‘This is like confession, eh?’
‘Don’t start. Me mam was a proper God-botherer, bless her.’
She laughed a touch glumly. ‘My little brother and all, he wants to be a priest.’
Clearly she had escaped a peculiarly cloying family. He admired her anew.
The following morning they shared a train journey to London and thence back to the north-east, she bound for a call upon her widowed dad.
‘Okay, don’t sneer now – three things you’ll do with what you’ve learned.’
‘Start giving motivation courses. Three hundred quid a head. I’ve got the qualifications. Which is none.’
‘Don’t sneer, you. Come on. Three things.’
‘Well, okay, I mean – what you said last night? Standing for election?’ And she nodded. She didn’t laugh. He could have kissed her again. ‘I mean, it’s a mad idea. The seats, they’re occupied for ever. Or kept warm for some bugger. Newcastle’s impossible like that.’
She tapped her tin of Diet Coke pensively. ‘Does it have to be Newcastle?’
‘My roots, man. My people. That’s where my passion is.’
‘Passion, it’s overrated. You have to be sure you’re right before you get passionate.’ She tossed her bob. ‘Actually I heard Hartlepool could be up for grabs next time. Though Mandelson might have his beady eye on it.’
‘You don’t think I’d be wasting my time, but? A life in opposition?’
‘Oh, you never know. There’s always cycles. Even for Thatch. Something always goes wrong, people get mardy about something. You’d probably get a kick out of it anyway. You know what they say, showbiz for ugly people.’
‘Eh, come on, I reckon at least I’d drag up the average a bit.’
She snorted. ‘You’re not bad-looking, Martin. Try not to squander it.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Try not to piss your looks away, kidder. You’re going the right way about it. You dress like some moody kid at a concert and all. That’s do-able, clothes are easy. I can see you wash your hair most days, so why not shave your bloody face while you’re at it?’
He tried to grin away her blistering impertinence. But she had prodded a raw nerve.
‘You slouch, too. You know that? I bet you were sporty once. Threw back the pints, thought you’d never get a belly. Well you’ve got one now, kid. There’s little broken blood vessels all round your eyes, your nose. Don’t look so gutted, mind. That’s what you want to take off this course, see. “Visualise. The path ahead. See your way to success. Start in the bathroom mirror.” Eh? “Not who you are now, but who you might be.”’
She chuckled and, done with him, took up her police procedural paperback. Martin had fancied a can of lager, but that treat was now spoiled.
As they trundled into Durham she grabbed her own case, handed him an embossed card, and kissed his cheek coolly. The next day he slunk into Next in Eldon Square, and there assessed some options in affordable Italian-style tailoring. One blue suit in particular fell fluidly from his shoulders and hips. He could see the inkling of an important distinction. And yet it seemed a daunting expense – an awful lot to throw in redress at a reflection he had trusted so long, admired without question.
Chapter IV
TALLIES
Wednesday, 13 November 1996
‘I don’t entirely like the look of it.’
‘You don’t say.’
The draft agenda of Forward to the Future rested askew on Gore’s lap as he shifted the receiver from ear to ear. He had hoped for one more sit-down with the Member, but had grown resigned to the potluck of trying to catch him on the fly, his mobile switched on.
‘It’s just there seems an awful lot here about “Tomorrow’s Company”? Technology and whatnot.’
‘Right. That’s a given, John. If our business is job creation, and it is, then we’ve got to be realistic about who the employers will be. That’s why we’re talking education, training – the new economy. It’s all down there. Chris Carter’s chairing it, him does Tyne Talk, you know him?’
‘Yes, but all these panellists. They’re all businessmen, aren’t they?’
‘Not all. Robson Talbot’s from the engineers’ union, he’s sound. They’re all worth meeting. Jon Salter’s in North Sea oil. Frank Delavel’s a developer. Proctor, he owns the hotel. David Chase is high up at BT. Your dad was a BT man, right?’
‘Yeah. You’ve not got anyone from the council, though?’
‘No, I don’t want them in, not just yet.’
‘And nobody else from the voluntary side?’
‘As I say, John – you’re my guy in that department.’
‘Okay. Well, just one thing. I don’t know where it fits, but I’d be very keen that we discuss public transport at some stage.’
An audible intake of breath. ‘Any reason in particular?’
‘Well, as you’ll know, the buses in Hoxheath only run north–south. That’s a lot of trouble for pensioners who want to go east–west.’
A blast of silence back down the line. ‘Let’s just see how we manage, eh? Look, I’m gonna have to get on here, John.’
‘Oh, me too.’ Indeed Gore had to be out the door directly, for he had a date.
*
She led him into the living room and he leaned down to kiss her, but her eyes darted right. Following her gaze, he saw her Auntie Yvonne standing over the sink, Marigolds immersed in the suds.
‘Me washing-up fairy, aren’t you?’ said Lindy.
Yvonne smiled, gap-toothed, looked askance at Gore, then spat into the dishwater.
‘Don’t mind her.’ A benign whisper. ‘She does that, she’s got a fat tongue.’ And with that, Lindy was pulling on her short red jacket. ‘Anyhow, it’s settled, Yvonne’s gunna pick up Jake and give him his tea. What we doing, then? What have you got lined up for us?’
‘Oh, I thought we’d – maybe just see where the day takes us?’
‘God, you make an effort. There was me thinking wine and roses. More the fool …’ She put the back of a slender hand to her brow.
‘But what about your work?’
‘I’m not working. Not ’til maybe late on tonight. I already put a shift in this morning, see. I planned ahead. More than you’ve bothered yourself.’
‘Well, look, shall we take a stroll?’
‘Where to? God, no. And you’ve not got a car, have you? We can bus it into town. I fancy a bite of something first, but. Shall we’s gan?’
‘Right. Lunch. Where’s nice?’
‘“Lunch”,’ she mocked him. ‘I only want a bite, man. Have you been to the Little Nibble? It’s alright.’
*
The egg and bacon gave no offence, the tea was surprisingly bold and flavoursome. The Nibble was not busy, and they lingered over the smeared plates and condiments, her ankles locked lightly about his beneath the Formica table.
‘I used to bunk off school every Monday afternoon, come in here with me lad. Chas. Heartbreaker, he was.’ She showed him the line of her jaw, her mouth arch. ‘I s’pose you’ll want to know about all me other fellas. From the past.’
‘No, I don’t. Why would I want to know that?’
‘Get away. Divvint tell us you’ve not thought about it. What a slag-bag I mighta been. Me with a bairn and that.’
He had tidied away such thoughts from the start. What did discomfort him was to hear her speak in such hard-edged terms of herself. ‘I never thought any such thing, Lindy. I mean – we’ve all done things we regret.’
She pouted. ‘Who says I regret it?’
‘It was just the way you said it. What I mean is – I’m not to judge.’
‘Fellas do, but. I bet you do. Even though you’re cloth. Specially cos you’re cloth, now I think.’
‘All that really matters is now, Lindy. I’m happy to be with you now.’
Those sounded to Gore like words on which he might rest awhile. Lindy, though, sat back, her smile thin. ‘You mean
you’d rather not hear.’ She began to rummage her bag, nodding at the rightness of her own conclusions. ‘Aye, that’s it. You’d rather think well of us.’
‘I do – “think well” of you. I couldn’t not. I mean …’
Gore shifted in the seat. No part of his scholastic past had prepared him to challenge such logic. At a loss, he leaned in and tried to put his hand over hers on the tabletop. But simultaneously she was reaching up, as if to touch his face. After a fleeting clumsiness, they reset themselves, Gore taking hold of her forearm, stroking its freckles lightly with his thumb.
‘Look, I just – if you’re asking me what I feel about – your romantic past – then I’m saying I don’t need to know the precise figure. You know?’ He tried a smile. ‘I mean, if you really want me to be honest, one would be too many, so …’
‘One? Bloody hell. Aw, we’d better get off this, then.’
‘Well, why not just agree that there’s probably a disparity? Between our respective – tallies.’
‘So how’s about you, then?’
‘What?’
‘What’s the scores on your doors? Notches on your bedpost?’
‘Oh. Well – one, really.’
‘One? Serious? Hang on, is that us? Or there was one before us?’
‘One before you.’
‘Right, so two altogether, with us in there?’
Gore nodded weakly. Yet Lindy looked pleased. ‘Aww. That’s nice. You’ve saved yourself, haven’t you? Is that cos you were waiting on God to find you your dream girl?’
‘I suppose I must have been,’ Gore shrugged, and mopped up brown sauce and yolk with a last cold slice of toast.
‘Dunno how you manage, but. I tried to go celibate once. Made a proper vow to meself, y’knaa? Like, from now on, I’m not getting involved, I’m gunna be very pure and clear about it, and that’s that. I managed about three month. It were good, but.’
‘How come you … fell off the wagon?’
She beamed, hunching her shoulders rather bashfully. ‘I like men. Men who’ve got summat, y’knaa? Summat about them, I dunno … gannin’ on inside them. Like you can feel. A fella like that, you want to get closer.’
‘Closer physically?’
‘Well, you canna get closer to someone than shagging ’em, can you?’
Gore rested his chin on his hands and rubbed at his eyelids. Her philosophies had become a sort of lunch-break puzzle for him.
‘What’s the matter, John?’
‘Nothing, I’m just thinking. About what you’re saying.’
‘What? Did it sound a bit slag-bag?’
‘No, no, I mean – well, you know, I think I said to you, I’ve always thought physical stuff between people has to be meaningful – to both parties.’
‘Aw aye, and it is to me, John, it means a lot. Same time, but, it’s only sex. Once it’s out the road y’knaa who you’re dealing with, you can be yer’sel.’
‘Right. You can get closer? To that person?’
‘Aye. If you can be arsed.’ She smiled. ‘I mean, there were one or two lads, I sort of nearly talked me’sel into being Little Wifey. But nah. Mostly – I dunno – I never fancied just being somebody’s lass.’
She had come over wistful, crooking her elbow to support her head, chewing her lower lip. The fresh information seemed to Gore a fruitful line. ‘Well, I think I know what you mean. You don’t mind your own company. You’re sufficient unto yourself.’
‘Aye, maybe. For a bit. I get bored with that too, though – after a bit.’ She reached around their plates, put her hand on his, beamed once more. ‘God, but I have some proper old chats with you, don’t I?’
‘You started it, Lindy.’
‘I know. I like it, but – how you listen to us. So what now, lover man?’
‘What would you like to do?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Aw, howay man. I’ll make it dead easy for you. Why don’t we’s gan to the pictures?’
‘A film? This evening?’
‘Nah man, now.’
‘Oh, a matinee?’
‘Aye, a matinee …’
They hopped onto a bus down the Hoxheath Road to the city centre and made their way to a multi-screen cinema by the Haymarket. Gore was content to give Lindy her pick from six possibilities, though he was surprised when she chose Michael Collins, which looked from its poster to be the most stolid fare on offer. Once they were huddled in the dark with popcorn and giant Colas, the picture did indeed unfold as a sort of Irish history pageant, one that Gore found involving, if a touch overblown. It was as the Collins character began to romance some colleen with a piano-key smile that he suspected the basis of Lindy’s selection was much to do with the brawny lead actor. ‘Lush,’ she whispered, at one inapt moment. But her eyes were lively as they descended to the street, she working her moist hand into his. Details of the movie were relived and discussed all the way back to Oakwell. Gore expressed some reservations about that love-story element, indeed the film’s whole approach to history. ‘Howay, man,’ Lindy countered. ‘It’s only a film, like. That’s what they do, the films.’
He was slumped blankly into her sofa when she slipped onto his lap and kissed him probingly. In one fluid movement she wrenched her cotton tee-shirt to her shoulders, threw them back and stuck out her chest, grinning, a pin-up girl parody. Her breasts were teardrop-shaped, a little wan and undernourished on her narrow chest, their wide aureoles pimpled and pale. Pulling the top back down, she stuck out her tongue at him.
‘Are you cold?’
‘Not if you give us a cuddle.’
In this fit of vivacity she was suddenly and heavily arousing to him. He found her lips with his, slid his hands under the tee-shirt, began to sense the needful traction below. Pushing his hand down the front of her skirt, under the band of her knickers, he felt her crinkling hair between his fingers and her pelvis pressing into his touch. His middle digit slid easily inside her. Then they slipped down to the floor and he kissed her belly, delicately, mindful of the hard laminate under them, a touch she seemed to appreciate.
When they were done she bounded upstairs, returned having donned her kimono, and set to brewing a pot of tea. Gore was starting to find these encounters a little more manageable – nice and easy, relatively normal, unexpectedly enjoyable. Their lovemaking seemed to take a manic edge off her, and he felt some of his own cloudy abstractedness evaporate.
As seven o’clock drew near, it was without trepidation or fear of reprisal that he set down his cup and got to his feet.
‘I think I have to get off now – I’ve a bit prep to do for something I’m doing early tomorrow?’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Yes, it’s just a conference of some sort. With the local MP.’
‘Who’s the MP again?’
‘Martin Pallister. You don’t know your MP?’
She shrugged. ‘Told you. Do-gooders, all the same to me. What’s it you have to do?’
‘Just sit on a platform and say how we could all live our lives better.’
‘Just the usual, then. Hey, when is it again? Can I maybe come watch you?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. It’s not open to the public. People have paid money and all that.’
‘What, and you can’t sneak us in?’
‘It’d be tricky … I’d be a bit anxious. I’m only an invitee myself, I don’t think it’s a plus-one situation.’
She was giving him that thoroughly dubious look of hers. He laid his hands on her shoulders.
‘Please, Lindy, really, just trust me, will you?’
Chapter V
THE PROCONSUL OF GEORDIELAND
1989–1996
Martin tugged at his shirt collar, instantly rueing the shiftiness of the gesture, a gift to his interrogators. He was just as damned if he didn’t, though, for the TREC boardroom, however modishly appointed, was badly in need of a breeze through an open window.
He now knew, uselessly, that he should have worn his loose li
nen suit, not the tweedy coat and woollen strides. If only there were but one soft-eyed female sat there surveying him – not a row of balding men, smugly stripped to shirts and ties, acclimatised to the fug. The Tyneside Regenerative Economics Corporation had set out its stall – take the heat or get out of the sweatbox, come prepared or not at all. Martin had arrived fully primed to espouse these sentiments, but his enthusiasm was ebbing with each minute that his curriculum vitae got kicked around the room.
‘I look at this and I see someone who’s been good at exams all their life. That, and ball games. Which is canny, but not a great lot of use to us.’
Martin had done his homework, though, could identify his chief antagonist – this long slap-head sourpuss – as Jon Salter of Hart-McGrain, US oil explorer with heavy-duty interests in the North Sea.
‘Mr Salter, I’ve been planning a shift out of academia for a while –’
‘Well, bully for you, but what makes you think you can start here?’
‘With respect, if you look you’ll see, I spent most of last year in a key part-time role for the council, its business centre – an office I helped to expand – offering a complete consultancy to small business.’
‘Right. All the big hitters came to you there, I’ll bet? Wanting your expertise? Look, Mr Pallister, what we’ve got here is a major market-driven project, we’re not the municipality.’
‘Jon, in fairness to Martin – what’s the job here? Officer for community development, not chief executive.’
The mild cross-table rebuke was an unexpected boon. Martin looked closer at Frank Ball, a short stocky man who was chomping little pills of nicotine gum, and had seemed stone-faced, bassett-eyed and scary until a moment ago. He now sported a sort of conciliatory smile. ‘Martin, you’ll have heard, I’m sure, the council aren’t happy with us coming on the scene. Cos they can smell there’s government money’s gunna get spent, and they want it all for themselves. So they’re going round saying it’s all a big Thatcherite scam. Well, if it was – would I be sat here?’
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