The White Room Page 10

  Dan Smith stood beside him, smiling proudly. He understood the sculpture. What it meant.

  ‘I understand any concern which might have been felt about the attitude of the city to this symbolic work,’ Hugh Gaitskell was saying, ‘but no art can be creative if it is purely imitative.’

  A beaming smile, then the start of applause led by Dan Smith. The crowd joined in, realizing this was the end. They had waited all this time for that.

  Then handshakes and photos: Smith and Ford, Gaitskell and Ford, Smith and Gaitskell.

  ‘Well done, Dan,’ said Gaitskell, inaudible to anyone else. ‘You’ve managed to persuade people that that pile of bloody rubbish’s a sculpture.’

  ‘It’s art, Hugh,’ said Dan Smith, smiling. ‘The first, probably, that people around here have seen. The trick is not to give the people what they want, Hugh. Or what they think they want. Give them what they don’t realize they want until they get it.’ He looked around at the unsmiling faces. ‘Then they’ll love you for it.’

  Hugh Gaitskell said nothing, just stared at him.

  ‘This is only the start. Wait and see.’

  Hugh Gaitskell smiled, nodded. ‘Where to next?’

  ‘Balmbras. The parade.’

  ‘Dancing girls and free beer, eh? Lead the way.’

  Dan Smith turned to a collection of men accompanying him. They were all talking in a self-congratulatory way, Wilf Burns, his chief planning officer, looking particularly pleased with himself. He picked out one face that wasn’t joining in.

  ‘You coming, Ralph? The cars are waiting.’

  Ralph Bell looked around at the mention of his name. He had been staring at the tower blocks, the square-cut concrete, steel and glass edifices. He was looking at the windows, small and distant, imagining small and distant lives taking place behind them. Wishing his was one of them.

  Ralph shook his head.

  ‘No, I’ve … I said I’d meet Jean.’

  Dan Smith crossed to him. ‘There’s a place on the coach for you. The parade. These new homes didn’t build themselves. You should be proud of what your company’s done.’

  Ralph nodded absently.

  Dan Smith looked at him, his face etched with concern. ‘Come on, Ralph. Take the day off. You and Jean. Enjoy yourselves. You deserve it.’

  Ralph Bell sighed. ‘No, I’ve got to …’

  He gestured with his hand, index finger outstretched, shaking his head.

  Dan Smith nodded.

  ‘I understand, Ralph.’

  He looked at Ralph. His clothes looked shabby and smelled of too many wearings, not enough washings. His hair managed the feat of appearing to be both dry and simultaneously greasy. His face held blotches of red, broken skin and prominent, livid purple veins. His eyes were black rimmed and deep set, watery and yellow, like stagnant pools. His breath was rank. His moustache a stained grey.

  ‘I’d better …’ Ralph gestured, a vague oscillation in the direction of the road.

  ‘Good to see you,’ said Dan Smith. He shook his hand, clasping it in both of his. ‘Send my best to Jean.’

  Ralph Bell nodded and stumbled off, not seeming to care whether his feet came down on mud or planking.

  Hugh Gaitskell watched him go.

  ‘Bit of a state.’

  ‘He’s had a lot of hardship in the last few years. Left him somewhat broken. But what can you do? You can’t just let a man go. Besides, it’s his construction company.’

  ‘I’m surprised he can still manage to run it.’

  ‘He can’t. But his right-hand man can. Quite brilliantly, in fact.’

  Hugh Gaitskell nodded.

  ‘Come on, then.’ He clapped Dan Smith on the shoulders. ‘Let’s not keep those dancing girls waiting.’

  The waves rolled in to Bamburgh beach. Some crashing: greenish water turning to oily foam, landing noisily. Some quiet: a gentle roll, the merest edging of froth. But the follow-up always the same: the tide ebbing, clawing back water from the land, reshaping the beach, indiscriminately depositing shells, seaweed, stones, crustacean skeletons, all manner of seaborne detritus, creating a newly sanded topography.

  Jack Smeaton sat on a spread rug and watched, fascinated by the tide’s random, passionless beauty. Inexorable, unchanging. Creating, destroying, creating again. He looked at the sky, willed the sunshine to break through the thin cloud covering, justify his choice of clothes. But wishes didn’t matter, no matter how fervently he made them: the sun was as arbitrary as the sea.

  Sharon Smeaton lay next to him, stretched out, stomach down, elbows propped as she read a paperback novel. Doctor Zhivago. Boris Pasternak. A cold love story.

  They seemed a perfect couple: Jack tanned, muscled and handsome, in shorts, shirtless. Sharon beautiful and body sculpted, seemingly unmarked by childbirth, in a black one-piece swimsuit that gripped and curved and showcased. Sunglasses hid their eyes from observers, from each other.

  Between them was Isaac. Their son. He crouched at the water’s edge, gathering sand, beach debris and water, collecting it in his bucket and spade, carrying it back to a castle and moat complex that he was building in the sand. Talking to himself as he rearranged his finds, imagining not sand before him but some vast, elaborate castle, existing only in his mind’s eye. Occasionally looking up for parental approval. Jack smiling and nodding at him in return.

  Jack thinking: my son.

  Feeling strange forming the words, even in his head, even after five years.

  He loved the boy, no question. He just couldn’t admit it to his son or his wife. To himself. He felt love for Isaac, he felt pride. He struggled to show it. But he couldn’t make that final leap. Couldn’t just let go and love him unconditionally. There was still too much fear inside Jack.

  Even after five years.

  Jack looked at Sharon, watched her turn a page, wilfully oblivious to him. To Isaac. To everything.

  A cold love story.

  Jack knew why. Saturday 9 June 1962. The Blaydon Races Centenary. The unveiling of the Elms. Ralph and Jean Bell with invitations on to the podium, seats on the dignitaries’ coach in the parade. Sharon and Jack: nothing. Just a rank-and-file invitation. Jack wasn’t bothered, didn’t want to wave and smile, be waved and smiled at in return. Sharon was bothered. She regarded those things as just rewards for hard work. Credit where it was supposed to be due.

  Jack remembered the recent argument word for word:

  ‘So where’s our invitation, then?’

  Sharon in the kitchen at home. Just off the phone with Jean Bell. Her weekly call to see if there was any news, if things were any better. Or at least no worse.

  ‘What invitation?’

  Jack had been making himself a cup of tea, thinking, half an hour with the paper then I’ll cut the lawn.

  ‘You know what invitation. For the Centenary. The opening.’

  ‘We’ve had it. The dinner on the Saturday night. You’ve read it.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the dinner on the Saturday night. I’m talking about the opening of the Elms. The procession. Ralph and Jean have had theirs. So where’s ours?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Well, Ralph would have. It’s his company that built the flats.’

  ‘It may be his company,’ said Sharon slowly, as if explaining to a child and not her husband, ‘but who liaises with the architects? And the surveyors? Who chooses the men? Who’s in charge of the whole blasted operation?’

  Jack sighed in exasperation. ‘You know who. Me.’

  ‘That’s right, Jack. You do all the work. If anyone were to be invited from Bell Construction it should be you and me. You know that.’

  Jack sighed. ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Isn’t it? It seems simple enough to me. Ralph drinks himself to death, you do all the work. Where’s your reward? Where’s your acknowledgement?’

  Jack turned to face her, put his tea down. ‘The name of the company is Bell and Sons. Not Bell and Smeaton.’

  ‘Only be
cause Ralph’s too soft and guilt-ridden to change it. And you’re too soft to challenge him about it.’

  ‘That’s below the belt, Sharon.’

  Sharon looked away. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Jack sighed again, shook his head. His tea would be cooling now.

  Sharon looked up again. ‘We should be further on by now, Jack. We should always be trying to better ourselves. Advance ourselves. And we’re not advancing fast enough.’ She sighed. Anger replaced by pleading. ‘Ralph should give you a partnership. He knows he should. I’m sure he does. I mean, Johnny’s gone; he won’t be back. And Kenny … It’s touching that Ralph’s holding out so much hope. But let’s face it: things aren’t going to get any better, are they?’

  The same argument. From every angle in every tone of voice. The same argument. And always the same conclusion. Jack had heard it before.

  Sharon looked into Jack’s eyes. He saw hope in her gaze, a bridge built, waiting to be crossed. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘why don’t you call Dan? Ask … no, tell him you want us to be there. Why don’t you do that?’

  Jack turned away from her. He gripped the kitchen worktop. His knuckles were white.

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘A question. To me. Do I want to be there?’

  ‘Well, of course you do.’

  ‘Do I?’

  Sharon looked at him again. He saw hope die, the bridge crumble, uncrossed.

  ‘Jack …’ She couldn’t find the words. ‘What’s wrong with you? Aren’t you proud of what you’ve achieved? Especially in the area you’re from?’

  ‘You know I am.’

  ‘Well?’

  He looked around the kitchen. His tea would be cold by now. He felt himself getting hotter.

  ‘D’you think I want to be there? Do you?’ Sharon didn’t reply. He sighed again, this time from exasperation. ‘Well, if you think I do, you don’t know me very well. Yes, I’m proud of what I’ve done with the flats. Hugely proud. But what has standing on a bus, grinning like an idiot with all the other idiots and waving to do with building flats? Nothing. That’s why I’m not going to be there.’

  ‘Everyone prominent will be there.’

  ‘Prominent to who? Yes, Dan’ll be there. True. But I wouldn’t bother with the rest of them.’

  Sharon turned away from him. He could spot a sulk when it was about to happen. He turned her round.

  ‘What I’m doing is important. And it’s going to be even more important in the next few years. It’s a pure, Socialist vision. A chance for a new future. I don’t work for the praise. I work through the praise.’

  Sharon looked at him again, searching, willing a different answer from him. He knew what she had given up – her place at university, her potential career – to be his wife, Isaac’s mother, their homemaker. He knew how difficult she found that. She had subjugated her ambitions to Jack’s own career. Any achievements and successes experienced vicariously through Jack.

  ‘So I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But we won’t be standing on that bus.’

  Sharon turned away, marched from the kitchen.

  Jack placed his arms protectively around his body, hugging himself. He shook his head. He couldn’t explain it to Sharon. He didn’t understand it himself.

  He looked at his cup, picked it up, sipped.

  Stone cold.

  He tipped the tea down the sink, left the kitchen.

  Bamburgh had been the compromise. The attempt at appeasement. If they couldn’t be where they wanted to be in the city, then get out of the city.

  He looked at Isaac, playing happily in the sand. The clouds were beginning to move, the sun break through. He smiled. And in that unguarded moment felt something stir within him. A shifting, like the sand of an hourglass running through, something previously hard-packed softening.

  His heart.

  Isaac played on.

  Jack checked himself. Sitting on the beach, the sun shining, his wife beside him, his son before him, he felt happy. Content. Contentment he never felt in the city.

  He reached out his hand. Laid it on his wife’s back. She jumped, flinching at the touch. Jack chose to ignore it.

  ‘Sharon …’ His voice sounded strange to his own ears. As if he had gone too long without using it.

  Sharon murmured, granting him permission to continue, without lifting her head from her book.

  ‘Shall we move?’

  ‘Where?’ The reply was automatic, her attention still with her book.

  ‘I don’t know. Away from Newcastle. Into the country. I don’t know. Somewhere like here.’

  Sharon sighed, triangulated the corner of her page, looked up.

  ‘And what would we do?’ she said. ‘How would we live?’

  ‘We could …’ He looked at the waves, seeking inspiration. ‘Buy a farm. Live off the land.’

  Sharon snorted. ‘If you think I’m going to become some lumpen, red-faced, welly-wearing farmer’s wife, you’ve got another think coming.’

  ‘Well … we’ll do something else, then. I’ll get a job.’

  ‘You’ve already got a job. And you’re very good at it. I just wish you’d try harder with it, that’s all.’

  She unfolded her page, returned her attention to her book, the matter closed.

  Jack said nothing. He looked again at Isaac, at the sea.

  Clouds rolled in over the sun. Not dark, storm-rich and ominous, but thin, pale grey. The effect was the same; they still stopped the light, the heat shining through. Jack hoped they would dissipate, not build up into something heavy and threatening.

  Isaac didn’t notice, though; he just kept playing. Unaware.

  Jack hoped he never would notice.

  The celebrations were in full flow.

  At one thirty, the parade left Balmbras in the Cloth Market, renamed from the Carlton, redesignated an old-time music hall to coincide with the venue in the original song. Modern cars pulled up; 1862-attired drivers and passengers disgorged. The Balmbras cancan girls danced in the streets.

  The band of the Coldstream Guards struck up ‘Blaydon Races’, led the way. The parade began. Old horse-drawn buses and coaches, local dignitaries in period costume. Over a hundred and fifty floats. Over sixty bands. All playing, all singing ‘Blaydon Races’. Over and over again.

  Down Scotswood Road, crowds filling the streets. The people on the pavement roaring, cheering and clapping. All singing ‘Blaydon Races’.

  The same song over and over again.

  Hotels and pubs along the route set up bars on the pavement, dressed for a century previously, dispensing stotty cakes and clay pipes along with the ale.

  And still the same song.

  On the open-topped coach: T. Dan Smith and Hugh Gaitskell. Both waving, grinning.

  ‘Gets to you after a while, doesn’t it?’ said Hugh Gaitskell to Dan Smith, still facing outwards, still waving and grinning. ‘That same bloody song, I mean.’

  ‘Don’t let them hear you say that,’ said Dan Smith to Hugh Gaitskell, still facing outwards, still waving and grinning. ‘They’ll have your guts for garters round here.’

  Hugh Gaitskell nodded.

  ‘But I know what you mean,’ said Dan Smith. ‘As much as I love it, I quite agree with you.’

  ‘Still, though. It’s a marvellous achievement. A whole festival based on the event. On the song.’

  ‘A defining cultural moment for the North-Eastern man,’ said Dan Smith. ‘Very important. Even more so since it never actually happened.’ He kept waving, grinning.

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Hugh Gaitskell.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Dan Smith. ‘I mean, it may have done, it may not. It’s the song that everyone remembers.’

  ‘Do they know that?’ said Hugh Gaitskell, gesturing to the crowds, waving and grinning.

  ‘Does it matter?’ said Dan Smith. ‘Do the people care one way or the other whether it happened or not? Whether it was real
or not? No, they don’t. We’ve kept the pubs open all day. They’re happy enough with that.’

  ‘True enough, I suppose,’ said Hugh Gaitskell.

  ‘Just keep waving and smiling, Hugh,’ said Dan Smith. ‘Just keep waving and smiling.’

  Dan Smith and Hugh Gaitskell kept facing outwards, waving and grinning.

  And the same song over and over again.

  Johnny Bell stood on the pavement. In the crowds but not of them.

  They milled all about him, beer-buoyed, laughing, watching the procession, cheering. Whole families in shared experience. Johnny observed the spectacle up close but with an air of distance, a lack of comprehension and communication. The same song, old buses, marching bands. Trivial rubbish. Give them all-day drinking and a day off work and they would cheer anything. Here they were proving that. It confirmed what he already knew: people, collectively, were stupid.

  He hated Saturdays, even without the celebrations. The slaughterhouse closed for the weekend. He would usually ask for extra shifts, overtime when there was any. But there was nothing today.

  He loved his work, felt truly calm and at peace only with a knife in his hand: slitting open carcasses, the innards slipping and slopping out all warm and steaming, Johnny taking in a lungful of that before getting his hands inside and scooping out the remains. He would be given other tasks and did them well, but that was his favourite. He would have happily done that without pay.

  Johnny pulled his coat tightly about him, stuck his hands deeply into his pockets. He was the only person, apart from the idiots in the old-fashioned clothes, not in shirtsleeves. Johnny didn’t care about the heat, about what he looked like or smelled like. He just cared about keeping his coat about him, keeping his hands sunk into his pockets. Drew solace and comfort from what he had there.

  His family had wanted to see him today. There was somewhere his father had wanted him to go. Joanne had been dispatched to inform him. He knew it would be Joanne. Always Joanne. He had listened, shrugged non-committally at the end. She had laid out where they were going, what they were doing. She hadn’t asked him outright whether he would be joining them. They both knew he wouldn’t be.

  He smiled to himself at the memory of Joanne, his sister, sitting uncomfortably in his cramped bedsit, the smell of sweat, other secretions and frustrated desires permeating every surface, the walls adorned with pictures of his heroes, newspaper articles, with paintings and symbols he had done himself.