Джонатан Коу - Middle England

‘I’ll just go and get my iPod.’

Finding the iPod in his bedroom was easy; finding the portable speaker more difficult; finding batteries for the portable speaker almost impossible. When he returned to the dining table, about ten minutes later, Charlie was gone.

‘Oh,’ said Benjamin, aloud. He sat down at the table, took a sip of wine, and looked around him. Where was everybody?

All was quiet. The only thing to break the silence was the rippling of the river as it slid past. Benjamin sat and listened to it for a few minutes. It sounded strange, not what he was used to. Alien. This was a French river. He felt a keen pang of homesickness, both for the country he had grown up in and the country he had just left behind, even though these two countries were by no means the same.

He turned the volume on the speaker up loud, and pressed Play, and soon the haunted, resonant voice of Shirley Collins was sounding out through the night, singing the ballad that Benjamin had not dared to listen to since the day of his mother’s funeral.

Adieu to old England, adieu

And adieu to some hundreds of pounds

If the world had been ended when I had been young

My sorrows I’d never have known

He took a final sip of wine, but knew that he’d drunk far too much tonight, and that it was time to sober up.

Once I could drink of the best

The very best brandy and rum

Now I am glad of a cup of spring water

That flows from town to town

Hearing this verse, he thought of his mother, sitting upright in bed, staring out at the grey sky through her bedroom window and feebly trying to sing along. Once again he asked himself: had she recognized this music from somewhere? Some buried childhood memory?

Once I could eat of good bread

Good bread that was made of good wheat

Now I am glad with a hard mouldy crust

And glad that I’ve got it to eat

And then he thought of his father, the awful manner of his death, that strange visit they had paid to the old Longbridge factory in the depth of winter, his father’s bitterness, the sourness that corroded him in those last months, and then the day that Benjamin and Lois had scattered their parents’ ashes, at the top of the hill. Beacon Hill at the beginning of autumn …

Once I could lie on a good bed

A good bed that was made of soft down

Now I am glad of a clot of clean straw

To keep meself from the cold ground

Beacon Hill. The landscape of his own childhood. Tobogganing in the winter. Walks in the woods on Sunday afternoon, holding tightly on to his mother’s gloved hand. Then running ahead along the path through the woods to hide and wait for his parents, in that strange, hollowed-out rhododendron bush by the side of the path that was like a hobbit’s house. With Lois crouched beside him. Always Lois, never Paul.

Once I could ride in me carriage

With servants to drive me along

Now I’m in prison, in prison so strong

Not knowing which way I can turn

Would he and Lois be enough for each other, here? Would they live here together for the next ten years, twenty? Benjamin had always assumed that he would grow old and die at home; that he was bound to end his life by returning to the country of his childhood. But he was starting to understand, at last, that this place had only ever existed in his imagination.

Adieu to old England, adieu

And adieu to some hundreds of pounds

If the world had been ended when I had been young

My sorrows I’d never have known

As the final verse came to an end, and the music’s last echoes drifted away across the slow-moving water, Benjamin heard the sound of a shutter opening. He raised his eyes and saw Grete looking down at him from the first-floor window of her cottage.

‘It’s a very nice song,’ she called. ‘She sings the way I feel.’

Benjamin said nothing; just nodded a befuddled mixture of greeting and agreement.

‘Now can we have no more music, please? We’re trying to get to sleep.’

The shutter closed again. Benjamin turned off the iPod, and the portable speaker, and closed his eyes.

Next, he became aware that Lois was standing over him. It was not quite as dark as before. He didn’t know how long he had been asleep.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m going to bed.’

‘I came to get you up,’ said Lois. ‘You’ve got to say goodbye to Sophie. She’s leaving for the airport soon.’

He followed her into the kitchen, where she had already brewed up a pot of coffee.

‘Have you been up all night?’ she asked.

‘I suppose so.’

‘That’s a bit silly. You’ve got to have a tutorial with Alexandre in a few hours.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Benjamin, draining a much-needed espresso cup. ‘I can’t read his stories.’

‘Why not?’ said Lois.

‘They’re in French.’

She stared at him. Just then Sophie appeared in the doorway, with her suitcase.

‘We’ll talk about this later,’ said Lois, ominously.

*

Quietly Benjamin opened the front door of the house, and the three of them stepped out into the courtyard. The first glimmerings of dawn could be felt now. Tiny fragments of birdsong were beginning to mingle with the murmur of the river. But the loudest noises were their footsteps on the driveway, and the rumble of Sophie’s suitcase as Benjamin pulled it along on its wheels. Her car was parked in the little enclosure further down the drive, about twenty yards beyond the arch.

Just before they passed through the archway itself, Sophie stopped them both and said:

‘You haven’t seen the new sign yet, have you?’

‘What new sign?’

‘Aneeqa and I made you a little present. And we renamed the house for you. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Renamed it?’ said Lois. ‘What for? What’s wrong with The Old Mill?’

‘Nothing,’ said Sophie. ‘I just thought of something better.’

Sceptical, they walked through the arch and turned around to find out what she meant. There was just enough light to read the lettering, and when she saw it, Lois gasped out loud. Benjamin merely smiled – a long, proud, private smile – and clasped his niece’s hand.

‘Do you like it?’ she asked.

‘It’s perfect,’ said Lois.

‘Perfect,’ Benjamin agreed.

Aneeqa had excelled herself. The calligraphy was bold, striking and deceptively simple at first glance. But when you looked more closely, there was extraordinary detail in her handiwork – changes of texture, a hint of three-dimensional perspective and subtle variations of colour in each of the individual letters. Letters which, collectively, spelt out three words:

THE ROTTERS’ CLUB

Benjamin and Lois looked at it in silence. Silently, too, Lois reached out her arm and slipped it around her brother’s waist. He leaned into her. The birdsong was getting louder. More shafts of sunlight began to peep over the trees.

‘Come on,’ said Sophie, ‘I don’t want to be late.’

They walked on towards the car, loaded her suitcase into the boot and kissed her goodbye.

‘Take care, precious,’ said Lois. ‘And give our love to Ian. Be careful up in the frozen North, both of you. There be dragons up there.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Sophie, hugging her closely.

‘Thanks for everything,’ said Benjamin. ‘Come and see us again soon. Please. And don’t lose any of that weight. It suits you.’

As Sophie’s car was driving off down the long, poplar-lined lane, Lois turned to her brother and said:

‘Are you really that stupid, or is just an act you put on?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Sophie isn’t putting on weight. She’s pregnant.’

He gaped at her. ‘What?’