The White Room (3 page)

To Jack, he was revelatory. His vision, Daniel Smith said, was shared – he knew – by everyone in this room. ‘Oh, I know we sometimes argue—' and here he pointed out certain faces, soliciting laughter among the knowing few ‘—but I know we're all on the same side really. All of us. Everyone. Because we all share the vision of a new city, a new society. One in which the future isn't something to fear but something to look forward to. And we look forward to this because it's something we'll all work together to create. A city, a nation following a true socialist vision, one in which everyone is valued for the contribution he or she can make in it.

‘Just think,' he said. ‘What if everyone had a decent place to live? One that was warm and comfortable, well designed and, above all, affordable. Everyone, not just the lucky few. What if everyone had decent schools beside them to send their children to? Local libraries within their reach? Good hospitals with the same high standard of care whether you're rich or poor? Decent jobs that a man can be proud to come home from?'

Jack leaned forward eagerly.

‘Universities for everyone of ability, whether they be rich or poor? Not only that, but what about culture? The working man's always being told that it's not for him. The theatre, the opera, the ballet. Cinema, art, music. Not for him.'

He drew breath, looked around the room, making sure he had them all with him.

‘Why not? Why shouldn't they be in the working man's grasp? Why should we and our families be dissuaded from enjoying them? These are things,' Daniel Smith said, shaking his head, ‘that have been denied the working classes too long. Too long.'

Jack looked around. There were nods and murmurs of assent all about him. He wasn't sure about the opera and ballet himself – he would give Mr Smith the benefit of the doubt on that one – but the rest he agreed with. He kept listening.

‘Working men get together in pubs to drink beer, play darts and dominoes, to sing songs.' He looked around the room, the faces now enrapt. ‘But,' he said, shaking his head, ‘I know, and you do too, that there are better songs we can sing.'

More murmurs and grunts of assent from the audience.

Daniel Smith continued: ‘When you look around at this city and you see some of the places and the conditions that people live in, you wonder how they manage. I'm talking about places like Byker, Heaton, my own Wallsend, Longbenton, Scotswood—'

Jack's ears pricked up.

‘—Benwell. And plenty of others.' Daniel Smith sighed, shook his head. He looked as if he had personal experience of these impoverished areas. A silent yet palpable expectancy hung in the air. He continued: ‘You look at these places and you think, We've just won a war. I'll say that again. We've just won—' he stressed the word hard ‘—a war. We're supposed to be the victors.'

Jack found his head nodding to the words.

‘As you know,' Daniel Smith continued, eyes alight with passion, ‘I'm anti-war. I'll have no part of it. And I don't believe in all that sloganeering that went on either. Let's wipe the Germans off the face of the earth. The only good German's a dead German. Rubbish, all of it. What myself and my colleagues in the Independent Labour Party believe in is a united socialist Europe. We've just won a war. We have a massive opportunity to do something truly different in our society now. All of us. We've got to get on to Attlee, tell him not to lose the advantage he's got. Make him work for his money. All of us.'

He stopped talking, gave a self-deprecating smile, placed his hands on his chest.

‘Now, I'm just one person standing up here. You down there are the many. So with that in mind I leave you with one final question: that future I was talking about earlier. Do you want it?'

Nods and murmurs from around the room.

‘Do you? Well, so do I. But if change is to happen – and it has to – then it'll have to come from you. Not just me. Because we're all in this together. All of us. We've got to pull together on this. Stop having dreams and visions. Start turning them into reality. Thank you.'

He stood down to rapturous applause.

Jack, like everyone else, was on his feet. Convinced. Converted.

Dan Smith stepped down from the podium and found himself immediately surrounded by people: handshaking, backslapping. Jack wanted to move forwards, tell the man who had spoken that he could have been directly addressing him, the words could have come from his own mouth. He found himself swept along by the throng. He stopped in front of Dan Smith, who was reaching out his hand to shake. Jack took it.

Jack opened his mouth to speak, found there were no words there.

Dan Smith smiled at him. Jack smiled back.

‘New face?' he asked.

Jack nodded.

‘Good. Good to see you.'

Dan Smith smiled warmly and moved on to the next person.

The crowd surged, Jack floated away, bobbing like driftwood on an open sea. He allowed himself to be eased to the back of the throng. He stood there, alone, wishing he had said something, cursing his lack of education, thinking of all the pithy one-liners he could have come out with, now lost to the moment. He looked at the other people talking to Dan Smith, saw how easily they made conversation. He shook his head, sighed.

‘Enjoyin' yourself?'

Jack looked up.

‘Aye, you.'

The man smiled at Jack.

‘Ralph Bell.'

The man stuck out a big, meaty hand. Jack took it, said his name.

‘He's good, isn't he? Dan Smith. The speaker.'

Jack nodded. ‘Aye. Aye, he is.'

‘More than a speaker, though. A doer. Great things are expected of him.'

Jack looked at Ralph Bell. He was a big man, stocky and tall, but not fat. Arms and chest enlarged by manual work. Brown hair greased back, suit and tie functional. Moustache. He looked about thirty, thought Jack, although given his ruddy, leather-weathered face, that figure could have been revised upwards.

‘Aye,' said Jack. ‘When he spoke, I wanted to tell him everythin' he said was true.'

Ralph Bell gave a small laugh, looked over to where the throng still surrounded Dan Smith.

‘But you couldn't find the right words. Well, don't worry. He's here often. You'll get your chance. This your first time here, is it?'

Jack nodded.

‘Thought I hadn't seen you here before.' He pointed to Jack's hair, smiled. ‘I'd have noticed.'

Jack felt himself redden.

Ralph Bell gestured around the room.

‘They're a good bunch, as this lot goes. Everybody argues. But we're all on the same side. Really.'

Jack ran his fingers self-consciously through his hair. It was now claiming Ralph Bell's attention.

‘Where you from, then?' Ralph Bell asked.

‘Scotswood.'

‘You workin'?'

‘Got job in one of the slaughterhouses down there.'

Ralph Bell grimaced.

‘Rather you than me. I couldn't do it. Must be horrible, that.'

‘Aye, it is. Horrible. Lookin' for somethin' else.' Jack knew he was mumbling his words.

‘That what turned your hair white, then?'

Jack looked at him, mouth working up to a reply.

‘Nuh – no,' Jack stammered. Words came to him only in meagre clumps at the best of times, but they were practically nowhere to be seen tonight. ‘That's from … the war. I saw some things …'

He trailed off, hoping the memories wouldn't invade his head again. Not here. Not now.

Ralph Bell nodded.

‘Don't want to talk about it, eh? Best way, probably.'

Jack nodded. He suddenly wanted to be away from the group, out of the Royal Arcade.

‘I'd best be off.'

‘Listen,' said Ralph Bell, ‘there's a few of us goin' for a pint afterwards. Want to come?'

‘No, I'd best …' He gestured vaguely towards the door.

‘Please yourself. Next time, perhaps.' Ralph Bell stuck out his hand once more. ‘Nice to meet you, Jack. You comin' back again?'

Jack looked around the room. Dan Smith still had an audience. People were still chatting animatedly. It seemed warm, welcoming.

‘Aye … aye, probably.'

‘Good. The more the merrier.'

Jack turned to go.

‘Oh, before you go.' Ralph Bell spoke as if a thought had just struck him.

Jack turned back.

‘You said you were lookin' for somethin' else. Instead of the slaughterhouse. That right?'

Jack nodded, slightly wary. ‘Aye …'

‘You ever done any buildin' work? Labourin' an' that?'

‘In the army, I did.'

Ralph Bell smiled. ‘I might be able to help you, then. I'm a builder. Run a buildin' firm in Walker. Oh, I know what you're thinkin'.' He laughed. ‘What's a builder doin' here with all these socialists? Well, you shouldn't believe what you hear. We're not all Conservatives. But we are always lookin' for lads who aren't afraid of hard work. You like the sound of that?'

Jack thought, but not for long. Anything would be better than murdering animals.

‘Aye, I do,' he said.

‘Can you start tomorrow?'

Jack nodded.

Ralph Bell gave him the address. ‘Be there seven thirty. Hope you've got an alarm clock. Now, you comin' for that drink?'

‘I'd best not,' said Jack and smiled. It was a rare event. It felt alien to his face.

‘Why?'

‘Got an early start in the mornin'.'

He exited the Royal Arcade.

Dan Smith still had a crowd around him.

‘Howay, man, look. There she is.'

The first boy pointed down the darkened alley. The Essoldo picture house on one side, offices the other. At the end, propped against the cinema wall, half claimed by shadow, stood a girl.

‘Told you she'd be there, didn't I?'

The first boy looked around to the others. There were four of them, three between ten and eleven, the fourth younger. The first boy shook his head, pointed an angry finger.

‘What did you bring him for?' He spoke to the third boy, finger stretched towards the fourth. ‘He's a fuckin' bairn, man.'

‘You kna' why, Lukey,' said the third boy. ‘It's wor Brian. Me mam said I've got to look after 'im when she's out, man.'

The little boy, Brian, stood between the two older boys, watching words bounce between them as if at a tennis match. Not that he had ever seen a tennis match. His clothes were old; he was not. Grey shoes, black socks and short trousers, a shirt that may have started its life white, black duffel coat a size too small for him. Face dirty, hair untidy. Seven years old.

The first boy, Lukey, looked at Brian.

‘You shoulda left 'im home, Nabs. We're not bairns.'

In the darkness, Nabs's face reddened.

‘I'll look after 'im, reet?'

Lukey sighed, reluctantly nodded.

The second boy wasn't listening to them. He was staring straight down the alley. He grabbed Lukey's arm.

‘How, she's lookin' down here,' he said.

Lukey turned to him, away from Nabs.

‘Have you got the stuff, Fenny?' Lukey asked.

The second boy, Fenny, felt in his pocket. He had done so every five minutes. ‘Aye,' he said.

Lukey swallowed hard. He was aware that his breathing had become more laboured. ‘Howay, then,' he said.

The three boys looked at each other, looking for signs of weakness, looking for their own reflections. Lukey, having elected himself leader, began to move slowly, the other two following tentatively. Brian looked between the three, shared none of their apprehension, tagged along. Nabs, Lukey and Fenny were all breathing hard now. Their hearts felt too big, worked too fast for their chests. The alley, and the girl at the end of it, seemed to stretch out for miles. Nabs reached down, found Brian's hand, pulled him along.

They had first seen her nearly a week ago on one of their evening reconnaissances of the town centre. They knew what she was straight away. Why she was where she was, what she was doing. They had stared at her and she had smiled at them, talked to them, asking them why they were out so late, what they were doing in town, where they lived. They had mumbled their replies, telling her they were from Byker. She had tolerated their presence for a while longer until she told them she had to get back to work. They had drifted off then, each of them nursing an uncomfortable, yet not unpleasant, erection that had lasted for the best part of a week.

This time would be different. This time they had a plan.

She turned, saw them coming. She smiled at them.

‘Hello, lads,' she said. ‘You're out late again, aren't you?'

They stopped walking, stared at her. She had blonde hair, curled and bobbed, just tidy enough. Blouse and skirt, stockings and heeled shoes, black overcoat. The blouse had been opened to reveal the tops of her small breasts. She wore heavily applied make-up, a child's approximation of how an adult should look.

‘Wuh – we've got somethin' for you,' said Lukey. He could barely speak, barely breathe, his heart was racing so heavily.

She looked around quickly, making sure there were no prospective punters hoving into view, then smiled at the boys.

‘That's nice,' she said, a laugh in her voice. ‘What is it? A diamond ring? A fur coat? Something to wear when Cary Grant escorts me from the back of his Rolls-Royce into some posh restaurant?'

She closed her eyes. The boys looked between themselves, not knowing what to do next.

She opened her eyes again, saw the boys. Their intense, nervous faces must not have been what she wanted to see. She sighed as if a great weight had been placed on her chest.

Lukey cleared his throat.

‘Naw,' he said, ‘nothin' like that. Sorry, like.'

He turned to the boy behind him, gestured. Fenny dug into his pocket, handed him something. He gave it to the girl. His hands were shaking. She picked up the package, examined it. A battered box of Players No. 6.