News Where You Are Read online

  By the Same Author

  What Was Lost

  The News Where You Are

  CATHERINE O’FLYNN

  VIKING

  an imprint of

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published 2010

  Copyright © Catherine O’Flynn, 2010

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Grateful acknowledgement is made for permission to quote from the following: ‘She Wears Red Feathers’, written by Bob Merrill, © 1952 Chappell & Co. by kind permission of Warne Chappell Music Ltd; ‘Nature Boy’, written by Eden Ahbez, © Crestview-Music Corp (NS). All rights administered by Chappell-Morris Ltd. All rights reserved: ‘The Old Fools’, from Collected Poems by Philip Larkin, reprinted by kind permission of Faber and Faber Ltd

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-14-193860-8

  For Edie and Peter

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  April 2009

  He gave up any pretence of jogging now and walked slowly along the lane, following in the wake of an empty crisp packet blown along the tarmac. Without its example he wasn’t sure he’d have the will to move forward.

  His steps were heavy and the elasticated cuffs of his tracksuit made his wrists itch. He looked at the loose flesh on the back of his hand pinched by the bright red polyester and found the contrast grotesque.

  Mikey had let him down again. Finally he understood that Mikey would never do it.

  The sky had darkened as he walked along and now the first fat drops of rain splattered on the road around him. Phil nodded his head. Rain was all that had been missing.

  He heard a car approaching. Its passing force would whip the crisp packet away and he didn’t know what he’d follow then. The driver was making the most of the straight country lane and picking up speed. Phil moved slightly closer to the hedgerow on his left. He knew he cut a pitiful figure – an old rain-soaked man dressed head to toe in Nike. Jimmy bloody Savile.

  The car was getting closer now and as it did it veered slightly towards Phil’s side of the lane. Phil smiled blandly in its direction – force of habit. As it drew down upon him, he realized that the driver wasn’t going to swerve away. In the last few seconds, the sky’s reflection on the windscreen vanished, and Phil saw the familiar face behind the wheel, white with fear and running with tears.

  1

  Six months later

  Frank’s daughter sat in the front passenger seat humming the same tune over and over. The notes spiralled upwards and then abruptly plummeted, before starting the ascent again. Frank drove towards the city.

  ‘What’s the tune, Mo?’ asked Frank.

  ‘It’s a song by The Beatles. It’s a man asking questions about when he gets old.’

  ‘What? “When I’m Sixty-Four”?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s it … Dad, do you want to know something?’

  ‘Erm, yes, please.’

  ‘When I’m sixty-four, I’ll be eight times older than I am now. Eight times eight is sixty-four.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  She looked out of the window. ‘Eight hundred per cent!’ She shook her head in amazement and began to hum again.

  Frank frowned. ‘But “When I’m Sixty-Four” doesn’t sound anything like that.’

  Mo beamed. ‘I know! I invented a new tune. It’s better.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ Frank paused. ‘It’s very different to the original. Are the words the same?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m just humming.’

  ‘I know, but in your head are the words the same?’

  ‘No. They’re better too. He wants to know will there be robots, and will his cat be able to talk and will his car fly.’

  ‘It’s quite a strange tune.’

  ‘It’s how he thinks music will sound when he’s old.’

  ‘Oh, I see, future music. That explains it.’

  Mo hummed another few bars and then, to Frank’s relief, stopped.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think Gran ever listens to music?’

  ‘Not future music. I don’t think so.’

  ‘No. I mean any music.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure she does sometimes. She has a radio in her room.’

  ‘I know, but it’s all covered in dust. She should listen to music. I think it would make her less sad. She could listen to stuff she remembered when she was young.’

  Frank said nothing.

  ‘Maybe I could take her some old music and she could listen to it on my headphones.’

  Frank glanced at Mo. ‘Sometimes old music makes people sad. It reminds them of the past and things that have gone.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mo.

  Frank reached across and squeezed her hand. Mo spent a lot of time trying to think of ways to make his mother less unhappy. It was a project for her.

  ‘Are we going a different way to the supermarket?’

  ‘I want to show you something first.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Frank put the radio on and they listened to a comedy programme. Mo laughed when Frank laughed.

  He parked on a meter in a back street and then walked with Mo down
to the busy ring road. A pedestrian bridge spanned the six lanes of traffic and Mo and Frank climbed the zig-zagging concrete steps to the top. Halfway across they stopped. Frank bent down towards Mo so she could hear him above the roar of the traffic. Her hair blew into his face.

  ‘Remember I told you about my dad.’

  ‘That he had a dog!’ said Mo excitedly.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. He had a dog when he was a boy. But do you remember what I said my dad’s job was?’

  ‘Yes. He was an architect. He made buildings.’

  ‘Can you see that block over there? The tall one with the dark glass.’

  ‘Yeah. I can see it.’

  ‘That’s called Worcester House. My dad designed that building.’

  ‘Did he live in it?’

  ‘No, he didn’t live in it. We lived in a house. He made this for people to work in.’

  ‘How many floors has it got?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘Are there escalators?’

  ‘No, there are two lifts.’

  ‘Can we go up in them?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. We can’t go in the building now.’

  ‘Can we go and look at it?’

  ‘That’s where we’re going.’

  Mo ran across the rest of the bridge and then waited for Frank to catch up. The building was a little further away than it seemed from the bridge, tucked amidst a cluster of other blocks, converted townhouses and car parks. Worcester House was a classic mid-period Douglas H. Allcroft and Partners creation. Built in 1971 it was an uncompromising, thuggish-looking block, clad in precast concrete panels and devoid of all exterior decoration. Despite its height it appeared squat and defensive, occupying a large plot on the corner of Carlton Street and Newman Row, glowering down on the few Georgian blocks still remaining in the centre.

  As they drew closer to it at street level, Mo noticed the white boards all around the outside of the building:

  ‘Why are the boards there, Dad?’

  ‘They’re there to protect people when they demolish the building.’

  Mo stopped walking. ‘They’re demolishing it?’

  Frank nodded. ‘That’s why I brought you today; it’ll be gone soon.’

  ‘But why are they knocking it down? Is it broken?’

  ‘No, it’s not broken; it’s fine. It’s just … they don’t need it any more.’

  ‘But, Dad, loads of people could work here. Or they could use it to put homeless people in – that’d be better than sleeping on the streets. They could sleep under desks and go up and down in the lifts.’

  ‘They want to build new homes in the city now – apartments for the people who work here – and this building isn’t right for homes. Dad didn’t build it for that, and so they say it has to be taken down and started again.’

  Mo thought for a while. ‘Does that happen to all buildings? Do they all get knocked down?’

  ‘Some stay for a long time. Like Aston Hall. But lots don’t. It’s a bit like clothes. You know, you wouldn’t wear the clothes Mom and I used to wear – they’d seem really uncool to you – and sometimes that happens with buildings. People just don’t like them any more; they aren’t fashionable.’

  Frank realized that unfashionable wasn’t quite adequate. People did not feel about his father’s buildings the way they felt about marble-washed denim or ski-pants. They might smile ruefully and shake their heads about their own lapses in taste, but not those imposed on their city. Aside from the family home he built in Edgbaston, only two of the eight buildings his father had created in the city remained. In a few weeks there would be only one.

  Mo was squinting at the building, counting the windows. When she’d finished, she turned back to Frank. ‘But, Dad, sometimes things come back into fashion. Like Mom always says the clothes in the shops now are the same as twenty years ago. Maybe if they waited this building would be in fashion again.’

  Frank nodded. ‘Maybe. People don’t always agree, though. A few of us thought it should be saved, but others didn’t and … well, they won in the end.’

  ‘I don’t think this building is uncool.’

  Frank got out his camera. ‘Anyway, I want to take a photo of you and the building behind you. So however many different buildings come and go you’ll always know this building was here, and that you and I stood on this spot and talked about it one morning.’

  Mo wouldn’t smile for the photo. She said it was for when she was grown-up and serious. Afterwards she said: ‘Dad, are you sad that it’s going to be demolished?’

  Frank looked up at the top floor of the building and remembered looking out from there as a boy. ‘Yes, I am.’

  Mo held his hand. She looked at the other buildings in the street. Worcester House was the only one surrounded by boards. ‘Me too.’

  2

  Two days later Frank listened to the countdown on his earpiece, took a swig of water and stowed the bottle under the desk. In the last few seconds his expression became attentive with the hint of a frown. He spoke on cue.

  ‘Now on to a remarkable story of survival. Sixty-five-year-old Alan Purkis had something of a shock when he discovered a thirty-foot-deep hole had opened up in his back garden. The retired electrician from Droitwich was only saved from a plunge into the abyss by the timely arrival of a cuckoo.’ Head inclined to one side, his quizzical expression segued into a reassuring smile: ‘Scott Padstow gets the full story for us.’

  The package ran. Frank had a headache and thought he should have eaten something before they went live. He thought of the Mars bar that had sat on his desk all afternoon and was filled with sharp longing and regret. He turned and looked at Julia’s exposed arm and could imagine with terrible clarity ripping into it with his teeth. When he looked up, she was staring at him. He gave a little shake of his head as if coming out of some private reverie. He looked, he hoped, as if his thoughts had been on something distant and intangible or, failing that, on anything other than eating her flesh. He gave a slight sickly smile. Julia was still in a foul mood.

  ‘Great story. News that almost happens. A man doesn’t fall down a hole.’

  The producer’s voice sounded in their earpieces. ‘Come on, Joolz, can we get over this? The man almost falling isn’t the story – it’s the hole. Why is it there? Is it going to widen and open up in other gardens, maybe swallow entire houses? I think that is of some interest to people in our region.’

  ‘Right – but that’s not really what the link focused on, is it? It bills it as a “remarkable story of survival”, and what about the cuckoo? Where’s the news value in that?’

  Another voice cut in: ‘Back with you, Julia, in five, four, three, two …’

  Julia introduced an item about a pub in Wolverhampton whose steak and kidney pies were doing well in a national competition.

  Frank thought that a pie might be an option. Beef and Guinness. He knew he didn’t have one at home, so that’d mean a trip to Tesco, and that was too depressing a prospect. He wished, not for the first time, that he had a local pub that served decent food. He thought of the Rose and Crown whose menu consisted of three types of frozen pizza – brittle seven-inch singles of misery that resisted any attempts at cutting. They came topped with a mysterious molten substance that clung to the roof of the mouth and burned straight through. Frank didn’t expect much from food, but he thought it shouldn’t injure you.

  The story about pies was coming to a close. Frank read the next link just ahead of his cue and braced himself. He tried too late and too half-heartedly to apply a mischievous smile and instead achieved only a half-cocked imbecile grin.

  ‘Reaching the national finals of that competition is pie no means a small achievement!’ He turned and beamed at Julia who looked back at him with bare-faced contempt. His grin faded. ‘But seriously, well done to the Bull’s Head there and good luck on the night.’

  After the bulletin he apologized to Julia. ‘You know I don’t want to do the jokes.’

 
‘Well, I wish you fucking wouldn’t, then. There is no humour there, Frank; they are not recognizable as jokes. The only way I can tell that’s what they’re supposed to be is because otherwise what you’ve just said makes absolutely no sense. What the hell am I supposed to do? If I laugh, I look as if I’m mentally ill. If I don’t laugh, I look as if I hate you.’

  ‘Maybe just smile, pityingly. The viewers would understand that.’

  ‘It’s not easy to smile, Frank; believe me, it’s not easy.’

  ‘Try and imagine it’s an illness. That’s what I do.’

  Julia shook her head as she got her coat. ‘See you tomorrow, Frank.’

  The door closed behind her and Frank was left wondering what to do for the evening. His hunger had mysteriously evaporated and he didn’t feel like going straight home. That morning Andrea had taken Mo to visit her aunt in Bradford and they wouldn’t be back till the next day. He found the house just about bearable when his family were there; with them away he avoided it as much as he could. Sometimes he’d grab a drink with the crew, but tonight the thought of being that particular version of himself, of talking and listening and laughing in the right places, seemed too much effort.

  He got in his car and headed for the Queensway. The car seemed to guide itself – gliding up over flyovers and swooping down into underpasses. The lights of the tunnels passed through his windscreen and across his face. Familiar glimpses of the city slid by and as they did stray names and faces associated with them from old news stories combined with memories from his own past. He was at his most susceptible to nostalgia and melancholy when he was tired.

  The car pulled in at a garage and for a moment Frank had no idea why he was there, until he saw the buckets of flowers and realized that tonight he would pay his respects. He was too weary to resist.

  The young man at the till recognized him and Frank switched his face on.

  ‘I seen you on the telly, man.’

  ‘Right, yes, that’s me.’

  ‘What’s that other one? The babe. Julie, is it? She fit, mate. Flowers for her, are they?’

  ‘These? No, actually they’re for someone else.’

  ‘Ahhh – you bein’ a bad boy? Sniffin’ up some other telly lady?’