Читать книгу The Last Day of January - Greer Decker - Страница 4

1

In my ideal life, I was taller, in a loving, lasting relationship and had children. And mankind had a good chance of saving the planet. I’d still moved from rural Suffolk to London at the first opportunity, like the rest of my schoolmates. I’d never regretted that decision, nor the one to become a teacher. My affection for London was soon so great that I never once thought of leaving.

It had made such an impression on me as a ten-year-old. That early summer day in 1979, my family and I had taken the two-hour journey by train into a vast, scintillating world. My nose pressed up against the window, I gazed at the rows of brick houses that lined the rail tracks for those last miles of the journey to Liverpool Street Station, some seemed virtually within my reach. I remember the dirt but also the colour, and sighting a small playground, bursting with life. A rainbow roundabout was spinning the children giddy. Later at Covent Garden, I stared at street artists and punks, one gave me a peace sign. After seeing some of the sights, we ate out at a proper Italian restaurant in the West End. London captured me that day and I wanted to be part of it.

Twelve years later, in a tiny shared flat, it became my home. Once I’d survived my first two years of teaching, I told my hairdresser I was staying for good. Then, aged fifty, I left.

It was a Sunday afternoon, the twenty-fifth of August 2019. With London behind me, the rural landscape from the A12 was showing the first signs of late summer. The mellow scenery matched my mood. I changed the music to something more upbeat and felt cheerier for a while, but heavier thoughts soon returned. What was I leaving and what lay ahead?

I passed a billboard for Colchester Zoo and thought of the billboard that had shocked me over three years ago now, in May 2016. On the forever busy M40. The xenophobia then should have warned me of where we were heading only a month later with the Brexit referendum. The board was taken down shortly afterwards, following the public outrage. I’d looked out for the next exit sign that day, wanting to know where I was, so I could harbour a grudge forever.

It was at around that same point on the M40 in late May this year, on my way to my friend Dorothy’s birthday again, that I made up my mind to accept the offer in Suffolk. I felt only a marginal attachment, sadly, to my home county, but I was pleased that I would be with my eighty-three-year-old mum. That’s another thing: in my ideal life, mum would not have got dementia and dad would not have passed away a long time ago.

Telling myself that a change of environment would do me good, a certain curiosity was also drawing me back to my roots, to remind myself of the reasons I’d left so abruptly and see if they were still valid. And then there was Brexit. After meeting only two people in London who openly proclaimed to have voted differently to me, in Suffolk, I would presumably meet many more Brexit supporters.

There was a military vehicle in front of me. I thought of the army man at Nigel’s christening in late August, three years ago to the day in fact. Our encounter had left me angry, perplexed and sad.

‘What have we ever got out of the bloody EU anyway? It’s been our downfall quite frankly and high time we showed them once and for all,’ he’d said loudly as we stood at the buffet, filling our plates with Mediterranean starters.

‘How can you say that? Our downfall?’ I’d pulled a funny face. ‘This is a community working for peace and prosperity.’

‘Community?! You’re taking the piss, aren’t you! They’re just pocketing our money and pissing us off with all their shitty rules and regulations.’

‘You do know that the UK worked on those regulations just as much as any other member and also benefits from the single market, don’t you?’ He was clearly one of those people who’d been taken in by the pro-Brexit press and the blatant lies on the UKIP posters, I’d thought to myself.

I couldn’t remember how the conversation had progressed, just that his arguments had been crude, and it had got personal, much to the embarrassment of the other guests around us, especially his wife. She hadn’t leapt to his defence but hadn’t disagreed with him either. Perhaps she’d grown tired of this topic. I caught myself thinking that he was as unrefined as his arguments, but what troubled me more was how badly I tackled him. He was having his own private war and I charged straight in. His aggression repulsed me and still made me angry today. The confrontation had spoilt the mood at our table and I was still ruminating about it three years later. And it created a stereotype Brexiteer in my mind which was dangerously simplified.

The sign for the A120 to Stansted Airport brought my thoughts to Rachel, my sister, and her husband Peter. I’d flown from there to Berlin to visit her and her family for two and a half weeks at the end of July. I’d found a tenant for my flat in Wandsworth, got the repairs done and had the rooms painted throughout. With everything packed in boxes, I could relax now, knowing it was sorted.

My holiday with Rachel, Peter and the children, Anna and Tim, had been very relaxing as always. Our time together was rare and precious. It was a slower pace of life to London.

We always did lots of cycling, mainly to Wannsee or Schlachtensee. There were none of those signs forbidding you to swim. Of course, you could argue whether that was a good thing or not, but for me, jumping into the cool water on a hot day was one of the joys of summer. We usually called in at Venezia for an ice cream on the way home and would sit out on the patio chatting and drinking wine until late. I loved trying out my rusty German on Anna and she loved teaching me cool new phrases and correcting all my horrible grammar.

This time, we’d also managed a trip to Prague and Vienna. I’d enjoyed the rocky landscape of Saxon Switzerland, south-east of Dresden, before entering the Czech Republic and crossing the lonely countryside to Prague. The magnificent medieval old town was touristy yes, but not totally spoilt yet, as some had warned. Perhaps because I was used to London. We’d continued onto Vienna as Anna and Tim wanted to go there. They’d just watched a Netflix series that had been shot in the city. In between the cafes, we saw the Schönbrunn palace and took a walk around the St. Marx cemetery.

Back in Berlin, Rachel and Peter invited friends over most evenings. Their conversations were interesting and quite deep, something I felt was more difficult in the UK, where witty banter was more the thing. Most of their friends were interested in Brexit.

‘Do you think it goes ahead? I can’t imagine this.’

‘I think it probably will now, sadly.’

‘But the Brits are normally so pragmatic, no? It’s crazy.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why do they do this?’

‘I think there are many reasons. Political, historical, geographical, economic. Clever campaigning too. People were misled. Big sums of money were quoted as the price of being in the EU, but it wasn’t true.’

‘Yes. I heard this too.’

‘I just don’t want to believe that xenophobia was a major factor.’

‘Maybe in the countryside? London is so multicultural, no?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who voted for Brexit? Is it like the AfD voters here? Have you heard of the AfD? It’s a far-right party. It is terrible. Was it more the people that live in the north?’

‘No, there were many factors: social class, education, age.’

Someone at the other side of the table said something funny and caught everyone’s attention. The conversation took a different course, and I was relieved. The moment to try and give a better answer had passed. If I’d have started, I wouldn’t have stopped, and he would have regretted asking at some point.

While glad that mum had some company, Rachel struggled to see how I could swap London for this existence.

‘How you can leave one of the world’s most vibrant cities for this little village, I just don’t know. Especially now with Brexit.’

‘Yeah, but what about mum?’

‘I know. It’s good that you’ll be there for her. And if things get really bad, you’ll just have to come here more often. You know you’re always welcome. Berlin is hardly heaven on earth, but it definitely has more to offer you than post-Brexit England.’

I laughed, but she was probably right. What would it be like to live in Suffolk again? At least the position was limited to a year. I would use the time to find suitable care for mum and check my prejudices against the country folk here. Maybe I would even find a partner. I’d been on my own for close to twelve years after two relationships had ended. In London, my mission to find the right person had become a bit of an obsession for a while, then I resolved to rely more on fate. It was too late for children but the idea of a soulmate to grow old with had its appeal.

After a two-hour drive from London, I arrived at mum’s. She was surprised by my arrival, despite our telephone conversation the day before. I left the six boxes, two suitcases and five shopping bags in the car and gave her a hug. She’d shrunk again in the few weeks I hadn’t seen her, her clothes were much baggier. She told me that ‘new people’ had moved into the close, though that was old news. A middle-aged couple with three children and two dogs, quiet ones fortunately. In retrospect, she’d quite liked the elderly couple who’d lived in the house before, Gwyneth and Alfred, although contact had been barely more than a wave and a Christmas card. I expected that level of intimacy to continue with this family. Mum had been a little upset when Alfred got killed in a head-on collision one day last winter. He had been at the wheel. Gwyneth had survived with some nasty injuries. She’d moved into a home shortly afterwards and I’d intended to visit her one day with mum.

The new family had refreshed the exterior of the house and made a friendly impression on me from a distance. I’d seen them a couple of times on my short visits in the spring, but it had never seemed like the right moment to introduce myself. Mum was curious but too shy to go up to them. She thought they’d said hello to her one day in the summer, but she couldn’t remember their names. Something beginning with H, Helen or Heather perhaps. Then they’d annoyed her by replacing the hedge with a higher and far less attractive fence in her view, presumably because of the dogs. It spoilt the character of the close, she argued. There was a time when she would have given everyone the benefit of the doubt, but I’d detected a harsher judgement of others in her recently.

Like with the new neighbours, mum’s response to my moving in was also quite muted. You could even say slightly suspicious. There was confusion about what was happening and no apparent pleasure at the prospect of company. Why all the boxes? She withdrew to the living room as I brought them in. I noticed that she kept having a peep through the door through, clearly concerned that I would mess up the house and disrupt her routine. That was not my intention. I swiftly stacked the boxes against the back wall in the big bedroom that was reserved for guests.

In the first few days, I was too occupied with unpacking and preparing for my start at the new school to cause much disruption to mum’s routine and it was soon clear that she didn’t have much of one in any case. Besides mealtimes, her days were virtually empty. Most of the activities she used to enjoy had become impossible. That was a gut-wrenching recognition for me. Previously ignorant of the extent of her struggles, it now soon became clear to me that leaving her on her own for more than a few hours at a time wasn’t ideal at all.

Mum’s reaction when I tentatively broached the subject was irritation at my impertinence.

‘Of course I can manage. What do you mean? I’ve always lived on my own. How do you think I’ve coped for all these years? I’m not stupid you know.’

I’d never thought of mum as stupid, quite the opposite. It was a good question though. How had she coped all these years? And who would check now that the oven was off and that she could get out of the house if she had to. There’d been a time after the burglary when she had religiously kept all the windows and doors locked, even during the day. And she would be forever looking for the right keys. An alarm system was out of the question. The very mention of alarms threw her into a panic. She was terrified by all things loud and electrical, including the telephone, which had been struck by lightning many years ago as she’d sat by the window and telephoned with a friend one day during a thunderstorm. That memory had resurfaced, and the telephone was now to be avoided at all costs.

By Wednesday evening, so four days later, I was having serious doubts that I’d done the right thing. In London, I’d never felt alone, someone was always up for a drink and a laugh and there was so much going on. The news of the day here was a hedgepig sighting on the front lawn.

I told myself I’d feel better once school had begun. And there were some aspects of Suffolk I was looking forward to. The pretty countryside and vastness of the skies, the space, the sea breeze, long walks, the slower pace of life in general. Once school started, a kind of normality would return.

On the Thursday, we went to Hearty’s, the farm shop, for lunch. It was mum’s favourite place these days as you always got a table and there were plenty of toilets. And the food was her kind of thing. I liked it there too. They had a nice selection of cheeses and local produce and a corner with gifts and birthday cards. I recognised the manageress from last time and also the young girl who worked in the café. She’d spoken to us back in June. The girl, Izabela, must have been about nineteen and had unusual features, in fact she was stunningly beautiful. I’d guessed from her accent and look that she was from Poland and she’d told us she came from a small town, Terespol, very close to the border with Belarus, only a few miles from Brest. Mum and I had looked it up in the atlas when we’d got home that afternoon. By comparison, my move had been a small one.

Izabela had been in England for a little over three years and lived with her parents and younger sister. When mum enquired if she liked it here, she nodded, but I sensed she was being polite. Her dad was a builder, had become a Norwich fan and loved the pubs, she told us with a smile. Her mum worked at Norwich hospital and loved shopping in the city. Izabela had those teenager characteristics; she was charming and passionate, but a little insecure. She kept touching her hair and occasionally stopped to think about her words. She’d also listened patiently when mum had told her about her recent stay in Norwich hospital. Mum couldn’t remember why she’d been there.

That day, a young and broad-chested man had brought our food. Mum had chosen the pork chops; I had the fish. On his way back to the kitchen, he spoke to Izabela, who was wiping the tables on the other side of the restaurant. The looks indicated that the mood between them was not particularly good. The chips were delicious. I asked mum if she remembered the Polish girl from the last time we’d spoken to her in June. She said yes, she used to do her hair. She was probably mistaking her with Dorota, who used to do mum’s hair at the salon on the market square in town some years back and also came from Poland.

Mum struggled to eat her meal and didn’t want any afters. There’d been a time when she’d managed a huge portion of dessert. As she put her knife and fork down – I’d long finished – a couple walked past our table. I didn’t see the man but the tall and glamorous looking lady in an outfit rather too fancy for a farm shop caught my attention. Mum noticed them too, as they sat down two tables along. I had my back to them. Mum had the better view. Izabela reappeared to clear our plates away and glanced towards them, froze and went pale. She turned quickly and rushed back towards the kitchen with our plates, then out of a side door into the garden. Another waitress, also relatively young, followed her out. I could see them through the window, talking.

I didn’t say anything to mum, who was suddenly in a hurry to leave. ‘Where are the toilets?’ she asked.

As we stood up, I tried to get a look at the couple again, who seemed to be in the middle of an argument. The man was still out of sight behind the lady, who was getting louder. Mum ordered me to hurry up, thrust her bag into my hand and rushed out of the restaurant, wobbling to the side as she did. I hastily abandoned all else and chased after her. She charged past the entrance to the toilets, heading straight for the exit.

I caught up and redirected her to the toilets, then returned to the restaurant to get two pieces of cake for later. I was hoping to see the couple again, but they’d gone, obviously through the other door to the garden.

In the queue to pay for the cake, Izabela brought out some more pastries. She smiled at me, her beautiful eyes still slightly red from crying. It upset me to see her sad, although she was composed again now.

At the main till, with mum at my side and a basket full of shopping, the broad-chested man was serving. A glance at the team photo on the wall behind him indicated that he was the son of the family who owned the place. As he handed me my receipt with a wide smile, a pile of Brexit Party flyers next to the till caught my eye.

In the car mum remarked on the couple.

‘Did you hear that woman? Terrible. Making a scene like that.’

‘Yes. And she was possibly a little overdressed for a farm shop, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, that’s true. The man had beautiful red hair, just like my father’s. He reminded me of my father. And she was argumentative like my mother. Poor sod.’

I couldn’t help smiling. I’d never known her parents.