H ~ The Traitor

"Out of all our family, up to your generation, you're probably the
only one who stood a chance of getting into either Oxford or
Cambridge."

Hen's sat in the passenger seat of a Fiat Tip whose fuel injection
isn't firing up properly, so she shudders and bolts like a fighting
bull when taking off from turnings. He himself has a momentary
mechanical failure of voice, allowing Papa Hen, he behind the wheel, to
elaborate on his previous statement.

"Michael and Emma have no chance, of course. And when I was in my last
year of college there was absolutely no question of my going to Oxford
or Cambridge - " he shrugs dramatically "Wasn't even asked. I didn't
have the right background. In the eyes of the school, the only
worthwhile candidates were from wealthy backgrounds. And Mum was the
same - didn't occur to anyone that we'd even want to."
Another harsh shrug; "Tracy and Erica both went to University, and
Robert did as well, but it hasn't taken them anywhere in particular,
not been a springboard to success. And I'm trapped where I am in my
job."

Hen's ignition fires up:

"But it doesn't really matter that I didn't go to?" (he gnaws at the
names on his tongue,) "Oxford or Cambridge, right?"

"Oh, no. I'm not saying that you should have. Obviously, if you
weren't happy with what they offered, then you made the right choice in
opting for a different route."

Hen compacts his features into those of a totem mask, remembering how
strongly and consistently Papa Hen had urged him to take a degree in
(he mentally cremates the name,) accountancy.

"But graduates from those two Universities permeate the media on all
levels," Papa Hen continues, battling away ahead of him with a sharp,
open hand. "It's an old boys' network. If you know people from Oxford
or Cambridge, you've got a foothold, you've got a secret handshake
that'll haul you up. You look at the principle people in television,
radio, newspapers, even in the literary world - all these areas -
they're dominated by graduates from Oxbridge. Now, granted, the grip is
not as strong as it was," (he makes a particularly well orchestrated
dive with the hand,) "but it's still there, and you're at a
disadvantage coming from anywhere else. The Monty Pythons, for instance
- Oxford! The controllers at the BBC!"

Hen's brow sinks very low, and he tries his much rehearsed Norwich
pitch:

"But Norwich, and UEA in particular - it's recognised as a hotbed, a
sauna of creative writing, and the arts. There's so much going on
there, in corners and hideaways - we don't know what it could turn
into, what it'll become."

"Yes, it may be the beginnings of something great," Papa Hen agrees,
"but nevertheless, the fact remains that you're the closest this family
has come to making it into Oxford or Cambridge. We're a family of
also-rans - not failures, I stress, but certainly not successes."

"Hmm," says Hen, the intense hum of provoked self-scrutiny. His fingers
arch and dig down in between each other - he puts his chin in between
his knuckles. Not also-rans, surely, he thinks, but secrets. Partisans
of history who operate behind enemy lines, their worth and their
weaponry unrecognised by the police of the present day, unaligned,
unbridled. It is, thinks Hen, a silent revolution, so silent that it
never ends. And here am I on the ankle cusp of being a traitor, a
collaborator, being one of them for whom massacres cater. I would sell
myself into this parade for something nameless and swinelike. I must
banish myself.

Hen strikes himself on the lap. The Tipo pulls into a bus stop on the
dual carriageway. Hen's third driving test is now a week away and he's
got a hand on the thigh of the road, firmly. His appetite's drizzling
like petrol.

He and Papa Hen swap places.