Two Tribes

by Chris Beckett

  Richard studied his face. He could tell that Harry was annoyed and Harry felt each taut muscle in his cheeks and jaw being noted and coolly evaluated. ‘What have our jobs got to do with our political views?’ the actuarial consultant asked him. ‘We both welcome diversity. We’re against sexism and racism and homophobia. We want the brightest and best to be able to get on and succeed, regardless of their background. We believe in decent public services. We believe in helping people fleeing from wars and persecution and not treating them like criminals.’

  ‘Of course. Which certainly makes us both liberals, at the very least.’

  Richard gave the kind of shrug that means ‘so my point is made!’ and then glanced at his watch. He was beginning to get bored. ‘Karina and I have been talking of putting together a sort of discussion group to try to think about what went wrong and how we can prevent this kind of thing from happening again. We’ve got some good people who have expressed an interest: politicians, business people, academics. We’re both crazily busy at the moment so it may be a while before it happens, but do you fancy coming along? It would be good to have someone there with your take on things.’

  By this point, Harry had assumed that Richard had rather written him off so, while he didn’t like the idea of the group – he imagined a lot of loud voices and accents ramped up to maximum poshness – he was flattered and reassured to have been asked. ‘That sounds way too high-powered for me, Richard! I’m basically just a bloke who draws up plans for kitchen extensions.’

  Richard shrugged. ‘Well, it’s up to you.’

  ‘I think I’ll pass. It’s just not my kind of thing. But thanks.’

  ‘No worries.’ Richard showed no sign of being troubled by the rejection, as Harry probably would have been in his position. ‘I’m going to head off now. Thanks for the game, mate.’

  *

  ‘Michelle didn’t actually say anything derogatory about Poles,’ Harry writes in his diary. ‘She just said she didn’t want them taking work from her brother. Now, of course I know she’s wrong about that. I know that all the studies have shown that migrants make a—’

  He breaks off in mid-sentence. ‘Well, I don’t know that, come to think of it, because actually I’ve never seen any of those studies. I’ve just heard people around me assert their existence and have duly asserted their existence myself. Which is interesting because I’m guessing Michelle also relies on what everyone around her says. So it’s not really accurate to say that my assumptions are based on evidence while hers are based on prejudice. We’re both just repeating things we’ve been told.’

  I don’t know where he’s writing this. (It makes no difference, of course, but sometimes I just want to know.) Quite likely he’s in bed, because he often writes his diary there. But perhaps he’s sitting at his dining table or on a sofa.

  ‘When I think about it,’ he says, ‘I can see how, at first glance, it might seem that immigrants take away jobs, but it does also seem fairly obvious why that’s a fallacy. Because immigrants don’t just add to the supply of labour, they also add to the demand for it by paying taxes and spending the money they earn.’

  I don’t think he’s in bed yet. He’s mentioned a few times lately that he finds it hard to make himself go to bed, that his bed seems a dauntingly lonely place, and that he often stays up far too late, fiddling with his phone. I visualize him sitting at a small dining table with the notebook open in front of him and a mug of tea next to him at one end of his flat’s combined kitchen and living room, his double-glazed windows shutting out the night sounds of the city to create a strange, dead, hermetic silence that’s quite unlike the quietness of the Suffolk countryside or of Michelle’s forest. I picture him sucking the end of his pen as he sits there, considering what he’s just written and trying to decide what to say next. He’s still dressed, as I see him. It’s well past midnight and he’s very tired, but his mind is too restless to shut down.

  ‘I’m pretty sure that must be true on a national scale,’ he writes, ‘but I can’t see that it necessarily applies locally. I mean, if, say, Polish builders were to increase by 50 per cent the number of builders in Breckham, that won’t necessarily increase the demand for builders in the area by 50 per cent, will it? It must be possible to have a glut of a particular trade, just as it’s possible to have the shortages we’re always hearing about. And, I don’t know, obviously, but perhaps Poles are willing to work for less than British builders? They come from a poorer country, after all. Isn’t that one of the reasons we’re all so keen on these Eastern European tradesmen? They’re willing to do more for less. Maybe in Breckham, Polish builders really are making it harder for people like her brother to earn as good a living as they did before.’

  He draws a double line across the page here, as he usually does at the end of an entry. But then, perhaps after another pause and more pen sucking, he writes something else:

  ‘I’m very very keen to exonerate her, aren’t I? I’m working very hard to make her someone I can like again. And yet whether or not I like her isn’t the question, is it? The question is whether I’ve got anything to offer her? Or her me, for that matter. And the answer on both counts is still no, isn’t it, even if she isn’t such a terrible racist? We might have got on well in bed, but that’s only a part of life, however heavenly, and really and truly it’s a small one.

  ‘I’ve got an unmet need, obviously, but it’s not her I need, no matter what my stupid heart tells me. What I need is a new partner. All this thing has really done is shown me just how much I need that.’

  He draws another pair of lines, but then discovers he still hasn’t finished.

  ‘But I can’t stop thinking about her,’ he scrawls. I think he must have shut the notebook and pushed it aside, and then grabbed it back later to scribble down this one last thought that had suddenly struck him as urgent. ‘I’m forty-six years old, and way too old for this sort of thing, but, however stupid it might be, my heart just aches to see her and hear her and touch her.’

  TEN

  Charlie was clearing up after a poorly loaded truckload of straw. Jake came over to talk to him.

  ‘All right there, Charlie? I was wondering if you fancied a pint later in the week? I’d like you to meet a mate of mine. He’s a very political bloke, and I know he’d like to hear your thoughts on this Brexit business.’

  Charlie laughed. He was touched. ‘That’s nice of you, Jake, but I know fuck-all about politics and that.’

  ‘Me neither, Charlie, me neither, but he won’t mind that, I promise you. It’s hard to explain, but I promise you Gerald is something quite special. I’m sure as I can be that you’ll agree with me.’

  They met a few evenings later in the bar of the hotel on the market square. It had a red carpet, upholstered chairs and wood-panelled walls decorated with hunting prints and old cartoons from Punch. Charlie had never been there before. And Jake’s friend, rising courteously to his feet to shake hands, was unlike anyone he’d ever met in any social context: a man of about sixty with a full head of snow-white hair and a salt-and-pepper three-piece suit. Fussing in the background, Jake was clearly very much in awe of him.

  ‘Wonderful to meet you, Charlie,’ the old guy said. His accent was super-posh and, though he wasn’t particularly tall, he had considerable presence. His blue eyes fixed Charlie with a confident, open gaze of great intensity, he stood up very straight, and his dress and voice and demeanour all combined to signal authority of an old-fashioned kind which had a powerful magnetic pull. ‘I don’t know how much Jake has told you about me. My name is Gerald. Gerald Butler. My background is in the British Army, which is why some people call me the Colonel, and I had a second career in the City. But my preoccupation these days is the liberation of the United Kingdom.’

  He had stood to attention for these last words but then he laughed and relaxed, and gesturing to a seat, asked what Charlie would have to drink. Charlie was impressed by the fact that he didn’t go to the bar, as in a pub and as o
ther people seemed to be doing even here, but signalled to the barmaid to come over.

  ‘What I’m looking for,’ Gerald said, ‘and what I’m hoping you might want to help me with, is strong, fit, courageous young men, who would be willing, if necessary, obviously, to defend the decision made this year by the British people.’ He twinkled at Charlie across the table. ‘Are you in?’

  ‘I . . . um . . . ’

  The Colonel laughed good-naturedly. ‘Don’t worry, Charlie. I was pulling your leg a bit there. You’ve only just met me. Of course you want to know more before you commit yourself.’

  Charlie felt himself reddening. ‘Yeah. That’s the thing. It would be good to hear more and that.’

  ‘Absolutely. Very sensible. But may I first ask you a few things about yourself?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Jacob here tells me you feel very strongly about the Brexit vote?’

  ‘I suppose I do.’

  The barmaid came over to take the order. Gerald twinkled at her as well: ‘Thank you so much, Sarah.’ He turned back to Charlie. ‘And, if you don’t mind me asking, what do you normally vote in elections? Feel free to tell me to mind my own business!’

  ‘I’ve never voted before. Only the Brexit vote. I couldn’t be bothered, to be honest. They’re all the same, aren’t they?’

  ‘I wonder why you say that.’

  ‘I just don’t think it makes any difference who you vote for.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Whoever gets in, they’ll do what they want, won’t they? They’ll do what they want regardless and look after their own kind. None of them have got nothing to do with me. They don’t know me. They don’t know anyone like me.’

  Gerald considered this, frowning, his fingertips touching in front of his nose, as if Charlie had said something very profound indeed. ‘I understand,’ he said slowly. ‘At least, I think I understand. But the Brexit vote was different, you felt? Why was that, would you say?’

  ‘Well, I knew it would make a difference, didn’t I? I thought it would, anyway. If I voted Leave, we’d leave. That’s what I thought. Something would really happen.’

  ‘Something would happen, and you’d feel you had a part in it? That’s fascinating. The way you speak about it, it’s almost as if what was going to happen was secondary. No doubt you dislike the European Union, like any sensible Brit, but, if I’ve understood you correctly, you voted this time, more than anything, because you thought that it actually gave you a bit of power. And you liked the idea of that.’

  ‘He thought that,’ Jake growled, ‘but they’re trying to wriggle out of it now, aren’t they!’

  Gerald kept his focus on Charlie.

  ‘You voted for the very first time,’ he repeated meditatively, studying Charlie’s face all the while, ‘because you thought that, this time, your vote would actually change something. And being able to change things, being able to influence events, is, when you think about it, the very definition of power.’

  ‘I suppose so, mate.’

  ‘A very famous man once remarked, “Revolutions are the festivals of the oppressed and exploited.” A nice phrase, I think, and very true. I think you’ve just put your finger on why.’

  Charlie had no idea what to say. Gerald twinkled at him. ‘Do you know who said that?’

  Charlie took a wild guess: ‘Winston Churchill?’

  Gerald laughed good-humouredly. ‘It should have been, my dear chap, and I wish it was, but actually it was Lenin. A perfectly dreadful fellow. Quite awful. The first communist dictator. But, credit where it’s due, “festivals of the oppressed” really is rather wonderful, don’t you agree? May I ask why you dislike the European Union?’

  Charlie was slightly panicked by the question. ‘Well . . . you know . . . because they tell our country what to do. People who aren’t British telling Britain what to do.’

  Gerald nodded. ‘So again it’s that feeling of decisions being made a long way away from people like you?’

  ‘Too right,’ Jake growled, but Gerald still remained focused on Charlie, his blue eyes fixed on Charlie’s face as he courteously waited for his response. Charlie squirmed in his seat a little. Being listened to was an unfamiliar experience and it turned out to be rather unnerving.

  ‘A long way away,’ Charlie said. ‘Yeah, that’s it. People I don’t know, a long way away.’

  The barmaid came over with their drinks: pints for Jake and Charlie, and for Gerald a little golden glass of sherry. ‘You’re an absolute star, Sarah!’ Gerald told her. He raised his tiny glass in a toast, and Charlie and Jake clunked their pints against it. ‘I’d join you in a pint myself,’ Gerald explained, ‘but unfortunately beer doesn’t like me at all these days.’ He grimaced comically and pointed to his stomach, then leant forward again to concentrate on Charlie.

  ‘But it’s not just foreigners we’re talking about here, is it? It’s people in London too. Have I got that right?’

  ‘That’s very true, mate.’

  Gerald nodded, his blue eyes watching Charlie’s face with a kind of intense but affectionate curiosity. ‘People in London who make fun of your sort of folk. People who you suspect don’t even like you, or, which is possibly worse, barely even notice your existence. People who dismiss the things you want, and say you’re wrong to even want them. Would any of those descriptions apply?’

  ‘All of them, mate.’

  ‘So London’s quite far enough away without bringing Brussels and Berlin into it. Am I right?’

  ‘Yeah, you are, mate. That’s spot on, as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘But then, just for once, and for whatever reason, those people in London, who never normally listen to you, said they were going to let you decide something. Call me a bitter and cynical old man, Charlie, but I don’t think they really wanted you to decide. They only pretended to because they assumed you’d vote the way they told you and then that would settle the matter. But be that as it may, they gave you a choice. And so, for the very first time in your life . . . Huzzah! Rat-a-tat! Ta-da-da!’ As he spoke, Gerald cheerfully mimed in turn the acts of cupping his hands to his mouth to cheer, beating out a drum roll, and blowing an imaginary trumpet, each one in his characteristic, upright military manner. ‘For the very first time in your life, you, Charles Higgins Esquire, went out and voted. Powerful stuff. And I really mean that, by the way. Don’t be put off by my frivolity. I hear stories like yours a lot, and I always find them very moving indeed. You took up their offer in good faith and you voted. And, for the first time ever, you really felt involved in a decision about the direction your country should go.’

  Charlie was moved too, as if he had never quite grasped until that moment what it was that he’d been part of. There were actually tears in his eyes, which he would have brushed away if it wasn’t that by doing so he’d call attention to them. ‘Yeah, mate, I was.’

  The Colonel reached over the table and patted him on the arm. ‘You’re moved too, I can see.’

  Charlie dabbed his eyes with an embarrassed laugh. ‘Sorry, mate. I sort of . . . ’

  ‘Don’t apologize! Good lord! Why on earth should you apologize? We chaps are allowed to have feelings too!’

  Alarmingly, tears still seemed to be forming in Charlie’s eyes. ‘Yeah, thank you, mate.’

  ‘And yet now, in spite of what they said, in spite of what you were promised, you’re beginning to feel that they’re going to wriggle out of it one way or another, just as Jake here was suggesting.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you really, really don’t want that to happen!’

  ‘No, mate, I don’t.’

  Gerald clapped his hands together in satisfaction. ‘Hurrah! Hold the front page! Gerald Butler and Charlie Higgins are in agreement!’

  Charlie laughed and Gerald laughed with him. ‘But seriously,’ Gerald told him, ‘I’m very pleased. You seem like a splendid chap and I’d be absolutely delighted to have you aboard.’

  ‘
Thank you, mate. I’m not sure what I can do, but you know . . . ’ Charlie tailed off.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Charlie. Let’s not worry too much about details at this point. I’m afraid I need to go in a minute, but what I want to suggest is that you and Jake come out for a little gathering at my house with some of the other chaps I’ve been talking to, perhaps in a month or so, and we can talk a bit more. You’d not be committing yourself to anything obviously, but I’d be so pleased if you came along.’

  He stood up. Always polite, Charlie attempted to stand as well, but Gerald gestured that there was no need, and grasped his hand in a strong, dry grip. ‘It’s been absolutely lovely to meet you, Charlie. Now, let me just catch the eye of the wonderful Sarah there and organize another round for you two chaps. Ah, there she is. Splendid. I will bid you both farewell then, and look forward very much to welcoming you to my home.’

  ‘What do you reckon, Charlie?’ Jake wanted to know.

  ‘Nice bloke,’ Charlie said. ‘Treats you with respect, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Doesn’t he, though? As posh as you like, but no airs and graces at all. He really gets people like us. I think it’s from the army. Officers and men side by side. He was a war hero, you know. He won a medal in the Falklands. One of his men was wounded and Gerald fetched him back to safety under Argie machine-gun fire.’

  Charlie was impressed. He loved war films. He collected military insignia. He liked to look at pictures of tanks and guns. ‘He listens, doesn’t he? He doesn’t tell you what you ought to think.’

  ‘I know. Wait till you see his house, though, mate. You won’t believe it. It’s a stately home, Charlie! I’m not kidding you. Tudor, I think he said it was. Or Elizabethan. Anyway, it’s a great big brick place out in Breckham St Mary and it’s as big the rest of the village put together. You know they used to talk about “the lord of the manor”? Well, that’s him! That’s only our mate Gerald. He’s the lord of the manor of Breckham St fucking Mary!’