series

9

If we keep treating our most important values
as meaningless relics,
that's exactly what they'll become.
Michael Josephson

Breakfast was the meal of the day from Lenny Freeman’s point of view, always had been, always would be and for that reason it should be eaten in silence.

He sighed deeply, contemplating his plate – eggs, bacon and a piece of fried bread. His wife, god rest her, would have had a fit if she’d been here to see this but that was one of the few last pleasures of his life; that and his pipe. Choosing to sit with three women, as he had done, ensured the silence would be broken but Nobby was there too and the alternatives were one, sitting with Reg, Gray and Gil, closeted together like the 3 Stooges as usual, two, interrupting Fiona and Pete's tête a tête or three, going back to his room. He didn’t fancy that, so Nobby's table it was. He joined them just as Cynthia finished recounting some story about her having had an after supper meeting with Alb, like that was likely, where he'd confided his plan to kill foreigners or some such nonsense.

"Well, I think they've got a point," said Nobby, his mouth full of toast, spraying as he spoke, "there are too many foreigners. It's not the England I fought for any more."

"Personally I can't stand all the foreign accents in the town these days," said Dora, re- settling into her chair heavily. She lifted her cup to her mouth, speaking as she sipped, "but the thing that really gets me is how American everything has become, with all this fast food."

She clattered her cup unsteadily back into the saucer, slopping tea onto the tablecloth as she did so, “do you know, my daughter has never cooked a real meal."

"I know what you mean," said Cynthia, daintily nibbling at her one piece of toast, elbows close in to her sides, little fingers pointing out at right angles to her hands, averting her eyes from the mess Dora was making, "my Jane is just the same, it's all pre-packaged and frozen. I’m ashamed to say, I don't think she could even make a simple stew."

Lenny looked shocked, paused, his fork midway to his open mouth, surely all women cooked?

"And I'll bet they have no idea what goes into that food," added Esmé, darkly.

Nobby tried again, "If Alb's right, what will this country look like in 10 years?" Lenny blinked; that would see out the lot of them, him included. Big Dora would be lucky to make it that far.

"I think Dora’s right," said Cynthia, wiping her clean lips on a linen napkin she'd brought to the table especially for the purpose, "we have more to fear from the Americanisation of this country than anything from Europe, what with burgers and nasty fast food. I saw something the other day that suggests we're the fattest nation in Europe, thanks to American food."

Lenny glanced at Dora’s ample proportions, amazed that she wasn’t offended. He liked a fat woman; in his experience fat women laid out a good feast. He’d married a pipe thin harridan and had regretted it most of his life.

"My sister's grandchildren think McDonalds is like going to a restaurant," said Esmé.

"Well, it calls itself a restaurant, now, doesn't it," said Cynthia, "I took Jane and the little ones to one last month, I paid, as a special treat for them. Of course I didn't have anything, I can't stand MacDonald's myself," Esmé and Dora exchanged a glance, "but on the receipt it called itself a restaurant. Can you believe that?"

Dora and Esmé made suitably shocked noises. Lenny used his fried bread to soak up the rest of the egg, smacking his lips together in complete enjoyment. Now, if only he could light up, his day would be complete.

Nobby was watching Frank and Mort shuffling along the path outside the sun room, "Let's go," he whispered to Lenny, “Leave the ladies to chat.”
Lenny nodded, patting his pockets, feeling for his tobacco, and they stood up and made their escape, unnoticed.

"I believe children should eat proper food, it's important for their bones as they grow, they should get the right amount of vitamins," said Esmé, uncompromising as ever, "My mother always made sure we had good food but I just can't understand why my sister didn't do the same for her family. It's no wonder they can't cook."

"To be fair," said Dora, pausing to adjust the waistband on her skirt, chins quivering, "there were no ready made meals when we were growing up. So the rot started there, with TV dinners. And MacDonald’s adverts always picture happy families eating their food together."

"That's like with the pizza adverts," said Esmé, not to be outdone, "the family having fun around a colourful slice of pizza, when it should show them hovering round a ball of fat and chemicals. It astonishes me, the things these advertising companies are allowed to get away with."

"When I think of all the nutritional things I used to cook," said Cynthia, her mouth prim on the words, "and I did try to pass it on but, I don't know, I was fighting an uphill battle."

"Personally, I don't think Thatcher helped," said Dora, crossing her arms across her bosom, not without difficulty.

"Oh, don't go blaming Maggie," said Cynthia bristling, "she saved this country from ruin."

"I'm talking about school meals," said Dora, "You have to admit they used to be a proper meat and veg with a nice pudding but ..."

"I'm not sure all that can be laid at her door," Cynthia said firmly, trying to close the subject.

"....nowadays the kids just get burgers and chips," Dora finished just as firmly.

"Fries," murmured Esmé. Dora looked confused. "Chips, they call them 'fries' now."

"See, that's just what I mean," said Dora, "Americanisation."

Esmé added, "They're always eating sweets and crisps as well, whereas when we were kids sweets were a luxury."

"I remember cutting a Mars bar into five pieces for my children to share," said Dora, "but now you see kids as young as four with a whole one to themselves. Parents today have no concept of giving their children values, values are so important, they help develop a young mind."

"Now that I agree with," conceded Cynthia, "It was always a real struggle for Jane to get the children to share. Do you know they wouldn't even drink out of the same bottle as each other?"

"It's just greed," said Esmé, having difficulty absorbing the unlikely fact that the fastidious Cynthia approved of bottle sharing, "where does it come from?"

"I told you it was Thatcher," said Dora, "her and her 'no such thing as society'."

"The problems started well before her," said Cynthia, "I think it has a lot to do with swearing."

"You've lost me, swearing?" mumbled Dora, mouth full.

"Yes," said Cynthia, "and abortion, if it wasn't for swearing and abortion then men would treat women better."

Esmé stared, her face falling into rigid frown lines; trying to get a fix on the combination of swearing (which she disapproved of) and abortion (which she had marched on the streets to achieve for women - the right to have control of their own body - whilst personally abhorring the deed) and the potential for the detrimental effect on men's treatment of women.

Cynthia continued, ignoring the perplexed look on Esmé's face, "A gentleman used to stand and offer his seat to a woman in the old days, not any more."

"Now they'll leave a pregnant woman standing in the aisles whilst they sit there, oh it makes my blood boil," said Dora.

"Perhaps that's what Alb and Gerry are talking about," said Cynthia, "how this country has changed, and none of it for the better. We had such good values in the old days."

"We were all the same then," said Dora, "British."
She'd almost said English but had quickly adjusted to accommodate Cynthia. "We had values that we learned from our parents and passed onto our own children, but somewhere those values have gone astray."

"Well that's another thing," said Cynthia, "our mothers were at home with us when we were young; nowadays the women have their careers."

"They have to work, things are so expensive," said Dora.

"In our day we instilled moral principles, passed on family values," mused Cynthia.

"I'm sure all mothers try to do the same, Cynthia." Dora was having none of it.

"Ah but can they? The parents of today spend so much time working and so little time with their own children that it's any wonder they have any communication at all, let alone shared values."

"Oh," said Esmé, "that's really weird, one of those Karma things."

"What is, dear?" said Cynthia, her tone betraying what she thought about Karma.

"Well," said Esmé, “it was in an article my brother read me, a few years ago, about elephants and rhinos."

Dora gave Cynthia a look, they'd long thought Esmé had dabbled with drugs in her youth, all that marching about, Women’s Lib and Greenham Common nonsense, bound to have had an effect.

"Apparently," Esmé continued, too engrossed in the story to bother about their reaction, "they'd culled the adult elephants in some wildlife park in Africa and all the orphaned juvenile male elephants went on a rampage and killed a load of rhinos."

"Oh that's awful, dear," said Dora. Cynthia shuddered.

"Yes, but that's not the point, by killing all the adults they'd created a situation where the juvenile elephants didn't know that killing rhinos wasn't what they did. Then they reintroduced some adult elephants into the park and it all went back to normal."

"Oh, I see what you're saying," said Cynthia, "the breakdown of society has created the violence of our modern world."

"That's it," said Esmé, "Children eat rubbish food because mothers have to work, and because both parents are out at work all day they aren't around to pass on their values to their children."

"...and if they go to a nursery or a child minder then I suppose they pick up things from other children or from the helpers that might conflict with their parents' values," Cynthia was completely absorbed with this as a concept now, “and that would cause problems at home."

"That could be why there are more divorces these days as well," offered Dora, "how are parents meant to cope with the pressures of unruly children, the stresses and strains of their working lives and then pursue their relationships at the end of the day?"

"The fabric of our society has been damaged," Esmé said firmly, "so when foreign cultures come in we have no strong beliefs to fend off further corrosion to the English way of life."

"Don't you mean British?" said Cynthia stiffly.

"I didn't mean anything by it," said Esmé, unapologetic, "I'm just English, that's all."

"It also means that the problems are bigger than poor old Alb and Gerry can grasp," said Dora.

"Not only that," said Cynthia, "their ideas on how to sort it out are a bit wild, to say the least."

"Boys will be boys," said Dora, complacently. Not having heard it firsthand she'd commuted Cynthia’s recounting of dark tales of death into something altogether more acceptable, "they just want to go and punch something, men and their stupid Neanderthal attitudes."

"Well, whatever happens, we'd better make sure we have a say in how things go," said Cynthia, "Alb is far too fierce for my liking and I don't hold with violence."

"What's that you're saying about Alb?” Mags' ears had pricked up as she entered the room and she’d walked straight over to Cynthia and pulled up a chair opposite.

"Oh, Mags ...I was only saying he's fierce."

Mags frowned, "He's done nothing, as yet, and you can't blame a man for talking."

Cynthia retreated from the implacability of her gaze and, with a swift change of subject, brought her up to speed with their discussion about fast foods.

Vera wandered in, a bit worse for wear, never at her best in the morning. "I couldn't sleep a wink last night," she murmured, "Alb's stuff going round and round in my head. What about you lot?"

Cynthia and Dora looked quite put out; Vera Buxton wasn't a breakfast companion they would have chosen. She came from the other part of the complex for one thing, one of Mags' friends but not quite the ticket vis a vis her background.

Esmé gave Mags a quick look but couldn't resist saying, "Apparently he had even more to say after supper, so Cynthia says."

"Yes, we've heard little else," said Mags firmly, drawing a line. The table fell silent.

"Where's Val?" asked Vera, after a while.

"I don't know," said Mags, "I saw her with Ken earlier though. I feel sorry for Albie," she continued, not noticing the knowing looks that passed between
Dora and Cynthia, "Someone should tell him, don't you think, I mean it's only fair."

"I'd leave him to find out himself, Mags," said Vera, "He might blame the messenger and you wouldn't want that."

Cheers

Arun






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