by Mike Gayle
Most of all, he couldn’t stop thinking about Rose and wondering yet again if she’d hear about his brush with fame and the reasons behind it. He’d already made up his mind that he would tell her about it once she was here. That way he’d have the chance to explain himself to her face-to-face, to make it clear how it had happened.
It wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have over a phone line. But she would be here in just over four weeks and he didn’t want her to hear about it from anyone else before he’d had a chance to explain. He tried to reassure himself that as she hadn’t been aware of anything so far, there was no need to assume that an appearance on a single TV show would make any difference, but try as he might, he just couldn’t shake his need to be sure. If he wanted a nap anytime soon he was going to have to call her.
“Rose, it’s Dad here,” he said when his daughter finally answered.
Rose laughed.
“Pops, why do you think that after all these years I’m not going to recognize your voice? Is everything okay? You don’t usually call at this time.”
Hubert pressed his free hand to his chest. He could feel his heart pounding.
“Yes, everything is fine, darling. Me just… me just wanted to say hello, that’s all.”
“Are you sure? There’s nothing wrong? This isn’t you panicking about my arrival again, is it? It’s sweet that you want to meet me off the plane, but I’m fine to get a taxi from the airport and I don’t like the idea of you hanging around Heathrow when there could be delays.”
“It’s not that. Me was just worrying, I suppose…” He paused, unsure how to turn the conversation toward where he wanted it to go. “Tell me, Rose, you don’t do that social media thing me hear about on TV, do you?”
“Why, are you getting all techie, Dad? Have you finally decided to join the twenty-first century and get a mobile phone?”
“No, no, no, me just mean… well, do you do that Twitter thing me hear about?”
“Yes, but for work mainly. Lots of academics use it now. It’s a good way of raising your profile, keeping in contact with colleagues and peers and checking in on who’s doing what where, that sort of thing.”
“And… you know, have you ever gone viral?”
Rose laughed.
“No, Pops, never, I think the most likes I ever got for a tweet was about how comfortable the pillows were in a hotel I was staying in. I think I got about sixteen then. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
“Okay.”
She sounded skeptical.
“It’s just, well… do you ever see things that go viral?”
“What sort of things? Dancing cats, dresses that people think look different colors to how they really are, monkeys wandering around in IKEA?”
Hubert had no idea what she was talking about. “Are these viral things?”
“They can be, but generally speaking I’m too busy to pay them much attention. Usually I post one or two things a day if I’m at a conference, add a few hashtags, and then forget all about social media until the next time I need to post something.”
Hubert felt a wave of relief flood over him. “So, you don’t spend too much time on it?”
“Not if I can help it. So you don’t need to worry about me. I bet you’ve been reading an article about the harmful effects of social media, haven’t you?”
“You guessed it,” said Hubert, glad to have been provided with an excuse. “Guilty as charged.”
“Well, I might not be a teenager but it’s always nice to know that even though I’m long in the tooth, my dad still worries about his little girl.”
With his mind now at ease, Hubert managed a good two-hour nap before waking up to the sound of Puss mewling because she was hungry.
After feeding her, he set about making his own dinner, which he ate in front of the TV, and then went upstairs to spruce himself up for the meeting that evening. He was waiting by the door when Ashleigh arrived with Layla asleep in her pram, and together they made their way to the library. Ashleigh was chatty as ever, telling Hubert about all the calls she’d had from friends back in Wales, how many likes his photograph with the eighties pop star had garnered, and how excited she was about the meeting tonight. “I’ve got a really good feeling about it,” she said as they walked. “I’ve watched your bit on This Morning at least half a dozen times now and I have to say that if I wasn’t already on this committee, I’d definitely be coming tonight. You made it sound wicked!”
Hubert chuckled but he didn’t share Ashleigh’s optimism. He’d been around long enough to know that the world moved very quickly on to the next big thing, that today’s news was tomorrow’s fish-and-chip wrappings. It was one thing for people to think that what the campaign was up to was worthwhile, but it was another altogether for them to leave the comforts of their living rooms after a hard day at work and attend a meeting.
As they walked up the road to the library, Hubert crossed his fingers—the last thing he wanted was for Ashleigh to be disappointed—but within seconds of reaching the car park, it became clear that on this occasion luck wasn’t needed. The car park was full, and the entrance hall and the community room itself were packed to the rafters with people wanting to join the campaign.
34
THEN
September 1997
All around their table in the Red Lion there was laughter. Hubert was laughing so much that tears were running down his face; Mister Taylor was wiping the beer from his jacket that he’d spluttered over himself the minute Gus had delivered the joke’s punch line; a barely-able-to-breathe Teetus was banging the table with the flat of his hand with delight; Biggie Brown was holding his sides as if he literally feared he might burst if he didn’t; and Oney, clueless as ever, was asking everyone around the table to explain the joke to him.
Drying his eyes, Hubert got to his feet.
“Right then, before me laugh meself into a heart attack, let me get some drinks in.”
After he’d taken the orders, he turned to walk to the bar and Gus called for him to wait so he could give him a hand.
It was a Saturday, so the bar was crowded with lunchtime drinkers, and unlike its days as the Old Duke when it used to be their regular, it was now bright and airy, with cream walls and sanded pale wooden floorboards. Its clientele had changed too over the years; now instead of just old men and smokers, there were groups of young people, both Black and white, all chatting, drinking, and eating, giving the place a relaxed and friendly vibe.
Getting together for a drink at the Red Lion on a Saturday afternoon was something that had been going on for a couple of years now. At first it had just been Hubert and Gus catching up with each other once a month, but then Gus had invited along some of the men he worked with at London Underground: Biggie Brown, who Gus had lived with briefly when he first came to England, and Oney, who was from Trinidad. Then Hubert invited Teetus, a guy from Spanish Town who he’d become friends with during his time at the council, who in turn had brought along Mister Taylor, who he’d known since his days in the West India Regiment, and finally this circle of old friends, all West Indians who had come to England in the fifties and sixties in search of a better life, was complete.
“You know, Gus, man,” said Hubert as they stood at the crowded bar, “these get-togethers are really good for the soul. Me can’t remember the last time me laugh so hard.”
Gus patted his friend on the back.
“It’s been good to have you back these past few months, Smiler. It hasn’t been the same without you. How are things with Joyce, by the way? Any better?”
Hubert shrugged. He hadn’t really spoken much to anyone about the speed of Joyce’s decline over the past year.
“About the same, really. Some good days, some bad. Rose is a real help, though.”
It was an understatement really. While Hubert insisted on doing more or less everything for Joyce, from helping her to dress and doing her hair, to organizing and administering her medication, to calmin
g her down when she became distressed, there was still so much to do and Rose did it all. Driving them to and from hospital appointments, helping to keep up with the housework, dealing with all of the miles of red tape that come part and parcel when someone you love can no longer look after themselves.
“She’s a good one,” said Gus, “no mistaking. That husband of hers must have been a fool to let her go.”
Hubert kissed his teeth. The very thought of that boy made him angry. Picking up with a new woman and getting her pregnant, when the ink on the divorce papers wasn’t even dry! He deserved a good thrashing for that kind of behavior, and even at sixty-one, Hubert felt he was just the man to give him one.
“Don’t get me started,” said Hubert.
He caught the barmaid’s eye as she finished serving a couple in front of them and gave his order, telling her to have one for herself.
“Anyway, how are things with you and, what her name again…?”
“The lovely Dominique,” said Gus with a flourish.
Hubert recalled their most recent conversation about Gus’s ever-changing love life. This girl was in her thirties, had two teenage boys, and was old enough to know better than to get involved with someone like Gus. But, thought Hubert, there was no telling some people.
“That’s the one. So, how’s things going?”
“I moved in with her last month,” said Gus, almost gleefully. “She makes all my meals, washes all my clothes, and doesn’t even ask for rent. Meanwhile, I’m letting my place out to a fella from work for a couple of months, so for the first time ever I’m rolling in it!”
Hubert laughed.
“You should’ve said that before me pay for the whole round!”
“Listen,” said Gus, “I might be gray up top but I’ve still got all my marbles!” He laughed, fully expecting Hubert to join in, but when he didn’t he immediately realized his mistake. “Smiler, man, you know I didn’t mean… well… you know.”
“Of course, don’t worry,” said Hubert. Even he found it difficult to think of his wife this way, so it should come as no surprise when other people forgot too.
The barmaid finished pouring their drinks and Hubert gestured toward them. “Come on, then,” he said, “if we take any longer over these there’s going to be a riot.”
Hubert stayed for another hour with his friends before leaving them playing dominoes, in order to go home to Bromley. When he came into the house, he found Rose in the kitchen listening to the radio and making preparations for the evening meal. There were sliced peppers lying in a row on the chopping board, a glass bowl full of diced onions, and a bag of rice next to her.
“Oh, Rose! Me told you me get dinner sorted when me come in.”
Rose smiled.
“I thought you could do with a day off. Anyway, I like cooking.”
“What are you making?”
“A red pepper risotto,” said Rose. She pulled down a large casserole dish. “We had it a few weeks ago, remember? Mum really enjoyed it.”
“And me too,” said Hubert. He filled the kettle and took out three mugs.
Rose glanced at the mugs.
“Mum’s asleep in the front room at the minute—dozed off in the middle of the afternoon film—and I’ve just had a cup. But you go ahead. There are some new biscuits in the barrel. I got those chocolate ones from Marks and Spencer that you raved about last time. How are all the boys? Did you have a good time?”
“Them all fine,” replied Hubert. He rooted around in the cupboard for the new biscuits and helped himself to one. It tasted so good he immediately reached in for another. “Nothing much to report. Them all said to send you their best.”
As Hubert made his tea and Rose carried on with her cooking preparation they chatted for a while, making light of Gus’s new living situation, speculating about how long this one would last, and wondering if the next one he met would be even younger. Finally, having exhausted the comic potential of his friend’s love life, Hubert helped himself to another couple of biscuits, took up his mug, and made his way to the front room.
The TV was still on but Rose had turned the volume right down, so that all that could be heard was the gentle snoring of Joyce. She was fast asleep on the sofa, her chin resting on her hand. She seemed peaceful, a fact that Hubert was grateful for, as she’d spent another restless night sitting up in bed, unable to settle, convinced as she was that it was daytime and she had washing to put on the line and ironing to catch up on.
It had been almost a year since Joyce had been officially diagnosed with early-onset dementia, a year in which Hubert felt as if not only his world had been turned upside down, but also that of the Bird family as a whole. It had now been two years since any of them had seen or heard from David, the longest they had gone without contact. For all they knew, he could have completely turned his life around and be living happily by the sea, or lying dead in a ditch somewhere. It was the not knowing that was the most painful thing, the hope sometimes as painful as the despair.
Then there was poor Rose, no children, newly divorced, with an ex-husband about to start the family she had always wanted for herself, stuck in Bromley helping to look after her mother when she should’ve been living the wonderful life she truly deserved. Even though he loved having her around, Hubert had continually reminded her from the day she moved in that this should only be a temporary arrangement, that he fully expected her to move on, with both her life and her career, and her mother’s illness shouldn’t stand in her way. Rose had paid lip service to this idea, occasionally applying for this job or that, but with the anniversary of her arrival approaching, Hubert couldn’t help feeling that perhaps she was losing confidence and the longer she stayed, the more difficult she would find it to leave. Perhaps, somehow, she felt it was easier to stay at home looking after her mother than to be back out in the world starting her life all over again.
Then finally there was Joyce, his beloved wife. He was slowly losing part of her every day. Her long-term memory was in perfect condition: Hubert only had to mention the foul childminder woman Joyce had punched all those years ago for her to go into a detailed rant about the incident, and remark how if she ever saw that woman again she’d do the same. Her short-term memory, however, was far shakier, and she had difficulty recalling even the most mundane of details, like what day it was, what she’d had for breakfast, even sometimes whether or not she’d eaten at all.
She knew Hubert, though, called him the love of her life, and she recognized Rose too, although from time to time she seemed to forget how old she was, and would ask her how school had been or if she had seen her brother’s football boots. David was a particular source of angst for her at this time, and she would often stand by the window expectantly and explain that he should have been home by now as it was long past his bedtime. She would also sometimes sit in his old bedroom, now made up as a guest room, and even though it had long since been redecorated, his posters taken down, his sporting trophies in boxes in the loft, she would sit on the bed as though lost in thought as she remembered the room as it used to be.
Hubert sat with Joyce while he drank his tea, and when he finished, he got up, found the remote control, and switched off the TV. Even though the volume had been barely audible, its absence seemed to rouse Joyce from her slumber.
At first she was startled and confused but, on seeing Hubert, she immediately recovered herself and beamed a smile at him.
“Hello, handsome. Have I been asleep long?”
“Not long. You feel rested?”
“Enough to dance all night. Are we going to the Princess Club again? I like it there, you can really let your hair down.”
“We can if you like, my love,” said Hubert. He had learned over the past year that sometimes it was kinder to let her version of reality go unchallenged than to constantly be reminding her that she was wrong, that her brain was playing cruel tricks on her, that this wasn’t 1958, 1961, 1972, or any other year she cared to conjure up.
“I’d like to very much. I’ve got some new shoes that will be just the ticket for that sleeveless dress I made.”
“Sounds lovely, my dear,” said Hubert, and he took her hand. “Me think me wear that suit you always like to see me in.”
“Oooh, yes! And that lovely yellow tie your mum bought for you. Such a pretty lady, she is. I can’t wait until I get to meet her.”
“She’ll love you. Me have told her all about you in my letters.”
With eyes full of adoration, Joyce fixed her gaze on Hubert.
“Have you really? What did you say about me?”
“Me told her that me have just met the most wonderful English girl and that me think she might be the one!”
Joyce smiled sadly.
“I wish I could tell my mum and dad about you. I know they’d love you if they were only willing to put aside their prejudices, my brothers and sister too. What is it with people that they just can’t be nice to one another?”
“Me don’t know,” said Hubert. “It’s just one of those things.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be,” said Joyce firmly. “What should it matter to anyone what color my boyfriend’s skin is? It’s just silly when you think about it. I mean, I once liked a boy at school who had red hair and no one batted an eyelid about that.”
She paused, thinking.
“George Timmins, his name was, lived two roads down from us, he did. His dad was our postman.”
She smiled, and for a moment he wasn’t sure whether she was still thinking of this red-haired boy or had moved on to something else.
“I love you, Hubert Bird, I really do. And I’m not going to let anyone stand in the way of us being together.”
“Me either,” said Hubert, looking into her eyes and for a moment seeing not only the Joyce right in front of him but also the girl he’d fallen in love with back at Hamilton’s all those years ago. “Me love you, Joyce Pierce.”
