Carney's War

by James T. Emry

  “Too right; I think we’re all worried. No job seems safe,” said Baz.

  “And with the Tories back in power there will be no more tea and biscuits on building sites, mate,” added Dex.

  “Maybe we should all try one of those new careers; like project manager or facilitator… or analyst, whatever that is? You know all you need for these roles is to be able to chair meetings and bullshit other people while sounding like you know what you’re talking about,” added Baz.

  “You sound a bit bitter, Baz,” said Joe. “Did something happen while I was away?”

  “No; just kidding really,” he replied. “Just kidding.”

  Later that night Joe thought about the openings available to people looking for work. There wasn’t actually much in terms of “real” work any more; people seemed to be conditioned more than ever for certain roles and you just had to take what came along.

  Alison was sitting on the sofa watching a TV drama about Iraq that just seemed to reinforce the stereotypes of working class soldiers and middle-class politicians. She called out: “Joe do you want to watch this or not.”

  For Joe he couldn’t imagine a BBC drama without its notional regional accents. He realised that their portrayal of people in the armed forces usually involved the same wooden stereotypes and he had no interest in the plethora of such dramas surrounding recent conflicts.

  “Actors trying to be soldiers? It doesn’t work Al,” he replied. “I wasn’t there in Iraq anyway. I haven’t earned the right to see such a thing.”

  As he drank his nightcap he decided that in England everything and everyone seemed to be pigeon-holed and colour-coded. Even the phrase white van man was part of some weird esoteric message sent out by repressive media-savvy establishments, denoting a certain type of person.

  “There must be other countries in the world,” he reasoned, “where freedom means you could achieve whatever you wanted in life without feeling held back all the time. Yeah that’s right; it’s called the United States of America.”

  He smiled as he fell asleep next to Alison on the sofa.

  ***

  Khalil was expecting Shakil and Az at any moment. He hadn’t been particularly interested in meeting Az, but he had a few hours before his next business appointment and he thought, somewhat laterally, that meeting Az might sharpen him up a bit. He knew that he was always slightly stressed when talking to him and in a contrived way he needed that kind of stress in order to improve on his handling of difficult situations. He therefore just regarded him as a training aid even though he didn’t like to admit it.

  However, he was also sick of the occasional religious lectures that Az doled out and resolved that he wouldn’t stand for it any more, at least not in his own home. He couldn’t understand what possessed the man in that respect; did he really feel he had some kind of insight into such matters?

  “Hi Shak; what’s new man?” Khalil asked when they stepped across the threshold.

  “It’s good to see you Az,” he added slightly unconvincingly. They all shook hands and sat down with some tea.

  “I hear on the grapevine that you and Saira are finally tying the knot?” Shakil stated - almost categorically.

  “Well if we are it would have been nice if me and Saira announced it and not you, Shak. We haven’t decided just yet, but we are thinking about it. I guess it’s my rogue brother that’s spreading these rumours.”

  “I think it could have been a passing pigeon or crow that told me, but you’re right, cuz. I’ll keep my gob shut,” replied Shakil.

  “It probably is better to be married than living together, Khal,” Az added. “You know it makes sense.”

  There was an awkward pause; Khalil didn’t respond, but nodded and poured himself some tea.

  “So, Shak: are you finishing the studies?” Khalil asked.

  “Yeah; you know me, it’s all in hand. I will get there eventually.”

  Khalil couldn’t be bothered to enquire if Az was still studying and went to make a phone call. “Excuse me, boys; just going to call the missus. Or do I mean girlfriend.” At that Shakil laughed. He went outside.

  “Hi baby; yeah, I am here with Shakil and you know who. I have this meeting with the accountant and then I will be back about 6.00pm. See you later.”

  When he returned he could see Az looking at the family book collection. He was shaking his head. Az’s actions seemed to be suggesting that real Muslims shouldn’t display books in the way the “non-believers” did. Khalil was quietly proud that his family was not afraid of displaying their intellectual wealth and he had deliberately not placed the Koran in the most elevated part of the room. It was a shame, he reasoned, that Az didn’t see the need for any literary activities, as it might just turn him into a more useful member of society one day. But for now Khalil just wanted him out of the house. He suddenly remembered that it was a long way to the accountant’s office. The late arrival of the cousins had left him with no time to spare.

  “Guys, I really will have to shoot off; places to go and all that. Shak; see you later Terminator. I need a chat with you soon.” With that he walked swiftly out and away to his afternoon meeting.

  ***

  Joe had been back at work for eight months and was concerned about some of the news on the office grapevine. Their framework contracts were in jeopardy and there would have to be some redundancies. However, it was a nauseous office, with constant noise and pressure, pointless emails constantly getting in the way of actual work with irate local authority project managers acting as clients and letting everyone know it. It was far from ideal as a working environment so he decided to start a job search.

  It wasn’t all that bad. He knew that once he got to the stage where he had little drawing work he could breathe a sigh of relief, as he would be out on site watching the structures get built. He figured the less your face was seen the more likely you wouldn’t get put in the first round of redundancy so he also signed up for various courses just to get out of the office. The plan had seemed to work to some degree, but the basic fact was still there; he probably wasn’t cut out for this existence in the long term. Being a public sector engineer was beginning to grind him down and his time away had in reality just been a temporary break from the dull ache of a civilian career.

  At the Christmas party there was the usual sight of middle-aged people letting themselves go. “I’m almost one of them now,” Joe thought to himself. He sat with the other engineers in his group and had the meal; it didn’t taste of anything to him. Somewhat bizarrely he realised that he actually missed the food he had eaten in Afghanistan. A senior manager, a squeaky-clean example of a boring associate engineer sat down next to him. He had been doing the rounds of all the tables.

  “We lost a lot of cash because of you,” said the tall, self-confident suit. He had a slightly orange glow about him, like he had been on a sun bed for too long. ‘Either that or he has a liver problem,’ Joe surmised.

  “How’s that then?” Joe enquired. He was angry at the intrusion and wasn’t in a mood to back down.

  “Going off to Afghanistan; we had to get cover for you,” continued the manager.

  Joe knew it wasn’t true, as other staff had covered the jobs internally and the Army had paid his wages in full. The man’s comment had brought back a bad memory of the years he had done as a reservist; and never being allowed a single day off by any company for training periods. Nearly all his training over the years, including two-week camps and exercises, had come out of his own holiday entitlement. The same had been true for most of his mates: even after they had comeback from tours in Aghanistan and Iraq.

  “No, you didn’t lose any cash – it was all covered,” replied Joe. “I tell you what; I have had enough of this kind of crap. If you’ve got a problem go and talk to the armed forces legal team and HR. I’m going to the bar.” With that Joe got up and left the building. No one else had heard the conversation and Joe didn’t care anyway. He didn’t look back. As far as he was conc
erned the senior management could go screw themselves – and anyway he had got far more out of life than any of them ever had.

  If he did leave the job, he pondered, he could always re-apply to the UN and get a short contract in Haiti or somewhere. He started to regard the potential for impending redundancy as an opportunity as much as anything. But the lack of short-term cash might be a problem. Adaptation was everything. He felt that he was on the run from a life that he didn’t really want, although that didn’t include his girlfriend. At the same time she wasn’t the sort of person to suffer a fool. He walked to the tube station.

  When he met up with Alison later that evening she wasn’t impressed with his version of events. “So you just got up and walked out? I wouldn’t be surprised if they get rid of you now, Joe. You can’t do that to a director.”

  “He wasn’t a director: he didn’t care, he was drunk anyway,” Joe replied.

  “Look at me in the eye, Joe, and say it doesn’t matter.” She seemed fierce and Joe cowered slightly.

  Joe had deduced that another tour of duty would ironically keep him in his job for a bit longer as the firm couldn’t sack him due to the requirement for him to return to the same employment within a set time of returning. He wouldn’t push it, but what was the point of continuing as a reservist if he didn’t give something back? His first tour had been short, less than six months, and just a taster in reality.

  He thought about making new contacts: out of boredom, misplaced interest or just plain need, it seemed like a good idea. He didn’t know why exactly; maybe he just wanted a fresh approach to life. When he’d gone off to Afghanistan he had noticed that most of the soldiers were in their early twenties; he and his reservist mates were around ten years older on average. Many of the regulars were at the age he would have been at college. A cynic would have accused him of trying to relive his youth.

  The following night he was sat going through some old folders. A school speech day pamphlet fell open and Joe thumbed through it. The year was 1989 and he recalled the winner of the Chess Prize; Joe had played him several times that year. He had been seventeen and the boy around fifteen years. The boy had won every game, just one of a number of talented young Asian kids at the school. He also recalled some of his old mates that he used to go to football matches with.

  “Where are all these people now?” He realised that he could find out if he really wanted to. The best times, he remembered, were when he and several mates used to bunk off early from school to go to the midweek match: Spurs, West Ham, whatever was on. “Those guys will all be married with kids now.” It felt re-assuring to think that they would be sorted in life; they were all decent enough young men.

  He opened the box of his late father’s mementoes. One was a black and white photo of a pale-skinned black man, a skinny kid of nineteen in British Army uniform. He was holding his rifle next to him and it looked too big for his frame. But Joe’s father was stronger than he looked, representing the Army in athletics. There was another of Joe’s father with his mother, Sally. At that time she would have been barely eighteen; it said 1956 on the back of the old photo.

  He recalled that when his father had died from a heart attack at a service in a Baptist church, an old man had helped Joe carry him into the lobby where he got CPR off a first-aider. The old man’s name was Cyril and he had flown with the RAF during the war on troop supply to Europe after D-Day. Some time later Cyril had recounted to Joe that his aircraft was flying over Northern Europe when some German fighter aircraft came towards them. The men on the supply plane said their goodbyes to each other thinking it would be their last. Instead the Germans waved and flew on. Cyril survived the war intact and became a salesman. He had never really known Joe’s father in the church group, but he knew of him.

  Still, when Donny had a heart attack one Sunday evening in church Cyril had been there to help him. Joe and Cyril had kept in touch after Donny’s death. It was a shame that Cyril hadn’t known that Joe was going to Afghanistan – as he had died of a stroke a few months before his mobilization had come through.

  ***

  There were not many people crammed into the old hall and the prognosis wasn’t good for the Justice Party. They were fairing badly in polls for the upcoming local elections. Jeff and Khalil were sat at the main table. They hadn’t met for a few weeks and were recounting the time they’d had with the Americans.

  “That was some gathering, wasn’t it?” Jeff stated.

  “Yes, it was,” Khalil replied. “I wonder if that American really feels that Marlboro Man is no longer cool, along with the rest of white American maledom. Do you think he believed in his own argument – or was he just humouring us for the hell of it? You know what these Americans are like; they think we’re really stupid in the UK. It’s like some kind of ‘transatlantic complex’ – I read it somewhere.”

  “Well, it was you that carried the day. You were right to respond the way you did.”

  “You all looked as if you were in a state of shock.”

  “Well, we were. You had a major impact Khalil.”

  “Well if it’s always that easy then count me in. What’s the real point anyway of all this? If you ask me those Americans seem a little insecure.”

  “Yes, you’re probably right. And we hope to translate some of that insecurity into hard finance at some point, Khalil. You did a good job. I’ve had some positive emails from those people: I’ll let you know what happens.”

  Khalil sat back and listened to what the various speakers had to say about “upping the tempo” and “the time will come” and all the other clichés that get peddled by political parties. He became aware of the lack of any actual policies being put forward. They seemed deliberately vague. It was almost as if they had no actual hope of power or real influence and they were therefore just enjoying the ride.

  Khalil was generally more pre-occupied with the state of his own business and what contacts he might make where these gatherings were concerned. Not enough interest had been coming in the last few months and he needed to develop more of a client base. Times were getting tougher and there was no doubt that social networking of this kind was no longer a luxury - it was a necessity in a recession.

  Jeff, who was chairing the gathering, and somewhat against the flow of proceedings, then asked Khalil to come forward and talk about the state of local business in the area. He was, after all, one of the new ‘business advisers’ to the party, and he vaguely remembered being asked if he wouldn’t mind fielding a few questions at one of the party ‘soirées’ as Jeff loved to call them. There was a ripple of applause as Khalil got up to speak.

  “Hello, ladies and gentlemen, in case you don’t know me I run a small IT business in the borough and I have only recently joined the party.” He started talking about what the last few years had been like for IT businesses, and how things had changed in the previous eighteen months. He went on. “On a more political level, and in some ways a more personal one as well, I would like to talk about my view of the economic situation at this time. I think it’s a myth to say that it’s only the Right that wastes money on wars and incompetent social, foreign and economic policy. Look at what the Left has been forcing on us recently: pointless legislation on carbon emissions, green taxation leading directly to high energy bills, fraudulent taxation on petrol and diesel, which is hitting small businesses where it hurts most. And then there’s costly human rights legislation, excessive immigration from both within the EU and outside, which is having a negative impact on youth and graduate unemployment, European Health and Safety directives, which are strangling some businesses. I am sure you can all add to this list, but these are just some of the things we should be attacking while the three mainstream parties are so weak. However, I am really only here to answer questions so fire away.”

  There were a couple on the state of the local economy and whether he had taken on many school leavers, which he hadn’t, he said, because his business had only been up and running for a couple of
years. But he would do so when he felt more confident and could take the risk. This was a lie, as he would only seriously consider graduates from technical colleges or universities.

  Afterwards three councillors who had recently managed to get re-elected came over. One of the men spoke directly to Khalil: “We need more people like you Khalil; you give the party a youthful feel. By the way, we may have some work for you. Not a great deal – I can see you’re busy anyway. We’re opening a new national office and we need the servers setting up; hubs or whatever they are. I never know the names of the things.”

  The men laughed and for once Khalil felt that it had been worth coming to a party gathering. He could at least tell Saira some good news for a change. “That’s really positive news; thanks for that,” Khalil replied.

  “So how’s life generally?” asked another of the councillors. “Is your community struggling to cope with all the bad press it’s getting?” The question knocked Khalil momentarily. He could also see Jeff squirm and look upwards, and then shake his head.

  Before anyone else could answer Khalil had replied. “I’m not exactly sure what you mean by that; which community exactly?”

  “Well the Asian community.”

  Jeff replied on Khalil’s behalf. “Really, Stan, that’s like asking me how the white community is doing. It’s a sweeping statement. Shall we talk about something else?”

  There was an awkward silence. Jeff broke it: “So how’s Saira then? Are you two tying the knot soon?”

  “Yes, we have been looking at fixing a date. It’s still early days for all that.”

  Khalil wondered if that information had become public knowledge, but let it go. He looked around at the gathering: the others in attendance had clearly been drinking a lot of wine; they were all red-faced and smiling a little too overtly.

  “She’s not your cousin, is she?” asked another councillor who hadn’t yet spoken, with a thin grin on his face. “I heard there were some issues in that respect.” Khalil could sense a pattern developing.