Andy
continued, ‘Anyway, Edgell Senior didn’t mind his son bein’ there. Helped himself to the profits and turned a blind eye. Proud
of the fact that his son had made something of his life, even if it was short.’ He took a drink and sighed. ‘I dunno. Some
people.’
‘So what now?’ asked Larkin. ‘Gang war?’
‘Looks like it. North against South.’
‘So what else is new? At least it’s not football.’
‘Ha, fuckin’ ha.’ Andy took a drink. ‘Did you know this Wayne Edgell, then?’
‘Not really. I never hung out with him or anything. We were in the same class at school, that’s all. About the only thing
we had in common was the fact that we couldn’t wait to get out of Grimley. Us and half the school.’
‘What about the other half?’
‘Oh, they were staying put. Grimley was where they were born and Grimley was where they would die.’
‘Looks like the place has beaten them to it.’
‘It used to be a prosperous mining community, Andy. North versus South. Remember that.’
Andy snorted. ‘I can’t figure you out. You say you couldn’t wait to get away from this place, but you won’t hear a word against
it. What’s the matter with you? If you liked it so much, why did you move away in the first place?’
Larkin looked around at the refurbished pub. It had changed almost beyond recognition – but maybe if he’d stayed here he wouldn’t
have noticed. Maybe he’d have gone along with it, embraced it, been part of it. Maybe things would have been different.
Maybe not.
‘Dunno. I don’t feel at home in London, I don’t feel at home here.’
‘And you want to? Fit in, I mean, either here or there?’
Larkin stood up. ‘Who knows? Who fucking cares? Have a nice evening, Andy. I’ve got to go.’
Andy looked disgruntled. ‘Yeah sure.’ Then, just as Larkin was turning to go, ‘This solicitor bird, how d’you know her? She
your ex?’
Larkin sat down again. ‘Yeah. I met her at university.’
‘What, Newcastle?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You didn’t travel far.’
‘Neither did she.’ Larkin got back up.
Andy’s face was downcast; he didn’t want to drink alone. He said, without much enthusiasm, ‘Give her one for me, right?’
‘Fuck off, Andy. See you later.’ And Larkin strolled away.
Through the window Larkin saw Andy slumped, staring into his drink. For a moment, Larkin was seized with a pang of guilt.
On his own, in a strange city – it couldn’t be much fun. Then Andy rose, crossed to the bar. Larkin heard his London tones
wafting through the doorway.
‘Same again, darlin’.’ Then, after a pause, ‘’Ere, anyone ever told you you look like Sandra Bullock? Yeah? Well, d’you want
to know a story about her?’
8: Whining And Dining
London has Hampstead, Birmingham has Mosely, and Newcastle has Jesmond. A place consisting of charming Victorian houses, inhabited
by the city’s professionals, intellectuals, pseudo-intellectuals, the kind of people who profess concern about the rest of
society but manage to stay a
Guardian
’s length away from it. The kind of place where the architects of Scotswood probably lived.
Larkin, on foot to clear the booze from his brain, walked up Osborne Road scrutinising the small hotels. He and Charlotte
had booked into one once, for the thrill of an illicit night together, away from college, away from their parents. It had
done nothing to help their deteriorating relationship. Their night of unbridled lust had ended in mutual bickering. Larkin
had lost his erection and Charlotte had lost the urge. The next morning, they paid the bill and left without saying a word
to each other. They had also, much to Larkin’s regret, missed breakfast.
He put all that behind him as he rounded the corner. The restaurant was dimly lit, and looked warm and inviting. The name,
Francesca’s, was emblazoned above the door in fat, reassuring capital letters. A perfect playground for the chattering
continued, ‘Anyway, Edgell Senior didn’t mind his son bein’ there. Helped himself to the profits and turned a blind eye. Proud
of the fact that his son had made something of his life, even if it was short.’ He took a drink and sighed. ‘I dunno. Some
people.’
‘So what now?’ asked Larkin. ‘Gang war?’
‘Looks like it. North against South.’
‘So what else is new? At least it’s not football.’
‘Ha, fuckin’ ha.’ Andy took a drink. ‘Did you know this Wayne Edgell, then?’
‘Not really. I never hung out with him or anything. We were in the same class at school, that’s all. About the only thing
we had in common was the fact that we couldn’t wait to get out of Grimley. Us and half the school.’
‘What about the other half?’
‘Oh, they were staying put. Grimley was where they were born and Grimley was where they would die.’
‘Looks like the place has beaten them to it.’
‘It used to be a prosperous mining community, Andy. North versus South. Remember that.’
Andy snorted. ‘I can’t figure you out. You say you couldn’t wait to get away from this place, but you won’t hear a word against
it. What’s the matter with you? If you liked it so much, why did you move away in the first place?’
Larkin looked around at the refurbished pub. It had changed almost beyond recognition – but maybe if he’d stayed here he wouldn’t
have noticed. Maybe he’d have gone along with it, embraced it, been part of it. Maybe things would have been different.
Maybe not.
‘Dunno. I don’t feel at home in London, I don’t feel at home here.’
‘And you want to? Fit in, I mean, either here or there?’
Larkin stood up. ‘Who knows? Who fucking cares? Have a nice evening, Andy. I’ve got to go.’
Andy looked disgruntled. ‘Yeah sure.’ Then, just as Larkin was turning to go, ‘This solicitor bird, how d’you know her? She
your ex?’
Larkin sat down again. ‘Yeah. I met her at university.’
‘What, Newcastle?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You didn’t travel far.’
‘Neither did she.’ Larkin got back up.
Andy’s face was downcast; he didn’t want to drink alone. He said, without much enthusiasm, ‘Give her one for me, right?’
‘Fuck off, Andy. See you later.’ And Larkin strolled away.
Through the window Larkin saw Andy slumped, staring into his drink. For a moment, Larkin was seized with a pang of guilt.
On his own, in a strange city – it couldn’t be much fun. Then Andy rose, crossed to the bar. Larkin heard his London tones
wafting through the doorway.
‘Same again, darlin’.’ Then, after a pause, ‘’Ere, anyone ever told you you look like Sandra Bullock? Yeah? Well, d’you want
to know a story about her?’
8: Whining And Dining
London has Hampstead, Birmingham has Mosely, and Newcastle has Jesmond. A place consisting of charming Victorian houses, inhabited
by the city’s professionals, intellectuals, pseudo-intellectuals, the kind of people who profess concern about the rest of
society but manage to stay a
Guardian
’s length away from it. The kind of place where the architects of Scotswood probably lived.
Larkin, on foot to clear the booze from his brain, walked up Osborne Road scrutinising the small hotels. He and Charlotte
had booked into one once, for the thrill of an illicit night together, away from college, away from their parents. It had
done nothing to help their deteriorating relationship. Their night of unbridled lust had ended in mutual bickering. Larkin
had lost his erection and Charlotte had lost the urge. The next morning, they paid the bill and left without saying a word
to each other. They had also, much to Larkin’s regret, missed breakfast.
He put all that behind him as he rounded the corner. The restaurant was dimly lit, and looked warm and inviting. The name,
Francesca’s, was emblazoned above the door in fat, reassuring capital letters. A perfect playground for the chattering
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