The Gran Tour

by Ben Aitken

  I get back to the coach before anyone else. Frank’s here having a smoke. It’s as if I’ve disturbed him while he was mulling a few things over, because before long, he’s telling me about the 2018 referendum in Ireland regarding the constitutional ban on abortions. The result was in favour of the ban being lifted – despite the best efforts of the church. ‘The priests tried their best,’ says Frank. ‘They laid it on pretty thick. They put on buses to get people from the rural areas to the polling stations, and no doubt the drivers had a wee word along the way. Och, it’s never been different, the countryside’s always been conservative. It’s the same in Scotland. They’re in their little green bubbles, getting fed up, falling behind the times, whereas in a city, you’ve got no choice but to mix, to adapt. A year in Glasgow and it becomes harder to think in black and white, because you’ve seen all sorts, and you’ve needed all sorts, and you’ve needed all sorts from all sorts, if that makes sense. The edges get taken off ye. Aye, there’ll be the odd bit of trouble, but that’s just run-of-the-mill, that’s just life. Out in the countryside, it’s easier to – och, they’re just not for changing, that’s all. And the church doesnae help. It shouldnae have the influence it does. Nobody should be raised to think x or y on pain of going to hell, on pain of shaming the family. They should be raised to think for their selves, not told what to do. But it’s nae easy. I told my daughter the other day: “Stop f*cking swearing, will ye!” In my defence I’ve been hearing a lot of her lately. She quit the uni not long ago and is back at home now, working in a pub. I worry the work won’t stretch her, not in the way that uni might have done. I told her she won’t be getting nothing off me. I told her Frank isn’t working so she can watch Jeremy Kyle in her pyjamas. What did you think of the house by the way? You know I got locked in once? I was doing one of their guided tours and fell asleep in the drawing room.’

  Dinner’s decent: Caesar salad, leg of Kerry lamb, lemon meringue pie. I sit with Rowan and Gordon plus another couple from Canada who met in New Guinea and now live in Wolverhampton (as you do). Brexit comes up during pudding, in relation to one of the hotel staff, who’s Lithuanian. The Canadians reckon people are scared of what they don’t know; Gordon reckons people would be scared of themselves if they knew what they were made of; Rowan reckons they just wanted a bit more control; and I reckon that a fool who knows he’s a fool is that much wiser, which is my way of saying I’ve stopped thinking about it. Then Mrs New Guinea asks for the buttered carrots and Mr New Guinea says that an argument against democracy is five minutes conversation with any voter, and an argument against referenda is the very existence of people.

  ‘And what do you fancy in place of democracy?’ I say.

  ‘Gerontocracy.’

  ‘Rule by the—’

  ‘Rule by the old. Have you heard of Plato?’

  ‘Did he play for Coventry?’

  ‘He said it’s for the old to rule and the young to submit.’

  ‘I’m guessing he wasn’t sixteen when he said it.’

  ‘Presumably not.’

  ‘And what would you have the young submit to exactly?’

  ‘The most terrific pensions you have seen in your life,’ he says.

  I wouldn’t mind something like gerontocracy. I certainly wouldn’t mind some sort of Supremely Sage Council of Elders that had a say on policy and national well-being and what-not. It wouldn’t be based in London but would tour the country, dispensing advice, telling yarns, getting a handle on things. You could say the House of Lords plays a similar role – that of an enlightened guardian, a check and a balance – but then you could say Plato played for Coventry. By what criteria would councillors be elected? It couldn’t just be age, for age is no guarantee of good sense or kindness. I suppose you’d have to pass some kind of sagacity exam, or wisdom trial. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out the only people eligible were the Two Fat Ladies.

  Frank’s at the bar, in his usual spot.

  ‘How ye Frank?’

  ‘Say that again?’

  ‘How ye?’

  ‘Are you meant to sound Irish?’

  ‘Is that offensive?’

  ‘Not to the Irish because you sound Spanish.’

  ‘Do I feck.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘It was a grand dinner, so it was.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Your man from New Guinea is after ruling the world.’

  ‘Are you wanting a lift home?’

  There’s football. Spurs are in Amsterdam. I feel bad for watching. I could be out taking the temperature of the town or mixing with the others. But then I reason that the town’s probably seen quite enough of me, and that the others don’t want me gassing to them when they’re trying to listen to the live music, asking about the 60s, about the basic state pension, about the young ones these days. Intergenerational relations are fine up to a point – roughly 7pm – whereafter you just want the football and a … bottle of non-alcoholic beer. Besides, Frank’s old enough. He counts.

  Because it’s a lousy first half, and because he doesn’t know how to do otherwise, Frank tells me a few things. He tells me that in 1921, after two years of fighting, the Irish War of Independence came to a halt when the British agreed to negotiate. The key men on the Irish side were Eamon De Valera and Michael Collins. The latter was sent by the former to London to get the whole country back, despite the former knowing the latter didn’t stand a chance in hell, not least because it was blindingly obvious that the Protestants in the north were not prepared to come along for the ride. When Collins came back from London with independence for only 26 counties, he pleaded for people to see that Ireland now had the freedom to achieve freedom. ‘But he was marked a traitor and a coward,’ says Frank, ‘and was killed by his mate in Cork while De Valera was fishing in Long Island.’ A civil war followed, between those who felt 26 was enough (pro-treaty), and those who felt it wasn’t (anti-treaty). Over its two years, the civil war claimed more lives than the war of independence that preceded it. ‘And now, because of Brexit,’ says Frank, ‘the whole shebang is being dragged up again. It took a long time to get this lot reading from roughly the same page. It took a lot of dead people. The war of independence, the civil war, then the Troubles when it all flared up again – for 30 years, man. It hasn’t gone away, and it wouldn’t take much for it all to properly kick off again. Och, but that’s just an opinion. Are ye sure ye don’t want a pint?’

  Frank decides to call it a night. We’ve to be up early, after all. We’re off to Dublin, where we’ll stay the night before catching the ferry the next morning. I stick around to watch Spurs come back from two down to win. A woman is gutted.

  ‘Are you Dutch?’ I say.

  ‘I’m from Gateshead.’

  ‘Then why are you pissed off?’

  ‘I can’t stand Spurs.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s a man on my street who likes ’em.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I don’t like ’im.’

  Ah for feck’s sake.

  Frank’s spot at the bar is taken by a bloke from New York. His name’s Shaun and his great-grandfather left him a house in Dingle. Shaun brings the family every year: his two sons go golfing and he goes drinking. When he says drinking he laughs and hits me on the arm with the base of his hand in a friendly way that really hurts. He says his wife is normally drinking with him but she’s back home minding the grandchildren. I ask if he misses her. He says ‘Not yet!’ and laughs and hits me again in the same spot and I think: if this is what Americans do when they go after their roots, then I wish they didn’t have any.

  But Shaun’s a sweet guy, there’s no two ways about it. And he seems to like me. I’m not saying anything especially neat but he nonetheless seems to be finding me a hoot. Perhaps this is what happens when your wife stays at home to mind the grandchildren. He says he’s been happy just about every day of his life since he retired. He asks if I’ve heard of the people who say they enjoyed their
jobs so much they never worked a day in their lives. I have? Well those people clearly didn’t know how to live, not as far as Shaun is concerned. Do I want his advice? Avoid getting paid for something. He says he worked on the railway for 50 years and can assure me every single day of it sucked. Now he’s retired and has a decent pension and spends the money on whatever the hell he wants, and spends the time on much the same thing. He loves his family, but he loves being a stranger as well, sitting at a bar, shooting the breeze – making new buddies. (Of course, when he says buddies he …) His sons are both surgeons. The wife of one of them died of a brain haemorrhage six months ago, just weeks after giving birth to their third child. I say: f*ck. He says: ain’t that the truth. He shows me a video of his granddaughter playing baseball. He laughs and hits me for the final time when the girl trips up heading for first base.

  ‘Now ain’t that something?’

  30 Turns out Gordon was exaggerating. It’s better if you leave it three years. It won’t be the last thing you don’t do if you don’t.

  16

  These days, even babies don’t know they’re born

  It’s 6am. There’s a knock on the door. I answer it. The man says nothing. I say nothing. (The onus is surely on him?) After what feels like a minute but is probably only a few seconds, he asks for my luggage. ‘I don’t have any,’ I say in my pants. ‘Okay, goodnight,’ he says in his trousers. I dare say not many of my days will start like this.

  When I get on the coach, Frank’s making an announcement. He says that judging by the weight of the cases, he presumes we’ve all nicked the TVs. I’m still half asleep.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ says Sandra.

  ‘Was it a big night?’ says John.

  ‘He says it weren’t, but you never know,’ says Gordon.

  ‘Give the lad a break,’ says Rowan.

  ‘He’s a dreamer,’ says Carole, ‘a thinker. Aren’t you love? You’ve got thoughts and dreams.’

  ‘I have, Carole,’ I say, ‘and I bet you’ve got a couple of each yourself.’

  ‘I do,’ she says. ‘I’m getting a new kitchen this summer.’

  And then we’re off. To Dublin. Yonder turbines wave us goodbye, while dark cattle snooze in bottle green fields, below heavy, muscular clouds. Chris is chipper this morning. No heaviness or snoozing for her. She’s got rose-tinted genes this one. I’ve been listening to her since we left Killarney. She won’t stop annotating the world. I’m surprised Carole has any eardrums left. ‘Ooh what a lovely day. Ooh what lovely houses. Ooh what a lovely breakfast that was. Ooh what muscular cows below bottle green clouds.’ Carole is generally an uncontrollable enthusiast herself, but she’s being put to shame today. It’s as if someone’s put a vial of concentrated dopamine in Chris’s beans, and now she’s full of them. She’d be a lousy critic. Everything would be lovely.31

  We stop for a wander at Tralee, the main town of County Kerry. The Rose of Tralee beauty pageant takes place every August in the car park on our right, says Frank, should anyone fancy their chances. Though he doesn’t think any of us is likely to win; not considering it’s been going on since 1959 and the same person has won every year. Initially you had to be from the town to enter, explains Frank, but it soon became apparent that that wasn’t going to work, so they extended the catchment area to Kerry, but it soon became apparent that that wasn’t going to work either, so now the only criteria is that you’re a bit Irish and still alive.

  We park up next to the county museum. I’m surprised to see Marty looking as sharp as he does. He was putting the drinks back last night. He said people back home call him Party Marty and he was going to show us why. He even had a special Party Marty T-shirt on. He must have seen away a dozen gin and oranges, all the while describing the trickiest postal routes on the Wirral and making sure everyone in the bar was alright. I was worried for the man. I certainly didn’t think he’d be in great shape this morning. To be honest, I didn’t think he’d be in any shape. But here he is, as bubbly as usual. What the hell did they feed kids in the 50s? They’re made of different stuff, I swear, and it can’t all be bread and dripping. ‘I’m immune to hangovers, Ben. I’ve been wanting one for years. To see what all the fuss is about. It’s my metabolism, you see, Ben. Plus all the orange I have with the gin.’

  I walk into town along Denny Street, which is a wide, Georgian-seeming avenue that could be in Dublin or Liverpool. You’re never far from a monument in Ireland, and here’s one now, quietly remembering various rebellions against various instances of Anglo indecency. There’ve been so many such instances that they’ve had to be consolidated and put on the same pedestal.

  I reach a shopping street called The Mall. John from Stoke’s sat outside a bookshop on a bench in the sun. He says he’s waiting on Sandra, who’s in the shopping centre. John was in there for a bit and says it was dead. He reckons that in 50 years, the very idea of a shop will be a thing of the past. He reckons kids will hear mention of a shop and look up and ask, ‘A shop? Say what, Grandpa?’ I’d put John on my Supremely Sage Council of Elders, for what it’s worth. I’d put most of this coachload on it to tell the truth – if only on a trial basis.

  Carole and Chris wouldn’t need a trial. They’d be the first names on the team sheet. I spot the pair on Denny Street heading back towards the coach. When I catch up with them they’re talking about Christmas shopping. Turns out Chris likes to get hers done by the end of summer, while Carole likes to buy for two Christmases every other autumn. Carole knows that her method carries certain risks: sometimes things have gone out of fashion by the time they are presented; and sometimes things are no longer appropriate or politically correct – for example, she once got her niece a gluten-free cookbook, but fifteen months later, the niece was tolerant again. Another thing Carole has to say about her Christmas shopping is that her expenditure remains roughly the same no matter how many grandchildren she has, because with each one that comes along, the spend per head goes down accordingly. She says this way of doing things has caused some problems in the past, in short because each year the heads want more and not less. Which is ridiculous of course. When Carole was young, she got a packet of handkerchiefs and couldn’t believe her luck, while Chris remembers getting a carrot and being over the moon. Carole says that one of her grandchildren is two and already has everything. ‘These days, even babies don’t know they’re born,’ she says, which is certainly something to consider. And they’re not better for having more, no way. Kids don’t know how to imagine anymore. They don’t know how to be bored.

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ says Frank, who’s leaning on the nose of his coach, smoking.

  ‘Kids,’ says Carole.

  ‘Well I could certainly teach ’em,’ says Frank.

  As we ride the N21 north-east, I ask what Carole’s up to next week. She says she’s busy, babysitting mostly. She doesn’t mind though; she likes having the grandchildren. Her husband used to say that they ought to have had the grandchildren before the children. Children are a lot of work, says Carole. Plus there aren’t any gaps, no pauses for thought, no intervals like at the theatre when you can have a wee and some ice cream. But now, life’s one big interval, and having kids around is nicer, easier. She reckons the kids like it as well. She reckons children should spend as much time as possible with their grandparents. The love is different. It’s calmer.

  ‘Are you wanting children, Ben?’ says Carole.

  ‘Maybe down the road a bit.’

  ‘Have you a partner then?’

  ‘I do. Megan.’

  ‘Not the royal one?’

  ‘That’s her.’

  ‘You know they’ve called it Archie? Not Gary like Frank said. Have you got a picture of Megan?’ I show her a picture. ‘Ooh she’s lovely. Isn’t she Chris? Isn’t she lovely?’ Chris has a look but – quite uncharacteristically – doesn’t seem that fussed. ‘How did you meet then?’ says Carole.

  I offer my rehearsed lines, that it was Halloween, that it was a party, that I had a
pumpkin on my head and so on.

  ‘Did you hear that Chris?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Our Benjamin had a pumpkin on his head.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When he met Megan.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Well how did she recognise him?’

  ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But that didn’t stop her.’

  ‘Is she a vegan then?’

  ‘No she’s not a— is she a vegan, Ben? No she’s not a vegan, Chris, of course she’s not.’

  We stop in Adare for something to eat. Frank says there’s also a few local attractions we can look at, but I’ve consumed enough for one week. There’s no more space in the filing cabinet. All room’s taken up with dolphins and poems and bits of life advice – avoid getting paid, have grandchildren first, strap in because you’re pretty much f*cked and so on.

  I walk up the main street until I find a little café, where I have some pasta and make a start on Graham Norton’s new novel, which I bought in the bookshop in Tralee. The café’s pretty quiet so the girl working there’s able to tell me more about herself than might otherwise be possible. She says she’s never heard of Graham Norton; that she has a pet rat called Chester; and that although she sometimes gets bored in Adare, she’d sooner be bored somewhere small than bothered somewhere big. At that moment, Chris and Carole walk past and wave through the window. Then a minute later, Marty does the same. The girl asks what’s going on.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well how do yeh know everyone round here?’

  ‘You want the truth?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m famous.’

  ‘Bollix y’are? Are yeh?’