That Barry started to bang around in his room at that point, and I gave up on trying to sleep and sat on the edge of my bed. Twenty-two, and all I had achieved was a dirty room with a noisy neighbour, a rude landlady, a job I didn’t think I would ever be good at, and a debt that I thought I’d have paid off by now. I should have.
I pushed myself off the bed and looked out of the window. The hill was almost empty, just a stray dog sniffing its way around a gatepost before walking away. I thought of Julia, and wondered where she was now.
I took my tin from the drawer and counted the money again. The memory of Mum replayed itself, explaining how it was the only way she could get Dad off the boats, the only way she could stop him.
‘He can’t take another winter at sea, Ted. You saw the state of him. That pneumonia nearly did for him, and I can’t let that happen again.’
I added the money up to the same total. Maybe I should give up on London, take back what was left to Harwich, and work my debt off on the boats. Yet I wanted to return with more than I left with, the hero. And with the girl? Would it be too much to ask?
London wasn’t what I thought it would be, that was certain. I thought I might have a friend or two by now, someone to go to the pub with, but it wasn’t that kind of place. The soldiers had their pubs, the dockers, the power station and motorcycle factory workers had theirs. Any new face was a threat. It felt smaller than Harwich a lot of the time. I had ended up spending my weekends as cheaply as I could and in the same way as I had done back at home. All Saturday in the library reading newspapers, and a pint or two at a pub in which no one would speak to me. It wasn’t what I had hoped for.
I had tried. I had asked Suzanne at the office if she wanted an after-work drink, but she gave me a strange look and reminded me she had a boyfriend. I spoke to people in shops, I sat on the riverfront looking approachable. I was not approached. So I watched the boats on the Thames, the rubbish gather in corners, kids with no shoes in the street and cats fighting in alleys.
I thought of home, how Mum had the candles sitting on the sideboard and batteries ready for the radio in case this time the power cut was not as temporary as most. People were hungry for more than they were given. In Harwich I had seen people getting poorer, but it was worse here. Hooligans and skinheads occupied set corners of Woolwich and Plumstead, spitting at any passing Sikhs or Nigerians, squaring up to the squaddies from the barracks, while the police watched with their batons at the ready, and underneath it all the threat of all out strikes, of society crumbling, of utter moral degradation — if you chose to read that kind of newspaper. You could read another kind which asked, why worry about terrorism and cults when there are supersonic aeroplanes, and, yes, there’s the oil prices, and famine, and dying cities and the desertification of the countryside, but what we really need to think about is reducing taxes, because one day you might be rich enough to worry about that too, and here’s who won the Pools.
And there were worse papers than the ones in the newsagents. The National Front sent out their members with their paper to schools and train stations and football matches and sold them to people who wanted to believe that it’s all the fault of those people over there, not like us, the different ones. Whenever I saw them standing outside Plumstead station, I walked a bit faster.
And yet, there were spaces of hope, even in London. Notes pinned up in the library and in corner shops spoke of derelict warehouses taken over for artistic spaces, rock bands needing members, people like Julia making empty houses into homes for squatters. There were queues outside the job centre, but also giant lava lamps in the windows of chemists for the kids to stare at, open-mouthed, a swagger in the stride of teenagers, and a feeling that things could be better, more equal, more fair. I would find my place here, eventually.
Then there were films. With all of this going on, I could see the appeal of sitting in the dark for a couple of hours, living someone else’s life. And as much as I wanted to be a part of that other world, spotting the lies, the way facts were twisted and people were misrepresented, I understood why we needed films. I would never tell her, but Julia was wrong. They weren’t always a distraction. Sometimes they were a magnifying glass, and the more I read and watched, the better I understood what was happening. That had always been my role, not quite a part of the action, but good at watching it all unfold. And I was good at that. I’d been told. Bucharest had taught me that I needed to be better.
It was all about observation, both films and society, applying the rules to your own country as well as others abroad. Using the same questions that Wainwright prompted me to apply to Bucharest, I now looked at London: are the shops empty, transport links broken, the utilities not functioning, are there too many police evident? Do people look tired and hungry? Yes.
CHAPTER 10
I’d only walked in the door when Suzanne, arms folded, had me pinned in a corner.
‘Did you go through my filing cabinet last night?’ She was anxious, but trying to make it look as if she was angry. She clearly didn’t know that she was one of the last people I’d mess with.
‘What?’
‘Did you?’
‘Of course not. No. Why do you think that?’
She looked over her shoulder at Mr Benstrup’s closed door, and leaned back against the wall. ‘Someone has been through the files, and my desk.’
‘How do you know?’
She opened her desk drawer and closed it again. ‘I can’t say exactly. You know when something just feels off?’
‘It wasn’t me.’ I couldn’t keep denying it. I sounded more guilty each time.
The noise of Mr Benstrup’s door opening made us both jump. He looked from her to me, but didn’t ask what we were doing.
‘Got that review of By the Law?’
‘I’m just going to type that up now,’ I said.
Mr Benstrup nodded, and disappeared behind his door.
I sat at my desk, pulled my notebook from my pocket and sighed. Mr Benstrup’s big idea was to fill in some of the extensive gaps of my knowledge of Russian cinema before my visit to Moscow. Sometimes I went to press screenings in the morning along with shift workers, hospitals and British Rail being well represented, but those were more for new British or American films. Mr Benstrup wanted to strengthen my knowledge of film techniques, history and sources. I wondered if he was reading Wainwright too. In between Bucharest and Moscow, twice a week I took the bus to Charlton and knocked at the basement flat of a man called Lev. I assumed Mr Benstrup decided what I should watch, sent a bit of paper to Lev, and Lev put the film on and handed me the bit of paper so I knew what I had watched.
Lev, bent over and shuffling, would let me in and, in his already darkened room, opened a silver tin and put another film on his projector for me to watch in his slightly smelly armchair. Clearly, I couldn’t understand any of the words on the screen or words spoken, but Lev didn’t help me out with this. I wasn’t sure if he spoke English at all, as he didn’t say anything. The only soundtrack I could follow was Lev’s snuffling and the quick chatter of the projector. Some films I felt stretched the idea of film as a visual medium, and I checked for reviews in the library to see if I’d got the right idea. What Mr Benstrup most liked was when I drew links between the Russian films and Hollywood, as long as the influence was of Russia on Hollywood.
By the Law, the silent film that Lev had shown me this morning, was easy to write about, but I had to make it work as a longer piece with the other reviews. I began typing, then realised that the office was too quiet. Suzanne was still looking at the filing cabinet.
‘What was missing?’ I whispered.
‘Nothing.’ She pressed her fingers against her throat. ‘I must be mistaken.’
Mr Benstrup called me into the office after lunch. He’d made a couple of corrections, but that wasn’t what he wanted me for.
‘After Bucharest,’ he frowned, ‘we have come up with a clear set of rules for Moscow.’
I nodded.
>
‘Suzanne has been in contact with the London Inturist office to work out how much money you will need for the hotel and full board, and has paid this to them in advance. She could order travellers cheques for any extra you want to take, but was told that you can use sterling in the only shops you’ll be going in.’
‘Sterling.’ I nodded.
‘So bed and board,’ he paused, ‘for one person. Beer or wine in moderation, no spirits.’
The vodka had been Vasile’s idea, after the football results.
‘You will need to show me that Bucharest was a one off, and you’re there to work.’
I nodded. I wondered, not for the first time, how he funded this magazine. At a bigger organisation I wouldn’t have to worry about expenses. I could ask around for other jobs in Moscow, but they would all be film related too.
‘Do you have any questions, Ted?’
‘No, Mr Benstrup. Bed and board. It’s all very clear.’
‘Good lad.’ He coughed twice and cleared his throat. ‘Suzanne has your itinerary ready, and your wages for the next two weeks so you can pay your rent. And I got a surprise for you, too.’
He reached into his drawer and pulled out a book, Smith’s Moscow.
‘Published last year, so it should be bang up to date.’
‘Thank you, Mr Benstrup. That’s really thoughtful.’
He sighed. ‘I bought it for myself, but Mrs Benstrup won’t let me dilly dally abroad anymore. Have a good time, Ted. Not too good.’
Back in the main office, Suzanne was carefully closing the cabinet drawer and locking it.
‘You saw me lock it, yes?’
I nodded.
‘Good.’
‘Shall I check it’s locked?’
‘No need for that,’ she said, but she glanced back at it twice as she picked up her bag and left the office. It was as if she expected it to move when she looked away.
I caught up with her outside. ‘Listen, Suzanne, is something going on?’
She blinked but didn’t answer.
‘I know you don’t want to go for a drink with me —’
‘Let’s go for a drink,’ she said.
I followed her to the Rose and Crown. It was hot for the first time this summer, and even hotter in the dark interior. I pulled my shirt away from my armpits and put ‘a lighter jacket’ on my shopping list for the future.
‘I’ll go to the bar. What do you want?’ she asked.
‘Pint, please.’ I sat down on the worn corner seat and wondered what this was about. She brought the drinks over, the pint for me and something clear with a lemon for her.
‘I prefer pints,’ she said, ‘but I don’t want my boyfriend to smell that I’ve been drinking.’
‘That doesn’t sound…like a good situation.’
‘That,’ she pointed at me, ‘isn’t your business. What I wanted to talk to you about was things moving around in the office.’
‘The filing cabinet?’
‘That, but I’ve noticed a couple of other things, too. I always pile the toilet rolls exactly on top of each other. I always put the plant so that the flower faces into the office. I always make a right angle with the stapler and the ruler in my desk drawer.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘Obviously. And I know it’s not you, but I need to ask. Have you touched any of those things?’
‘No.’
She took a gulp of her drink. ‘There’s something else, too. I think someone followed me home yesterday.’
‘Did you get a look at them?’
‘No. Just glimpses, dark clothes, that kind of thing. It’s just there were glimpses of dark clothes all the way back.’
I didn’t know what to say.
‘And, yes, I’m sure.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But you don’t think that was me as well?’
‘No, completely different build to you.’
‘Taller?’
‘No, shorter.’
I was pleased about that.
‘Do you think Mr Benstrup is involved in something strange?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t know, but I doubt it. He is worried about money, but anything dodgy would give him palpitations. You’re the one that would know. You get sent places. You got any ideas?’
‘No.’
She looked as if she had something to say, but she must have changed her mind as she finished her drink and stood up.
‘I’m sorry I can’t help you with any of it.’ I tapped my glass. ‘Can we do this again though?’
She downed her drink. ‘Probably not. See you when you get back. Don’t miss your flight again.’
CHAPTER 11
There was something strange in the air that night. The men who gathered around the bar seemed snappy with each other, as if something was brewing. I nursed my pint, as I always did nowadays, and stayed out of it. It felt like a fight was going to break out, that kind of tension, and then there was a ripple of interest as someone came through the door.
The hair brushed up high was familiar, and I realised it was the woman from the train. Then, as she stood at the bar in her high heels with her back to me, I knew exactly who she was. I could smell her perfume from where I sat. I watched her, waiting for her to sit down so I could slip out, but she sat down at my table. She slid a glass towards me.
‘Ted, I wanted to thank you for that favour you did.’
‘That’s all right, Mrs Benstrup.’
‘It was very important to me, my mother’s ring. I’m sure you understand how difficult it is to send packages in some countries.’
I nodded. Mihaela had said this ring was for her sister, but the more I looked at Mrs Benstrup the less I believed they were related. It wasn’t just that she was older. She lifted her glass and waited for me to lift mine.
‘Vodka. To good relations between countries,’ she said, and clinked glasses. I sipped while she drank the whole measure. ‘Have a good time in Moscow. I would be very grateful if you felt able to bring something else back for me. If it’s no trouble.’
I felt the pressure of her hand on mine, and wondered how she rolled her ‘r’ like that.
‘No trouble, Mrs Benstrup.’
‘Nadenka, Ted. No need to be formal.’
She kissed my cheek and I stiffened, worrying she would leave another mark, but this time there was no stickiness. The rim of her glass was scarlet instead. As she left I noticed the men at the bar watching her, and then looking at me. I finished the vodka with a shudder and left.
I looked forward to getting home, out of the humidity and heat. A nice cup of tea. Then I remembered that my milk had gone off. In cold weather I could keep it on the windowsill, but that wasn’t an option now. I was lucky if it lasted a day under a wet cloth, something my mum did in the summer. I half thought about cutting down Brewery Road to buy some, but remembered I was going to Moscow. And I laughed. Just a short sound, but enough to attract the attention of a group of skinheads across the road, standing in the glitter of broken glass.
I faced forward and picked up my pace.
‘Oi, poofter!’
Faster. As fast as running without running.
‘Long-haired pansy!’
Was my hair too long? I wanted to feel how far it came over my collar, but I had to pretend they weren’t there and get home. Then they’d know where I lived. Griffin Road had never felt so steep or so long. My calves were burning.
Halfway up the hill and I couldn’t hear anything. Had they crept up behind me? Were they waiting for me to turn and look? I strained my ears, but there was no sound other than my panicked footsteps until I opened the front door and closed it behind me.
In my room I peered through a gap I made in the net curtains and I could see them, back down by the Brewery Road junction, five of them. They weren’t interested in me.
I sat on my bed and waited to get my breath back. It was too stuffy, the sun still shining directly into the room. I undressed, panting, then had to
give in, so carefully, revealing nothing, pushed up my sash window. I could breathe, the breeze was good as I was high up the hill, but I could still hear them, laughing and goading. I hoped it was directed at each other. Hopefully they were just going to do some graffiti and go home. They were probably responsible for the new NF symbols down by the station.
I concentrated on packing. I’d bought some new clothes and, while I resented spending the money, I was pleased to be arriving in Moscow a little smarter than I had arrived in Bucharest. The journalism book and my notebook went in my case, and in my jacket pocket I put my guide to Moscow that I intended to read on the aeroplane. I laid out what I was going to wear on my desk chair. There was something I had forgotten. The squawking from the skinheads was stopping me thinking.
My rent. I needed to pay two more weeks to cover my rent. And a note to make sure I had a room to return to. With a sigh, I took my money from the advance pay. £79 remaining after I’d taken £5 for cigarettes and extras, and £5 for emergencies. Just over half what I owed.
I didn’t have anything in for dinner, but I didn’t want to spend any money or risk seeing those skinheads again. I made myself a jam sandwich with the last heel of bread, black tea with powdered milk, and listened to the radio until I was tired enough to sleep and to forget all about my conversation with Mrs Benstrup.
At Heathrow I bumped into Mr Attridge. Again.
He waved his hand high above his head. ‘Mr Walker.’
This was starting to become odd, but I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen him.
He strode over and shook my hand. ‘Off on your travels, again?’
‘Yes. Moscow.’
‘And what is that for?’ He tilted his head, as if interested, but I had the feeling he already knew. He was too alert. I was tempted to lie, to see what his reaction would be.
‘There is an international film festival. I’m going to cover it for my film magazine.’
He widened his eyes. ‘How wonderful.’ He checked his watch. ‘Do you have a little time before boarding?’
The Starlings of Bucharest Page 7