Lingua Franca

by William Thacker

  ‘Thanks for your patience,’ Nigel announces to the room. He has the look of a man who seems certain of what he’s doing. A frightening thought. ‘I know this has been a difficult twenty-four hours. Ladies and gentlemen, our objective is simple. We will protect our brand, whatever the cost may be. We will protect our livelihood and liberate Birdseye from the rule of the mob.’ We will be carrying out an operation that – if successful – will enable us to depart within a matter of hours, he says. We will follow an interventionist strategy, designed to prevent further conflict. The uprising will be halted; order will be restored. All it requires is one swift effort. ‘Listen carefully, comrades. I only have to explain this once.’ The strategy is two-fold. A team of staff – he hesitates to say troops – will arrive by foot via the Walney Bridge. The other half will arrive by boat, making a back-door arrival through the Port of Barrow while the enemy is distracted. The aim will be to infiltrate different parts of the town and to talk aloud so that normality is restored. We will position ourselves in cafés and pubs, on the high street and in the middle of the town square. It will be infectious, creating a knock-on effect that will inspire others to talk again. It will be a spectacle of our own. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the cost of inaction far exceeds the cost of action. We don’t want this incident to light the blue touch paper. We want to douse the flames.’

  Most people in the room don’t want to hear about formations and pincer movements – they want tea and toast. So it’s not a surprise that when Nigel says, ‘Any questions?’ the only response concerns the whereabouts of their breakfast. Nigel confirms that supplies will be arriving within the hour, and that we’ll all be fed in advance of our voyage. Then in a bid to pretend his speech contains the requisite momentum, he raises a fist and shouts: ‘Onwards!’

  We exit the meeting room and no one knows what to say. On the edge of the waterline are a variety of small vessels, fishing boats, pedalos, speedboats and pleasure craft. It’s a shame for Nigel that he couldn’t procure ground-to-air missiles. He shakes hands with a man who’s pulling a motor boat ashore. Nigel promises we’ll return the boats within two hours and without a hint of damage.

  ‘Gather round, everyone.’ Nigel isn’t literally rolling up his sleeves, but it’s the image he would most like to convey. He asks us to form a line so he can put us into groups. ‘These are the vessels that will help win the peace. Those of you travelling by foot should depart within five minutes. Those of you travelling by sea should follow the motor boat until we reach the Port of Barrow, then disembark. In the meantime, please help yourselves to some crisps. There’s beer in the fridge for our celebration tonight.’

  He says that now’s the best time to use the bathroom. It might be a long wait until there’s another chance to go. We look at each other. If anyone’s going to object, now would be the time. Ninety per cent of the staff will do what they’re told, whatever it entails. Nigel could lead them on a military coup and most of them would oblige. I look at the agitators, who seem unimpressed, but silent. There aren’t many reasons to go, but not many reasons to stay. Darren takes a knife to a cardboard box and carves it open. He distributes the crisps. We look at each other and we form a line.

  15. THE FIGHTING TEMERAIRE

  ‘So we got a load of boats together and said bon voyage!’

  No one’s listening. Life continues on the ward, if ‘life’ means the temporary suspension of death. I’ve tried to narrate as best as I can, in spoken words for the most part, but sometimes on paper. Still, no one listens. They never reply when I speak aloud. They’d rather pretend I don’t exist.

  Gerry, the white-haired male patient nearest to the door, is sitting upright in bed with a bowl of cherries. The nurse places a coffee and an out-of-date Telegraph on his bedside. The nurse knows all the moves: how to pour tea in the cup, and when to smile at all the patients except me. She plumps up Gerry’s pillow so he can rest his head. I look more alive than Gerry. I don’t know what Gerry does for a living: at a guess, I’d say fisherman. He just has a fisherman vibe. I can imagine him throwing a net into the ocean and reeling in hundreds of cod. I can imagine him sitting in a fisherman’s cottage listening to ‘When the Ship Comes In’, the Bob Dylan song. Here’s to Gerry. I don’t feel the same ache in my shoulder as I did before. My rib doesn’t have that sharp pain when I touch it with my little finger. I don’t feel ill, other than when they tell me I am. Even when you look at the other patients, none of them appear to have any physical pain. They seem tired, and mute, but not exactly suffering. The nurse puts a chocolate bar next to Gerry’s coffee. Is this fair? Maybe he’s about to die and it’s his last meal. I wonder if they’d treat me nicely if they thought I was about to die. I decide not to make a thing of it and instead focus on writing my apology note. I take out a fresh sheet and lean closer:

  Sorry for my behaviour last night. Best wishes, Miles.

  I seal it in an envelope. Once the nurse has propped up Gerry’s feet, I raise my hand to get her attention. I pass her the note. She opens it and reads without changing her expression. She takes a pen and does a tick next to my words, like she’s a teacher. She just puts OK, which means we’re okay. She looks at her watch and exits the room. I look at Gerry, who closes his eyes and leans back against the headboard. He’s seemingly unaware of the newspaper and the chocolate. If he is aware, it’s only because he considers it normal to be in receipt of gifts.

  ‘Hey, Gerry!’ He doesn’t even open his eyes. ‘Gerry! I know you can hear me. She’s gone, Gerry. What did you do to get in her good books, eh? It’s just yak-yak-yak with you, Gerry, isn’t it? I can’t get a word in edgeways. What’s the deal with you, anyway? Hello?’

  He opens his eyes and says, ‘Huh?’ like he’s woken up from a bad dream and doesn’t know where he is. He looks at me and starts to stutter. ‘D-d-d-duh, duh…’

  ‘What’s up?’

  He tries to talk but it’s like he’s swallowed cement. I’ve never seen him like this. ‘D-d-d-do… do as they say.’ He grabs hold of his bed sheets as though he were strapped to a roller coaster. ‘It… it… it’s the only way out.’

  The door opens and the nurse enters with a hot-water bottle. She notices a change in Gerry’s expression. She puts a hand on his forehead. She looks at Gerry and signs a gesture. Gerry nods in reply.

  ‘Is he alright?’

  The nurse pulls the curtain across Gerry. She writes a note and shoves it in my hand.

  He’s got a big day today. Let him rest.

  ‘He doesn’t look well. And he said something weird.’

  He’s getting better. Now tell me how the story ends.

  *

  The operation has a code name: Barbara. As if it were a hurricane. We move in an arrow, broadly speaking, with Nigel’s boat at the tip. We do well to navigate the channel, moving a safe distance from the trawlers and ferry ships. The flotilla demonstrates our unity and strength. It’s a spectacle, an extraordinary sight. There’s a hierarchy of sorts. The best boat belongs to the operations team, a white motor boat with a small deck for sitting. One of the sailing boats seems the most fun – they have an acoustic guitar and sing songs about wanting to go home. The most junior staff sit in the pedalos, bobbing along the Port of Barrow in their ladybirds and swans. The hardest part is navigating the left-turn into the Buccleuch Dock, which enables our back door passage. Ours is probably the calmest boat, owing to the fact I’m accompanied by Darren, who takes responsibility for steering. I only have to concern myself with dragging the oars through the water.

  Darren looks at the sea like it’s deliberately trying to annoy him. ‘This is long.’ He says he misses working for his dad’s building company and he’d rather be knocking through kitchen walls than protecting a branding consultant from certain death. ‘I can’t be arsed with this anymore. I’m gonna go into electrics, man. Get my Part P.’

  ‘Can you keep me alive in the meantime?’

  ‘Yeah, mate. But then I’m quitting.’

  �
�You won’t.’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  ‘But you always say this. And you never quit.’ I say this because it’s true. Darren’s a guy who will be loyal to the regime until the end. There could be a massive earthquake and he’d still stick to whatever task he’s doing.

  ‘Yeah, well…’ Darren gives the sea a dirty look. ‘This is long…’

  I thank Darren for keeping me alive all this time. If we had any beer, we’d clink glasses in solidarity. But if we had beer, we’d probably sink the boat.

  We keep track of the flotilla and say nothing for a bit. Darren shakes his head. ‘Eden, man…’

  ‘What about him?’

  He looks at the sea, and for a moment he forgives the ocean. ‘I’m reading Lance Armstrong’s book. That man had mental strength. He had cancer and he never gave up. He won the Tour de France seven times.’

  ‘Didn’t he get caught doping?’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  I drop it. I want to say something like ‘There’s nothing wrong with giving up’, but I don’t think Darren would like to hear it. He clings to the promise of tomorrow – futureness. In any case, I can only think about the office, the crowd gathered at the window and the silence that fell when Eden jumped. I almost forget where we’re going and what the objective is. It’s only when we notice the other boats turning left that we start moving in the right direction. For many of the team, the voyage is an inconvenience, a major incursion into their after-hours that should never have been authorised. Still, the structure of our formation remains intact, and Barbara is well underway.

  The tech team, back at the ranch, appoint themselves as meteorological experts, announcing via mobile phone that we can expect heavy thunder. We can see Nigel gesticulating at the front of his boat. We can imagine the others cursing Nigel and considering whether to turn around. The further we go the more Nigel appears to increase his speed. We go on, driving forward in the rain, and struggle to see the point of our activity any more than we can see through the torrent.

  As the docking bay comes into sight, we feel more exposed. Some of the locals watch from above; they seem confused as to what’s happening. We’re a thing, something to notice. It takes a while for all our boats to assemble. Some of the team hopscotch from boat to boat just to disembark. Nigel pulls us onto the deck. We’re reeled in slowly. It takes a moment to get everyone to stand in one place. Nigel instructs us on where to stand; he insists on making everyone form a line. There’s an order to proceedings. He passes around maps which outline the supermarkets, cafés and squares where each talker should stand and speak. The conversations needn’t be about anything in particular – the most important thing is that they talk aloud. They can speak about anything as long as it’s disruptive.

  ‘This is a bloodless revolution,’ Nigel says. ‘Lingua Franca will live on. Our language shall not perish from the earth.’

  ‘Do we get umbrellas?’ someone asks.

  ‘Of course you don’t.’

  There’s laughter, which spoils the mood Nigel was hoping to establish. He forces a smile, but in reality he wants to court martial them all. We’re supposed to have the makings of a professional army, not an army of Mary Poppinses.

  We target the supermarket because it’s supposed to be a business-friendly zone, a privately run enterprise that’s sympathetic to our needs to make money. We probably arouse their suspicions as soon as we enter. At first it doesn’t seem so different from any other supermarket. The noise is what you’d find in any shopping environment – beeping checkouts, moving trolleys and public announcements. No one seems to be talking; they seem more focused on pulling items from the shelves. Nigel approaches a member of staff and asks for the time. The shop assistant makes a shushing gesture and points to the red #ZipIt badge on his shirt. The logo has design agency production values – a cartoon face with a zip in place of lips. It has been made by clever people with design software and an eye for colour. It’s easily replicable and indeed, appears at the front of each aisle, on shelves, on display signs, T-shirts and stickers. There’s even a sign at the checkout which reads:

  Proud to be supporting #ZipIt.

  The whole thing seems to unsettle Nigel. What hurts him is that our own brand of cynicism has been met by theirs: the supermarket feigns compassion for the community, and makes accommodations for silence. It’s a localised marketing strategy, in much the same way a fast-food chain might serve halal hamburgers. Nigel takes a moment to think. Then he moves from one team member to the next, tapping each on the shoulder. One at a time, we disperse down separate aisles. Nigel does his best attempt at a purposeful stride. As soon as the first words leave our mouths, we’ve alerted them. We’ve disrupted their peace. It doesn’t take long before the whole group – just under twenty – are speaking aloud all at once. We find that we’re free to talk uninhibited. We talk about nothing of any consequence – a mad clatter of words. The sentences are disordered – a mangled syntax detached from meaning. Eventually it gathers a rhythm, a spontaneity. Some of the elderly folks turn to look at us, which feels like a victory. The danger comes from our own complacency. The fact we’re unobstructed means we run out of things to say: we end up repeating ourselves. Some of the talkers smile at one another, as though the whole thing’s a joke. Nigel frowns at them and they soon get back to their babble. Nigel becomes more relaxed; he enjoys what he sees and he looks like he’s going to steal a beer from the fridge. He’s buoyed by the lack of retaliation. He has the confidence to point in whichever direction he thinks people should be moving; he’s guiding the traffic. Some of the locals frown at the talkers as if they’ve interrupted the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. There’s a loud siren that rings out across the whole supermarket. It means the guards start to shout for everyone to exit. The customers aren’t happy at having to leave their half-emptied trolleys at the checkout. Some try to leave the exact change at the scanners, which become improvised honesty trays. The guards attempt to usher everyone through the doors. It seems like the whole place is beginning to empty. Suddenly we’re outside, unsure of how to locate each other; we’re drunk nightclub revellers who can’t find our friends.

  ‘Forward!’ is the shout from Nigel.

  For the first time, we seem united. We’re joined by the decoy team, who came from the west and report no interference. We can move as we please, without having to plan a trajectory. We talk as loud as we want. Nigel smiles. It feels like the first stages of a victory. We’ve stormed the gates and now we’re marching on the palace: the gates are automatic supermarket doors and the palace is a WHSmith. We walk a few hundred feet; we open our mouths and speak with greater certainty than before. The sign at the top of the high street says:

  You are now entering a Quiet Zone. Please respect our way of life.

  Our route takes us via the posters and billboards from the day of our launch. It seems like half the town is penned off with ‘site acquired’ signs, each displaying a champagne and canapés lifestyle. Investment is coming, and investment means well-dressed models you can touch on a billboard. It means pubs selling pints out of jam jars; novelty cafés selling nothing but cereal and marina apartments for absentee landlords. No more butchers, bakers and candlestick makers, unless in an ironic context. Vive la révolution! We walk as far as a parade of shops, at which point Nigel shouts, ‘Stop!’ He wants to strategise. He encourages us to stand in a circle like it’s an expression session.

  ‘We’ve come this far, ladies and gentlemen. Keep walking, and if you can’t think of anything to say, just make up some football scores. Now’s the time to strike!’ Everyone cheers. The vibe is somewhere between a paintball session on a company jolly and a historical re-enactment of an Arthurian legend. Nigel split us into twos and threes. He points at where he wants us to go: the pub for some, and the betting shops, cafés and high street for the rest.

  We walk forward and I’m accompanied by Darren, who looks alert, keeping his eye o
ut for rattlesnakes. ‘Manchester United two… Queens Park Rangers one.’

  The path in front of us is clear. We’re faced with an empty town square and a free space in which to move. ‘Aston Villa three… Sheffield Wednesday one.’ The localisation team enter the bakery. ‘Crystal Palace two… Arsenal three.’ The sales team surround the pound shop. ‘Plymouth Argyle nil… Leyton Orient one.’

  From the distance comes the beat of a drum. It sounds in three thuds, followed by a pause, then three thuds again. We can hear the drum getting louder, and footsteps, too. The drum pounds. We turn the corner and we’re suddenly met by a herd – one hundred or so townspeople. They move in two rigid banks, the makings of a rugby scrum. They wear #ZipIt badges and hold a large banner that says the same thing. Kendal’s at the front. She points to the sky, and so does everyone else. They move to the beat and follow Kendal, the mad movement therapist. She’s leading a protest without any chanting; it makes us concentrate on the music. There’s a military drum roll, trumpeters, brass instruments, acoustic guitars, bells, whistles and maracas. Their music is louder than anything we can conjure. We’ve stepped into their jungle. They seem to know exactly when to move and how to surround us. Their strength is in their co-ordination – they position themselves the full way across the road, a concave shape that threatens to swallow us whole. We don’t want to step near in case we get thwacked by the drumsticks. They have something we don’t possess: determination. We have office workers – they have a tribe.

  ‘West Bromwich Albion three!’ Nigel shouts. ‘Stoke City… nil…’ The drum continues to pound, building in its rhythm to reflect the ever-growing charge. The natural response is to listen out for Nigel’s scores, but he can’t be heard. He’s trying to say something about Wigan Athletic but no one knows what. There’s silence in our ranks. The one-hundred-strong marching band leave us unable to whisper, let alone speak. What they have on us – besides the moral authority – is the music. They charge, not with thrown fists, but with a rush of intent. We’re huddled together, owing to the surge. Those of us who were apart are brought closer together. We’re kettled into a corner, squashed between two lamp posts in the pedestrianised strip. We’re surrounded; there’s no room to sidestep, less chance to run. Some photographers do their best to get into the middle.