by Nick Corbett
“I should have tried harder. I mean to take a year off too. I wish I was going with you.”
Luke nods sympathetically. He gives Joe a hug, and then he’s back in the car. The window is lowered.
“Get to know the nurses in Sheffield. I want to hear about some results!”
Joe promises he won’t disappoint, he raises a hand to bid Luke farewell. The car screeches off, leaving black tyre marks.
Joe walks down the alleyway and enters the estate. He looks around the place. More smashed glass and litter than usual, some new graffiti on a wall. He scans the tenements. His eye is drawn to the looming tower block at the end of the estate road. It is built of stained concrete panels. It has been empty for two years, awaiting demolition. Joe is an arrival from another world. Since last night, he’s become accustomed to beautiful things. This scene offends him. The weather is worse here, heavy greyness over everything.
The Broadway estate hasn’t always been so run down. In the early years, it was quite a cheery place with a sense of community. Mums stood gossiping on their doorsteps. At the end of the day, they would give tonsil-rattling screams for their kids to return. The children would then appear, back from the wild; grazed knees, runny noses, glowing faces.
Joe hasn’t always lived on the Broadway estate. He used to live in a proper little semi-detached house with his mum and dad, at the bottom of Hannah’s hill. In his early childhood, Joe and his family enjoyed visiting his nan and grandad, who did live on the Broadway estate. Joe played with the estate kids. Some of them were almost like brothers and sisters for Joe, who had no siblings of his own. They played their games in the communal gardens; football, cricket, rounders, water fights on hot summer days. Mums and dads joined in too. Joe’s grandparents were at the heart of the new community, right from the beginning. Grandad was appointed resident caretaker in 1969. He was also a father figure to the fatherless kids. He was always fixing their bicycles. Nan helped out the single mums as the informal resident baby sitter.
The newspapers heralded the Broadway estate as a vision of modernity. An old manor house and cottages were swept away, replaced with Le Corbusier’s deck-access walkways in the sky. At ground level, the landscaping was supposed to be inspired by Capability Brown, but it didn’t really seem to belong to anyone. That is why the council caretaker and gardeners were needed. The estate was part of a government-funded housing initiative. The homes were built quickly, using an innovative, standardised production technique. Novel features included under-floor heating, and big swivel windows that were easy to clean. People queued up to take one of the futuristic homes. The Mayor opened the estate. Grandad and Nan had been at the opening ceremony. In his speech, the Mayor said the estate was part of a “brave new world” that would solve the housing crisis. He had specifically said that the resident caretaker would be its “custodian”. Those words meant a lot to Grandad. He took the responsibility seriously.
Now Joe stands at the end of the alleyway on this grey morning. He spots Grandad in the distance, off for his shift in the local shop. Grandad stops to inspect a bit of the communal garden, outside their home, where Nan’s cherry tree has pride of place. When he was a younger man, Grandad was particularly handsome. Now what is left of his receding hair is silver, he has a double chin and a slight stoop. He sees his grandson and waves cheerfully. A boy and a girl are skipping towards Joe, empty crisp packets blowing at their feet.
“Hi Joe!” The little girl shouts with great enthusiasm. She is wearing a long pink jumper and pink leggings; her hair is platted into pigtails.
“Hi Belinda!”
Joe is always happy to see little Belinda, aged six, and her brother, Owen, aged twelve, who is dressed in a smart red shirt and denim jeans. These are good kids. They are Joe’s neighbours, from a poor family, with a dad out of work, but they are always well turned out and very polite. Today, however, there is something wrong with Owen. He’s got a black eye.
“How did you get that?” Joe asks.
Owen looks at his feet. “Jimmy Stokes hit me,” he whispers.
Joe makes a mental note to himself, Have a word with Jimmy Stokes; he is one of the estate’s brutalised bullies.
Joe recalls the shooting stars from the previous night. He wishes these kids could see such a wondrous thing. He turns to Owen.
“Have you ever seen the stars, really clearly?” he asks.
“Do you mean like Jimmy Tarbuck?”
Joe tries to explain what he means, but he gets a blank response.
“Don’t worry about it. So, where are you going so early, anyway?” he asks.
“I’m taking Belinda to her ballet class,” replies Owen, and then he turns to the main road to check if their bus is coming. He turns back to Joe. “Hey, will you play football with me later?”
“Sorry mate, I really need to get some sleep. I’ve been up all night.”
“Bus! Bus!” shouts Belinda, yanking Owen by the arm. They run off towards the bus stop. Joe watches them board the double-decker. He can see them through the dirty windows as they take the front seat, upstairs. They wave as the bus pulls off. It disappears down the straight, tree-lined main road. There is very little traffic. Joe heads for home. He is the only person around.
Two days later, Joe has enjoyed some very long sleeps. He has packed his gear and he is ready to leave for Sheffield University. The sky is overcast with heavy grey clouds; looks like rain. Something wonderful has happened, though. Grandad has used his savings to buy Joe a car. It’s only a second-hand brown Skoda, but it runs well, and it’s Joe’s. It’s freedom to go wherever he wants. It’s a gift that far exceeds his wildest expectations. The car has made Joe feel more excited about the future, not least because he’ll be able to take girls out in it. Mingled doubts about leaving home, leaving Hannah, have vanished.
The Skoda is parked next to a couple of old bangers on the estate road. Black tape holds up its wing mirrors. It is now packed full of everything Joe needs for his new student life. The car’s suspension is weighed down by dozens of tins of food, provisions from Grandad and the neighbours. Joe laughs at Scruff, their old cat, who is curled beside the tins. Scruff is a character. He often followed Joe to school. “Not this time little fella,” he whispers. Scruff purrs as soon as Joe picks him up, stops when he is deposited on the pavement. Scruff looks around, wearily. Happy there is no impending danger, he looks up; bright green eyes meet Joe’s blue eyes. It’s hard for Joe to pull himself away, but he must. Everything is packed. He’s said goodbye to Grandad, and given him a big hug. Scruff scampers off back home, tail in the air. Joe is ready for his new adventure. He starts the car, it rattles into life, and then he pulls off, swerving around a broken bottle. He beeps the horn triumphantly. Grandad leans out of the lounge window, waving enthusiastically. Belinda and Owen and their parents are waving from next-door. Joe glances sideways and waves back, and then the car disappears around the bend. Grief engulfs Grandad. Nobody sees the tears. Joe passes the empty tower block and then the Gothic gatehouse. He is off!
Joe turns his car onto the busy dual carriageway. After a few minutes, it’s the roller-coaster flyover. Heart beats fast. He is climbing into the sky. Hands grip the steering wheel, more tightly. Lanes merge. Urban fringe whizzes by, industry, sprawling housing, marching pylons. It is all fragmented, wide horizons, metallic sky. The traffic is heavy. Beeping horns, an unflattering hand gesture. Joe’s eyes bulge at the highway signs, gantries, ominous warnings. Towering lighting masts, designed to search for escapees. It’s all utilitarian and ugly. Information overload. Beads of sweat are on Joe’s brow. He has never driven alone before, he is totally inexperienced, has never driven in such heavy traffic, but he’s excited. Even in these testing conditions, every now and again, he puts his foot down, hard on the accelerator, because he can. Power and liberty; all obstacles are surmountable. Butterflies are in his stomach. A big blue sign says: The North.
Urban detritus passes away; it’s time for Joe to pull off the motorw
ay. Now he’ll follow country roads, a route carefully planned with Grandad. He gallops through Staffordshire at fifty miles per hour, rural sights passing by. Wind blows clouds away, now a bright blue sky. Joe drives through a landscape of wide-open fields, white barley, scattered green hedgerows. Combine harvesters, gathering in a late harvest, silhouetted on a ridge of hills. Farmsteads appear and vanish, isolated worlds. Dark, wooded hilltops, rural scenes; this is all new to Joe. How can he have been a stranger to all of this for so long?
Half an hour later, rich green pastures, herds of Frisian cows, no more barley fields. Joe has his cassette player turned up, loud. Kiss me by Stephen “Tin Tin” Duffy covers the sound of the Skoda’s labouring engine; it’s climbing a long, steep, hill. The car keeps climbing. The song finishes, the landscape changes again. Sheep are dotted randomly in rough hill grazing country, no more cows in large fields. Stone walls border the road, blocking the view. A field gateway - sudden panorama! Vanished in a blink.
The Skoda rattles over a cattle grid. No more stone walls. Joe is driving through a wild, bleak, open moor. Sky is darker, feeling colder, swathes of pink heather, brilliant flashes of yellow gorse. Higher and higher, the car keeps climbing, noisy labouring engine. Streaks of grey mist gather across the moor, obscuring Joe’s view. Windscreen wipers on, they don’t help. The road narrows. Growing darkness, feels ominous, streaks of mist coagulate into thicker fog. It’s no ordinary fog, it’s becoming thick black smog. Through a clearing, orange flickering flames. The moors are being consumed by an inferno. Joe panics, shouting out loud.
“What do I do? What do I do? Should I go back?”
“No! No!” Joe answers himself in a calmer tone.
“There’s no going back now.”
The car disappears into thick, black smoke. Joe’s life will never be the same again.
4 Kensington
Joe feels as if he’s been stuck underground for ages. In reality, it’s only been an anxious seven minutes, so far. He turns to avoid the foul breath of the tall man standing next to him.
Is he really reading that book? Joe wonders, crossly.
The man is leaning over Joe’s head, holding a handle, which is attached to the ceiling of the train carriage. With his other hand he is holding a book to his face. The book is positioned at the end of his nose. Surely his eyes can’t focus on the words.
Is he just hiding behind it?
The poor man can’t hold the book any further away because other people’s heads are in the way. Joe is feeling very grumpy. As far as he is concerned, that book is far too close to his own face; it’s in his air space. He imagines how one jolt of the train could result in it poking him in the eye. He fantasises about grabbing hold of the book and stamping on it, but there isn’t enough room on the train to stamp on anything. Joe can’t even lift his leg. The carriage is absolutely packed with commuters. Joe breathes steadily, closes his eyes. The air is humid, dirty. It’s only Monday morning but the weekend is already a distant memory.
It is ten years since Joe left home for Sheffield University, more than six years since he arrived in London. On arriving in the big city, his priority was to experience everything it had to offer. It’s been a very long time since he last saw his grandad. The old gang of Joe, Luke, Archie, Cathy and Hannah, haven’t been together for ages, although Joe still sees Archie regularly in the West End.
Joe’s thoughts drift. He remembers sending a postcard to Hannah recently, with a picture of Trafalgar Square on it.
I wonder why she hasn’t replied? She’s probably got herself a boyfriend.
Joe’s eyes open and dart around the carriage, looking for something pleasant to rest upon. Suddenly the stuffy silence is broken; there’s news from the world beyond the tunnel. A train driver’s voice crackles through the carriages via the intercom system. Commuters listen, intently, to each word delivered in a rolling West Indian accent.
“The queue for a platform at Earl’s Court’s gettin’ shorta. We’ll be der in about five minutes. Tanks for your patience folks.”
Commuters digest the message, carriages resound with huffing and puffing, rolling of eyes, angry rustling of newspapers, but the relief is tangible. Still, five minutes sounds a very long time to Joe.
At least we’re not forgotten.
Joe’s eyes settle on a turquoise bag, hung over the shoulder of a businesswoman. The colour is mesmerising, he imagines it’s the colour of the Caribbean Sea. His imagination wanders; for a moment, he’s lying with the girl from the Bounty advert on a golden beach, but then he frowns. The scene begins to cloud over and coming forth like a sea fog is his first day at university. That first morning, he awoke to the sight of grey breezeblocks, his awful halls of residence. It was rather like a prison block. He’d been disappointed with his accommodation and his flat mates. He hadn’t expected dreaming spires, but he had expected the people to be interesting; at least as interesting as Luke, Archie, Hannah and Cathy. No such luck, the new people were all dull in comparison.
On that first night away at university, he felt homesick and bereft of friends. He’d had a fitful sleep. It was a long, starless night that offered no dreams. He overslept. It was a rush to get dressed and prepared for registration. It was a crisp, misty, autumn morning. Joe crossed the campus lawns for the first time, scanning the windows of the nurses’ residence. He glanced over to his brown Skoda, grateful to see it where he had left it. The air buzzed with excited young students, away from home for the first time. Joe walked quickly, along a busy main road lined with old grit-stone terraced houses and shops. As he continued towards the landscape architecture department, a bit of blue sky appeared. He felt excited, and a little nervous, like a little boy about to enter the big school for the first time. He passed an imposing church, and then turned off the main road. And there it was, the landscape architecture building. He was actually early. The department was in an impressive, stone Victorian mansion. This is more like it! Joe spent a lot of time in that building over the following four years.
The woman in the carriage, with the turquoise bag, looks sideways. She notices that Joe is staring at her bag. He’s got a big smile on his face. He is remembering an old man in a tweed jacket, standing by a red Volvo estate, next to the landscape architecture building. The old man is bent double, loading tree saplings into the back of his car. He turned and stared at Joe, like a crow about to stab a worm.
“Morning,” he snapped, breath visible in the cold air.
“Do you need a hand?” Joe asked, cautiously.
“I did,” the old man sounded flustered. “But this is the last one.”
With considerable effort, the old man straightened his back. He softened when he saw Joe’s beaming face, shining eyes. Joe peered into the back of the Volvo. Even though he was about to become a landscape architect, he knew embarrassingly little about green things.
“What kind of trees are they?”
“Do you want their Latin names or common?”
“Common.”
“Thank goodness for that, they’re silver birches, oh, and a few beeches.” The old man seemed pleased that Joe had taken an interest in his trees.
“Are they for your garden?”
“No, they’re for anywhere that needs them.”
“How do you mean?”
“Are you a fresher?”
“Yeah.”
“For landscape architecture?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, right, I’m Donald Oakes, what’s your name?”
Joe. So you’re Professor Oakes?”
“That’s right. Joe, it’s always a good idea to have a few saplings in the back of your car, if you’ve got a car…”
“I have.”
“Well, it’s probably hard for a well off student like you to realise it, but a lot of people live in blocks of flats; they’ll never plant a tree.”
Joe looked aghast, although he’d never actually planted anything in his life.
The professor continued.
“Someone’s got to plant a tree for them. Think about roadside verges, roundabouts.”
“I am.”
“Eighty per cent of open space in our cities is highways land! We need to merge utility, with beauty!” The professor had a wild look in his eye.
Joe scratched his head. “So, you’re just going to plant your trees anywhere?”
“Correct!”
The professor explained that he didn’t care about getting permission. He planted his trees in the middle of the night, to avoid getting caught. He got arrested that night, planting trees beside a railway bridge. The police thought he was planting a bomb. Even after this, the professor retained his belief that it was easier to beg for mercy, than to ask for permission. Joe liked to think about the professor charging through the night, like a comic superhero, secretly making everything beautiful. On that first morning the professor invited Joe into the landscape architecture building for a coffee. As they walked together, Joe thought that landscape architecture might be the right choice after all.
The woman with the turquoise bag is quite attractive. She is standing very close to Joe in the packed train carriage. With two dainty fingers and a thumb, she clasps the pole. Fatter, sweatier hands, with stubby fingers, also grasp it. Suddenly, the train clanks into life, it jolts forward. As soon as it’s started, it stops again, with a screech of the brakes. The man with the book pressed against his nose is catapulted into the back of a businessman, who yelps. Mumbled apologies. The man with the book quickly resumes his reading position as if nothing’s happened. The woman with the turquoise bag loses her grip on the pole and somebody else’s hand takes her spot. She has to lean upon Joe, her hands resting on his shoulder. She avoids eye contact, but Joe is aware of her breasts pressing against him. The woman can’t even put her hands down by her side because other commuters are pressing against her. All she can do for the moment is to hold onto Joe, her body pressed against his. Resigned to this awkward position she briefly looks Joe in the eye and smiles. They both begin to laugh. It’s such a ridiculously intimate situation for strangers to be in. Perhaps being packed like sardines is a turn up… The train jolts and immediately stops again. The sardines do a little reshuffling and the woman’s body no longer needs to be folded into Joe’s. She looks down at her feet, still smiling.
