Джонатан Коу - Middle England

‘These people don’t know what they’re talking about,’ he continued. ‘This so-called “tolerance” … Every day you come face to face with people who are not tolerant at all, whether it’s someone serving you in a shop, or just someone you pass in the street. They may not say anything aggressive but you can see it in their eyes and their whole way of behaving towards you. And they want to say something. Oh yes, they want to use one of those forbidden words on you, or just tell you to fuck off back to your own country – wherever they think that is – but they know they can’t. They know it’s not allowed. So as well as hating you, they also hate them – whoever they are – these faceless people who are sitting in judgement over them somewhere, legislating on what they can and can’t say out loud.’

Sophie didn’t know what to say. She had never heard Sohan speak so candidly or bitterly on this subject before.

‘In Birmingham,’ she faltered, ‘people seem to get on … I don’t know, there are a lot of people from different cultures, and …’

‘You would see it that way,’ Sohan said, simply. But he had been looking forward to this dinner, and wanted to keep the mood light, so he switched topic by picking up his iPhone, finding an image on Facebook and thrusting it towards her. ‘By the way – what do you think?’

Sophie found herself looking at the face of a waxy young man as he gazed stonily at the camera from behind his untidy desk.

‘Who is it?’

‘One of my postgrad students.’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s single.’ Sophie stared back at him, stupefied. ‘Well, you’re looking for someone, aren’t you?’

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Anyway, give me a break. He looks like an anorexic Harry Potter.’

‘Charming,’ said Sohan, and summoned up a different picture from Google Images. ‘OK, what about him?’

Sophie took the phone again and squinted at the middle-aged, disappointed face on display.

‘Who’s this?’

‘One of my colleagues.’

She looked closer. ‘Getting on a bit, isn’t he?’

‘I don’t know how old he is. I know he’s been writing the same thesis for nineteen years and hasn’t finished it yet.’

Sophie looked closer still. ‘Is that dandruff?’

‘Probably just dust on the screen. Come on, I shared an office with this guy last year. He’s fine. Yes, there were a few … personal hygiene issues, but –’

Sophie passed the phone back. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. No more academics. I’m through with pebble glasses and stoop shoulders. My next boyfriend’s going to be a hunk .’

Sohan gave an incredulous laugh. ‘A hunk?’

‘Tall, dark and handsome. With a proper job.’

‘Where are you going to find one of those, up there?’

‘ “Up there”?’ repeated Sophie, her eyes dancing with amusement.

‘It is up, isn’t it?’

‘Everything’s “up”, to you. Everything north of Clapham.’

‘So my view of the world is London-centric. I can’t help it. I was born here, this is my city and it’s the only place I’ll ever live. Bristol was a passing aberration.’

‘Come and visit me in Birmingham. It’ll open your eyes.’

‘All right, I will. But tell me what the men are like.’

‘They’re the same as anywhere else, of course.’

‘Really? I thought men from the Midlands were shorter.’

‘Shorter? What gave you that idea?’

‘I thought that was why Tolkien invented hobbits.’ When Sophie broke out into affectionate but mocking laughter, he dug himself deeper into the hole. ‘No, seriously – don’t most people these days think Lord of the Rings is really about Birmingham?’

‘There’s a connection, obviously. There’s a museum now, at the place which is meant to have inspired him, just down the road from where I live.’

‘Arsehole Mill,’ said Sohan, deadpan.

‘Sarehole,’ Sophie corrected. ‘Look, come and see for yourself. It’s a lovely city, really.’

‘Of course it is. A land of boundless romantic and sexual opportunity. Next time you come down here, I’ll be taking you both out to dinner. You and your hobbit boyfriend.’

With which words, he poured them both a final glass of wine, and they drank a toast: to Middle Earth, and Middle England.

3.

When Doug received an email from the Downing Street press office announcing a raft of new appointments, he did some googling. The name of the new coalition government’s deputy assistant director of communications had caught his eye: Nigel Ives. There had been a boy called Ives at school. Timothy Ives. And while it wasn’t such an unusual surname, it had set off a distant memory. Benjamin had once told him that in a moment of weakness, some years earlier, he had accepted Timothy Ives’s friend request on Facebook, and had discovered, among other things, that he had a son … Wasn’t the name Nigel? That, too, could be a coincidence. But in any case, Doug emailed Nigel, and Nigel emailed back, and when they met for an off-the-record chat at the café next to Temple tube station, the first thing Nigel said to him was:

‘I think you were at school with my father.’

‘Timothy? At King William’s in Birmingham, back in the seventies?’

‘That’s right. He was terrified of you.’

‘Really?’ said Doug.

‘But he also worshipped you.’

‘Really?’ said Doug.

‘He was convinced you despised him.’

‘Really?’ said Doug, remembering that this was definitely true. Timothy Ives had been a short, runtish boy, and the older boys in the school – especially Harding – had been ruthless in exploiting him, constantly requiring him to run errands and do favours. ‘How is he, anyway? What’s he up to?’

‘He’s become rather a successful proctologist.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘I’m sure you don’t suffer from haemorrhoids, Douglas, but if you did, my father could ease your pain.’

‘I shall certainly bear that in mind.’

‘But I dare say you didn’t come here to talk about your piles.’

‘I don’t have piles, and I wasn’t talking about them.’

‘Quite.’

‘No, I came here because I wanted to raise the possibility that you and I might begin a … warm and mutually beneficial relationship. If the Tories and the Lib Dems can form a coalition and find ways to work together, then … who knows? Maybe so can we.’

‘Indeed. You’re talking about the spirit of the age, Douglas. A complete break with the old two-party system. No more petty antagonism. Just common ground and cooperation. It’s a very exciting time to be entering politics.’

Doug looked at Nigel and wondered how old he might be. Straight out of university, by the looks of it. His cheeks were pale, rosy and looked like they never needed to be shaved. His dark suit and tie were smart but characterless, like his side-parted hair. His expression was bland, his tone of voice permanently enthusiastic but otherwise inscrutable. He could only be in his early twenties.

‘But how are things really shaping up at Number Ten?’ Doug asked. ‘You’ve got two very different parties, here, with very different agendas. It can’t last for long, can it?’

Nigel smiled. ‘Dave and Nick and the team respect you as a commentator, Douglas, but we know it’s your job to look for trouble. You’re not going to find it here. Dave and Nick have their differences, of course. But at the end of the day they’re just two regular guys who want to get on with the job.’

‘Regular guys?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Regular guys who just happened to go to unbelievably expensive private schools before shimmying up the political greasy pole.’