Fractions_ The First Half of the Fall Revolution - Ken MacLeod [212]
Eleanor raced up to be grabbed by her grandparents. I encircled them both in a quick air-hug and let them get back to work. Tall, stooping, grey-haired, and tough as a pair of old boots, they’d seen it all before: the Peace Pledge Union, CND, the Committee of 100, Vietnam Solidarity, CND again…Today they were doing a respectable trade in a pamphlet. In between keeping half an eye on the demo and chatting to whichever of them wasn’t in full flow, I flipped through Is a Third World War Inevitable?: its cover as lurid as any peace-movement propaganda, its contents a frosty dismissal of two centuries of peace campaigns – all of which had failed to prevent (where they hadn’t actively endorsed) increasingly destructive wars.
A Scottish ASTMS banner bellied through the gateway, and as it sailed closer I saw Annette a few rows behind it. She was walking with a man whom I recognised, with a pleasant surprise, as Reid. We’d seen him a quite a few times over the past decade, kept in touch: he’d crashed out on our floor often enough when he was in London for work or politics.
I stood there under the trees while my mother talked to Eleanor and my father argued with a stray Spartacist, and watched their approach. They were deep in conversation, faces serious, eyes oblivious to the surrounding march. When they were about twenty metres away Reid, perhaps distracted by the raised voices nearby, looked aside and saw me. He touched Annette’s elbow and she saw me too, and immediately they broke ranks and hurried over.
Reid’s hair was shorter and neater than it had been the last time I’d seen him, at a Critique conference the previous year. His shirt, black jeans and Reeboks were new. His denim jacket was faded, frayed, breastplated with badges against Reagan and Thatcher, Cruise and Pershing; for the Sandinistas and Solidarnosc, and (as if that unlikely combination wasn’t enough) a red-and-gold enamel badge celebrating the 1980 Moscow Olympics. A carrier-bag flapped lightly from one hand.
‘Hi Dave. Good to see you, man.’
‘Yeah, likewise.’ He slapped my shoulder. ‘Hello, Eleanor. You’ve grown a lot.’ Eleanor gave him a smile that showed all the gaps in her milk-teeth. Her gaze kept returning to the bright rows of badges.
My father’s dispute had ended in a stand-off. The Spartacist, a scrawny lad in a knit cap and lumber-jacket, saw Reid and turned like a locking-on radar.
‘Comrade –’ he began, stepping forward and moving a bundle of papers into combat position.
‘Oh, piss off,’ Reid said, barely glancing at him. He faced my father. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Wilde. I’m David Reid. Annette and Jon have often told me about you.’
‘Martin,’ my father said. ‘And this is my wife Amy. Pleased to meet you, David.’ He grinned. ‘Jonathan tells me you’re quite bright, for a Trot.’
Reid looked at me with raised eyebrows. I shrugged and spread my hands. ‘I take no responsibility for what his warped mind makes of anything I say.’
‘Can we go to McDonalds now?’
My father smiled at Eleanor and checked his watch. ‘There’ll be a couple of comrades along shortly,’ he said. ‘What about you, David?’
Reid jiggled his carrier-bag on one finger. ‘I’ve sold most of my papers. Yeah, I’ll be OK to skive off for half an hour or so.’
‘It’ll be all boring speeches now,’ Annette said. She smiled and waved airily. ‘Fine by me.’
‘She never brings anything to demos,’ I explained.
‘Only my beautiful self.’
‘That’s enough,’ Reid and I said at the same time, and we all laughed.
We hung about for a few more minutes until my parents’ comrades – who, to my surprise, had green hair and studded nostrils – turned up. Then we ducked under the main road and through the golden arches, to find the place