by Miles Hadley
Gary nodded his head and they began.
***
Sheila watched as Gary brought in box after box of Bollard’s books from Maggie Swinton’s car.
‘What the hell, Gaz? Where the fuck have all of these come from?’
‘They’ve come from a friend,’ replied Gary. ‘And I’m going to read every fucking one of them.’
‘Where the fuck are you going to put them all?’
‘In my room. I’ll stack them up.’
‘But I thought you didn’t read?’
‘I can a bit. I’m learning. Anyone can do it.’
‘Fucking hell,’ said Sheila. ‘There’s a lot of them.’
‘They’ll help. Help us.’
‘What do yer mean? A bunch of old books? Oh, I get it. You’re gonna sell them on eBay for a profit, right?’
‘No, Sis,’ said Gary. ‘I’m going to read them and then, in the future, Warren can read them and get educated.’
Gary walked back to Maggie Swinton’s car. He thanked her for her help.
She smiled at him. ‘Remember why he left you these,’ she said. ‘Don’t ever forget him when you read them. Collectively, they formed a large part of him. He saw massive potential in you, Gary.’
37
Archie had an epiphany. It was one of those nights when the idea was so all-consuming that he had to stay up until the early hours to think about it. He telephoned Polly, knowing she would still be up studying.
‘Poll. I’ve come up with an idea.’
‘Archie, do you realise what time it is…? What sort of idea?’
‘I was looking through Dorothea Lange’s work and it sort of inspired me. I want to be like you, Poll. Make a difference. Be a champion of something. Not just by talking about it, but by using my photography skills to get a message across. A message that it’s not okay to ignore the poor and vulnerable in our society.’
‘So, what’s the idea?’ asked Polly.
‘It’s chavs and hoodies, Polly. I want to take gritty photographs of them. Just as Lange took gritty shots during the depression years in the US, I want to take gritty shots of chavs and hoodies. Think about it, Poll. They are so maligned. They need a voice. A champion of some kind, to say that actually our social divisions are not really okay and that they are real.’
Later that morning, Archie telephoned Henry.
‘Henry, I need your help.’
‘What can I do for you, mate?’
Archie explained.
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Henry. ‘Let me get this straight. You are fast becoming one of the best-known photographic portraitists and you want to take pictures of poor scallies?’
‘It’s a new project I have in mind. Henry, this could make my name – not just as a portraitist, but also as a serious, hard-hitting photo journalist.’
‘But why chavs and hoodies?’
‘Because they’re the type that everyone loves to hate, Henry. Don’t you see? Society hates them for being so disgustingly poor, and I want to reveal images of them that highlight their – I don’t know – general poverty.’
‘So, what can I do to help?’
‘I need a chav guide, Henry. Someone who can act as my guide around one of the inner city council estates. I need grey, gloomy architecture, malnourished faces, no-hopers kicking stones and fighting. Shitty and gritty. That sort of stuff.’
‘And you think that “With Pleasure” can provide a service on that front, do you?’ asked Henry.
‘You must know somebody who might be able to help,’ replied Archie.
‘Mmm...’ began Henry. ‘Let me get in touch with a television researcher I know. Went to Melton. A year or two above us – they’re producing one of those fly-on-the-wall benefit programmes.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
***
Archie sat in Jack Blakeney’s office admiring the fact that, despite being an old Meltonian and coming from an ultra conservative family, Jack’s walls were graced with images of Lenin and Trotsky. Jack had rebelled. The story was that his family had been so repressive that Jack had a breakdown and went very left wing. Jack had even toyed with the idea of converting to Islam, but instead found solace in the works of Marx, Engels and Lenin. He had even adopted a Mockney accent and sported a thick beard with thick, tortoiseshell glasses.
Jack had tattoos and wore a white T-shirt and rolled-up denim jeans with heavy boots. One tattoo was of the Soviet sickle and hammer. On his head was a black woollen hat with a turned-up rim. Archie had been told by Henry that Jack had got a First in media studies and politics at one of the old polytechnics; he had then got his present job with the reality company owned by an uncle. Henry had said that, despite Jack’s left-wing views, he now controlled a ten per cent stake in the media company, which had the uber hip title ‘Bearded Beauty’.
Archie asked Jack if he knew of anybody that might guide him around the council estates of London.
Jack responded with what Archie thought was a somewhat patronising tone. ‘You’re not from around East London, are you?’
‘Well... actually, no,’ replied Archie. ‘I’m... we have a place in Chelsea. So I’m more of a West Londoner myself.’
Jack smiled wryly. ‘Ooh, la-di-da...’ he began. ‘Look, mate...’
Archie suddenly interjected. ‘You are Jack Blakeney, aren’t you?’ There was a pause before he continued. ‘Of the Blakeney family. You went to Melton, too... a few years above me... Isn’t that right?’
Archie suppressed a wry smile himself as he observed Jack’s reaction. Jack seemed to blush and lose his train of thought.
After quickly regaining his composure, he almost snapped a reply. ‘Try one of the food banks. They’re full of chavs.’
‘Look, mate,’ said Archie. ‘I was actually hoping you might know of somebody, like a television researcher type, who might be willing to show me around. I’d be willing to pay.’
‘Well...’ Jack said thoughtfully. ‘There is Dermot O’Rioden. He’s from Ireland. Quite good at sourcing the right kind of people. I’ll give him a call.’
Later that afternoon, Archie met Dermot in a pub near Old Street. He noticed that Dermot was also suitably bearded and attired in hipster clothing similar to that of Jack.
‘What is it you’re looking for exactly?’ Dermot asked.
‘I’m a photographer,’ replied Archie. ‘I’m hoping to do something for an exhibition. I’d like to take gritty shots of chavs and hoodies.’
‘And, by chavs and hoodies, you mean people who live on council estates?’
‘Yes...’
‘Look,’ said Dermot. ‘If you’re going to have any success reaching out to these people, I suggest you don’t refer to them as chavs and hoodies. Secondly, you’re going to need to tone down your clothes and accent. Thirdly, I would suggest that a minder goes with you.’
‘A minder?’
‘Yes,’ said Dermot. ‘A bodyguard sort of person. It’s just, the way you walk, your mannerisms – everything about you is going to stick out like a sore thumb. So you’re probably going to need some protection for what I have in mind.’
‘Oh, I can get one of those easily,’ said Archie. ‘A friend uses them all the time. Jack suggested looking for people at the food banks. Would that be a good idea?’
‘Well, it might be a start,’ replied Dermot.
‘Would you be willing to come, too?’ said Archie. ‘I’d pay you, of course.’
‘When are you planning to find people to photograph?’
‘A couple of weeks’ time.’
‘I should be able to make it,’ said Dermot. ‘It might be worth us finding a suitable guide who can show us the right sort of people.’
‘How do we go about that?’ asked Archie.
‘Food banks, like Jack said. That’s where people are
the most desperate.’
***
That evening, Archie and Polly attended a supper party at Henry’s Richmond family residence. Henry was now dating a French model called Evette. She had pouty lips and Archie thought she was pretty hot.
‘So, how’s that idea of yours coming along, mate?’ Henry asked.
‘Oh, it’s going well,’ replied Archie.
‘What idea?’ asked Razza, who was sitting next to Ruslana, his Russian date.
Polly looked at him. ‘I thought I told you?’
‘No... what idea?’ repeated Razza.
‘Well... I’m going to be taking photographs of chavs and hoodies for a new exhibition,’ said Archie.
Razza nearly spat out his Burgundy. ‘You? Take pictures of chavs and hoodies?’
‘Yes.’
‘But, that’s insane... isn’t it?’ Razza asked.
‘What is a chav and a… hoodie?’ Henry’s date asked, in a thick sexy French accent.
Henry chuckled. ‘It’s quite hard to explain. Well... a chav... well, you know, council house people?’
‘Yes…’ she replied.
‘Well, take an average council house person,’ Henry explained. ‘They’re fucking off their nuts on benefits, antisocial, no breeding behind them, and generally pretty nasty to look at or interact with.’ He laughed at his own wit before continuing. ‘In other words, they take the term “common as muck” to extremes.’
Jake Coxwell continued. ‘They epitomise the very pits, the very murky depths and shit that our society has ever produced. They’re like a feral pest that one might find roaming around your land. The sort of pest that should be eradicated, like any vermin should, like a fox or a rat or something.’
Archie and the table burst into hysterics. Even Polly found it funny and proceeded to snort uncontrollably. Henry laughed so hard that he spluttered some of his Burgundy onto the table.
Evette looked perplexed. ‘I don’t understand. Why is this funny?’
‘Because they’re shit!’ Henry exploded, laughing again. ‘The very shit of the bottom tier of our society. They have shit names, shit houses, shit clothes, shit furniture, shit accents, shit manners, shit food, and shit health, and all for being the occasional skivvy for charitable people such as ourselves...’
‘That’s if they can be trusted,’ Jake interrupted.
‘Which is pretty much never,’ Henry laughed. ‘Fucking gypos.’
Jake continued to laugh. ‘Exactly! They cannot be trusted. They cannot be asked. They could not give a rat’s arse about anything other than stealing from or maiming people such as ourselves.’
‘Now, mate. On a serious note, that’s not quite true...’ Archie began. ‘A lot of the stuff going around about council house people is, in fact, a myth produced by...’
‘Is it?’ Henry interrupted forcefully. ‘Come off it. You’re starting to sound like my dear cousin Poll. Bloody Raynards – always so damned righteous about poor people and stuff.’
‘Only because we give a shit!’ Polly said loudly. ‘Seriously... it’s all right for us to be sitting here having our fine wines, our trust funds and dinner parties, but social disparity in the UK is getting worse again.’
‘I’m sure it is, but...’ Henry began.
‘No, listen to her, mate,’ Archie said, looking seriously at Henry.
Polly continued. ‘According to the Sutton Trust, the UK has one of the lowest social mobility rates in the whole of Europe. What does that say about us? It says we keep poor people down.’
‘Exactly, Poll,’ said Archie, nodding his head in agreement. ‘And by perpetuating social stereotyping with chavs and hoodies – well, it’s not exactly helping the poor people to be upwardly mobile, is it?’
‘Poverty and being poor is now an intergenerational thing,’ Polly said. ‘And, I have to say that I find that pretty scary.’
‘Well, boo hoo hoo!’ Henry chuckled before sipping some Burgundy. ‘My heart bleeds.’
Archie stood up suddenly in anger. ‘Get a life, Hen! Start giving a shit a little.’
Henry looked up at Archie across the table and slowly raised his middle finger. Razza burst into drunken hysterics, spluttering more Burgundy, before telling Archie to calm the fuck down. Archie did eventually sit back down on his chair. There was an air of relief around the table.
38
Gary went through the catalogue and mapped out what he would do; he would read like shit. He would take notes from every chapter of every book and keep them in a file, so that he could recap on the facts, the figures, the eloquent speeches, the illustrious and not so illustrious events. He was determined to become one of the most clued-up young men on his country’s history. He wanted it all; was hungry for it all. He needed to read so that he could lead. Leaders weren’t born, they were made – that’s what Bollard told him once. He looked at the makeshift bookshelves he had made with planks of wood and bricks.
‘There’s no way I’ll get by unless I try,’ he said to himself.
He started with Julius Caesar’s The Conquest of Gaul. He struggled, but he coped. He read in twenty-minute stints so that he could rest his eyes and pause for thought, or take notes on what he had written; a simple technique that Bollard had taught him.
Gary eventually began to visualise what the Britain of the Roman era must have been like. Somehow, his imagination became so vivid that he could almost be there, next to Julius Caesar himself. He visualised the Legionnaires, the Centurions and the threat of the Celts and, as he saw them, he marched around his room, keeping in step with the meter of the narrative, which he started to read out aloud to himself.
Once he had finished reading Julius Caesar, Gary picked up Richmond’s Roman Britain and read about how the Druids were pushed back to Anglesey, where they made their last fierce stand on the shores of the island. He read of how the Roman army chopped down most of the forest on the island simply because they were sacred to the Druids. He read about the walls that the Roman army built, such as Hadrian’s wall, and he read about the gradual decline of the Roman empire and the crumbling of its power in Britain.
He paused for a moment and looked out of his bedroom window at the grim vista below. Yet, what he saw was not so grim because, the more he read and thought about what Bollard had tried to instil in him, the more optimistic he felt and the more empowered he felt. He knew his reading was improving rapidly, because he was now devouring the books at an increasing pace. He read voraciously and, although he did not know where it would ultimately lead him, he felt himself transforming into a man who not only appreciated his history, but also the value, of education.
Gary swept through the Viking and Saxon eras and the medieval period until he came back to the Tudors. At this point, he remembered Bollard’s narrative and, as he so often did now while reading, could hear his voice. Gary smiled when he recalled the moment when they had first met and Bollard had quoted from Shakespeare’s Henry V, ‘We happy few. We band of brothers.’
He read and heard, too, Elizabeth I addressing the troops at Tilbury. He visualised her asserting that she ‘May have the weak and feeble body of a woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a Prince and a King of England too.’ He imagined the troops cheering, emboldened to have seen their Queen speak so powerfully. From one particular Tudor history book there fell a piece of folded paper. Gary opened it. It was a poem by Bollard.
‘So you were a poet as well, you old bastard,’ Gary chuckled. He read it aloud:
* * *
Gloriana
Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen
She of that golden age
A pale white complexion
And Patron of the Stage
She flirted with the nobles
And foreign Princes too
But it was Dudley, Earl of Leicester
Whom she was closest to
&
nbsp; This aroused great jealousies
Amongst her other Peers
So she held him off for marriage
To cast off plotting fears
At Tilbury she spoke
To unite against the Spanish
Which the wily English navy
And bad weather served to banish
There was plot after plot
To knock her off the throne
But she played on her great strength
To forever sleep alone.
* * *
‘Not bad,’ Gary muttered to himself before smiling mischievously. ‘But not as catchy as Dregz.’ He thought for a moment more. Did she forever sleep alone? he wondered. ‘Bet she was a right slapper really!’ he laughed.
Gary eventually grew tired. He had finally awoken from his historical daze; his historical feast. The words that he read had been effortlessly pervading his brain and slipping out of his mouth and through his pen, to the point where he was feeling light headed. Day upon day had been spent this way. He suddenly thought of his sister, Sheila. He went downstairs and decided to talk to her. She was watching television and he stood between it and her, grinning.
‘Veni, vidi, vici!’ he said.
She started chuckling. ‘Veni, vidi, what?’
‘I came, I saw, I conquered. It’s Latin, Sis. The words of the great Julius Caesar.’
‘Whatever,’ she laughed.
‘We need to change, Sis,’ said Gary. ‘If it means me conquering your television habits, so be it. There’s a food bank near here and I want us to have a proper meal together this evening.’
‘But Gaz, you know what we’re like about accepting charity.’
‘It ain’t charity, Sis. It’s common sense under the circumstances. People wouldn’t give food if they didn’t feel that they could. They want us to eat properly, Sis. It’s not just them. Mum would tell us to stop being so bloody proud and accept it until we can change things for the better. There are some people out there who give a shit. That’s what I’m trying to say. We must not be despondent.’