I walk as far as I can before I need to eat a bacon sandwich. The man in the café prepares it behind the counter. I ask him if he can remove the fat at the edges. He looks at me like I’ve forgotten something. We stare it out. I take the silence as an act of contempt. I don’t really mind as long as I get my bacon sandwich. I wait for a bit longer and he starts to trim the fat. It’s a great victory. He presses the numbers on the till. The price is there for me to see. We don’t need to talk about it.
I walk down the street and wonder where else I can go. The pub is a good shout. I enter the Pig & Thistle, where we nearly got killed. The absence of people makes it look bigger than last time, and even less tasteful in its decor. I hadn’t noticed the carpet curling up at the skirting board. There’s no one waiting at the bar, and no one to serve me. The only occupied table has two gents looking at a newspaper. One of them points at a story – the other one nods. No one wants to talk to me. It’s like I’m carrying a smell, and everyone’s too polite to say anything. In the corner, I recognise the barmaid who likes dogs and hates people. She’s putting up a poster, which she considers more important than serving Miles Platting, language killer. I expect her to say ‘I’ll be with you in a minute’, but all she does is look at me, and tear another piece of tape. She collects four glasses with one hand, using her fingers like a crane grabber to pinch the insides. She doesn’t rush her return. I lean across the bar and ask for a shandy, with soda water instead of lemonade.
‘It’s less calories,’ I explain.
She looks at me like I’ve told her to fuck off. She removes a black marker pen from a drawer and writes the forthcoming football fixtures on a calendar. Then she uses the pen to write me a note:
We don’t do shandies.
She doesn’t seem to be joking about anything. It seems odd that she’s silent, but I put it down to a sore throat.
‘Look. I’m leaving Birdseye. I know we didn’t get off on the right track…’ She looks at me, which is progress, but she doesn’t deign to open her mouth. ‘I know we’re never going to be friends, exactly. But I very much hope your community will be stronger from this experience. Let me tell you, I have a lot of regrets. Nigel thinks it’s a passing phase, but I really want to just…’
‘Shhh,’ she says. She points to the red badge pinned to her top: it has a cartoon face and a pursed pair of lips with the words ZipIt. She points to a sheet of paper pinned to the toilet door. In printed black text it says:
This is a silent pub. Conversations will not be tolerated.
She’s smiling now. I must look pale. She seems excited by the idea that I might look like this for ever. If I always looked like a petrified stone statue, she’d be happy. She waves a hand to say cheerio, and walks into the kitchen.
Someone is clanging a bell. The market stalls are open, but none of the stallholders say a thing; they communicate with their hands, making numbers with their fingers and thumbs. They exchange a bow with each customer when the purchase has been made. I look at the next man who walks past and he’s got a red badge stuck on his jacket which says #ZipIt. It’s not a day of national remembrance. I haven’t disturbed a minute’s silence. I want someone to break their stride, turn towards me and say ‘Actually mate, this is the revolution’. It would at least explain things somewhat. No one is forthcoming; no one offers an explanation. The town has changed without our approval – it has conjured a system. Charity collectors wave their clipboards; homeless beggars hold ‘spare change’ signs. The street cleaners with bins-on-wheels seem to carry on without saying anything, although they probably do this every day. A couple of police officers are standing on the pavement, covering their mouths while they talk. Even here, the officers’ eyes are alert to the possibility they might be offending someone. And it seems that if they were to break the silence, they’d immediately know what the public think about it. A lollipop man guides a group of schoolchildren across the road; they walk in silence. You can hear them tread on the pavement stones. You can hear the rustle of bags and the ringing of mobile phones unanswered. Some of the children take pleasure in shouting words aloud, but they’re shushed by the adults, who tell them not to spoil it. The sounds of street life have intensified: the ignition of car engines, the shopkeepers pulling down shutters, the ambulance siren, the church bell, the cries of birds, slow-moving traffic and exhaust pipe splutter – all of it exists in its own space and of its own accord.
The town crier shakes his bell.
It seems like half the town have a smile on their face. They walk around like extras on a film shoot, satisfied they’re doing a great job. No one has ever felt so much a part of something. No one quite knows what to do. No one knows what to make of it all, except to smile and participate. Keep going, keep smiling and think of a strategy later. It’s a coordinated effort in so far as the will is there – the will to be a part of something. The fact that no one can speak makes it all the more exciting. The silence is deafening! The silence makes them reflect and look within. People are smiling because they want to say something but know they can’t. This is the commitment – a pledge – shared by all. No one wants to disrupt the silence. It seems to be a matter of principle to keep it going. It’s a novelty, no doubt, but it might develop into something more. I look at the townspeople and I can’t prevent myself from smiling. Kendal will know what’s happening. Kendal will like it a lot.
I start to run. With the guide of the clock tower, I run in the direction of the unit base. I run off the bacon sandwich. It’s important just to run. Nigel would want to know what’s happening.
An old lady stops me and says, ‘Have you seen?’ She allows a smile to emerge. It’s supposed to be a smile, but she hasn’t had the practice. ‘Absolutely brilliant,’ she says. I mention how everyone’s wearing a badge. ‘Aye.’ Her eyes return to their natural state – suspicion – and she walks onwards. ‘It’s the best way to stick it to ’em. Cos you know they won’t bloody listen. No one bloody listens.’
*
We can account for most disasters. Most of the time, there are procedures in place to mitigate any damage. We know about smashed windows, mortar bombs and threats from above. We know about chemicals in the mail and assassination plots – sophisticated or otherwise. We know that anger is a by-product of restlessness. We can ordinarily placate the anger with glass-and-steel shopping centres. In this particular situation, we can’t really account for anything. The strength of the protest is determined by the will of the participants. It’s an act of silent fury, a revolution without a dent of damage. I run along the shore and I think about whether we’re moments away from police cordons and rolling news cameras. Perhaps it’s coming.
The way I stumble through the gate makes it look like I’ve just been attacked in the street. I start shouting long in advance of actually getting close to anyone. I make a big effort to get everyone’s attention when their priority is to lift their bags and get on the coach. Someone asks me what’s wrong. It gives me the license to announce what needs to be said.
‘They’re completely silent. They’re not saying a fucking thing!’
They gather round, uncertain of what to make of their sweaty, paranoid boss. They seem more concerned for my well-being than for the implications of what I’m saying. I wouldn’t be surprised if they brought me a hot flannel. I can see their reluctance to believe it. Aside from my flailing arms, the sweat on my forehead is the only indicator of someone who’s telling the truth.
Nigel appears – the frowning headmaster, annoyed with the disturbance at the school gate. ‘Miles, what’s all this? What’s the matter with you?’
‘We’re under attack.’
‘Who’s under attack? Where?’ He seems to be processing all the reasons why I might be acting this way. Am I on drugs? Am I having a nervous breakdown? He doesn’t know what to make of it.
‘It’s true,’ says a member of the tech team, his laptop resting on a rock. He scrolls down the webpage. ‘They’ve got a website. ZipIt.’ They�
��ve published a news item on a temporary landing page which reads:
A silent success – more to follow.
We stand over the computer in silence, as if we’re participating in the campaign ourselves. The first order of duty is to instruct the coach driver to turn off the engine. The security convoy is given notice of a delay. Nigel tells Darren to raise the tent so the tech team can work under shelter. He asks the PR manager to call the sponsors and reaffirm our commitment to loud noises.
Another message comes shortly afterwards. It claims the fight will continue until Birdseye has been renamed Barrow-in-Furness. This is just the beginning, it says.
The English language is nobody’s special property. It is the property of the imagination: it is the property of the language itself.
The worst thing is the audacity of it all. It’s not so much that they’ve retaliated – we expected that – but that they’ve come up with something better than Lingua Franca itself. Darren ties down the tent and announces that it’s ready. The tech team – positioned behind their dual computer screens – seem to enjoy the sudden interest in their activities. It suddenly becomes important to dote on them – to ask them technical questions and get them a coffee. They soon establish the direct whereabouts of the enemy – the IP address suggests the messages are coming from the Pig & Thistle, Birdseye. Nigel declares that everything will be fine and that it will only be a passing fad. He says he will reveal a plan of action later. He just needs a little time to think. Until then we should retrieve the table tennis table from the van and try not to panic. Then he takes me aside and asks for the real debrief, like a president consulting his military general at the outbreak of war.
Later on, Nigel takes me to what he calls the situation room, a nod to where American presidents conduct their most important operations. It’s the largest of the unit pods, and scheduled to remain intact beyond our stay. Nigel opens his laptop and immediately clicks to hide a webpage which displays a naked woman. It makes me sad to think of Nigel as a lonely, childless man, obsessed with work. He manages to maintain a serious face.
‘Miles, listen carefully. I need you with me on this one. We’ve just got to pull together.’ He says he will be rolling up his sleeves and working on the ‘cold face’, by which he means ‘coal face’. We talk about what I saw, and whether I could have stopped it. He agrees that I couldn’t have done much except to make a note of everything. He seems to sigh every few seconds. He needs more thinking time. ‘Here’s the thing,’ he says, without identifying the thing itself. He makes himself pause. It’s Nigel’s method of working out the plans in his head. He wants to know he’s happy with his own thoughts before sharing them with the world. ‘We don’t want to make a big fuss. If we make a big noise, the press will get on it. We need to infiltrate them – silently. We need to play them at their own game.’ Then he proceeds to move the nearest object – a red beaker, as it turns out – to one side of the table. ‘This is us,’ he says of the beaker, ‘and this is them,’ he partners it with a stapler. He starts moving the beaker and stapler around the table, exchanging their positions as he talks. ‘We have the ability to infiltrate them from two crossings,’ he explains, using a blunt pencil to signify the Walney Channel. To the west is the Walney Bridge, the normal route, or ‘decoy’. To the south-east is the narrow basin leading to the Buccleuch Dock – soon to be the Birdseye Dock – allowing direct access to the heart of the town. ‘We just need to find a way of gaining access.’ He enjoys the urgency of the situation. He’s most alive when there’s a crisis to manage. My job is to listen, and validate what he says. I try to act like I’m angry too. I try to reflect the gravity of the situation through my facial expressions. I try not to smile. He probably thinks I’m a quisling. Nigel taps his pen on the desk. He can’t get rid of his frown. ‘Leave it with me,’ he says, which is code for ‘go away’. Then he gets up from his chair – he needs the space to walk around. ‘I think we can do it. We can outfox them.’ The purpose of the meeting has been met. He says he will make an announcement in a couple of hours. ‘Meeting adjourned.’
The tent can’t fit more than five or six, which doesn’t stop the surge. ‘Look here,’ the web manager says, pointing at the screen. There’s another post on the ZipIt website.
Kindness is the language that the deaf can hear and the blind can see.
No one has very much to say. A couple of journalists have begun to gather at the barrier; the world wants to know what’s happening. In their frustration, the team sit around the luggage, hoping we might be ready to go soon, and texting friends and family to rearrange plans. The atmosphere changes. There’s a thinly disguised annoyance that Nigel has yet to formalise a plan. It goes from a situation where everyone was looking forward to going home, to anxiety that no one knows when that might be. Our objective is for Birdseye to fall in love with Lingua Franca, but Lingua Franca seems to be falling out of love with itself. All the while, Nigel arranges the logistics. He gets on the phone to a catering company and asks for a quote on two crates of non-perishables. He speaks to a wholesaler in the hope of getting cheap energy drinks. He speaks to Birdseye, who want an update on the situation. They don’t express an opinion one way or another – they just want an update.
The announcement comes in the evening that, yes, we will be staying at the unit base in an attempt to secure the town. Nigel says it’s an emergency measure and not one he takes lightly. As for ZipIt, Nigel describes it as a fad – a momentary spell in which most of the townspeople have lost their senses. It would be foolish to assume it was anything more than that. The staff are roughly divided into two groups: those who are annoyed at having to stay, and those who seek to make themselves useful. In the latter camp, the tech team are the busiest. It seems like every five minutes ZipIt posts a new bulletin on the theme of silence.
If you’ve ever visited the Sistine chapel, you’ll know how much nicer it would be if everyone would shut the fuck up.
In only a few hours, ZipIt attract thousands of social media followers. They upload images of children pursing their lips, and a #ZipIt flag unfurled outside the Pig & Thistle. There’s talk of making it a nationwide campaign of silence. In the scheduled programme of events, there’s a silent fest earmarked for 2pm the next day. We spend a moment debating what exactly’s meant by a silent fest. Nigel is informed just in case it alters his plans for the offensive (it does). He then announces that he needs a bit more time to think; he relays the news like an airport official announcing a delay; in turn, the passengers groan. Nigel says that everything will be resolved soon. The energy drinks are coming. Further details will be announced in due course.
Dinner consists of marshmallows and biscuits. There’s a sense that we won’t know the plan until the morning, when Nigel will burst from his pod and shout, ‘I’ve got it!’ Some of the team sit around a fire. Most of the agitators talk in the abstract about how Lingua Franca has let down its staff. Some of them try to recall details of their contracts in which it might have said something about unsociable hours. Nobody’s certain. They don’t seem to mind that I’m sitting among them; in fact, they say I’m much better than Nigel and that everything would be fine if I was solely in charge. One of them sarcastically says, ‘We love you, Miles!’
I do my best to put on a diplomatic company voice. I say, ‘Come on now, Nigel’s a busy man.’
They seem to understand that I don’t believe what I’m saying. They know I’m doing a corporate bluff, that I need to say this to protect the firm and to kid myself into believing I’m not wasting my life. They have figured me out, as we look at the fire and do our own silent thing. Darren asks if I think Kendal’s involved in the protest. I squeeze a marshmallow onto the end of a fork and say, ‘Probably, mate.’ Then Darren asks if I want to drink in the pub. I tell him we probably shouldn’t. No one knows what’s going to happen, and who knows, we might be killed.
Nigel’s light is on. We watch the balcony from which he might emerge. He seems to have momentaril
y forgotten we exist. I can imagine him sitting at his desk with his battle map, working out the coordinates. He will have got himself into a rapture, caught in the excitement of being Field Marshal Haig. Some time later, he steps out of his room and asks why we’re still awake. He tells us to get some sleep, as tomorrow’s a big day. ‘Tomorrow we’ll hit ’em hard.’
At quarter to nine the next morning there’s still a queue for the showers. Some of the team decide to give up and tolerate their own smell. There’s a feeling of dread when everyone enters the meeting room. It would have made sense – politically at least – for Nigel to prepare coffee and sandwiches for us all. That would have helped quell the anger.
Lingua Franca Page 13