Number 11

by Jonathan Coe

  There is nothing there. Nothing at all.

  Such silence. Such darkness. It is no wonder that in a world like this, things can disappear. Even people. People like Lu, whose existence seemed so precarious, so unrecognized, that there was nothing to stop him slipping away into that woodland at dawn and simply evaporating, blending into the mist. Did he ever find his friend? I’ve wondered about that, many times, over the years. The men who drowned in Morecambe Bay the next year, picking cockles for their gangmaster as the treacherous tide rushed inwards … they were Chinese, most of them. Just the other day, I read once again about their terrible deaths on the internet and my stomach tightened when I saw that one of them was called Xiang. But I expect it’s a very common name in China.

  Dodie Smith, I Capture The Castle (1948):

  ‘Perhaps watching someone you love suffer can teach you even more than suffering yourself can.’

  * * *

  THE COMEBACK

  1

  From: Susan Wells

  To: Val Doubleday

  Subject: Re: Dilemma

  14/09/2011 22:17

  Dear Val

  You asked me for advice. You are not going to like what you hear.

  First of all – very sorry to hear that things are so tough at work. You won’t be surprised to learn that the situation up here is much the same: libraries, if not closing, then having their opening hours reduced and being told to cut down on staff. I’m sure your job is safe but I can see how hard it must be, managing on less and less money every week. It’s happening everywhere. Even at our chambers, people are being laid off. A lot of our work was for legal aid clients, and there’s not much available for legal aid these days – more people are choosing to represent themselves instead. The results are pretty disastrous as you can probably imagine.

  It’s so depressing. Everything seems to be going to pot at the moment and we have another four years of this lot to put up with. Sounds like you are at the sharp end of it as well. When I think of all the time our daughters used to spend at the library, and all the wonderful things they got out of it, and now our grandkids are going to have none of that, at this rate. It’s enough to make you howl.

  But come on, Val, however desperate things are … Steve?? You want to get back together with Steve? Oh, I know you didn’t say that straight out, but, reading between the lines, that’s what you’re thinking of, isn’t it?

  It’s grim, sometimes, being a single middle-aged woman. I think that’s something we can both agree upon. But just remember what he did to you …

  And ask Alison for her opinion, if you haven’t already!

  Lots of love

  Susan

  *

  ‘Guess who I sat next to on the bus the other day?’ said Val.

  ‘What are these?’ said Alison, fishing inside the shopping basket and bringing out a bag of carrots.

  ‘They’re carrots.’

  ‘I can see that. But they’re not organic.’

  ‘So?’ said her mother, defensively. ‘They’re still carrots aren’t they? I sat next to Steve, since you’re so interested.’

  Alison frowned. It was a name she never wanted to hear. ‘I thought we always got organic. They put all sorts of pesticides and chemicals into these, you know. That’s why they all look the same.’

  ‘Yes, well, they cost about half the price, so that’s what we’re going to be eating from now on. You’d better get used to it.’ Val snatched the carrots from her daughter, slit open the bag with her fingernail and tipped them into the fridge’s chill compartment. ‘We had a really good chat.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘He’s struggling a bit. The college made him redundant and then took him on as a freelance. So now he’s on half what he was for the same work. It’s terrible, isn’t it, how they can do that?’

  ‘Four bottles? Really?’ said Alison, lifting out one bottle of Pinot Grigio after another.

  ‘They were 50p off,’ said Val.

  ‘Oh I see, so by getting four of them you’ve saved even more money.’

  ‘Oh shut up. The thing is, I thought I might invite him round here for dinner.’

  ‘It just seems silly to be saving money on vegetables when you’re wasting it on wine.’

  ‘It’s not a waste. You drink it too, don’t you?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About having him round for dinner.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ said Alison, still unpacking, and not looking up.

  ‘Of course it’s something to do with you. He was practically your stepfather for a while.’

  Alison rounded on her. ‘He was never my stepfather. Never anything like it. OK? He was the bloke you … shacked up with, for a few months. He was the bloke you met on holiday and then changed cities to come and live with, and got dumped by as soon as life started to get difficult.’

  ‘That is so unfair,’ said Val, her voice already tearful.

  ‘Have you forgotten already, Mum? When I went in for the operation? What he was like?’

  Val glared at her for a few seconds, and then said, through a half-sob: ‘I never get a bit of support from you any more, do I? Not one fucking bit.’ She grabbed one of the wine bottles from the kitchen table, and a tumbler from the shelf, and stormed off in the direction of the living room.

  Alison stood still for a moment, stunned by the speed with which this quarrel had blown up. Then she shook her head and resumed her unpacking. She heard the television being switched on in the next room, and a few seconds of each different programme – local news, quiz show, sitcom – as her mother flicked between channels. She imagined her unscrewing the cap of the bottle fiercely and filling the tumbler three-quarters full with wine, drinking it like it was lemonade, which was how she always seemed to drink it these days. Three or four sips, one after the other, without taking her mouth from the rim of the glass.

  After thinking about it for a minute or two, she decided that she was the one, as usual, who would have to do the apologizing. Her mother’s capacity to sulk had become pretty much inexhaustible, and Alison didn’t want to spend the entire evening in silence with her. So she went and stood in the living-room doorway and said:

  ‘Mum? I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Val, not turning around or turning the television down.

  ‘Did you hear me? I said I’m sorry.’

  Val glanced back towards her. ‘Yes. I heard you. All right. Apology accepted. But maybe you should just think a bit more carefully before you say hurtful things.’

  This was monstrously unfair, but Alison let it pass. There was no point in carrying on these fights any more. ‘I listened to your song,’ she said instead.

  These words, by contrast, had an immediate effect. Val muted the television and turned round, a beseeching smile on her face.

  ‘You did? What did you think?’

  And answering this was easy. However much her mother’s behaviour annoyed her, Alison had always enjoyed her music, never tired of listening to it, never had any trouble sharing her conviction that one day, with luck, with persistence, she would catch the public’s attention again and have another hit. And this new song, which she had listened to ten or fifteen times during the course of the day, was easily one of her best.

  ‘I loved it,’ she said. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Really? I mean, you’re not just saying that?’

  ‘No, Mum. I’m not just saying that. It’s brill
iant. You know it is.’

  ‘Come and sit here.’ Val patted the place on the sofa beside her, and as soon as Alison had sat down gave her an impulsive hug. ‘What did you think of the arrangement?’

  ‘It’s fine. I mean, you know, it’s … getting there.’

  ‘Well, it’s the best I can do at home, obviously. Do you think it’s good enough to send to people?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mum. I’m not in the music business.’

  ‘Maybe if I bought some studio time. Just three or four hours’ downtime somewhere … Then I could record the vocal properly.’

  ‘Sure. Good idea. If you think you can afford it.’

  ‘Then I could send it to Cheryl.’

  Alison nodded. She never knew what to say when her mother mentioned her so-called ‘agent’, who hadn’t returned one of her calls or messages for about ten years.

  ‘Do you like the title?’ Val asked now. ‘“Sink and Swim”? Is it catchy enough?’

  ‘I like everything about it.’ Finding herself caught up in another swift, clinging embrace which threatened to last for some time, Alison pushed her mother gently away and stood up. ‘OK, I’m going upstairs. I’ve got to finish writing to Rachel.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ said Val. ‘I just got an email from her mother.’

  ‘Yeah? How’s she?’

  ‘OK. Depressed about work, like everyone else.’

  ‘You should ask her what she thinks about you seeing Steve again.’

  Val turned back to the television screen and unmuted it. ‘Oh, we don’t really discuss that sort of thing any more.’

  The conversation was over, apparently. Leaving her mother to watch adverts for financial services she would never use and holidays she would never take, Alison went upstairs to her room, took her half-written letter out from the clutter of her desk drawer and began reading it through.

  Nowadays, when it came to ways of keeping in touch, she and Rachel were spoiled for choice: they emailed and texted, and they talked on Facebook and WhatsApp. In the last few weeks, they’d even started using a newly launched app called Snapchat, which allowed them to send pictures and brief messages which were only visible for a few seconds before being wiped from the screen forever. But every so often, when one of them had something special to say to the other, only a real, old-fashioned letter would do. And what Alison had to tell Rachel now was as special and as personal as could be imagined.

  So far she had written two pages and not even started to address the subject. Her last paragraph read:

  So, I started at college two weeks ago (yeah, this isn’t Oxbridge, honey, we actually have a term that starts in September) and it’s looking pretty cool so far. Not sure if the course is going to be quite what I want but it’s such a relief to be hanging out with other students and teachers who just want you to do art and nothing else. The pressure to tow the line is off at last!

  That was all very well, but Alison was cross with herself for not having come to the point yet. And so, nervously, she took up her pen, nibbled on the end of it for a minute or two and then wrote:

  Anyway, none of that stuff matters, really. That’s not why I’m writing to you. I’m writing because there’s something you need to know, something I haven’t told any of my other friends yet. I wanted you to be the first, because … well, for all sorts of reasons. But mainly because you’re my oldest real friend and your reaction is incredibly important to me.

  So. Can you guess what it is? Of course not. Why should you? (Deep breath.) I’m gay.

  *

  On Saturday afternoon Rachel, wanting to add a few things to her wardrobe before she left for Oxford in a couple of weeks’ time, went shopping with her mother. There was a recession on, but you would never have known it from the crowds in Leeds town centre, drifting sluggishly from shop to shop, hungry for consumer durables. Miss Selfridge and Monsoon were milling with customers. Primark was packed. H & M, Topshop, Claire’s Accessories, and Zara were too full to get into. River Island and Lush were turning people away. Rachel and her mother were both hot and exhausted by the time they got home.

  As they approached the house, they saw that there was a car parked outside: a bright-red Porsche. Leaning against it, smiling smugly at them as they trudged up the street with their shopping bags, was Rachel’s brother, Nick.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ his mother said, ‘what are you doing here?’

  ‘Hello, Mum. Hello, little sis.’ He kissed them both. ‘Try to look a bit more pleased to see me.’

  ‘Of course we’re pleased. I just wish you’d give us a bit more warning.’

  ‘Flew in from Hong Kong this morning. Can I help you with those?’

  ‘Hong Kong?’ said Rachel, handing him the bags. ‘I thought you were in Cuba.’

  ‘Oh, you’re way behind.’

  Nick hadn’t been home for more than a year. Now twenty-six, he looked, if anything, younger and more beautiful than ever. Essentially, Rachel’s feelings about him had not changed since the time, twelve years earlier, when they had stayed together at their grandparents’ house in Beverley, and he had played a cruel joke upon her while they visited the Minster at dusk: in other words she worshipped him, disapproved of him and, deep down, feared him a little bit. This unspoken wariness had not diminished at all since Nick had reached adulthood and teamed up with a ‘business partner’ called Toby. Their work meant that he now enjoyed a peripatetic lifestyle, which seemed to involve unspecified dealings in several different continents, hopping from one country to another at will and treating international airports the way that most people treated suburban railway stations. Whatever it was that he and Toby did for a living, it was clearly very lucrative, and beyond that Rachel felt it was probably best not to enquire.

  Inside the hallway, Rachel saw that the post had finally arrived.

  ‘Ooh – a letter from Alison,’ she said, excitedly.

  ‘Never mind that now,’ said Nick, taking it from her and tossing it on to the hall table. He and Alison had never liked each other. ‘I’m only here for one night. Kindly make me the centre of attention for once.’

  ‘All right,’ Rachel agreed, smiling. ‘What have you come home for anyway?’

  ‘Your eighteenth birthday, of course. You didn’t think I’d miss that, did you?’

  ‘It was three months ago,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘I know. You probably thought the celebrations were all over. That’s what’s going to make tonight so special.’

  ‘I might not be free tonight,’ said Rachel, playing hard to get. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘A surprise,’ said Nick, taking her in his arms. ‘And a pretty good one, if I do say so myself.’

  It turned out that he was not exaggerating. After a few minutes’ chat with their mother, he bundled Rachel into the Porsche and soon they were driving north out of Leeds along the A61, until they reached Harewood House. By then, it was almost six o’clock.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Rachel asked, as Nick swung the car into the serpentine driveway. ‘This place’ll be closed now, won’t it?’

  ‘To most people, yes,’ he answered.

  How did he manage to arrange these things? Rachel suspected that it was less to do with having money to spend, and more with his network of contacts in the most unexpected places. In any case, he had arranged for them to enjoy a private tour of the Terrace Gallery, followed by champagne on the terrace itself, and then a private dinner for two in the State Rooms.

  The Terrace Gallery was especially impressive, with two new pieces by
Antony Gormley on display in addition to the permanent collection. Rachel could not help thinking how much Alison would have enjoyed this privileged view. She took a picture of one of the sculptures on her phone and, while she and Nick were waiting for their champagne to be served on the terrace, sent it to Alison via Snapchat.

  Soon afterwards a picture of Alison’s bedroom in Yardley popped up.

  Hi Rache, did you get my letter?

  The words were only on the screen for ten seconds or so, before dissolving into nothingness. By way of reply, Rachel took a quick picture of the parkland laid out in front of them, bathed in evening sunlight, and then wrote with her forefinger on the screen:

  Yes, will write back soon.

  Alison replied:

  That looks good! Where are you?

  Rachel took a picture of the house itself, and wrote:

  With my brother. We’re doing the nicest thing tonight!

  There was a longish pause before Alison’s reply came through. It said simply:

  W T F??

  Had she misunderstood, somehow? Rachel took another picture, this time with the Terrace Gallery itself in the background, and wrote:

  Right up your street I would have thought.

  There was no reply from Alison after this, but Rachel didn’t think anything of it. A waiter approached them from the main house to announce that their table for dinner was ready.

  The next day, Rachel read Alison’s letter, and was profoundly moved by it. She replied at once. She wrote a heartfelt message of support, saying that Alison was not to feel shy, let alone ashamed, of what she had realized about her own identity. She promised that they would always be friends, whatever happened. She hoped that it would not be long before they saw each other again, and could discuss these things face to face.

  She was surprised, at first, not to receive a reply. She put it down to the fact that Alison had just started college and must be busy. Then she, too, had the beginning of her first term at Oxford to think about, but although that distracted her, she was still puzzled to have heard nothing at all. She called Alison on the phone and texted her, posted messages on her Facebook timeline, but never got any response. She began to wonder if there had been something in the letter which had offended her. Had she not sounded supportive enough? Had she made Alison’s announcement sound more like a problem than a cause for celebration? As the weeks went by, and turned into months, her puzzlement dwindled, receded but never quite went away. It mutated, eventually, into a low-level hum of resentment. She had done the right thing, after all. She had responded just as a good friend should. She deserved something better than silence.