Nicholas Royle: First Novel

‘You carry on, AJ,’ I reply. ‘I’ll go and say hello to Carol.’

I see Carol some mornings, if neither of us is working, as she walks their children to school past my house.

‘Paul, darling,’ she greets me with mock affection, a hand on my shoulder and a kiss on each cheek. ‘What can I get you to drink?’

‘You’re not on duty now,’ I say, bending down to get myself a beer from the cooler.

Carol is a flight attendant, cabin crew. She has a wavy curtain of thick auburn hair that I’m more used to seeing tied back and she’s wearing a white linen dress cut daringly low. Although my eyes don’t leave hers, I am peripherally aware of the meringue-like swell of her breasts.

I sense she wants to introduce me to the Asian woman she had been talking to when I arrived.

‘Paul, this is AJ’s mother, Nina,’ she says. ‘Nina, this is Paul. He’s only recently moved to the area.’

‘How are you settling in?’ asks the older woman, who is wearing a bright turquoise sari.

I know what to say. ‘Your son and daughter-in-law have been very kind.’

As everyone sits down to eat, a shadow falls over the garden accompanied by a thunderous roar of an intensity that some of those present appear to find uncomfortable.

‘That was low,’ complains a thin, orange-skinned woman called Juliet, whose only contributions to the conversation so far have been sharp and vituperative. Her bad mood seems to stem from the fact that her husband, who is delayed due to the overrunning of a Sunday league football match, has still not turned up. She seems embarrassed, as if AJ and Carol might regard it as bad manners.

‘That wasn’t low,’ says Lewis with a distinct sneering tone to his voice. He has a chicken bone in one hand and a trickle of grease at the corner of his mouth. ‘That was, what, 1,500 feet? Ksssh-huh-huh . Low-flying is classified as 250 feet.’

He looks around, as if expecting most of those present to agree with him.

‘It depends,’ I say, looking at Carol, who flicks her hair behind her ear before raising her wine glass to her lips. The tiny pink tip of her tongue emerges to meet it. I cross my legs and dust away an imaginary mark, like a batsman prodding his wicket.

‘Paul’s a writer,’ AJ says, reaching for his own glass. AJ is one of those people, increasingly few in number, who think that because you are a writer you know something about the world. ‘Like Elizabeth,’ he says, as a petite woman with long silver-blonde hair enters the garden from the house. ‘Paul, this is Elizabeth Baines. Elizabeth, this is Paul Kinder.’

‘All these bloody writers!’ Lewis exclaims. ‘At least you’re not a pilot. Ksssh-huh-huh . I’ve never come across so many fucking pilots as I have since moving here. Excuse my French,’ he adds with a glance in Nina’s direction. ‘What is it with this place and pilots?’

‘What do you write?’ Nina enquires, ignoring Lewis.

‘I write for the papers,’ I say, smiling thinly and noticing the look that Juliet seems to be giving Lewis.

‘On what subject?’ asks Nina.

‘Food. Books. Art. I’m a bit of a jack of all trades.’

‘And master of none. Ksssh-huh-huh ,’ splutters Lewis, emitting a fine spray of saliva as he falls into the trap I had decided to lay for him.

‘Actually, Paul’s a novelist,’ AJ adds.

‘I’m a journalist and I teach creative writing,’ I say hurriedly, mainly to head Lewis off, since I suddenly know with absolute certainty what his stock question would be on meeting any novelist: Would I have read anything you’ve written?

Instead, he asks the other question that people always ask: ‘Do you write under your own name?’

It occurs to me to answer No, I write under the name D. H. Lawrence , but I force my lips into a smile and change the subject: ‘You’re new to the area, then, Lewis?’

‘You are, too, I gather,’ he counters.

‘I lived in the south for twenty years,’ I say, ‘but I was brought up round here.’

He reclines expansively, extending his arm along the back of the wooden bench towards Carol who is sitting at the other end.

‘I lived in Chorlton,’ he says, ‘then spent some time in the Far East. Been back a couple of years now. Of course,’ he adds with a smile in Carol’s direction, ‘the upside of living around here is I’ve never met so many trolley dollies either.’

‘Trolley dollies,’ I say, also looking at Carol. ‘That’s a term you don’t hear so much these days.’

Carol gives a half-smile and looks away at AJ.

‘Surely, trolley dollies was a derogatory term for male cabin crew?’ Juliet remarks.

‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t do boys. Ksssh-huh-huh ,’ he laughs, looking round for support and not finding any.

‘My husband is a pilot,’ Juliet says. ‘We can ask him when he gets here. If he ever gets here.’

‘Fucking hell. Ksssh-huh-huh . Here’s to trolley dollies anyway. Girls and boys,’ Lewis says, jerking his bottle of Beck’s and splashing beer on his shirt.

Lewis’ laugh is like the laugh of someone who has had to learn how to laugh as an adult.

AJ turns to Elizabeth Baines, and Nina adjusts her sari.

In the ensuing silence the doorbell can be heard.

‘Saved by the bell,’ I say, before Lewis can, as AJ leaves the garden.

‘ Ksssh-huh-huh ,’ Lewis responds on cue.

‘What have you got against pilots?’ I ask.

‘Unreliable. Untrustworthy.’ He screws his face up, tight little lines fanning out at the corners of his eyes.

‘One would hope not,’ I say. ‘Maybe the answer to your question—’

‘I wasn’t aware I’d asked a question,’ he interrupts, his eyes suddenly cold.

‘—is because the airport is only ten minutes away,’ I continue, ‘and this is the kind of neighbourhood pilots like to live in.’

‘And can afford to live in,’ he adds, the chill lifting.

‘What pilots get paid is an interesting subject,’ I say. ‘They don’t get paid as well as one might imagine,’ I say and immediately I see Juliet’s head snap around towards me.

‘Anything at all is too much,’ says Lewis.

‘I would have thought the better paid they are the safer we feel,’ I say, but it’s obvious from Juliet’s expression that it’s going to take more than that, despite the challenge I might represent to Lewis.

‘Oh look,’ says Nina, ‘what’s that?’

There’s a scurrying beneath the hedge.

‘Just a squirrel,’ I say.

‘Pests,’ snaps Juliet.

‘Like pilots,’ says Lewis.

‘Elizabeth and I are reading a very good novel in our book club at the moment,’ Carol cuts in, placing her hand momentarily on my arm. She names the latest must-read title and asks me if I have read it.

‘No,’ I say.

‘A bit mainstream for you, I suppose,’ she says.

I try to smile. ‘I’m a bit weary of this type of novel. The Something of Somewhere. The something is usually a humble occupation like a librarian or a cobbler, and the somewhere will be somewhere either tropical or topical. Sometimes both. Afghanistan, China, Iraq. I’m sure it’s my loss, Carol, but there are so many books and so little time. If only we had eternity to read them all in.’

‘What are you reading at the moment, then?’ Carol asks.

‘You mean apart from students’ work?’ I say, lightly grimacing. ‘I’m reading something called The Garden of Earthly Delights by Lawson Davies.’

‘I’ve not heard of that,’ says Carol brightly.

‘It came out a long time ago,’ I say. ‘I found it in Hay-on-Wye some years back. They had a whole shelf of them. First edition, too. In fact, I’m quite sure it was the only edition.’