Extract from Hope for Newborns, by Rodge Glass
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1. Aftermath of an Attack THE VICTORY BARBER SHOP, MANCHESTER PROUDLY SERVING GREAT BRITISH SCALPS SINCE 1945. PROPRIETOR, C.J.PASSMAN. COME IN FOR A SMILE AND A SERVICE, SEVEN DAYS A WEEK. Two windows facing the street displayed framed popular images from the First and Second World Wars, each lovingly maintained by Morta, Dad’s new Lithuanian assistant, who prided herself on her ability to spray, wipe and dust surfaces more efficiently than anyone born east of the old Berlin Wall. There were hundreds of photographs for her to look after. Processions of returning soldiers riding through the streets, waving. D-Day celebrations. Women working in the munitions factories. The Queen Mum in the East End. Nothing too bloody. Underneath the pictures was a carefully scattered selection of ration books, wartime adverts - “Dig for Victory!” - and an impeccably presented set of Grandpa Harry’s vintage stamps. Winston himself looked down on customers from his place above the welcome sign, photographed in a jeep in Berlin in 1945, waving at a grateful crowd. It was never mentioned that, despite his many attributes, Churchill was in no need of a haircut. And neither were many of the shaven-headed members of the front line grinning out from the surrounding photographs and newspaper cuttings on our walls. Winston and his men covered half the space; the rest was taken up with wartime maps of the changing shape of Europe, spattered with red and black arrows pointing in all directions, and some local newspaper cuttings from the time of the Blitz, Dunkirk, VE Day. Along the left wall was a bench for customers to wait on, Grandpa Harry’s old wartime jukebox featuring hundreds of hits - We’ll Meet Again, This is the Army Mr Jones, There’ll Always Be an England - and opposite were three barbers’ chairs. The most important things lived above the till. The collection box for servicemen. The tips jar. The scissors. Water, gel, hair spray. Amongst these were a couple of official regiment photographs of Grandpa alongside colleagues and superiors, two of his three brothers and one of his cousins, all of whom died in service, apart from Great Uncle George, who became a General, so escaped direct bullets: “We were a real army family,” Grandpa Harry used to say, snipping at some strange head, talking via the mirror. “You know, Lewis…Britain accepted us at a time when most other places were either kicking out Jews or killing them. The least we could do was die for this country.” Today, the modern Passman family would return to see almost the same shop front that had stood there since Grandpa first cut the ribbon on opening day in front of a crowd in 1945: “Ladies and gentlemen - welcome to the Victory Barbers,” he said, to thunderous applause. “Now get inside and empty your pockets!” Dad was still a boy then, standing by his father at the entrance as they cut the ribbon together: “Dad,” he asked, “One day, can I have the shop?” Grandpa looked down at his only son and said, beaming: “Clive, this is Great Britain. You can have whatever you like.” I wish I had been alive then - you knew where you stood with things - or at least it seemed like it. Hitler had just been defeated. The National Health Service was up and running. A Labour government had been voted into full power for the first time. We were on a roll, so we thought: an example to the rest of the world. The British were even arranging for a state to be set up, a place Jews could feel safe, something which hadn’t been achieved in thousands of years. Perhaps the Jews would have felt less heat if they’d accepted the centre of the earth as a homeland, but those who knew that at the time either didn’t speak up or were ignored, so the arrangement went ahead in 1948. I was a teenager before I was told we British had been in charge of Israel until then, and that maybe its inhabitants were pleased to see us leave: “Nothing is clean,” Grandpa Harry said, whenever the subject of ‘that place’ came up. “Sometimes you’ve just got to choose the least dirty option and be thankful you’ve got any options at all.” These days, everything seemed dirty. Especially since my eldest brother Charles (or Chuck as he preferred to be called these days) followed in the family tradition and joined the army, in America, his new home. The brash shop front and 1940’s style interior he and his twin, Philip, left five years ago, now seemed hopelessly out of date - a relic of something it was getting harder to believe really happened - a war everyone agreed was a good idea. Modern ones were messy, gory affairs. It was difficult to know who to support. I preferred the old kind. Towards the end of his life Grandpa had been trying to persuade me that all our history was equally covered in muck and spit, but, like the rest of the family, I wasn’t ready to believe it yet. We were all nervous about today. Chuck, Daisy and Tampa Bay were due in at the airport mid-afternoon, Dad said he’d drive them the short journey back to the shop, which is also our family home, and I took the afternoon off work to prepare, going back to my flat to pick up a few things, then heading round to the shop. But straight away there was a setback. Just as I was unlocking the shop three kids on bikes raced past and threw a brick through the front window. So instead of putting out streamers and balloons I spent the time before they arrived carefully covering up the big hole in the window with several layers of masking tape instead, then going out to the front of the shop, sweeping up the last of the shattered glass on the road with a dustpan and brush, still in my suit, scrambling around on my knees for overlooked shards. I was thinking about being somewhere more spectacular, but recently I always felt I was supposed to be somewhere else. Like it was some terrible mistake that I found myself wherever I was, doing whatever I was doing. I was so exhausted from work most days that sensations of any kind seemed to pass through me with little effect. It was amazing I had the energy to talk at all, really, but occasionally I did. Usually to Anna, one of the company secretaries. Lunch hours, moments between meetings, a few minutes early morning before anyone else got in - especially over the last few months, while we’d been discussing a trip away together. Anna was part way through travelling Europe, she was impatient to move on to the next place, and couldn’t understand why I was so reluctant to give up the job and go partying. We were a strange couple; hardly a couple at all. We didn’t know the simplest things about each other. Sometimes I thought Anna was my girlfriend, but even that basic detail wasn’t clear: sex usually came before relationships these days, and we’d not even been close to it. We’d only kissed a couple of times. I didn’t want to ruin things by asking for clarification. It was always easier to let things go on as usual than to put questions I might not like the answers to. I spent my professional life doing that anyway, so usually I didn’t even notice myself doing it. Absorbing, controlling. Absorbing, controlling. Pleasing clients. My boss. My parents. The customers and hangers-on at the Victory. I did whatever was necessary to please those around me, keep things easy. Not take any risks. A month or two ago Anna decided to make me her new pet project, and she set about transforming a stiff, proud man who acted older than his years into a carefree young one ready for good times. “If I can’t wake you up,” she said, smiling confidently, “Then no one can.” But I was harder to shift than expected. I talked about wanting to travel but really the thought of leaving my desk for more than a few days made me queasy. Eventually Anna got impatient, saying she was leaving for Europe without me. That was this afternoon. “Where are you going then?” I asked. “Not telling you.” “When do you leave?” “Tomorrow.” “Well - aren’t you going to tell Marcus?” “Rule Number One,” she said, brightly. “I owe no loyalty to bosses who only call me sweetheart because they can’t remember my name.” “But you can’t do that!” “Why? What’s he going to do?” We worked on for another hour in virtual silence, punctuated only by the sound of tapping on keyboards and the occasional sigh. Then I left the office, without a word, and walked to the shop, choosing to stay smart for the arrival of the folks. Every so often it was worth reminding them that some people took me seriously. I’d missed a bit out on the pavement: I just sighed and got the broom. Cleaned up without anger. I never quite got used to it, but the initial shock of attack was long gone. Now I kept sweeping the road, though there was nothing left to sweep, as the teenagers in school uniform passed on their way to the bus stop. Sometimes I just wanted to draw all the kids to me. Break the bad news gently. The old folks too. They all looked sad, even when they were smiling. The poster Dad had insisted on keeping in the window, “SUPPORT OUR TROOPS: BE PROUD!” had been taken clean out by the brick, and now lay on the inside of the shop, face up. |
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