253

by Geoff Ryman

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  square

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  grey anoraks?

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  or kumquat-shaped?

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  pink and purple anoraks?

  REMEMBER: THE PRICE OF VIGILANCE IS ETERNAL FREEDOM.

  Shop your neighbours!

  Use the 253 Interpersonal Description Guide!

  182

  MR TONY ‘WRONG WAY’ KHAN

  Outward appearance

  Angular, handsome young man in a tuxedo and white scarf. Sits in angry silence next to a young woman who looks at him mournfully.

  Inside information

  The son of the Pakistani lawyer beloved of Georgina Bullen. Tony’s father moved back to Britain in 1979 when his English wife became homesick.

  Just returned from a wedding in France. Went the wrong way from Waterloo, heading north on the Bakerloo line. Changed at Embankment, and is now heading the right way.

  What he is doing or thinking

  Why does everything go wrong? He met the woman next to him, Georgina, on the Shuttle on his way to the wedding.

  ‘I’m going to a wedding too!’ Georgina said, pleased. ‘What’s your friend’s name?’

  ‘George,’ was the answer. ‘So’s mine!’ she cried. It was in the same town. They bought Shuttle champagne on the strength of it. They laughed all the way under the Channel, through Paris and to the country train station.

  The taxi driver smelled of sweat and couldn’t find the address that Georgina gave him. They arrived late and embarrassed. The French bride pressed them with more champagne.

  Anthony couldn’t find his friend. ‘Have you seen George?’ he kept asking. Georgina replied, mystified, ‘He was just here.’

  Finally, she dragged him to George. He turned out to be Georges, and French. Anthony was at the wrong wedding. Another taxi ride. Anthony’s George had already gone by the time he arrived.

  No one bought champagne on the trip back. Now at Waterloo, Georgina stands up to go. ‘Goodbye?’ she says.

  It’s a question.

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  183

  MISS GEORGINA HAVISTOCK

  Outward appearance

  A glum fairy? Pretty, plump woman in a pink dress, all lacy pleats like a ballet tutu. Veiled 1950s hat over short black hair.

  Inside information

  Part-owner of Yesterdaze, a shop near Waterloo that sells vintage magazines and clothes. Her partner is her ex-boyfriend. Things are a bit tense.

  Just back from France on the Shuttle. Has followed her neighbour first north from Waterloo, then south.

  What she is doing or thinking

  It always seems to happen. She’s never had so much fun as yesterday, all done up, taking the train to France.

  And meeting Anthony. She thought he was gorgeous the moment she saw him. He was so much fun as well. She would like to remember just one of his jokes. Maybe they weren’t that good; maybe you had to be there. Maybe you had to be going to someone else’s wedding by yourself, a bit tipsy, and relieved to meet someone so nice. Who was going to the same wedding as you.

  Only he wasn’t. Her hands rise and fall with frustration. She’s already lost her temper with him for blaming her for taking him to the wrong wedding. ‘I wasn’t blaming you,’ he said mysteriously. So why isn’t he talking to her?

  At Waterloo, Georgina says, ‘Goodbye.’

  He looks up, surprised. ‘You get off here? Why did you take the tube north?’

  She shrugs. ‘To stay with you.’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he says.

  On the platform Georgina sees an older woman who looks firm, settled. Georgina wonders: will I ever be as tough as that?

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  184

  MS SABRINA FOSTER

  Outward appearance

  Brown suit, tan ribbed jumper, long brown coat. Piled up, M-People hair. Hands held criss-cross over the top of a letter.

  Inside information

  Teller at Kennington Building Society. Advertiser in the same Time Out personal ads being scanned at that moment by Passenger 71. Reading her first batch of replies.

  What she is doing or thinking

  It was a mistake to advertise as a black woman. It would have been a mistake not to. Right now a crab-faced white man with a grizzled beard is leering up at her from a photo-booth nightmare. His letter keeps talking about his car and house. Glancing sideways first, Sabrina looks at the next letter.

  And quickly, she covers it. Attached is a tiny photo from a contact sheet of a man in the nude. Not to be unkind, but she would need a magnifying glass anyway. He looks doe-eyed and sweet, dumb enough to think that a full-frontal would turn a woman on.

  What she wants is a mature, intelligent black man who is in stable employment that does not cost him his dignity. There must be one somewhere?

  Her next correspondent is white, pockmarked, with a pony tail. His letter is amazing. He plainly thinks women advertise for one night stands. The next reply is an outright proposal of marriage from Zimbabwe.

  Sabrina pushes the whole mess into her bag, and goes. On the platform, she thinks: I’d settle for someone nice, fat. Like the big, suited pillow who just pushed past her.

  Well, maybe next week…

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  185

  MR YONG Y’OUD DANDUSITISPHANT

  Outward appearance

  Neat, middle-aged Asian man. Thin, inward-turning mouth. He rocks slightly in place, and then slowly lowers, hangs, his head.

  Inside information

  Owner of Cow Tom’s Thai restaurant on Westminster Bridge Road. Was given a work permit in 1984 as a specialist chef. Soon discovered that England offered little of the smiles, hand greetings and gentle good grace of his own country.

  After ten years, saved up enough to open his own restaurant in an unpromising locale. It proved to be an immense success. Married Sanam, one of the waitresses, and is now a proud father. He often trots his son Sammy around the restaurant, teaching him to walk.

  What he is doing or thinking

  Fearing for Sammy. He is huge for his age, but has not begun to talk. His cheeks are covered in a rash. His mother keeps laughing and says the rash will go. It’s spreading. The boy’s chin has swollen, while his head stays narrow.

  Last night Yong Y’oud took Sammy for his usual walk. He kept stumbling and falling, vacantly, without crying. Indulgent customers pretended to be charmed. They asked how old he was, and when Yong Y’oud said 22 months, their smiles grew shadowy, strained.

  Sammy is ill. Yong Y’oud thinks of how Sammy used to love hanging upside down from his knees, or hiding under the bamboo chair, grasping at his yellow duck as if at a mystery. He sees his wife Sanam’s thin face, its smile too wide, and wonders how he can make her accept the truth.

  England suddenly seems smaller.

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  186

  MRS MARGARET THATCHER

  Outward appearance

  Short-haired woman in workman’s jeans and donkey jacket. Reading The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony. Understandably, looks bored.

  Inside information

  Mrs Thatcher is a thatcher, currently working on the roof of the new Globe Theatre.1 It’s traditional straw and reed, fireproofed and hiding a sprinkler system.

  Margaret has lost her car keys. This is particularly poignant as her husband Dennis has just lost his.

  What she is doing or thinking

  Margaret is reasonably certain that the keys fell out of her pocket while she was on the scaffolding yesterday. If so, they will be bundled up with the thatch.

  The scaffolding has moved. She can ask the works supervisor, but he’s hardly likely to re-erect the scaffolding just for her. Or allow her onto that steep roof without it.

  She’s had the keyring since she was in university. The medal, in the shape of a panda, says on the front, ‘Sold to assist the W
orld Wildlife Fund.’ On the back it’s engraved, ‘Awarded to Margaret Thatcher for excellence in canoeing.’

  She imagines 500 years from now, when they tear down the Globe. The beams are held by wooden pegs; the walls are horsehair and lime. They’ll think it’s the original theatre, and as it falls, they’ll find a keyring with a panda. A World Wildlife Fund? Pandas? In Elizabethan Britain? Awarded to Mrs Thatcher? The Prime Minister? In Elizabethan Britain? Why was she canoeing? Was this a traditional Thames pastime for politicians?

  History’s just a myth anyway, something we make up to reconcile evidence. Margaret leaves with a smile.

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  Another helpful and informative 253 footnote

  1 The New Globe Theatre is real, it exists. I’ve seen Two Gentlemen of Verona played on its stage. It changes Shakespeare. The scenes were written for that stage; they fit. The balcony is a convenient height for handing down notes. The kiosk centre stage makes hiding easy; the enforced simplicity of the staging makes changing from tempest sea to island sanctuary quick and simple. A comic character wanders on with a real dog, and what is slightly tiresome banter at the National or on the page, becomes a crowd-pleasing comic turn. The plays become gigs, broad and barnstorming. The modern audience somehow knows that it’s all right to shout back at the actors.

  The world is as full of coincidence as 253. Standing amid the groundlings in front of the stage was a tall, grey, benignly smiling man. I saw him hitch his shoulder in a way that meant his left arm was withered.

  I recognized him. This was the Englishman who taught me Shakespeare at UCLA. He was young then, and for North Americans a baffling mix of what would have seemed shyness to Americans and a kind of wild Englishness. On the day of a major earthquake, he showed up in class wearing fluorescent disaster gear and a construction worker’s orange hard hat.

  I didn’t remember his name. Later, I tried to find him but he was lost among the crowd streaming out through the doors like commuters from a train.

  Just a splinter of the past. I wonder if his last name was Thatcher?

  187

  MRS ANGIE STRACHAN

  Outward appearance

  A certain age, trying hard. Ribbed white jumper, white leather jacket, long flowery dress. A cloud of wispy blonde split ends down her back.

  Inside information

  Has worked in front-of-house for ten years at Anderson Imports. Travelled to Singapore and Turkey for the company. Lately, has been subject to offers of further trips, not especially for business purposes, with the MD.

  What she is doing or thinking

  Angie is considering the MD’s offer. He is portly, second-generation Lebanese, aggressive. He goes around the world bartering for hides. He smells of them. His attentions are demanding, but in a slow way that works under your skin. ‘The offer stands,’ he says, every day. Angie has admitted to herself that she dyed her hair for him.

  Tommy, her husband, is a tall, thin and acerbic Scot, whose bitter wit is often turned on himself or on her, especially when drunk. Tommy works in a car showroom. He sweats with nerves, is covered in freckles, makes love in hard quick jabs.

  Someone jumps past Angie to get off at Waterloo. His metal watchstrap catches in her wispy hair. She is jerked sideways and yelps with pain. She sees the man’s pale, pudgy face. He is panicked, needing to get off. He keeps yanking.

  ‘You’re pulling my hair!’ she says. He doesn’t stop. She gives him a light little punch. The doors shut.

  He drops his hands in dismay and that also jerks her hair. He doesn’t even apologize.

  ‘Do you have a pair of scissors?’ he asks.

  You could hate men.

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  188

  MR BAL PATIL

  Outward appearance

  Delicate man, his moustache and thicket of silver-flecked hair overwhelming his face. Grey dust in the crevices of his shoes. Endlessly twirls uncut hair round a finger.

  Inside information

  A maker of memorial stones for Heritage Stone and Marblecraft, near the Elephant. It is not an occupation for a person of caste. His father made a living carving figures for temples. His father gave him the image of Hanuman the monkey that hangs around Bal’s neck.

  Bal’s own son has qualified as an airline pilot; his daughter is a solicitor. In this sense, Bal feels his life has been accomplished.

  What he is doing or thinking

  The carving of names is an unnecessary call by the dead, who are free, on the living, who are not. But it is something the English believe. Lately, the company has gone from restoration to selling old gravestones as new. Mr Harris comes back with covered lorry loads sold to make way for roads or new development.

  This has left Bal with a bad conscience. He shaves exfoliating granite until there is something like solid stone. Sometimes the stones, like toast sliced too thin, collapse.

  Yesterday, through one grey window, the sun came out, and in a sideways light, a vanished name emerged from the stone. Virginia…1839. It was like a face. Bal is an imaginative man, and saw Victorian dress, hair, eyes.

  A native Marathi speaker, Bal keeps a bound volume of Ramdas open on his table. Ramdas abjures us: don’t talk, act. This is wrong. The hair twirls faster and faster.

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  189

  MISS SAMANTHA WILSON

  Outward appearance

  Dishevelled young woman in black overcoat, clunky shoes, red sweater, grey suit. Balances a huge, rebellious bag full of papers. Firm, sensible face undermined by an almost drunken wooziness. Starts playing with a strand of her hair.

  Inside information

  Teacher at Lower Marsh Primary School. Inamorata of Thomas West.

  What she is doing or thinking

  At a very deep, lower level of her brain, the spiralling gesture of the man next to her mirrors two things: her love life and her stomach.

  She was up late last night marking papers and forgot to shop. There was nothing in the fridge except her flatmate’s frozen pizza. Potato and Garlic—‘You’ll never fear vampires again’. The pizza was still cold and doughy in the middle when she ate it at 12.30 AM. She spent the night writhing with indigestion, burping bubbles of garlic and basil.

  Tossing on the bed, all the terrors of her life tossed with her. She was 26 and had no boyfriend, not a trace of one. Amid the bicarbonate and the fear, something happened.

  Thomas West. In her mind, in garlic gas, he transmogrified from a dumpy carrot-top, to a big, masculine man. She saw his green, steady eyes. Why was she turning him down all the time? How had he seemed so small? Mingled with the burning, linoleum pizza in her belly, he seemed looming, inevitable.

  She wonders how Thomas will look in the flesh, in winter, at a primary school. Hands occupied, exhausted as if from multiple orgasms, she cannot cover a huge and garlic yawn.

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  190

  MR RICK JUNIPER

  Outward appearance

  Young businessman in a blue suit and Frank Church shoes, sits shell shocked, staring. Starts twirling his hair and yawning.

  Inside information

  Recently promoted to Four-Colour Manager at TipTop Printing, east of Waterloo. All was fine until his current assistant, Lola, started work.

  Lola is possibly the most beautiful woman in the world. This is not good for Rick’s composure. Lola is married, American, in Britain for a year while her husband finishes his postgrad work. She’s like a filled-out Audrey Hepburn: leggy, brunette, confident, jolly. And given to wearing skin-tight black leggings.

  What he is doing or thinking

  He’ll resign. He’s just not suited for the job. He can’t control his own space. Jools, the Dutch guy, sits on Rick’s desk, ignores him, and jokes with Lola for hours.

  Clients call to see how their work is progressing. Lola gives them coffee. They stay all afternoon, in gradual
ly increasing numbers, flicking ash. Rick’s boss hangs mournfully over Lola, reminiscing about his days in a rock band. He gives Rick basilisk stares and asks why he doesn’t have any work to do.

  After a drunken lunch, Bollocks (an amateur rugby player) actually stuck his hand up Lola’s skirt. Rick threw him out. Lola chuckled at him. ‘I don’t need you to look after me.’

  Anybody else would politely but firmly see all of them out of his room. Rick has to get up at 6.00 AM to catch the train from Peterborough and is seriously wondering if it’s worth it. He yawns and retreats into a quiet snooze.

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  191

  MR SANJAY KUMAR

  Outward appearance

  Broad-shouldered man, balding, all in grey: jeans, shirt, jacket, scuffed boots. Between his feet is a grey bucket with washing up liquid and window wipes. He appears to be asleep. His hands, clasped in front of him, form an arrowhead shape with his index fingers. They point to the bucket. A large keyring weighs down his belt.