Middle England

by Jonathan Coe

  ‘Like this place. This place back then. The East Works. I can see it now, clear as day. People would start pouring in here from about seven thirty. They all came by car. Every road around here would be lined with parked cars for miles. And during the day the noise of the track, the people, the comings and goings would be incredible. That’s how I remember it. Nan worked here too, you know. My mum. She used to tell me stories about the war. Where we’re standing now, right underneath our feet, there are tunnels. Dozens of them. Huge tunnels. During the war, there were hundreds of people working down there. Nan was one of them. She showed me a photograph, once, of everyone working in the tunnels. We’ve got it somewhere. Making armaments, they were, munitions, aeroplane parts. Can you imagine! Can you imagine what it was like, hundreds of people, working together like that, for the war effort? What a spirit, eh? What a country we were back then!

  ‘Whatever happened to all that? It was bad enough when I was working here. Every man for himself, survival of the fittest, I’m all right, Jack. That’s what was starting to take over. But now it’s even worse, it’s just … fancy clothes and Prosecco bars and bloody … packets of salad. We’ve gone soft, that’s the problem. No wonder the rest of the world’s laughing at us.’

  Colin turned away from the gates. It was almost completely dark now, and he was starting to shiver.

  ‘Are they, though, Dad?’ Benjamin said. ‘Who’s laughing at us?’

  ‘Of course they are. They think we’re a joke. They think we’re daft.’

  Benjamin had no idea what his father meant, or even who he was talking about. He took his arm as they walked back towards the car, opened the passenger door for him and helped him flop down into the seat. Then he got into the driver’s seat, but didn’t turn the engine on for a while. For a few moments neither of them spoke. They listened to the incipient patter of winter rain against the windscreen.

  ‘I think you’re wrong,’ said Benjamin at last. ‘I don’t think anybody’s laughing at us.’

  ‘Just take me home,’ said Colin, miserably.

  29.

  March 2016

  ‘Exciting times, Douglas,’ Nigel said. ‘Incredibly exciting times. Who was it who said, “May you live in exciting times”?’

  ‘It was Confucius,’ said Doug. ‘And it was “interesting times”.’

  ‘I’m sure what he really meant was “exciting”,’ said Nigel. ‘Perhaps it got lost in translation.’

  ‘He said “interesting”,’ said Doug. ‘And it was meant to be a curse. He didn’t mean that it was a good thing.’

  ‘How can it not be a good thing to live in exciting times?’ said Nigel. ‘You writers and intellectuals – you’re so negative about everything.’

  ‘That’s us,’ said Doug, tipping two generous spoonfuls of sugar into his cappuccino. ‘Always looking on the dark side.’

  ‘People have had enough of intellectuals,’ said Nigel. A sudden gleam appeared in his eye, as he was struck by the brilliance of this phrase. ‘Wait a minute, let me write that down.’

  ‘Don’t let your pearls of wisdom go to waste,’ said Doug, smiling as he watched him scribble in a notebook.

  ‘With a bit of tweaking, that could become quite a soundbite,’ said Nigel.

  They were meeting, as usual, at the café next to Temple underground station. A few weeks earlier, David Cameron had visited Brussels to negotiate a new deal with the European Union, hoping to extract concessions which would give Britain exceptional status – even more exceptional that it had already – and pacify the country’s seemingly ever more vocal army of Eurosceptics. Immediately afterwards, he announced the date of the promised referendum on Britain’s EU membership: 23 June – the second day of the Glastonbury Festival, as it happened.

  ‘Well, then, that’s a hundred thousand young people who won’t be bothering to vote, isn’t it?’ Doug said.

  ‘Postal votes will be available, for young and old alike,’ Nigel said. ‘Dave has foreseen every eventuality.’

  ‘Including the one where he loses and we have to leave the EU?’

  ‘Every probable eventuality, I should say.’

  ‘What happens if he does lose? Will he resign?’

  ‘Dave? Never. He’s not a quitter.’

  ‘What if the result’s too close to call?’

  ‘Why do journalists love hypothetical questions so much? Everything is hypothetical with you. “What happens if you lose?” “What happens if we leave the EU?” “What happens if Donald Trump becomes US president?” You live in a fantasy world, you people. Why don’t you ask me some practical questions? Like, “What will be the three main planks of Dave’s campaign strategy?” ’

  ‘OK, then – what will be the three main planks of Dave’s campaign strategy?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to disclose that.’

  Frustrated, Doug tried a different tack. ‘Look, supposing the people vote for Brexit and we –’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Nigel said. ‘I have to interrupt you there. Supposing the people vote for what?’

  ‘Brexit.’

  Nigel looked at him in astonishment. ‘How on earth did you come up with that word?’

  ‘Isn’t that what people are calling it?’

  ‘I thought it was called Brixit.’

  ‘What? Brixit?’

  ‘That’s what we’ve been calling it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dave and the whole team.’

  ‘Everybody else is calling it Brexit. Where did you get Brixit from?’

  ‘I don’t know. We thought that’s what it was called.’ He wrote in his notebook again. ‘Brexit? Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure. It’s a portmanteau word. British exit.’

  ‘British exit … But surely that would be Brixit?’

  ‘Well, the Greeks called it Grexit.’

  ‘The Greeks? But they haven’t left the European Union.’

  ‘No, but they were thinking about it.’

  ‘But we’re not Greeks. We should have our own word for it.’

  ‘We do. Brexit.’

  ‘But we’ve been calling it Brixit.’ Nigel shook his head and made even more extensive notes. ‘This is going to be an absolute bombshell in the next cabinet meeting. I hope I’m not the one who has to break it to them.’

  ‘Well,’ said Doug, ‘since you’re convinced it’s not going to happen, you don’t really need a word for it, do you?’

  Nigel smiled happily when he heard this. ‘Of course – you’re absolutely right. It’s not going to happen, so we don’t need a word for it.’

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘After all, in a year’s time, all this silly business will be forgotten.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Nobody will even remember that some people wanted to Brixit.’

  ‘Quite. Although, you know, some of those people …’ He wondered how to put this. ‘Well, they’re serious players, aren’t they? Boris Johnson, for instance. He’s a real heavyweight.’

  ‘I don’t think you should be rude about his personal appearance,’ Nigel said. ‘Even though Dave is very angry with him.’

  ‘He wasn’t expecting him to declare for Leave?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘There’s a rumour going around,’ said Doug, ‘that the night before the Telegraph went to press, Boris had two articles ready for them. One where he made the case for Leave, and the other where he argued for Remain.’

  ‘I don’t believe that for a moment,’ said Nigel. ‘Boris would have had three articles ready – one for Leave, one for Remain, and one for not being able to make up his mind. He likes to cover all the bases.’

  ‘And then Michael Gove. Another big hitter coming out for Leave.’

  ‘I know. Dave is very angry with Michael. Luckily, there are still a lot of loyal, sensible Conservatives who appreciate the benefits of EU membership. I believe you’re sleeping with one of them. But imagine how Dave feels about Michael and some of the
others. I mean, he went all the way to Brussels and got us this wonderful deal, and these people still aren’t happy.’

  ‘A lot of people just don’t like the EU,’ said Doug. ‘They think it’s undemocratic.’

  ‘Yes, but leaving it would be bad for the economy.’

  ‘They think that Germany pushes the other countries around.’

  ‘Yes, but leaving it would be bad for the economy.’

  ‘They think too many immigrants have come in from Poland and Romania, and are pushing wages down.’

  ‘Yes, but leaving it would be bad for the economy.’

  ‘OK,’ said Doug, ‘I think I’ve just found out what the three main planks of Dave’s campaign strategy are going to be.’ Now it was his turn to make some notes. ‘And what about Jeremy Corbyn?’

  Nigel drew in his breath with a long hissing sound, and seemed to visibly recoil. ‘Jeremy Corbyn?’

  ‘Yes. Where does he fit into this?’

  ‘We don’t talk about Jeremy.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not? Because he’s a Marxist. A Marxist, a Leninist, a Trotskyist and a Communist. A Maoist, a Bolshevik, an anarchist and a Leftist. A radical socialist, an anti-capitalist, an anti-royalist and a pro-terrorist.’

  ‘But he’s also a Remainer.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Then of course, we’re thrilled to have him on board. But I don’t think Dave would be prepared to share a platform with him.’

  ‘He won’t have to. Jeremy refuses to share a platform with him.’

  ‘Good. Well, there you are – it’s good to see that political opponents can put aside their differences in the service of a common cause, and agree on something for once.’

  ‘Namely, refusing to share a platform with each other.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And what about Nigel Farage?’

  Nigel drew in his breath with a hiss again. ‘We don’t talk about Nigel Farage.’

  ‘There seem to be a lot of things you don’t talk about. Why don’t you talk about Nigel Farage?’

  ‘Dave came up with a very memorable phrase about UKIP and its supporters. I’ve forgotten it for the moment, but it was very memorable.’

  ‘He called them “fruitcakes, loonies and closet racists”.’

  ‘Really? That was nasty of him. Anyway, we don’t take Nigel Farage seriously. Or UKIP. They only have one MP, after all.’

  ‘But that’s because of first-past-the-post. Actually they have twelve per cent support – which makes them the third-most popular party.’

  ‘That’s the beauty of our parliamentary system. It keeps the – what was Dave’s phrase again?’

  ‘Fruitcakes, loonies and closet racists.’

  ‘It keeps the fruitcakes, loonies and closet racists from having any real influence. I mean, think of all the fruitcakes, loonies and closet racists up and down the country, and imagine what would happen if they were given an equal say with everyone else on matters of national importance.’

  ‘But that’s exactly what this referendum is going to give them.’

  Nigel sighed. ‘Negative thinking, Douglas. Always with the negative thinking. Negativity, negativity, negativity. We’re about to embark on an amazing exercise in direct democracy. Now come on – you live and breathe politics, don’t you? It’s been your lifelong passion. Don’t you want to see that passion shared with your fellow citizens? What Dave’s doing here is starting a conversation. For the next three months, the country is going to be consumed, riveted, by a national conversation about Britain’s place in Europe and its place in the world. Just think of that! Just think of Mrs Jones …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m just giving you an example, a hypothetical example. Just think of Mrs Jones going into the butcher’s shop on a Saturday morning. “Good morning, Mrs Jones,” the butcher might say. “A dozen rashers of finest back bacon for you and your family, as per usual?” And while he’s putting them on the counter and trimming them and wrapping them up, he might say: “So, what about the impact of these pesky non-tariff barriers, eh? Blow me if they wouldn’t have a significant effect on the UK service sector, which makes up eighty per cent of the economy.” And Mrs Jones might say, “Ah, but under WTO rules –” ’

  ‘Nigel,’ Doug interrupted, ‘you’re completely crazy if you think people are going to be having that kind of conversation. There can’t be more than about twelve people in the country who understand how the EU works, never mind how its regulations dovetail into the global economic system. You don’t understand that and I certainly don’t understand it and if you think people are going to be any better informed in three months’ time you’re living in cloud cuckoo land. People are going to vote how they always vote – with their gut. This campaign’s going to be won on slogans and soundbites, and instincts and emotions. Not to mention prejudices – which Farage and his fruitcakes are pretty good at appealing to, incidentally.’

  Nigel sat back with his arms folded. His face was suffused with an expression of the purest pity. He drummed his fingers on his upper arms, and said: ‘Douglas, Douglas, Douglas. Do you know how long it is, how many years, since we started meeting at this café? Almost six years. In that time, we’ve had so many interesting conversations. And I like to think that in many ways, despite the differences between us, in politics, age, physical health – you know what I’m talking about here, I won’t embarrass you by bringing it up again, although I will leave you my father’s card, for future reference – I like to think that we’ve formed a genuine friendship. So many things have happened to you in that time. Many of the newspapers you used to work for have closed down. Commentators like you no longer wield the influence you used to. And every time we meet, and we talk about this government I’m so privileged to serve, and this prime minister I’m so lucky to work with – and, yes, also to count as a friend, of sorts – every time, you act like a prophet of doom. Always foreseeing disaster and failure. But David’s a winner, Douglas. He’s a fighter. He intends to fight this campaign and win it. Just like he won the election last year – in the face of all the nay-sayers. In the face of all those ridiculous opinion polls which told us he was going to lose. I mean –’ he gave an incredulous laugh ‘– do you remember how badly they got it wrong? Who would listen to a pundit ever again, after that? Who would put the slightest faith in the opinion polls?’

  ‘Which this time,’ Doug pointed out, ‘say that Remain is going to win in June.’

  ‘And they’re right!’ said Nigel triumphantly. ‘Dave is going to win! He has to win. He has to win because he has four more years in office and he has so much work to do, and he owes it to the British people to carry on.’

  ‘Great,’ said Doug. ‘Four more years of austerity, cuts to social services, cuts to welfare, creeping privatization of the NHS …’

  ‘Exactly. You see? There’s so much to do! Talking of which …’ Nigel looked at his watch and jumped to his feet. ‘I have to be on my way. Can you take care of these coffees? It’ll be my turn next time.’

  He was gone. Doug paid the bill and walked slowly along the Embankment towards Waterloo Bridge, shaking his head and thinking, as always, that he could never predict the direction that these conversations were going to take. Ten minutes later, his phone vibrated as he received a text. It was from Nigel.

  What do you know – it turns out that people *are* calling it Brexit. Thanks for the tip!

  30.

  April 2016

  ‘I do sometimes wonder,’ said Benjamin, ‘what my life would have been like if I hadn’t gone to that school.’

  Charlie shook his head and said: ‘Don’t go there, mate. The “what if” question. It’s not allowed. That way madness lies.’

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘Everything works out for the best. You have to believe that. When I met Yasmin, for instance, that wasn’t chance. It was fate, destiny, Kismet.’

  ‘Kismet?’ Be
njamin repeated, sceptically. He took a sip from his Guinness. Charlie had already finished his pint and was waiting for him to catch up. Benjamin was a slow drinker.

  ‘Yes. You have these moments – you have these moments when everything in your life suddenly comes together. It doesn’t have to happen in Shangri-La, or wherever … For me it happened in Toys’R’Us just outside Dudley. Beggars can’t always be choosers, you know.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Benjamin.

  ‘But think about all the things that followed from that: if I hadn’t been working there when she came in with Aneeqa, and if they hadn’t asked me to fetch down that table tennis set from the top shelf, then I never would’ve started talking to them. I never would’ve started seeing her, I never would’ve started taking Aneeqa to school and I never would’ve known there was another girl there called Krystal who hated her and was jealous of her. And I never would’ve known Krystal had a father called Duncan who was also a children’s entertainer and who started hating me just because I was looking after a girl his daughter happened to hate.’

  Charlie had already told Benjamin this story, at one of their first lunches together: the story of Duncan Field, also known as Doctor Daredevil, who worked the same area as Charlie and for the last five years had been trying to make his working life difficult in every way possible. He would turn up at Charlie’s Woodlands Theatre shows and sabotage them by standing in the wings and heckling, or even coming on stage uninvited. He would find out which children’s parties Charlie was booked for (Charlie was never able to work out how) and arrive at the same house himself twenty minutes early, claiming that he was the replacement booking and taking over the whole show. The styles of the two entertainers were diametrically opposed: Baron Brainbox was gentle, whimsical, educative; Doctor Daredevil was raucous and rude, and placed an emphasis on chemically dangerous magic tricks which were frequently in breach of Health and Safety regulations and more than once had caused the fire brigade to be called out. The two men were divided by intense professional rivalry and maintained a deep personal loathing for one another.