by David Nobbs
On the final straight now. ‘It’s well known that we live in an age obsessed by celebrity. I am actually rather proud to be in an industry that, so far from seeking celebrity, avoids it totally. In my youth I collected cigarette cards. There was never a series called “Famous Packagers”. There was no “Dan Dan, the Packaging Man” in the Happy Families card game. Very few people ever talk about our products. “I bought a lovely egg box today.” “Really? Can’t wait to see it. Anything in it?” “Yes, six eggs. They fit beautifully.”’
Winning post in sight. ‘There’s a very fine novel called What a Carve Up by Jonathan Coe, in which there’s a vanity publisher who sends the hero a Christmas present of the most unreadable books you could imagine. One of the books is A History of Packaging in seven volumes – Volume 4 – The Styrofoam Years. Ladies and gentlemen, I have no intention, when I retire, of writing my memoirs. There will be no book called The Cardboard Jungle, the latest packaging epic from James Hollinghurst. But when I retire, I will not feel ashamed of admitting that I have devoted my working life to our great industry. I look forward to the day when I’m at a party, and some attractive woman says to me, “What line are you in?” and I will say, proudly, “I’m in packaging,” and she will reply …’ He stumbled. Devon Loch. Aintree … That impulse to self-destruct again, like on the ship. Throw himself over the rail of the Mauretania. Destroy his reputation in an instant. Dwight Schenkman, his great mouth open even wider. Irresistible. ‘And I will say proudly, “I’m in packaging,” and she will reply, “I suppose a fuck’s out of the question?”’
The words reached his mouth, his lips parted, he caught a glimpse of Max, and sense prevailed, almost to his disappointment.
It had been a long pause. Almost too long. Anxiety crackled throughout the huge room.
‘And I will say proudly, “I’m in packaging”, and she will reply, “Are you doing anything next Tuesday evening?”
‘Thank you.’
He sat down, shaking from the narrowness of his escape, his shirt clinging to his soaking back. The applause rang out. There was cheering. He couldn’t be certain that it was for the content of his speech rather than the context. He thought it was from relief that he had made it to the end, that he had saved them from corporate embarrassment.
It didn’t matter. He had done it.
The man who only yesterday had put his cleaned white linen suit in the boot of his car ready to take to Oxfam because he never wanted to wear it again never quite made it to that fine pub in Belfast. After he’d left the office of lost letters he’d walked for quite a long while before he came to a street where there were taxis. He’d been pleased to walk. It had enabled him to work off some of the irritation that he felt for having brought about this ridiculous chase by his own stupid action.
He hadn’t liked to ask the taxi driver to take him to ‘a really nice traditional Irish pub I’ve heard a lot about’. The man might have taken him anywhere. Maybe his brother had a pub in the docks. He could have ended up dead.
‘I just want to see Belfast,’ he had said. ‘Could you drop me somewhere nice in the centre?’
The driver had dropped him in Donegal Square, near the City Hall, and he’d walked in the sunshine, along the lively pavements, working off his anger, building up his thirst. Then he’d stopped a young couple who looked friendly, and had said, ‘There are probably lots of nice pubs in Belfast, but somebody has recommended a fantastic one.’
‘It’ll be the Crown Liquor Saloon,’ the man had said. ‘That isn’t a pub. It’s the pub. It’s one of the world’s great drinking holes. There aren’t many pubs with a Michelin star – in the section for sights worth a visit, not in the food section. I’d like to come with you, but the wife needs some tights.’
Suddenly, for the first time that day, the man who had so foolishly called himself Mr J. Rivers had felt a flicker of enthusiasm. So, he’d lost a memorial to his beloved wife, but that was as nothing compared to his loss of her love and company three years ago. No, he would write the ring off to experience and the folly of telling lies, and sink a few pints of the black stuff in the Crown Liquor Saloon.
Then, just as he approached the pub, he’d had an inspiration. If he could produce a real Mr J. Rivers, perhaps he could get the ring back. Immediately this seemed extremely important again.
He’d found the main post office, hunted through the Belfast telephone directory, and found that there were three people in it called J. Rivers. One had turned out to be a woman, so that had been no use, because the package was addressed to Mr J. Rivers. A second hadn’t replied. The third had not only replied but, on hearing the sad story, and being asked if he could help him and save the day, had announced, with surprising fervour, that he could, and had arranged to meet him on a specific bench near the City Hall in half an hour.
This must be him now, walking towards the bench in such a straight line and with such purpose in his stride that it would strike fear into the heart of any man.
‘So here you are, you miserable sinner,’ the man said. ‘So here you are, and you ask if I can save you. Yes, sir, I think I can, since you have telephoned and expressed a wish to be saved, and to want that, sir, is to have already won half the battle. Yes, sir, with the aid of Almighty God, who is so pleased that you have sought help this day, I can save you. And I have these for the aeroplane, sir. Six copies of our magazine, the Watchtower.’
In the car Max said, ‘Not easy.’
‘Not easy, Max.’
There was silence for a few minutes. It wasn’t quite the companionable silence of father and son.
‘Did you get on all right with people?’ James asked at last.
‘Yeah. Cool.’
James realised that conversation was not going to flow. He was also just a little disappointed to hear Max saying, ‘Cool.’ He’d have preferred some colourful expression of enthusiasm picked up from the lumberjacks of Canada. Globalisation was going too far.
Their car dropped them off at King’s Cross, where they discovered the unwelcome news that Stanley’s train from Durham was ninety-five minutes late.
King’s Cross station sat sourly, blackly, resentfully at the side of the refurbished St Pancras, with its champagne bar and its statue of Sir John Betjeman, lover of railways, women and champagne, not necessarily in that order. The bar at King’s Cross was closed as the station underwent major restoration. It needed it.
The long champagne bar at the edge of the Eurostar platforms under the superb glass canopy of St Pancras station was thriving in the champagne weather. They found two seats and then a blush came to Max’s stolid face, the blush of a man who, it was sometimes difficult to remember, was still only twenty-two. But when he spoke it was in the manner of a man of forty, and what he said astonished James. He said, ‘Let me get you a glass of champagne. I think you need it.’
James knew that Max didn’t particularly like champagne, but that he had the style not to spoil this rare occasion by ordering himself a beer. They sat there, father and son in a silence that was now almost companionable, sipping their champagne in this cathedral of travel. The Eurostar trains slid off silently exactly on time. It could almost be Switzerland.
James had a funny feeling that Max would never again refer to what he’d told his son that morning, never again mention Helen either by name or even by implication. He knew Max didn’t approve. How could he have approved? He didn’t want him to approve. All he wanted was for them to continue to be father and son together, and to know each other for what the other was.
Every time he thought of Helen, he wondered if he’d hurt her so badly that she would make a scene at the chapel. Desperately he hunted for something else to think about. Charlotte. Not exactly a relaxing alternative, but he needed to do something.
‘I wonder if I should ring Chuck,’ he said.
He’d filled Max in on his conversations with Chuck in the car on the way back from Heathrow.
Max had wept and said, through his tears, ‘So
rry, Dad. It’s jet lag. I’m tired.
James had said, ‘No. Cry. It’s all right. It’s good to cry.’
Max hadn’t realised that he was shedding James’s tears by proxy.
‘Max,’ he said now, ‘if I do ring Chuck, to find out what the chances are of Charlotte coming tomorrow, do you want to have a go at chatting to her?’
Max thought for quite a while before answering.
‘Dad, it’s been five years, she was just a kid. I don’t think I’d know how to talk to her. Not on the phone. It might all go wrong. I don’t think I should talk to her unless there seems to be no hope of her coming. What I’m saying is, I suppose, I’d rather not.’ Max paused. James could see that he wanted to say more. ‘Is that awful? I long to see her. That’s different.’
James reached across and stroked Max’s shoulder. He could see that it wouldn’t take much for him to start crying again.
‘I’m not good on phones,’ Max continued. ‘All my friends talk on them all the time. They text before they clean their teeth.’
James realised that there were huge gaps in his knowledge of his son as well. It occurred to him that maybe there was something deeply lacking in him as a father.
‘I think I—’ he began, only to be interrupted by a loud announcement about the next Eurostar train. He waited impatiently. At last the announcement ended. ‘I think I will ring.’
James could feel his heart beating almost dangerously fast as he dialled. He thirsted for Charlotte to answer.
‘Yep?’
Funny. It was almost like hearing a reassuring friend. He realised that he was relieved that Charlotte hadn’t answered … unless it meant that she was incapable of answering the phone. Oh, God.
‘Hello, Chuck. How are you doing?’
‘Pretty cool, James. How about you?’
‘Yeah, pretty cool.’
‘Cool.’
‘Chuck, I’m just … you know … wondering …’ The tension was barely tolerable. He felt sick with longing. ‘… wondering what it’s looking like … tomorrow-wise.’
‘Yes, James, I think it’s looking pretty good.’
Relief poured through James. He was glad he was sitting down.
‘Yeah, she says she’ll come. To the church, anyway. I don’t know about the house, maybe there’ll be too many people, but the church, yeah, it’s looking good.’
‘That’s fantastic, Chuck.’
‘Yeah. Great.’
‘You might tell her that Max – that’s her brother, he’s sitting here with me now, we’re on St Pancras station waiting for her great-uncle Stanley who’s coming down from Durham – Max has just said he’s longing to see her.’
‘OK. Cool.’
‘You might tell her that it’ll all be very informal and we’ll all be spilling out into the garden if the weather’s still hot.’
‘Cool. You guys have a good evening and don’t worry about Charlie. I’ll get her there.’
‘Thanks. Thanks very much, Chuck.’
‘James?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Don’t be shocked.’
‘What?’
‘How she looks.’
‘Oh. Right. Thanks.’
Oh, God. What has she done to herself?’
‘Chuck?’
‘Yep?’
‘Thanks.’
In the end, back at King’s Cross, the train was a hundred and two minutes late. The delayed passengers streamed down the platform under the grimy roof, some almost running towards appointments, for which they were already hopelessly late, others exhausted and resigned, but of Stanley Hollinghurst there was no sign. Then, when the stream thinned into a trickle, they saw him. He was walking between two young people who were each carrying a large suitcase. He was striding out boldly for a man approaching eighty, and holding himself ramrod straight, but the impression of vitality was let down by a pronounced limp in his left leg. With his dazzlingly green corduroy suit, far too thick for the weather, and the unruly wiry curls of his excessively long white hair, he looked like a maverick retired anthropologist and lecturer who was going to seed, not to mention slightly mad, from living on his own too long. This was because he was a maverick retired anthropologist and lecturer who was going to seed, not to mention slightly mad, from living on his own too long.
‘These are my new friends,’ he shouted as he approached them. ‘Lee and Ellie. Who says young people have no manners? Who says civilisation is at an end? Not so, it turns out. Not so.’
Lee and Ellie put the two cases down, and everyone shook hands, and Ellie said they must be on their way.
‘A pleasure to have met you, sir,’ said Lee.
James and Max picked up one case each.
‘God, they’re heavy,’ exclaimed James, and even Max winced with surprise.
‘I don’t travel light,’ said Stanley, strolling beside James and Max as they struggled with his ancient cases, which had no wheels. ‘It doesn’t look good. An interesting couple, young Lee and Ellie. He’s pure Saxon, she’s pure Norman, don’t often get that. They asked me if it meant that they’d be happy. I said I had no idea. Funny how people don’t know how to read faces. Such a pity. Pity my book’s out of print. Bastard publishers.’
Stanley’s book The Physiognomy of Tribes had enjoyed a modest reputation in tribal physiognomy circles in the nineteen seventies.
‘A hundred and two minutes late,’ he complained, as they joined the back of the taxi queue. ‘A hundred and two minutes. Personally I’m delighted that before many years have gone the line will begin falling into the sea. My, you’ve turned out tall, Max.’
‘Thank you, Great-Uncle Stanley.’
‘Oh, don’t call me that. It makes me sound ancient. Stanley will do. Don’t you work with trees? You’re beginning to resemble a tree. Careful, boy.’
‘I’ll try to watch out for that danger, don’t you worry, Stanley,’ said Max drily.
James was shaken to hear Stanley echo his thoughts about Max. He changed the subject back to the line.
‘I don’t see how the line could ever fall into the sea, Stanley. From what I remember Peterborough and York and Co. are miles inland.’
‘Further north. Beyond Berwick. Practically on top of the cliffs. One day, whoosh. Splosh. We apologise for the late running of the eleven o’clock from Edinburgh. This is due to its falling into the sea with considerable loss of life including the bloody catering manager or whatever they call him this week who couldn’t stop rabbiting on about his bacon sodding sandwiches with or without tomato every time I wanted forty winks. Sad about Deborah. Best of the bunch.’
‘I’ll tell you what got me,’ said Stanley in the taxi. ‘We became late. Vandalism to overhead cables. Silly place to put them. Should put them underground. So, when it became clear that we were going to be more than an hour late, and that compensation would be due, what happened? Did all the other trains wait behind us in an orderly fashion as they should do in a land that loves queuing? No. The bastards send the next three trains on ahead of us, so they won’t have to pay compensation to all of them, as if this was Italy, where they’ve too much sense to queue. They held us in stations, and I saw the other trains overtake us. Nobody else saw them. They were too busy talking on their Loganberries. The days of looking out of the window are over. Every man is an island, carrying his world with him. And they kept apologising for the delay, sorry for any inconvenience. Brazen hypocrisy. They were now causing the delay and they couldn’t give a monkeys about the inconvenience, they hate us almost as much as I hate them. Charles’ll be devastated. He always fancied her, you know. Oh, yes. Shouldn’t wonder if … no, sorry. Shouldn’t have said that. Not that I did quite say it, but you know what I mean. Almost slipped out, as the careless bishop said to the actress.’
As the front door closed on the unassumingly elegant Georgian house, James felt that this really was the beginning of the end. The clans were gathering. The countdown to the funeral had begun.
&nb
sp; Stanley and Max were going to occupy the two single bedrooms on the second floor, with the main guest bedroom reserved for Charles and Valerie. Stanley had pooh-poohed the idea that two flights of stairs might be difficult for him at his age. ‘I’m not eighty yet. I’m no age.’ Now James wished that he had put Stanley on the first floor. He might well have a heart attack, lugging that suitcase upstairs. Even Max was struggling with the other one, the one that still had a purple label announcing Deck 7.
James didn’t dare put the case he’d been carrying on the bed, in case the bed collapsed. He dropped it onto the floor, and the old house shuddered. He collapsed exhausted into the room’s only chair. His arms ached and he couldn’t get his breath. A dreadful thought had occurred to him. Maybe Stanley was aiming to stay longer than the planned two days. Maybe he was planning to stay a month. He had luggage enough for a month.
‘Um … are you … um … still planning to … um …’ he gasped, ‘… to… um … stay for … two days, was it?’
‘Yes. It’s long enough. Don’t like staying in people’s houses any more. I worry in case I fart when I go to the loo in the night. Old men’s bodies don’t belong in other people’s houses. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, your cases are so terribly heavy, and you’ve two of them. What have you brought?’
‘Clothes for the funeral. Clothes for a change in the weather.’
‘There hasn’t been a change in the weather for ages.’
‘The weather never changes till it changes. That’s the thing about weather. Books. Several books.’
‘Several? Will you have time to read?’