Джонатан Коу - Middle England

‘Hello,’ Naheed said, as Sophie sat down opposite her. ‘I thought you’d be on the motorway by now, doing ninety-five miles an hour in the outside lane for kicks.’

Sophie laughed and said: ‘And I’d have thought you needed something stronger than a coffee after an afternoon like that.’

‘Hardly,’ said Naheed. ‘I’ll be driving home, and we all have to stay squeaky clean.’

‘Of course,’ said Sophie, feeling silly for having suggested it.

‘Besides, that session wasn’t bad, not bad at all. You were a polite and well-behaved lot, on the whole.’

‘I’m full of admiration,’ said Sophie. ‘I mean, I do a bit of teaching myself, but it’s different … My students have chosen to be there, and they’re keen to learn, most of them.’

‘I like my job,’ said Naheed. ‘It’s worthwhile, and I’m not bad at it these days, even if I say so myself.’

‘Absolutely,’ Sophie agreed. ‘I learned a lot today, although it wasn’t what I was expecting. For some reason I thought you’d all be policemen.’

Naheed smiled. ‘No. These courses aren’t run by the police. Most of us used to be driving instructors. And you,’ she said, ‘where do you teach?’

‘At the university. Art history. Not so worthwhile, maybe. At least, I don’t suppose what I teach saves many lives.’

‘No need to apologize for what you do,’ said Naheed.

Her phone buzzed on the table and she glanced down at it, wondering whether to take the message. The great dilemma of modern social etiquette.

‘Go ahead,’ said Sophie. ‘We all would.’

Naheed glanced at the screen. ‘Well, it’s only Ian.’ She peered at the message. ‘Saying that I did a good job today.’

‘That’s nice of him.’

‘He’s a nice guy.’ Impulsively, she picked up the phone and tapped a reply, then looked across at Sophie, that now familiar gleam in her eye. ‘Want to know what I said?’

‘Not if it’s private.’

‘I told him I was having coffee with the speed junkie.’

Now Sophie laughed. ‘That’s my nickname, already?’

‘During the tea break, we always sit around thinking up names for you all. We’re supposed to be planning the second half of the session, but … well, we’ve got that down pat now, more or less.’

‘Tell me some of the others,’ said Sophie.

‘I don’t think I should.’

‘What about Derek? The sports equipment guy.’

‘Mr Angry. Not very original, I know, but it fitted the bill. We always get one or two like that, by the way. One thing you learn in this job – there’s a lot of anger out there.’

‘It’s brave of you to put yourself in the firing line.’

‘Not really. And it’s not always to do with race anyway. People like to get angry about anything. A lot of the time they’re just looking for an excuse. I feel sorry for them. I think for a lot of people … there’s nothing much going on in their lives. Emotionally. I mean, maybe their marriages have dried up, or everything they do has become a kind of habit, I don’t know. But they don’t feel much. No emotional stimulation. We all need to feel things, don’t we? So, when something makes you angry, at least you’re feeling something. You get that emotional kick.’

Sophie nodded. This seemed to make perfect sense. ‘And you? You don’t need to get angry to feel that you’re alive?’

‘I’m lucky,’ said Naheed. ‘I have a nice husband, and two beautiful children. They do the job. What about you?’

‘Oh, I’m kind of … between relationships at the moment …’ Sophie faltered, but while she was saying it, Naheed’s phone buzzed again.

She glanced at the screen and said, coolly: ‘Well, then, this is a very timely message.’ She looked up. ‘It’s Ian again. He’s asking me to get your phone number.’

In all her life, Sophie had never met anyone with such a piercing gaze, or such an eloquent, ambushing smile. She felt as though she might wither beneath it.

‘Shall I give it to him?’

5.

Benjamin was driving from Shrewsbury to Rednal again, following the course of the River Severn, through the towns of Cressage, Much Wenlock, Bridgnorth, Enville, Stourbridge and Hagley. He had been driving this way, there and back, at least twice a week for the last year now. Two hundred journeys or more. No wonder that he now felt he knew every bend in the road, every landmark, every traffic roundabout, every pub, every petrol station, every Tesco Express, every garden centre, every old church that had now been converted into flats. He knew where the worst queues were likely to be, and where you could find a rat-run to bypass a particularly troublesome set of traffic lights. Not that he needed to do that today. The roads were quiet. The cold snap which had brought snow to these parts at the beginning of the month had receded, giving way to cloudy skies and mild temperatures: dull, nondescript weather, which suited the journey and suited the occasion. It was a Saturday morning like any other. It was Christmas Day, a day that Benjamin had come to loathe with a passion.

He pulled up outside his father’s house just after eleven o’clock. The house where he had grown up. The house his parents had bought in 1955. A redbrick detached house, with an extension added over the garage in the early 1970s. He knew the house so well now that he no longer saw it, no longer noticed it, and as such he no longer knew it at all, and would probably have found it difficult to describe in any detail to a stranger. The only thing he noticed this morning was that the plants in the window box outside the living room were all dead, and looked as though they had been that way for months.

Inside he could see that all was reasonably clean and ship-shape as usual. He was paying for a cleaner to come in once a week, on Thursdays, as he didn’t trust his father to look after the place. On the draining board in the kitchen were a single plate, a single knife and fork, a beer glass and a frying pan. Since the death of his wife, Colin had not cooked himself a meal that required anything more complicated than a frying pan. He would fry some tomatoes and have them on toast with a fried egg; perhaps some mushrooms if he was feeling adventurous. The only time this diet would vary was when Benjamin cooked for him, or took him out for dinner somewhere. Today at least he would be getting a decent roast lunch.

Colin was wearing a patterned jumper of the sort favoured by golfing celebrities and daytime TV presenters of the 1980s. When he came downstairs from his latest visit to the bathroom he was carrying a plastic bag containing a number of inexpertly wrapped presents, the only concession to Christmas anywhere in the house as far as Benjamin could see.

‘I thought you were going to buy a Christmas tree,’ he said.

‘I did. It’s out the back.’

Benjamin looked out of the kitchen window and saw the tree leaning up against a wall of the garden shed, still enclosed in its plastic netting.

‘Well, that was a waste of money, wasn’t it?’

‘I’ll put it up tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow will be too late. What about decorations? Mum always put up some decorations.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t be bothered to get them down from the attic. Maybe next year, when I’m feeling a bit more chipper. Are you just going to stand around criticizing, or can we go now?’

Benjamin looked at his watch. It was only ten past eleven. They had masses of time to get to Lois’s.

‘Where’s your overnight bag?’

‘I’ve changed my mind. You can bring me back here after dinner. I don’t want to stay with your sister, it’s too much trouble all round.’

Benjamin sighed. The change of plans annoyed him for selfish reasons.