by Jonathan Coe
‘No,’ said Colin. ‘I’m not cold.’
‘I just wondered why you needed the blanket, that’s all.’
Since coming back from the hospital a month earlier, Colin had not left the house. In fact, he had barely stirred from the living room, or the armchair in front of the television, although Benjamin assumed he left it occasionally, to go to bed or the toilet. Permanently draped over his knees was a stripy multicoloured blanket, the product of a creative phase Sheila had passed through in her sixties, when she had flirted for a while with the art of crochet.
‘I like it,’ said Colin. ‘It’s a nice blanket.’ Also open on his knees was a copy of the Sunday Telegraph, complete with half-page picture of Boris Johnson looking serious and statesmanlike, his eyes narrowed against the light, his mind fixed on distant, Churchillian thoughts. ‘You were at college with him, weren’t you?’
Benjamin sighed. He was getting rather tired of this myth, which seemed to be in ever-wider circulation.
‘I didn’t know him,’ he said. ‘Our paths crossed. Briefly.’
‘I saw that piece about you in the paper. It said you were friends at college.’
Reflecting once again that there seemed to be no pattern, no rhyme or reason, to the things his father remembered and the things he forgot, Benjamin reached across and picked up the newspaper.
‘Come on, then,’ he said, ‘what’s he saying this time?’
Johnson was now drawing an analogy between the European Union and Nazi Germany. Both, he argued, had the design of creating a German-dominated European superstate, using means that were military in the one case, economic in the other. Benjamin, whose interest in politics had grown exponentially in the last few weeks, was aghast. Was this what political debate had become in this country, now? Was it happening because of the referendum campaign, or had it been this way all along, and he hadn’t been paying attention? Could a British politician now fling this kind of comparison around and be confident of getting away with it, or was that privilege reserved for Johnson, with his lovably floppy hair and his bumbling Etonian manner and the ironic smirk that always hovered around the edges of his mouth? Benjamin handed the paper back to his father, who said:
‘All that money we spent sending you to Oxford. Worked out a lot better for him than it did for you, didn’t it?’
‘Seriously?’
‘He talks sense. He’s about the only one who does. It took us six years to stop the Germans in their tracks. Bugger the help we got from anybody else, apart from the Americans at the last minute. And now look at them. Pushing us around. Telling us what to do. Laughing at us behind our backs.’
This was depressing stuff. Benjamin no longer knew what to do when his father spoke like this. ‘Cup of tea, Dad?’ he suggested, a bit desperately.
‘No thanks. But you can get me a postal vote.’
‘A what?’
‘For the referendum. I may not be able to leave the house but that’s not going to stop me having my say.’
Benjamin nodded.
‘OK. Sure.’
‘I need a form, and an envelope, and a stamp. See to it, will you?’
‘No problem.’
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Decency required that he stayed another thirty minutes or so. Things would be better when Lois moved down.
*
Monday, 23 May 2016
Aneeqa was much too old to need picking up from school now, but every few days Charlie did it anyway and he assumed that she liked it because she had never asked him to stop. The drive back to Yasmin’s house always followed the same pattern, which he’d found puzzling at first but which had then started to amuse him and was now something he simply accepted. Replete with experiences from her long day, full of stories which needed to be told and pent-up feelings which needed to be vented, Aneeqa would deluge him with a monologue lasting about fifteen minutes, a manic torrent of words which did not allow space for the smallest interruption. Then it would finish as abruptly as it had begun. Without waiting for Charlie to make any comments in return, she would simply stop, take out her smartphone and stare frowning at the screen for the remainder of the drive, occasionally scrolling and clicking. They would complete the journey in silence. Charlie had come to understand, by now, that he was expected merely to serve as listener, a necessary, passive receptacle for her thoughts and confidences, and he was happy to fulfil that role.
Today she described a run-in with her Spanish teacher in the lesson before break – she was notorious for having favourites (Aneeqa not being among them) and giving them shamelessly preferential treatment – and then:
‘… and then at lunchtime the Debating Society was talking about the referendum – no surprise there – and Krystal was speaking – for Leave of course – and she started going on about how the important thing was immigration – that was really the main problem with the EU – freedom of movement had been a disaster for this country, she said – we were just full up and we can’t take any more people – and if that means British people can’t go and live in Berlin whenever they want or get a job in Amsterdam, well, so what, it was only posh, wealthy people who could afford to do that anyway – she said it’s all a price worth paying to keep out the Poles and the Romanians – and I’ve heard that from Mum as well, believe it or not – I think she’s going to vote Leave because she reckons if we vote to stop people from Europe coming here then we can bring in more people from Pakistan and all her cousins can come over – but the thing is I’m not even sure Krystal believes any of this stuff anyway – I think she just gets it from her dad – I mean, you know what he’s like, don’t you? – he’s an absolute nightmare – no wonder you two can’t stand each other …’
*
Thursday, 26 May 2016
Three days later, figures published by the government showed that annual net migration into the United Kingdom had risen to 330,000, an all-time high. And Sophie, at last, travelled down to London for her much-postponed tribunal.
She had not visited the capital for several weeks, and she had not set foot inside the humanities department for almost six months. It was a profoundly disconcerting experience. As she walked down the corridor to her office, some colleagues nodded a brief, embarrassed hello. Others avoided eye contact and hurried by without saying a word. None of them stopped to talk, to ask how she was, to ask what she had been doing since they had last seen her. Everything about her department – the layout of the rooms, the location of the pictures and noticeboards on the walls, even the play of sunlight through the windows on to the parquet floor – seemed both strange and familiar at the same time.
It was with a curious sense of relief that she unlocked the door of her own office and pushed it open. She had been half-expecting that someone might have changed the locks. Inside, it felt very quiet and still. A thin coating of dust lay over everything: the books on the shelves, the kettle on the windowsill, her empty desktop. The three pot plants on the shelves had shrivelled and died long ago. She flopped down into the easy chair – the one her students used to sit in when she was allowed to give one-to-one tutorials – but rose to her feet again almost at once. It was too depressing in here. She would go to the café, where she was meant to be meeting her union rep, even though she wasn’t due to arrive for another half an hour.
Ninety minutes later Sophie was back in her office, none the wiser about her academic future. The union rep, Angela, had turned out to be a chilly and guarded jobsworth with an attitude towards Sophie’s case so studiedly impartial that she didn’t seem able to offer any tangible support at all. In the tribunal itself, Angela and Sophie had sat on one side of a long table, opposite four antagonists including Martin Lomas and Corrie Anderton, whom Sophie was decidedly unnerved to meet in person at last. (She was surly and rude, and never once looked Sophie in the eye, but her knowledge of university regulations and equal ops legislation was impressive.) Sophie had put her side of the case as best she could, although it didn’t amount to mu
ch apart from her repeated insistence that all she had done was to make a light-hearted remark that had been misunderstood. Her opponents made notes and asked questions. All Martin had said to her, at the end of the forty-minute hearing, was, ‘Thank you, Sophie, we’ll be in touch with you shortly.’ Angela had left the building as quickly as possible, just allowing Sophie time to ask how she thought the hearing had gone, to which she had simply answered: ‘Always difficult to tell, really.’
So that was that, it seemed. More uncertainty, and more waiting.
She hadn’t been intending to linger in her office. She merely wanted to retrieve a couple of books and take them back to Birmingham with her. But while she was searching for them, there was a diffident tap on her open door. Sophie turned and saw that Emily Shamma was standing framed in the doorway. Her red hair had grown longer now, reaching almost down to her shoulders, and the paleness of her face was offset by two slashes of blood-red lipstick.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Hi,’ said Sophie.
‘Is it OK if I come in?’
‘Of course. Take a seat.’
‘It’s OK. I won’t stay long. Only, I just heard that you’d come back today and … I wanted to see you.’ She had a gentle Welsh accent that gave her words a quiet, lilting musicality. ‘The thing is, I feel really terrible about what’s happened. When I told Corrie what you’d said, it wasn’t like I felt devastated by it or anything. I was just like, “That was a bit off.” I didn’t realize she was going to blow it up into this huge thing.’
Sophie smiled and murmured, ‘Ah well …’ There wasn’t much else she could say.
‘I’m not even friends with her any more. I mean, I can’t stand the way she’s so judgemental about everything. I just feel so guilty about you, and all the hassle you’ve been going through.’
Sophie stepped forward, intending to give Emily a hug, then thought better of it. Everything could be misinterpreted.
‘They are going to take you back, aren’t they?’
‘I hope so.’
‘I hate to think you’re just sitting around at home.’
‘Well, I’ve started a book. Don’t know if I’ll finish it. And I’ve got an elderly grandfather who needs a lot of looking after. And some television work has come up.’
‘Television? That’s exciting.’
‘I did something for Sky last year and got on well with the director and now – just last week in fact – she’s asked me to front a series.’
‘Awesome.’
‘Well, it’s pretty bog-standard stuff. Just going to a lot of famous European galleries and talking about a lot of famous pictures. I don’t think I’m going to be able to put much of a personal stamp on it.’
‘Still …’
‘Still …’ Her tone brightened as she said: ‘What about you?’
‘Well … Not so good, to be honest. I’ve been finding this whole process pretty difficult. I was supposed to have my op next month – the point of no return – but I’ve put it off for now. And I’m going to take a year out. Think things through.’
Doing her best to speak carefully, non-committally, Sophie was on the point of saying, ‘That sounds like the right decision,’ then changed it to something even safer: ‘I’m sure you’ll do the right thing. Good luck.’
Emily smiled a sad, anxious smile. ‘Thanks.’
They remained like that for a few more moments, two figures who might in another life have been friends, now standing a cautious distance from one another, scared to embrace, scared to show their feelings, numb and motionless in the glow of what little sunshine Sophie’s grime-streaked windows were able to admit on this long, warm, languid summer’s afternoon. Then Emily said, ‘I’d better go,’ and Sophie said, ‘Thanks for coming to see me, I really appreciate it,’ and they shook hands fleetingly and Emily was gone.
Sophie took the five-forty train home from Euston and it was still light when she reached the flat. Ian had made pasta and it was very nice and he nodded with sympathy when she told him about the tribunal and the meeting with Emily. But when it became clear that there was nothing he could say that would make the situation any better, and there were no practical steps he could take to help her, he grew frustrated and wanted instead to talk about the immigration figures which were all over the papers and the television news.
‘Three hundred and thirty thousand is way too high,’ he kept saying. ‘We’re full up. The country’s full up. Something’s got to be done about it now – even you must see that.’
‘I read somewhere,’ Sophie said, ‘that it was fewer people leaving, rather than more people arriving.’ But she was bored with having this conversation and didn’t bother to argue the point any further.
33.
The publication of these latest immigration figures had a galvanizing effect on the referendum campaign as it entered its final phase. The debate shifted. There was less discussion of economic forecasts and sovereignty and the political benefits of EU membership: now, everything seemed to hinge upon immigration and border control. The tone changed too. It became more bitter, more personal, more rancorous. One half of the country seemed to have become fiercely hostile towards the other. More and more people began to wish, like Benjamin, that the whole wearying, nasty, divisive business could be finished and forgotten as soon as possible.
Meanwhile, Lois put her house in York on the market and moved down to Birmingham. On the evening of 13 June 2016, ten days after her return, she invited Sophie and Ian round for dinner. She baked a lasagne and they drank plenty of Montepulciano and it was all very jolly but after the meal Lois seemed to disappear from the table while they were still drinking coffee, and a few minutes later Sophie found her in the sitting room all alone, listening to Classic FM and finishing off the last of the wine.
‘You all right, Mum?’ she asked.
Lois looked up and smiled.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Didn’t you want to stay and talk?’
‘Not really.’
Sophie sat down beside her. On the coffee table next to the sofa was a pile of newspapers and other odds and ends. Four sheets of A4 on top of the pile caught Sophie’s eye. She picked them up and glanced through them.
‘What are these?’
‘What do they look like?’
‘They look like adverts for houses in France.’
‘Then that’s what they are.’
‘You’re thinking of buying somewhere in France?’
‘Your father is.’
Sophie looked at the brochures more closely. The properties, all priced at around 300,000 euros, seemed to boast the kinds of idyllic settings and generous proportions that would set the purchaser back twice as much if they were located somewhere in England.
‘Well, aren’t you keen?’ she said. ‘You’ve always wanted a place in France. You’ve been talking about it for ages. And Dad’ll be retiring in a couple of years. It could be great – for both of you.’
Lois nodded. ‘Yes, it could.’ But she didn’t sound over-enthusiastic.
Sophie said, nervously: ‘You are intending to spend your retirement with Dad, aren’t you?’
‘Well, I don’t have anyone else to spend it with,’ said Lois, sipping her wine. ‘And I don’t want to spend it in this bloody city, that’s for sure.’
Sophie laid a hand on her mother’s arm. Lois turned to look at her. Her eyes were brimming.
‘It’s forty-three years, since that bomb went off,’ she said. ‘Forty-one years, six months and twenty-three days. Every night, I still hear it. That bomb going off is the last thing I hear, before I go to sleep. If I go to sleep. I daren’t watch the news on television, in case there’s something that reminds me. I can’t even go to the cinema or watch a DVD in case there’s anything in it – anything at all – any blood, any violence, any noise. Anything that reminds me what human beings can do to each other. Politics can make people do terrible things …’ She looked at Sophie closely now
, and her voice became more urgent. ‘You and Ian are in trouble, aren’t you?’
‘Not really,’ said Sophie, after a brief hesitation. ‘We’ll get through it. We’ll sort it out.’
‘Politics can tear people apart,’ said Lois. ‘Stupid, isn’t it? But true. That’s what happened to my Malcolm. That’s what killed him. Politics.’
There was a noise behind them – the creaking of a floorboard – and both women turned around. It was Ian, standing in the doorway with his coffee mug in his hand.
‘Everything OK in here?’ he asked.
‘Come in,’ said Lois, moving up to make room for him on the sofa. ‘Sit down, and tell me what you think of these houses.’
*
‘Oh, hi, Phil,’ Benjamin said. ‘Thanks for calling back.’
‘Is this a good time? Your voice sounds a bit strange.’
‘I’m in the car. I’m on my way to the station.’
‘Oh? Where are you off to?’
‘I’m picking someone up. My friend Charlie.’
‘Oh yes.’ Phil was yet to meet this mysterious revenant from Benjamin’s past. ‘The kids’ party guy.’
‘He’s coming to stay for a day or two. Phoned me up this morning. Bit of a cry for help. I think he’s in a bad way.’
‘Would this be a good time for me to say something about the tears of a clown?’
Benjamin gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Not really.’
‘OK. Well, look, I won’t keep you. What did you want to talk about?’
‘I just wanted your advice about this piece I’m writing.’
‘Piece?’
‘Didn’t I tell you? I’m writing something about the referendum.’ There was a long silence at the other end of the line. ‘Are you still there?’
‘I’m still here, yes. I’m just … gobsmacked.’
‘Gobsmacked? Why?’
‘You’re writing something about the referendum? You mean … you’re going to take a position on something?’
Benjamin seemed unclear on this point. ‘Possibly. It’s for one of those newspaper features, you know. They’re asking lots of writers how they’re going to vote.’