by Jonathan Coe
‘Ben! It’s so good to see you, mate.’
Benjamin could only stare back in puzzlement.
‘Don’t tell me that you don’t remember me? Come on, Ben, don’t break my heart.’
‘Sure. You’re –’ he hesitated, and then came out with the only thing he could be sure of ‘– Baron Brainbox? The kids’ entertainer?’
‘And? And?’
Benjamin didn’t have a clue. His father looked at him with a mixture of delight and superiority. It wasn’t often that he was a step ahead of his son.
‘I knew who it was right away. Don’t you recognize him? It’s Charlie! Charlie Chappell!’
Slowly, realization dawned on Benjamin’s face. All the same, he felt that he could be forgiven for not recognizing Charlie Chappell, someone he hadn’t seen (or thought about much) for more than forty years. Charlie had once been his next-door neighbour. He had been one of his best friends. They had sat next to each other on their very first day at primary school, aged five. They had played together in the school playground, visited each other’s houses constantly, shared sweets, swapped chocolate bars, read their first (and, in Benjamin’s case, only) porn magazines side by side. And then, at the age of eleven – for reasons which were not clear to him, even now – Benjamin’s parents had made him sit the entrance exam to King William’s School, and he had passed. Charlie had carried on through the state system to the local comprehensive, and a gulf had opened up between them. Not an educational or academic gulf, primarily, but a social one. Benjamin had moved to a school where the teachers wore university gowns in class; where the teachers were not, in fact, called ‘teachers’ at all but ‘masters’; where there not only existed such a thing as ‘the school song’ but it was sung in Latin; where there was only one black boy – Steve Richards – in his entire year, and the other boys called him ‘Rastus’. Benjamin and Charlie had not so much drifted apart as immediately been swept apart by rapid, powerful, diverging currents. They stopped visiting each other’s houses. Conversation between them became forced and uncomfortable. And a year or two later, in any case, to make the separation irrevocable, the Chappells had moved to a new house in Northfield, ten minutes’ drive away. And that was that. Benjamin and Charlie never saw or spoke to each other again.
But that was all long, long in the past. There was nothing but delight on Charlie’s face upon encountering his old friend.
‘I’m sure I spotted you here a few years ago,’ he said. ‘I was in the middle of one of my shows. I tried to catch your eye.’
‘Yes, that was me,’ said Benjamin. ‘Have you been doing one today?’
‘Just come off,’ said Charlie. ‘Tough crowd in there, as well.’
‘So how did you …?’ Benjamin didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
‘… end up doing this for a living?’ said Charlie. ‘Long story. Let’s just say that the phone call from the RSC never came through. What about you? Your dad was saying that you’ve retired already.’
‘I’m not retired,’ said Benjamin, indignant. ‘I look after you –’ (staring at his father) ‘– for a start. I volunteer three mornings a week in the hospital in Shrewsbury, working in the charity shop. And I’ve been writing. I’ve just had my first novel published, in fact.’
‘Why am I not surprised?’ said Charlie. ‘Always the intellectual of the family. Always the creative genius. Where can I get a copy?’
‘Right here. They’ve got a couple in the bookshop.’
‘Brilliant. You’ve just made a sale.’
Charlie was in no hurry to leave. He had a children’s party at four o’clock that afternoon but nothing until then, and in the meantime was happy to enjoy a slow lunch with Benjamin and Colin. Afterwards Colin announced that he wanted to visit the pet department: he liked looking at the koi carp and the tropical fish – would stare at them, sometimes, for minutes at a time, mesmerized by their drooping mouths and melancholy eyes, as if he were trying to understand their dreams and fathom their memories. He said that he would see Benjamin back at the car. So Benjamin and Charlie headed off to the bookshop, passing by the entrance to the children’s theatre on the way.
‘Look who’s on,’ said Charlie, darkly, nodding towards the open doorway.
Benjamin glanced inside and saw that the figure entertaining the circle of children was wearing a white medical coat, wellington boots, a false moustache and a World War Two pilot’s leather helmet. He remembered him from last time; remembered his sullen demeanour off stage, and the crude hostility he had expressed towards Charlie. What was the story between those two? He watched now as Charlie caught Doctor Daredevil’s eye and snarled at him; the other clown had seen him immediately and glowered back, without breaking character. In that instant the air was charged with a quivering hatred and malevolence, even though Charlie brightened again so quickly as they walked on, recovering his former cheerfulness as though nothing had happened, that Benjamin didn’t feel he could mention the subject or ask what was going on.
In the bookshop Charlie picked up the two copies of A Rose Without a Thorn from the central pile, read the cover blurb, complimented Benjamin on the design and said: ‘Right. I’m having both of these.’
Benjamin went over with him to the till, so that he could revel in this moment of triumph. The assistant, perhaps less impressed than he had been expecting, rang up the sale with mechanical indifference.
‘This is the author, you know,’ Charlie said. ‘You should be making a fuss of him. He’s a local celebrity.’
‘We get a lot of authors in here,’ she answered.
‘Oh well.’ Charlie glanced at Benjamin and grimaced. ‘Can you sign these for me, Ben, now that they’re paid for?’
‘Of course.’
Benjamin laid the books on the counter and took out his pen. ‘Are they both for you?’
‘First one’s for me. Second one’s for “Aneeqa”, please.’
‘Any special message?’
‘Not really.’ He considered. ‘In hers you could write “Good luck with your studies.” ’
‘ “Good luck with your studies,” ’ Benjamin repeated, as he inscribed the words, and handed the copies to Charlie proudly. They were the first ones he had signed, apart from one for Phil, one for Lois, one for Sophie and one for his father. Turning to the assistant, he said: ‘You’ll have to order a few more of these now.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘We’ve got about forty out the back.’
‘Oh. Would you like me to sign those as well?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t. We have enough trouble selling them as it is. If you sign them, we can’t return them. They’re considered damaged stock.’
Benjamin wasn’t sure how much more discouragement he could take from this woman.
‘Haven’t you sold any copies so far?’ he asked.
‘We did sell a couple,’ the assistant said, ‘but the customers brought them back.’
‘Brought them back? Why?’
‘I expect it’s the title. They thought it was going to be about growing roses. That’s the sort of thing most people come in here for, you see. We don’t sell much fiction.’
It was time to go and meet Colin at the car. Benjamin could not keep himself from ruminating on the fragile commercial prospects of his book as they weaved their way through the garden furniture, but finally he snapped out of it and remembered to ask Charlie:
‘So who’s Aneeqa, then?’
‘Like everything else in my life, that’s a long story,’ he answered. ‘Can we have lunch again soon? I’d really like to catch up properly.’
‘Absolutely. Let’s do it.’
‘Anyway,’ said Charlie, as they left Woodlands’ sprawling interior and began to walk through its equally gigantic car park, ‘to give you the short version – I’m sort of her stepfather. Her mother’s divorced – it’s just the two of them at home – and – I mean, I’m not married to her mother or anything, but I spend a lot of time at their hou
se, and I’ve kind of become the father-figure, I suppose. At least, that’s what I’d like to be … It’s complicated. It’s a bit of a mess, to be honest, Ben. I could do with talking to you about it some time. I don’t know that many people who understand … the human heart, and all its mysteries.’
Benjamin was touched by the compliment; and also quite surprised to hear Charlie using this sort of phrase, which seemed to hint at unsuspected reserves of sensitivity and tenderness.
‘I don’t know about that,’ he said, building up to share a confidence with him. ‘When you read my book you’ll understand that, emotionally, there’s been a lot of difficulty in my life, and –’
‘Oh, FUCK YOU!’ Charlie shouted now. ‘Fuck you, you cunting CUNT of an arsehole!’
Benjamin stopped and stared in bewilderment. They had reached Charlie’s car, an ancient but well-polished and shiny Nissan Micra, and he was looking in fury and anguish at the paintwork on the driver’s side. A long, deep scratch had been scored with a coin or other implement, running from headlight to tail light.
‘He did this,’ he said, hissing the words out. ‘He did this, the bastard. I’ll kill him, I swear. I’ll crack his head open and slash his face with a fucking Stanley knife.’
He turned and was about to march off back into the garden centre. Benjamin put a restraining hand on his arm.
‘Charlie, don’t do anything silly,’ he said. ‘I’ve no idea what’s going on between you two, but … violence isn’t the answer. It’s never the answer.’ And then, more to distract him than anything else, he added: ‘Anyway, when shall we have that lunch?’
Charlie hesitated for a moment, breathing heavily, his anger still almost getting the better of him. Then he said, ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ took out his phone to look at the calendar, and the moment of crisis passed.
20.
April 2015
On 14 April 2015, the Conservative Party launched its manifesto for the forthcoming general election. Doug read through the first paragraph of David Cameron’s introduction while waiting for Nigel to arrive at their usual meeting point, the café at Temple tube station.
‘Five years ago,’ he read ‘Britain was on the brink …’
Since then, we have turned things around. Britain is now one of the fastest growing major economies in the world. We are getting our national finances back under control. We have halved our deficit as a share of our economy. More people are in work than ever before. Britain is back on its feet, strong and growing stronger every day. This has not happened by accident. It is the result of difficult decisions and of patiently working through our long-term economic plan. Above all, it is the product of a supreme national effort, in which everyone has made sacrifices and everyone has played their part … Our friends and competitors overseas look at Britain, and they see a country that is putting its own house in order, a country on the rise. They see a country that believes in itself.
‘Did you write any of this rubbish?’ Doug asked, as Downing Street’s perennially youthful deputy assistant director of communications arrived and sat down opposite him.
Nigel smiled a frosty smile, but seemed neither surprised nor especially put out by this opening gambit.
‘Ah, Douglas,’ he said. ‘Always on the attack. Always trying to score the first point. If I thought that you meant any of it, I’d be offended. But I’ve come to know you better than that, after all these years.’
‘How’s morale at Number Ten?’ Doug asked, passing Nigel the cappuccino he had already ordered for him. ‘The panic is off the scale, I should think.’
‘The confidence, Douglas, the enthusiasm – that’s what’s off the scale. Dave’s ready for this fight, and do you know why? Because he knows he’s going to win.’
‘He hasn’t been reading the opinion polls, then?’
‘We never take any notice of opinion polls. They’re always wrong.’
‘The television debate didn’t go too well. Ed Miliband put up a pretty good show.’
‘Ed’s a nice guy, but we’re not worried about him. The people of this country will never vote for a Marxist as prime minister.’
‘Where did you read that he was a Marxist?’ said Doug. ‘The Daily Mail? Ed Miliband isn’t a Marxist.’
‘His father was. According to the Daily Mail.’
‘Oh, come on, Nigel, don’t be silly. Having a father who was a Marxist doesn’t make you a Marxist. Your father’s a proctologist. What does that make you?’
‘You keep bringing up my father’s profession, Douglas. Are those piles still giving you trouble?’
Doug sighed. He had been meeting Nigel two or three times a year, now, for five years, and was still no closer, as far as he could tell, to breaking through his façade of cheerful obfuscation.
‘I should have known better,’ he said, ‘than to think you’d do anything other than pretend everything was hunky-dory. That is your job, after all.’
‘I wouldn’t say everything was hunky-dory, Doug. It’s a bit complacent of you to think that, if I may say so. We still face a lot of challenges. Austerity’s still biting, and mostly hurting the people who are least able to deal with it. Dave’s aware of all this. He’s not a monster, however you may like to think of him. But we’re pretty good at reading the mood of the country, and it’s obvious that when things are so difficult, and the future’s so uncertain, people would be mad to vote for change. Continuity, stability – that’s what they need to get them through this sticky patch.’
Doug scratched his head. ‘But that literally makes no sense. Under the current administration, the country’s in a mess, so the only solution is to vote for the current administration?’
‘In a nutshell, yes. That’s the very clear message we’re going to be putting across to the electorate in the next few weeks.’
‘Well, good luck with that.’
‘The choice is between strong and stable government under David, or weak and chaotic leadership under Ed – who would probably have to go into coalition with the Scottish Nationalists. Just think of that!’
‘You may have to stay in coalition with the Lib Dems.’
‘Wouldn’t be a problem, but it’s not going to happen. We’re going to win an overall majority. We’re quite confident of that. That’s what the opinion polls are telling us.’
‘But you just said you don’t trust opinion polls.’
‘We don’t trust most people’s opinion polls. But we do commission our own. Which we trust.’
Doug sighed again.
‘OK. Let’s get down to brass tacks.’
‘The nitty-gritty,’ Nigel agreed.
‘Exactly. The nitty-gritty. Page seventy-two of the manifesto: “Real change in our relationship with the European Union”.’
Nigel beamed happily. ‘That’s right. A crucial part of the manifesto. Almost its unique selling point, you might say.’
‘Well, whoever wrote this, I must give them credit – it’s pretty clear. “Only the Conservative Party will deliver real change and real choice on Europe, with an in–out referendum by the end of 2017.” ’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is that really such a good idea?’
‘It’s Dave’s idea. Of course it’s good.’
‘But supposing there’s a referendum and we vote to leave?’
‘Then we leave. The people will have spoken.’
Impressed as he was by this unqualified commitment to direct democracy, Doug couldn’t help objecting: ‘But people don’t really care about the European Union. Whenever the public are asked to list their main political concerns they say things like education or housing, and the EU doesn’t even come in the top ten.’
Nigel had been looking puzzled, but his face now cleared: ‘Ah, you’re talking about the public. Sorry, that’s not what I meant by “people”.’
‘What did you mean by “people”?’
‘I meant people in the Conservative Party who keep banging on about how much they hate t
he EU and won’t shut up until we do something about it.’
‘Ah, those people.’
‘Those people.’
‘So that’s why Cameron is promising this referendum. To silence those people.’
‘Don’t be silly, Douglas. Holding a referendum on such an important issue just to silence a few annoying people in his own party? That would be a highly irresponsible thing to do.’
‘But that’s just what you said he was doing.’
‘No I didn’t. I said nothing of the sort. Have you not read the manifesto?’
‘Of course I have.’
‘Well, it says here why we’re promising the referendum.’ He picked up Doug’s copy from the table, where it was still folded at the relevant page. ‘Listen: “It will be a fundamental principle of a future Conservative Government that membership of the European Union depends on the consent of the British people. That’s why, after the election, we will negotiate a new settlement for Britain in Europe, and then ask the British people whether they want to stay in the EU on this reformed basis or leave. We will hold that in–out referendum before the end of 2017 and respect the outcome.” Now, what could be more simple than that?’
‘Hold on a second,’ said Doug. ‘You left a bit out.’
‘I did?’
‘Yes – give me that. You missed a bit.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘That sentence about the consent of the British people …’
‘Yes?’
