When we move in, we are assigned a ‘unit’. Drums beat for change, and we follow their beat. In Britain, newspapers grumble about ‘the winter of discontent’. Most of them are postwar boomers, propelled here by global demonstrations for peace and women’s rights, by the anti-apartheid movement, May 1968 and constant strikes. Armed with worn paperbacks on Karl Marx, kibbutzim, yoga, rebirthing, alternative education, ecology, and radical feminism, in each of them is a small page of world history. The young South African journalists, academics, London feminists, German filmmakers, Californian ballet dancers, Indian writers, American dropouts and drop-ins have rejected capitalism and the patriarchy. Most members contribute to purchasing the mansion, forming a housing co-operative. In the months prior to our arrival, the community-building group, mainly socialists and Marxists, meets in Liverpool. I am alone on the carpet, in the crowd, in the house. When I look down, away from the ceiling, the man has gone. Suddenly, I long for our old house, our quiet Sussex street, for my father who has left us, and for my books.
His hair touches my cheek, and I don’t like it. ‘You have a beautiful smile,’ the bearded man whispers in my ear. The ceiling is a turning kaleidoscope, an ever-changing view. If I climb up past their words and faces, beyond the staircase, there is a stained-glass ceiling: green, yellow, blue and crimson glass encased in lead. She says: ‘Every single thing will change!’ It is tabula rasa!’ A black woman in a boiler suit walks past. I catch their conversation: ‘Previously this dilapidated house, outbuildings and land was an old peoples’ hostel, an army base, and originally an English country house. They have come from around the world – London, the States, India and Africa – to make this place into ‘a community’. Hordes of men and women carry old mattresses down the staircase, emptying out the house. My shoes have disappeared, along with my mum, my brother and my sister. Everything here feels like it will never stop. In a vegetable garden, a boy gave me a Chinese burn. An angry man shouted: ‘Bloody kids!’ We became horses in an ancient apple orchard, cantered past sequoias as tall as the sky. Since we arrived this morning, I’ve run through the dark mansion, opening shutters, letting in light.Ī girl pulled my hand, took me outside past a naked, white woman doing yoga, her nipples like red wine gums. Landings with balustrades lead to corridors, to 60 rooms, attics and basements. Above us a grand staircase turns, coiling in three wooden flights. We’re lying on a dirty carpet, in a gigantic hallway.
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