I’m involved now. I’m part of the discussion. She puts a hand to her forehead and does a damsel in distress routine. ‘Oh, Mr Platting. Come and save me from this Sheriff of Nottingham.’
‘Miles…’
‘Dearest Nigel. I know that your mad hatter’s tea party means a great deal to you. But have you not considered the small matter of your legacy to humankind?’ Kendal walks in a circle around Nigel. He’s obliged to follow her footsteps. ‘You might have made lots of money, Sheriff, but what’s happened to your soul?’
Nigel stares at me for long enough so that I might reasonably ask what he’s staring for.
It’s my turn to say something. I aim to speak loud enough to be heard, but only by a select few. ‘I think she’s got a point… hasn’t she?’
I look down at the pebbles and people’s feet. I know that Nigel will be looking at me. I know what his face will be trying to display: incredulity.
Kendal steps onto the wooden deck. She talks aloud, like an actress. ‘It is a rich language, Lieutenant, full of the mythologies of fantasy and hope and self-deception – a syntax opulent with tomorrows.’
Nigel points a finger at Kendal. ‘Get down and stop being a nuisance!’
‘Have you ever been held, Nigel? I mean, really held…’
‘Miles!’
‘Am I not being reverent enough? I do apologise.’ She steps off the stage and takes a swig of champagne.
I step back so I can get the waiters’ attention and distract myself in a conversation about different types of cheese. Nigel looks around as if to assess his options. In the absence of my involvement, he seems to relax. He notices that people are looking: conversations are being dropped, and they’re starting to listen. He touches Kendal’s shoulder like they’re mates having a chat.
‘Tell me what you think we should do, Kendal. I’d love to hear it.’
He seems to prefer the idea of talking to Kendal than letting her drift elsewhere. He wants to contain the virus. I’m directed by one of the PR team to a small gathering of women, all of whom wear purple T-shirts with a logo that says Birdseye for the Blind. One of the carers introduces me to a young blind woman. I reach out a hand so she can feel it. Miles Platting, heals the blind. They look at me like I’m a famous actor and they’re meeting me backstage. Some of them seem shy; some of them giggle. They ask how the event has gone from our perspective, which reminds me I’m supposed to feign some sort of interest in this whole thing. I tell them it’s gone well. They seem happy it’s gone well.
‘Oh, it’s great to meet you,’ one of them says. ‘We just wanted to thank you for coming to our town. We needed a shot in the arm and you’ve given it.’
I keep my hands clasped on the young woman, who smiles. Behind me I can hear Kendal shout something about injustice. Nigel says she doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
‘Thanks to Lingua Franca, we now have the council funding to pay for assistive technology and liaison officers,’ the carer says. ‘You have no idea how much difference you’ve made.’
‘Thank you. That’s ever so kind.’
They talk about new opportunities and the importance of guaranteed funding. They hope to be able to provide visual awareness training and specially trained guide dogs. Over my shoulder I can hear Kendal say something about Nigel having a heart of stone.
‘Miles! Come here please.’
I make a facial expression that suggests I’m reluctant to leave the conversation, but professionally obliged to. They decide to release my hand.
‘Off you go, Miles. We know you’re a busy man. Lovely to meet you. And congratulations. You fully deserve that Golden Submarine.’
The waiter offers them more champagne and they seem to think the whole thing is amazing. I watch them shake hands with the sponsors, who appear touched by it all. I dare say – and I never dare say anything – the sponsors look like they might cry. This is their gift. And it’s a gift that hardly anyone could do themselves. Kendal couldn’t. In a way, this is part of their package: give your name to a town and make a difference. In exchange for their name, they can help build roads, clean rivers, and comfort the blind. They can build a world where cynicism and love have found a perfect union. Oh God…
I turn around and find Kendal prodding Nigel’s chest with her finger. ‘Fuck you.’ The words come from Kendal. ‘Fuck Lingua Franca.’ Nigel tries to laugh, but Kendal gives him no license to. She doesn’t give the impression that she’s making a joke. ‘You might have made money but you don’t have any soul.’
Nigel puts on a stern, company face, the kind he might use for a rude customer. ‘Mrs Platting, here are the facts. Our towns have the best schools. The best childcare. The best end-of-life care. The best health and nutrition. The best roads and railways. The best places to eat and drink. And if you don’t believe me, I suggest you ask your husband.’ They both look at me at the same time; they both want my endorsement, as if they’re two bickering children in competition for a parent’s approval. For once, I’m worth something. I’m one half of Lingua Franca, and one half of what was once a marriage.
I look at both of them and say, ‘I’ll let you two settle your differences.’
Kendal notices I don’t look as excited as I probably should be. The look on my face conveys everything Kendal wouldn’t want to see: indifference. She’s trying to start a revolution and I’ve only brought a water pistol.
‘Could I have your attention please?’ says the Mayor of Birdseye. Everyone’s instinct is to look at the mayor and hush for silence. The mayor puts on his spectacles so that he can read from a sheet of paper. ‘Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to stand before you on this very special occasion. It goes without saying that Barrow, as it was, will never be forgotten. We were a proud town then, and we’re even prouder now. Today, our town is synonymous with a world-class brand and we hope to uphold the standards of excellence for which Birdseye is world-renowned. In particular, there are two individuals I’d like to thank. Nigel, whose determination and rigour left us in no doubt as to the viability of this project. And Miles, whose vision and creativity is helping to transform towns up and down the country.’ He asks if Nigel and I could make ourselves known and accept the Golden Submarine award for all our hard work. The applause carries us along. It’s easier for Nigel, who lives for this kind of thing. I look across the crowd and catch sight of Kendal, whose arms are folded. I let Nigel go first. Nigel shakes hands with the mayor, who puts a medal around his neck. His assistant passes another medal and the mayor does the same to me. Here we are, the old team: Nigel and Miles, the Lennon and McCartney of the naming rights world. I bring the vision and he brings the business acumen. We both bring the bullshit. Nigel prods me on the back so that we’re both facing the direction of the cameras.
‘Thank you so much,’ Nigel says. He starts with a thank-you directed to the people of Birdseye-in-Furness. We’ve been touched by the warmth and hospitality displayed by this great Cumbrian city, he says. We’re honoured to have created a legacy upon which Birdseye can grow. The town will be more prosperous, more confident, more certain of the future. One of the great privileges of our work, the plonker goes on to say, is that we can visit different parts of the country and appreciate the rich tapestry of cultures across our sceptred isle (yes, he quotes Shakespeare). ‘Together, we can look forward to a bright new dawn for Birdseye-in-Furness. Tomorrow’s Birdseye will be brighter than today’s. As for Lingua Franca, we’re making history – big time. We’ve reached the tipping point, the point at which Lingua Franca becomes a national institution. It’s only a matter of time before we secure a blue-chip client – an Oxford or a Bath. Go back to your office desks and prepare for Sunderland!’
They applaud, but they don’t know why. We’re being applauded for our existence. I’m handed the microphone. Nigel looks at me, eager to detect some kind of reasoning from my face. He wants to know what I’m thinking, and whether I’m still good to go. I scan the audience and notice Kendal standing near the sea
.
‘Thanks, everyone.’
Somebody whoops. ‘Go Miles!’
I look out onto the rocks, the rare blue sky and the town in the distance. I try to make a joke about never winning anything in my life, but I get stuck in the words and I have to repeat myself. I have nothing to say, so I look at the Golden Submarine, which is exactly as described, but probably not gold. I’m expected to say something nice. The look on Kendal’s face says don’t you dare. Nigel seems anxious that I might drop the microphone. In front of me are the women from Birdseye for the Blind. One of them is recording my speech on their phone. I could say almost anything and they’d applaud. They look like they’re proud of me; they want to give me a hug. I can feel my hand getting numb, so I put it in my pocket.
‘Thanks, everyone, for this award. I’m speechless. Quite literally…’ If Nigel were near enough, he’d step on my foot. ‘I started this business with Nigel five years ago, and if someone told us we’d rename almost seventy towns in the UK, I don’t think… well, I’m certain we wouldn’t have believed it.’ I try to look at no one. It feels like I’m giving a speech at my own funeral. Here lies Miles Platting, who loved life, and language, some of the time. ‘I’d like to dedicate this award to Eden, our colleague who passed away just recently. We miss him very much.’ Everyone applauds, even Kendal. I seem to have hit the right note. ‘So thank you, everyone. God bless you. And long live… Birdseye-in-Furness.’
Everyone begins to clap. It’s not completely unfair that I should take the applause. I wouldn’t want Nigel to take the credit on his own. A plague on both our houses, or none at all. I look at Kendal, who seems to have slumped somehow – her shoulders have dropped. Her head is down. She doesn’t look at me. She can smell bullshit. She knows when I don’t really mean what I’m saying. If she were standing closer, she’d tell me to wind my neck in. She’d poke me in the ribs. My objective is to reach Kendal and find out the damage. What makes it harder is the bank of bodies in my way: everyone wants to shake hands. I seem to be shaking hands with someone every five seconds. People are saying ‘well done’ and ‘congratulations’. I do my best impression of a grateful recipient. My smile manages to hold in place. The volunteers seem to come alive: this is their moment. I’m led into a press enclosure behind an advertising hoarding. We do a staged handshake and someone takes a picture. There’s a queue of council officials waiting to talk. They want to take it in turns to shake my hand. I’m introduced to the local parish councillor. I begin to lose focus.
‘You’ve started a revolution,’ he tells me. ‘You’ve shown how councils can cut their cloth and survive.’ He talks about incoming investment from multinationals, property developers and companies named after acronyms. They all want to own a piece of Birdseye – an exciting Opportunity Area. For its part, the council wants the money to build sixth-form centres and health facilities, albeit with the Birdseye logo written on the wall. ‘Did you know the old Barrow was once known as the English Chicago?’ he tells me. ‘That’s what we need to recreate.’
‘Right.’ I look like I’m sulking. I think he mistakes this for self-assurance. He thinks I’m used to the praise, that I can’t wait to head to the next town.
One of the volunteers says, ‘Please walk this way. We need to take some photos.’
We’re taken on a walk along the shore – a lap of honour. The walk takes us to the site perimeter, away from our main settlement, towards a rock pool and a small cave. If it were a wedding shoot, this would be the secret garden. The photographer wants us to stand so the Devonshire Dock Hall is behind us. I try to smile as best as I can. In some of the pictures I’m probably looking the wrong way, trying to see where Kendal’s gone.
‘You did a good job,’ Nigel says in the row behind me. ‘Just keeping smiling.’
*
In the after-party, most of the noise comes from those designated to clean, and the murmur of whoever’s sitting under the canopy. It’s no longer a loud party vibe – it’s more like a campfire chill-out, with red wine, candlelight and the lightly plucked strings of someone who’s brought an acoustic guitar. Nigel claps and calls for an expression session. The team assemble, roughly in their departmental tribes and look nervous to be called upon at such short notice. Nigel smiles and says it’s been a great week for Lingua Franca. ‘I’m proud of what we’ve achieved, and what we’ve accomplished together,’ he says. ‘You’ve all embodied the Lingua Franca spirit at each stage of this journey.’ I excuse myself by saying I need to check on Kendal. Nigel gives a thumbs up, which seems strangely supportive. I keep walking and all I know is that I never want to watch another expression session. It’s the worst thing in the world, or pretty close. It’s nice to walk next to the water and not have to pose for a picture. The water doesn’t ripple or lap at stones – it seems content in its flat normality. From this distance, the town could be anywhere. Lamplight can make the ugliest of places look beautiful. The lights in LA aren’t so different from the lights in Birdseye. I look back towards the campfire, where everyone listens to the press team describe the day’s accomplishments. Next it will be the tech team’s turn: they will report a spike in traffic, thousands of new backlinks and a high volume of keyword searches for ‘Birdseye-in-Furness’. The accounts team will say it’s business as usual, and we’re on track to make December’s revenue forecast. Throughout, Nigel will nod, and make the occasional joke. It feels like we’ve won the war, and that’s it. We’ve shown this town that it has something valuable, like the discovery of a thermal spring that was hidden all along. I’m sure Nigel could pull out a chart and make it seem like it was all a no-brainer. It all comes down to money. Just ask Birdseye for the Blind. But it doesn’t seem like a victory in the way Nigel thinks it is. If it were a victory, all the townspeople would be happy. It’s great to have cash in the bank, but no one lies on their deathbed and remembers all the debt they paid off. If you’re an athlete crossing the finish line, you don’t punch the air and think about the sponsorship deals. There’s no joy in budget surpluses; there’s joy in life. This is the best way forward. The romantic way. It leads towards Costa Rica, or the Wordsworth Institute, with daffodils in the front lawn.
I walk for as long as I can while remaining within our settlement. I decide that if I walk any further, they might chase after me. There’s no point in getting too attached to our fortress, as it won’t exist for much longer. In the morning the builders will disassemble the pods, put them in a van and drive them to the next town. The kitchen units will be put into storage and used in Sunderland or Dunstable. The litter will be cleared and we’ll try to leave the site as we found it (after we’ve taken pictures for the website). In a more prosperous town, the pod units might be converted into a youth hostel, or temporary art space, but Birdseye isn’t there yet.
Ours is the only pod with a light on. My working assumption is that a couple of hours apart will be enough to earn Kendal’s forgiveness. I expect she’ll be lying on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. If there were a convenience store, I’d buy some flowers and a bottle of wine. I’d make some kind of gesture. It wouldn’t be the same to simply grab a beer from the fridge and take it up. I’m convinced of Kendal’s unequivocal genius as I climb the stairs and knock on the pod door. I go inside and notice the bed’s been made. You can search the whole room in one glance. She’s taken her coat from the chair and there aren’t any shoes by the door. Her rucksack is gone. I open the drawer and find my folded jumper, which still smells of Kendal. I lift the pillow, which seems futile, even while I’m doing it. I call her mobile and it doesn’t even ring. I sit on the bed and realise that I don’t even have a television to keep me company. I don’t have anything but a small empty room and a beautifully made bed. On the mirror is a taped note. I recognise the handwriting:
Altho’ the night were ne’er sae wild,
And I were ne’er sae weary O,
I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.
I peel
off the note and my first instinct is to clutch it to my chest. If I hold it tighter, she might come back. And if she doesn’t come back, I don’t know what I’ll do. I try to imagine what she’d want me to do. I can’t think of the answer.
They stand around the campfire and project their opinions on sales targets and company socials. In that moment, I feel it wouldn’t be a bad thing if everything were swept away. It would be approximately what we deserved.
14. HARIBO MACHT KINDER FROH
‘Miles! Time to get ready.’
I find it difficult to summon the strength to rise from my bed. It’s hard to get the necessary energy. The pod is the place I’d rather be. I’m happy enough with the dirty worktop and my dirty clothes on the chair. I’m comfortable with my own smell. Out in the cold, they’re carrying boxes and starting to load the van. I’m supposed to pack, but I don’t feel motivated to fill my suitcase. I want my clothes to stay in the drawer and everything to remain as it is. I want the mugs on the side to wash themselves somehow. On the table is Eden’s letter in the envelope. I put it inside my coat pocket and resolve to read it another time. Not today. Today’s a bad time. I pull on my coat. I walk down the stairs and immediately catch Nigel’s attention.
‘Miles! The coach will be here in ten.’ I tell him I’m already packed – a lie – and I’m going for a short walk. Nigel seems to ignore the comment and averts his attention to the idle sales team. Everyone seems to holding a paper cup of coffee. ‘Come on, guys. Chop, chop!’
The exit day is always complex. We have a good sense of what needs to be done, but little appetite to execute it. We tend to spend most of the time talking about logistics, like who’s lifting what and who gets to take the beer home. We don’t have to entertain, which means it’s fine not to wash, and you can wear whatever you want. Everyone’s wearing their worst clothes, the dirty jumpers and jogging bottoms. No one seems to smile as much, because it’s no longer a professional obligation. We no longer need to take pictures. We’ve done a good thing, and we don’t need to be told about it anymore. We came, we rebranded, we conquered. History will be our judge, and if historical success is measured by the number of new coffee shops, we will be judged as revolutionaries. Nigel starts to take a register; he’s standing with a clipboard and calling names aloud. I walk unnoticed across the rocks and climb the steep verge where I went with Darren. The long road by the shore still doesn’t have a coffee shop, but it will. They seem to have started work on converting the old cinema into a block of flats. I’m reminded of the maps we created – the shaded section of designated Opportunity Areas slowly coming to life. You could convert the whole street into something else: the buildings are handsome, sturdy Victorian things. In most other towns they would be occupied by patisseries and knitting shops. Then it occurs to me that the beauty of the town is the fact it was planned for another age: the cinemas, wash houses and gentleman’s clubs were meant to be filled with people. There was supposed to be a public of sorts. Then it so happened that people didn’t want to live here anymore. Their factories were closed, their work was rendered useless, and the cinemas and wash houses went into ruin. They became fossils. England’s Chicago became England’s Detroit. I should see the town one last time. I should see it alone, so I can deal with whatever the locals want to yell at me. It seems fair that I should get abused one last time.
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