“But what I don’t understand,” I said, “is why people would want

students treated so badly in the first place.”

“From your perspective today, Kathy, your bemusement1 is perfectly

reasonable. But you must try and see it historically. After the war, in the early

5

so rapidly, there wasn’t time to take stock2, to ask the sensible questions.

Suddenly there were all these new possibilities laid before us, all these ways to

cure so many previously incurable conditions. This was what the world

noticed the most, wanted the most. And for a long time, people preferred to

10

kind of vacuum. Yes, there were arguments3. But by the time people became

concerned about ... about students, by the time they came to consider just how

you were reared4, whether you should have been brought into existence at all,

well by then it was too late. There was no way to reverse the process. How can

15

such a world to put away that cure, to go back to the dark days? There was no

going back. However uncomfortable people were about your existence, their

overwhelming concern was that their own children, their spouses, their

parents, their friends, did not die from cancer, motor neurone disease5, heart

20

best not to think about you. And if they did, they tried to convince themselves

you weren’t really like us. That you were less than human, so it didn’t matter.

And that was how things stood until our little movement came along. But do

you see what we were up against6? We were virtually attempting to square the

25

the case, there would always be a barrier against seeing you as properly

human. Well, we fought that battle for many years, and what we won for you,

at least, were many improvements, though of course, you were only a select

few. But then came the Morningdale scandal, then other things, and before we

30

us any more, and our little movement, Hailsham, Glenmorgan, the Saunders

Trust, we were all of us swept away7.”

“What was this Morningdale scandal you keep mentioning, Miss Emily?”

I asked. “You’ll have to tell us, because we don’t know about it.”

35

large matter in the wider world. It concerned a scientist called James

Morningdale, quite talented in his way. He carried on his work in a remote

part of Scotland, where I suppose he thought he’d attract less attention. What

he wanted was to offer people the possibility of having children with

40

sort of thing. Of course, there’d been others with similar ambitions, but this

Morningdale fellow, he’d taken his research much further than anyone before

him, far beyond legal boundaries9. Well, he was discovered, they put an end to

his work and that seemed to be that. Except, of course, it wasn’t, not for us. As

45

atmosphere, you see.

It reminded people, reminded them of a fear they’d always had. It’s one thing

to create students, such as yourselves, for the donation programme. But a

generation of created children who’d take their place in society? Children

50

recoiled from that10.”

“But Miss Emily,” I said, “what did any of that have to do with us? Why

did Hailsham have to close because of something like that?”

“We didn’t see an obvious connection either, Kathy. Not at first. And I

55

absorbed with ourselves, if we’d worked very hard at that stage when the news

about Morningdale first broke, we might have been able to avert it11. Oh,

Marie-Claude disagrees. She thinks it would have happened no matter what

we did, and she might have a point. After all, it wasn’t just Morningdale. There

60

these things contributed, contributed to the turning of the tide12. But I suppose

when it comes down to it, the central flaw13 was this. Our little movement, we

were always too fragile, always too dependent on the whims14 of our

supporters. So long as the climate was in our favour, so long as a corporation

65

afloat15. But it had always been a struggle, and after Morningdale, after the

climate changed, we had no chance. The world didn’t want to be reminded

how the donation programme really worked. They didn’t want to think about

you students, or about the conditions you were brought up in. In other words,

70

you’d been before the likes of16 Marie-Claude and myself ever came along. And

all those influential people who’d once been so keen to help us, well of course,

they all vanished. We lost our sponsors, one after the other, in a matter of just

over a year. We kept going for as long as we could, we went on for two years

75

and today there’s hardly a trace left of the work we did. You won’t find

anything like Hailsham anywhere in the country now. All you’ll find, as ever,

are those vast government ‘homes’, and even if they’re somewhat better than

they once were, let me tell you, my dears, you’d not sleep for days if you saw

80

here we are, we’ve retreated to this house, and upstairs we have a mountain of

your work. That’s what we have to remind us of what we did. And a mountain

of debt too, though that’s not nearly so welcome. And the memories, I

suppose, of all of you. And the knowledge that we’ve given you better lives

85

Tommy and I couldn’t quite believe that was the end of it. We neither of

us stood up, and anyway, there was no sign of anyone helping Miss Emily out

of her wheelchair. I wondered for a moment if she was going to try and get up

by herself, but she remained still, leaning forward as before, listening intently.

90

that.”

“Tommy,” I murmured, and glared at him18. But Miss Emily said gently:

“No, Tommy. There’s nothing like that. Your life must now run the course

that’s been set for it.”