by Nick Hornby
She showed the poster to Joseph.
“He’s a twat,” said Joseph.
“So why are you thinking of doing what he says?”
“Because it’s nothing to do with him.”
“How can you say that?”
“The money for the N.H.S. and my dad’s salary, that’s not him. He’s just a racist tosser, stirring the shit.”
“And he’s on your team.”
“I haven’t got a team.”
“We’re all in teams this week. One team or the other.”
“I might not vote,” said Joseph.
Lucy was outraged, but she would give him a chance to reply before launching a scathing attack on his sloth and his irresponsibility.
“Why wouldn’t you vote?”
“Because I haven’t got a bloody clue what I think.”
And Lucy laughed, despite herself.
“What’s funny?”
“That’s the sanest and most obvious opinion I’ve heard for months. But, still, you don’t want to stop the racists?”
“Of course I do. But they’ll still be there after all this. This is about sending people back to Poland.”
“I’d have thought . . .” And she stopped herself. Whatever she would have thought (and what a strange tense that was), she either hadn’t finished or hadn’t even started thinking it. Remember the singing, Lucy. She might have that put on a T-shirt.
“I know what you were going to say. What are my family doing, voting the same way as a bunch of racists? But they’re British. I thought you all wanted us to be British. Just because we’re black doesn’t mean we want to stay part of Europe. Half those countries are more racist than anyone here. The Italians. The Poles. The Russians. Just about every country in Eastern Europe. You ever heard the abuse our black players get when they play in those places? They fucking hate us.”
She hadn’t. She was beginning to feel that she didn’t know very much about anything.
“When I was a kid,” said Joseph, “I loved Thierry Henry.”
“Everyone did.”
“Anyway, France were going to play Spain, and the Spain coach was recorded telling one of his players that Henry was a black shit. And there was a fuss, and the coach got fined. But he went to court and had it overturned. Took him, like, three years, but he did it. They still make monkey noises at black players in Spain. It used to happen here, my dad says, but it stopped years ago. That’s why I don’t feel very European. Fuck Europe, man.”
“Now I feel bad that I’m going to vote to stay in.”
“Well, you shouldn’t.”
* * *
—
She went to vote after work, in a dusty little hall that only ever seemed to be used for elections. She wanted to feel a somber sense of duty, but it was hard, when it was just a piece of paper and a stubby little pencil. And usually, when you looked at the piece of paper, you would find names like Lord Cashew Nut, or political movements like the Keep Dogs Out of Lordship Park Party. America, with its machines and its hanging chads, at least tried to make things appear complicated and serious. Today, of course, there was just a question: Should the United Kingdom remain a member of the European Union or leave the European Union? For a moment she wondered whether the boxes underneath would simply say “Yes” or “No,” and the whole thing would have to be scrapped, but the wording was clear. She put a cross in the first box, “Remain a member of the European Union,” folded her piece of paper even though she’d been told there was no need to, and walked out into the early summer evening. On the way home she met a few people she knew, neighbors, parents of the boys’ friends, members of the book group she used to go to before she wanted to kill them. They were all on their way to the polling station. One made a nervous face, another crossed his fingers and held them up, another asked whether she thought it would be all right. It didn’t occur to any of them that she might have voted to leave. And of course she hadn’t, so the presumption was correct. She wanted to stop them all and ask what it was they had invested in the European Union, but she didn’t. She didn’t want them to think she didn’t belong.
* * *
—
On the bus home from the leisure center, Joseph met John, the parent who’d been pushed over by the referee at one of the kids’ matches a while back. When John saw Joseph, he switched seats and sat alongside him.
“You voting?” said John. “I’m stopping off on the way home.”
“Dunno. Haven’t made my mind up.”
“Haven’t you?” said John. “I’m surprised.”
“It’s a complicated question,” said Joseph.
“Not to me,” said John.
“No? So why are you voting, then?” For some reason, Joseph thought “why” was a better question than “how.” He was wrong.
“I’m sick of it.”
“What are you sick of?”
“No offense, but you can’t say anything these days, can you?”
“Can’t you?”
“No.”
“I’m not offended, by the way.”
“How d’you mean?”
“You said, ‘No offense.’”
“Oh. Yeah. But you’re all right.”
“Thanks. And voting to leave is going to help sort that out?”
“I think so, yes,” said John. “But that’s just my opinion.”
“What do you want to say that you can’t?”
“Well, you know how it is. I’m not going to spell it out. I have too much respect for you. But it’s all Afro-Caribbean this, and gay that, and lesbian the other.”
“But how will leaving Europe help?”
“It can’t make it any worse, can it? And as I understand it, it’s a lot of their laws. Brussels.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Apparently. Anyway. This is me.”
He stood up.
“Think about it.”
“I will,” said Joseph.
“See you next season.”
And he was gone.
* * *
—
When he got home, his mother thrust his polling card at him.
“You’ll need this.”
“I don’t know if I’m going down there.”
“Yes, you are. People died so you could have a vote.”
“Who?”
“Well, you don’t know them. They died a long time ago.”
“All right, but what kind of people?”
“Soldiers. In the war.”
“The Second World War?”
“If you like.”
Joseph laughed at her vagueness.
“It’s not funny.”
“I was laughing at you, not people dying in the war.”
“Oh, let’s all laugh at me again.”
“The Second World War was Winston Churchill, right?”
“Oh, Joseph.”
“I’m not checking my facts. I know about World War Two. I’m trying to construct an argument. Hear me out. So that was Churchill. And you’re voting to leave, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you know what Churchill wanted, don’t you?”
“I know some of the things. Which one are you talking about?”
“He wanted a united Europe.”
“Who told you that? Your fancy woman?”
“Look it up. He defeated Hitler. And then he said, enough war in Europe. Let’s have a European union.”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Would it have changed your mind?”
“Yes. Of course. He was a great man. Your grandparents loved him.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. You won’t win.”
“Why do you say that? Everyone I’ve talked to in this street is vo
ting out. But it doesn’t matter. Vote. Take your card and go down to the school and be a responsible person. Like I said, people died for this.”
Joseph wasn’t sure that she’d proved that to his satisfaction, but he took the card and left the house. Lucy didn’t know anyone who was voting out. None of his neighbors were voting in. Joseph was somewhere halfway between. Before all this business, he’d have guessed that everyone was in the middle, really, not that bothered about anything, but he seemed to be all on his own. When he got to the school hall and looked at the ballot paper, he put a cross in both boxes, because he thought both things. He wouldn’t have to lie to anybody.
* * *
—
He was starving, so he went to McDonald’s for something to eat. He didn’t do it very often. He spent part of his week encouraging kids to get fit, and he didn’t want to be caught with his nose in a heap of Chicken Selects smothered in barbecue sauce. But every now and again, the need became too great, and he hadn’t asked Lucy to save him anything, and he didn’t want her to cook for him when he arrived at hers. And he wasn’t even sure he was going to go round and see her. She would be glued to the news, and he’d get bored, and he’d go on his phone, and though she wouldn’t say anything, he’d feel judged. She would think he was stupid, or young, or something. Or maybe it would be him thinking these things about himself. Either way, maybe it was best to give it a rest for an evening.
* * *
—
He took his tray over to a corner of the restaurant in the hope of keeping his junk-food shame secret, and found himself heading straight for Jaz and one of her friends. He smiled and said hello, and hovered for a moment, in case she invited him to sit with her, but she looked at him as if he’d ordered a large dead cat stewed in its own vomit, and turned away. He sat where he was going to sit anyway, and started scrolling through Instagram.
“Is that it, then?” she said. “You’re just going to sit there?”
“I said hello, and you looked away.”
“I’d need much more than a hello.”
“I’m not sure what I’ve got that’s more than a hello.”
“That’s what I told everyone.”
Joseph rolled his eyes.
“I’m only messing around. I never mentioned you to anyone. Darcy, this is Joseph. The guy I was telling you about. I’m only messing around again.”
“Hi, Darcy.”
“Hel-lo,” said Darcy. “Have you finished with him?”
“He finished with me,” said Jaz. “But I might not let that happen.”
“Well,” said Darcy. “If you do, let me know.”
Joseph wondered whether he would be allowed any choice in the matter. He knew, because his sister had lectured him on the subject many times, that young women grew up with all sorts of body issues because of men like him. But in an extremely private conversation with himself, one that didn’t even involve him moving his lips, he would admit that maybe Darcy was too large, by several stones, to be his absolutely ideal woman.
“You’re too big for him,” said Jaz. “I know his type.”
“Is that true?” said Darcy.
“No,” said Joseph. “Of course not. She doesn’t know my type, and you’re not too big for me.”
He was trying to make amends for Jaz’s rudeness, but he felt that he was overcompensating, and now in danger of committing himself long-term to Darcy.
“See?” said Darcy.
“He’s lying,” said Jaz to Darcy. “She has loads of men after her, so it doesn’t matter,” she said to Joseph.
Joseph wanted to move the subject away from Darcy’s love life, and the only way he could do it effectively was to offer Jaz a chance at stardom via his track. He had intended to approach her with more subtlety, without third parties present, and perhaps not halfway through a meal in McDonald’s, but those luxuries were unaffordable now.
“I’ve been meaning to call you,” he said. He needed an introductory sentence of some kind before telling her that he wanted to record her, but that was the wrong one, inviting only scorn and bitterness.
“Oh, I’ll bet.”
“I was.”
“What was stopping you, then?”
“I was looking for the right moment. Plus, I wanted to give it a bit more time. After the, the night we went to the cinema.”
“I went back to his place afterward,” Jaz explained to Darcy. “But he wasn’t interested.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Darcy.
Of course she knew. Everybody knew, probably.
“Are you still with your girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
“So why did you mean to call me, if you’re not single?”
Somehow he had ended up exactly where he wanted to be.
“I was going to ask you to sing on a track.”
He tried to anticipate the wounding answer, but none was forthcoming. She gaped at him.
“Really?”
“Yes. I think you’re an amazing singer.”
“How much?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh.”
“That can’t be right,” said Darcy.
“I’m not earning anything from it,” said Joseph.
“That’s not her problem, though, is it?”
“No. But if she won’t sing for free, I’d respect her decision and look elsewhere.”
“You can’t cut her out just like that.”
“Nobody’s cut her in yet.”
“You just asked me to sing on your track!” said Jaz, apparently genuinely outraged. “And now you’re going back on it!”
The conversation about the singing didn’t seem to be going any better than the conversation about Darcy’s size, although that particular minefield at least offered an escape route: he could have tiptoed through it and out of McDonald’s with Darcy to the nearest registry office. The way out of this one was not immediately obvious.
“Listen,” said Joseph. “If I make a million quid from it, she can have half a million.”
“Don’t fall for that,” said Darcy.
“Fall for what?”
“What he’s saying is, if he makes half a million quid, he won’t give you a penny. Because that wasn’t the deal.”
“I’m saying that if I make half a million, she gets a quarter.”
“A quarter of a million, or a quarter of what you make?”
Jesus Christ.
“A quarter of a million. Half. If I make ten quid, she gets a fiver. Five hundred, she gets two hundred and fifty. I’m not going to go through every single possible amount and then halve it.”
“But half of nothing is still nothing.”
“Yes. Agreed. Up to you.”
He hadn’t eaten many of his Chicken Selects. He picked one up, dunked it in the sauce and began to chew ostentatiously, to indicate that the negotiation was over for now. The girls stood up to leave.
“I might be interested,” said Jaz. “Have you ever been in that studio in Turnpike Lane?”
“No. Have you?”
“Yeah. Boy I was seeing worked there for a bit. It’s for disadvantaged young people in Haringey.”
“What does that mean?”
“Which word don’t you understand?”
“I understand it all. I’m just wondering whether it applies to us.”
“It applies to me.”
“Good. I mean, not good, but . . .”
“And you have to take us to dinner.”
“Both of you?”
“Unless it’s a date.”
Joseph picked up a Select and shoved it into his mouth quick, even though he hadn’t finished the first one. Jaz laughed.
“I’ll call you,” she said, and he nodded vigorously.
* * *
�
�
Lucy went to bed before the result came in, and only had a vague sense of unease when she turned the light off. She was uneasy about the future direction of the country, and she was also uneasy about the future of her relationship with Joseph. She didn’t expect explanations, or long devotional epistles in text form, but she was surprised and a little stung by the brevity: Not coming tonight. Xx. He came every night, and they hadn’t talked about him not coming, and she suddenly realized that if and when it ended, it would probably be as sudden as that, and there’d be no need for long anguished conversations, or counseling. There would be no tears or accusation or self-flagellation, either, which was of course a good thing, but also implied a kind of insecurity, like a zero-hours contract. The end of a marriage was miserable and difficult, but that was because it was a living, breathing thing, and when it died, grief was inevitable. Her thing with Joseph existed only when they were together, in the same room, it seemed to her now. And if they weren’t in the same room, then it wasn’t anything at all. As she lay sleepless in the dark, she had to admit that she was more worried about Joseph than she was about Brexit, seeing as she wasn’t thinking about Brexit.
* * *
—
And then she turned on the radio the next morning, and the unease solidified into fear, and Joseph wasn’t anything to do with it. When there were still two possibilities, in and out, she had, she felt, made her peace with the other side, with Sam, and Joseph’s dad, and all the other people who wanted something, anything, to change. Now that her desired outcome had been removed, and she found herself living in a country where the BBC were sticking microphones up to the mouths of jubilant racists, opportunists, liars, and cynics, people whose unpleasantness had made them famous over these last few months, all the ambiguity had gone.
Even the boys seemed to be listening while they ate their cereal.