Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  “But I bet you’ve got a smashing house.”

  “I, err, I’m staying with friends in Nelson Close at the moment. I’ve not long come back from working in America.”

  Her face lights up.

  “I did a bit of cleaning for a family in Nelson Close. What number?”

  Oh, shit.

  I take a long sip of my drink to buy a few seconds. No, it can’t be the same house as I can’t imagine Alice using a cleaner — she’s too house proud to delegate her domestic duties.

  “Sixteen.”

  “Ah, I cleaned number nine. It was a gorgeous house. You’ll never guess what they had in the bathroom.”

  “Err, no idea.”

  “They had this extra sink that looked like a loo.”

  “A bidet.”

  “Ohh, of course you’d know. What’s a bidet for then?”

  “Washing your posterior. They’re commonplace in most European countries.”

  “Your what?”

  “Your backside. You do your business on the toilet and then use the bidet to … clean up.”

  A horrified Gwen slaps a hand across her mouth.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “Dear God … I was just thirsty … and it looked like some kind of posh drinking fountain.”

  Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh.

  “Ohh.”

  “What must you think of me?”

  Still biting my lip, I take a second to compose myself.

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Gwen. It’s an easy mistake.”

  “I feel sick.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. People rarely use them for their intended purpose.”

  “You think?”

  “I do.”

  She breathes a little easier.

  “Notwithstanding the bidet incident, wouldn’t you like to own a house like that one day?”

  “Course I would but it ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Never say never. Doesn’t Vernon have ambitions?”

  “Yeah: a tidy home, his dinner on the table, and a bit of ‘how’s your father’ whenever he fancies it.”

  “A bit of what?”

  “You know,” she says coyly. “Marital … what’s the word? Um, obligations?”

  “Ohh. Gotcha.”

  “He ain’t like you. He’s happy with his lot in life.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m here, ain’t I?”

  “So, going back to what you said earlier, don’t you want to become a model and fulfil those dreams?”

  “It’s a lovely thought, but Vernon wouldn’t have it and I can’t divorce him.”

  Time to give that seed a little fertiliser.

  “Don’t get a divorce then. Just leave him.”

  “You what?”

  “Go somewhere he can’t find you — somewhere you can fulfil your dreams.”

  “Like where?”

  “London.”

  Her mouth bobs open as if I’d just suggested she relocates to San Francisco or Sydney rather than our capital city.

  “London,” she parrots.

  Unless movies and television have lied, London is where the sixties really are swinging. Out here in the suburbs, it’s barely a sway.

  “Yes. It’s where all the top agencies are based.”

  “But, I’ve never even been there.”

  “What? You’ve never been to London?”

  “Never.”

  “It’s less than an hour away on the train but a million miles away from this place. The opportunities for a girl like you are boundless.”

  “But that don’t solve the problem. I’ll still be married to Vernon and I ain’t got no reason to divorce him. He might be a pig sometimes and he’s too fond of his beer, but he ain’t ever cheated.”

  “It might be argued you have a case on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour.”

  “I dunno what that means.”

  “It means you can get a divorce if your partner is abusive or drinks excessively. Nobody should feel trapped in an unhappy marriage.”

  “How do you know all this legal stuff?”

  “I’ve, err, spent a lot of time watching lawyers at work.”

  True, on Netflix.

  Gwen stares at her empty glass. With her expression blank, I can only hope my advice is sinking in.

  “Why don’t you have a think and I’ll get another round in.”

  “Yeah, okay. Ta.”

  I skip to the bar and order another gin and tonic, and a pint of Carlsberg served with a light dusting of cigarette ash. The barmaid is far from happy when I point it out and pours another pint into the same glass. I hand over my last crown.

  Back at the table, Gwen is still deep in thought.

  “Penny for them,” I comment, passing her the refilled glass.

  “They ain’t worth a penny.”

  “I’m sure they are. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “My head is all over the place.”

  “Okay, so break it down to two simple questions you need to ask yourself. First, can you see yourself growing old and happy with Vernon?”

  “Old, maybe. Happy, I don’t think so.”

  “In which case, are you prepared to do something about it?”

  “I already told you I ain’t got no money so even if I wanted to leave him, I can’t.”

  “I can help you with money.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because one day you’ll pay me back … when you’re a rich, successful model living in a lovely house.”

  Ignoring my own financial plight, I know from experience the polarising effects of hope. During those dark times post-Gemma, depression robbed me of all hope and I wandered through the days in a suffocating fog of despondency. Therapy taught me you only need a sliver of hope to cling to and that’s all I need to offer Gwen.

  “You’d help me?”

  “Absolutely. And I promise you there’s no ulterior motive other than helping you improve your life.”

  “So, you’re like a Good Smat … Sarm …”

  “Samaritan. Yes; that’s exactly what I am.”

  With that, I sit back in my chair — phase one complete.

  Now, I need to give Gwen a little time to digest it. Phase two will require the two of us getting on a train to London so I can show her around. I still remember the first time I visited our capital and I’m sure Gwen will find it equally exhilarating. It should be enough to seal the deal and all she has to do is pack a suitcase and walk away from Cumberland Street.

  Once she’s settled into a bedsit, I can get on with organising interviews with modelling agencies. I may know nothing about modelling but I do know how agencies work.

  Everything now hinges on hope. Mine; that Gwen is brave enough to leave Vernon. Hers; that there is a better life on offer here.

  29.

  I was born on Friday the thirteenth so I don’t subscribe to the superstition it’s unlucky. My parents might have a different opinion.

  This Friday the thirteenth is only twenty minutes old but thus far, all signs point towards positive. I used the outside loo this morning without being attacked by arachnids, and if Facebook were currently a thing I’m sure Gwen would have already messaged to offer her thanks for last night.

  After we finished our drinks, I made an excuse about needing to be somewhere else. I could have stayed for another but asking Gwen to pay would have blown my credibility so I walked her home instead. I left her on the corner of Cumberland Street with a promise we’ll meet up again next week to talk further. The first green shoots should have broken the soil by that point.

  I estimate three weeks will be sufficient time for the plan to reach fruition — for Gwen to leave Vernon and start afresh in London. In this era, with no technology at his disposal, the chances of finding her will be negligible and he’ll settle into the miserable life he should be leading. The timeline will re-set and I’ll be out of here.

  In the meantime, today i
s payday and I’m off to the cinema with Jan this evening. Perhaps not the most exciting night out but I’m looking forward to a few hours of normality. I’ve only been here a week but I already feel so disconnected with my previous life, a trip to the cinema is welcome. Granted, the cinema will probably be a dump but The Italian Job is a classic movie and at least I won’t have to pay eight quid for a thimble of popcorn.

  After a breakfast of grilled kippers and the doorstep departure ritual, George and I set off for another day at the Morland Court Hotel. We arrive to find all the staff and guests congregated in the car park.

  “Wonder what’s going on?” I shout over the engine.

  “Probably the new fire alarm playing up. The sparky was working on it yesterday when we left.”

  We park up and make for the tradesman’s entrance, only to find it locked up. George isn’t impressed. I follow him to the front of the hotel so we can find out what’s going on.

  “Wait here,” he orders, after spotting the duty manager attempting to coral guests out of the main entrance. “I’ll go have a word.”

  Glad of the opportunity to avoid work, I lean up against a wall and watch the chaos unfold. There must be seventy or eighty people shuffling around in various states of confusion. However, it isn’t their confusion which strikes me — it’s their skin tone. Much like when I first wandered the streets and noticed what was missing from the scene, the same could be said of this crowd. There’s not a single person of colour amongst them. Come to think of it, I can’t recall seeing or engaging with anyone other than Caucasians in all the time I’ve been here.

  I realise I’m looking at the kind of Britain some extremist groups want back.

  “Just a false alarm,” George calls out as he strides over. “Five minutes and we can get in.”

  “Right,” I mumble.

  “What’s up? Kippers giving you indigestion?”

  “No, just thinking about that lot,” I remark, nodding towards the crowd.

  “What about them?”

  “Can you see anyone who isn’t white?”

  He takes a cursory glance and shrugs.

  “No. So what?”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd?”

  “No, not really. Maybe Enoch’s speech scared them off home.”

  “Who’s Enoch?”

  “Enoch Powell. You’ve heard of him?”

  “The name rings a bell but I can't place it.”

  “Maybe the news didn’t hit America but he upset a few people last year with his Rivers of Blood speech.”

  “Why, what did he say?”

  “In a nutshell, he said the country had gone literally mad allowing migrants in, as … what did he say … they lacked the standards of discipline and competence required of the native-born worker. Folks were discussing it in the pubs for months. Some said he was talking nonsense, but plenty agreed with him.”

  “Christ. Is he the head of some militant right-wing group?”

  “No, he’s a Member of Parliament.”

  “Wait … what? He still is a member of Parliament … after saying something so bigoted?”

  “Yes, although that’s your opinion, lad. Anyway, why the sudden interest in coloureds?”

  “People of colour.”

  “Eh?”

  “They’re not coloureds, they’re people of colour.”

  “That’s what I said, and I’ll tell you something for nothing — there’s plenty who call them worse names than that.”

  “I’m sure there are, and those people have a name too — racists.”

  George puffs a tired sigh.

  “What is it with you, lad? First women, and now you’re getting your knickers in a twist over the coloureds.”

  I’m about to correct George again when I stop myself — this isn’t Twitter. Whatever the social injustices of this era are — and I’m starting to realise there’s a few — arguing them with my boss and landlord isn’t likely to change a thing, other than my employment and housing status.

  “Ignore me. I think I’m missing the debating society at Uni.”

  “Aye, reckon you are. If you want to debate the world’s ills, have a chat with that daughter of mine. She’s usually got an opinion, and not always a welcome one.”

  “The youth of today, eh?”

  “You said it, lad.”

  As the crowd mills back into the hotel, George glances at his watch.

  “Come on. We’ve already lost ten minutes.”

  The fire alarm triggers three more times throughout the day and we lose almost an hour loitering around while the electrician tries to fix the problem. Ordinarily, I’d welcome any opportunity to skive but after the second false alarm, I share George’s frustration at the delays. It seems unfair he still has to pay me to stand around and do nothing because someone else hasn’t done their job properly. I guess the trade-off of being your own boss is you can’t have the gains without swallowing a few losses along the way.

  When five o’clock rolls around, it seems only fair to suggest I work an extra half-hour. George appears to appreciate my willingness to make up for lost time, but minutes later the alarm goes off a fourth time. We call it a day.

  The journey back to Nelson Close doesn't follow our usual route.

  “Why are we going this way?” I yell.

  “It’s Friday. We always have fish and chips on a Friday.”

  After our detour to the chip shop, we arrive back at the house and Alice greets us at the door. George hands over the bag containing our dinner and it’s served on plates in the dining room. Only after we've finished eating do I learn my dinner came wrapped in yesterday's newspaper. Try as I might, I cannot get rid of a certain image: someone sat on the toilet, casually flicking through that newspaper whilst taking a shit.

  Feeling a little queasy, I retreat to the caravan. I don’t wish to stereotype but experience tells me Jan might be a while in the bathroom getting ready for our trip to the cinema. With nothing better to do while I wait my turn, I consider having a quick nap.

  That plan is scuppered by a knock at the door.

  “Come in.”

  George enters.

  “Payday, lad.”

  He hands me a small brown envelope.

  “You’ve put in a half-decent shift at work so, as a gesture, I haven’t deducted the advance I gave you. You can start paying housekeeping next week.”

  “That’s much appreciated.”

  With Gwen’s exit strategy to fund, it truly is.

  “I hear you’re off out this evening with our Jan.”

  “Um, yes … to the cinema.”

  “You look after her.”

  “Of course.”

  “What time will you be back?”

  “I’m not sure. Jan never said what time the film starts.”

  “Well, me and the wife won’t be back until eleven.”

  “Oh, you’re off out too?”

  “Aye, to the club.”

  “You’re, um, going clubbing?”

  “The British Legion Club.”

  “Ahh, right. Have a good time.”

  “Will do.”

  George departs and I savour the moment; opening my first ever pay packet. Inside, I find four notes printed with a bluish ink and featuring the face of a young Queen Elizabeth. Beyond the novelty factor, the notes represent five days of blood, sweat, and toil — the hardest five days of work I’ve ever endured. It’s only twenty quid but I confess I’m proud to have earned every last penny.

  I allow myself a self-satisfied smile and set Jan’s alarm clock to go off after thirty minutes. Time for that well-earned nap.

  After what feels like two minutes, the alarm clock rings. I get up, grab the only two clean items of clothing I possess, and return to the house.

  In the hallway, I call up the stairs to see if Jan has finished in the bathroom. She emerges from the lounge dressed in a smock-type dress not too dissimilar to the one Gwen wore last night; although Jan’s dress is patterned
with swirling colours and an inch or two longer.

  “I’m ready. The bathroom is all yours.”

  “Thanks. You look …”

  I scrabble for an appropriate word.

  “I look?”

  “Err, pleasant.”

  I inwardly cringe. Of all the adjectives I could have chosen, I decide on one best used to describe the weather.

  Jan tucks a strand of coffee-coloured hair behind her ear and her blue eyes widen.

  “Gee, thanks,” she replies, indignant. “How kind of you to say so.”

  “You’re, err, welcome. I’ll go get ready.”

  I scuttle up to the bathroom and enjoy a ten minute soak in tepid water. If I didn't know better, I'd say Jan used all the hot water as pre-emptive revenge.

  Back downstairs, I pop my head around the lounge door where Jan and Alice are watching television, and George is reading the wrapping for tomorrow’s fish and chips.

  “All set?” I ask.

  “Yep.”

  Jan kisses her parents goodbye and I reiterate my promise to look after her. Seeing as I’m heading into uncharted territory, I suspect it’ll be the other way around.

  Once we’re outside, the question of transport occurs.

  “How are we getting there?” I ask.

  “Do you have a car?”

  “Err, you know I don’t.”

  “Looks like we’re walking then.”

  “I could order an Uber … I mean a cab.”

  “An Uber?”

  “It's a kind of cab company. American.”

  “Oh, okay. Anyway, it’s a lovely evening for a stroll … some might even call it pleasant.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I chuckle. “Point taken. Sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. Come on.”

  We set off, and within the first fifty yards Jan takes my arm like we’re strolling along the seafront in an old black and white movie. Awkward at first but it settles into pleasantly normal.

  “How’s it going then?” she asks, as we walk. “Working with Dad.”

  “Not too bad. It’s a million miles away from my former career but there’s a sense of satisfaction to it.”

  “Careful, Toby. You almost sound like you’re enjoying it.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far but your dad … he’s okay.”

  “He’s a good man. Set in his ways but he looks after us.”

  “Aren’t all parents set in their ways? Seems to come with the job.”