The Rotters' Club (13 page)

‘Lois would love that,’ said Benjamin.

‘Perhaps we could honeymoon at the Taj Mahal.’

‘That’d be brilliant.’

Roll-Up Reg came back with their drinks.

‘Where are you taking her on Thursday night, then?’ he asked. ‘Where are you doing the dirty deed?’

‘I thought we’d start with The Grapevine, round about eight. Then we’re going to…’ he searched in his pocket again, and produced a card ‘… this new place. I booked a table for nine o’clock.’

‘Papa Luigi’s Pasta and Spaghetti di Milano,’
Benjamin read, before handing the card back. ‘What kind of restaurant’s that?’

‘Italian,’ said Malcolm.

‘You haven’t travelled much, have you?’ Roll-Up Reg demolished his pint in a single draught and let out an almighty belch. ‘God, I’m a filthy cunt,’ he said, and picked up a copy of the
NME
from a nearby stool. ‘Here, how much did you pay to get in here, Male?’

‘69p each.’

‘We could have got in for forty-nine, if we’d brought one of these.’

He showed Malcolm a coupon, indicating that this event was part of something called The
NME
/Virgin Crisis Tour. The idea, it seemed, was to bring a little cheer into the lives of Britain’s downtrodden young music-lovers, who were continuing to suffer the effects of yet more strikes and fuel shortages. The second general election of the year had been held a few weeks earlier, and another Labour government had been elected – this time with a majority of three – but nobody thought that this would make much difference.

‘This cunt Branson – he’s all right, isn’t he?’

‘I reckon he is,’ said Malcolm.

They explained to Benjamin that Richard Branson was the head of Virgin Records.

‘You need men like that, you see,’ Malcolm told him. ‘Idealists. People who aren’t just in it for the money. Otherwise, what kind of society have you got?’

‘Are you a socialist?’ Reg asked. ‘Or a Tory cunt?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Benjamin. ‘A Tory cunt, I suppose.’

He roared with laughter again.

‘And I bet you think the IRA are a bunch of murdering Micks, don’t you? And our boys in Belfast are the salt of the fucking earth?’

‘Give him time, Reg. He goes to a posh school. He hasn’t had the chance to learn.’

‘Buy him
The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists
for his birthday. And some George Orwell, while you’re at it.’ Reg leaned almost into Benjamin’s face. His breath was a potent mixture of beer and that curious tobacco. ‘You’ve got to wake up, sonny, sooner or later. You’ve got to wake up to what’s happening in this country.’

‘You mean with the unions?’

‘No, I don’t mean with the unions. The unions are the good guys, you see. I mean the people who are getting together
against
the unions. I’m talking about retired colonels with dodgy ideas who are putting private armies together. With money from the banks and the multi-nationals. And friends in the Tory party.’ He sat back, winked enigmatically, and concluded, ‘I’m telling you, there’s some far-out shit going on in dear old Blighty at the moment.’

Malcolm agreed. ‘Scary times on the event horizon,’ he muttered.

‘Meanwhile,’ said Reg, ‘Malcolm here, the treacherous cunt, is all set to become a paid-up member of the fucking
boor-zhwah-zee!’
He slapped him on the back, fondly, but very hard. Malcolm gave a wan smile. ‘And by the way, I’ll give you a bit of advice, for nothing. Don’t take her to The Grapevine.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the beer tastes like piss, and at that time of night it’ll be full of cunts in suits.’

‘So where should I take her?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Reg, pulling out another Rizla. ‘The Tavern in the Town?’

*

None of this made any sense to Benjamin, however hard he tried. Roll-Up Reg was talking another language. But then, he was no more persuaded by the things his parents told him, or the teachers at school. It was the world, the world itself that was beyond his reach, this whole absurdly vast, complex, random, measureless construct, this never-ending ebb and flow of human relations, political relations, cultures, histories… How could anyone hope to master such things? It was not like music. Music always made sense. The music he heard that night was lucid, knowable, full of intelligence and humour, wistfulness and energy and hope. He would never understand the world, but he would always love this music. He listened to this music, with God by his side, and knew that he had found a home.

10

On the night of Thursday, November 21st, 1974, Lois and Malcolm met at a quarter to eight, on the south-east corner of Holloway Circus, outside the Odeon Queensway. They cut through the Smallbrook underpass and walked down Hill Street, a route which gave them a view of the Jacey Cinema, where customers were this week being offered a choice between
Girls Led Astray, When Girls Undress
and
Love Play Swedish Style.

They giggled at these titles.

‘I don’t need to see films like that,’ said Malcolm. ‘You’re my girl led astray.’

‘What about some love play, Birmingham style?’ said Lois.

They were both shivering, with cold and anticipation. They were both wearing long overcoats, so Malcolm had not yet had a chance to see Lois’s purple velvet maxi dress.

At the junction of Navigation Street and Stephenson Street, in the doorway of Hudson’s bookshop, Malcolm put his arms around Lois and said, ‘I love you, you know.’

‘I love you too,’ she said, and they kissed for more than a minute, hungrily at first, then tenderly, Malcolm’s hand buried deep in her hair, Lois’s hand caressing his neck.

‘I thought we’d better do some kissing now,’ he said. ‘They’d throw us out if we did this in the pub.’ Then, noticing something, he pulled away. ‘What’s the matter, love?’

There were tears in Lois’s eyes.

‘I’m so happy,’ she said. ‘You’ve made me so happy.’

They continued up Stephenson Street and turned right into New Street. The city centre felt quiet, friendly, peaceable. There were several other couples their own age, off to the pub or the restaurant. It seemed like a good night for lovers.

The Tavern in the Town was below street level, and after dark, that made it a cosy, welcoming place. You walked down a short flight of stairs and turned into a large, open-plan area, broken up by brickwork columns, the beer-pumps gleaming behind an L-shaped bar, lights flickering on the fruit machines and the juke box, the whole room alive with voices, music, the sound of people enjoying themselves, the sound of fun. Malcolm knew a couple of the customers and nodded greetings. He took Lois by the arm and helped her through the crowd. She was always a little nervous going into pubs, even now. She was still underage, and kept thinking she was going to bump into one of her teachers, although what Mrs Ridley or Miss Winterton might be doing here she couldn’t imagine. It was very busy. Malcolm was worried that they wouldn’t be able to find a table, but then he spotted one: there was one still empty, by some stroke of good fortune, the good fortune he knew he was blessed with that night. He sat Lois down, made sure she was comfortable, then went to get the drinks. All she wanted was a tonic water, she wanted to keep a clear head for the restaurant, she wanted to enjoy the food, and the wine they were going to have with it. Malcolm got himself a half. He didn’t want to overdo it either.

He marvelled at the dress, told her that she looked fantastic in it. They held hands at the table, and didn’t notice the people standing up on either side of them, pressing in close.

‘I can’t believe it’s a year,’ said Malcolm.

‘I know,’ said Lois. ‘It’s incredible.’

‘What would have happened if you hadn’t seen my advert?’

‘What would have happened if you’d chosen one of the others?’

‘I only got two answers,’ he said.

‘That’s even worse. Suppose you’d gone for her, instead of me.’

‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘Our lives would have been totally different.’

He kissed her hand and after a while went to get two more drinks. When he got back, it was sixteen minutes past eight, and Lois was humming softly along with the juke box.

‘I love this record,’ she said. ‘This is my favourite. Don’t you love it?’

It was a cover version of ‘I Get A Kick Out Of You’, sung by Gary Shearston. It had been in the charts for ages. Lois closed her eyes and joined in with the words.

I get no kick from champagne
Mere alcohol doesn’t thrill me at all

Malcolm put down his glass and began singing as well.

So tell me why should it be true,
That I get a kick out of you?

Lois was surprised to hear him singing. She had never heard him sing before. It made her laugh.

‘I didn’t think you liked that kind of song,’ she said.

‘The old ones are always the best.’ He leaned forward eagerly. ‘Hey – that’s what we should have tonight.’

‘What – cocaine?’ said Lois, because the next verse had started.

‘No, silly: champagne. Let’s splash out on a bottle.’

‘Can you afford it?’

‘Sure. It’s a special occasion.’ And then, taking the long-awaited plunge, he added: ‘More special than you think.’

Lois’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What do you mean?’

Malcolm fingered the leather box in his jacket pocket. He had not meant to ask her so early, but it was no use: he couldn’t contain himself.

‘Look, love, you know what I think about you, don’t you?’

Lois didn’t answer. She just looked back at him, her eyes starting to brim over.

‘I love you,’ said Malcolm. ‘I’m crazy about you.’ He took a long breath, an enormous breath. ‘I’ve got to say something to you. I’ve got to ask you something.’ He grasped her hand, and squeezed it tightly. As if he would never let go. ‘Do you know what it is?’

Of course she knew. And of course, Malcolm knew what her answer would be. They understood each other perfectly, at that moment. They were as close to each other, and as close to happiness, as it is possible for two people to be. So Malcolm never did ask the question.

Then, at 8.20 precisely, the timing device set off the trigger, the battery pack sent power running through the cables, and thirty pounds of gelignite exploded on the far side of the pub.

And that was how it all ended, for the chick and the hairy guy.

The Very Maws of Doom

1

… my clearest memory is of the light we saw there, that
painters’ sky, greyblue like Marie’s eyes and like her grandsons’
eyes, the colour of a pain that won’t go away…

Sometimes I feel that I am destined always to be offstage whenever the main action occurs. That God has made me the victim of some cosmic practical joke, by assigning me little more than a walk-on part in my own life. Or sometimes I feel that my rôle is simply to be a spectator to other people’s stories, and always to wander away at the most important moment, drifting into the kitchen to make a cup of tea just as the denouement unfolds.

This is by way of apology, I should explain; for I’m about to start telling a story without knowing how it ends. Or at least, I have a version of the ending, but it is only Paul’s version: and Paul likes to keep his secrets. But it’s a story worth telling, all the same, so I shall give you as much as I know.

It begins in July, 1976, when my father came into the living room one evening while we were all watching television and broke some astonishing news: he told us that we were going to be spending our summer holidays in Denmark this year.

Now, ‘astonishing’ is not a word that I use lightly, and this proposal did indeed mark an audacious and unprecedented break with family tradition. Every summer, for as long as I could remember, we had gone to the same place for our holidays: the Llýn peninsula in North Wales, where we would pitch our caravan in a windswept field, surrounded by sheep and bracken, and steel ourselves for a three-week battle with the elements, for our arrival there was inevitably followed by a season of ferocious gales and pitiless rain. (It’s one more irony, then, in a life which I suspect is destined to be riddled with them, that the very summer we chose not to spend in Wales turned out to be the hottest in memory.) This year, it seemed, everything was to be different. My father had just been speaking on the telephone to his friend from Germany, Gunther Baumann, who had made a generous offer: would we all like to spend two weeks with his family, in a house they had rented for the summer in Skagen, at the very northernmost tip of Denmark?

Five minutes later, my father called Munich to accept this proposal with enthusiasm.

Herr Baumann was my father’s German counterpart, you might say. He was a personnel manager at BMW, and over the last two years they had paid several visits to each other’s factories, in order to compare working practices and to share thoughts on the difficult subject of industrial relations. It was an informal, mutually beneficial arrangement which in time had led to a friendship. My mother and my brother and I had all met our German ‘uncle’ several times and felt that we knew him well enough now to call him ‘Gunther’.

We did not know the other members of his family, however, and our first sight of them was when we pulled up outside the house in Gammel Skagen one warm August afternoon. We had flown to Copenhagen, connected to Ålborg, and there my father had hired a car in which we drove through a landscape which seemed at once alien and oddly familiar: it had a pale, unassuming loveliness which reminded me of my own country, and yet as we travelled further north there was the hint of something freer and wilder in its low blue sky and sparse, desert-like expanses of grassy sand. Almost at the very tip of Jutland we turned left off the main road (the only road, by now), away from Skagen itself and into Gammel Skagen, no more than a cluster of handsome, yellow-stone summer houses, really, huddled around a tiny inn and then spreading out along the beach. And there the Baumanns were, waiting for us in the doorway. Gunther with his bald pate, glazed nutbrown by the sun, looking with his cherry-wood pipe and lustrous beard every inch the nineteenth-century moral philosopher – an impression somewhat at odds with his stripy blue T-shirt and knee-length shorts; and beside him his wife Lisa, a tiny figure in strawberry-pink summer dress and high heels, with make-up and jewellery more suited to a night out in a restaurant than an afternoon by the beach. And then there were the children, not one of whom seemed to bear the slightest relation to their progenitors; for all three of them were, not to put too fine a point on it, fat; not only their youngest son Rolf but also, I was disappointed to see, his twin sisters Ursula and Ulrike, who were not much older than me and on whose company I had been pinning high hopes; hopes which were swiftly dashed to the ground by their unfortunate complexions, severe steel-rimmed spectacles and sly, giggling demeanours. Though this, in its way, was also a relief. It meant that my loyalty would not be tested. (My loyalty to she who doesn’t know that I exist.)