ISSUE 6 - MAY 1975

cover size 210 x 148 mm (A5)

 EDITORIAL

This is Voices 6, and our total output covers about 300 pages. There have been more than 200 separate pieces in these 6 issues, written by more than 80 writers, the overwhelming majority of whom have never had work published previously. The quality varies greatly of course: some of the pieces (and at this point it would be invidious to select examples) are of high poetic or literary merit; others are not. The whole purpose of "Voices" is not to perpetuate mediocrity, but to fan the sparks of imagination and revolt against what is reactionary, soulless, greedy and exploitative, and to encourage writers from the factory floor and the branch meeting. We would like world famous writers, and national figures, and we admire their works in other publications: but our aim is to help to build a team of working men and women who are reflecting in new and vivid writing the explosive left movement in Britain and the world. 

We need a lot of help. We are getting new writers with each issue. Our sales, still modest, are growing. Our financial appeal was generously backed. But we still do not know whether Labour Party wards, Trade Union branches, workers in factories, students, Communist Party members, enjoy "Voices" and feel that it meets a need. 

Three of us went recently to a Labour Party group in Stockport, and read pieces from "Voices" to them and discussed them. There was genuine appreciation of what we are doing We would like to test the reactions of all sorts of people to "Voices" and invite you to ask your organization, or student bodies to give us a chance to explain "Voices" to them. 

We need the Labour Movement. Does the Labour Movement need us? We think it does. Us and organizations and publications like us. We ask Labour Party and Trade Union and Communist Party, Young Socialist and Student bodies to help us. How? These are some ways. 

Buy a number of copies of "Voices" to distribute and sell to your members.

Circulate an advertising letter of ours to your members.

Give us a regular subscription (yearly, half-yearly or quarterly) on which we can rely and budget.

Affiliate to Unity of Arts our parent body, and contribute an agreed annual affiliation fee. 

Elsewhere, we welcome "Fireweed" which has an advertisement of its second issue in the summer. We also give a free advertisement to "The Basement Writers". We will gladly give publicity to all ventures which try to establish an association between the Labour Movement and the arts. 

Finally, if among readers living within 10 miles of the centre of Manchester, there are three or four prepared to give time to helping to widen the contacts of "Voices" such people can be sure they will be warmly welcomed. 

Our thanks to Peter Carter for the graphics.

Ben Ainley 

JOHN MACLEAN 

Brian Gallon, 12 Frank Place, North Shields, Tyne and Wear, is researching material for a play about John Maclean, the Clydeside socialist leader. 

If anyone has personal recollecticns or parents or grandparents who remember Maclean, or any written material about him, will they please get in touch with Mr. Gallon.

The cash raised by our appeal in November which finally raised over £145 helped us clear our debts, and get "Voices 5" out. We are not out of the wood. It costs around £150 to get out an issue of "Voices" and at this moment, from the proceeds of sales of "Voices 5" we have around £100. We are compelled therefore to ask people interested in our survival to continue to help us financially. We will acknowledge directly all sums received. Make cheques payable either to Ben Ainley or to Frank Parker.

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NOTE TO CONTRIBUTORS 

We welcome contributions in prose and verse. But we cannot undertake to return manuscripts unless stamped addressed envelope is included. 

Number the pages of your contribution. Write your name and address on each page. If possible, send typescripts; but if your piece is hand written1 make sure it is legible to the printer. 

We are dealing with between 80 and 100 contributions per issue, and this number is growing. Bear with us if there are delays.

PLEASE TYPE (or WRITE) ON ONE SIDE OF THE PAPER ONLY

This is a must. 

A brief personal biography (about 40 words) will help us, but will not necessarily be published.

The Christmas Present

The placards screamed the headlines. The evening paper followed through with the rest of the story.

Citizens homeward bound released from the day's toil, bought the papers and read the news in shocked silence. "EMINENT NUCLEAR PHYSICIST RESIGNS".

Professor Lewley withdrawn into the corner of the first class railway compartment and taking refuge behind a copy of The Times, shook his head sadly and sighed. Seeing the announcement of his action in the cold black and white of the placard and stripped of the warmth of his covering explanation, aroused in him a deep sense of desolation. However, he thought to himself, staring unseeingly at the small print of the morning's paper, the deed was now done and the step now taken from which there was no retracing.

He had resigned on a matter of principle and that was that.

His thoughts went back to that final scene when after months of grave and gnawing disquiet within himself he had faced his eleven colleagues on the committee of top level scientists and had delivered the bombshell. "Gentlemen", he had said, "Brother scientists, after deep and serious thought on my part I have come to the conclusion that I can no longer reconcile my own feelings with the aims and objects of this committee for the development of weapons for use in nuclear warfare.

Please colleagues, I ask you here and now to be good enough to accept my resignation from this committee."

Looking at the stunned faces of the men around him had moved him to add softly, "Believe me, I have, as I said, given this matter deep and serious consideration and I find that now at long last I must face the realisation that I can no longer work on objects for which the ultimate use will be the destruction of man, by man."

Of course his resignation had not been accepted unanimously. Some of the older ones had been prepared to argue it out with him, make him see reason so to speak, but in the end they too had had to give in, hoping that perhaps he had been overworking and needed a break for two or three weeks.

"Why not take a trip over the Xmas holidays, Lewley old chap", professor Dacre had said soothingly in a tone suspiciously like that one would use to a man on the brink of a nervous breakdown. "Just pack a bag and fly off with your wife and kiddie, say to the Bahamas." "It should be pretty warm there, just now, I can fix the flight for you old man, no trouble at all, and you'll get there just in time for the Xmas celebrations."  quite an idea y'know."

Lewley shuddered a little, thinking back on Dacre's patronising air.

Hm! The Xmas celebrations that really was what had brought things to a head and had determined him to take the final step.

So simple. So utterly, utterly simple, the circumstances that had at last removed the scales from his eyes and had revealed the image of his true self, standing clearly before him, face to face.

How often one's puppet sneaks in and takes command, steering one this way and that whilst one's own soul squeezed out stands by biding its time just waiting the opportune moment in which to reassert itself. And so it had been with the learned man of science.

The false premise on which his own sense of security had rested and which had begun to rock quite some time ago, had finally toppled when he had been assigned to the role of Santa Claus at the Xmas party of his young daughter Caroline.

Several of Caroline's little friends were spending the Xmas holidays abroad with their respective parents and so the Xmas party had been held three weeks before the holidays.

Dorothy the professor's wife had made up a cloak for him out of some red cotton fabric, a bit of medical tow had done for the beard and a furry cap had completely covered his dark brown head. When he had protested at the too obvious fake of the tow, Dorothy had replied, "Oh the kids'll never notice, all that interests them is the sack of gifts which you are going to hand out, after all Caroline and her friends are only five years old."

Then she had added in mock solemn tones,

"I promise you when Caroline's seven you shall have a full blown grey beard."

When Caroline's seven - sev-en sev-en were his last thoughts as he drifted off into uneasy slumber that night. "What makes you so sure Caroline will reach seven?" said his soul, accusingly, confronting him and barring his way so that he could move neither to the left nor to the right, but only backwards.

Wildly he tried to press on, but his soul now dressed as Santa Claus and sporting a full blown grey beard and wearing a mask of the professor's own features, continued to stand in his way. "Who told you, who told you?" Frantically the professor looked around for a scapegoat, his eyes large with apprehension. Then he spotted the tow-bearded Daddy Xmas. Pointing a forefinger in his direction he cried out desperately,

"He told me, he told me." The tow-bearded red-cloaked figure advanced towards him, also wearing a mask the replica of the professor's own features. "Ha, you'd no need to listen to me," he croaked. "No need at all to listen to me."

"You see", said his soul, gently. "You see!"

"Yes, I see it all now," said the man of science, dropping swiftly into a relaxed sleep. The way was now clear, the doubts, the uncertainties, the nagging pointers were stilled once and forever.

And so he had gone forth and given his decision to them. The decision which by now was being blazoned forth for the world to see and to wonder at. To be repeated faithfully by some, to be distorted by others.

Dorothy was waiting for him when he arrived home. He took three large strides towards her and with a tired sigh went straight into her outstretched arms.

They clung together thus, for a few moments, neither speaking, each deeply aware of their spiritual oneness.

Then Dorothy looked up at her husband, her eyes shining as she uttered the words he wanted more than anything to hear from her lips at this moment. "Don't you see, darling," she said, "You have given those kids the best Xmas present in the whole world." 

Rose Friedman 

Pseudonyms 
F.G. Walker

Father John O'Rourke, small and wiry, was in his study when the bell rang. He put the silver chalice back in its case and opened the door. Outside, in the bloom, was a woman. She was tall and slim like a willow, wearing a dark green suit and a green 'Robin Hood' hat.

"Good evening."

"Good evening. I'm sorry to come so late, but I well, I was in the district so I thought it would be alright." Her voice had a soft, light sound, like spring rain.

"I don't believe we've met." She shook her head.

"I'm a writer ... Pat Fielding and I thought ..."

"Not the Pat Fielding?"

"If you mean the one who wrote 'Tombstones at Midnight' , yes."

"Well!" He studied her for some moments.

"Perhaps I'd better tell you why I've called."

He stood aside. "You'd better come in then."

She stepped into the light. He closed the door, noting that she was much younger than he had first thought, and she was quite pretty too. He led the way to the study; waved her to a chair.

"Thank you." She sank into the seat, sending a speculative glance around the room.

Father O'Rourke stood across from her, fingering the soft flesh at the end of his chin.

"You were saying," he said.

"What?" She flicked her eyes back.

"The reason you came."

She smiled lopsidedly. "Well, it might seem silly really but I've just started my next book and I'm trying to ..." She paused, gesticulating with one hand. "How shall I put it ... trying to get the right ... atmosphere." Her voice rose on the last word.

"I see." His eyes narrowed. "This new book. Is it anything like the last one?"

"You've read it?" She lifted her eyebrows a little.

"Yes, twice as a matter of fact."

"I'm flattered. I hope you'll buy the new one." He shrugged. There was a small silence. An idea flickered in his brain. "Perhaps I could offer you a glass of sherry?"

 "Yes, thank you."

He went over to the sideboard and poured one glass of sherry.

"Look," he said then, "I have to make a phone call, I won't be a minute." He went through to the hallway, made the call and then padded outside into the drive. Her car was turned round, facing the road. He wondered what she was doing here. Then he laughed softly. He opened the car door and took the ignition key. Then he went back to the study.

"May I look round the church tonight?" The woman stood up as he entered.

"I suppose so ... if you're not frightened."

"You'll tell me it's haunted next."

He held the door open and waited while she picked up her handbag. As they went out he said: "I suppose I'll be in your book?"

"Perhaps." She stopped; gave him a quick look from under her dark lashes, then she added: "In fact it might be a good idea."

"You haven't decided then?" She tilted her head on one side.

"It depends on the story ... and the atmosphere. Shall we go?"

"Sure." He led the way across to the church; pushed open the door. "What would you like to see?"

"The belfry." She sounded as if she had been expecting the question. He turned left into the small alcove that led to the stone steps. Looking back at her, he said casually,

"They say a ghostly monk has been seen hereabouts." She stiffened visibly.

"Oh! Really?" Her voice trembled. "Where ... exactly?"

"Here. Still want to go up?" She looked at him for several long seconds.

"Yes." He started up the narrow winding stairs. At the top he unbolted a small trapdoor and climbed through. He turned, looking down at her. She stayed there, her head and shoulders through the opening. A little breathlessly she said:

"Are we alone now?"

"Of course." He stepped back. "Come on up." A smile pulled at her lips. She reached up; grabbed the trapdoor.

"Sorry Father. But I've made other plans. She pulled down the trapdoor then and slipped home the bolt. With a laugh that echoed on the stairs she hurried away. He knelt down; tugged at the handle. It held fast. He stood upright, breathing hard. Then he remembered the torch in his pocket. He rushed over to the wall and stared hard at the darkness. Twin headlights pierced the night on the main road. He almost laughed out loud as he began flashing the torch.

The police car swept up to the church. Two minutes later he heard the bolt drawn on the trapdoor. A burly constable led the way down into the church and across to the vestry.

"We caught her, sir," he boomed. "Trying to start her car." He swept open the study door.

Father O'Rourke blinked at the brightness. In a chair near his desk sat the woman. Her face was the colour of raw cod. A police sergeant towered over her.

"Caught her with this, sir," he said. He indicated the silver chalice on the desk. "If the car had started she'd have got away with it." Father O'Rourke smiled impishly. He took the ignition key from his pocket; tossed it on to the desk.

"I made sure that she wouldn't," he said. The woman jerked her head up; for a second her eyes blazed.

"You ... you... How did you know about me?"

"Simple." He spread his hands, as if that one -gesture was sufficient. There was a tiny silence.It was almost as if, from across the room, he felt her wince. The police sergeant rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. Father O'Rourke sauntered across to a book case, selected a volume and handed it to the woman.

"Perhaps you'd like to read this," he said in a soft whimsical voice.

She gazed at it curiously. It was encased in a brightly coloured dust cover. Her eyes lingered on the words: "A NEW NOVEL BY PAT FIELDING." She turned the book over, and on the back was a picture of Father O'Rourke.

 

A number of comments follow on the article by Ken Clay which appeared in Voices 5:

Of course there is a tendency for new, dedicated, enthusiastic working class writers to write in the way he deplores, but I think if they are sincere, and not just striving for effect, or to convert, they'll learn to be artistic as well as realistic.

There is also a technique of writing which does not come easily or naturally to people whose vocabulary has already been limited by the so-called examples of culture around us. Small wonder they overdo things, when they write themselves, like teenagers who must be fashionable, even if it hurts.

Finally, if we are sincere, we too must strive to be encouraging, as well as critical, both of ourselves as well as fellow writers - God knows the unpublished, unknown, writer has enough to contend with, when trying to get somebody to read his work, and there must be many who remain dumb through lack of opportunity or hope. This is where VOICES CAN HELP, by making people more articulate, and perhaps eventually more observant, analytical, critical, and discerning too. 

W. Froom

 

Would Ken Clay perhaps have modified his schoolmasterly rudeness if he had thought his letter would be printed? Talk about didactic? Of course it is often hard to avoid sounding bossy if we lay down the law, especially to those who don't accept our ideas.

People write out of their experience of life; often it is a hurt that sets us composing. Capitalism is a system that crushes and hurts us and we cry out. Our one sidedness is usually too much doom and gloom and we are embarrassed when we celebrate the joys of life, but that too is real, and genuine experience. Why should those of us who are happy in love be called dreamers for example? As for style, people write as they have learnt, and only in relation with others do they modify and refine in their own way the common heritage - which of course is part of bourgeois culture - but are we to stop speaking in case we are bourgeois? It is not the words we use, it's what we say that makes us different.

The fashion is to be opaque, of course, and such a style is great fun to write; but are we writing to show off or to communicate? In years of reading poetry (not just my own) to ordinary people I for one have had to make a choice. If art is communication, as I believe, and if we want to talk to people, we must talk in common ways. But not in watered down English or in bad language. The Labour Movement taught me that long ago.

Finally, how intolerant can you be? The infinite variety of personality offers many ways and styles of writing. There is more than one 'right' way. The thing, surely, is the affirmation of belief and confidence in people, and the refusal to accept misery as our lot.

As for me, I have lived as an active communist for forty years, and must write out of such an experience subconsciously by now.

Frances Moore 

 

I find it a matter of urgency to make a reply to the article about "Voices" written by Ken Clay. I hope you can find room in your next issue to publish this.

The main error in his article is his definition of Socialist Realism, Socialist Realism is NOT "A discipline designed to produce parables rather than art." That may be Ken's definition, I suspect Ken has mistaken the crude "banner waving" material that does at times appear in "Voices" for a definition of Socialist Realism, if so, he couldn't be farther off the mark. The discussion that really remains is: What is "Socialist Realism"?

How many conflicting ideas emerge, basically ranging from those who never seem to have shaken off their respect for bourgeois ideas, hence they do produce these abstract, complex, over-worded symphonies of literature that Ken mentions.

Then the other extreme is the growing idea that any crudely rhyming, "Red Banner" waving wordiology, however crude it is in form (sometimes the cruder the better) in fact anything written by a worker constitutes "Workers' art": therefore if it waves aloft the red flag that is "Socialist Realism".

This form of diversity will I think be inevitable in any left wing movement of the arts such as "Voices" which is trying to counter bourgeois publications, and I think it will be some time before Socialist Realism in the western movement really emerges.

Anyone in contact with present publications from the Socialist Countries (Soviet literature etc.) will see the results of past struggle, the emergence of Real Socialist Realism.

Socialist Realism in my definition is art conscious of its role in Society. An art having something progressive to contribute, an art based on all aspects of humanity, progress and beauty. Art should uplift, agitate, enlighten, educate and give the reader a greater understanding of his relationship with his fellow man, nature, society, love and the ever present riddle of infinity, but must always retain some aesthetic quality.

Poetry is a medium of expressing ideas, thoughts, feelings etc. that cannot be expressed in any prose. If prose could cover these manifestations fully Poetry would never exist, therefore Form is important as a medium of creating in the reader the emotions that the writer intended. Socialist Realism strives to create positive emotions and reactions to the world around us. The worker who is talented and has something to say, will, with effort, defeat all the obstructions that lack of decent education present to him.

Oversimplicity, crudeness and "banner waving" (The glorious working class marching sternly forward etc.) is not only unreal because it is most often not the case, it also lacks humanity and didn't Marx call Communism "Scientific humanism"? Also it can tend to embarrass the audience. Over-complexity tends to often cover subjectiveness and tends to overawe the audience.

Our job is not to create a "sub-culture" but real Socialist culture of the very best. The idea that any worker who picks up a pen and scribbles a few words is a proletarian artist is false and often comes from the middle class. Bringing culture to and out of the working class is a challenge, but not impossible.

By supporting "Voices" we can help this process, so let us throw our words at one another and the world for the sake of humanity.

Fraternally, Ian E Reed 

 

To Instruct or Delight?

1. "He will win universal applause who blends what is improving with what is pleasing, and both delights and instructs the reader" wrote, Horace, which does rather suggest the problem is not altogether new. Ken Clay would doubtless like Voices to do both. The question is how. 

2. Things to avoid according to Ken

(a) Didacticism - many of us feel there is not much point in writing unless you have an audience; some of us go further and consider there is not much point in having an audience unless you give them the works. Too true. How many of us have lost friends that way? 

(b) Social realism - this seems to me to be an extension of the above except that to the sin of proselytising is added the further sin of over simplifying. Capitalists wear black hats, communists white ones. To this too some of us must plead guilty. 

(c) Naive idealism - Ken seems to be suggesting that even if people like us have something to say they don't say it because they feel inhibited, and tend instead to ape their betters. One reason for this might be that Voices is unique. Other journals won't publish unless the contributor sticks to the rules. 

3. What is to be done then? Or, to put it another way, what would I do if I were a member of the Editorial Board?

(a) I would accept with gratitude any contributions which both delighted and instructed, although one could expect these to be few in number. Blake, Byron and Shelley, and say Siegfried Sassoon in his anti-war poems, could do it; but most of us are learning the hard way. 

(b) The rest I would select according to whether they delighted or instructed, though I would expect Voices to have a bias in favour of the latter. There are enough glossy journals that serve to please. 

(c) Those that appeared to fall into neither category would have to be returned to sender, though I would like to think that someone would be able to find the time to return them with a word of encouragement. There is no point in our persuading ourselves there is a vast amount of talent available unless we do our best to use it. 

4. Ken may well think that my response raises more problems than it solves. e.g. what do we mean by "instruct" and "delight"? Well I'm not greedy. Let someone else have a go. 

Bill Eburn 

Modern Poetry, Eliot and the Working Class

Does the modern poet write for the working class, or for fellow poets and critics? I'm afraid it is not the former. It is not that poetry is not easily available to the working class - it is. Its insularity derives from its esoterical lineage and its erudite- ness. A poet, such as Eliot, has so many cross references (what working class man hears of Webster, or St. John of the Cross?) that the poetry can become like a Times crossword puzzle - interesting, taxing but pointless.

One can't help feeling that Eliot can only be appreciated by someone with a similar education to his own (remembering that he was at school until his mid-twenties). Obviously, he can only write of his background, his class, and the preoccupations of his class. The truth of the matter is that Eliot writes for poets; for a man to understand him, he must raise himself to the level of a poet. Which isn't a bad thing, but hardly feasible considering the circumstances of most people. To use one of Eliot's own phrases - "there is no objective correlative common to the rich Oxford educated banker, and the ill educated capstan lathe operator."

Poetry can only become truly modern, when it can live as the expression of a struggle to raise our conscious mind to a greater level of awareness. What has gone before in poetry has been the expression of a small minority of people's reaction to the universe and society, the greater part of humanity's feelings going unverbalised. It has been played like a game for the elite, with a strict, almost impenetrable code of conduct. It has been preserved like a Ming Vase, for all eternity - daring imitation or improvement.

Poetry should be written, digested and thrown away for practical purposes. Art is of its time, created from its time, by people who will take the rein of history and guide it. Do we need this over-indulgence in past expression, expressing what has gone is dead?

A people has its creative wellspring, and only when we become involved in history, will the poetry flow. When we awake to the modern situation, we will get modern poetry; and what poetry does a line of machines inspire?

Real modern poetry will only come through an honest survey of the situation. Eliot represents decadence, art for the liberation of the individual, He is not concerned for the rest of humanity, other than the rich, or gifted.

A modern poet will realise his purpose and function. It will not be to give the dilettante something to prattle on about; or to furnish material for the professors to write exegesis. It will be to reflect, consider and direct the mass of people now ready to break in on history. To give them a mirror on themselves, and a fresh language to express their struggle.

Poetry has become the activity of the few for the few. It still is the poetry of unconnected individual destiny with an unhealthy preoccupation with self. Even poetry of rebellion - say Baudelaire or Rimbaud is put into a snug system, its shock value eliminated by careful study.

The truth has to be retold by each generation to itself. Reality has to be re-examined in the light of our total experience, which is different from generation to generation.

If we are the lost children of god, alone without a faith, we should not waste time looking for our lost father as Eliot does. We should look to find ourselves, and poetry must be of this struggle, not of lone individuals' search for the absolute.

Tony Whitfield

GLOSSARY - Turning Point by Jone o' Broonlea

Insense - realise. Some-an' - very much. Yepsintle ass - a small amount ("handful") of ash. Meht ha' sin - might have seen. Sliftert - enter through a crack. Thwittled - carved. Fain - glad. Own - admit. Toom - empty. Jannock - genuine.

The Housewife

"Dear God, another day! What was it? - Tuesday, Oh yes, stairs and hall and mince-meat stew." Already the morning was slipping by. The pots waited; silently sneering under a blanket of egg-yolk and toast crusts. They should have been washed long ago, still, she promised herself that she would do them as soon as she had had another cup of tea.

She wandered over to the kettle, her image curving down its side, like the walls of the house around her throat. Icily she picked up the baby's rusk and put it into her mouth. She hadn't even realised what she had done until angry screams of annoyance met her half-closed ears. "Sorry chicken," she thought, too tired and distant to speak, and placed it back into her child's mouth. She lifted her hand to ruffle his hair but accidentally knocked his cheek with water-worn hands, heavy with boredom and hidden despair.

Plugging in the kettle she thought about how she had found her ring in last night's hot-pot. Should she tell her husband and make him laugh like she used to? Searching in her mind for the answer she realised she didn't even know how to talk to him any more; besides he probably couldn't remember her losing it. She put the thought out of her mind. It was too much trouble worrying over words. The pots grew in number. The electricity ran out and the kettle murmured to a halt. She went to sit down, tired out from thinking. Scared of thinking.

Rosslyn O'Connor

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Fireweed

A warm welcome to "Fireweed" announced as a quarterly magazine of working class and socialist arts, beautifully designed and printed, copiously illustrated, and with a dozen distinguished contributors, including the world-famous Bertolt Brecht and Pablo Neruda. If this level can be maintained, "Fireweed" will be that "flowering weed that spreads across waste land" which is the meaning of its title.

For the most part it is a fine compilation, and if this reviewer expresses his preferences, for the world-famous Neruda and Brecht, for Archie Hill's unbearably tragic story of a boy's first day at the foundry, for David Craig's poems of crofters, for the extract from Margaret Parkinson's novel, and for Leon Rosselson's magnificent folk ballads, others may well find matter for pleasure in other contributions.

It is said to be a brave venture to launch a magazine like this in these difficult days. But when the old world is visibly collapsing before our eyes, when revolutionary ferment and change is seen on every continent, among millions of people, the need for art to give confident expression, imaginative creative expression to it, to open up for hitherto silent man and women a medium in which they can speak for themselves, is very urgent.

Elsewhere "Voices" carries an advertisement of Fireweed No. 2 which will appear in the summer, and this promises to maintain the present level. "Voices" which carries no national names, and whose writers are so far unknown, sees in "Fireweed" a colleague and a co-worker, and we hope to be of mutual assistance in the future. Trade Unions, Labour Party, Communist Party and the host of people who both love the arts and work for socialism and peace, should give "Fireweed" active support.

Ben Ainley