All the Lonely People

by Mike Gayle

  These, of course, were the best-case scenarios, the ones Hubert preferred to imagine. But there were others, less favorable ones that, given their age, were just as likely (if not more so) to be true. Had Gus succumbed to illness or frailty and moved into a care home? Even worse, had he died without Hubert having any idea that he had long since been buried? Hubert shuddered at the thought. When you don’t see someone regularly you imagine them carrying on with their lives as they’d always done from one year to the next, but the truth was things changed. People grew old and got sick, they sold up and moved on; they weren’t frozen in time waiting for the day that you knocked on their door looking for them.

  6

  THEN

  April 1958

  It was Saturday afternoon and Hubert was draped in an old bedsheet and perched on a rickety dining chair. The dingy Stockwell bedsit belonged to Elwood, a Trinidadian friend of Gus’s who, though he worked in a bakery near King’s Cross, styled West Indian hair in his spare time. While only self-taught, Elwood was good at what he did and was able to re-create all the latest styles coming from America and back home, which was why Hubert had sought him out.

  “So,” said Elwood, “what you want from me today?”

  Fumbling under the bedsheet, Hubert reached into his jacket, pulled out a picture torn from the pages of a movie magazine, and handed it to Elwood.

  “Me want to look like this.”

  Examining the image of a smiling Nat King Cole, Elwood frowned.

  “You do know that to get this look you’re going to have to straighten your hair?”

  Hubert nodded.

  “It’s not a problem.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Elwood. He reached under his bed and took out a jar of Kongolene from a box and showed it to Hubert. “You know this is mighty powerful stuff. I’ve seen fellows lose chunks of their hair from this after only using it once.”

  Hubert swallowed hard. Was the benefit of looking like Nat King Cole worth the risk of losing some of his hair? He decided it was.

  “Do what you’ve got to do.”

  “Fine,” replied Elwood, and he glanced from the picture of Nat King Cole to the comb in his hand.

  “Well, friend, this isn’t a magic wand and I’m no magician, but if you want to look like Mr. Smooth right here, then I’ll give it my best shot!”

  Hubert had never relaxed his hair before, preferring to wear it greased and combed back like most young West Indian men. But this coming week was important, perhaps the most vital of his life, and he needed to make a good impression. Because this was going to be the week that he asked out Joyce Pierce.

  Until the day of his fight with Vince, all of Hubert’s encounters with the English had been a mixed bag of hostility, curiosity, and fear. But then he’d met Joyce and she had treated him as though he was just another person and it had been an oddly refreshing experience. Ever since, much to Hubert’s surprise, he had found himself doing a lot of thinking about Joyce Pierce.

  Soon thinking about Joyce became a pastime so agreeable that he became oblivious to the cold stares and murmurings of Vince’s now leaderless crew. In fact, soon Hubert began to quantify how good or bad a day was simply by the quality and quantity of interactions he had with Joyce. A glimpse of her in the service lift was wonderful, but a chat as he delivered a bolt of imported Chinese silk to the third floor could make his entire day. In spite of the hideous food it served, Hubert had begun frequenting the staff canteen again, in the hope of standing in line next to Joyce or sitting at a table opposite the one she shared with the girls from haberdashery.

  When exactly Hubert’s thoughts shifted from distant admiration to drawing up a plan of action was a mystery even he couldn’t fathom. But in a short space of time he went from believing that there was no way a girl like Joyce would go out with him to becoming convinced that if he just said the right thing in the right way and looked handsome and debonair while doing it, he might have a chance. And it was with this end in mind that Hubert had sought out Elwood.

  The Kongolene burned his scalp like hell while he was waiting for it to take effect, but when he saw the finished result Hubert forgot all about the pain in an instant. Okay, so he didn’t exactly resemble Nat King Cole, or even Nat King Cole’s slightly less attractive brother, but he was in no doubt that with his freshly straightened hair sculpted into a low quiff, there was an air of sophistication about him. His new hairstyle showed off the sharpness of his cheekbones to best effect and his freshly trimmed mustache perfectly complemented the fullness of his lips. Joyce Pierce wouldn’t be able to resist him.

  Arriving at work on Monday morning, the first thing Hubert did after donning his warehouse coat was to check his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink in the staff toilets. Still pleased with his new look, he doused himself liberally in his favorite cologne before clocking in.

  Making his way to the loading bay, Hubert discovered Mr. Coulthard talking to three much-needed new recruits to the warehouse staff. Of the three, two were English, and Mr. Coulthard assigned Hubert the task of showing the third, a young West Indian lad, the ropes. The boy was called Kenneth—a spindly, clueless-looking fellow who was so fresh off the boat, Hubert could practically smell the sea on him. He was eighteen but seemed more like eight and, much to Hubert’s frustration, could barely hold one instruction in his head without it being pushed straight out by another.

  The other two didn’t seem much better, and when the deliveries arrived, the old hands like Hubert had to work twice as hard to undo all the mistakes they were making. By midday Hubert was exhausted, dripping with sweat, his new hair awry and the smell of his cologne long since faded. This was of course the exact moment an exasperated Mr. Coulthard sent him up to the haberdashery department to sort out a problem with an order. All the way up in the service lift Hubert hoped and prayed that it wouldn’t be Joyce waiting for him on the other side of the doors.

  Hubert stepped out of the lift.

  “Hello, you,” said Joyce. “Long time no see. The cut’s healed nicely.”

  “Yes, it has, thank you.”

  He ran a hand casually through his hair in a desperate bid to subtly tidy it up and immediately regretted it, covered as it now was in a thin greasy sheen of pomade. Hubert thought briefly of Nat King Cole and wondered whether this sort of thing ever happened to him.

  “I like your hair,” said Joyce. “Very dashing.”

  Hubert was overjoyed. Maybe this was the right moment to ask her out after all.

  “Me glad you like it.”

  “Anyway,” said Joyce after a long pause, “much as I’d like to, I can’t spend all day gabbing with you. Critchlow’s in a foul enough mood as it is and if she clocks that I’m not on the shop floor there’ll be hell to pay.”

  She held out an order form for Hubert to see.

  “I don’t know what’s been going on down there this morning, but what we’ve had delivered up here twice today bears no resemblance to what’s on this form.”

  Hubert examined the piece of paper, but such was his focus on what he was about to say next that he couldn’t see a single word. This was it. This was his moment. It was now or never.

  He cleared his throat. His mouth was suddenly dry.

  “Joyce… Joyce… well… me need to… me need to ask you something.”

  “About the order?”

  “About… about…” For a moment he thought he might pass out with the anxiety of it all. “About whether you might be free to go out on Saturday night?”

  There was a long silence. Hubert couldn’t read Joyce’s expression. He cleared his throat again and decided to clarify his intentions in case she was confused.

  “Me mean with me. Would you like to go to the pictures with me on Saturday night?”

  “Oh,” said Joyce.

  Hubert felt his heart sink.

  “I’m really flattered, Hubert… really I am but—”

  Hubert tried his best to salvage what remained of his
dignity.

  “You don’t have to say anything. Me understand completely.”

  “No, Hubert, you don’t. It’s not like that, it’s—”

  The door behind them creaked open and a short plump girl in a Hamilton’s uniform poked her head around it.

  “Whatever you’re doing, you’d best do it quick. Critchlow’s on the warpath!”

  Hubert folded the order in half, then, without waiting, stepped back into the lift and pulled the door closed. This was the end for him and Hamilton’s, Hubert decided. He would have to find himself a job elsewhere.

  Later that day, Hubert returned to the bedsit in Brixton that Gus had helped him find a few weeks ago. Despite its damp walls, peeling wallpaper, and drafty windows it wasn’t the worst lodgings he’d seen. And in addition, it had all the essentials: a battered armchair next to a tiny coal fire, a gas ring to cook on, a single bed with a lumpy horsehair mattress. It was, however, miles away from the comforts of the home he missed so terribly.

  Taking out a sheet of light blue airmail paper and a stub of pencil from a battered suitcase under the bed, Hubert grabbed the Bible his mother had packed for him. Using it to rest his paper on, he sat down in the armchair and began to write.

  Before leaving Jamaica, Hubert had promised his mother that he would try to write at least once a week. To start with, his letters had been full of energy and optimism, describing in vivid detail the sights and sounds of London, the place they’d all imagined for so long. He told her about the smoke coming from all the chimneys, a sight you’d never see back home. And of his delight in seeing snow for the first time, which he and Gus had played in for hours like children, throwing snowballs and making snowmen. He wrote about all the grand buildings with their history and beautiful architecture and how on his first free day in London he had walked all the way from Brixton to Buckingham Palace to silently pay respect to the queen, on his own behalf and also that of his family in Jamaica.

  His mother had received all his news with delight and her replies had been full of questions, about the weather, London fashions, and of course, about whether he was looking after himself. She would sign off each letter in the same way: “I’m so proud of you, my son, may the Lord bless and keep you.” Because of this, Hubert hadn’t had the heart to tell her the truth that had gradually dawned on him: he was miserable, lonely, and homesick.

  He hadn’t told her about the English families that would cross the road just to avoid walking past him. The signs in the windows of boardinghouses making it clear that neither he, nor the Irish, nor people with dogs were welcome. He hadn’t told her how cold it got, how in bed he struggled to get warm even when fully clothed. He hadn’t told her about the dreadful food, the filthy streets, and how hard he had to work just to keep a roof over his head. Instead he’d kept his letters brief and cheerful, but as he sat shivering, pencil poised and thinking about how much his heart hurt knowing that his feelings for Joyce were unrequited, for the first time ever he felt like telling his mother the truth.

  In the end Hubert didn’t bother going to the Labor Exchange, reasoning it was a case of better the devil you know. Who knew what sort of job he might be offered next and what horrors lay in store? No, he would stick with Hamilton’s with its long hours and hard toil for the time being. He would avoid Joyce at all costs, keep his head down, steer clear of the canteen, and delegate all calls to the third floor to his reluctant protégé, Kenneth.

  When a week and a half went by without any sight of Joyce, Hubert began to relax. While he wasn’t over her, he could at least imagine a time when he might be. In the meantime Gus had recently started dating an English girl he’d met at a dance, and this girl had told Gus she had a friend who would be perfect for Hubert.

  “You always look too serious these days, Smiler,” he’d said. “Come out with us and have a little fun.”

  This was an offer that Hubert had so far declined, but with the weekend looming he started to question the wisdom of his position.

  Early on Wednesday morning a call came down from the third floor for an order of several bolts of Lancashire tweed. Hubert searched for Kenneth but he was nowhere to be seen, and when Hubert asked after him, he discovered that Kenneth had gone up to the furniture department on the fourth floor with an order some time ago and hadn’t been seen since. Cursing the boy under his breath, Hubert made up the order and took the lift to the third floor himself. If it was Joyce waiting for him he would be polite but brief, keeping conversation to a minimum, and then later, once he’d recovered from being in her presence, he would find Kenneth and box his ears.

  As he opened the lift doors Hubert poked his head out, only to discover that the delivery bay was empty. Breathing a sigh of relief, he began to unload the fabric, but then, just as he hoisted the last bolt onto his shoulder, the door to the shop floor opened. It was Joyce. Looking more beautiful than ever. Even from a distance Hubert could see that she had done something different with her hair, winding it up into an elegant chignon that made her appear older and more sophisticated somehow.

  She gave him a smile.

  “I was beginning to worry that you’d left us. Whenever I pick up an order these days it’s always the young boy who gets sent up.”

  Hubert resisted the urge to kiss his teeth as he put down the material in front of her.

  “You mean Kenneth? That damned boy is hopeless. He got sent up to a job on the fourth floor and no one has seen him since.”

  “I expect it’s quite busy up there,” said Joyce. “I’ve heard the new floor manager has been having a sales promotion and things are all at sixes and sevens. I’m sure your man will reappear soon.”

  Hubert held out the order form. She scribbled down her name with a flourish and handed it back to him.

  “It’s been lovely to see you,” said Joyce. “And now you’ve broken the streak, hopefully you won’t be such a stranger. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

  Hubert said nothing and instead, feeling like his face was on fire with embarrassment, he quickly turned back to the lift, but then she called out after him. He turned around, expecting her to produce a forgotten order form, but instead she was smiling.

  “I’ve got a question for you… What are you doing Saturday night?”

  Hubert stared at her, confused.

  “Me… me… got no plans.”

  “Good,” she replied. “In that case you’re taking me to the five o’clock showing of South Pacific at the Regal in Blackfriars.”

  Hubert stood frozen to the spot, speechless.

  A wry smile played on Joyce’s lips.

  “What? You haven’t seen it already, have you?”

  Even if he had, twenty times, he would gladly see it twenty times more if it meant going with her.

  “No, me haven’t seen it.”

  “Good,” said Joyce. “Then I’ll meet you outside the Regal at four thirty so we can chat before the film.”

  For the rest of the day Hubert couldn’t stop grinning. He grinned in the lift on the way back down to the warehouse. He grinned as he passed Mr. Coulthard yelling at the new lads. And he grinned all the more later, when Kenneth told him a very odd story about being sent on a wild-goose chase to the fourth floor by a girl from haberdashery.

  7

  NOW

  Hubert approached the middle-aged woman with preternaturally bright red hair who was staffing the reception desk at the community center.

  “I wonder if you could help me?” he asked, using his extra-formal voice, the one he usually reserved for talking to the professional classes. “I’m looking for…”

  He reached into his jacket pocket, took out the flyer he’d picked up from his GP’s waiting room, slipped on his reading glasses, and read aloud from it.

  “… the O-60 Club: meeting and mixing for the over-sixties.”

  The woman pointed vaguely toward the café.

  “Take a left down the side of the caff, go through the double doors, and you’re the
re.”

  It was official: the number of friends Hubert had in the entire world was zero. He knew this because after his failure with Gus he had spent the past week making various inquiries and trying to track down his friends from the Red Lion, and the news hadn’t been good.

  Septicemia following a heart bypass had put paid to Biggie a year and a half ago. The end of his marriage had sent Mister Taylor back home to St. Kitts. Alzheimer’s had left Teetus in a care home near his daughters in Bristol. And romance had transported Oney to Switzerland to live with some rich German lady he’d met on a cruise.

  As for the friends Hubert had once shared with Joyce, the news was equally dismal. Following a stroke, Joan Reid was in a care home, and her husband, Peter, had passed away from throat cancer. Carlo Stewart had returned to Jamaica after divorcing Pamela, and she in turn had moved to Edinburgh to be near their children. Leonard Walker had died suddenly following a heart attack while on holiday, and his wife, Rita, was now living with her sister-in-law in a bungalow in Bourton-on-the-Water.

  Death, disease, divorce, and relocation: these, it appeared, were the four fates consuming all that remained of Hubert’s generation. It was a sorry state of affairs, made all the more poignant by receiving this news in one go. It was as if he’d been asleep for the past five years only to wake up in another world, in another reality where an entire generation had been wiped out and he was the sole survivor.

  A whole week had gone by since Rose’s announcement and now, because of his lack of friends, Hubert was faced with an almost impossible choice: disappoint his darling daughter or force himself back out into the world from which he had retreated. As terrifying as he had found both propositions, there was no doubt in his mind which of the two he feared most. And so here he was attempting to do the one thing he had failed to do all those years earlier and which, it could be argued, was in part responsible for the creation of Dotty, Dennis, and Harvey.