Middle England

by Jonathan Coe

  *

  Sophie had been in London, doing some research at the British Library, on the day Ian received his injury. He was taken to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, where the doctors carried out rigorous tests until they were satisfied there was no cerebral damage; but he continued to suffer from concussion and was still in hospital on Saturday morning. Sophie offered to collect his mother from Kernel Magna and bring her over for an afternoon visit. She had already spoken to Helena on the phone and knew that she was very distressed by the whole episode.

  She knocked on Helena’s door at around two o’clock, and was surprised to find it opened by a young woman she did not recognize. She was petite and had short blonde hair and pale blue eyes.

  ‘Sophie?’ the woman said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Grete. I do the cleaning for Mrs Coleman. Come in, she’s almost ready for you.’

  ‘You work on Saturdays?’ said Sophie, following her inside.

  ‘No, not at all. But Mrs Coleman has been very upset by what happened to her son. I was a little worried about her so I came to check on her and also to bring something to eat. I was worried that she might not be eating.’

  ‘Sophie?’ a voice now called from upstairs. ‘Is that you?’

  Sophie hurried up the stairs and found Helena, already wearing a lightweight coat, searching her own bedroom with an air of distraction.

  ‘My glasses,’ she said. ‘I put them down here somewhere. Can you see them?’

  They were on the bed, almost invisible against the dark green coverlet.

  ‘Thank you. Is that girl still here?’

  ‘Grete? Yes, she just let me in.’ Sophie helped Helena fasten the buttons of her coat. ‘I’m not sure you’ll need this in the car, you know. It’s quite warm today.’

  ‘What’s she doing here, though?’ Helena asked.

  ‘I got the impression she just wanted to see that you were OK.’

  ‘Well, that’s rather odd, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘She brought me some soup. Mushroom soup.’

  ‘I know. I can smell it. Smells lovely.’

  ‘It was full of garlic, or sauerkraut, or some such. I’m afraid I couldn’t finish it. Do you think she wants … I mean, do you think she’s expecting anything in return?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. Come on, you’re good to go.’

  Sophie took her arm and escorted her down the stairs, then thanked Grete and watched her drive off down the village high street. After that, there was all the business of getting Helena into the car and fastening her seat belt. Sophie guessed that the drive to the hospital would take just under an hour. Could they hope to sustain a conversation for all that time? Could they avoid contentious subjects? Having discussed, again, the circumstance of Grete’s visit – which Helena seemed to regard almost as an impertinence – they fell into a silence which Sophie struggled to break by chatting randomly about the weather, the traffic, holiday plans, anything that was safe and neutral. But it now appeared that Helena’s mind had started to dwell, inexorably, on images she had seen on the television and in the newspapers over the last week, and on the injuries sustained by her son.

  ‘Where will it end, Sophie? Where will all this dreadful business end?’

  Of course, Sophie knew what she meant by ‘this dreadful business’. But it was the middle of a quiet Saturday afternoon in August. They were driving along the A435, not far from the Wythall roundabout, and the sun shone placidly on the roofs of cars, the traffic signs, the petrol stations, the hedgerows, the pubs, the garden centres, the convenience stores, all the familiar landmarks of modern England. It was hard, at that moment, to see the world as a dreadful place. (Or a very inspiring one, for that matter.) She was about to formulate some bland response – ‘Oh, you know, life goes on’, ‘These things blow over after a while’ – when Helena added:

  ‘He was quite right, you know. “Rivers of blood”. He was the only one brave enough to say it.’

  Sophie froze when she heard these words, and the platitudes died on her lips. The silence that opened up between her and Helena was fathomless now. Here it was, after all. The subject that wouldn’t, couldn’t, be discussed. The subject that divided people more than any other, mortified people more than any other, because to bring it up was to strip off your own clothes and to tear off the other person’s clothes and to be forced to stare at each other naked, unprotected, with no way of averting your eyes. Any reply she made to Helena at this moment – any reply that tried to give an honest sense of her own, differing views – would immediately mean confronting the unspeakable truth: that Sophie (and everyone like her) and Helena (and everyone like her) might be living cheek-by-jowl in the same country, but they also lived in different universes, and these universes were separated by a wall, infinitely high, impermeable, a wall built out of fear and suspicion and even – perhaps – a little bit of those most English of all qualities, shame and embarrassment. Impossible to deal with any of this. The only practical thing was to ignore it (but for how long was that practical, in fact?) and to double down, for now, on the desperate, unconsoling fiction that all of this was just a minor difference of opinion, like not quite seeing eye-to-eye over a neighbour’s choice of colour scheme or the merits of a particular TV show.

  And so they drove on without speaking, for ten minutes or more, until they reached King’s Heath and were driving alongside Highbury Park and Sophie said, ‘The leaves are turning already,’ and Helena answered, ‘I know. So pretty, but it seems to happen earlier every year, doesn’t it?’

  *

  The new Queen Elizabeth Hospital, one of Birmingham’s proudest and most recent glories, had been open for little more than a year at this time. Its three nine-storey towers, glitteringly modern in white aluminium and glass, dominated the skyline as you drove out of Selly Oak towards Edgbaston. Inside, the enormous atrium with its glass ceiling induced a sense of calm and admiration and even gentle optimism, so that for once the experience of entering a hospital did not result in an immediate lowering of the spirits. It was such a pleasant space that Sophie could imagine coming here just to visit the café, maybe to read a book and do some work. In fact, even today several people seemed to be doing just that. She recognized one of her colleagues from the humanities department, deep in some volume by Marina Warner.

  She and Helena took the lift up to a ward on the fourth floor, where they found Ian sitting up in bed in his pyjamas. His head was still bandaged but he seemed cheerful enough, drinking a cup of tea and talking to his friend Simon Bishop. Simon rose to his feet when he saw them, and kissed them both on the cheek. He had already met Sophie twice over dinner, and made no secret of the fact that he thought Ian had made a spectacular catch.

  ‘I was just going, Mrs C,’ he now said, to Helena. ‘I don’t want to be in your way.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Simon. It’s always lovely to see you. What a week you must have had!’

  ‘It’s been tough, I wouldn’t argue with that. And the worst thing is that we failed.’

  ‘Failed? How did you fail?’

  ‘Three deaths. Three members of the public. We failed to protect them.’

  Simon was referring to the three young men – Abdul Musavir, Shahzad Ali and Haroon Jahan – who had been mown down by a car while trying to protect a row of shops on the Dudley Road in Winson Green on Wednesday night. It had been the single most deadly incident anywhere in the country, during the whole six days’ rioting.

  ‘That was very sad, especially for their families,’ said Helena. ‘But they put themselves in harm’s way, after all …’

  ‘Not really, with respect,’ said Simon. ‘No one could have anticipated an attack like that, out of the blue. To be honest, what your idiot son here did was far more reckless.’

  Ian smiled weakly. He reached his hand out to Sophie and she enfolded it in a tight clasp with both her own.

  ‘Yes, I plan to have a word with him abo
ut that,’ said Helena, ‘when he’s feeling better.’ It was an ominous statement, like so many of hers.

  Towards the end of the visit, Simon said: ‘Tell you what, Helena: let’s leave the lovebirds together for a while. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of tea.’

  Taking her by the arm, he led her out of the ward and towards the lifts. She turned and blew her son a reproachful kiss before passing through the doorway.

  ‘So,’ said Sophie, turning to Ian and feeling the immediate sense of relaxation that always (she had already noticed) came over her when she was no longer in Helena’s presence, ‘how’s the local hero really feeling today?’

  ‘Great,’ he answered. ‘And how are you feeling? How was the drive over?’

  ‘Oh, we got through it,’ Sophie answered. ‘It was fine, actually. I mean, she started quoting Enoch Powell at one point, but we … got past that. So you’ll be coming home soon? In a day or two?’

  ‘Sounds like it.’

  ‘Do you feel ready?’

  ‘Sure. They just say not to do anything too exciting for a while, or anything that involves physical exertion.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Sophie, smiling and looking crestfallen at the same time. ‘That’s a shame. I was hoping we could do something that was exciting and involved physical exertion.’

  Stealthily she moved her hand across the blanket towards Ian’s crotch area. She gave a squeeze and felt a stirring underneath. Ian squirmed beneath the bedclothes, in a kind of blissful frustration.

  ‘You behaved like a total prat on Wednesday,’ she now told him. ‘And I’ve never fancied you as much as I have since then.’

  It was true. She knew for a fact that not one of her other friends, academic colleagues or former boyfriends would have acted as Ian had done in those circumstances. It had been an entirely foolish, dangerous, counter-productive thing to do, and she had never felt more proud, or more strongly attracted to him.

  ‘Listen, when you’ve finished tormenting me,’ he said, blushing and glancing quickly around at the other occupants of the ward, ‘there were a couple of things I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Sophie, not moving her hand an inch.

  ‘When you … when you take Mum back tonight, do you think you could take the bins out for her? They’re not collected till Monday but she can’t really do it herself.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And can you check the cables at the back of her TV? Something’s up with the sound, apparently.’

  ‘She mentioned that, yes. Sure. Anything else?’

  ‘Erm … yeah.’ He took her hand, moved it away from the affected area, and gave it a fervent squeeze. ‘There was one other thing.’ He looked directly into her eyes. ‘Will you marry me, please?’

  Everything seemed to go silent. The world seemed to stop turning. And this delusion – if that’s what it was – seemed to go on for ever.

  Finally Sophie laughed and said: ‘You’re joking, right?’

  At which Ian laughed and said: ‘Yes.’

  She was not relieved, exactly: but at least she could breathe normally again. Or could at first, until he added: ‘Of course I’m joking. The bins aren’t collected till Tuesday.’

  The silence returned; longer and more profound than ever. Until he repeated the question:

  ‘Well? Will you?’

  And the thing that most surprised her, when she looked back, was how easily the answer had come to her.

  11.

  When Doug met Nigel Ives at the café next to Temple tube station on 19 August, one week after the riots had ended, Nigel was looking his usual cheerful self.

  ‘Good morning, Douglas,’ he said. ‘I took the liberty of ordering a cappuccino for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Doug, stirring in some extra sugar. ‘Now let’s cut to the chase. What exactly is going on in this country?’

  Nigel’s eyes were wide with innocent confusion. ‘To be honest with you, Douglas, if these little conversations are going to be productive, your questions are going to have to be a bit clearer than that. You see, that could really mean anything. If you’re talking about the slowdown in high-street sales, then, yes, the chancellor will admit that’s slightly disappointing –’

  ‘I’m not talking about the slowdown in high-street sales.’

  ‘OK – well, if you’re talking about the phone-hacking scandal, then the home secretary would be the first to admit that the revelations so far have been disturbing, and that’s why there’s a robust ongoing investigation –’

  ‘I’m not talking about the phone-hacking scandal.’

  Nigel shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, in that case I’ve no idea what you could be referring to.’ He sipped his coffee and then, with foam still clinging to his upper lip, said: ‘Unless you mean the riots, of course.’

  Doug smiled. ‘There we are. You got there in the end. Of course I mean the riots.’

  Nigel seemed puzzled. ‘Well, we can talk about those, if you like, but you do realize that they finished more than a week ago? I thought you’d want to talk about slightly more topical things than that.’

  ‘I think this will be the most important story for quite some time to come,’ said Doug.

  ‘Really?’ Nigel seemed astonished. ‘You really think it’s that important?’

  ‘Let me spell it out for you,’ Doug said. ‘Civil unrest on an unprecedented scale. Not just in London but all over the country – Manchester, Birmingham, Leicester. Incredible damage to property. A situation which looked, for a while, as though it was going to get completely out of control. Hundreds of people injured and already five fatalities. Could it be any worse?’

  ‘I know you media people always like to paint a gloomy picture. Always talking Britain down.’

  ‘For God’s sake, even your boss decided to cut his holiday short and fly home to address parliament.’

  Nigel pursed his lips solemnly. It seemed to be this final argument that weighed most heavily with him.

  ‘All right, Douglas. You’re right. It was a pretty desperate situation. But it was precisely Dave’s decisive action that means the whole thing can be put behind us now.’

  ‘Put behind us? What happened last week revealed an incredible fault line running right through British society. How can we just put it behind us?’

  ‘Let’s get one thing straight, Douglas. These events had nothing to do with political protest. They were criminal, not political. In the Commons, Dave was quite clear on that point.’

  ‘He may have been clear, but that doesn’t make it true.’

  ‘That may be an important distinction to you, Douglas. But you’re a writer. You put more value on words than most people do. Dave spoke to parliament in plain, simple language, and what he said struck a chord with people up and down the country. That’s what real leadership looks like.’

  ‘So the coalition is not going to take any political lessons from these events at all?’

  ‘Of course they are. We need more police on the streets.’

  ‘That can’t be the whole solution, surely?’

  ‘And they need better equipment. Helmets, riot shields …’

  ‘What about some more long-term thinking?’

  ‘Water cannons, perhaps. Pepper spray.’

  ‘I was thinking of a more radical approach.’

  ‘Tear gas, tasers …’

  ‘But what about tackling things at the root?’

  ‘Are you suggesting we give the police guns, Douglas? Armed police, on the streets of our cities? Really, I’m surprised at you. I didn’t know you had such an authoritarian streak. But all options have to be kept on the table. We’ll bear it in mind.’

  Doug sat back in his chair and regarded Nigel thoughtfully. He had many years’ experience of dealing with politicians and their spokespeople, but he’d never encountered anyone quite like this.

  ‘But Nigel, these weren’t just people randomly and spontaneously running into shops and stealing stuff. Yes, there was a bit of that,
especially towards the end. But look how it started. The police shot a black man dead and then refused to communicate with his family about it. A crowd gathered outside the station to protest and the mood turned angry. This was about race, and about power relationships within the community. It was about people feeling victimized. Not listened to.’