Toff Chav

by Miles Hadley

  Bollard tutted. ‘Oh, Christine. I hope we don’t have a fascist in the making in our house.’

  ‘I ain’t no fascist or racist,’ said Gary. ‘I guess I’m a bit religionist.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There are some religions I don’t like. Islam for a start.’

  ‘Young man,’ said Bollard, ‘you are misusing the word religionist. Do you realise that Herr Hitler started off not liking certain religions?’

  ‘Yeah. Didn’t like Jews, did he?’

  ‘He was an anti-semite.’

  ‘So he was a religionist.’

  Bollard shook his head. ‘Oh, Christine! What are we going to do with him? A religionist refers to somebody who zealously follows a religion, not hates a religion.’

  ‘So where does “racist” come from?’

  ‘Difficult to explain,’ replied Bollard, ‘but I see your line of thinking. I’m just going to make some tea with the good lady wife.’

  Gary was confused and frowned thoughtfully to himself.

  After a few minutes, Bollard came back through with a tray of cups of tea, chocolate digestives and ginger nut biscuits.

  ‘Either way, young man,’ he said, ‘it’s not really sensible to hate a particular religion. Before you continue to judge Islam, I suggest you learn about it first. When you do, consider the following three Brits. The first is the explorer Sir Richard Burton, who hailed from the Victorian age. He risked death by being the first non-Muslim to disguise himself and participate in the Haj. The second is T.E. Lawrence, otherwise known as Lawrence of Arabia. He successfully rallied Bedouin tribes through earning their respect and fighting the last of the Ottoman empire. He also wrote the Seven Pillars of Wisdom, an account of his experiences.’

  Bollard paused for a moment to take a biscuit and drink his tea.

  ‘The third might surprise you,’ he continued. ‘It’s the great Sir Winston Churchill who, at one point in his life, considered converting to Islam. According to some letters, his family pleaded with him to remain Christian. The point that I’m getting across is that these were three great Brits and, before they judged Islam, they did their research first. As Shakespeare said, “There is no greater darkness than ignorance”. Isn’t that right, Christine?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m sorry, but a Muslim is not a fucking Brit,’ said Gary.

  ‘Young man,’ replied Bollard. ‘A Brit can be anybody who tries to be a Brit. They can be from Mars as far as I’m concerned. As long as we all live here and make an effort to be part of our society, then that is good enough for me.’

  ‘But they’re not though, are they?’

  ‘Well,’ said Bollard, ‘if you think that, then you need to ask yourself what do you mean by “them”. I think you’ll find that part of the answer lies in your statement. You take the “they” and you change it to “we” and you will find your answer to our problem. We’re all human and, therefore, there is no “they”. It is all “we”. The same should apply to our society in the UK. It should all be “we”. Whether rich or poor, black or white, atheist, Christian or Muslim.’

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ said Gary. ‘You’re one of those.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A fucking liberal.’

  Bollard laughed. ‘Christine! He’ll be the end of us! I sincerely hope we don’t create a monster who ends up wailing in the Daily Wail! Then it really would be the end of us!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was just saying to Christine that I hope you don’t end up being one of those miserable, negative nancy columnists in the Daily Wail.’

  Gary looked puzzled ‘What do you mean, the Daily Wail?’

  ‘Work it out, young man,’ laughed Bollard. ‘You have a brain. Use it!’

  Gary thought for a moment. ‘Oh, you mean the...’

  ‘Christine! He’ll be the end of us!’ Bollard laughed loudly.

  Gary watched the old man’s face change. ‘Seriously though, young man,’ he continued, ‘don’t ever succumb to the negative rabble who like to apportion the blame on “others”. You don’t have to be a liberal to think like that. Believe it or not, I’m actually rather conservative. I’d say I’m a liberal conservative. On the one hand, I want us all to have a truly meritocratic society, where all are liberated in our country to achieve their full potential. On the other hand, I believe in compassionate free marketeering. This means a free market to some extent – remember Adam Smith, the Scottish economist and philosopher? But with a support base and a safety net.

  ‘In my eyes, this means sensible financial regulation, living wages rather than looking at the minimal all the time – saying minimal sounds so negative, doesn’t it?’

  Gary looked as if to answer, but Bollard continued. ‘And giving everybody – that means everybody – enough so that they can enjoy some leisure time, too. Not just in retirement, when they’re old and decrepit like me, but when they are in their prime, like you. Otherwise, young man, what are lives for? To have died simply as vassals or workers chained to the workplace? Or to be real human beings – human beings that don’t grow to hate and resent the more successful in our society, but who grow to applaud and emulate them.’

  Gary looked at Bollard and smiled. ‘Why didn’t you go into politics?’

  Bollard laughed out loud. ‘Christine! Did you hear that? The young man is asking me why I didn’t enter into politics! Well, young man, the answer lies all around us – these books! Can’t you see? I became addicted! I became a bookworm! And when it wasn’t the books, it was my darling wife, Christine – wasn’t it, love?’

  He chuckled before continuing. ‘And when a man becomes a bookworm... well, yes it is good for a politician to read and be well read, but I would say that you also have to have very thick skin. I, young man, suffer terribly in that, deep down, I could never deal with the negative forces that politicians so often have to face. To be a good politician, one must be a warrior of their cause, armoured up to the hilt and able to take any knocks and scrapes that might befall them. By knocks and scrapes I mean the criticism and negative attention. Do you know what the worst kind of politician is? It is the one who succumbs to the force of negativity and embraces it. The one who loves war for war’s sake, and plays on and creates social division to their own power-happy advantage. Whenever any politician starts doing this, you must not ever give them the attention that they seek – or, indeed, your vote – or else the very sanctity of human history then becomes threatened.’

  ‘What do you think about the immigrants?’ asked Gary.

  Bollard took a sip of his tea before replying. ‘This might actually surprise you,’ he said. ‘In order to receive, we have to be ready to give. I believe that, before we continue with such high immigration, we need to stop and look at ourselves internally. At our systems and society, and work towards reforming and making them better so that, when we let immigrants in, it feels easier to feel a part of the all-important “us”. That is what a truly United Kingdom must and should be about. We cannot perpetuate social division and then expect people to join it. It simply does not make sense.’

  29

  ‘...and this is what I like to call my Hockney room. Do you know much about Hockney, Archie?’ Piers Raynard asked.

  Archie hesitated. ‘Yes, I know a little.’ Archie had not known that such a room existed in the Raynards’ Surrey residence. A room devoted entirely to the work of one artist. The room was long, narrow and painted in brilliant white. Winter sunshine streamed through large windows, and upon each wall hung work after work.

  ‘Want to know which is my favourite?’ Piers asked.

  Archie briefly smirked to himself. He assumed that it wouldn’t be one of the homoerotic pictures.

  ‘It’s this one.’ Piers pointed to the picture which was centrally located on the right-hand wall.

  They stood and stared
at it for some time.

  ‘The thing I like about Hockney,’ continued Piers, ‘is his no-nonsense approach to art. He has a natural panache and flair for keeping things simple, and yet he is strikingly effective in conveying what he wants to convey. His pictures are concise and to the point, while at the same time entirely unique in their perspective. Everything is one of a kind; life seen through highly individual eyes, and those eyes must be of a man who is the closest thing to feeling almost entirely liberated and free. The Yorkshire man is a genius.’

  Archie took in what Piers had said. ‘Mr Raynard... I want to ask you something.’

  ‘Please. You know me well enough by now. Call me Piers.’

  Archie smiled and gave a slightly awkward cough to clear his throat.

  ‘Piers. I... as you know, Polly and I went to Tanzania and had a wonderful time. While we were on Kilimanjaro... I proposed to her.’

  Piers looked at Archie with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I already know that. My dear Poll can hardly contain her excitement, or stop showing off the ring.’ He smiled. ‘And I suppose you are here to formally ask her father for permission to marry her. How frightfully old-fashioned of you!’

  Archie looked at Piers, who let out a sigh as he began to stare at another of the Hockneys. ‘They have grown up so fast,’ he said wistfully.

  ‘Mr... I mean, Piers... Do I have your permission to marry Polly?’

  ‘Of course you do,’ replied Piers. ‘My daughter can marry who the bloody hell she wants, as long as she is in love with them.’

  ‘Oh, thank you Mr... Piers. You have no idea how happy I am to have your approval,’ Archie gushed.

  ‘Let’s go to the proper gallery in the barn,’ said Piers. ‘I have one or two photographs I would like to show you. Then we’ll have lunch with my darling daughter and wife.’

  ***

  Archie and Polly made their way down to the village of Aston Wenderbury. Frost was on the ground as their feet scrunched upon the gravel of the Raynards’ long and sweeping driveway.

  ‘That was such a nice lunch,’ said Archie. ‘So nice to see your parents again.’ He looked at his dear, sweet Poll in her black wellies, jeans and Barbour jacket, with heavy woollen scarf and hat. Archie thought she looked as gorgeous as ever and would make the perfect chatelaine for Risely when the time came.

  ‘What do you think of my parents?’ Polly asked, breathing vapour into the air as she spoke.

  ‘I adore them, Poll,’ replied Archie. ‘I wish mine were as relaxed as that. Mine are so tightly wrapped. From what I know, as soon as Pa inherited Risely they just clammed up. They were meant to have been hippies, but now it’s a job to distinguish them from the furniture sometimes. Yours are so much more open.’

  Polly laughed and gave a snort. ‘When are we going to speak to the vicar?’

  ‘I don’t know... What’s he like?’

  ‘She, Archie. The vicar is a she,’ Polly giggled.

  ‘Oh, she’s a woman vicar... I wouldn’t have thought there’d be many of those from around these here parts,’ Archie said, mimicking a country accent.

  ‘They don’t talk like that anymore,’ said Polly contritely. ‘It’s Surrey, Archie. Get with the times. They’re frightfully frightfully around here. Look at the cars outside the cottages. More Mercedes and BMWs than you can shake a leg at. Dad wishes it was still like it was when there was a mix.’

  ‘Oh, poor Raynards,’ Archie said mockingly. ‘A City spiv takeover.’

  Polly laughed and snorted. ‘Talking of vicars, my great uncle was one.’

  ‘Really?’

  There was a silence before Polly laughed and snorted again. ‘Then they defrocked him!’

  Archie laughed. ‘What for?’

  ‘He was gay when they weren’t supposed to be. Had an affair with the verger!’ she giggled.

  ‘Verging on sacrilege!’ Archie quipped. ‘Are they allowed to be gay now?’

  ‘I think it depends which one you talk to.’

  They both chuckled and held hands, their mouths blowing vapour clouds into the blue sky as they exhaled. The surrounding trees were stripped of their leaves, their trunks naked to nature’s cold, crisp air.

  Polly showed Archie the house that used to be the original rectory. She explained that an investment banker called Hugo Thorneycroft now owned it. She remarked with a slight sniff that they spent more time at their Fulham house than in Aston Wenderbury.

  ‘I used to know their son and daughter quite well,’ she said.

  ‘Are you still in touch?’ asked Archie.

  ‘Not really. I see them sometimes at the village things, like the carol service or fetes. I think he’s a merchant banker in the City and she’s an events organiser. They went to Hopestoun school.’

  Hand in hand, they walked past the present vicarage. It was a humble old cottage with honey-coloured stone and a thatched roof. The front door was very low and Archie commented on how small it was.

  ‘Well, I think the Church of England is dwindling somewhat,’ said Polly. ‘Can you imagine? The cost of maintaining all of those huge historic buildings with only tiny congregations to pay for them?’

  ‘Are you at all religious?’ Archie asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Polly replied. ‘Only for weddings, christenings and funerals.’

  ‘Same,’ Archie chuckled. ‘So, when are you going to start the wedmin?’

  ‘We, Archie. We. It is the twenty-first century now and I really think wedding planning can have just as much of the groom’s involvement as the bride’s.’

  ‘I think you will make the most gorgeous chatelaine to Risely, Poll. Such a breath of fresh air, once my parents pop their clogs.’

  Polly giggled and snorted. Archie asked what was so funny.

  ‘Oh, nothing. It’s just that the term “chatelaine” seems so old-fashioned, as if I’m going to be some sort of ornamental wife that sips cups of tea, reads Country Life, struts around in heels and prunes the occasional rose bush.’

  ‘Polly,’ Archie said warningly. ‘You should know better than that. The gardener Gerald does the pruning.’ He chuckled.

  ‘So, what will I do exactly when I am this chatelaine?’

  ‘You can do what you like, Poll.’

  ‘Archie.’ Polly looked at him seriously. ‘I’ve decided on something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That I don’t just want to be an ornamental housewife. I want to do something. Something that makes a difference.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I want to go into politics.’

  ‘Oh, that’s great, Polly. Rupert will be so pleased.’

  ‘Arch. Not with the Tories. I don’t think I can stand them. Do you know what they call Osborne?’

  ‘No. What?’

  ‘The Sheriff of Notting Hill.’

  ‘But that’s not fair, Poll. The Cameronites are doing a bloody good job under the circumstances.’

  ‘No,’ said Polly. ‘I’ve given it a lot of thought. I think they’re actually quite cruel as a party. I want to be a Liberal Democrat.’

  There was a silence. Archie burst into hysterics. ‘You are joking, aren’t you? My dear Poll joining the woolly hat brigade? Farron?’

  ‘Just because they are the third party, does not mean I shouldn’t support and work with them.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, Polly?’

  ‘I even toyed with the idea of joining Labour.’

  Archie looked at her in amazement. ‘But Poll... The answer doesn’t just have to be in the left or in Liberalism. Look at what Cameron is trying to do!’

  ‘What is the point in being an island of wealth amongst a sea of the poor?’ said Polly. ‘Remember Jack, Archie? Doesn’t he deserve something better? More support? A nice home?’

  ‘I know. But the Government does try.�
��

  ‘Like fuck they do! They’re cutting everything and just prioritising the economy. They don’t give a shit about people like Jack! We live in a society, Archie – or, least we are meant to. Not just an economy or UK plc covered up by “big society” gimmickery.’

  Archie sighed. ‘Poll, you are really intolerable at times. But I love you and will respect your point of view. So, if you want to join the Liberal Democrats, then I will still expect to be your husband.’

  There was a silence before they looked at each other seriously and suddenly embraced.

  30

  It was while Gary was on his way to Bollard’s house that he crossed him. Deano. He was watching Gary as he made his way down Bevan Road. Glaring at Gary. Following Gary.

  ‘Fuck off!’ said Gary angrily, as he turned and faced him.

  ‘What you got in your bag, Gaz? Some little presents for your pervy old friend?’ Deano sneered. ‘I’ve seen ya! I’ve seen where you go!’ He ran up to Gary and tried to snatch his Nike rucksack from off his shoulder. However, Gary thwarted the attack.

  ‘Fuck off!’ he said once more.

  ‘Crystal ain’t happy, Gary,’ said Deano. ‘Nor is Jamal. We’re fucking onto you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About why you won’t see us no more. Why you’re always seein’ that old pervert.’

  ‘It’s none of your fucking business,’ Gary said walking on.

  ‘Why the sudden change, Gaz? What are you up to?’ Deano gave his angry tick.

  Gary turned again. ‘You left me for dead. The both of you, so fuck off.’

  ‘They had knives, Gaz. What were we supposed to do?’

  ‘Fucking fight! That’s what! But no – you two don’t fight, do you? You just sit around accepting shit. Accepting being shat on.’

  ‘I ain’t no coward, Gaz.’

  ‘Fuck off, Deano.’

  ‘Come on, then!’ Deano gestured and struck a boxing pose. ‘Come on, then,’ he repeated, jumping slightly, thrusting out a left hook and then a right hook close to Gary’s face.

  ‘Look,’ said Gary, evading Deano’s fists. ‘You and Jamal – and Crystal and Michelle, for that matter – can just fuck off out of my life.’