介绍:
I should explain a bit here about the Exchanges we had at Hailsham. Four
times a year–spring, summer, autumn, winter–we had a kind of big
exhibition-cum-sale of all the things we&`&d been creating in the three months
since the last Exchange. Paintings, drawings, pottery; all sorts of “sculptures”
made from whatever was the craze of the day–bashed-up cans, maybe, or
bottle tops stuck onto cardboard. For each thing you put in, you were paid in
Exchange Tokens–the guardians decided how many your particular
masterpiece merited–and then on the day of the Exchange you went along
with your tokens and “bought” the stuff you liked. The rule was you could
only buy work done by students in your own year, but that still gave us
plenty to choose from, since most of us could get pretty prolific over a
three-month period.
Looking back now, I can see why the Exchanges became so important to us.
For a start, they were our only means, aside from the Sales–the Sales were
something else, which I&`&ll come to later–of building up a collection of personal
possessions. If, say, you wanted to decorate the walls around your bed, or
wanted something to carry around in your bag and place on your desk from
room to room, then you could find it at the Exchange. I can see now, too, how
the Exchanges had a more subtle effect on us all. If you think about it, being
dependent on each other to produce the stuff that might become your private
treasures–that&`&s bound to do things to your relationships. The Tommy
business was typical. A lot of the time, how you were regarded at Hailsham,
how much you were liked and respected, had to do with how good you were at
“creating.”
Ruth and I often found ourselves remembering these things a few years ago,
when I was caring for her down at the recovery centre in Dover.
“It&`&s all part of what made Hailsham so special,” she said once. “The way we
were encouraged to value each other&`&s work.”
“True,” I said. “But sometimes, when I think about the Ex-changes now, a lot
of it seems a bit odd. The poetry, for instance. I remember we were allowed to
hand in poems, instead of a drawing or a painting. And the strange thing
was, we all thought that was fine, we thought that made sense.”
“Why shouldn&`&t it? Poetry&`&s important.”
“But we&`&re talking about nine-year-old stuff, funny little lines, all misspelt, in
exercise books. We&`&d spend our precious tokens on an exercise book full of
that stuff rather than on something really nice for around our beds. If we
were so keen on a person&`&s poetry, why didn&`&t we just borrow it and copy it
down ourselves any old afternoon? But you remember how it was. An
Exchange would come along and we&`&d be standing there torn between Susie
K.&`&s poems and those giraffes Jackie used to make.”
“Jackie&`&s giraffes,” Ruth said with a laugh. “They were so beautiful. I used to
have one.”
We were having this conversation on a fine summer evening, sitting out on
the little balcony of her recovery room. It was a few months after her first
donation, and now she was over the worst of it, I&`&d always time my evening
visits so that we&`&d be able to spend a half hour or so out there, watching the
sun go down over the rooftops. You could see lots of aerials and satellite
dishes, and sometimes, right over in the distance, a glistening line that was
the sea. I&`&d bring mineral water and biscuits, and we&`&d sit there talking about
anything that came into our heads. The centre Ruth was in that time, it&`&s one
of my favourites, and I wouldn&`&t mind at all if that&`&s where I ended up. The
recovery rooms are small, but they&`&re well-designed and comfortable.
Everything–the walls, the floor–has been done in gleaming white tiles, which
the centre keeps so clean when you first go in it&`&s almost like entering a hall
of mirrors. Of course, you don&`&t exactly see yourself reflected back loads of
times, but you almost think you do. When you lift an arm, or when someone
sits up in bed, you can feel this pale, shadowy movement all around you in
the tiles. Anyway, Ruth&`&s room at that centre, it also had these big glass
sliding panels, so she could easily see the outside from her bed. Even with
her head on the pillow she&`&d see a big lot of sky, and if it was warm enough,
she could get all the fresh air she wanted by stepping out onto the balcony. I
loved visiting her there, loved those meandering talks we had, through the
summer to the early autumn, sitting on that balcony together, talking about
Hailsham, the Cottages, whatever else drifted into our thoughts.
