Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘It’s awful to see her like that,’ says Bea.

‘It’s awful to be so helpless,’ says Elf.

‘She’s not on her own,’ says their dad. Outside, across the car park, traffic goes round and round the roundabout. ‘It won’t hurt this much for ever. One day your sister will be back again. Our job is to help her get from here to there. What is it, my darlings?’

The sight of Bea crying has set Elf off.

‘So much for my wise words of solace,’ says their dad.

The three Holloways have the Residents Lounge to themselves. Bea and Elf forget to pretend they don’t smoke, and their dad forgets to voice his disapproval. The news on TV shows French police storming the Latin Quarter in Paris to take down protesters’ barricades. Tear gas was fired, stones hurled, hundreds of injuries sustained, hundreds of arrests made. ‘Is that how you build a better world?’ asks Elf’s dad. ‘Pelting the police with stones?’

In Bonn, a vast crowd of students marched on the German parliament to protest against new emergency laws. ‘If I had my way,’ says Elf’s dad, ‘I’d give ’em a country of their own. Belgium, for example. I’d tell ’em, “It’s all yours. You sort out food for millions, organise sewage, banking, law and order, schools. You keep them safe in their beds at night. All the boring, nitty-gritty stuff. Hearing aids. Nails. Potatoes.” Then come back in twelve months and see what kind of a dog’s dinner they’ve made of it …’

In Vietnam, an American base called Khâm Duc has been overrun by the North Vietnamese. Nine US military planes were shot down, and hundreds of soldiers and civilians killed. ‘The entire world,’ declares Elf’s dad, ‘has lost its mind.’

Bea and Elf exchange a look. Their father rarely watches the news without uttering the phrase at least once.

‘I’m off to bed,’ says Elf. ‘It’s been a long day.’

Monday is cloudy. Elf telephones Moonwhale from the hotel to ask Levon to cancel the band’s gigs later in the week. She’s never cancelled a ticketed gig in her life. Moonwhale’s line is engaged . Their dad drives Elf and Bea around the cricket ground to Imogen’s house. Elf’s mum lets them in.

‘How was the night?’ whispers their dad.

‘Pretty rotten,’ replies their mum.

‘Can we see her?’ asks Bea. ‘Is she up?’

‘Later, love. She’s asleep now. Lawrence and his father have gone to the hospital to meet the coroner.’

‘Right, then,’ says Elf’s dad. ‘That lawn needs a mow.’ Bea and Elf peg out some washing and walk to the shops for groceries and cigarettes. In the newsagent’s, Shandy Fontayne comes on the radio singing ‘Waltz For My Guy’. Bea’s watching her. Elf says, ‘If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.’ Elf buys Imogen a packet of Benson & Hedges and the week’s Melody Maker . Back at the house, Imogen is downstairs, staring at a jigsaw of a tulip field and a windmill their mother is working on. Elf wishes she could say, ‘You’re looking better,’ but it would be an obvious lie.

Elf tries calling Moonwhale again, but the line is still engaged. She tries Jasper’s flat, but nobody replies. She wonders if anything’s wrong, then tells herself not to be paranoid .

Elf and Bea are preparing a salad when the Sinclairs arrive back. They enter through the back door. ‘Well,’ reports Lawrence’s dad, ‘the coroner’s put “Accidental Infant Death” on the certificate. Which says everything and nothing.’

There’s a raw sob. Imogen’s hands are covering her mouth.

‘Oh, pet .’ Mr Sinclair is horrifed. ‘I didn’t see you, I …’

Imogen turns to run upstairs but her mum’s blocking the way, so she spins back and lurches through the kitchen into the garden.

‘I thought she’d be upstairs,’ says Lawrence’s dad.

‘It’s the message, Ron,’ Elf’s mum assures him, ‘not the messenger. I’ll go and be with her.’

Elf makes a vinaigrette while Bea chops cucumber. The sound of the lawnmower stops. Elf’s mum comes in, looking shaky. Elf’s dad’s with her. ‘Immy wants to be alone,’ she explains.

‘I’m so sorry,’ repeats Mr Sinclair. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be, Ron,’ says Elf’s dad. ‘She had to hear somehow, and now it’s over and done with, she can … process the news. It’s for the best.’ He goes to call his office from the phone in the hall.

Bea switches on Radio 3 for sonic cover. It’s twiddly Mozart.

Imogen returns from the garden, red-eyed and distraught.

It’s a play , thinks Elf. Exits and entrances, non-stop.

‘There’s salad, pet,’ says Mrs Sinclair.

‘I’m not hungry.’ Imogen goes upstairs. Lawrence follows. Elf remembers the engagement lunch at Chislehurst Road in February last year. If we could read the script of the future, we’d never turn the page. Elf’s mum announces, ‘I think I’ll pop out to the shops. A bit of fresh air will do me good.’

Bea and Elf clear up the dishes. A few minutes later, they hear Imogen, sobbing.

‘It’s a tough time,’ says Mr Sinclair.

‘The toughest,’ agrees Elf’s dad.

A news bulletin comes on Radio 3. Riots and arrests in Paris have continued all morning. ‘ We didn’t have a university education given to us on a plate,’ says Elf’s dad, ‘did we, Ron?’

‘That’s the problem, Clive. It is given them on a plate, so they don’t value it. They smash it up like spoilt toddlers. It’s all these lefty yobboes. At British Leyland, management can’t show their faces without eggs and abuse. Where’s it all going to end?’

‘The entire world,’ says Elf’s dad, ‘has lost its mind.’

‘Was there any of this in Italy last week, Elf?’ asks Mr Sinclair.

Elf explains that the tour was a week-long treadmill of van-travel, setting up, performing, and grabbing what sleep you could before the next day’s drive. ‘Martians could have invaded and we wouldn’t have noticed.’

After coffee, Bea announces that she’ll return to the hotel. ‘I’m surplus to requirements here. I’ve got to write an essay on Brecht.’ The good-natured exchange between Elf’s and Lawrence’s fathers over who’ll run Bea back to the Cricketer’s Arms is settled by Bea, who puts her coat on and says, ‘I’m walking’.

A little later, Lawrence comes downstairs, whispering, ‘She’s taken a pill, she’s sleeping now.’ He goes out too.

‘You can’t beat a bit of fresh air,’ says Elf’s dad.

‘Quite right,’ agrees Mr Sinclair. ‘Quite right …’

Elf tries calling Moonwhale a third time. The line’s still engaged. She tries the Duke-Stoker Agency. She can’t get through. She tries Jasper’s flat. Nobody replies. She asks her dad if today’s a bank holiday. ‘Definitely not, pet,’ says her dad. ‘Why?’

It feels as if Utopia Avenue has ceased to exist. ‘Nothing.’

Cut grass scents the tepid air. Elf borrows secateurs and gloves from the shed and gets to work on the brambles and weeds at the far end of the garden. Fronds of willow sway. Bluebells uncoil from Midland clay. A song thrush is warbling nearby. Yesterday’s? It’s still invisible. Elf thinks about her flat, empty for a week, and hopes all is well. The door is sturdy and the windows inaccessible, but Soho is Soho. The bottle of milk in the fridge will have curdled by now.

‘You missed a bit,’ says Imogen’s voice.

Elf looks up. Her sister is wearing a duffel coat over her dressing-gown, and wellington boots. The glimmer of humour in her remark is absent from her face. ‘I’m leaving the nettles. They’re good for butterflies. New fashion trend, or what?’

Imogen sits on the low wall dividing the upper lawn from the sunken, boggier end. ‘I was a bit wobbly, earlier.’