Джонатан Коу - Middle England

He was glad that Lois and Sophie were there, that evening, even though his sister had come looking for him in anger. He knew that his father’s petulance was simply a mask for the melancholia into which he would sink more and more deeply as the hours went by. He could rely on Lois and Sophie to strike the right balance, a balance between mourning Sheila’s passing (only six weeks after a diagnosis of liver cancer) and trying to share more cheerful stories of family life: stories of rare but memorable dinner parties thrown on an audacious whim back in the 1970s, with food, drink and fashion that now beggared belief; ill-fated holidays in North Wales, the sound of sheep bleating mournfully in the fields and rain drumming without relief on the caravan roof; more adventurous holidays in the 1980s, a trip made by Colin and Sheila to Denmark to visit old friends, taking the infant Sophie with them this time, doting on their only grandchild. Sophie spoke of her grandmother’s kindness, the way she had always remembered what your favourite meals were, always took an interest in you and remembered your friends’ names and asked the right questions about them, she had been like that right up until the end, but then Colin was starting to look lost and miserable again so Benjamin clapped his hands and said, ‘Right, who’s for a bit of pasta?’, and went into the kitchen to boil up some penne (it had to be penne because his father couldn’t cope with anything that needed to be wrapped around a fork) and heated up some of his home-made arrabiata sauce (he had a lot of time to practise his cooking these days) and when he brought the food out on to the terrace, just as the evening was turning chilly and the sun was starting to set, he tried to persuade his father to have a decent amount, more than half a bowlful at least, and he took some of the pasta out of the bowl when Colin said there was too much, and put some back in when it looked like there was too little, and then he said, ‘Is that the right amount now?’, and tried to lighten the mood by adding. ‘Not a penne more, not a penne less,’ which he thought was a particularly appropriate joke, since Jeffrey Archer was one of his father’s favourite authors, but Colin didn’t seem to get it, and then Doug pointed out that the singular of penne was actually something else, wasn’t it?, penna or something, and that kind of killed the moment, so they all ate their dinner in silence, listening to the river as it drifted by, and the whistle of the wind in the trees, and the slurping of Colin as he struggled with his pasta.

‘I’ll put him to bed,’ Lois whispered at about nine o’clock, after her father had had two whiskies and was starting to nod in his chair. It took her about half an hour, while Doug went back into the kitchen to check on the subs’ changes to his article and Benjamin talked to Sophie about her thesis, which was on pictorial representations of nineteenth-century European writers of black ancestry, a subject on which he was not well informed. When Lois rejoined them, she looked grave.

‘He’s in a right old state,’ she said. ‘He’s not going to be easy from now on.’

‘What did you expect him to be doing today?’ said Benjamin. ‘Turning cartwheels?’

‘I know. But they were together fifty-five years, Ben. He did nothing for himself in that time. He hasn’t cooked himself a meal for half a century.’

Benjamin knew what she was thinking. That, as a man, he was bound to find some way of ducking the task of caring for their father.

‘I’ll come and see him,’ he insisted, ‘twice a week, maybe more. Cook for him. Take him out shopping.’

‘That’s good to know. Thank you. And I’ll do what I can too.’

‘So there you are. We’ll manage somehow. Of course –’ and in making the next observation, he was fully aware of treading on thin ice ‘– it would be easier if you spent a bit more time in Birmingham.’

Lois said nothing.

‘With your husband,’ he added, for clarity.

Lois took an irritable sip of cold coffee. ‘My job’s in York, remember?’

‘Sure. So you could come down every weekend. Instead of … what, every three or four?’

‘Chris and I have been living like that for years, and it suits us very well. Doesn’t it, Soph?’

Her daughter, rather than rallying to Lois’s cause, said merely: ‘I think it’s weird.’

‘Nice. Thank you. Not all couples like to live in each other’s pockets. I haven’t noticed you and your current boyfriend racing to move in with each other.’

‘That’s because we split up.’

‘What? When?’

‘Three days ago.’ Sophie rose to her feet. ‘Come on, Mum, it’s time we drove back. I’d like to have a chat with Dad before bedtime, even if you wouldn’t. I’ll tell you all about it in the car.’

Benjamin came out with them to the forecourt, kissed his sister and gave his niece a long hug.

‘Great news about the thesis,’ he said. ‘Not so good about the boyfriend.’

‘I’ll survive,’ said Sophie, with a wan smile.

‘Give me the keys,’ said Lois. ‘You’ve had three glasses of wine.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Sophie, handing them over all the same.

‘You drive too fast anyway,’ said Lois. ‘I’m sure that was a speed camera flashing at us on the way over.’

‘I don’t think so, Mum – it was just the sunlight on somebody’s windscreen.’

‘Whatever.’ Lois turned to her brother. ‘I think we did her proud today. That was a beautiful speech. You’ve got a lovely way with words.’

‘I should have. I’ve written enough.’

She kissed him again. ‘Well, I think you’re the best unpublished writer in the country. No contest.’

One more hug, and then they slammed their doors and Benjamin waved after their headlights as the car reversed cautiously down the driveway.

*

It was still warm enough, just about, to leave the sitting-room window open. Benjamin loved to do this, when the weather allowed it, to sit there alone, sometimes in the dark, listening to the sounds of the night, the call of a screech owl, the ululation of a predatory fox, and above all the murmur, ageless, immutable, of the River Severn (which was a new incomer to England at this point, having crossed the border with Wales only a few miles upstream). Tonight was different, though: he had Doug for company, even though neither of them saw any hurry to get into conversation. They had been friends for almost forty years, and there wasn’t much they didn’t know about each other. For Benjamin, at least, it was enough for them to sit there, on opposite sides of the fireplace, glasses of Laphroaig in hand, and let the emotions stirred up by the day gradually settle and subside into quietude.

Eventually, however, he was the one who broke the silence.

‘Happy with your piece?’ he asked.

Doug’s response was unexpectedly dismissive.

‘I suppose it’ll do,’ he said. ‘I feel a bit of a fraud these days, to be honest.’ When Benjamin looked surprised, Doug sat upright and launched into an explanation. ‘I honestly think we’re at a crossroads, you see. Labour’s finished. I really think so. People are so angry right now, and nobody knows what to do about it. I’ve heard it on Gordon’s campaign trail the last few days. People see these guys in the City who practically crashed the economy two years ago and never felt any consequences – none of them went to jail, and now they’re taking their bonuses again while the rest of us are supposed to be tightening our belts. Wages are frozen. People have got no job security, no pension plans, they can’t afford to take a family holiday or do repairs to the car. A few years ago they felt wealthy. Now they feel poor.’