The Road to Zoe

by Alexander, Nick

  ‘So was it the fact that your parents divorced?’ she asks. ‘Did she just take that differently to you? Or was there something else?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ I say. ‘I mean, the potential was already there, if you know what I mean. She was never easy, our Zoe. And she always had issues, like with her food and stuff.’

  ‘Anorexia?’

  I nod, check the mirror, and then indicate to change lanes. ‘On and off, yeah. Mainly on, though, unfortunately.’

  ‘That’s a tough one,’ Jess says. ‘My best friend went down with it when we were fifteen. She ended up in hospital being force-fed and everything.’

  ‘Zoe nearly did as well. But she tended to come back from the brink just in time to avoid it. It always seemed to me like she was more in control of it all than people thought.’

  ‘And that all kicked off when your dad left?’

  ‘No, like I say, it was already there, lurking. She was forever refusing to eat this or that. But I suppose it got worse once Dad left. Much worse.’

  ‘And there was never a question of you living with him?’ Jess asks. ‘Was it just a given that you would both stay with your mum?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ I say.

  ‘Me, too,’ Jess says. ‘But then Dad had buggered off to Jamaica, so it wasn’t really an option.’

  ‘Zoe actually wanted to live with Dad. But he said no.’

  ‘Ouch,’ Jess says. ‘That must have hurt.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. The real reason was that Linda – his new girlfriend, now his wife – had three young girls already. I think she was worried, quite rightly, that Zoe would screw them all up. And I mean, Zoe was really no fun to live with, so you can see her point of view. But because Dad was such a wuss, he never told Zoe why. He was still trying to be our best mate all the time. So I think he told her, or at the very least he let her believe, that it was Mum who’d vetoed the idea.’

  ‘Eww,’ Jess says. ‘What a weasel! I mean, I’m sorry and I know he’s your dad and everything, but that’s just so unfair to your mum.’

  ‘Well, Dad’s a wimp,’ I say, feeling slightly uncomfortable now that Jess has joined me in slagging him off. ‘But he has qualities, too. He’s not all bad.’

  ‘And no one ever told Zoe the truth?’ Jess asks.

  ‘I tried,’ I explain. ‘I told her she’d got the wrong end of the stick, but she just looked at me in that big-sister way – like it was sad how stupid her little brother was. She told me I was naive or something, I think. Zoe always thought she knew better than everyone else. You could never really tell her anything.’

  As we drive on, passing Worcester, I try to work out why I haven’t mentioned the Blackpool/Morecambe connection to Jess. Because though it’s undoubtedly true that Dad leaving was the thing that lit Zoe’s fuse, the main event had been Blackpool. That’s when everything had actually exploded.

  I’m not really sure why I don’t want to tell her, which is worrying. It’s never a nice feeling having to accept that you don’t fully understand your own psyche, and today is no exception. I’m left feeling distinctly unsettled.

  ‘Cat Empire?’ Jessica asks. She’s waving her phone at me.

  ‘Oh, no, please . . . no,’ I say. ‘Can we have something else this time?’

  Jessica sighs. ‘I don’t know why you don’t like them,’ she says.

  ‘I do like some of them,’ I tell her, even though ‘like’ might be overstating it. ‘It’s just those Latin beats they sometimes do. It’s all a bit Manu Chao.’

  ‘I like Manu Chao,’ Jess says.

  ‘Yeah, well, sorry . . . I don’t. And I just fancy something a bit more . . . I dunno. Something funkier, maybe?’

  ‘Jake Bugg?’ Jess asks.

  ‘I said funkier,’ I laugh. ‘I like Jake Bugg, but funky he is not.’

  ‘God, being a DJ for you is like . . .’ Jess says. ‘Like . . . I don’t know. Like a really bad simile, or something.’

  ‘What about that French guy?’ I suggest. ‘The one who does the electro stuff.’

  ‘David Guetta?’ Jess asks, her nose wrinkled.

  ‘David Guetta?’ I repeat, astonished. ‘Is he French? Is David Guetta French?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be Davide Guetta if he was French?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure he is.’

  ‘And you have David Guetta on your phone?’ I ask.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that!’ I laugh. ‘No, I meant the young guy. With the cute accent.’

  ‘I don’t know who . . .’

  ‘You played it at that party we went to.’

  ‘Oh, I know who you mean!’ Jess says theatrically. And after a few swipes on her phone, the music starts.

  ‘That’s it,’ I say. ‘I love this.’

  ‘It’s brilliant to dance to.’

  ‘I remember,’ I say. ‘People went crazy. What’s his name?’

  ‘Kazy Lambist,’ Jess says. ‘Weird name, huh? But I suppose it must mean something in French.’

  It is twenty past one by the time I park the car in Blackpool. The side street, just two back from the seafront, is in a terrible state. A number of the houses have been boarded up, and the paint is peeling off all of them. I glance up and down the street at the other cars parked there. There’s a rusty Ford Cortina, one of those Simcas people always use for rally driving, and an ancient Rover P6 that looks almost new.

  I nod at the street. ‘It’s like – what was that TV series where he found himself back in the seventies?’

  ‘Life on Mars?’ Jessica says. ‘I was just thinking the same thing. It’s freaky. Who knew that Peugeots could time-travel, eh?’

  We walk to the seafront, passing a long-closed UFO Exhibition and a shuttered Chinese restaurant. Then we cross the road to the wide promenade and turn towards the tower.

  ‘They have an Eiffel Tower and everything!’ Jessica says.

  ‘It was inspired by the Eiffel Tower, actually,’ I say. ‘Though I have no idea why I know that particular fact.’

  Despite the sunshine, there’s a chilling sea breeze, and as a result the seafront is all but deserted. We pass a beggar who, between swigs of Tennent’s, asks us for change, and a couple our age who sound like they’re speaking Russian.

  ‘You see,’ Jess says, once they’re out of earshot. ‘Blackpool is very cosmopolitan.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, through a grin. ‘Yeah, of course it is.’

  At the tower, we cross and head in towards the shops, looking for lunch. As we pass a packed fish-and-chip bar, I pause. ‘Here?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure,’ Jess says. ‘It’s busy, which has got to be a good sign. Plus, I’m bursting for the loo.’

  I queue at the counter and when Jess returns we attempt to order one fish and chips and one veggie burger and chips. But the cashier informs us that they’re out of veggie burgers.

  ‘Oh, what the hell, I’ll have cod,’ Jessica announces.

  This is a surprise to me, as I have never once seen her eat fish; so, once we’re seated, I ask her about it.

  ‘Oh, I’m quite flexitarian, really,’ she says. ‘I mean, I’d rather eat without anything having to die for me. And I’m never going to order some factory-farmed beefburger. But if I’m stuck, I’ll eat fish. If I’m really stuck, like I was in Paris one time, I’ll even eat chicken, as long as it’s free range. Though I can’t say that I’m particularly keen.’

  ‘Gosh,’ I say. ‘I never knew you were so pragmatic.’

  ‘There are so many parts of my amazingly complex personality that you know nothing about,’ Jessica mugs. ‘Maybe you’ll have to hang around a bit longer to discover them all.’

  ‘Maybe I will,’ I say.

  ‘Actually, don’t ever tell anyone this,’ she says, raising a forkful of cod to her lips, ‘but I was secretly hoping they’d be out of veggie burgers. I love fish and chips.’

  ‘Mm,’ I say. ‘Me too. And this is good.’


  ‘It’s really good,’ Jess agrees.

  Once we have eaten, and drunk our cups of tea, we return to the promenade.

  ‘So is that the funfair, up there?’ Jess asks, pointing into the distance.

  ‘It is,’ I tell her. ‘You know it’s going to be closed, right?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Jessica says. ‘I just want to see it. Plus, it’s a lovely day for a walk.’

  And it is a lovely day. The bracing wind is whipping the white caps of the waves and creating a sea mist through which the low winter sun appears haloed.

  ‘It’s that smell, isn’t it?’ Jess says. ‘That iodine smell. One day I’d love to live by the seaside.’

  It takes us twenty minutes to walk to the Pleasure Beach, a walk during which I unexpectedly start to feel tense.

  There are very few walkers out today – we must cross paths with only twenty or thirty people the whole time – but they are all, almost without exception, in trouble.

  We see a bag lady with a supermarket caddie full of her stuff. We see three utterly inebriated men, staggering along clutching the railings, which at 2 p.m. on a January afternoon takes some doing. Two separate beggars ask us for money – I give the sober one with the cute dog a quid – and we see a young couple who appear to have mental health issues, muttering and swearing to themselves, or perhaps to each other; it’s hard to tell.

  ‘I can see why you didn’t want to stay here,’ Jess announces when we’re three-quarters of the way to the funfair. ‘Blackpool’s a bit down on its uppers, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s always been rough, I think,’ I tell her. ‘Well, not in the fifties, of course. But ever since cheap flights to Spain were invented, it has. I think it’s got worse recently, though.’

  ‘It’s like Bristol,’ Jess says. ‘I tell you, half of Britain is crumbling. But they just keep voting ’em back in.’

  When we reach the Pleasure Beach, it is indeed closed, so we simply cross the road and peer through the railings.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Jess asks as we turn and walk back the other way. ‘You’ve gone very quiet.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I tell her – a lie. In truth I’m feeling a bit queasy. I’m not sure if it’s Blackpool doing this to me or the fish and chips we ate.

  ‘Is it good in there?’ Jess asks. ‘When it’s open, I mean.’

  ‘I went years and years and years ago,’ I tell her. ‘I was fourteen, I think. And all I really remember is the Big One. It’s that roller coaster.’ I pause to point back at the structure. ‘I must have gone on it five or six times.’

  ‘Obsessive compulsive disorder?’ Jess says.

  ‘Yeah, something like that,’ I agree.

  When I turn to face north, I see a rowdy group of adolescents heading our way. There are five girls, one of whom is pushing a pram, four guys and a child of about eight, and they are larking around together, very possibly drunk.

  One of the girls – she’s wearing bleacher jeans and has a Mod haircut – breaks free from the group and crosses the path to intercept us. ‘You got any change?’ she asks, cockily blocking our progress.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘No.’

  ‘What?’ she asks, glancing back at her friends – her audience. ‘What, nuffink at all?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, tugging on Jessica’s hand, urging her to walk around this human obstacle.

  ‘Where you from?’ one of the lads asks, jogging across now to join his friend.

  ‘Just don’t engage,’ I warn Jessica, but it’s too late.

  ‘We’re from London,’ she’s replying. ‘What about you? You live here?’

  ‘London!’ He laughs. ‘She’s from fucking London!’

  I’m starting to sweat here. They may all be a few years younger than me, but there are ten of them. Actually, the five girls alone look pretty scary. I really don’t want to get into a fight so I grab Jessica’s hand even more tightly and increase my pace dramatically.

  The kid now starts running around us while making monkey noises and scratching his armpits. ‘Oi!’ he says. ‘D’you wanna banana? Do you? D’you wanna banana?’

  This catapults me immediately back to some of the worst moments of my school days. It’s then that a handful of gravel hits the back of my head, which reinforces the feeling even more. It stings, but doesn’t, I don’t think, actually injure me.

  Jess hesitates and tries to turn around to confront them, but I tug on her hand the way you urge on a child. ‘Just leave it,’ I mutter. ‘We’re seriously outnumbered, Jess. And they’re pissed.’

  I spot a group of people waiting at a tram stop and tack diagonally towards them, and thankfully the pack of hyenas behind us begins to lose interest, following slowly, still shouting insults, then pausing, and then finally, in a foray of monkey noises, turning and continuing on their way.

  ‘Now that’s why I didn’t want to stay in Blackpool,’ I say.

  ‘Yep,’ Jessica says, icily. ‘Yep, I got that, Jude, thank you.’

  We return to the car immediately, without even having to discuss it. I type the address of our Airbnb into Waze, start the engine and pull away. It’s not until we hit the M55 that my stress levels start to return to normal.

  Jess remains silent. In fact, she hasn’t said a word since the incident on the prom.

  She has her legs crossed away from me and is looking out of her side window. Now that I think about it, she’s sitting as far away from me as she can within the space provided by the small car. This cannot be a good sign.

  I open my mouth to speak a few times, but then close it again, because I can’t quite work out what to say first. In the end, choosing humour, I say, ‘So, Blackpool was fun!’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jess says, flatly. ‘Yeah, Blackpool was great.’

  We continue in silence for a few more miles before I ask if something’s wrong.

  ‘Noooo,’ she replies, mockingly. ‘Why would anything be wrong?’

  I drag my eyes from the busy motorway and turn briefly to check her expression, but get no clues. She’s still resolutely facing the other way.

  ‘Jess!’ I say. ‘Tell me.’

  Only now does she turn her head towards me. She looks confused at first, but then her expression shifts to anger instead. ‘Really?’ she asks. ‘You really don’t know?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘Huh!’ Jess spits, turning away again.

  ‘Jess,’ I whine, reaching out to touch her leg. ‘Don’t do this. We never do this. Tell me. Or do I need to stop at the services or something?’

  ‘Jesus,’ Jess mutters. She glances at me, shakes her head in apparent dismay, and then looks back the other way as she says, ‘Well, let’s just say I didn’t much enjoy being called a monkey.’

  My initial reaction is to feign confusion. ‘But that was me,’ I tell her. ‘I mean, he wasn’t calling you a monkey. He was talking to me.’

  Jess laughs sourly at this, and shifts her body to face me, finally engaging fully in the conversation, which I suspect is in danger of becoming an argument. ‘Really?’ she says again. ‘You really think that was about you?’

  ‘It’s my arms,’ I tell her. ‘They’re really long, like a gorilla’s or something. Everyone used to call me Monkey Boy at school. I’m used to it.’

  ‘Jude,’ Jess says, and I know, because of her use of my name, that this is serious stuff. ‘They were calling me a monkey. Because I’m black.’

  ‘They weren’t,’ I protest, even though I suspect that she’s right. ‘Were they?’

  When I glance at Jess, she’s nodding pedantically. She reaches out and raps her knuckles on the side of my head. ‘Anyone home?’ she asks. ‘Anyone at all?’

  ‘But that would be horrifically—’

  ‘Racist?’ Jess says. ‘Oh yeah!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask. ‘I do have really long arms.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Jess says. ‘Trust me. And when they said, “Fuck off back to wh
ere you came from”, that was directed at me, too.’

  ‘It crossed my mind,’ I say. ‘But I didn’t want to admit it. And I didn’t want you to think it either. So I told myself he meant London, because you’d said that’s where we were from. I told myself they meant fuck off back to London.’

  ‘Yeah, I get it, Jude. But no. They meant fuck off back to Ah-fric-ahhhh,’ Jess says, in a fake mocking accent. ‘Where da bananas grow.’

  ‘That’s horrendous.’

  ‘Yep!’ Jess says. ‘Welcome to multiracial Britain. I wondered why you didn’t react. I was actually quite angry about that. I still am, in a way.’

  ‘There were ten of them, Jess,’ I point out.

  ‘I didn’t expect you to fight them,’ Jess says. ‘I didn’t think you were going to change into your Superman outfit in the phone box and fight them all off. I just thought you might . . . I don’t know . . . react somehow. I thought you might try to console me . . . or apologise for your fellow countrymen or something.’

  I nod thoughtfully as I think about this. ‘I’m sorry,’ I finally say. ‘I just didn’t want to admit that that’s what was happening.’

  ‘White privilege,’ Jess says.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It’s called white privilege.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Being able to avoid thinking about that stuff. Not letting it cross your mind. It must be very relaxing for you. I’m jealous.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well, I’m sorry about my white privilege, too.’

  ‘OK,’ Jess says.

  I drive on for another ten minutes before I dare speak again. ‘I have a question, though,’ I tell her. ‘If I might?’

  ‘You might,’ Jess says, thankfully sounding more relaxed now.

  ‘So, you said “my countrymen”. You said I might have apologised for my countrymen.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Jess says. ‘And?’

  ‘Well, are they?’ I ask. ‘Are they my countrymen? I mean, are they more my countrymen than they’re yours?’

  ‘Um,’ Jess says. ‘OK, good point. You win that round.’

  ‘I’m not trying to win anything, Jess,’ I say. ‘I’m just trying to understand. I mean, I’m sorry that happened to you. Really. You know me, so you know that’s true, yeah? But is it something I should apologise for? Are they somehow my responsibility, because I’m white?’