Listen, chaps, he’d written, I wouldn’t normally want to bother you with something like this, but to be perfectly honest I’m not quite sure who else to ask. Basically, my daughter Emily got caught “cyberbullying” someone at school. Mean messages. Photoshopped pics. Nasty stuff, from what I’ve seen. She tells me she wasn’t the ringleader and feels really bad (and I believe her), but I still feel like I need to make sure she understands she can’t be part of anything like that ever again, even if it means losing her mates. Just wondered if any of you might have any advice for a useless duffer like me!! No worries if not!!!!!
Andrew’s scrambled eggs went cold as he waited to see what happened. It was TinkerAl who responded first, and the advice he gave was simple, sensible, yet obviously heartfelt. So much so that Andrew felt momentarily overwhelmed. He tried writing his own response, but he couldn’t really think of anything better than what TinkerAl had said. Instead, he just backed up Tinker’s suggestion with a couple of lines, and resolved (perhaps a little selfishly) to be the helpful one next time.
—
Andrew logged on, heard the reassuring sound of the Scotsman rushing past behind him, and waited in eager anticipation of the little breeze that followed in its wake. He adjusted his monitor. He’d bought the computer as a thirty-second birthday present for himself. At the time it had seemed like a sleek and powerful machine, but now, a decade later, it was impossibly bulky and slow compared to the latest models. Nevertheless, Andrew felt an affection for the clunky old beast that meant he’d cling on to it for as long as it still spluttered into life.
Hi, all, he wrote. Anybody on for the night shift?
As he waited for the reply he knew would come within a maximum of ten minutes, he maneuvered carefully across the rail tracks to his record player and thumbed through his LPs. He kept them in a wonky pile rather than in neat rows on a shelf—that diminished the fun of it. In this more ramshackle style of ordering he could still occasionally surprise himself. There were some other artists and albums in there—Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck, Dizzy Gillespie—but Ella vastly outnumbered all of them.
He slid The Best Is Yet to Come out of its sleeve but changed his mind and put it back. When he altered his railway landscapes that was because of the changing seasons, but there wasn’t as straightforward a logic when choosing which of Ella’s records to listen to. With her, it was just a case of what felt right in the moment. There was only one exception—her version of “Blue Moon.” He hadn’t been able to play that particular song for twenty years, though that didn’t stop the tune from filtering into his head on occasion. As soon as he recognized the first notes, pain would grow at his temples, his vision would fog, and then came the sound of piercing feedback and shouting, mixing with the music, and the uncanny sensation of hands gripping his shoulders. And then, just like that, it was gone, and he’d be looking at a confused pharmacist or realizing he’d missed his bus stop. On one occasion a few years before, he’d walked into a record shop in Soho and realized that the song was playing on the shop’s speakers. He’d left so hastily he’d ended up in a tense encounter with the shopkeeper and a passing off-duty police officer. More recently, he’d been channel-hopping and found himself watching a football match. Minutes later he was desperately searching for the remote to turn it off, because apparently “Blue Moon” was what the Manchester City fans sang. To hear the actual song was bad enough, but fifty thousand people bellowing it out of sync was on another level. He tried to tell himself that it was simply one of those unusual afflictions people suffer and just have to tolerate, like being allergic to sunlight, or having night terrors, but the thought lingered that at some point, probably, he would have to talk to someone about it.
He ran his fingers down the uneven record pile. Tonight it was Hello Love that caught his eye. He carefully dropped the needle and went back to his computer. BamBam67 had been first to reply.
Evening, all. Night shift for me too. House to myself thankfully. Seen they’re repeating that BBC thing from last year tonight? James May sitting in his shed rebuilding a Graham Farish 372–311 N Gauge steam loco. Apparently they did it all in one take. Anyway, don’t bother with it. It’s awful.
Andrew smiled and refreshed. There was TinkerAl right on cue:
HAHA! Knew it wouldn’t be your c.o.t.! I loved it I’m afraid!
Refresh. Here was BroadGaugeJim:
Evening shift for me too, squires. I watched the May thing first time around. Once he’d argued in favor of cork underlay over ballasted I’m afraid I couldn’t really take the rest of it seriously.
Andrew rolled his head around on his shoulders and sank down low in his chair. Now that the four of them had posted, now that Ella was crooning and a train was rattling around the room, defeating the silence, he could relax.
This was when everything came together.
This was everything.
— CHAPTER 5 —
As Andrew’s packed lunches went, this was another textbook effort, even if he said so himself. “Ham and cheese,” he boasted to the camera. “Blob of pickle goes central, then we’ll just spread it out to each corner. I like to imagine it’s a traitor’s body parts being sent to the four corners of England, but come up with whatever metaphor you want. Hang on, is this a bit of iceberg lettuce? You bet it is. So who’s coming with? A packet of salt and vinegar from the multi-bag? Tick. And how about a satsuma from the Big Red Net? Ditto. Though do be careful to check it’s not one of those sneaky ones who’s pretending to be fine despite the fact its bottom’s gone moldy. I always picture a vainglorious young soldier protesting he wants to go on patrol despite a shattered fibula, but again, do choose your own metaphor.”
He was about to launch into an explanation of his Tupperware system when he faltered, staring ahead as if the autocue had broken, the wholly unwelcome reminder of Keith and Meredith’s tag-team interrogation coming into his mind.
Sitting on the train to work (wedged into the armrest by a man whose legs were spread so far apart Andrew could only assume he was performing some sort of interpretive dance about what a great guy he was), he found himself thinking back to his very first day in the office. After his momentary excitement at getting the job, he’d spent the following days desperately panicking about how he was going to set things straight with Cameron about the small matter of his made-up family. He reasoned his best chance would be to get on with Cameron very, very quickly—to go against all instincts and actively befriend him. A few illicit chats in the corridor slagging other people off, a pint of lager after work on a Friday—that’s what people did, wasn’t it?—then he’d confess, say it had been a moment of madness between you and me, mate, and they’d chalk the whole thing up to one of those white lies everyone told in interviews.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be. As is dictated by UK law, Andrew had said a brief hello to his new colleagues before immediately locking himself out of his e-mails and sitting in silence for an hour because he was too embarrassed to ask for help.