by Jonathan Coe
‘Your Mr Cameron does not strike me as a tyrant.’
‘That’s not what I mean. A tyrant does not have to be an individual. It can be an idea.’
‘You live under the tyranny of an idea?’
‘Precisely.’
‘And its name is …?’
‘Political correctness, of course,’ Helena answered. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard the phrase.’
‘Certainly. But not in relation to tyranny.’
Helena put down her knife and fork. ‘Mr Hu, I have never visited China, and I have no wish to make light of the difficult conditions in which you must live there. But here in Great Britain, we face similar problems. In fact I would almost say that our situation is worse. You have overt censorship; ours is covert. It all happens under a mask of freedom of speech so the tyrants can claim that everything is all right. But we do not have freedom, of speech or of anything else. The people who once kept a great British tradition alive by riding to hounds are not free to do so any more. And if any of us try to complain about it, we are shouted down. Our views are not allowed to be expressed on television or in the newspapers. Our state broadcaster ignores us, or treats us with contempt. Voting becomes a waste of time when all the politicians subscribe to the same fashionable opinions. Of course I voted for Mr Cameron, but not with any enthusiasm. His values are not our values. He actually knows as little of our way of life as his political opponents do. They’re all on the same side, really – and it’s not our side. Now, since you do not look convinced, I shall give you another example. A quite specific example. One year ago, my son applied for a job – Ian, don’t interrupt, let me finish – he applied for a promotion, and if there was any fairness or justice in this country at the moment, he would have got it. But instead they gave it to a rival candidate, because of her ethnic background, and her skin colour. They did this because – Sophie, you can look at me that way as much as you like, but this needs saying, somebody has to say it, and I will tell you another thing – my son’s life has been damaged, seriously damaged, by this absurd political correctness, and if you, Sophie, keep kowtowing to it and not standing up for your own people and your own values it’s going to happen to you too, you are going to be the next one. And I’m an old woman now and I can say these things and I’m saying them because it breaks my heart to see you two, a beautiful young couple like you, struggling to make do, having to keep two jobs, working in different cities, not seeing each other all week, no time to be together and start a family, and this would not have happened, you would not be in this situation, if Ian had got that job. And he should have done. He deserved it. He’d worked hard for it, and he deserved it.’
Sophie would be angry with herself, for days afterwards, for not protesting against this outburst. Like everyone else around the table, she looked down at her plate and said nothing; although it did occur to her that the others remained silent because they were broadly in agreement. Mr Hu’s reaction was difficult to gauge, beyond the fact that he was taken aback. And in any case, Helena had not quite finished.
‘The people of Middle England,’ she said, addressing the Chinese guest directly, ‘voted for Mr Cameron because they had no real choice. The alternative was unthinkable. But if the time ever comes when we are given the opportunity to let him know what we really think of him, then believe me – we will take it.’
24.
‘Aren’t you going to record this?’ asked Benjamin.
The journalist, whose name was Hermione Dawes, smiled and shook her head. She had a writing pad open on her lap, and a biro poised over it. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in blonde curls and her lipstick was bright red.
‘I’m a very old-fashioned girl,’ she said. ‘Shall we get started?’
‘Sure,’ said Benjamin.
He sat back on the sofa and tried to relax. The view of the Severn streaming past his window normally calmed him, but not this morning. He could not shake the feeling that Hermione (whose pieces, Philip had warned him, could sometimes be ‘a bit sharp’) was coolly surveying the contents of his house and judging every object, every design choice, every item of furniture.
‘So – you started writing when you were very young, is that right?’
‘Yes. About ten or eleven. I remember –’
‘And were your parents writers?’
‘No, not at all. My father worked at the British Leyland factory in Longbridge, and my mother stayed at home. She was a housewife.’
‘And you went to a local school?’
‘I went to King William’s, which is near the centre of Birmingham. It was my parents’ choice.’
‘Do you think it was the right one?’
‘I suppose. I mean … Just recently, I got back in touch with one of my oldest friends from primary school, who I hadn’t spoken to for more than forty years, and it did make me realize how the British education system can, you know … divide people.’
‘What does he do now?’ Hermione asked, scribbling away.
‘He’s a clown.’
She looked up. ‘A clown?’
‘A children’s entertainer.’
‘Well, that’s lovely that you’re back in touch with him, anyway. Was it at school that you became serious about writing?’
‘Now – I’m glad you asked me that,’ said Benjamin. ‘Because, looking back, I can pinpoint the moment almost exactly. It was November 1974, and a friend of mine – his name was Malcolm, he was my sister’s boyfriend actually – took me to a concert at a club in town called Barbarella’s. And one of the bands playing was called Hatfield and the North. Nowadays we’d call what they played “prog rock”, but that term didn’t really exist then, as you probably remember …’
Hermione, sensing that he was waiting for her to offer some sort of confirmation, merely said: ‘I was born in 1989.’
‘Oh. Right. OK. Well, what blew me away about Hatfield and the North that night, you see, was that there was this combination of freshness – originality – complete rethinking of form – while the music was very easy to listen to, it really invited the listener in. And I thought, “This is what I should be doing as a writer.” For instance, on their first album there’s a piece called “Aigrette”, which was written by the guitarist, and if you listen carefully, not only is the time signature changing every few bars, but it goes through these extraordinary modulations, these key changes, and yet the tune is really catchy, really attractive to the ear. And that made me think that yes, if what you’re doing is thematically easy to follow, if there’s a strong through-line for the reader, either in terms of story or ideas or characters or whatever, then …’
He became aware that Hermione had stopped writing any of this down some time before.
‘Anyway,’ he concluded. ‘That was a seminal moment for me. Hatfield and the North. Barbarella’s. November 1974.’
‘Right.’ She jotted down a few more words, or at least pretended to. ‘And it was round about now that you fell in love with this girl, and she became the inspiration for your novel?’
‘Yes, more or less.’
‘In the book you call her Lilian. What was her real name?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’
‘But she was a real person, yes? And she’s still alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘So your book isn’t really a novel at all – it’s basically a memoir, with the names changed?’
‘No, that’s too simplistic. I see it as being on the cusp of fiction and memoir. I like to explore these … liminal spaces, you see.’
‘Liminal’ – that was a good word. For the first time in the interview, Benjamin was quite pleased with something he had said. But Hermione didn’t seem to have written this down either.
‘So then you became romantically involved with her in your last year at school, but it fell apart, and she went to America to live with another woman.’
‘Yes.’
‘Your novel opens a few years after that. You’re listening to a piece
of music by an obscure British jazz musician –’
‘Quite a famous one actually.’
‘– and something about this music brings back a vivid memory of the affair, and suddenly – suddenly life seems intolerable. You’re studying at Oxford, and you decide to give it all up, to quit?’
‘Yes.’
‘So when did this happen?’
‘It was the autumn of 1983. I was just starting the second year of my D.Phil at Balliol. The thing I remember about it – apart from that moment, obviously – was that Boris Johnson arrived that term. He actually had a room on the same corridor as me.’
For the first time during the interview, Hermione seemed animated. ‘Really? So you know Boris?’
‘Well, no – I didn’t get to know him at all. You know how it is – Etonians don’t speak to grammar-school boys. But I do remember thinking, you know, who was this very striking figure, with the posh voice and this extraordinary hair. He certainly made an impression.’
Sighing audibly, Hermione wrote a few more words down; then asked (with an air of duty more than enthusiasm): ‘So then you came back to live in Birmingham, and became … an accountant? Why on earth was that?’
‘Well, I’d worked in a bank during my year off, and it turned out I was pretty good with figures. And I was in a state of denial. If I couldn’t have Cicely –’
‘Lilian,’ Hermione corrected, writing the name down as she did so.
‘Yes – if I couldn’t have Lilian, then it felt as though nothing I wanted was going to be possible. I couldn’t be a writer, I couldn’t be a musician …’
‘Which had been your other ambition.’
‘Yes. Also, I was going through this religious phase.’
‘I see. So this religious phase, and this state of denial – how long did they last?’
‘About seventeen years.’
‘Wow. That’s … quite a phase. And you got married in that time? And worked as an accountant all the way through? Nothing else? I’m just trying to make the story sound more interesting.’
‘Well, I was working on the book, constantly. I was writing it for more than two decades, on and off.’
‘Hmm …’ She sucked on her biro. ‘Nothing else that you can think of, that you got up to during that time?’
‘I did some book reviews. I’d known Doug Anderton at school, and he commissioned me to do a few, while he was literary editor at the –’
‘Ah! You know Doug Anderton? That’s interesting.’ She wrote down the name, put the biro back in her mouth, and rattled it between her teeth. ‘Let’s just get the last bit of the story straight, and then I’d like to ask you a few more general questions.’
‘OK.’
‘So eventually … “Lilian” came back to find you, and you actually lived together for a few years. She was very ill, and you looked after her. You became her carer, really.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And this was in London.’
‘Yes.’
‘And then she abandoned you again. History repeating itself.’
‘Yes. So I sold our flat and bought this place. Best move I ever made.’
‘The scene in the book where you put her on the plane to South America is very moving. You’ve no idea it’s going to be the last time you see her.’
‘Yes, that was just how it happened. Almost nothing in the book is invented. Except it wasn’t South America.’
‘And are you still in touch?’
‘No.’
‘Not at all?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Hmm …’
Hermione wrote a few last words on her pad, and then sucked for a long time on the end of her pen. Benjamin began to feel uneasy. To break the silence, he said:
‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘Oh, that would be lovely. How kind.’
He went into the kitchen and to his alarm she followed him. She sat down at the table while he busied himself with the mugs and the coffee machine. Benjamin wasn’t sure, at this point, whether the interview was still in progress. Hermione had her writing pad open on the table in front of her, and the pen lay next to it, temporarily unused, but her tone was still brisk and interrogatory.
‘It’s very peaceful here,’ she said. ‘I can see why that makes it a good place for a writer to live, but don’t you also feel that you might be too isolated, in a place like this, to write convincingly about contemporary Britain?’
‘I travel about quite a lot. Backwards and forwards to Birmingham, mainly, where my dad lives.’
‘This part of the country also seems very monocultural. I saw mainly white faces on my way here.’
‘Well, multiculturalism is largely an urban phenomenon, I suppose.’ He had to raise his voice above the steaming and bubbling of the machine. ‘I enjoyed my time living in London but in the end the things that got to me were the crowds, the noise, the pace of life, the stress, the expense. I came here to get away from all that.’
‘Do you think publishers were less inclined to consider your book because you were sending it from an address in the provinces?’
‘Who knows? I expect they get sent a lot of books.’
‘You must feel an incredible sense of vindication.’
‘Well, I’m just … happy to be finding some readers at last.’
He placed a mug in front of her. She thanked him and took a cautious sip.
‘Several established authors – such as Lionel Hampshire – didn’t find themselves on the longlist this year.’
‘Well, I haven’t read his new one. Though I am a fan.’ This reminded him of something else that might interest her. ‘Actually my niece knows him a little. They were on a cruise together last year.’
Hermione reached for her pen at once. ‘Your niece went on a cruise with Lionel Hampshire?’ she said, starting to write.
‘No no no – I mean, they were both guest speakers on the cruise. There was nothing … I mean, they weren’t together. She’s very happily married, and he … he had some other woman with him, his secretary or something …’
Hermione couldn’t write this down fast enough. Benjamin had to restrain himself from leaning over and physically stopping her.
‘This is just what she told me … Strictly off the record. You’re not going to put any of this in, are you?’
Hermione gave one of her brittle smiles. ‘It’s not really news. Most people know exactly what Lionel’s like.’ She scribbled a few more words, then thought for a moment, looked up and said: ‘Do you feel, though, that there is a sort of sea-change happening on the British literary scene? Looking at this longlist, it’s far more diverse than it would have been even ten years ago. It’s not just that there are Americans on the list now: there are also more women writers, more BAME writers. Is the day of the great white middle-aged British writer finally over?’
‘I don’t know – it’s hard to generalize …’
‘It’s almost as if, this year, you’re the last one standing.’
‘I don’t really feel I can comment on general literary trends. I’m a real outsider, as far as all that’s concerned.’
Hermione closed her pad. ‘That’s a nice note to end on,’ she said, but she said it without much enthusiasm. Benjamin could tell that he had turned out, in her eyes, to be a disappointing interviewee: his answers had been diffident, qualified, lacking in emphasis or conviction. The impression was confirmed when, a few minutes later, he went to the toilet and came back to find that she was out on the terrace, talking to someone – a friend? Her commissioning editor? – on the phone, and although he couldn’t make out all of what she said, he was pretty sure that he heard, Bit of a wasted journey, if you ask me and – more worryingly – I’m going to have to get creative …
He offered to drive her into Shrewsbury but she said there was no need, and she phoned for a taxi instead. It took about twenty minutes to arrive, during which time they chatted, and talked with much more ease and openness o
n both sides than they had managed during the interview. Benjamin drew her out on the subject of her career, her ambitions, the plight of the freelance writer in today’s unforgiving economy. He was struck, when he asked if she preferred to be politically aligned with the publications she wrote for, by the phrase she used in response: no, she was prepared to be quite ‘ideologically flexible’ on that front. He concluded, privately, that she would go far. But he liked her, on the whole, and felt that what she was showing was probably not cynicism but pragmatism borne out of difficult circumstances, and when they shook hands at the end he clasped her hand warmly – perhaps for a bit longer than was necessary – and when she was gone and he was washing up the coffee mugs he was reminded that hardly anybody came to visit him any more, and the house felt suddenly empty without her.
*
The interview was published four days later. Philip and Benjamin decided to meet for a coffee at Woodlands Garden Centre to assess the damage.
‘Well, it could have been worse,’ said Philip.
The newspaper lay on the table between them. Benjamin said nothing.
‘She could really have laid into you,’ Philip added.
Benjamin still didn’t answer. He picked up the paper and looked yet again at the headline. Even though he must have read it forty or fifty times, the feeling of disbelief never abated:
OUTSIDER ON THE INSIDE
‘It’s just so unfair,’ he said. ‘The way she’s written it. So unfair.’
Philip took the paper from him and read the standfirst – which he also, by now, knew almost by heart: Benjamin Trotter likes to think of himself as the plucky underdog in this year’s Booker race – but, as Hermione Dawes finds out, there’s more to the well-connected writer than meets the eye.
‘ “Well-connected” is putting it a bit strongly,’ he conceded.
‘A bit strongly? It’s a lie – an outright lie.’ Benjamin snatched the paper back. ‘It says here that I knew Boris Johnson at university. I never said a bloody word to him! We lived on the same corridor for about three weeks, and he used to cut me dead on the way to the toilet. “For years he has been rubbing shoulders with influential media figures such as Doug Anderton” – that’s such bollocks. We were at school together. Forty years ago. As for this bit: “While claiming to have no access to literary London’s inner circle, he is happy to trade salacious gossip about fellow author Lionel Hampshire, who turns out to be a family friend.” ’