by Jonathan Coe
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?’
‘Almost three months.’
He turned back and stared after the car, still lost for words.
‘In fact,’ said Lois. ‘Her due date is the end of March. The twenty-ninth.’
His heart thumping, his spirits soaring as the news gradually permeated his weary, addled consciousness, Benjamin raised his arm at the receding car and began to wave in quick frantic movements. But his niece was not looking back. Her eyes were fixed on the road ahead as she accelerated down the lane, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on her swollen belly: home, for now, to Sophie and Ian’s tentative gesture of faith in their equivocal, unknowable future: their beautiful Brexit baby.
Author’s Note
This story features a number of characters from my novel The Rotters’ Club, a book which already has a sequel, called The Closed Circle. For many years I had no intention of continuing the series, but in 2016 two things conspired to change my mind.
Firstly, I went to see Richard Cameron’s fine dramatization of The Rotters’ Club at the Birmingham Rep. Richard’s take on the book, and the brilliant performances of the young cast, made me see that the original novel had a central feature I’d never noticed before, and had certainly never pursued in The Closed Circle: namely, the love between Benjamin Trotter and his sister Lois.
Secondly, the novelist Alice Adams spoke so warmly in an online i
nterview about The Closed Circle that I felt compelled to contact her. I’d never considered the novel a particular success so it was intriguing to me that she should count it among her favourites. We corresponded, then met, and her enthusiasm persuaded me that I should revisit these abandoned characters. At the same time I was discussing with my editor at Penguin, Mary Mount, the possibility of a novel based around the Brexit referendum, and I soon began to feel that I could only approach the subject by resurrecting – and adding to – The Rotters’ Club cast.
All of these people, therefore, played a crucial role in bringing this novel into being. I’d also like to thank Fiona Fylan (for helpful background information on speed-awareness instructors); Ralph Pite, Paul Daintry and Caroline Hennigan (for being encouraging readers of the book when it was only half-written); Charlotte Stretch (for being one of the first and best readers of the finished version, not to mention years of supportive friendship); Andrew Hodgkiss, Robert Coe and Julie Coe (for offering me secluded bolt-holes in which to write); and, for various invaluable forms of help and inspiration, Steve Swannell, Aneeqa Munir, Vanessa Guignery, Michele O’Leary, Michael Singer, Peter Cartwright, Catherine Poust, Andrew Brewerton, Anne Philippe Besson, Julia Jordan, Philippe Auclair and Judith Hawley.
Late in 2016, at an auction for the charity Freedom from Torture, Emily Shamma bid to have a character in the book named after her, and Samuel Morton of Freedom for Torture subsequently sent me a message about the origins of Emily’s name. I’m grateful to Emily for making the bid – and for having such an interesting name: I hope she likes what I’ve done with it.
The characters of Lionel Hampshire and Hermione Dawes first appeared in my story ‘Canadians Can’t Flirt’, included in the anthology Tales from a Master’s Notebook (Jonathan Cape, 2018). My thanks to Philip Horne for commissioning the story, and to the ghost of Henry James for inspiring it.
Many of the details in Chapters 9 and 10 are taken from Mad Mobs and Englishmen?: Myths and Realities of the 2011 Riots, by Cliff Stott and Steve Reicher (Robinson, 2011).
Most of the ‘Merrie England’ section was written in Marseille, during a residency funded by the literary organization La Marelle. I’d like to thank Pascal Jourdana for inviting me to that city, and for the friendship that followed; and also Fanny Pomarède for providing me with such a warm and welcoming space in which to write those early chapters.
Last, but not least, my thanks go to Tony Peake: my agent for almost thirty years, my dear friend for just as long, a superb reader and critic, a generous man in every way, without whose unfailing loyalty and support this book – and most of my others – would not even exist.
THE BEGINNING
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First published 2018
Copyright © Jonathan Coe, 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Jacket image © The National Railway Museum/Science and Society Picture Library
Photo © Bridgeman Images
Author photograph © Caroline Irby
ISBN: 978-0-241-98132-0
