Middle England

by Jonathan Coe

  After taking a mouthful of salmon mousse, Sophie turned to Ian and said: ‘I can’t believe you want me to give up.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’d want to carry on in that environment. You haven’t had a scrap of support from those people.’

  Helena said: ‘I thought you were going to ask your uncle to contact his friend?’

  ‘He did. He just said he had no control over anything his daughter did. Apparently they hardly speak to each other.’

  ‘You should have told them what to do with their job by now,’ Ian said.

  ‘What, and throw everything away? It’s taken me eight years to get where I am.’

  ‘I appreciate that. I appreciate all the work you put into it. But it’s toxic, Soph, the environment you work in.’

  ‘Toxic? What’s toxic about it?’

  ‘The atmosphere there, the way people think … it’s crazy. They’ve lost the plot.’

  ‘There’s been a misunderstanding, that’s all. It’s just one of those things. And anyway, I don’t see what’s crazy about having respect for minorities.’

  Ian threw his fork down on the table in frustration.

  ‘Will you stop being so bloody … PC about all of this!’

  Sophie sat back and smiled. ‘There we are. I wondered how long it would take before those two little letters were introduced into the conversation.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Do you have any idea, Ian, how often you accuse me and everyone else of being too “PC” for your liking these days? It’s become your obsession. And I don’t even think you know what it means.’

  ‘I know exactly what it means. What you call respect for minorities basically means two fingers to the rest of us. OK, so protect your precious … transgender students from the horrible things people say about them. Swaddle them in cotton wool. What happens if you’re white, and male, and straight, and middle class, hmm? People can say whatever the fuck they like about you then.’

  His mother winced at the swear word. Sophie thought for a moment and then asked: ‘You were meeting with Naheed today, weren’t you? The quarterly assessment.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Oh, it was fantastic. If you like being patronized and talked down to by someone who used to be your colleague, and who’s sitting behind the desk you should be sitting behind, it was just great.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re in such a nasty mood? Isn’t it about time you got over that blow to your male ego, and moved on?’

  ‘My male ego? There you go. Why not just my ego? No, you have to make it about me being a man. You’ll be talking about my white privilege next. Go on, tell me how fucking privileged I am. Tell me that people like me haven’t become victims in our own country.’

  Sophie glanced across at Helena, who was staring at them, horrified, most of the food uneaten on her plate. She felt suddenly ashamed.

  ‘Now you’re being stupid,’ she said. ‘And we shouldn’t be talking like this on your mother’s birthday. I’m sorry, Helena.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t.’ Helena put down her knife and fork. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment? I’m going to find the Ladies.’

  She pushed back her chair and made her way slowly to the back of the restaurant. Ian and Sophie ate in silence for a while.

  ‘Don’t you think you could dial it down a bit?’ Sophie asked eventually. ‘For her sake – tonight at least?’

  ‘She agrees with me, you know. She’s on my side.’

  ‘When did it become about sides?’

  Ian looked directly at her and said, bitterly: ‘You have no idea, do you?’

  ‘No idea about what?’

  ‘About how angry it makes us feel, this air of moral superiority you lot project all the time –’

  Sophie interrupted him. ‘I’m sorry, but who are these people? Who’s “us”? Who’s “you lot”?’

  Instead of answering this question, Ian posed another one: ‘Which way do you think the referendum’s going to go?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject.’

  ‘I’m not. Which way do you think it’s going to go?’

  Sophie could see that he meant to persist with this line of enquiry. She blew out her cheeks and said: ‘I don’t know … Remain, probably.’

  Ian gave a satisfied smile and shook his head. ‘Wrong,’ he said. ‘Leave is going to win. Do you know why?’

  Sophie shook her head.

  ‘People like you,’ he said, with a note of quiet triumph. And then he repeated, with a jab of his finger: ‘People like you.’

  *

  Helena came back from the Ladies, and they managed to fill the next hour and a half with safe, uncontentious smalltalk. At the end of the meal, Lukas himself appeared, bearing two glasses of port – also on the house – and a small sponge cake baked by Grete for Helena’s birthday. They thanked him effusively, but they were all too full to eat any of the cake, so Helena took it home with her. Then Ian and Sophie drove back to Birmingham.

  They didn’t talk much in the car. Sophie could only guess at what Ian was thinking. For her part, she was looking back over all the hours she had spent, over the last few years, in the company of Ian and his mother: going with them to places where she didn’t feel at home, eating food that wasn’t to her taste, listening to opinions she didn’t agree with, having conversations she didn’t enjoy, meeting people she had nothing in common with, and all the while driving backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards along these roads, these monotonous roads which connected Birmingham with Kernel Magna, backwards and forwards through the heart of Middle England, the heart that beat on through everything with its regular, determined beat, quiet and implacable. She thought of all the hours she might have spent in other places, with other people, having other conversations. She thought about how different her life might have been if she had not been caught speeding on the way to Solihull station that day; how different her life might be now if she had not made that clumsy joke to Emily Shamma at the end of a seminar. These weary, over-familiar thoughts depressed her and gave her a headache. So perhaps she should have been grateful when Ian tried to lighten the mood by suddenly pointing at a passing car and saying, ‘Look at that.’

  Sophie raised her head and opened her half-closed eyes.

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘FYI,’ he said. ‘For Your Information.’

  Ah, yes. The number-plate game. It seemed years since they had played it. Perhaps it was. She tried to summon a smile but couldn’t manage it. When it occurred to her, instead, that the letters also stood for Fuck You Ian, she felt sad and ashamed.

  32.

  Wednesday, 20 April 2016

  When Benjamin answered the telephone, the first thing Lois said was: ‘Have you heard about Victoria Wood?’

  It took him a moment or two to remember who she was talking about. Comedian. On television a lot. Very funny. Wrote nice songs. That was her.

  ‘No, what about her? Is she going on tour?’

  ‘She died, Benjamin. Victoria Wood died.’

  ‘Really? How old was she?’

  Lois’s voice was shaking. ‘She was sixty-two. Only a few years older than me. I loved her, Benjamin. She was such a part of my life. I feel as though my best friend or my sister has just died.’

  Not being able to think of anything consoling to say, Benjamin simply mused aloud: ‘What is it about 2016? Everyone’s dying. David Bowie, Alan Rickman …’

  But this was not, as it turned out, the news that Lois had been calling to give him. She was calling to say that she had given in her notice at the library in York, and was moving back to Birmingham.

  ‘I have to,’ she said. ‘You can’t have all the responsibility of looking after Dad any more. It’s not fair. I’ve given a month’s notice. I can look for a new job once I’m down there. I know it sounds dramatic but I don’t have a good feeling about him. I think things are going to get worse. We’ve got to come together at a time like this, y
ou and me. These could be the end days.’

  *

  Thursday, 21 April 2016

  When Benjamin answered the telephone, the first thing Philip said was: ‘Have you heard about Prince?’

  ‘No, what about him? Has he got a new album out?’

  ‘He’s dead, Benjamin. Prince is dead.’

  Benjamin had never been a great fan of Prince. Nevertheless, he was staggered to learn that 2016 was bringing news of yet another celebrity death.

  ‘Prince? Dead? You’re kidding me. How old was he?’

  ‘He was fifty-seven. Our age, pretty much.’

  ‘That’s terrible. What’s going on this year? David Bowie …’

  ‘Alan Rickman …’

  ‘Victoria Wood …’

  ‘It’s like they’re all getting out while they still can.’

  ‘It’s as if they know something that we don’t.’

  But this was not, as it turned out, the news that Phil had been calling to give him. He was calling to say that a major publishing house in Paris wanted to buy the French rights to A Rose Without a Thorn.

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ said Benjamin. ‘Can you put them in touch with my agent? She handles all that kind of stuff now.’

  *

  Friday, 22 April 2016

  Part of being friends is to be honest, and to let you know what I think. And speaking honestly, the outcome of that decision is a matter of deep interest to the United States, because it affects our prospects as well. The United States wants a strong United Kingdom as a partner. And the United Kingdom is at its best when it’s helping to lead a strong Europe … The Single Market brings extraordinary economic benefits to the United Kingdom … All of us cherish our sovereignty. My country’s pretty vocal about that. But the US also recognizes that we strengthen our security through our membership of NATO. We strengthen our prosperity through organizations like the G7 and the G20. And I believe the UK strengthens both our collective security and prosperity through the EU … I think it’s fair to say that maybe at some point down the line there might be a UK–US trade agreement but it’s not going to happen any time soon, because our focus is in negotiating with a big bloc – the European Union – to get a trade agreement done. And the UK is going to be in the back of the queue. Not because we don’t have a special relationship, but because, given the heavy lift on any trade agreement, us having access to a big market, with a lot of countries, rather than trying to do piecemeal trade agreements, is hugely more efficient.

  President Obama made his comments at a morning press conference in London, standing next to David Cameron. Gail Ransome was due to give a speech to the Coventry and Warwickshire Chamber of Commerce that evening, and when the latest draft came through from her researcher Damon late that afternoon, she saw that he had quoted the US president extensively.

  She couldn’t get hold of Damon at first. By the time they managed to talk on the telephone, Doug was home, watching Channel 4 News in the sitting room. Gail withdrew into the hallway and tried to block out the sound by cupping one hand over her ear.

  ‘The thing is,’ she was saying to Damon, ‘I’m not sure it’s going to play as well as you think.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s true. Yes, I know we both love Obama. But not everybody does.

  ‘Well, for the obvious reason, for one thing.

  ‘Don’t sound so shocked. It’s true, sadly.

  ‘I’ve just been looking at the reaction online, that’s all. A lot of people are very angry about the “back of the queue” line. They think it was staged, with Dave standing there next to him and the two of them looking all chummy. And they think it sounds like a threat.

  ‘Yes, precisely. All part of “Project Fear”.

  ‘No, I still want to mention it, but can you tone it down a bit maybe? Don’t mention the words “back of the queue”. And be as quick as you can because I have to leave in –’ she checked her watch ‘– twenty-five minutes.’

  Just as she was hanging up she heard Doug’s voice from the sitting room, shouting out the words ‘FUCKING HELL!’

  She came running in. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘They’re doing an item,’ he said, freeze-framing the picture and rewinding it a few seconds, ‘on the biggest donors to the Leave campaign. And look at this.’

  The screen was now frozen on the image of a doorway in what appeared to be a well-to-do district of central London. There were Greek columns on either side of the door and three men in suits were pictured coming down the steps of an impressive Georgian building. One of them had the gaunt, loose-skinned look of someone who used to be fat but has lost a lot of weight. His darting, watchful eyes were encircled by the round frames of an expensive pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, and he was entirely bald.

  ‘I was at school with that tosser,’ he said. ‘God, we all used to hate him! Still, he had the last laugh. Apparently he’s worth millions now.’

  ‘How much has he donated?’

  ‘Two million so far. I wonder what his ulterior motive is. The greedy, devious tosser.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Gail, squinting at the caption on the screen which announced his name, in capital letters, as ‘RONALD CULPEPPER (IMPERIUM FOUNDATION)’.

  *

  Monday, 9 May 2016

  There were nine of them around the pub table, squeezed together in what Benjamin considered to be uncomfortable proximity. He rather enjoyed being pressed up against Jennifer but was not so keen on her lanky colleague Daniel, seated to his right. They were there to celebrate the thirtieth birthday of Marina, one of the newest arrivals in Jennifer’s branch. He was beginning to regret coming, although Jennifer had been insistent that he did.

  The conversation consisted mainly of jokes and office gossip so he wasn’t listening too carefully. He had no idea what Daniel was replying to when he said, ‘Well, apparently, we’re all going to die anyway, if we leave the European Union,’ but the remark caught his attention. ‘What do you mean?’ somebody asked, and Daniel explained that in one of his campaign speeches David Cameron had claimed, according to some of this morning’s papers, that leaving the EU might lead to World War Three. Someone else said, ‘I don’t think that’s what he really meant. He just meant there’s been no war in Europe for a long time and that’s partly down to the EU,’ and Daniel said, ‘Well, that’s not what was reported in the papers,’ and Benjamin said:

  ‘He was almost certainly misquoted.’

  His voice was so quiet that it was a miracle anyone heard him at all. But hear him they did, and because these were virtually the first words spoken by this shy, grey-haired stranger all evening, everyone around the table stopped to listen. Seeing that he suddenly had the floor, Benjamin hesitated, then cleared his throat and added:

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you say. The papers are only interested in getting a story out of it. And if the story isn’t strong enough, they’ll make it stronger. Any figure in public life who talks to the media does so at their own peril. I know, because this is what happened to me. I don’t have much time for David Cameron normally but I sympathize with him in this case. It’s not easy, being in the public eye.’

  After this speech had been delivered and the conversation had moved on, Jennifer squeezed his arm and when he turned to look at her he saw that she was smiling, and her eyes shone in a way that was teasing but affectionate. ‘ “Being in the public eye”!’ she said. ‘You’re so sweet.’ She kissed him on the mouth. Her lips were moist and tasted of red wine. ‘Love you, Tiger.’

  She stood up to go to the toilet, squeezing past the others as best she could. Benjamin pondered her words. ‘Love you.’ On the one hand, this could be momentous: she might actually have been declaring her love for him, for the first time. But then surely she would have said ‘I love you.’ Wasn’t ‘Love you’ something altogether more commonplace, a mere formula, a shorthand way of saying that you were fond of someone? Benjamin didn’t understand.

  Jennifer had left her phon
e behind. It buzzed while lying on the table in front of him so he picked it up and saw that she had a text message:

  Can make Thursday if that would suit. Robert xx

  He didn’t really understand that, either. Who was Robert? Afterwards, she told him that he was a former client who had since become a friend. So that was probably all right.

  *

  Wednesday, 11 May 2016

  Sohan was sitting on the sofa, wearing only a T-shirt. His legs were spread and Mike’s head was resting on his bare thigh. Mike was staring with fondness at Sohan’s still-flaccid penis, flicking it occasionally to make it stir. Then he kissed it and took it in his mouth.

  Meanwhile, on the television screen, Boris Johnson was down in Cornwall launching the Leave campaign’s battle bus. This involved addressing the cameras while standing with a pint of fine Cornish ale in one hand, in front of a big red bus with some statistics painted on it. In this attitude, the Conservative MP for Uxbridge and South Ruislip radiated his trademark air of self-mocking bonhomie which the British public seemed to find so endearing, although today, as always, it set Sohan’s teeth on edge.

  ‘Three hundred and fifty million pounds for the NHS?’ he said. ‘Yeah – in your dreams, BoJo.’

  ‘Can you turn that thing off?’ Mike said. ‘I’m planning to put a lot of effort into this. Your full attention would be appreciated.’

  Johnson was now telling his interviewer that the next country to join the EU would be Turkey, with the consequence that millions of Muslim men and women would soon have unrestricted access to the United Kingdom.

  Sohan snorted.

  ‘Bollocks!’ he said.

  ‘All right,’ said Mike, and began licking his left testicle. ‘But you could at least have said please.’

  *

  Sunday, 15 May 2016

  ‘Are you cold?’ Benjamin asked.