Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Be as wobbly as you damn well want.’

Imogen looks at the house. She snaps a twig.

‘Shall I ask everyone to give you space?’ asks Elf.

A noisy motorbike churns up the midday suburban drowse.

‘No. Stay. Please. I’m afraid of the silent house.’

The motorbike drives off. Its racket fades to nothing.

‘Each time I wake,’ says Imogen, ‘just for a moment, I’ve forgotten. The misery’s there, pressing in, but I’ve forgotten why it’s there. So for that moment, he’s back. Alive. In his cot. He was starting to recognise us. He’d just started smiling. You saw. Then …’ Imogen shuts her eyes ‘… I remember, and … it’s Saturday morning, all over again.’

‘Fucking hell, Ims,’ says Elf. ‘It must be torture.’

‘Yes. Yet when the torture ends … when I stop feeling this … he really will be gone. That torture’s all I’ve got of him. Torture and breast milk.’

A bee heavily laden with pollen draws ovals in the air.

I have no idea what to say , thinks Elf. None.

Imogen looks at the pile of weeds Elf has pulled up.

‘Sorry if I uprooted any botanical marvels,’ says Elf.

‘Lawrence and I were thinking of putting in a gazebo down here. Maybe now we’ll just leave it to the bluebells.’

‘Can’t argue with bluebells. They even smell blue.’

‘I brought Mark out here, when they were blooming properly. Three or four times. That was all. Those were the only times he … felt the Great Outdoors on his face.’ Imogen looks away, then at her hands. Her nails are a mess. ‘You assume you have for ever. We had seven weeks. Forty-nine days. Even the bluebells lasted longer.’

A snail is crawling up the brickwork. Gluey life.

‘It was a tricky birth,’ says Elf. ‘You had to recover.’

‘It wasn’t just a torn perineum. There was uterine damage, and … it turns out, I – I … can’t get pregnant again.’

Elf is very still. The day carries on. ‘That’s definite?’

‘The gynaecologist says it’s ‘extremely unlikely’. I asked, “How extremely?” He said, “Mrs Sinclair, ‘extremely unlikely’ is the gynaecological term for, ‘will not happen’.”’

‘Does Lawrence know?’

‘No. I was waiting for the right moment. Then … Saturday—’ Imogen tries to reel in the right verb but fails. ‘So I’ve just told you, instead of my husband. I’ll never be a mother again. And Lawrence won’t be a father. Biologically. Unless he thinks, I didn’t sign up for this, and … Oh, I go round and round and round.’

An unseen kid is kicking a ball against a wall.

Thump-pow , goes the ball, thump-pow , thump-pow.

‘It’s your body,’ says Elf. ‘Your news. Your timing.’

Thump-pow , goes the ball, thump-pow , thump-pow.

‘If that’s feminism,’ says Imogen, ‘sign me up.’

Thump-pow , goes the ball, thump-pow …

‘It’s not feminism. It’s just … true.’

Thump-pow , thump-pow …

Elf sits at the piano in the deserted function room at the Cricketer’s Arms and practises arpeggios. She’s been thinking of Imogen all evening. Her mind needs to do something else for a little while. Outside, it’s raining. The TV newsreader in the Residents Lounge is just audible, but his words are not. Elf senses a melody is waiting. Sometimes it finds you, like ‘Waltz For Griff’, but sometimes you track it by the lie of the land, by clues, by scent, almost … Elf draws a stave as a statement of intent. She settles on E flat minor – such a cool scale – with her right hand, and plays harmonies and disharmonies with her left to see what sparks fly off. Art is unbiddable: all you can do is signal your readiness. Wrong turns, eliminated, reveal the right path. Like love. Elf sips her shandy. Her dad appears. ‘I’m off to bed. See you later, Beethoven.’

Elf glances up, ‘Okay dad. Sleep tight … ’

‘… don’t let the bedbugs bite . Night love.’

Elf carries on, linking rightness with the next rightness along. Art is sideways. Art is diagonal. She tries flipping it, playing bass arpeggios with a treble overlay. Art is tricks of the light. Elf transcribes notes on her hand-drawn stave, bar by bar, asking and answering musical questions every four bars. She tries 8/8 time but settles on 12/8: twelve quaver beats per bar. She happens upon a middle section – a glade in a forest, full of bluebells – that she half identifies as, and half creates from, ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd’ – played upside down. She reprises the opening theme at the end. It’s changed by the middle, like innocence changed by experience. She plays with rubato, legato and dynamics. She runs through the whole thing. It works. A few rough edges, sure, but … Nothing strained. Nothing naff. Nothing staid. No words. No title. No hurry. Not yet. She murmurs, ‘Bloody hell, you’re good.’

‘’Scuse me,’ says a man.

Elf looks up.

It’s a barman. ‘I’m closing up for the night.’

‘God, sorry. What’s the time?’

‘Quarter past midnight.’

In the morning, when Elf and Bea arrive in the restaurant of the Cricketer’s Arms for breakfast, Elf’s dad’s expression tells her something’s happened. She thinks, Imogen – but she’s wrong. Clive Holloway slides his Telegraph across the table, pointing at an article. Elf and Bea read:

UTOPIA AVENUE IN DIRE STRAITS

Pop group Utopia Avenue, best-known for Top 20 hits ‘Darkroom’ and ‘Prove It’, were detained on Sunday afternoon by Italian authorities at Rome Airport as they attempted to leave the country. Band manager Levon Frankland is in custody for alleged fiscal evasion and guitarist Dean Moss was arrested after drugs were found on his person. The British Embassy in Rome confirmed that both men have sought consular assistance but declined to comment further. Band lawyer, Ted Silver, issued a statement: ‘Dean Moss and Levon Frankland are innocent of these defamatory, trumped-up charges, and we look forward to clearing their names at the earliest possible opportunity.’

‘ Fff – ’ Elf turns a Griff-esque profanity into ‘– ffflaming heck.’

‘That’s a turn-up,’ says Bea.

‘That could’ve been you. ’ Her dad speaks quietly, so other guests tucking into their breakfast don’t hear.

‘No wonder my calls were unanswered,’ says Elf.

‘You’ll be leaving the band, I trust?’ says her dad.

‘Let’s get the facts first, Dad.’

‘This is the Telegraph , Elf. These are the facts.’

‘What about “innocent until proven guilty”?’ asks Bea.

Cutlery clinks. ‘The National Westminster Bank,’ their dad lowers his voice further, ‘can’t have managers whose families are mixed up with the wrong sort. Drugs? Fiscal evasion?’

‘Only idiots carry drugs through airports, Dad,’ replies Elf. ‘Especially if you’re a guy with a guitar and long hair.’

‘Then maybe Dean is an idiot.’ Her dad taps the paper.

He is in some ways, but not this one. ‘The British police plant drugs on people. Why wouldn’t Italian police do the same?’

‘The British police force is the envy of the world.’

Elf feels her temper heat up. ‘How do you know that? Have you been around the world, asking everyone?’

‘If it was Elf’s name in that article,’ says Bea, ‘as it would be, if she had gone to the airport with the others, whose word would you trust? Hers? Or what the Italian police say?’