Middle England

by Jonathan Coe

‘Has it been rescheduled? Your reading, I mean.’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’

  ‘Oh dear. But that means you’ve come all this way for nothing.’

  ‘Well.’ Lionel smiled. ‘What can you do?’

  He didn’t seem in the least perturbed. It was at this point, too, that Sophie noticed how extraordinarily beautiful Maxine was, and in what extraordinary proximity her legs and Lionel’s had managed to arrange themselves beneath the table. Sophie met her eyes for a brief, complicit moment, but no more was said about it. Maxine leaned in towards her employer and whispered something to him, something evidently not intended to be overheard, and Sophie found herself listening, instead, to the conversation her husband was having with Mr Wilcox. The subject, unsurprisingly, was Ian’s failed bid for promotion.

  ‘So they gave it to your colleague?’ Mr Wilcox was saying.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And what did you say her name was?’

  ‘Naheed. I’ve known her for ages. We’ve worked together for about five years. She’s great.’

  ‘Hmm. Naheed – so I’m guessing this is … an Asian lady, am I right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well – there you are, then.’

  He tipped a sachet of sweetener into his coffee, and stirred it two or three times, focusing on the task, and clearly thinking that nothing more needed to be said. Sophie waited for her husband to challenge him, but Ian was silent. When it became obvious that he was going to stay that way, she turned to Mr Wilcox and said:

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He looked up from his stirring. ‘Sorry, love?’

  ‘What does that mean – “There you are, then”?’

  He looked back at her brazenly. ‘We don’t have to spell it out, do we?’

  ‘I think we do. Since I have literally no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to cause trouble. But your husband here is feeling bad about not getting the job, and all I’m saying is, he shouldn’t blame himself.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Sophie.

  All at once it seemed as though everyone was listening to their conversation – even Lionel and Maxine. Sophie was acutely aware of the stillness of the morning: a cloudless blue sky above them, seagulls whirling but not crying, the growing speck of another, bigger cruise ship advancing towards the harbour from the far horizon.

  ‘We all know what it’s like nowadays,’ said Mr Wilcox.

  ‘ “What it’s like”?’

  ‘This country. We all know the score. How it works. People like Ian don’t get a fair crack of the whip any more.’

  Sophie turned to look at Ian. Now, surely, he would intervene, protest, say something? But he didn’t. And so, once again, she was the one who had to pursue the point.

  ‘When you say “people like Ian”, I suppose you mean white people?’

  Mr Wilcox, looking slightly embarrassed for the first time, glanced around at the other listeners, seeking support in their faces. He didn’t really find it, but he pressed on regardless.

  ‘We don’t look after our own any more, do we?’ he said. ‘If you’re from a minority – fine. Go to the front of the queue. Blacks, Asians, Muslims, gays: we can’t do enough for them. But take a talented bloke like Ian here and it’s another story.’

  ‘Or maybe,’ said Sophie, ‘they just gave the job to the better candidate.’

  She regretted saying it immediately. Ian was still silent, but she could tell he was smarting; and Mr Wilcox had pounced upon her misstep in no time.

  ‘I think you’d better decide,’ he said, ‘which is more important to you: supporting your husband, or being politically correct.’

  With that he picked up his novel (the title of which Sophie could not make out, although she could see that it was not The Twilight of Otters) and, before resuming his place in it, muttered two words to the table in general – and to Ian in particular: ‘This country …’ Words which he invested with a potent mixture of sadness and contempt.

  The ensuing silence was broken only when Mrs Wilcox glanced up at the other cruise ship, now almost parallel to their own, and said: ‘What a big boat.’

  *

  That afternoon, sitting outside a café in the Old Town, drinking Estonian beer in the shade of a tall, half-timbered building, Sophie said to Ian:

  ‘You didn’t buy any of that stuff Geoffrey was saying, did you?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said.

  ‘Good. And I’m sorry if I didn’t sound very supportive but –’

  ‘Just drop it, Soph, all right? Like you said, the better candidate won.’

  He went back to reading his guidebook, but after a few seconds, sensing that Sophie was not satisfied by this assurance, he added: ‘That’s the only explanation, isn’t it? I mean, either his theory is right, or your theory is right. So that’s it. End of story.’

  It was clear that he didn’t want to discuss the matter any further, so Sophie was really talking to herself when she said: ‘I’ve had about as much as I can take of that guy, anyway. Eight nights in a row I’ve had to sit next to him now. I think tonight we should get there early, and make sure we’re sitting next to Joan and Heather.’ She waited for a reaction from Ian; got none. ‘Don’t you think?’

  He grunted. It was the most she was going to get out of him that afternoon. And in any case, Sophie’s plan had a flaw. An unforeseeable flaw. Miss Thomsett and Mrs O’Sullivan did not appear at the dinner table that night. And so once again they sat together, the four of them, on one side of the table, with Mrs Murphy sitting alone on the other side (still determined to enjoy her cruise, even though she never seemed to come on any of the excursions), while Mr Wilcox amused himself by speculating – half in jest, half in earnest – as to which of the two elderly companions had passed away this time.

  *

  The next day, a Friday, was spent at sea en route to Copenhagen. The dress code was ‘Informal’. (‘Ladies may wear a less formal dress or separates. Men choose from a lounge suit, sports jacket or blazer with or without a tie; or a smart, closed-neck shirt with a tie.’) The daily newsletter announced that there would be a Hair Loss Seminar at ten thirty, a Sit and Be Fit Class at eleven o’clock (‘Join David for a gentle exercise class from the comfort of your seat, an ideal warm-up’) and a screening of the film Zulu in the Cinema Theatre at two thirty. As always, the newsletter was prefaced by a short humorous item under the heading ‘Robin’s Giggle’, which on this occasion read:

  Here is today’s genuine classified advert: ‘Mixing bowl set for sale, designed to please a cook with round bottom for efficient beating.’

  Late in the morning Sophie went to the library to check her emails and found the following message:

  From: Joan Thomsett

  Sent: Friday, August 29, 2014 8:54 AM

  To: Sophie Coleman-Potter

  Subject: Our absence

  Dear Sophie

  I am writing to the address printed on your business card and I hope this message finds you. You must be wondering by now why we have left the cruise. Don’t worry, we are alive and well, and are not the latest victims of the mysterious curse of Table 19! However, we did have a nasty accident yesterday in Tallinn. Heather slipped and fell down some steps as we were exploring the city walls. She took a nasty tumble and once we got her to the hospital she found that she had broken her leg. Fortunately it was not a severe fracture but once they had put the plaster cast on, it was suggested that she fly back to England for further treatment. Legend were very efficient and found an evening flight for us and now we are already back in Bristol!

  Unlike Mrs Murphy, who I suppose is still persisting with her holiday even in her widowed state, I could not imagine continuing the cruise without my beloved Heather. We have done everything together for more than thirty years now and in all that time I don’t believe we have even spent one night apart! Yes, I’m afraid we told a few white lies to the other passengers ab
out our relationship, but I’m sure that you quickly guessed its real nature. After many years’ travelling and cruising in particular we have realized that, sadly, even today we cannot rely on the understanding of fellow passengers when we tell them that we are life-partners, although I will observe – in a slightly more optimistic mode – that people do seem to be getting rather more tolerant. (But that itself I have always found a peculiar word in this context: what is there, exactly, in our loyal and loving and supportive relationship that requires people to draw upon their reserves of ‘tolerance’?) In any case, we both found you and your charming husband to be extremely simpatico, and have no qualms whatsoever in telling you the truth!

  I know that you and Ian only have a short time left on board, but I do hope that you enjoy yourselves and make the most of it. Your lecture on Sunday and your informative comments as we toured the Hermitage were a great inspiration to so many of us. Clearly you have a great career ahead of you and I look forward to following it – at a distance, perhaps, but with great interest I am sure.

  Affectionately

  Joan Thomsett.

  *

  On Saturday morning, with the ship moored in Copenhagen, Sophie and Ian prepared to leave the cruise and fly home. Topaz IV would not return to Dover for four more days yet – there would be further stops in Northern Germany and the Netherlands – but when agreeing to this engagement Sophie had decided that ten days at sea would be enough (a decision she now rather regretted). Now, with their cases packed, she was saying her last goodbyes to Henry. As always, it was a friendly exchange, but she could not find the right tone to strike with him. As always, he was reserved, enigmatic and impeccably polite.

  ‘Well, Henry,’ she said. ‘We can’t thank you enough for all your help.’

  ‘Not at all, madam. All part of the service.’

  ‘You went above and beyond the call of duty. Even ironing my husband’s underpants. Amazing.’

  He laughed, and repeated: ‘All part of the service.’

  ‘Here’s my card,’ she said, ‘in case you … I don’t know, in case you wanted to keep in touch.’

  He took the card, still smiling, and put it away in his pocket without looking at it.

  ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed …’ She was about to say ‘looking after us’, but that sounded ridiculous. Why should he enjoy looking after them more than anyone else? ‘… this trip,’ she concluded, lamely. ‘I mean, I know it’s just a job for you and … you don’t have a cabin like this …’ His cabin, which he shared with two other crew members, was in the very bowels of the ship, windowless: she knew that much. ‘Anyway …’ This was sounding more and more stupid. ‘Anyway … Here’s a little … token, from Ian and me.’

  She handed him a white envelope, which contained a small greetings card and some banknotes. They – or rather she – had agonized over how much they should give, and in what currency. Eventually they had settled for fifty euros.

  ‘Thank you, madam,’ said Henry, putting the envelope away in the same pocket and shaking her by the hand. ‘You are very kind. It’s been very nice meeting you.’

  ‘Good. And for us too. Any time you’re in London, or Birmingham …’

  Henry, almost out of the door by now, repeated: ‘Thank you, madam.’

  ‘Well – goodbye. Or Paalam, as you would say …’

  Henry was gone. Ian burst out laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You. Riddled with liberal angst and desperate to make him your new bestie.’

  ‘Just trying to be civil, that’s all,’ said Sophie, spotting a stray lipstick on her bedside shelf and popping it into her bag. That was everything, it seemed. She stood looking at the room, hands on hips, feeling a sudden melancholy steal over her.

  ‘I’m going to miss this cabin,’ she said. ‘I’ve really enjoyed the last ten days.’

  ‘I know you have,’ said Ian, putting his arm around her. ‘Especially before I arrived, I bet.’

  She looked at him sharply. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘You like being alone. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’ Before she could deny it (if she was going to) he said: ‘So – you’ve said goodbye to the Wilcoxes?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And to Lionel?’

  ‘He was still in bed. I knocked and said goodbye through the door.’

  ‘Maxine?’

  ‘She wasn’t in her room.’

  ‘Hm. That figures.’

  They walked out on to the balcony for a final look at the sea. The harbour itself was anonymous and cheerless. Three other cruise ships, all much larger than Topaz IV, were docked there this morning.

  ‘D’you think you’ll keep in touch with any of them?’ Ian asked.

  ‘Not sure,’ said Sophie. ‘Probably not. Heather and Joan, maybe. I rather liked them, I must say.’

  ‘The lezzers.’ Ian smiled. ‘Funny how Geoffrey was right about them after all.’

  Sophie said nothing. She looked up towards the sun, wanting to feel the sea breeze on her face for the last time. Ian leaned over the balustrade and gazed into the depths of the water. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Sophie asked, finally.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said, standing up straight and walking back into the cabin. Although he had been thinking, in fact, that if Mr Wilcox had been right about those two, why shouldn’t he be right about other things as well?

  19.

  March 2015

  Benjamin was standing in the bookshop at Woodlands Garden Centre. He was not looking at any of the gardening books, or any of the books on local history, or any of the books commemorating various aspects of the Second World War. He was not flicking through the cookery books in search of inspiration for tonight’s dinner, or browsing in the humour section in a desperate bid to find something that would bring a smile to his face. His attention was fixed, rather, on one of the remotest and least visited areas of the shop, where on a bottom shelf of the furthest bookcase was to be found a section entitled ‘Miscellaneous’. This section consisted of some fifteen or twenty titles. One of them – represented here by two copies – was his own novel, A Rose Without a Thorn.

  Reaching down to the bottom shelf, he picked up both copies, and turned them over in his hands lovingly. Chase Historical might be a low-budget publisher, but they had done a beautiful production job, he had to credit them with that. The front cover showed a high-definition image of a white rose against a black background. The title and the author’s name were in the same discreet white font, all in lower case. It looked incredibly classy. But still, it was a shame, a great shame, that Philip’s production values were not matched by his reach as a distributor. The novel had been published more than four weeks earlier and Benjamin had visited almost every bookshop within a fifty-mile radius without locating more than half a dozen copies – and most of those were in garden centres, even though he knew Philip had been hoping that branching out into fiction would gain him an entrée into more respectable outlets. (This had, in fact, been his main reason for publishing Benjamin at all, apart from the bonds of friendship.) Benjamin had not dared, yet, to enquire about sales figures; and as for the book’s critical reception, it was non-existent. No reviews in either the national or local papers, of course, nothing on the various readers’ websites and no reader reviews on Amazon – where it had a sales ranking of 743,926 (or, if he wanted to cheer himself up, 493 in Bestsellers>Fiction>Literary Fiction>Autobiographical Fiction>Romance>Obsession).

  And yes, he should have expected this. He should have known that Philip alone, with no marketing or publicity budget to draw on, could do little more than produce printed copies of his book and hope for the best. But what choice had Benjamin been offered? Every publisher in London, and every independent literary house in the rest of the country, had turned the novel down – or, more often, declined to read it in the first place. No literary agent had bothered to send him anything more than a form lett
er in response to his submission, usually offering some oleaginous brush-off such as, ‘We found many qualities to admire in your MS, but feel it is not one for our list at the moment.’ Some letters had gone into more detail, not about the qualities of the book itself, but about current market conditions and the problems of launching the careers of new writers at this difficult moment. Most publishers and agents had taken more than two months to respond, and even while making multiple submissions, Benjamin had had to endure almost a year of these rejections, arriving through his letterbox daily, just in time to ruin his breakfast, before he had bitten the bullet and called Philip. After that, it had all been very quick and straightforward. The manuscript had been edited, copy-edited and proofed in a matter of weeks. And now here it was, his life’s work (or at least a truncated version of it) finally on sale. If only the bookshop had chosen to display it more prominently …

  With this in mind, and making sure that the sales assistant was not watching, Benjamin took both copies of his novel to the centre of the shop and placed them on the main display table, on top of a pile of books about bonsai trees. The effect was almost immediate. Withdrawing to the sidelines, and pretending to immerse himself in a biography of Winston Churchill, he only had to wait a few minutes to see three customers in succession wander over to the display table and pick up his book, read the blurb and flick through its pages. None of them went on to buy it, admittedly, but it was clear that he’d given a significant boost to its chances. Satisfied, he went to find his father in the restaurant.

  He’d brought him to the garden centre several times in the last couple of months. It had been an act of desperation, at first – they had long since run out of places to go in the vicinity of Rednal itself – but Colin seemed to enjoy the excursion, so it had quickly started to become a habit. Benjamin could hardly be said to relish these visits, even so. Every minute in his father’s company was difficult, these days: he was slower on his feet than ever, more gloomy about everything, more cynical about everything. He was anything but scintillating company, in other words: so Benjamin was more than a little surprised when he made his way to the restaurant and saw his father sitting, not alone, hunched over a plate of steak-and-kidney pie, but enjoying a relatively animated conversation – even sharing a joke – with a figure he didn’t recognize at first: a portly figure dressed in gentleman’s tweeds of the 1930s, with a gold fob watch in his pocket and a red ping-pong ball on the table next to him, resting inside an upturned, garish, multicoloured mortar board. He had a goatee beard and a reddish, cheerfully welcoming face, and when Benjamin appeared he sprang to his feet and grasped him by the hand and pumped it vigorously and said: