Toff Chav

by Miles Hadley

  ‘Never mind, young man. I can see that French probably wasn’t your forte, either.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Christine! He’ll be the end of us!’ Bollard laughed.

  ‘I want you to teach me stuff,’ Gary suddenly said.

  ‘Teach you what?’

  ‘Teach me history, like you used to.’

  ‘Young man, am I correct in thinking that you have really caught the history bug?’ Bollard asked smugly with a twinkle in his eye again.

  ‘I want to go to university. Then get a job,’ Gary replied.

  ‘You do realise that you’d have to go through some very tough exams to get there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It would take a long time and an awful lot of commitment and self-discipline from you.’

  ‘Are you saying that I can’t do it?’ said Gary defensively.

  ‘Young man,’ replied Bollard, ‘anything is possible as long as you believe in yourself. Do you believe that you can do it?’

  There was a long pause before Gary looked up at Bollard with a determination and a fresh hope.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ Bollard smiled. ‘How’s your reading and writing?’

  There was a hesitation. ‘It’s all right,’ replied Gary with an uncertain tone.

  ‘I’ll just get a pen and paper,’ said Bollard. ‘I want you to write what I say.’

  It had been a long time since Gary had written anything properly.

  ‘Right, let’s start with something easy,’ Bollard said. ‘Write after me – Mr Brown went to town, to see his lovely daughter. But Mr Brown gave a frown, for she had broken water.’

  Gary showed him what he had written.

  ‘Good,’ said Bollard. ‘Now for something a little more complicated. I’m going to dictate something from The Dissolution of the Monasteries by Joyce Youings. ‘“Monasticism, itself, was indeed virtually extinguished by 1540”.’

  Gary tried to write as best as he could, but misspelt the words ‘monasticism’ and ‘extinguished’. Bollard took a look.

  ‘Oh dear. We are going to have our work cut out.’

  ‘Well, how the fuck am I supposed to spell those words if I hardly went to fucking school?’ said Gary angrily.

  ‘Oh dear, Christine, what shall we do with him? Wash his mouth out?’ Bollard looked seriously at Gary. ‘Look, young man... I’m going to have to get you reading history books so that you start getting used to the vocabulary. I’ll lend you a pocket dictionary so that you can look the words up. I will start off by setting some easy reading and then test you on the topics. How does that sound?’

  Gary nodded his head.

  Bollard stood up and walked towards a small bureau. He opened the drawer and brought out a pen.

  ‘You’ll need a good pen and some paper,’ continued Bollard, handing the pen to Gary. ‘Don’t lose this. It’s a Parker Rollerball. They’re quite difficult to replace. I think I’ll get you started with... hmmm... let me see...’

  Bollard then walked up to the bookshelf and began looking at some of the titles. ‘Ah! Let’s start with Roman Britain by Richmond. I want you to read as much of the first chapter as you can. It’s on military history – here you go.’

  Gary accepted the faded book with gratitude and began to read. Bollard looked at him. ‘Let me know when you are halfway through. I’m going to make some sandwiches with my good lady wife.’

  As Gary began to read the chapter, he was immediately thrown by the first sentence. However, he persisted by looking for the meanings of the more complex words in the dictionary. Bollard gave him fifteen minutes to read and then returned from the kitchen, clapping his hands together.

  ‘Right then, young man... How did the reading go?’

  ‘I haven’t even got past the fucking first page!’ said Gary in frustration.

  ‘Oh dear,’ replied Bollard. ‘Perhaps what I set you was a little hard. Let’s see...’ He walked towards the bookshelf and pulled out another book. ‘How about we try... a Ladybird book to begin with. Their version of Roman Britain is especially good.’

  ‘Aren’t they for kids?’

  ‘Look, young man,’ said Bollard. ‘We have to start somewhere, don’t we?’

  Gary reluctantly accepted the Ladybird book. Bollard had brought in a plate of tuna and cucumber sandwiches and offered them to Gary.

  ‘Courtesy of my wife,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Ta,’ Gary replied. He was starting to get used to the idea of Christine and somehow felt that he understood Bollard’s mind. It was like that moment when Gary had mistaken his sister for his mum, only it was a more permanent thing. It might be madness, Gary thought, but at least the old geezer still looks after himself well.

  25

  Archie wondered if Silvio had got out of bed the wrong side. He was being incredibly snappy and seemed to be overly critical of Archie’s photographic technique during a fashion shoot that day. He kept striding over to Archie’s camera and complaining.

  ‘No, no, no!’ he said. ‘Jesus Christ, Archie! This is a fashion shoot. Not some sort of half-hearted fuck around!’

  Archie felt most affronted and snapped back. ‘It wasn’t a fuck around. I was experimenting with the light!’

  ‘How many times have I told you about light?’ said Silvio. ‘With light there is only one way that is right. That way is my way! And what the fuck are you doing focusing on her like that?’

  ‘Like I said, I was experimenting,’ replied Archie.

  ‘Well, save your experimenting and playing for your little Chelsea nursery!’ Silvio had struck a nerve. ‘You aristos! You think that you have time to just piss away! Why? Because someone before has always provided for you. You know nothing about survival – about getting ahead of the game and taking your heads out of your arses. Take your head out of your arse and learn how to survive!’

  ‘Now, that’s not fair, Silvio!’ replied Archie. ‘I work bloody hard. I work bloody hard trying to reach perfection! You have no idea how much time I put into this!’

  Archie saw one of the models smirk at what had just been said. ‘Fuck you!’ he muttered.

  Unfortunately for Archie, Silvio overheard the remark. ‘No, fuck you, rich boy! I came from nothing to get where I am today. You just come in and insult my studio as if you just have time to piss away!’

  This was too much for Archie to take. He went over to Silvio. ‘Look, mate, calm the fuck down and stop getting your little head in a tizz.’

  ‘How dare you, rich kid!’ shouted Silvio. ‘How dare you waltz into my studio as if you know it all, just because you think you have the time to mess around! How dare you start telling me to calm the fuck down! It’s my fucking studio! I can do what I want! You are supposed to learn from the fucking master. You’re supposed to be following what I’m fucking doing! Not fuck around!’

  ‘Silvio...’ Archie protested.

  ‘Don’t you fucking Silvio me, Archie. I know what you’re really like. You’re a snobby fucker who looks down on men like me who have to bust a gut to make a living. It’s all very well with your trust funds, your Tory party connections, your faggot-fixer friend Arbuthnott-Percy – who will knob suck any money. But men like me... we had to work to get here... not through wasting time and fucking around... but through innovation, perfection and sheer bloody-minded effort and determination.’

  Archie couldn’t believe the tirade. The models were all smirking at him. It was so humiliating. So downright emotional. So downright bloody Italian. It was too much for Archie to take. He angrily collected up his camera equipment and left the studio after again muttering ‘Fuck you!’ under his breath.

  Archie was now close to tears. How dare the Italian shit insult him! How dare he insult him, his best friend, and his background!’

  Once outside on the
Soho street, Archie flagged down the nearest taxi. He bundled his stuff into the back and the bald-headed cockney driver looked at him over his shoulder.

  ‘Where to, mate?’

  Archie said the address. He almost yelled it at him and muttered under his breath, ‘Fucking pleb.’ He combed a lock of his hair back irritably with his hand and looked at the people on the streets. The fucking hipsters, the fucking road workers, the fucking shoppers, the masses, the plebs, caught up in their mortgage or rent slave lives. To be slaves for the rest of their lives until, finally, when they were old and decrepit, they might get to enjoy a measly pension. A measly bit of money to exist on before their imminent death. Archie would never be one of them. He would always be one of the Masters.

  He gave a wry smile to himself before adjusting his hair once more.

  He would strike out on his own. Why? Because he could. He would. He would never be a shitty little slave to the system. Ever.

  Once at the family Chelsea house, after paying the taxi driver, ‘the plebby taxi driver’, Archie stormed into the hallway, holding his photographic equipment, and slammed the front door behind him.

  He went through to the old nursery – his studio that Silvio had so belittled. There was still a lineup of the old lead bearskin-hatted red-coated Grenadier guards on the windowsill. He picked one up and toyed with it. The ants. The soldier ants of Britain beneath their Queen and men like Archie – the Lords and Ladies of the land. The same as it always had been. The same as it should be – Gentlemen rulers, the Camerons, the Osbornes, the Johnsons of this world, restoring the old order and fighting for it to their last dying breath.

  Once Archie had calmed down a bit, he telephoned his dear, sweet Poll. She did not answer at first. Probably in a lecture or in the library, Archie thought. Polly, Polly, Polly. He desperately wanted to be with her now. He wished he could be there, wherever she was, in the corridors of Cambridge with its stone walls echoing with the footsteps of England’s greats, England’s rulers, the WASPs, the elite. Like him. Like her. Lovers entwined, mastery combined.

  Polly eventually returned Archie’s call. Her voice, so beautiful. Such a healing sound after the stupidity of Silvio.

  ‘Silvio and I argued,’ he said.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Differences in technique, things like that.’

  ‘Are you going to stay with him?’

  Archie gave a laugh. One of bitterness and scorn. ‘Not bloody likely, Poll. The little greasy shit humiliated me in front of everybody. It was during a shoot.’

  ‘Oh, poor you,’ said Polly. ‘I’m coming to London tomorrow. Let’s go for a meal and discuss things.’

  Archie was ecstatic. He longed for her all the time. The following day, he met her at Liverpool Street station, where they embraced.

  ‘Whose house are we going to?’ he asked.

  ‘Razza might be at ours,’ said Polly.

  ‘I don’t mind Razza being around.’

  ‘I’d quite like some privacy,’ she said. ‘Much as I love him, he can be an annoying brother to have.’

  ‘So, we’ll go to mine.’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Not as long as you can stand the mouldy book smell.’

  ‘I live and breathe mouldy books at the moment,’ Polly responded.

  Polly had not been to the Hodgkin-Smiths’ Chelsea residence before and Archie showed her around. She told him that she liked it. That it was comfortable in a faded sort of way. They sat together on a sofa in the drawing room, sipping cups of Earl Grey and listening to Miles Davis’ ‘A Kind of Blue’. Polly reclined and put her feet on Archie’s lap.

  ‘Who is that above the fireplace?’ asked Polly, indicating to the portrait on the wall.

  ‘Grandpapa in his younger years,’ replied Archie.

  ‘He certainly has a resemblance to you. Same colour hair and similar eyes.’

  ‘Sometimes I’d rather not be reminded, Poll.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It... I don’t know... puts the pressure on things a bit.’ He began massaging Polly’s feet.

  ‘In what way?’ she asked.

  ‘Having to maintain it all,’ he sighed. ‘Keep it going. Not be the one who loses it.’

  ‘Gosh, you’ve got a bit serious lately.’

  ‘It was the row with Silvio,’ said Archie. ‘Stupid bastard. I mean, I didn’t do anything – he just lashed out at me all of a sudden for not getting my lighting and focus correct.’

  ‘Tell him to go fuck himself.’

  ‘I practically did. I stormed out and I think that’s the last we’ll see of each other.’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘You know what, Poll... I was thinking of starting out on my own. I’ve already got the nursery converted into a small studio. I mean... it isn’t as if I don’t have the connections or anything.’

  Polly grinned.

  ‘Why don’t we do a shoot in my studio, Poll?’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got to start my solo career somewhere.’

  Archie took Polly’s hand and led her off the sofa and through to the studio. In the studio, there was an Edwardian chaise longue. Polly giggled and snorted.

  ‘I suppose you want me to recline on that, do you?’

  Archie grinned. ‘You read my mind, Poll.’

  After adjusting the lighting, Archie took various shots of Polly. Some were in colour and some in black and white. She has such gorgeous features, he thought. High cheek bones, soft and downy golden hair and suggestive lips that were red and full. She resembled a classic 1920s debutante. Archie thought about this for a moment and wished that she was wearing a flapper dress or something.

  After taking several shots, he went up to her and kissed her full lips. They made love on the chaise longue and then went out for supper soon afterwards at Morrelli’s. The wine bar was not very busy and Archie soon forgot about his worries about Silvio. Henry texted him, wondering what he was doing, but Archie ignored the message. He would leave it until tomorrow to reply.

  Upon their return to the house, they went back to the drawing room, where they snuggled by the fire drinking vintage champagne from the Hodgkin-Smith cellar.

  Life was heavenly, blissful with his dear Poll. They eventually retired to the bedroom, where their drunken love-making continued into the early hours, surrounded by faded fox-hunting prints from generations ago.

  26

  ‘Today, young man, we are off on a historical tour. We shall catch the bus and then go around the epicentre of our nation’s history.’

  Bollard strode determinedly to the bus stop. Gary, conscious that he might be seen on the estate with him, kept slightly behind, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched.

  Once at the bus stop, Bollard looked around at Gary. ‘Got your Oyster card?’ he asked. Gary nodded. ‘Christine and I get a discount,’ Bollard chuckled. ‘Old fogies. Not everything we do is condemned to the knacker’s yard. But that’s another topic altogether.’

  Once they were on the bus, Gary watched Bollard point up the stairs. ‘Better view up there,’ he smiled. Gary nodded, thinking of his childhood excursions with his mum and sister.

  The bus eventually arrived at Westminster. They got off and walked up to the Houses of Parliament. Bollard pointed to a statue.

  ‘Now then, young man,’ he said. ‘Who do you think that statue is of? It’s old Ironside himself! “Paint me warts and all” he said. But I don’t think they thought about that when they cast this statue of him!’ Bollard laughed. ‘Can you remember I told you about Oliver Cromwell, who executed King Charles I?’

  Gary nodded, gazing up at the statue of the stern-looking Cromwell.

  ‘Well, this is him!’ continued Bollard. ‘One of my favourite quotes from him is “I had rather have a plain and russet coate
d Captain that knows what he fights for, than that which you call a Gentleman and nothing else”. Do you know what this means? It was his idea for a new model Parliamentary army. He wanted every officer to be self-made and not simply born into the gentry – a maxim, I believe, that should still be applied to every profession in the realm. But alas! We have the Bullingdon Triumvirate in power! Look how we have retrenched ourselves again to believe in the sons of wealth! It’s okay to have one or two occasionally – Churchill was one – but three from the same elite drinking club! What shame has been brought upon us who might call this realm a meritocracy!’

  Gary looked at Bollard as he pointed to one of the buildings in front of them. ‘See that building over there? That’s our House of Lords! The second unelected chamber! I find this rather amusing. It’s a quasi-feudal fudge here in the twenty-first century that the likes of Lilburne would baulk at! They say that they’re discussing reform, but they’re far too slow in my eyes – too many vested interests! Too much incestuous behaviour between them and the Commons, who were elected to serve us, the mere mortals, without ermine robes!’

  Gary listened as Bollard continued his narrative. ‘So much has happened in those hallowed Parliamentary halls, that I could talk to you for days! The Palaces of Westminster, the House of Commons and the House of Lords sitting on the River Thames, once home to so much bustling river commerce. Over the centuries, the royal barges would bring our monarchs to open these Houses to the evolving democratic debate of this sceptred isle. Of course, most of the Parliamentary buildings are not medieval; they were rebuilt in the Victorian age. The wily Duke of Wellington said “You must build your House of Parliament on the river, so that the populace cannot exact their demands by sitting down around you”.’

  Bollard then pointed up to Big Ben. ‘See the clock over there? In a few minutes, it will chime those iconic tones heard the empire over, through miniature imitations or Imperial broadcasts. What an empire it was! Stretching out in its zenith to a third of the world’s land mass! Young man!’ Bollard said excitedly. He seemed to be in his element. ‘Exploiting, domineering, policing – there was no doubt in the words of Thomas Arne, a composer of the eighteenth century, that it had become an age of “Rule Britannia”. Have you heard that song?’ He began to sing out loud. ‘Britons never will be slaves!’