from; I feel as if I’m dreaming them into existence as the home-going murmur of pedestrians and traffic fades from the city and the sunlight starts to follow. I could imagine that I’m wakened by the Beatles singing where or what they’d like to be. I snatch up the mobile and see the number is unidentified. “Hello?” I urge.
“Gavin. Are you terribly busy?”
“Never too busy for you, Lucy. Why?”
“You aren’t usually so abrupt.”
“I’m just in the middle of some work. Nothing I can’t get back to.”
“I’ll let you. I was just going to say you’ll be on your own tonight.”
“Oh. All right then.” Audible disappointment might seem too possessive, but at least I can ask “Where will you be?”
“There are some things I ought to get on with at home.”
“I’ll see you soon though, I expect.”
“Of course. I’d better go. I’m on the phone at work.”
This explains why it kept its number to itself. Perhaps concentrating on my task will bring my father, however childishly magical the idea is. Tayleure, Ryley, Raymond, Thillon, Copeland, Levey, Loraine, Chute, Egerton, Tearle…When my ringtone dams the gradual but steady stream of names, I look up to see the summer dusk.
The call is from my parents’ house. My father’s mobile must have run out of power, and he’s had to wait until he returned home. This time I’m simply glad to say “Hello?”
“Did you hear your father?”
All I can hear is a mocking chorus of seagulls down towards the river. “I’m not with you,” I tell my mother.
“On the radio asking people to phone or get in touch.”
“So that’s where he’s been. No wonder his mobile’s switched off.”
“Not now. At lunchtime.”
“I didn’t catch him. So where is he now?”
“I haven’t seen him since breakfast. I haven’t heard from him and I can’t get through to him.” As the gathering darkness appears to trigger the streetlamp at an intersection, erasing a dim shadow or a stain on the pavement, she says “I don’t know where he’s got to, and I’m worried sick.”
Chapter Eight
R ADIO D ESPERATION
“Don’t listen to anyone else. If anybody tells you not to tell, that’s a reason to. Tell us things you thought were too strange to talk about and people would think you were mad if you did. Tell us before they’re forgotten or somebody covers them up. We need to hear the things you won’t see in the official books, things the people in charge wouldn’t let in even if they knew about them, and I’m not saying they don’t. Doesn’t matter if you aren’t sure if your story’s true. We need to look at the legends as well and see how it all fits together.”
“You sound like you’re reading off a script, Deryck.”
“Well, I’m not. It’s all up here.”
“All in your head, you mean. Where can listeners call you if they’ve got something for you?”
“Here. Phone you is what I’m saying. That way everyone can hear and nobody can pretend it wasn’t said or didn’t happen.”
“Don’t know about that,” the presenter says, but he’s an amateur, one of the winners of the competition to front the phone-in show for a day of Liverpool Diversity Week (“Including You” is the slogan). The radio station has also hired a blind man to review films and adults with learning difficulties to cover concerts. “We can give them your mobile, can’t we, Deryck?” the temporary anchor says. “They’ll find you wherever you are.”
“That’s second best,” my father says, which is the last of him.
It has taken me nearly an hour to track him down. I’veheard callers insisting that the name of Liverpool’s new French wine bar—the Legless Frog—is racist, or advertising the Learning Differents cinema matinees for the mentally impeded, or complaining that John Lennon Airport is named after a druggie, to which the next contributor retorts that Lennon’s widow displayed a poster of her cunt in Church Street…The word has
“Gavin. Are you terribly busy?”
“Never too busy for you, Lucy. Why?”
“You aren’t usually so abrupt.”
“I’m just in the middle of some work. Nothing I can’t get back to.”
“I’ll let you. I was just going to say you’ll be on your own tonight.”
“Oh. All right then.” Audible disappointment might seem too possessive, but at least I can ask “Where will you be?”
“There are some things I ought to get on with at home.”
“I’ll see you soon though, I expect.”
“Of course. I’d better go. I’m on the phone at work.”
This explains why it kept its number to itself. Perhaps concentrating on my task will bring my father, however childishly magical the idea is. Tayleure, Ryley, Raymond, Thillon, Copeland, Levey, Loraine, Chute, Egerton, Tearle…When my ringtone dams the gradual but steady stream of names, I look up to see the summer dusk.
The call is from my parents’ house. My father’s mobile must have run out of power, and he’s had to wait until he returned home. This time I’m simply glad to say “Hello?”
“Did you hear your father?”
All I can hear is a mocking chorus of seagulls down towards the river. “I’m not with you,” I tell my mother.
“On the radio asking people to phone or get in touch.”
“So that’s where he’s been. No wonder his mobile’s switched off.”
“Not now. At lunchtime.”
“I didn’t catch him. So where is he now?”
“I haven’t seen him since breakfast. I haven’t heard from him and I can’t get through to him.” As the gathering darkness appears to trigger the streetlamp at an intersection, erasing a dim shadow or a stain on the pavement, she says “I don’t know where he’s got to, and I’m worried sick.”
Chapter Eight
R ADIO D ESPERATION
“Don’t listen to anyone else. If anybody tells you not to tell, that’s a reason to. Tell us things you thought were too strange to talk about and people would think you were mad if you did. Tell us before they’re forgotten or somebody covers them up. We need to hear the things you won’t see in the official books, things the people in charge wouldn’t let in even if they knew about them, and I’m not saying they don’t. Doesn’t matter if you aren’t sure if your story’s true. We need to look at the legends as well and see how it all fits together.”
“You sound like you’re reading off a script, Deryck.”
“Well, I’m not. It’s all up here.”
“All in your head, you mean. Where can listeners call you if they’ve got something for you?”
“Here. Phone you is what I’m saying. That way everyone can hear and nobody can pretend it wasn’t said or didn’t happen.”
“Don’t know about that,” the presenter says, but he’s an amateur, one of the winners of the competition to front the phone-in show for a day of Liverpool Diversity Week (“Including You” is the slogan). The radio station has also hired a blind man to review films and adults with learning difficulties to cover concerts. “We can give them your mobile, can’t we, Deryck?” the temporary anchor says. “They’ll find you wherever you are.”
“That’s second best,” my father says, which is the last of him.
It has taken me nearly an hour to track him down. I’veheard callers insisting that the name of Liverpool’s new French wine bar—the Legless Frog—is racist, or advertising the Learning Differents cinema matinees for the mentally impeded, or complaining that John Lennon Airport is named after a druggie, to which the next contributor retorts that Lennon’s widow displayed a poster of her cunt in Church Street…The word has
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