All the Lonely People

by Mike Gayle

  “That’ll be the country air,” said Hubert, trying to make light of the matter. “None of those city fumes getting in your lungs!”

  David didn’t respond.

  They continued like this, Hubert asking question after question, with David offering one-word answers or nothing at all for a good twenty minutes. Eventually Hubert gave up trying and instead they sat in silence, enjoying the peace and the sunshine.

  When a gong sounded David said, “It’s the lunch bell,” and without any further comment stood up as if to leave.

  Hubert couldn’t believe it. He’d driven all this way to see his son for the first time in two months on his birthday of all days, and this was all he was getting? It seemed wrong. Very wrong. But he didn’t know what he could do.

  He reached under the table and handed the bag with the presents and cards to David.

  “For you, son, from all of us. Happy birthday.”

  Without acknowledgment, David accepted the bag, then began walking away. Something about this moment made Hubert feel that this was the end. As if his son was going to spend the rest of his life walking away from him. In that moment he realized he couldn’t let this happen without asking the one question he needed an answer to.

  He called out after David.

  “Just answer me this one thing: Is this our fault? Did we make you this way?”

  It was the question he and Joyce had tortured themselves with most over the years. Had they been too strict with him or not strict enough? Had their expectations been too high or too low? Would things have been different if they’d stayed in Brixton or moved right out of London to live somewhere like this in the countryside? Could they have saved him if only they’d been more observant when he was younger, or been quicker to condemn his actions when he was older? These endless musings were enough to drive anyone over the edge, and all the more so when they were being asked of the two people who loved the boy most in the world.

  For once, David seemed as if he was actually considering the question, but then he lifted his gaze from his feet to Hubert and, without another word, walked away.

  31

  NOW

  So what them say?” asked Hubert.

  “Was she posh?” asked Jan. “They’re always posh, them BBC types.”

  “Are they going to mention us on the news?” asked Fiona.

  “Hold your fire, everyone,” said Ashleigh, resting her phone on Hubert’s kitchen table. “Let me just catch my breath and get my thoughts together for a minute.”

  “Come on,” said Hubert, pulling out a chair for Ashleigh. “Sit down and take your time.”

  It was the morning after the committee meeting where Ashleigh had relayed the exciting news about the BBC. Following an exchange of emails, a time had been arranged for Ashleigh to talk to the journalist, and while the whole committee had been desperate to be in on the conversation, in the end, due to their various commitments, only Hubert, Jan, and Fiona were available. The journalist had called Ashleigh on her mobile, as arranged, just after ten, and she’d disappeared into Hubert’s front room to take it, emerging over half an hour later, by which time Hubert, Jan, and Fiona were bursting with questions.

  “Right,” said Ashleigh, scooping up Layla, who had just run in from the garden, proudly carrying a fistful of dandelions that she presented to her mum. “It’s basically better than we could ever have hoped. This journalist’s family lives in Bromley and she was visiting on Sunday when she saw a leaflet that her mum had been given by one of us while out shopping. Anyway, she loved the idea behind the campaign and so yesterday she pitched it to her boss—that’s journalist talk for telling her about it—and her boss liked it too, so she contacted us. Anyway, I’ve told her all about the committee, how we got started and what our aims are, and she loves it, and she’s pretty sure that they’ll be able to do a three- or four-minute piece about us on BBC London!”

  “That’s amazing,” said Fiona. “To think what it would cost for prime-time publicity like that and here we are getting it for free.”

  “I always watch BBC London,” said Jan. “I like that fella, the one with the bright ties who they get to do the funny stories. Maybe they’ll send him and we’ll get to meet a real celebrity! Oh, when are they thinking of filming? I’m not due to get my hair done until next week. That said, I suppose I could give Bryony a call and see if she can squeeze me in sooner. She might do if I tell her I’m going to be on the telly.”

  “Well, about that,” began Ashleigh. “The thing is, they don’t want all of us, apparently it gets too complicated if there are too many voices. They only want one of us talking on camera.”

  “Who do they want?” asked Fiona. “You?”

  “No,” said Ashleigh. “They want Hubert.”

  Hubert sat up in his chair. “Them what?”

  “They want you to be the one who talks about the campaign,” repeated Ashleigh. “When I was telling her about everyone, I mentioned that you came over from Jamaica sixty years ago and she got really excited. She started talking about the Windrush generation and how you’d make a great ‘angle’ for the piece.”

  Hubert pulled a face. The last thing he wanted was to be on TV. Apart from the embarrassment of speaking in front of a camera, what if Rose or someone who knew her saw the program and she found out that, far from being the life and soul of the party, her old dad was on TV wittering about loneliness? No, he definitely couldn’t do it.

  “Can’t Fiona do it?” suggested Hubert. “She’s been a head teacher. She’s used to getting up and talking in front of people.”

  “I would happily volunteer,” said Fiona. “But I can see what the journalist is saying. There are so many news stories competing for airtime these days and if you don’t have an angle, the story and the message it’s carrying can easily get lost. With Windrush being in the news, not just because of its upcoming anniversary but also because of the scandal, it’s adding another layer, a greater dimension to our story.”

  Hubert could see her point. He’d been following the story of how the government had been treating people like him ever since it had first been on the news. And although he felt outraged and disgusted by the whole sorry business, he wasn’t sure this was enough to persuade him to get in front of a camera.

  “But me no feel right about it,” he said. “It’s just not me. Tell them Fiona will do it and see what them say.”

  “The thing is, Hubert, I knew this would be how you’d react and so I told the woman that you’re quite shy and don’t really like the limelight, but reading between the lines I think she was trying to say that if you couldn’t do it, then there was a pretty good chance we wouldn’t get on.” Ashleigh sighed and put a hand on Hubert’s shoulder. “If you really don’t want to do it, don’t. We’ll just have to find another way to get people interested in the campaign.”

  An hour later, having come no closer to a decision, the others left, giving Hubert some time to mull over the situation alone. Sitting at his garden table, a freshly made mug of tea in front of him, enjoying the warmth of the midmorning sun against his skin, Hubert considered the options open to him. On the one hand he could be firm in his refusal, but this would mean letting down the committee for a second time in less than a week. But if he agreed to be on the program, then not only would he have to talk into a camera, which was a dreadful enough prospect on its own, but he would run the risk of Rose finding out the truth about him.

  He was, he noted with deep despondency, damned whatever he did, and closing his eyes, he wondered once again what his dear Joyce might have advised him under such circumstances. “Well, I wouldn’t have gotten myself into this predicament in the first place!” he could almost hear her saying. “Just like cheats, liars never prosper. That said, what’s done is done and sometimes you’ve just got to make the best of how things are.” Hubert smiled, feeling a sense of comfort settle on him as he imagined his wife sitting by his side as she’d done at this very table many times over the years. The m
oment he opened his eyes, however, that sense of comfort vanished, leaving behind the sorrow of losing her as keen as it had ever been, while at the same time handing him a new sense of clarity, a better understanding of the way forward.

  Returning to the house, he picked up his phone and dialed Ashleigh’s number.

  “Hello, Hubert. Can’t talk long, I’m just off to work. Everything okay?”

  “Everything is fine. Call that journalist. Me changed me mind.”

  Over the next few days, Hubert thought about picking up the phone to tell Rose about the filming, reasoning that he could explain it away as something he was helping a friend with. However, the thing that stopped him was the further lies that would be required to make this new story believable. Who was the friend? Why had they asked him to help? What did a social butterfly like her father know about the subject of loneliness?

  Thankfully, before he’d had a chance to change his mind, the day of the filming arrived. Having only ever seen TV crews on the news when they were huddled together in front of a politician or a scandal-hit celebrity, Hubert was somewhat disappointed when the journalist arrived at his house a little after midday, accompanied only by an extremely tall man carrying a number of metal cases.

  “Hi,” said the journalist. “I’m Verity and this is my cameraman, Hugh. You must be Mr. Bird.”

  “You can call me Hubert.” He gestured toward Fiona, Ashleigh, Maude, and Jan, who had all come to offer their support. “And this is the committee… well, at least those who could make it today.”

  Verity offered the others a polite smile before asking Hubert if she and Hugh could have a look around the house to see where it would be best to set up. They were gone a good ten minutes, during which time Hubert made a pot of tea for everyone in an effort to calm his nerves and Maude polished off an entire plate of biscuits.

  “I think we’re going to set up in your front room, if that’s okay,” explained Verity. “It’s such a sweet room, just like my grandparents’, plus the light in there is really good.”

  It took a good half hour before they were ready to start filming and Hubert had to wear a microphone on the lapel of his jacket, just like the newsreaders on TV. The questions Verity posed were straightforward. She asked how long it had been since Hubert had lost Joyce, what his life was like living alone, and how he’d come to get involved with the campaign.

  Hubert had tried his best to be truthful, even though at times, particularly while talking about his experience of loneliness, he had felt uncomfortable. But there was a warmth about Verity that had put him at ease, so he’d answered her questions as best he could, trying all the time to turn the subject back to the campaign and what they hoped to achieve.

  With the main interview over, Hugh asked if he could take some footage in a few different locations, explaining that these scenes would be edited in later. He filmed Hubert in his garden watering his hydrangeas, standing at the sink washing up, and sitting in his armchair pretending to watch television.

  The following evening, when Hubert would normally have been eating his dinner with Puss curled up on the sofa asleep next to him, he was instead round at Ashleigh’s again with the other members of the committee squashed around him, all angling for a clear view of the TV set.

  So far they had sat through news items on a fire at a local tire factory, the police reopening of an old murder case, a local school threatening to close early on Fridays due to budget cuts, and now the building of a new online retailer’s depot promising to bring over fifteen hundred jobs to the southeast.

  “I bet we’re next,” said Ashleigh. “Local news always starts with the depressing stuff and finishes with the stuff that’s supposed to make you smile. That’s got to be us.”

  Hubert tried to join in with the lighthearted chatter going on around him but his heart wasn’t in it. He was too scared that he was about to make a fool of himself and even more terrified that his daughter might see him doing it. He felt so sick with nerves that all he wanted was to get up and leave, but then the room erupted into huge cheers as Hubert saw himself on the screen.

  Given how much they had filmed, Hubert was surprised by how little of it they had used. None of the stuff in the garden appeared, for example, but the fake committee meeting Verity had proposed, complete with cameos from Jan, Fiona, and Ashleigh, had featured heavily.

  Once the piece was over, Ashleigh turned off the TV and everyone gave Hubert a big round of applause.

  “You were brilliant, Hubert,” said Ashleigh. “Absolutely amazing.”

  “You look like film star, Mr. Hubert,” said Emils, patting him on the back.

  Jan gave Hubert a peck on the cheek.

  “You’ll have all the ladies after you now!”

  “Splendid job,” said Fiona. “You acted like a real professional.”

  Hubert didn’t know what to feel or what to think. He just felt shell-shocked and the whole thing seemed unreal.

  Maude started a round of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” and everybody except Tony, who was staring at his phone, joined in. Before they could get to the “And so say all of us” refrain, Tony yelled, “I can’t believe it!” at the top of his voice.

  “What?” asked Ashleigh.

  “Our Twitter feed. You know how last time we checked we only had two followers? Well, look at it now.”

  Tony held his phone out so everyone could get a better look at the screen. Even without his glasses on or, for that matter, any real idea what a “Twitter” was, Hubert could see that something was happening.

  “Our followers,” said Emils. “They’re shooting up!”

  “It’s the same for Facebook too,” said Tony. “Our numbers are going through the roof! A photo I posted on the group page of us all has got over three hundred likes and that’s within the last five minutes! This is it, guys, this is what we’ve been waiting for! We’ve gone viral!”

  32

  THEN

  September 1996

  Rose was sitting in her bright yellow Beetle, the one she’d bought seven years earlier as a thirtieth-birthday present to herself. She peered up at her parents’ house and felt like a failure. A complete and utter failure. Ordinarily the journey from Manchester to Bromley to visit her parents was a joyous one filled with the wonderful expectation of being simultaneously spoiled and heralded, an experience she appreciated all the more the older she became. Today, however, was different. After years of being their golden girl, of making them proud, of doing the right thing, she was finally going to disappoint them.

  It had been in the cards a long time, but she and Robin were getting divorced. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. They’d just gotten married too young. They weren’t the people they’d been when they’d first met at university; they’d both changed over the years, sculpted and formed by the things that had happened to them: career failures and successes, ill health and family problems, fertility issues and affairs on both sides. It all added up to a recipe for disaster, a parting of ways. An ending. The Victorian terrace in Didsbury they’d bought for a song when it had been a wreck had sold almost overnight and the thought of remaining in the area they’d once called home felt too much to bear.

  With her share of the money from the house sale and a yearlong research grant, she was free from the confines of a teaching post for a while and the decision had been easy: she would get all of her things put in storage, escape to her parents’ home back in Bromley for a while, lick her wounds, and then begin the work of mapping out the next stage of her life.

  Not wanting to attract the attention of the neighbors, Rose climbed out of the car and, locking it behind her, made her way quickly up the path. Reaching into her handbag, she fished out her keys and opened up the front door. Once inside, she stood for a moment listening for signs of life, and hearing the sound of a tap gushing water in the kitchen, she made her way down the hallway, knocked once on the pine door, and entered the room.

  “Rose!” exclaimed Hubert as he turned towa
rd the door, kettle in hand, wearing a look of complete surprise. “What you doing here?”

  Steeling herself, Rose walked over to her father, kissed his cheek, and forced a laugh. “Good to see you too, Dad!”

  “Of course me always glad to see you,” said Hubert, putting down the kettle on the kitchen counter. He gave her a proper hug. “Me just wasn’t expecting you, that’s all. Where’s Robin? Parking the car?”

  Rose shook her head. She felt sick with nerves.

  “No, Dad, I left Robin at home.”

  Hubert kissed his teeth, his mind clearly stuck on the topic of the street being overcrowded. “Parking around here is getting to be impossible!” he opined. “Since them damn people knocked down the old Salvation Army place next door and built those flats, every man and his dog is parking him car left, right, and center.”

  Rose forced another smile. “I managed to get a cracking parking spot right outside the front of the house.”

  Hubert laughed.

  “The neighbors must have known you were coming. So poor Robin is on his own?”

  Rose nodded. “Yes, Dad, it’s just me.”

  He gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “ ‘Just me,’ she says, as if she’s nobody special!” He gestured to an empty chair at the kitchen table. “You sit yourself down. Let me tell your mother you’re here, then I’ll make you a nice cup of tea and you can tell me all about the exciting things you’ve been up to.”

  Hubert bustled out of the room, leaving Rose alone in the kitchen. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, savoring the familiarity of it all. The ticking of the clock over the kitchen window, the sound of the kettle bubbling away, the lingering smell of a Saturday-morning fry-up in the air, combined with the scent of the same brand of lemon dish soap they had always used. This was home and always would be, no matter how old she was or how many years she had lived away.