News Where You Are

by Catherine O'Flynn

  Julia laughed. ‘Are you joking? What identity are we talking about? What is this region? Our patch covers about a third of England. Who in Birmingham gives a toss about some ASBO gang bothering an estate in Stoke or a farming issue in Hereford? If they want to know about the rest of the country, they’ll watch the main stories on the national news. If they want local news, they want news about their locality. The only identity this programme reflects is whichever fool has been put in charge of the controls for the day.’

  ‘Sometimes we get it right.’

  ‘Rarely – more by chance than design. Most of the time we’re dicking about in no-man’s land with stories that are neither specific nor broad enough to interest anyone. Sometimes I feel as if we have a deliberate policy of avoiding the news, of reporting anything that actually matters.’

  Frank reflected on this. ‘It’s just a time of transition – we’ve been through them in the past. The internet has changed everything and we’re still trying to work it out, but I think we will. In the meantime I don’t think we’re doing anything evil or wrong.’

  Julia smiled. ‘No. Just utterly pointless. I like working with you, Frank – you know that, and don’t take any offence – but this is just the place you come every day for a few hours. It’s just a job for you. You’ve got family and stuff outside of work and you never let this be that important to you. But my work means everything to me. I want it to define me. If I think I’m doing a shit job, I feel worthless – it eats away at me.’

  Frank smiled a little.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was just thinking how you actually sound like the kind of journalists you see in films – you know, fire in the belly – you sound like the real thing.’

  Julia nodded sadly. ‘I’ve got to get out of here, Frank.’

  ‘I’m not sure you’ll find things very different wherever you go.’

  ‘Landmarks made out of pegs? Come on.’

  ‘The odd bit of local colour – there’s no harm in that.’

  ‘Year after year, the same bloody rubbish.’

  Frank suddenly felt tired, worn out by Julia’s anger. He sat heavily in his chair. ‘Well, that’s just life, isn’t it?’

  37

  As he approached his mother’s room, he heard an unfamiliar sound. For a moment he wondered if she could possibly be listening to the radio that had sat gathering dust on the sideboard since he’d bought it for her four years ago. As he stood outside to knock, though, he realized that the source of the sound was something unlikelier even than that. He could hear his mother laughing softly. His first thought was that her long anticipated dementia had finally kicked in. He knocked on the door urgently and the laughing stopped. He heard his mother clear her throat and call out ‘hello’. He opened the door, braced for the worst, but was thrown completely by the sight of Walter sitting in the chair where his mother usually sat, and Maureen standing by the window. Frank was struck by the symmetry of the composition, a geriatric version of Hockney’s Mr and Mrs Clark – without Percy.

  Walter stood up. ‘Hello, Frank, how are things?’

  Frank was slow to respond. He found himself strangely shocked by the scene. ‘Erm … fine, Walter. Don’t get up. Don’t leave on my account.’

  Walter hesitated but Maureen said: ‘No, Walter was just leaving anyway. He’s got better things to do than sit around here all day.’

  ‘Well, that’s certainly not true,’ said Walter as he made his way to the door. ‘Watch out, Frank, she’s on top form today.’ Just before he left he turned back to Maureen and laughing once more said: ‘Oh dear … “emitting pellets”!’ And he left, chuckling to himself.

  Maureen started to smile, but bit her lip. ‘Bye now.’

  Walter closed the door and Maureen shuffled back to her chair, sat down in it and assumed her usual expression of mild pain.

  Frank stared at her until it became clear that she intended to offer no explanation. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘What was all what about?’

  ‘The laughing – the pellets. You seemed to be having a nice time.’

  ‘Really, Frank, don’t exaggerate. Walter just came by to borrow the newspaper.’

  Frank thought of the previous week when he’d seen Maureen and Walter singing together in the group.

  ‘You never mention Walter when I ask you what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘Well, why on earth would I?’

  Frank was about to counter that she seemed to be seeing an awful lot of Walter, but stopped himself when he realized that he was sounding like a jealous husband. He knew his mother couldn’t stand to let him see her happy.

  ‘So how have you been anyway?’

  ‘Oh, the same as usual – staggering onwards in the dark.’

  ‘Really,’ said Frank.

  ‘My knees have been sheer hell this last week. I lie in bed at night and it’s as if someone is hammering nails into them.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the physiotherapist?’

  ‘Oh, what’s the point? It’s just the usual decay. The gradual falling apart at the seams.’

  Frank felt his frustration rising and tried to change the subject: ‘I meant to tell you, I think we’ve had some good news.’

  ‘Well, that would make a change.’

  ‘You know the Renwick Building?’

  ‘I know it was one of your father’s – don’t ask me which one.’

  ‘It’s the block of offices in Edgbaston.’

  Maureen put her head back for a moment: ‘Did it have a pond or something?’

  ‘Yeah – a large rectangular ornamental pond set in front, supposed to reflect the building, but it was usually too dull to reflect anything. I remember being very excited by the pond as a kid. It looked like a swimming pool on the plans. I imagined the businessmen changing into their swimming trunks at lunchtime.’

  Maureen half-smiled. ‘I don’t suppose that ever happened.’

  ‘No, I think its only successful application was as a kind of floating rubbish installation. Crisp packets and juice cartons float about on it like lily pads.’

  ‘It’s not been demolished, then?’

  ‘No, that’s what I was going to say. It’s his only public building left standing in Birmingham and I think we’ve got a good chance of getting it listed. It’s an important building; it has an architectural significance and uniqueness that’s hard to argue against. The owners haven’t applied for an exemption, so I think it should be okay.’ Maureen said nothing and Frank felt the need to press for a response. ‘So that would be good, wouldn’t it? After all the destruction, to save one building, to leave some trace?’

  Maureen looked directly at him. ‘Oh, Frank. Let them demolish it if they want to. Things move on. Your father was the first to say that.’

  Frank was taken aback. ‘But … I don’t think he was in favour of the complete obliteration of the past, of rewriting history.’

  Maureen said nothing. They sat in silence for a while. The light outside was fading and Frank thought he should turn the light on, but momentarily couldn’t summon the will to do so. His mother’s breathing was heavy; he thought she might have fallen asleep and was surprised when she spoke again.

  ‘Just before your father and I were married he made your Aunt Sylvia a beautiful doll’s house. He designed it and made it all by hand. You really couldn’t imagine the detail – right down to the tiny cutlery – it was breath-taking really. She would have been about Mo’s age and he presented her with it on Christmas morning. I think she would have married him there and then if she could. He could be so thoughtful.’ Maureen turned towards Frank: ‘Your father had an amazing ability to focus, did you know that?’

  Frank shrugged. ‘I suppose I did, yes.’

  ‘Incredible really. He could block everything out and just direct all his thought and energy to one thing. It was quite a remarkable thing to find yourself the object
of that beam. It was like the sun shining just on you.’

  Frank had a flash of memory of the dream he used to have. He was running after his father, calling for him to turn round.

  ‘But your father wasn’t a sentimental man. The object of his beam was always shifting – never a backwards glance. Do you know what was the most important thing in the world to your father?’

  Frank shook his head.

  ‘The next thing.’ There were a few moments’ silence before she continued. ‘Of course it’s not so good to be the previous thing. The thing moved on from. But we know that, don’t we?’

  Frank looked away, unable to meet his mother’s eye, uncomfortable with her directness.

  ‘Well, now it’s the turn of his buildings. Their turn to be erased and forgotten. So let the bulldozers come. I can’t really bring myself to shed a tear.’

  38

  Francis

  1975

  He tiptoes down the stairs carrying a box filled with Matchbox cars and an eclectic selection of plastic figures: cowboys, Indians, German and British infantry, assorted farmyard animals. He is sneaking into his father’s study for the sixth Saturday in a row. His father is at work; his mother is in the garden ferociously tearing up some bamboo stalks. He’s not sure that he really needs to creep about.

  In his bedroom he often tries to construct roadways for his cars to race along, or battlegrounds for his soldiers to fight upon. He uses opened books for tunnels and pillows for hills but the results are always unconvincing. The model town, however, is perfect. What it lacks in colour it makes up for in detail.

  He knocks before entering, just in case, and he quickly closes the door behind him. He heads straight for the model, trying not to catch a glimpse of any of the Future People on the drawings around the room. He places his cars and figures about the town, trying as best as he can to put them exactly where they ended up last time so that the story can continue.

  The roads aren’t quite wide enough to allow for two-way traffic, but one Matchbox car can just about fit on the carriageway. The big circular road that surrounds the town is soon clogged with an exotic mix of sports cars and emergency-service vehicles all needing to get to different destinations. Some of the drivers become short-tempered and occasionally one car pushes another right off the road and Francis has to try and arbitrate and alleviate the problem. He isn’t able to place his men inside the buildings, but he can position them on the pavements, in the empty squares, on the elevated pedestrian walkways and even on the rooftops. Each character has a name and a story. Colin waits for a taxi that’s caught in the gridlock. Fingers and Johnny plan a robbery outside a bank. Martin lies shot dead in a side street. One lone Apache scout called Little Cloud stands on top of the tallest building and looks out at the baffling universe beyond the protective perimeter of the ring road.

  Francis calls the town San Francisco. This is partly because the name serves as shorthand for every exciting American city he has ever seen on television – with skyscrapers and guns and children who can drive – and partly because it has his name in it. His role in the town is a combination of mayor, sheriff and God. On interminable dark winter afternoons at school, while the teacher works out simultaneous equations on the board, Francis thinks about San Francisco and all that is happening there.

  He always clears out of the study before his father’s return. He hears his mother moving around in the kitchen preparing lunch and he reluctantly begins to disassemble the town. He imagines the panic in the streets as his hand descends and plucks the citizens out one by one. He returns the people and the cars to the box, placing them tenderly on top of one another. When they are all put away, he checks the model over one last time. San Francisco is depopulated, the pavements deserted, but he is sure that he still hears the voices echoing in the empty streets.

  Today, though, he is caught up in a difficult situation. An outsize Friesian cow is causing chaos in the shopping precinct. Francis had thought that this was surely the very kind of job the cowboys would be able to deal with, but they have shown themselves to be incompetent and cowardly, terrified by the sheer scale of the animal. They huddle at the entrance to a pedestrian subway. A British infantryman has taken the extraordinary decision to release a lion into the crowded precinct to capture the cow. His colleagues call for assistance, but everyone knows there is no direct vehicular access to the precinct. It looks as if Little Cloud will have to save the day with a well-aimed arrow from his rooftop perch. The British, the Germans, the cowboys and the Indians are all looking up at Little Cloud waiting for him to draw back his bow when a breeze sweeps across San Francisco, followed by:

  ‘What on earth …?’ And Francis turns to see his father standing in the doorway. For some reason his first reaction is to reach out and remove the cow from the shopping precinct, as if that one detail is simply too much for his father to take.

  His father speaks quietly.

  ‘What exactly do you think you’re doing?’ Francis finds he can’t speak. His father stares at him. ‘I asked you a question.’

  Francis looks down at his feet. ‘Playing a game.’ He hates that his voice wobbles when he answers.

  ‘Does it say “playroom” on the door?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does it say anywhere upon that handmade, extremely delicate and intricate model “toy”?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you ever permitted to come in here alone?’

  Francis just shakes his head.

  ‘No. Well, I’m glad we agree. I thought perhaps I was mistaken. I thought, when I walked in and saw you clumsily throwing your toys around the architectural model and showing no regard either for property or for the rules of this house, that something must have changed.’

  Francis stands with his head down waiting for his father to shout. He has never seen his father lose his temper. He has a strange desire to hear him shout, just once. Instead his father sighs.

  ‘What disappoints me, Francis, is that a boy of your age looks at a model like this and sees only the potential for childish games. You see only a toy and I think that’s really most disappointing. If I were you, I should be very excited indeed at the idea of building a new town, about looking to the future and providing better lives for people.’

  Francis thinks his father is right and that there is something wrong with him. He doesn’t find the simple subject of buildings and roads and roundabouts, unadorned with Friesian cows and cowardly cowboys, as interesting as he should. He vows to try harder.

  His father is still talking. ‘Our cities are overcrowded and insanitary. There are parts of Birmingham where people are living in appalling slum conditions. Yes, we can redevelop our cities and I’ve played a part in that, but new babies are being born every minute and new cities need to be born too to house those citizens of tomorrow.’ He has the sense that his father has forgotten he’s still in the room. He is speaking in the same strange tone of voice he often uses when speaking of his work, as if to a room full of people.

  ‘We have to focus on the future. We have to move on. You should remember that, Francis. When you finish something, don’t slap yourself on the back; don’t waste time telling yourself what a good job you’ve done. That’s what the other fellow does. Your job is to move on to the next thing and the next thing and the next thing. We push forward and we find new and bigger challenges. I started off designing tiny details of buildings, I worked my way up to designing whole buildings and now that I’ve done all I feel I can do with those I am moving on to designing a new town. A new challenge: that’s what gets us out of bed in the morning.’

  Francis has stopped listening. He is fixed instead on his father’s mention of the ‘citizens of tomorrow’. He waits for his father to stop speaking before he asks, ‘Dad, are you working for the Future People?’

  His father looks at him. ‘Well, yes, that’s what I’m saying. Of course I am. That’s what we all must do.’

  Francis realizes that he had suspected
it all along. His father is a slave to the faceless figures. He is building them office blocks and new towns even though he has no idea what they look like, or what they will say. Francis suddenly feels sorry for him.

  39

  ‘Mo, don’t sit so close to the television.’ Mo shuffled back without taking her eyes from the screen. Over the next few minutes she gradually edged closer again, sucked in by the glow. Andrea was trying to ignore the television and read her book, but it didn’t seem to be working. Every few minutes Frank would hear her sigh or tut at something she heard.

  The husband on the screen smiled nervously. He was in his own living room, but it was difficult to relax because there was a TV crew there and a glamorous presenter interviewing him.

  ‘So, Neil, how long have you and Carol been married?’

  ‘Twenty-two years now.’

  ‘Wow. Twenty-two years. That’s great. Congratulations. That’s a real achievement.’

  Neil nodded and smiled.

  ‘And is that a photo of your wedding day there? Can we have a look?’ Neil picked up the frame and handed it to Michelle, who held it for the camera to see. It showed a considerably slimmer Neil with a full head of hair, next to a laughing blonde woman.

  ‘What a beautiful couple. Is that really Carol? It’s hard to believe.’

  Neil laughed. ‘Well, we’ve both changed quite a bit. I don’t think I’d fit into those trousers again!’

  Michelle laughed too. ‘Oh, I know what you mean. But Carol is unrecognizable.’ Michelle looked earnestly at Neil now as if about to deliver some important news. ‘Carol is a beautiful woman.’

  Neil was abashed. ‘I know –’

  Michelle cut him off. ‘You just wouldn’t know that to look at her now, would you, Neil? I mean she just hides that beauty, doesn’t she? Shuffling around in those great big jumpers of hers.’