Chapter 7
The Plug Is Pulled
What Ed hated more than the imminent prospect of losing his income was having to tell the grocers and supermarket managers who had signed up with him that Retail Support Services had pulled the plug on the loyalty card scheme. He told them in person whenever he could, travelling on ramshackle buses in sweltering heat to provincial towns that he had first visited in the comfort of a battered Renault. He consoled himself that visiting was generally less expensive than phoning them, and time was something of which he now had plenty. His clients tended to see this as a sign of personal loyalty towards them, and few made a fuss about being arbitrarily dumped by RSS. To each and every one, Ed mentioned the idea of trading stamps, and provided them with Mark Rotherfield’s address and phone number. He got some very sceptical looks.
Ed gave Mark an annotated list of his retail contacts throughout Portugal. He reckoned that since RSS was pulling out, he might as well make his contacts of use to someone. Mark needed all the help he could get, and Simone probably deserved it. Ed and Ção saw them often, even though regular classes at the Sussex School had finished until the autumn, when Ed did not envisage a need to re-enrol for Portuguese lessons. Mark had become half-hearted in his attempts to push his trading stamp scheme, despite Ed’s continued insistence that the time was ripe. At such moments, Ção abandoned her Maoist slogans and backed Ed up. Simone seemed bemused. Ed wondered whether she was fully in the picture regarding the parlous state of her husband’s finances. With Simone’s income also disappearing over the summer, Ed was surprised, and impressed, by their outward lack of concern. They always insisted on paying their share, and were excellent company.
Ed himself was reluctant to contemplate a return to England. It would smack too much of quitting, and that was a habit he was determined not to start. Besides, he liked Portugal, especially its colours and the warmth of its climate and people. The person who mattered most to him, Ção, was not someone he saw easily or joyfully adapting to an unfamiliar, foreign society. Nevertheless, he suggested a short holiday in Stevenage that would give her the opportunity to meet his parents and to see how she reacted to the country and the possibility of moving there. She surprised him with her enthusiasm.
“Ed, my love, that’s a wonderful idea! Why didn’t you suggest it sooner? I’m longing to meet your Mummy and Daddy. How soon can we go?”
That summer, the notion of rights and freedom found some unexpected takers in Portugal. A group of former secret police agents, incarcerated in Lisbon’s most secure jail, staged a riot and had their complaints about the conditions in which they were being kept aired repeatedly on national television, provoking much bitter laughter. Moreover, the well-paid workers of the national airline, TAP, which Ção said stood for “Take Another Plane”, were savouring the right to strike, so Ed and Ção had to wait until they could get a pricier flight with British Airways.
Once ensconced in the vicarage in Stevenage, they were surprised at how far off people’s radar Portugal had fallen. Acquaintances listened to their tales of tanks in the streets, demonstrations in every city, a world turned upside down, with detached interest, but soon changed the subject to headaches and parking fines. Ed’s parents were exceptions to this. Their interest in every detail of their son’s new life, new wife and new country was heartfelt and unfaltering. They gave Ção the warmest of welcomes, as Ed had anticipated. The way Ção took to them exceeded his hopes.
“You have such lovely parents, Ed. You’re so lucky! We must see them more often!”
“If we move to England, we will.”
“Move to England, you say? I haven’t seen much of it yet. You know, it’s nice and all that, but this town, Stevenage, is it typical? I mean, all the houses look the same, and nothing much happens. Don’t you find it a bit, um, boring?”
“More than a bit. That’s one of the reasons I left. If I stay with RSS, we’ll be living in Croydon. That’s a little like Stevenage, but nearer to London. Let’s spend some time in London before you write England off as boring.”
“London? Now you’re talking!”
Day trips to London did wonders for Ção’s mood, and helped her take a rosier view of England as a whole. She showed a passing interest in the major tourist sites, galleries and museums, but fell immediately in love with its shops. Ed accompanied her, and began to feel that he had seen enough shops that year to last him a lifetime.
“I’ve got Daddy’s cash to splash. I’d better make the most of it before you make him angry with me again.”
“You didn’t tell me you were his darling daughter once more. Is your mother with him on this?”
“Yes, of course she is. I told you they could never stay angry for long with their little conception. Especially not Daddy. They’re still very angry with you, though. Very, very angry.”
Ed pulled a wry face. He did not want to make it clear to his wife how little that bothered him. Her parents’ hostility and condescension motivated him even more strongly to stay in Portugal and do whatever he could to make a decent living there for his wife and himself.
On the train for their final visit to London, Ção gave Ed a Maoist run-down of the evident evils of English capitalism. He saw no point in contradicting her.
“I guess when I was living here, I couldn’t see the wood for the trees.”
“All the more reason not to live here again, then, don’t you think?”
In fact, he had long since made up his mind.
“We’ll live wherever you want us to live, my love.”
“Really? You’re so sweet, Ed. You know, you’re everything I’ve always dreamed of!”
She nuzzled up against him and kissed his neck, giggling.
At King’s Cross station, Ed left Ção to make the most of her last shopping opportunity in London. He had an appointment with James Towsey in Croydon. Ção already knew her way around and, anyway, was resourceful enough to get by on her own.
James had a copy of the I Ching placed strategically on his desk when he ushered Ed into his office. He nodded at it.
“Book of Changes. Want a consultation?”
“I don’t think so, thank you, James.”
“I’ve become quite a master at it. It’s done me a power of good. At this moment in time, it could point you into the right strategic orientation, Ed, if you understand the direction of my thought.”
“No. James, I’ve made my decision, together with my wife.”
“Where is the lovely lady? Afraid I’d steal her from you, were you?”
“Not really, James. She’s in London, spending her father’s capital before the wrong type of socialists get their hands on it.”
“Sounds like she could have fun here with you.”
“Look, James, you’ve been great with the two months’ notice and holiday pay, and your offer, and all the time to think it over, but Ção wouldn’t be happy away from her family, and I’m committed to her. And to Portugal.”
James sighed.
“I thought that was what you’d say, somehow. What did you call your wife?”
“Ção. Short for Conceição. Maria da Conceição. Just nasalise the vowel.”
“Oh, right. Well, good luck.” James picked up the I Ching and held it out to Ed with a raised eyebrow.
“No, thanks, James, really. I’d rather rely on my own reasoning. And instincts.”
Ção didn’t keep Ed waiting long in the buffet at King’s Cross, where they had arranged to meet. They missed another train while he told her about his meeting with James, but it didn’t matter: Ção was overjoyed that Ed would not ask her to uproot.
On the journey back to Stevenage, Ed felt light-headed, as though a weight compressing his brain had been removed. He looked at his wife: she was radiant, like a Madonna in a Renaissance painting.
The first child might have to wait, though.
Ed’s parents were far from overjoyed at his news. Nevertheless, they respected his right to make his own decisions and learn from his mistakes. His father, the vicar, made another attempt to give his son some money.
“You know, I can’t leave my house to you when I go to meet my Maker, like a normal father could, but having a vicarage to live in has saved us a bob or two, and I’d like to pass some of that on to you now, Ed, when you really need it, I imagine.”
“Dad, you’re too kind. Look, I’ll be all right. I’m happy making my own way in the world. I never wanted it to be easy.”
“But your wife? Your future children?”
“You’ve got a point there, Dad. Listen, if I ever need money for them, I’ll ask you first. I promise.”
He grabbed his father in a Portuguese-style hug, that drew itself out. He could feel individual bones in the older man’s rib-cage. Ed wondered if he himself would ever lose his physique to that extent.
At Lisbon airport, both Ed and Ção had their luggage meticulously searched. Ed was glad the customs officers restricted themselves to stripping his wife with their eyes. They were smaller than him, and he was not always able to hold his temper in check.
When they finally came into the Arrivals hall, Ed noticed tears on Ção’s cheeks. He thought she was feeling humiliated, but he was wrong.
“Oh Ed, England was nice, but I’m just so happy to be back in my own country. Just look at these tears of joy.”
Yes, thought Ed, England is “nice”, but Portugal is the place for us to be, the place where it is all happening.
In that late summer, Portugal started to do something about the main cause of the revolution: its colonial wars. First, it recognised its colonies’ right to independence. Then it signed an agreement with Mozambique’s liberation movement paving the way for that country’s actual independence. The very next day, Portuguese settlers, including some calling themselves the “dragons of death”, staged a “white rebellion” in Mozambique’s capital. It was put down in short order by the local police. The day after that, Portugal recognised its small West African colony of Guinea-Bissau as an independent country, which the local liberation movement had already declared it to be a year earlier. Angola, where oil had been found in quantities large enough to whet the appetites of the industrial nations, was tougher to decolonise, because it had three major independence movements jostling for power.
All this progress was welcomed by most of the colonised people, and internationally, but it was deemed too much too soon by some at home, including the President himself. General Spínola had been installed as a figurehead on the day of the Revolution, when the besieged Prime Minister of the old régime, Caetano, had insisted on handing power to him personally so that it would not fall into the hands of “the street”. Spínola, however, then found himself constantly outflanked and out-manoeuvred by the more radical officers who had planned and carried out the coup. In an attempt to halt the momentum of change, he now appealed to a “silent majority” to take to the streets and show its strength and its support for him personally. Its strength, though, proved to be far less than that of the radicals, who set up barricades around Lisbon that prevented Spínola’s supporters from marching on the capital. Nor did he succeed in mobilising his many backers within the Armed Forces effectively. Recognising his defeat, he called off the march. Instead, it was the radicals who staged a massive march, to celebrate their victory and the failure of what they termed an attempted coup.
Ção and Ed persuaded Simone and Mark to take to the streets with them. Simone, a veteran of the “Paris Spring” of 1968, was enthusiastic; Mark came along “for the tour”.
“Yeah, I’ll be your guide,” Ção told him.
They joined the demo when it reached the park near Largo do Andaluz. Although the air was warm and humid, the purposefulness of the marchers and the rhythmic unison of their slogans sent shivers of anticipation down Ed’s spine. Together, they strode down the Avenida da Liberdade, alarming the swans on its waterways, past the square named in honour of the long-dead heroes who had freed Portugal from Spain and into Rossio, the city’s main square. Ção told Mark the history of the place: how it had once been the favoured spot for public executions and autos-da-fé.
“Portugal’s gift to the English language,” Mark asserted.
“The Holy Inquisition’s gift,” Ção corrected him. “We should burn counter-revolutionaries here.”
Mark turned paler.
“You don’t mean that.”
Ção looked at him as though he were a heretic.
“Just you wait!”
They strode on through the city’s commercial district, Ção chatting amiably with Mark about its history, how the Marquis of Pombal, the power behind the throne, had had it rebuilt after the great earthquake of 1755, the first earthquake to be studied scientifically, laying the new city centre out in a grid pattern so that the King’s horsemen would be able negotiate it easily whenever they had to put down revolts by the people.
“We’d better keep an eye out for the cavalry tonight,” commented Simone.
The various strands of the demo coalesced in the enormous square by the river where, on the day of the Revolution, ship’s captains and tank commanders had refused to fire upon the rebels. The humidity was intensified by the river air, the heat by close-packed bodies. They linked arms as the marchers set off along the riverside toward the President’s palace. Ed made certain that his stronger arm was firmly linked with Ção’s, so that she would feel protected, if she gave it a thought.
The mood was again celebratory, tinged with anger. The Revolution had survived its first serious challenge. It could now remove people who were holding it back from positions of power. From now on, the going would be smoother. But first, the message had to be delivered to the President in no uncertain terms.
The noise was deafening as thousands of demonstrators moved westwards. Stretches of cobbled road surface slowed their progress. Ed thought of the Alentejo miners he had heard on the radio in the Algarve, crunching over gravel before bursting into song. He wondered if some of them were here this evening to support this new “land of brotherhood”, as a line in their song expressed it. The Alentejo was already cementing its reputation as Portugal’s most radical region by taking the lead in land reform. Today’s developments would gave that a boost, too.
By the time they reached their destination, hours had passed since they set off. The President’s Palace was near the rowing club where Ed had met Lourdes, almost next to the medieval Jerônimos monastery. Luckily, there was plenty of open space in front of it, so the risk of people getting crushed was slight. Nevertheless, Ed kept an eye out for revolutionaries trying deliberately to press against Ção in the crowd.
President Spínola was the butt of the slogans, which soon targeted his perceived henchmen, too. As passions rose, and the demonstrators’ sense of righteousness increased, the content of slogans degenerated into calls for the execution of the Silent Majority ringleaders. Ção took these up enthusiastically; after a while, Simone joined in, too. Ed looked at Mark. Mark shrugged, smiled and shouted louder than his wife. Ed swallowed, took a deep breath, then added his voice.
Their passion spent, the demonstrators dispersed peacefully. Most of them went in search of late transport home.
Ção was energised and impassioned in her lovemaking that night. She fell asleep straight afterwards, but Ed lay awake re-living the march. Towards dawn, his turning over awoke his wife.
“Ed, what’s wrong? Can’t you sleep?”
“No, my love. I keep thinking about yesterday.”
“About me?”
“Yes. And about the demo.”
“It was a good one, wasn’t it? We showed them all right!”
“I can’t help thinking about those things we were shouting. Calling for people to be killed. It’s not right, but I did it, too.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. Nobody really meant it. This is Portugal. They were just mouthing off. That’s all. Fancy a quickie, darling?”
Ed did, and the waking dream of making love with Ção was followed by sleep in which the dreams were too deep for him to remember the next day.
The day after that one, President Spínola resigned. He was immediately replaced by Costa Gomes, the more radical general whom the revolutionary officers had wanted to fill the post back in April. A few people were arrested. Nobody was executed.
Ed caught his first glimpse of the new course the following Sunday. He went down to the street for a newspaper from the kiosk and found all the shops open. He bought a few supplies at his local grocer’s and asked what was going on.
“Everyone’s at work today – a day’s work for the nation. It’s not a bad idea.”
“A very good idea: action not words. If I had a job, I’d do it as well.”
So would Ção and Mark, he thought. I wonder whether Simone is doing extra classes for Keith today.
The lack of a steady job, and the dwindling of savings, was a worsening problem for all of them. Only Mark acted unworried by it, although his financial crisis was the most acute. With no work on the horizon, Ed decided to put his free time to good use by completing the course he had enrolled for at Britain’s new Open University soon after it opened. He had completed the foundation course in short order, but it was not challenging enough to hold his interest, and he let it slide. Still, they had not kicked him out, and now he would go back and finish it. In Portugal, it was a big thing to possess a university degree: people called themselves “Doctor” as soon as they had one. He could learn useful stuff and boost his status at the same time. Moreover, his new determination gave him the chance to enlist his father’s help without asking him directly for money. What he asked was for the vicar to record the Open University broadcasts for Ed’s course from television to tape, and to send him the tapes. He explained how to use a timer for this, so that his father would not have to get up in the middle of the night. Ed heard the pleasure in his father’s voice when he agreed to do this.
As long as Ção stayed on good terms with her parents, Ed knew he did not have to worry too much about supporting her. He would supply the basics, and they would satisfy those whims of hers that demanded an outlay he could not afford. When she went on a shopping binge, he knew that Daddy or Mummy had coughed up. He kept out of their way, so that the living evidence of their daughter’s adulthood should not tempt them to stop spoiling her and her mood.
His living arrangements with his wife received an unexpected boost from Joséphine. His landlady complained endlessly about how shopkeepers and workmen no longer treated her with due deference. A taxi driver even reduced her to tears. One evening she turned up at the flat and announced to Ção and Ed that one of her French boyfriends had finally left his wife. He had invited her to live with him near Toulouse, and she was leaving Portugal for good at the end of October.
“That’s marvellous news, Joséphine, marvellous! Congratulations! I’m sure you’ll be very happy. We really hope so. Since you’re going, can we take over the lease?”
“But of course. I will tell the owner you are the perfect tenants.”
Ed knew from the start that Joséphine did not own the flat; she just sub-let rooms, illegally but with the connivance of the owner, who did not care as long as she got her rent and few demands for maintenance. Now Ed and Ção had the chance to become proper tenants.
Ed had a pleasant surprise when he met the owner. The rent she asked for the whole flat was only a little more than Joséphine had charged him for a single room when he moved in. Moreover, Ed was getting a legal contract, which he knew was likely to be rent-controlled. Ed concealed his haste to sign, but did so as quickly as the bureaucratic procedures allowed. When he put pen to paper, he thought how much he would enjoy doing the flat up, to Ção’s specifications. As soon as he could get some money together, which meant finding a job. He had no capital yet for a business of his own.
Ed carried Joséphine’s luggage down for her on the day she left. It was a fine Indian Summer’s morning. Ed thought he could detect aromas of roasting chestnuts and água pé in the air. He packed the taxi with her cases while the driver waited.
“Goodbye, Mr. Scripps. Wish me luck. I have left that beautiful poster above my bed, so you both can remember me. You will look after it, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Ed lied.