Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  Alas, the prejudice isn’t just limited to the television screen either. Whilst chatting to Jan one evening we got onto the subject of women’s rights — or more specifically — their lack of rights. I became incandescent when Jan informed me her male colleagues earned almost double what she earned; and for jobs which required far less skill or training. I could tell it irritated Jan but what could she do? Here, a single woman is worth a fraction of a single man when it comes to pay and employment rights.

  I already know life gets no fairer for a woman once married, but I didn’t know a wife had to get her husband’s permission to open a bank account, or sign a hire agreement, or take out a loan. As for a mortgage; forget it.

  Actually, getting a mortgage full stop is bloody difficult, according to George. Houses might be cheaper but lending sources are limited and you still need a clean credit history and a ten percent deposit — neither of which I have. Then there’s the interest rate. When Gemma and I looked into buying, the interest rate was half a percent but today it’s almost twenty times that. Yes, the housing stock is more affordable if you can get a mortgage, but the monthly interest payments are much higher.

  If I’m to find a place of my own, it looks like I’ll be following the masses and, like the Kirbys, renting from the council. That is easier but whilst council properties are plentiful and waiting lists short, the housing on offer leaves a lot to be desired, as I discovered after a visit to the housing department. The shiny new homes provide better facilities with inside toilets and central heating, but they’re all located on sprawling estates and tower blocks with little or no outside space or communal amenities. I know what the future holds for the residents of those estates and it’s not a future I want.

  With the prospect of home ownership as distant as it is in my day, my only hope is to work hard and save harder. I’m already on that case.

  I managed to fix Mrs Bannerman’s tap without incident; with the reward being let loose on smaller jobs after we completed our contract at the Morland Court Hotel. I’ve changed washers, replaced taps, and repaired leaky pipes; all basic stuff, but each a new experience. There is something to be said about being welcomed into a customer’s home and receiving genuine gratitude for a job well done. The customers don’t argue they haven’t got the result they were expecting nor do I have to justify what I did. There are no reports to compile, no data to sift through, and no protracted strategies. The tap leaked; now it doesn’t. Job done.

  In recognition of my work, I am now officially employed by George in what is essentially an apprenticeship. However, whilst George might be a dab hand with a monkey wrench, he’s hopeless when it comes to marketing his business. His weakness proved to be my opportunity.

  Obviously there’s not much demand for Internet-specific marketing in this era but the core principles of marketing are no different as consumers are no different. I’m therefore able to bring something to the table beyond my limited plumbing skills. I’ve rewritten the copy for the postcards George places in various shop windows, and convinced him to run a discount voucher scheme in the local newspaper. If I tried the same strategies at Red Rocket, they’d be considered old hat but those strategies are cutting edge in this period, and the work diary has never been busier according to Alice.

  I leave the path and cross the dewy grass. The view is different now; not least because it was dark the last time I came here, but now I can see the grassy hillock rising up to the rear of the park. The difference in my fitness between then and now is telling as I scoot up the hill without breaking breath.

  The view from the hill is of an unfamiliar skyline. I’ve come to terms with the fact this might be the same town I grew up in, but so much of it is different, as are the people who live here. What hasn’t changed are the generational differences. The older generation still forget they were once young and idealistic, and the younger generation still treat the views of their elders with an unhealthy amount of contempt. If, in some twisted scenario George happened to be in a pub with the youthful version of my dad, I’d wager the generational differences would still be an issue but the tables would be turned — Dad would be making the same arguments I made throughout my youth. That thought raises a rueful smile.

  Behind me, there is no gazebo — the fateful location of my tryst with Kayla. It still feels strange being here though. In this very spot one decision sent my life spinning off in a direction I could never have predicted. That life is now unrecognisable from the one I left behind, and if I live to pension age, I’ll have lived more of my life in the past than I did in the future. Furthermore, at some point beyond the late-eighties, my future will become my former past. I try not to think about that too much as it’s a headache-inducing paradox. The how and why of my situation are no longer relevant. I am where I am, and I need to make the best of it.

  That mission starts today.

  34.

  I arrive back at Nelson Close just after nine and let myself in the front door.

  “Morning,” I call out.

  “We’re in here, love,” Alice calls back.

  I wander through to the dining room where George and Alice are eating breakfast at the table.

  “Yours is in the oven keeping warm. Sit down and I’ll go fetch it.”

  I could argue I’m more than capable of getting my own breakfast but it’s an argument I’ve lost too many times already. Alice’s role in the house is to mother, and I’ve given up trying to undermine that job. She scoots off to the kitchen.

  “Nice walk?” George asks.

  “Cathartic.”

  “In English?”

  “It means I managed to get a few things straight in my head. Bit of a mental spring-clean.”

  “You kids,” he huffs. "We never had such nonsense when I was a lad.”

  “Maybe not, but you did have the Black Death and The Great Fire of London to contend with.”

  “Cheeky bugger,” he chuckles.

  Alice returns with my breakfast — a proper full-English — and puts the plate down in front of me.

  “Thank you.”

  We all set about our breakfasts; all bar one person.

  “Where’s Jan?” I ask.

  “She’ll be down in a minute, love. I think she’s got a gippy tummy.”

  With our relationship still a secret, I have to tread the fine line between concern and casual indifference.

  “Right. I hope it's nothing serious.”

  “She’ll be fine. Eat up.”

  I’ve almost finished my breakfast by the time Jan finally joins us.

  “How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Alice asks.

  “I’m fine, Mum. I must have eaten something which didn’t agree with me.”

  George rolls his eyes and then looks across at me.

  “What’s that turn of phrase you use, lad?”

  “Too much information?”

  “Aye, that’s the one.”

  Jan nibbles at a slice of toast for five minutes before it’s time to leave. Church beckons.

  George and Alice head out to the car while I hold back in the kitchen with Jan as she washes her hands.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask in a low voice.

  “Honestly, I’m fine. I think it’s just nerves.”

  “It’ll be okay … they’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

  “I know, I know. I just want them to be happy for us.”

  “And I’m sure they will be, but I love you, and you love me. That’s all that matters, right?”

  “It is, but life will be a lot easier if they give us their blessing. I hate sneaking around behind their backs; stealing an hour here and an hour there.”

  “So do I, babe.”

  I lean in and snatch a quick kiss.

  “Come on, we can’t keep Father O’Connor waiting. Besides, if ever there was a time for prayers, this is it.”

  Jan responds with a nervous smile and we head out to the car.

  My plan — once we’ve got church
out of the way — is to take George and Alice out for lunch. It’s at that point Jan and I are going to come clean about our relationship. I’ve never sought parental approval in any previous relationship and don’t see it as a big deal, but as the weeks and days have gone by since we shared our first kiss, the pressure has taken its toll on Jan. It’s at times like this where I do miss my previous life — informing the world of a new relationship simply required an update to your Facebook status.

  We arrive at church and Jan fidgets throughout the entire service. At the end I avoid Father O’Connor so we can get away quickly.

  Two hours after leaving the house, we pull up outside the restaurant I’ve chosen for the deed. George and Alice accepted my invite on the pretence I wanted to thank them for their hospitality. They’re currently unaware their prawn cocktail will be served with a confession.

  I plumbed for a run-of-the-mill eatery which serves traditional British fare because of George’s aversion to anything even remotely foreign. I did finally manage to get Jan into the only Indian restaurant for miles but I don’t think we’ll be heading back anytime soon. She complained her korma was too spicy and the naan bread too sweet; and to make absolutely sure we'd never eat Indian food again, she threw it up the following morning.

  We head in to the restaurant.

  “This is very posh,” Alice comments. “I’m glad we’re wearing our Sunday best.”

  Alice’s declaration comes as no surprise. I’ve learnt there’s no popping out for a cheeky Nando’s as dining out is a rare treat and quite a formal affair.

  A waitress sees us to our table and I order a bottle of house white. George, however, insists on a pint of ale because he’s not keen on the French, or France, or anything remotely Gallic. Although it’s still six years away, I can probably guess which way he’ll vote in the European Communities referendum; although I’m not sure he’ll still be around for the re-run. I can guess what his views would be on Brexit.

  Everyone orders the soup for starters, and a traditional Sunday roast for mains. I decide to play safe and go with the majority — now is not the time to stray from the mainstream.

  We’re advised by the waitress our starters will be twenty minutes or so. Christ knows why it takes twenty minutes to pour soup into four bowls, but the delay at least gives us opportunity to reveal the reason we’re here. I turn to Jan and nod. She finds a weak smile; confirmation, I think.

  Here goes nothing.

  “Um, there is another reason I invited you both for lunch today.”

  George and Alice immediately pin their attention on my face. Alice returns a look of mild curiosity; George, indifference.

  “It’s about, well, um …”

  “It’s about Toby and I,” Jan interjects. “We’re courting.”

  This isn’t what we’d discussed. I’d planned a long speech in which I’d slowly ease them into the idea.

  The confession is met with silence. George looks deep in thought while Alice takes a long sip of wine.

  I glance to my right — Jan looks nervous, and that spikes my own anxiety. The continuing silence does not bode well.

  “Mum? Dad? Did you hear what I said?”

  George and Alice remain stony faced and look at one another. Slowly, they turn back to face us.

  “Courting, eh?” George finally replies, his tone indecipherable.

  He glares at me.

  “In my day, if you wanted to court a lass you had to prove you were worthy.”

  “Err, how?”

  “In true Yorkshire tradition, the suitor and the father would head out to the moor and have a bare-knuckle fist fight. The suitor could only continue the relationship if he won that fight.”

  “He … um, what?”

  “How does this afternoon sound, lad?”

  “I … eh? Are you kidding?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  He never looks like he’s kidding; even when he is.

  Horrified, I glance across at Alice. She appears to be biting her tongue; figuratively and literally.

  “Shall we say three o’clock sharp?” George adds. “There’s a film on at four I’d quite like to watch.”

  Alice’s shoulders begin to heave until she can’t hold back. The two of them then break out into raucous laughter.

  “Heaven help us,” George bawls. “You should see your face, lad.”

  Bastard.

  “Do you think we’re daft, or blind?” he continues; still chuckling away. “It’s bleeding obvious you two have been stepping out.”

  “Is it?” Jan asks. “I thought we were being discreet.”

  “A mother always knows,” Alice says. “You’ve had a glow about you these last few weeks.”

  “And, you’re okay with it?”

  “Well, I wish you’d told us sooner but we’ve discussed it and yes, we’re okay with it.”

  George finds a straight face and turns to me.

  “You do realise you’ll have to move out of the caravan? It wouldn’t be right for you to be living under the same roof out of wedlock.”

  Jan did warn me it’s not the done thing to live in sin; even if we’re not technically living in the same house. Forearmed is forewarned.

  “I totally understand. I’ll start looking for somewhere next week.”

  “Aye, I think that would be for the best. I know what you youngsters are like.”

  He might do, but he certainly doesn’t know what we got up to the weekend he and Alice went to Kent. I wasn’t expecting it but Jan, in her devil-may-care way, insisted I share her bed. It seemed churlish to refuse, considering we’re supposed to be in the midst of a sexual revolution. We revolted that night — many, many times. Unfortunately, there hasn’t been opportunity since.

  “Should I start shopping for a hat?” Alice asks.

  “Mum!” Jan coughs. “Give us a chance, will you? I think it’s a bit early to be making wedding plans.”

  “It’s never too early, young lady.”

  Alice makes a point. I was shocked to discover eighty-five percent of women are married before their twenty-fourth birthday. And as a guy, you’re considered a perennial bachelor if you’re not hitched by thirty. I’m already approaching over-the-hill status.

  “We’ll see where fate takes us,” I confirm to Alice.

  Our waitress conveniently returns to curtail any further marriage discussion.

  I feel like a nervy teenager for the rest of our lunch: surreptitiously holding Jan’s hand under the table and sneaking a quick kiss when her parents nip to the loo. I guess it’ll take some time for us to feel comfortable acting like a normal couple in front of George and Alice. Still, the worst part is over and we no longer have to hide our feelings for one another. There’s just the minor inconvenience of finding somewhere else to live, but it could have been much, much worse — I wouldn’t have fancied my chances in a fist fight with George.

  Despite our new relationship status, Alice still insists I sit in the front for the journey back to Nelson Close.

  After arriving home, Jan and I decide to go for a walk. With the onset of autumn and the changeable weather, it won’t be long before neither of us want to venture out so we might as well make the most of the sunny skies while we can. Besides, we have much to discuss.

  We head our separate ways to get changed before reconvening on the driveway.

  “All set?”

  “Yep.”

  I’ve now borrowed George’s Cortina half-a-dozen times and understand its quirks. The van, however, involved a much steeper learning curve. It’s bad enough the gearstick protrudes from the steering column rather than the floor, but selecting the correct gear is a game of chance; akin to stirring porridge with a rubber hose. Then there’s the size, the ponderous acceleration, the arse-clinchingly bad brakes, and the complete inability to see what’s going on behind you. Thankfully, I’ve never had to drive the bloody thing more than a mile or two.

  We set off towards Farthing Copse.r />
  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  “Relieved, and excited. We can finally start making plans.”

  “Plans, eh? Sounds ominous.”

  She playfully slaps my arm.

  “You know what I mean. Once you’ve got your own place, we can have a little privacy.”

  “Hmm, that depends on what I can afford. I’m not convinced I’ll be able to afford more than a room on what I earn.”

  “It would be great if you could get yourself a little flat. I’ll help pay the rent.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because …”

  “Don’t tell me you’re turning into my dad,” she huffs. “I’ll be spending time there so why shouldn’t I make a contribution?”

  It would be hypocritical of me to argue. When I lived with Gemma we split the rent and bills fifty-fifty so why should I treat Jan any differently?

  “No, I’m not regressing into your father. If you want to chip in, that would be great. I’d much rather we have our own space than share a house with train spotters and sex offenders.”

  Jan’s mild irritation quickly passes, and she giggles at my reply.

  “You’re so rude.”

  “You love my banter. Don’t deny it.”

  She leans over and plants a kiss on my cheek.

  “I do love your banter … almost as much as I love you.”

  We while away a couple of hours just ambling around Farthing Copse. It’s my fifth visit and I now understand why it’s so special to Jan — we’ve yet to bump into another soul so it feels like we’re the only humans on earth. It kind of breaks my heart to know the copse has been around for centuries but in a few decades time it will be reduced to almost nothing when the bulldozers arrive. That knowledge makes our time all the more special; for me at least.

  I suspect, when the time arrives, I’ll be leading the protest to stop the redevelopment. Whether the future is set in stone, I don’t know, but it would be criminal not to try — for Jan as much as anyone else.