Джонатан Коу - Middle England

Benjamin gasped, and wheeled around. A figure was sitting behind him, in a chair with its back against the wall. A shadowy, amorphous figure, its only distinguishing feature a pinprick of orange light glowing at the end of a cigarette. A figure which now spoke one portentous word, quietly but with disconcerting emphasis as another plume of cigarette smoke was exhaled and blown across the room:

‘ Ghosts … ’

Benjamin recognized the voice, and as the figure leaned forward in his chair, he recognized the speaker too. It was Mr Serkis.

‘Ghosts, eh, Benjamin?’ he repeated. ‘Remembrance of things past.’

He scraped his chair forward until the faint light from the window was falling on to his lined, reassuring face.

‘What are you doing here?’ Benjamin asked.

‘The same as you, I expect. Revisiting the old days. Chasing ghosts.’

‘You gave me a shock.’

‘Sorry about that. Cigarette?’

‘No thanks.’

‘You’re not at school any more. They can’t put you in detention.’

‘I don’t smoke. Never did.’

‘Very wise,’ said Mr Serkis. ‘Very boring, but very wise. Wisdom is often boring, have you noticed that? Better to be an entertaining idiot than a wise old bore. I know which I’m turning into.’ He stood up and began to pace slowly around the darkened room. ‘Well, this was where it all started, wasn’t it? Ever think you’d find yourself sitting here again with your old English teacher?’

‘Nothing that happens surprises me any more,’ said Benjamin. ‘And nobody can see into the future.’

‘True. But I knew you’d all go a long way. I was never in any doubt about that.’

‘Really? You think we’ve gone a long way? Doug, maybe … I’m not so sure about the rest of us.’

‘I read that book of yours, eventually,’ said Mr Serkis. ‘Once you’d taken all the rubbish out, that was quite the little gem you wrote there. Small but perfectly formed. You should be proud of yourself.’

‘It’s not much,’ said Benjamin, sadly. ‘It’s not much of a mark to leave, in the end, is it? One little book that’s been read by a few thousand people.’

‘There’ll be other books,’ said Mr Serkis.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘It may take ten years. Twenty. But you’ll write something new, don’t worry.’

‘And in the meantime? What am I supposed to do?’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘Lois and I are moving to France.’

‘Perfect.’

‘Yes, but what am I going to do when I’m there?’

Mr Serkis took a last drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in a teacup on Benjamin’s desk.

‘Weren’t you listening,’ he said, ‘the last time we met? In that gloomy pub.’

‘Of course I was listening.’

‘I told you then what you should do. It was the last thing I said to you. I said you should take up teaching.’

Benjamin laughed. ‘I thought that was a joke.’

‘It was. A serious joke.’ Meeting only with silence, he continued: ‘You’d be a good teacher. I’ve always thought so.’

‘What would I teach in France?’

‘Teach people how to write. How to write and edit. You know how to do both those things. And everybody wants to be a writer these days, haven’t you noticed? “Everyone’s got a book inside them.” That’s the received wisdom. The trouble is, hardly anyone knows how to get it out. That’s where you could help.’

Benjamin thought about this for a while. It had sounded a crazy idea at first, but maybe it made sense. ‘ “The Benjamin Trotter Writing School,” ’ he said, thinking aloud.

‘I should try to come up with a snappier name than that,’ said Mr Serkis. ‘In fact, it wouldn’t be difficult.’ He touched Benjamin between the shoulder blades: somewhere between a pat on the back and a rub. ‘Come on, let’s go and see your friends. It may be the last time we’re all together like this. We should get a selfie, at least.’

44.

The Lenchford Inn stands on the western bank of the River Severn, just outside the village of Shrawley in Worcestershire. On a Tuesday evening in June 2018, Benjamin and Jennifer met there for a drink. Their last drink together, as it turned out. It was a fine summer evening, with the sun setting unhurriedly over the river and burnishing its surface with a deep, coppery sheen, as skylarks and sparrows skimmed back and forth across the water. After their drink, Jennifer and Benjamin strolled along the northbound path that followed the river’s diffident curve. They did not walk hand in hand, or arm in arm – this was not their style – but their bodies were in close proximity, and it gave them both a feeling of comfort when they occasionally touched, at the hip or the thigh or the shoulder. These gentle collisions were subtle, welcome reminders of their physical intimacy.

Finally, with a sinking heart, Benjamin did what he could no longer put off: he told Jennifer that he was planning to move to France with his sister. She received the news with more equanimity than he had been expecting.

‘Well, that’s exciting,’ she said. ‘I mean, I shall miss you, of course, but … Well, congratulations. I’m sure you know what you’re doing.’

‘I hope you’ll come and see me.’

‘Of course I will.’ She glanced at him. ‘I’m sorry, were you expecting my reaction to be a bit more dramatic? You’ve dumped me once before, remember – forty years ago – and I didn’t really mind then, either.’ She could not bear to see him looking so crestfallen, all the same. ‘Anyway, this isn’t exactly a dumping, is it? We’ve only been seeing each other once a month or so. Less than that, recently.’

‘There’s someone else, isn’t there?’ Benjamin said.

Jennifer slowed down, and drew in her breath, then looked him earnestly in the eye.

‘How long have you known about that?’ she asked.

Benjamin walked on. ‘Quite a while,’ he said. ‘His name’s Robert, I think?’

‘Why didn’t you say anything, if you knew?’

‘I suppose because … because I realized I didn’t mind all that much.’

This seemed to hurt Jennifer more than anything.

‘Well, there you are,’ she said, catching up with him. ‘That’s my point exactly. If you can’t even summon the strength to be jealous about it …’

‘I thought that what we had … I thought it suited both of us.’

Jennifer sighed and shook her head.

‘You’re such an idiot. Really, you are. I was always waiting for it to become more. In the end I could see that it never would – that’s why I started seeing Robert, I suppose – but for ages I was willing you to make some sort of move. Take some sort of decision . Part of me kept clinging on to that hope, as well. That’s why I never said yes when Robert asked me to marry him.’

‘He’s asked you to marry him?’

‘Of course he has. About twenty times.’

‘And you said no, because of me?’

‘Oh, Benjamin! Don’t you understand anything? I would have done anything to get you closer to me. Started reading Flaubert. Rationed myself to films with subtitles. Learned to love the symphonies of Arthur Honecker.’

‘It’s Honegger,’ said Benjamin, before he could stop himself.

‘I told you that I loved you, for God’s sake. Surely you remember that?’

‘Yes, but I thought … I thought that was just one of those things people say.’

‘Yes, it is , Benjamin. That’s exactly what it is. It’s one of those things people say. Usually when they mean it.’

Close to the edge of the water, at this point, they turned and faced each other, and for the first time Jennifer took both his hands in hers. Her eyes were filling up with tears.