Authors: Jonathan Coe
As for Benjamin… I suppose he is doing his homework at the dining table. The frown of concentration, the slightly protruding tongue (a family trait, of course: I’ve seen my mother look the same way, crouched over her laptop). History, probably. Or maybe physics. Something which doesn’t come easily, at any rate. He looks across at the clock on the mantelpiece. The organized type, he has set himself a deadline. He has ten minutes to go. Ten more minutes in which to write up the experiment.
I’m doing my best, Patrick. Really I am. But it’s not an easy one to tell, the story of my family. Uncle Benjamin’s story, if you like.
I’m not even sure this is the right place to start. But perhaps one place is as good as any other. And this is the one I’ve chosen. Mid-November, the dark promise of an English winter, almost thirty years ago.
November the 15th, 1973.
Long periods of silence were common. They were a family who had never learned the art of talking to one another. All of them inscrutable, even to themselves: all except Lois, of course. Her needs were simple, defined, and in the end she was punished for it. That’s how I see things, anyway.
I don’t think she wanted much, at this stage of her life. I think she only wanted companionship, and the occasional babble of voices around her. She would have had a craving for chatter, coming from that family; but she was not the sort to lose herself in a giggling circus of friends. She knew what she was looking for, I’m sure of that; already knew, even then, even at the age of sixteen. And she knew where to look for it, too. Ever since her brother had started buying
Sounds
every Thursday, on the way home from school, it had become her furtive weekly ritual to feign interest in the back-page adverts for posters and clothes (
‘Cotton drill shirts in black, navy, flame-red, cranberry – great to team with loons’
) when her real focus of attention was the personal column. She was looking for a man.
She had read nearly all of the personals by now. She was beginning to despair.
‘Freaky Guy (20) wants crazy chick (16+) for love. Into Quo and Zep.’
Once again, not exactly ideal. Did she want her guy to be freaky? Could she honestly describe herself as crazy? Who were Quo and Zep, anyway?
‘Great guy wishes groovy chick to write, into Tull, Pink Floyd, 17-28.’
‘Two freaky guys seek heavy chicks. 16+, love and affection.’
‘Guy (20), back in Kidderminster area, seeks attractive chick(s).’
Kidderminster was only a few miles away, so this last one might have been promising, if it weren’t for the giveaway plural in parentheses. He’d definitely blown his cover, there. Out for a good time, and little else. Though perhaps that was preferable, in a way, to the whiff of desperation that came off some of the other messages.
‘Disenchanted, lonely guy (21), long dark hair, would like communication with aware, thoughtful girl, appreciate anything creative like: progressive, folk, fine art.’
‘Lonely, unattractive guy (22), needs female companionship, looks unimportant. Into Moodies, BJH, Camel etc.’
‘Lonely Hairy, Who and Floyd freak, needs a chick for friendship, love and peace. Stockport area.’
Her mother put the newspaper aside and said: ‘Cup of tea, anyone? Lemonade?’
When she had gone to the kitchen, Paul laid down his rabbit saga and picked up the
Daily Mail.
He began reading it with a tired, sceptical smile on his face.
‘Any chick want to go to India. Split end of Dec, no Straights.’
‘Any chick who wants to see the world, please write.’
Yes, she did want to see the world, now that she thought of it. The slow awareness had been growing inside her, fuelled by holiday programmes on the television and colour photos in the
Sunday Times
magazine, that a universe existed beyond the confines of Longbridge, beyond the terminus of the 62 bus route, beyond Birmingham, beyond England, even. What’s more, she wanted to see it, and she wanted to share it with someone. She wanted someone to hold her hand as she watched the moon rise over the Taj Mahal. She wanted to be kissed, softly but at great length, against the magnificent backdrop of the Canadian Rockies. She wanted to climb Ayers Rock at dawn. She wanted someone to propose marriage to her as the setting sun draped its blood-red fingers over the rose-tinted minarets of the Alhambra.
‘Leeds boy with scooter, looks OK, seeks girlfriend 17-21 for discos, concerts. Photo appreciated.’
‘Wanted girl friend, any age, but 4 ft. 10 in. or under, all letters answered.’
‘Finished.’
Benjamin slammed his exercise book shut and made a big show of packing his pens and books away in the little briefcase he always took to school. His physics text book had started to come apart, so he had re-covered it with a remnant of the anaglypta his father had used to wallpaper the living room two years ago. On the front of his English book he had drawn a big cartoon foot, like the one at the end of the
Monty Python
signature tune.
‘That’s me done for the night.’ He stood over his sister, who was sprawled across both halves of the settee. ‘Gimme that.’
It always annoyed him when Lois got to read
Sounds
before he did. He seemed to think this gave her privileged access to top-secret information. But in truth she cared nothing for the news pages over which he was ready to pore so avidly. Most of the headlines she didn’t even understand.
‘Beefheart here in May.’ ‘New Heep album due.’ ‘Another split in Fanny.’
‘What’s a Freak?’ she asked, handing him the magazine.
Benjamin laughed tartly and pointed at their nine-year-old brother, whose face was aglow with amused contempt as he perused the
Daily Mail.
‘You’re looking at one.’
‘I know that. But a Freak with a capital “F”. I mean, it’s obviously some sort of technical term.’
Benjamin did not reply; and he somehow managed to leave Lois with the impression that he knew the answer well enough, but had chosen to withhold it, for reasons of his own. People always tended to regard him as knowledgeable, well-informed, even though the evidence was plainly to the contrary. There must have been some air about him, some indefinable sense of confidence, which it was easy to mistake for youthful wisdom.
‘Mother,’ said Paul, when she came in with his fizzy drink, ‘why do we take this newspaper?’
Sheila glared at him, obscurely resentful. She had told him many times before to call her ‘Mum’, not ‘Mother’.
‘No reason,’ she said. ‘Why shouldn’t we?’
‘Because it’s full,’ said Paul, flicking through the pages, ‘of platitudinous codswallop.’
Ben and Lois giggled helplessly. ‘I thought “platitudinous” was an animal they had in Australia,’ she said.
‘The lesser-spotted platitudinous,’ said Benjamin, honking and squawking in imitation of this mythical beast.
‘Take this leading article, for instance,’ Paul continued, undeterred.
‘“That precise pageantry which Britain manages so well keeps its hold on our hearts. There’s nothing like a Royal Wedding for lifting our spirits.”’
‘What about it?’ said Sheila, stirring sugar into her tea. ‘I don’t agree with everything I read in there.’
‘“As Princess Anne and Mark Phillips walked out of the Abbey, their faces broke into that slow, spreading smile of people who are really happy.”
Pass the sick bag,
please! “The Prayer Book may be three hundred years old, but its promises are as clear as yesterday’s sunlight.”
Pukerocious!
“‘To have and to hold, for better for worse –’”’
‘That’s quite enough from
you,
Mr Know-All.’ The quiver in Sheila’s voice was enough to expose, just for a second, the sudden panic her youngest son was learning to inspire in her. ‘Drink that up and put your pyjamas on.’
More squabbling ensued, with Benjamin making his own shrill interventions, but Lois did not listen to any of it. These were not the voices with which she longed to surround herself. She left them to it and withdrew to her bedroom, where she was able to re-enter her world of romantic daydreams, a kingdom of infinite colour and possibility. As for Benjamin’s copy of
Sounds,
she had found what she was looking for there, and had no further use for it. She would not even need to sneak down later and take another look, for the box number was easy to remember (it was 247, the same as the Radio One waveband), and the message she had seized upon was one of perfect, magical simplicity. Perhaps that was how she knew that it was meant for her, and her alone.
‘Hairy Guy seeks Chick. Birmingham area.’
2
Meanwhile, Lois’s father Colin was sitting in a pub called The Bull’s Head in King’s Norton. His boss, Jack Forrest, had gone to the bar to get three pints of Brew XI, leaving Colin to make halting conversation with Bill Anderton, a shop steward in the Longbridge underseal section. A fourth member of the party, Roy Slater, was yet to arrive. It was a great relief when Jack came back from the bar.
‘Cheers,’ said Colin, Bill and Jack, drinking from their pints of Brew. After drinking in unison they let out a collective sigh, and wiped the froth from their upper lips. Then they fell silent.
‘I want this to be nice and informal,’ said Jack Forrest, suddenly, when the silence had become too long and too settled for comfort.
‘Informal. Absolutely,’ said Colin.
‘Suits me,’ said Bill. ‘Suits me fine.’
Informally, they sipped on their Brew. Colin looked around the pub, intending to make a comment about the décor, but couldn’t think of one. Bill Anderton stared into his beer.
‘They brew a good pint, don’t they?’ said Jack.
‘Eh?’ said Bill.
‘I said they serve a good pint, in this place.’
‘Not bad,’ said Bill. ‘I’ve had worse.’
This was in the days before men learned to discuss their feelings, of course. And in the days before bonding sessions between management and workforce were at all common. They were pioneers, in a way, these three.
Colin bought another round, and there was still no sign of Roy. They sat and drank their pints. The tables in which their faces were dimly reflected were dark brown, the darkest brown, the colour of Bournville chocolate. The walls were a lighter brown, the colour of Dairy Milk. The carpet was brown, with little hexagons of a slightly different brown, if you looked closely. The ceiling was meant to be off-white, but was in fact brown, browned by the nicotine smoke of a million unfiltered cigarettes. Most of the cars in the car park were brown, as were most of the clothes worn by the patrons. Nobody in the pub really noticed the predominance of brown, or if they did, thought it worth remarking upon. These were brown times.
‘Well then, you two – have you worked it out yet?’ Jack Forrest asked.
‘Worked what out?’ said Bill.
‘There’s a reason for this evening, you know,’ said Jack. ‘I didn’t just pick you out at random. I could have got any personnel officer, and any shop steward, and set this evening up for them. But I didn’t do that. I chose you two for a reason.’
Bill and Colin looked at each other.
‘You have something in common, you see.’ Jack regarded them both in turn, pleased with himself. ‘Don’t you know what it is?’
They shrugged.
‘You’ve both got kids at the same school.’
This information sank in, gradually, and Colin was the first to manage a smile.
‘Anderton – of course. My Ben’s got a friend called Anderton. They’re in the same form. Talks about him from time to time.’ He looked at Bill, now, with something almost approaching warmth. ‘Is that your boy?’
‘That’s him, yes: Duggie. And your son must be Bent.’
Colin seemed puzzled by this, if not a little shocked. ‘No,
Ben,’
he corrected. ‘Ben Trotter. Short for Benjamin.’
‘I know his name’s Benjamin,’ said Bill. ‘But that’s what they call him. Bent Rotter. Ben Trotter. D’you get it?’
After a few seconds, Colin got it. He pursed his lips, wounded on his son’s behalf.
‘Boys can be very cruel,’ he said.
Jack’s face had relaxed into a look of satisfaction. ‘You know, this tells you something about the country we live in today,’ he said. ‘Britain in the 1970s. The old distinctions just don’t mean anything any more, do they? This is a country where a union man and a junior manager – soon to be senior, Colin, I’m sure – can send their sons to the same school and nobody thinks anything of it. Both bright lads, both good enough to have got through the entrance exam, and now there they are: side by side in the cradle of learning. What does that tell you about the class war? It’s over. Truce. Armistice.’ He clasped his pint of Brew and raised it solemnly. ‘Equality of opportunity.’
Colin murmured a shy echo of these words, and drank from his glass. Bill said nothing: as far as he was concerned, the class war was alive and well and being waged with some ferocity at British Leyland, even in Ted Heath’s egalitarian 1970s, but he couldn’t rouse himself to argue the point. His mind was on other things that evening. He put his hand inside his jacket pocket and fingered the cheque and wondered once again if he was going mad.
*
Perhaps it had been a mistake to invite Roy Slater along. The thing about Slater was that everybody hated him, including Bill Anderton, who might have been expected to show some solidarity with his putative comrade-in-arms. But Slater was the worst kind of shop steward, as far as Bill was concerned. He had no talent for negotiation, no imaginative sympathy with the men he was supposed to represent, no grasp of the wider political issues. He was just a loudmouth and a troublemaker, always looking for confrontation, and always coming out of it badly. In union terms he was a nobody, way down the hierarchy of the TGWU’s junior stewards at Longbridge. It was all Bill could do to be civil to him, most of the time, and tonight he was expected to do more than that: honour demanded that the two of them put up some sort of united front against these alluring management overtures. It was enough to make him suspect calculation on Jack’s part. What, after all, could be more effective than to divide the opposition by pairing up two shop stewards who famously couldn’t stand each other?