Jolts Page 5
‘Oh, hello! Do come in, please,’ says The Landlady. ‘Wayfarers! Love them.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘You’ve got them too!’
‘Yes I do!’ She sounds excited.
‘I’ve got some food and drinks — and I bought you a plant too.’
‘Oh, thanks. You shouldn’t have bothered!’ She looks at the plant.
‘I wasn’t sure if you liked plants or not…’
‘Oh, it’s perfectly fine! I love plants. Wait until you see my back garden. It’s a nice plant. What is it?’
‘A potus.’
‘Putus? Never heard of it! Anyway, come in, do come in!’
I come in.
It’s a disproportionally narrow but long house, a planning aberration, probably resulting from one house having been turned into two in order to maximise profit. There’s light at the back and music too. The Landlady leads the way and I follow behind. We get to a tiny kitchen and I leave the beers and the sausages on the table. It’s still sunny outside and Richard Hawley is playing through the stereo, singing that tonight the streets are ours, a good omen, even if this is about a garden and a barbecue.
‘Where should I leave the plant?’
‘Put it anywhere. Can I get you some wine or a beer?’ asks The Landlady. ‘But you drink wine, don’t you? You must drink wine…’
‘Beer is fine. Thanks.’
‘Ah, OK!’
The Landlady opens a tiny fridge that looks like a hotel mini-bar and gets a can of Stella. I open it and before drinking from it raise the can to toast with her.
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Is it a tradition that you people bring plants when you’re invited to a party?’ she asks.
‘Sorry?’
‘Yes. Is it a tradition? You seemed very attentive to all plant matters. Is this something you people do, taking plants to places?’
‘I just thought it would be nice to bring a plant.’
‘So, you don’t always take plants whenever you’re invited somewhere?’
‘Not really.’
‘That’s so sweet,’ she says. ‘That you brought that plant just for me.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing!’
‘No, really. Thanks a lot: it’s a lot — it means a lot. It really does, especially in the times we live. Thank you very much!’
‘You’re welcome. Thanks for inviting me!’
‘Oh, don’t say, don’t say! Anyway… Come and meet the rest of the gang!’
People in the garden, all wearing Wayfarers, like The Landlady and I. A tiny stair, just two or three steps and the grass at our feet. A smoking barbecue with sausages, burgers and some red and green peppers.
‘Everyone: this is The Tenant.’
‘Hi!’ says everyone.
‘This is The Former Banker,’ says The Landlady and points to the guy working the grill.
‘Hi,’ says The Former Banker.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘That’s The Former Banker’s Writer Wife,’ says The Landlady.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Hi,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.
‘And that one over there is The Unhappy Estate Agent,’ says The Landlady.
‘Hi,’ says The Unhappy Estate Agent.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say.
‘Have a seat,’ says The Landlady and I sit on a reclining chair by the barbecue. All the smoke is coming my way and soon I will be stinking of pork sausage but it’s too late to change seats: it could be deemed an infringement of etiquette. I have a drink from my can of Stella — at least the beer is cold.
‘So what do you do?’ asks The Former Banker.
‘Sorry?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. What do you do for a living?’
‘Oh. I work for University College London.’
‘Are you a Literature Professor?’ asks The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.
‘No. Admin staff. I work in the Registry. Very unliterary.’
‘Oh, I see,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.
‘How long have you been here?’ asks The Unhappy Estate Agent.
‘In London?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fourteen years. And a half. Almost fifteen years, actually.’
‘Wow! That’s a long time!’ says The Landlady.
‘Are you on a work visa?’ asks The Former Banker.
‘No, Italian passport. But I became British last year…’
‘Oh, I see. I thought you needed a visa anyway,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.
‘You don’t need a visa if you’ve got a European passport,’ says The Unhappy Estate Agent. ‘Not at the moment, not until they have a clearer idea of what will happen.’
‘No one knows what will happen… How do you feel about all this, you know? Do you want to go back home? Do you hate us?’ — The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.
‘Oh, please! Stop grilling him!’ says The Landlady.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I don’t think much will happen, to be fair.’
‘Someone will have to get deported,’ says The Unhappy Estate Agent. ‘It’ll destroy the housing market and—’
‘He’s also a part-time vocational writer,’ says The Landlady, addressing The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.
‘Really?’ asks the latter.
‘Well, I like writing,’ I say.
‘Are you a published author?’ asks The Unhappy Estate Agent.
‘No. Not yet.’
‘What do you write?’ asks The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.
‘Fiction.’
‘Novel or short stories?’
‘Short stories. But nothing serious.’
‘As a fiction writer you’re only as good as your first novel,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife. ‘Why don’t you write one?’
‘The Landlady mentioned he’s only a part-time vocational writer,’ replies The Former Banker, defending me, I guess.
‘Yes, she did. It doesn’t matter, I want to know,’ says his wife, a bit cross. ‘I’m a published author — I published a chapbook last year,’ she adds.
‘Nice!’ I say and sip some more beer.
‘Poetry. Non-rhyming. Experimental.’
‘Oh, great,’ I say. ‘Where can I get it?’
‘I’ll get you a copy,’ she says. ‘I’ve got some copies here with me. Remind me later.’
‘I will.’
‘Only fifteen pounds,’ says The Former Banker.
‘No problem.’
‘So, how’s the flat?’ asks The Landlady.
‘Oh, very well. Although the boiler is still a bit noisy.’
‘I thought they had fixed that!’
‘They came over, but they didn’t really fix the problem.’
‘My mother went with the engineers,’ The Landlady says to the others. ‘She loves it when I give her these little tasks.’
‘How cute,’ says The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.
‘Yes. She told me a nice European-looking brunette girl opened the door,’ The Landlady says, with faux complicity.
‘Oh, yes. My friend Vanja. I had to go to work but she stayed over to open the door for your mum.’
‘Have you got a European girlfriend?’ asks The Former Banker’s Writer Wife. ‘Is she Eastern European?’
‘She’s just a good friend!’
‘He he,’ laughs The Former Banker.
‘Where is she from?’ asks The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.
‘Slovakia.’
‘So she is Eastern European! I knew it! Poor her… She must be really worried. Really really worried.’
‘Anyway, I’m disappointed that they didn’t fix the boiler,’ interrupts The Landlady. ‘I’ll get the engineers to check it again; perhaps another engineer. Any ideas?’ she asks The Unhappy Estate Agent.
‘I’ll get you my man’s number,’ says The Unhappy Estate Agent without lowering his head, now pointed upwards in the sun’s dire
ction.
‘Perfect, I’ll speak to Mum and see when she’s free.’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘The door,’ says The Former Banker.
‘Really?’ asks The Landlady.
‘Yes, I think I’ve heard the door,’ I say, trying to be useful.
The landlady pours some more rosé wine into her glass and leaves. I have another sip from my can.
‘Are you writing anything at the moment?’ asks The Former Banker’s Writer Wife.
‘Not at the moment,’ I say.
‘Why?’
‘I can’t find the time.’
‘You must MAKE the time,’ she says. ‘YOU MUST. If you take writing seriously YOU MUST find the time. Even if it means destroying the rest of your life in the process.’ I don’t reply but I nod in agreement.
Some voices from inside the house. The Landlady is leading a chubby short woman and a tall dark-haired corpulent guy. ‘Come in. Come in! Do welcome The Boring Civil Servant and The Common Unemployed Boyfriend!’
‘Hello, everyone. Nice to see you!’ says The Boring Civil Servant.
‘Hello!’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.
Everyone says hi, different variations, same message.
‘This is The Tenant,’ says The Landlady. I move my head up and down once more, with a big grin on my face.
‘Hi,’ says The Boring Civil Servant.
‘Hi,’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend. He sits next to me. We’re both drinking Stella. ‘Nice day, mate. Lovely weather!’
‘Yes! We don’t get many days like this,’ I say.
‘Where are you from?’ asks The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.
‘Argentina.’
‘Cool! Never been there. Is it nice?’
‘It’s fine. Nice weather.’
‘Is it cheap?’
‘Quite cheap. Depends on the inflation and the exchange rate.’
‘Gotta go there. Once I was in Amsterdam.’
‘I’ve never been to Amsterdam.’
‘You’ve gotta go. Nice place, nice beer, nice food, nice birds, nice skunk.’
‘Nice.’
‘Outside the M25 is generally better, don’t you think?’ he asks. ‘Not too up north, though. Up north they’d probably lynch you, mate.’
And so on.
_________
The garden is narrow and long, like a negative copy of the built part of the house. There’s a huge tree at the back, with hanging branches and leaves covering at least a fifth of the space. The houses on either side are hidden behind tall and twisted wooden walls. Voices can be heard, people chatting behind these walls, some traces of accented English, music. And there’s smoke — everybody seems to be out in the gardens grilling something. I look around and then up to the sun — it’s a pleasant moment, I guess.
‘Do you smoke?’ asks The Common Unemployed Boyfriend. ‘I mean weed.’
‘Yeah, sometimes.’
‘We’ll roll up then.’
‘Great,’ I say.
‘Later. Gotta eat something first. Darling, get us a bite, will you?’
‘Do you want a sausage, darling?’ asks The Boring Civil Servant.
‘Yes, darling.’
‘Salad, darling?’
‘No salad, darling.’
‘What about you? Sorry, I forgot your name…’
‘He’s The Tenant,’ says The Landlady.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll get some drinks. Can I get anyone anything?’
‘Get us another Stella,’ says The Common Unemployed Boyfriend. Nobody else replies.
‘I’ll go with you,’ says The Landlady. ‘I have to stop for a wee.’ The Former Banker’s Writer Wife seems to find this statement funny.
We walk up the tiny stairs and into the kitchen. The Landlady opens the fridge and pours some wine into her glass. She closes the fridge and pumps up the music’s volume.
‘Oh, sorry. I forgot to get your beers,’ she says. ‘Help yourself; I’m going to the loo. Wait for me here, please. Don’t go!’
I open the fridge and get the two beers and lean against the counter. I open the can and have a sip. I look around the kitchen and there isn’t anything significant to catch my attention, save a surprisingly tacky set of curtains and a small statue of a frog. I look towards the garden and spot The Common Unemployed Boyfriend looking my way. The Common Unemployed Boyfriend gives me two thumbs up and signals for me to throw the beer. I throw it and the beer flies all the way to his hands. Two thumbs up once more and a wink. The Common Unemployed Boyfriend opens the can of beer and it squirts; he laughs. The rest of the guests stare at him and then at me. And then they keep talking among themselves. I drink some more beer and feel I’m beginning to get light-headed.
Arctic Monkeys or some indie band. I don’t particularly like indie music — never got it. I go to the stereo, stashed in a corner next to some fruits and vegetables and a pile of CDs — some people still keep their CDs. I lean towards them and scan through the names: Interpol, Blur, Stereophonics, Pulp, Sonic Youth, Asteroid No. Four, Gorillas, Groove Armada. A tap on my right shoulder. I stand up and The Landlady is smiling at me with a broad drunken smile.
‘I was an indie girl,’ she says.
‘I see,’ I say. ‘I would never have imagined it!’
‘Ha ha. Yes. Young rebellious years. I even went to Glasto a couple of times.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Do you know Glasto? Glastonbury. It’s a big music festival. Have you heard about it?’
‘I think so…’
‘It’s in Somerset… Somewhere, not in London… Many many bands, you sleep in a tent, share stinking toilets… It rains all the time. It’s great!’
‘I think I know which one.’
‘Wellies… You know these rubber boots? Like farmer boots? Do you know those?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Drugs, booze… You go to the toilet in holes in the ground in which five thousand people went before… It’s full of guys trying to spike your drinks…’
‘Sounds extreme.’
‘It’s fun,’ she says. ‘We were saying the other day, with The Former Banker and his Writer Wife, that we should go again, maybe next year. Maybe you want to come!’
‘Sounds good. Let’s see closer to the date.’
‘Sure. You should deffo come. They’re bringing their children. It will be fun.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know they had children.’
‘Yes. Three: one, two and three years old.’ She stumbles and leans against the counter, close to me.
‘Nice. It’s like a ladder — one, two, three.’
‘Ha ha. Yes, One of them, the youngest, is slightly stupid, though.’
‘Oh…’
‘Yes. She’s been depressed. That’s why she started to write poetry.’
‘They say it helps.’
‘He lost his job a while back and never found a new one. I think he started the banking crisis.’
‘Which crisis?’ I ask.
‘This crisis we’re in now. We’ve been in a financial crisis for like nine years!’
‘Are we still in that crisis? I thought we were in a new crisis now,’ I say.
‘It’s all part of the same crisis from nine years ago… It all boils down to that, that’s what they say. Anyway… They might have to sell the house. They’ve already sold one of the cars. They might have to put their kids in a state school. It’s critical. But we are deffo going to Glasto, next year. Think about it.’
‘I will.’
‘Anyway… Speaking of them: sorry if they ask too many questions! They want to know you. I spoke a lot about you!’
‘You did?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you.’ We stare at each other in silence. ‘I’ll get some more beers to spare me the trip,’ I say to break it.
‘Good thinking!’
‘Shall I top you up?’
‘Yes, fill me up please.’
‘I’ve got you another beer,’ I say to The Common Unemployed Boyfriend.
‘You’re a genius, mate!’ he says. The Former Banker’s Writer Wife stares at us, The Landlady smiles, The Former Banker is still cooking the sausages, while The Boring Civil Servant and The Unhappy Estate Agent converse towards the end of the garden. ‘Say matey, how do you like it here?’
‘Do you mean in London?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I like it. I’ve been here like fifteen years already.’
‘That’s a long time.’
‘Yeah, pretty long.’
‘You must really like it, then.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘How come you are here if you are from Argentina? Can you come and work and live here?’
‘I came on an Italian passport.’
‘Oh, I see! Will they be sending you back home?’
‘I’m British now.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes!’
‘For how long?’
‘Last year, November, maybe. I can’t remember.’
‘See, what I find incredible about you people, I mean you people not from here, is how you come here, make this place your home, learn the language, get a job. It’s like you’ve come from here, more or less. Some people don’t like it and want to get you deported, I mean not you, but you know what I mean… But I quite like people coming here and all that. You know what I mean? You know that’s how I feel, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think it’s great, mate. I’m happy for you, happy that now you’re one of us,’ he says and raises his hand to get a high five from me and I comply with the request. ‘I say it’s about time we rolled a spliff… What do you say?’
‘Yeah, it’s a good time now. I’ll just have a puff. I’m a bit tipsy already.’
‘Oh, don’t be a ponce, mate! You’ll be fine. Summer, sun and all that.’
The Common Unemployed Boyfriend gets a small bag of tobacco and a packet of large blue Rizlas out of his pocket. ‘Surprise,’ he says and he shows me a yellow container, from a Kinder Egg, which he shakes and then opens. He leaves the two sides of the container on top of the tobacco bag, itself on his lap, and then gets a cigarette paper out from the packet. He throws in some tobacco and plenty of ground skunk. He works on the spliff with admirable concentration and in less than a minute he has finished rolling a beautiful joint, the size of a small cigar. He lights up, drags a few times and then passes me the joint and I puff on it a couple of times and then pass it back to The Common Unemployed Boyfriend. He has a few more drags.