by Jonathan Coe
‘Those are all very good points, Douglas. Excellent points.’
‘What’s more, there’s a pattern behind the shops that people targeted. Most of them weren’t local businesses. In fact, sometimes, when people tried attacking the smaller shops, they were stopped by the other rioters. Of course, this was criminal behaviour and nobody’s condoning that, but it also tells us something about ourselves, as a society. People went for these big, powerful businesses, the chain stores, the global brands, because they see them as being part of the same power structures which hold them back and keep them in place.’
Nigel shook his head in admiration. ‘This is deep thinking, Doug. Important thinking. Of course, Dave is going to commission a major report. I think you should help with the writing of it.’
‘Hey, I’m not a sociologist. I don’t have any answers. I don’t have a clue where the solution lies, really.’
‘Well, that puts you on exactly the same page as Dave and Nick, because they don’t have a clue either.’
Doug smiled. ‘Banter not helping out, this time, then?’
‘Banter?’ The word seemed to flummox Nigel completely. ‘Banter? What on earth are you talking about?’
‘I thought that was the glue holding the coalition together. The thing that helped Dave and Nick to get along, despite their differences.’
Nigel’s tone was grave and recriminatory as he said, ‘I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, Douglas, but really, I think you should get serious about this. We’ve been discussing a situation that could have very profound implications and consequences. Don’t forget that London has to host the Olympic Games next year, for one thing. Nothing like this can be allowed to happen in 2012. The best minds in the country have got to come together and make sure these terrible events never repeat themselves. I don’t think this is the time to start talking about banter. To be honest, I’m surprised at you. I thought you were a more serious person than that.’
Duly chastened, Doug finished the last of his coffee and both men rose to their feet. Outside the café, at the entrance to the tube station, they shook hands.
‘Well, thank you, Nigel,’ Doug said. ‘It’s been an education, as always.’
‘No problem. My father sends his regards, by the way. He hopes that your piles have cleared up. A problem like that can turn very nasty if it isn’t treated properly.’
12.
April 2012
Eight months later, on 7 April 2012, at the approach to Chiswick Pier on the River Thames, the Oxford–Cambridge boat race had to be temporarily halted when a man was spotted in the water swimming ahead of the boats. He was later identified as Trenton Oldfield, an Australian national and graduate of the London School of Economics who claimed that he had disrupted the race as ‘a protest against inequalities in British society, government cuts, reductions in civil liberties and a culture of elitism’. The race was restarted half an hour later, and the Cambridge crew won by four and a quarter lengths.
On the same afternoon, some one hundred miles away in the unremarkable village church of Kernel Magna, the wedding of Sophie Potter and Ian Coleman took place in a simple traditional ceremony.
The bride wore a stunning A-line dress in white organza, with a Queen Anne neckline and a chapel-length train. The groom looked handsome and imposing in full morning suit. Sitting on the left-hand side of the aisle, among the bride’s friends and family, Sohan could not help thinking that they made an impressive couple, but at the same time he was surprised and unsettled. Sophie had always said that she would never wear white at her wedding. For that matter, she had always said that she would never get married in church. For that matter, she had always said that she would never get married at all.
Something to ask her about at the reception, perhaps.
‘I give you this ring, as a sign of our marriage,’ said the groom, in a measured, confident tone. ‘With my body I honour you, all that I am I give to you.’
‘All that I have I share with you,’ said the bride, in a solemn, fragile voice, ‘within the love of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.’
You bloody hypocrite, Potter, Sohan thought. You don’t believe in God any more than I do.
Something else to say to her at the reception. But he knew what she would say back: ‘You’re just jealous because you can’t get married.’ Which at the moment was true, although David Cameron was rumoured to be doing something about it. New legislation was on the cards, apparently. Which couldn’t come soon enough, as far as Sohan was concerned. He wanted the right to be a hypocrite in front of all his family and friends as well.
*
After the service, the guests were driven in convoy to a country house hotel about twenty minutes away; a picturesque, expansive mansion built of yellow Cotswold stone, with gardens that stretched down to the banks of the River Avon. A marquee had been set up in the grounds and it was here, Sohan realized, that they were expected to spend the next five or six hours. He was at table number three; not quite the top table, obviously, but at least he wasn’t banished to the furthest reaches. His closest neighbour had already taken her seat: a striking-looking Asian woman with grey streaks in her long black hair, and a permanent air of suppressed amusement in her mouth and her eyes.
‘Hello,’ she said, as he sat down. ‘Naheed. Friend of the groom.’
‘Sohan,’ he answered. ‘Friend of the bride.’ He looked around at the other guests who were starting to drift into the marquee. ‘Considerate of them,’ he said.
‘Sitting the only two brown people next to each other?’ she guessed, correctly.
‘Yep. Are you drinking?’
‘For once, yes.’
‘Me too. Here, let me fill you up.’
They clinked glasses and sipped the indifferent Sauvignon gratefully.
‘Known Sophie long?’ she asked.
‘About five years. You and Ian?’
‘About the same.’
‘We met at university. Bristol.’
‘Ian’s a work colleague. But also a friend.’
‘He seems … nice.’
‘He is nice. And even nicer, in the last year. She appears to have made him very happy.’
‘You think they’re a good match?’
‘Pretty good. Don’t you?’
Sohan took another sip, by way of reserving judgement. He watched as Benjamin came into the marquee, with the shuffling Colin on his arm, and made his way to the top table.
‘Do you know those two?’ he asked Naheed. She shook her head. ‘I’m wondering if that’s Sophie’s uncle, the one she’s always talking about.’
‘I’ve no idea. But the elderly lady they’re sitting next to is Mrs Coleman, Ian’s mother.’
‘She looks quite the matriarch.’
‘A force to be reckoned with, definitely. And next to them is the maid of honour. Joanna, I think she’s called. Do you know her?’
‘Barely. I don’t even think Sophie knows her that well. She doesn’t have many close women friends. It should have been me, really.’
Naheed laughed. ‘You?’
‘Sure, why not? I’m her best friend.’
‘You could hardly be the maid of honour.’
‘Well, whatever the male equivalent is. Butler of honour, or something. I don’t understand these stupid traditions.’
‘Me neither. Here, have another drink. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a long evening.’
*
It was two hours later, when the food had been eaten and the speeches were over, that Sophie had the chance to talk to them. She was on her way back from the toilet when they caught her attention and, pulling up a chair, she sat down between them and put her arms around Sohan and kissed him tipsily on the cheek.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ she said. ‘Are you having a nice time?’
‘Very nice, thank you, darling,’ he said. ‘The food was wonderful and so were the speeches. Especially the best man’s.’
‘That’s Simon. He’s Ian
’s oldest friend.’
‘Well, I loved his joke about the Chinese waiter who couldn’t pronounce the letter “r” and kept saying “l” instead. I always find a little light racism spices up the palate after a heavy meal.’
‘Now now …’ Sophie admonished.
‘Better still –’ he clasped Naheed’s hand and gave it a squeeze ‘– I’ve made a new best friend. Now I know everything there is to know about the Highway Code, which is very useful, and she knows everything there is to know about the use of the stream of consciousness in the works of Dorothy Richardson, which is perhaps less useful but just as interesting.’
‘Hello,’ said Sophie, turning to Naheed. She hadn’t seen her for a few months: not since she and her husband had come round to their flat for dinner, some time before Christmas. ‘I can’t believe I haven’t spoken to you yet. I mean, you’re the one person here who … none of this would be happening without.’ Her grammar was shot to pieces this evening, she realized, either because of alcohol or emotion or both.
Naheed smiled. ‘Come on, don’t exaggerate. Your parents might take issue with that, for one thing.’
‘True.’
‘And besides, I think Baron Brainbox should take some credit.’ Her eyes shone with amusement as she explained: ‘Never heard of him? Well, you should, because he changed the course of your life. He’s a children’s entertainer – very much in demand in our part of the world, for children’s parties especially. But he always performs for much longer than he’s supposed to. And I don’t normally go to Starbucks after work, but my daughter was at a party in town that afternoon, and I was supposed to be picking her up, but then I got a phone call from the girl’s mother saying that the party was still going on. So I had a bit of time to kill. And if I hadn’t, then … well, history would have been different. So – here’s to Baron Brainbox.’
She and Sohan raised their glasses and drank the toast, laughing. But Sophie looked more serious.
‘Shit. That’s a disturbing thought. And you can go further back than that. What if that speed camera hadn’t caught me on the road to Solihull?’
‘Ah yes,’ said Sohan, ‘The Road to Solihull. One of the less successful road movies.’
‘No, you’re quite right,’ said Naheed. ‘Or what if you’d taken a different route altogether? You know, this is what fascinates me about driving. Every few minutes you come to a different junction, and you have to make a choice. And every choice you make has the potential to alter your life. Sometimes radically.’ Looking directly at Sohan, she continued: ‘I know you professors think that you have all the answers and understand the mysteries of life better than the rest of us. But if you want to study the human race in all its diversity and complexity, study the way it drives. We driving instructors are the real experts in human nature. We’re the true philosophers.’ To Sophie, she added: ‘That applies to Ian as well. Remember that. And now, if I may, I’m going to give you a little kiss.’ She leaned forward and planted her mouth tenderly, feelingly, on Sophie’s cheek. ‘You deserve all the happiness in the world, both of you. I hope you find it.’
Sophie was lost in her reflections on this exchange, and this gesture, as she made her way back to the top table. When she got there, she found that her grandfather and Ian’s mother were becoming quite intimate. He was plying her with dessert wine while she was showing him photographs of her late husband, although it was true that he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to these. She was telling him of Graham’s twenty-five years’ loyal service to the BBC, of his reverence for the Corporation and all it stood for.
‘Used to stand for, I should say …’
That was not the first time, Sophie thought, that she’d heard her mother-in-law (Jesus Christ, that’s what she was now!) talking in this way about the BBC. What on earth was she on about?
Colin, at least, seemed to understand.
‘I know, it’s all been taken over by the political correctness brigade now, hasn’t it?’
She decided this would be a good moment to step in.
‘Grandad, can I have a word with you a minute?’
‘Not now, love. Helena and I are just in the middle of something.’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t want to hear –’
‘More wine, Helena?’ he said, filling her glass to the brim and beyond, so that some of it spilled over on to the tablecloth.
Sophie hurried to where Lois was sitting.
‘Can you please do something about your father?’ she said. ‘He’s pissed and he’s coming on to Ian’s mother.’
‘Right.’ Lois rose to her feet and walked quickly around the table towards Colin’s seat, her expression sharp and resolute.
‘Does your room have a view of the river?’ she could hear him saying. ‘Mine has a lovely view of the river. I was just thinking that if you wanted to see it, you could pop in for five minutes, we could open a bottle of wine from the minibar …’
‘Dad!’ said Lois.
‘What?’ He turned round. ‘Not you as well.’
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she whispered.
‘Leave me alone. I know perfectly well what I’m doing.’
‘I think we all do.’
‘Leave me alone, I said. Where’s the harm in it? Your mother’s been dead two years now. I’ve got needs, like everyone else.’
‘Tonight,’ hissed Lois, ‘is not about you and your needs.’
‘Leave me alone,’ he repeated. ‘I reckon I’m on to a sure thing here.’
He turned his back on her and resumed his conversation with Helena, who seemed far more anxious to show him more pictures of Graham than to discuss her room and whether it had a river view or not. Thwarted, Lois looked around for her brother; but, as usual, he was nowhere to be seen. Why was Benjamin never there when you needed him?
*
Benjamin wondered whether he was developing an addiction to staring at rivers. There was an almost full moon tonight and the patterns of light it set dancing across the surface of the Avon were captivating. The sun had set half an hour earlier, and although it was chilly out here by the water, with a breeze that sent ripples across the river and a rustle through the branches of the willow trees, he felt no inclination to move from the bench which someone had thoughtfully placed on the riverbank. He was a shy person and smalltalk exhausted him. It was one thing chatting to members of his own family, but spending three or four hours making polite conversation with strangers … And besides, there was something about this whole occasion that made him uneasy. It was only the second time that he’d met Ian, and while he seemed pleasant enough, Benjamin was not convinced he was the right person for his niece to be marrying. What did they have in common, really?
As these troubled thoughts ebbed and flowed in his head, and the river stirred restlessly beneath the strengthening breeze, Benjamin became aware that he was not alone. Ian’s older sister, Lucy, was standing next to the bench, arms folded, shivering slightly.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘No, not at all.’
He moved over. She sat beside him, and took out an electronic cigarette.
‘All right if I …?’
‘Of course.’
‘Horrible things. But at least they don’t give you cancer.’
For a while she puffed away on the cigarette and neither of them spoke. Music started up from the marquee: some maudlin power ballad from the 1980s, drifting over through the night air and suggesting that the dancing had begun.
Finally Lucy said: ‘You’re close to Sophie, aren’t you? She talks about you. Tells everyone you’re the intellectual of the family.’
Benjamin smiled. ‘The one who’s never amounted to anything, you mean.’
‘That’s not how she puts it.’ Now Lucy chose her words carefully, one at a time. ‘My brother,’ she said, ‘doesn’t really understand the life of the mind.’
‘Then perhaps he and Sophie will complement each other,’ said Benjami
n.
‘Opposites attract, you mean?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ Then she added, in an apologetic way: ‘Weddings freak me out, I’m afraid. Bring out the old cynic in me. Probably because I’ve had three of my own already.’ She inhaled and blew out a line of steam. ‘All those hopes. All those promises. Love, honour, comfort, protect, forsaking all others – that’s some pretty heavy shit right there.’ The song playing in the marquee was instantly recognizable now (to her, at any rate): ‘ “The Power of Love,” ’ she said, smiling coldly. ‘Do you believe in it?’
Benjamin, for whom this conversation was getting more and more uncomfortable, found this an impossible question to answer. ‘It’s powerful all right,’ he managed at last. ‘But not always in a good way.’ Then he stood up. ‘I think I’d better get back inside. Are you coming?’
‘Not just yet.’
‘OK,’ he said, and left her sitting alone on the bench while he retraced his steps slowly, pensively, back to the marquee and the lights and the music.
For a while he stood on the edge of the dance floor and watched. There were about twelve couples dancing, or at least leaning up against each other for support while they shuffled around in circles. Sophie and Ian were not currently among them. Then Sophie came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Come on, Uncle, give me a dance!’
It was the moment he’d been dreading. He had no sense of rhythm – not one that he knew how to express physically, at any rate – and he had a principled objection to dancing to music that he didn’t like, which was most music. (The music that he did like, nobody could possibly dance to.) But he couldn’t deny his niece anything tonight. And he reckoned that even he would not be noticeably outclassed in the present company. So he took Sophie’s hand, and allowed himself to be led to the centre of the dance floor, and then he put his arm around her, a bit tentatively, a bit stiffly at first, but then she relaxed, and he relaxed, and she smiled up at him, and she looked so dreamy, and so blissful, that he smiled just as warmly back at her, and after that it was the easiest thing in the world to move around between the other dancing couples, finding the rhythm of the music, leaning into it; and then it dawned on Benjamin that these present moments with Sophie, who he’d known since she was a baby, who had been (in many ways) like a daughter to him, were also their final moments together, that after tonight everything would be different – maybe better, maybe worse, but irrevocably different – and he knew that he wanted to savour them for as long as possible, so even when the first record ended, they didn’t leave the dance floor, and soon they were dancing to a second record, and then a third. And it was halfway through the third song that Ian approached them, and taking Benjamin gently by the arm, he separated him from Sophie, and said, ‘Excuse me, do you mind if I have my wife back?’ And Benjamin said, ‘Of course,’ and backed away, and then he went to find the bar, knowing only one thing for certain now: that he needed another drink.