Synopsis
It is the summer of 2007. Six baby-boomers are reunited to celebrate the 40th anniversary of their graduation. They wander from pub to pub through the streets of central London, increasingly disillusioned as they witness the morass of a contemporary society from which they have become alienated. Their expectations of a joyful reunion are shattered, as the memories that each has of the others are undermined by the changes wrought by ageing and by the gradual revelation of long-held secrets extending back to their time at university in the 1960’s. As truths emerge and friendships begin to fracture, the reunion is brought to an abrupt end by a violent incident which serves finally to destroy the hopes they had of reconnecting with their pasts and with each other.
Extract from
Chapter 3
“Where are you going, Eric?'
Staggering under the weight of the suitcases, Eric turned. “Down to the tube. It's only a couple of stops and-”
“Four stops and a change at Oxford Circus. It'll be intolerable in this heat. Let's get a taxi.”
“OK, OK.” Eric deferred to Vivienne's knowledge of the London underground, realising that she'd probably become well aquainted with the capital's transport system during the frequent visits she used to make to her friend Belinda who lived in Bayswater. He followed her out through the exit into the glare that penetrated the Victorian cast-iron and glass canopy at the front of the station.
Looking round at the carefully restored brickwork and the freshly painted ironwork, he felt suddenly transported to the stations of his train-spotting childhood - despite electrification, Marylebone had about it the gentle air of steam-train romance no longer found in the frenzy of Euston or King's Cross or Birmingham New Street, all of which had come to resemble characterless airport concourses. It evoked setting off on summer holidays with his parents in the days before his father had scraped enough together to purchase a second-hand Morris. There was something else nagging at the fringes of his memory- what the hell was it? Suddenly it came to him and he hurried to catch up with Vivienne who was striding towards the taxi rank.
“Viv! Viv! Wait a minute!”
“What is it?”
“This station. Something about the canopy struck a chord with me, and I've just remembered what it was.”
His wife sighed. “You spotted trains here, presumably?”
“No, not here. Always went to Kings Cross, to see the Eastern Region locos, you know, the Pacific Class. No, it was a hard day's night.”
“What was, train spotting? What do you mean? Surely even you weren't silly enough to go train spotting at night?”
“No, no, it was the film, 'A Hard Day's Night'. You know, we went to see it in our first years at Leeds, at the Odean in City Square it was, and you -”
“Eric, what the hell are you going on about? Look, we've just lost a taxi.”
“I'm telling you. Remember the scene at the station, when the Beatles were running the gauntlet of fans, trying to catch the train? Well, it was filmed here! Just think! John and Paul running through this very entrance!”
Vivienne raised her eyes heavenwards, then turned towards the taxis. Eric sighed and fell in behind her.
“Hilton Hotel, Upper Woburn Place, please,” Vivienne instructed the taxi driver. “It's just opposite the BMA headquarters.”
“He probably knows that, Viv,” Eric ventured. “I reckon every Londoner knows where Upper Woburn Place is, you know, after 7/7.”
“I'm just trying to be helpful, for God's sake. In any case, the bomb went off in Russell Square,” snapped Vivienne, rummaging in her suitcase for the book in which she'd been immersed on the train.
Eric glanced towards the driver's mirror and caught the cabbie's sympathetic grin. Hastily, he turned to observe the passing scene as the cab stop-started its way through the traffic. White vans, black limos, red bendy buses, suicidal motorcyclists, masked cyclists and pedestrians - all ages, races, statures, sexes, eclectically dressed - and all hurrying. And the noise! Horns, sirens, thumping car stereos. The most exciting city in the world, it was said, but Eric could do without excitement. He'd come to relish a slower pace of life since his retirement. When still working he'd attended occasional meetings of the Secondary Heads' Association in London, and was always relieved to get home to the relative peace of Leamington Spa. Vivienne has always enthused about the cultural life of the capital on returning from her visits to stay with Belinda, though these visits had stopped abruptly ten years ago, for some reason which she'd never fully explained.
He sneaked a glance at his wife. They'd spoken little since leaving the house that morning. Her lips were pursed slightly as they had been throughout the entire journey, but he couldn't be sure if this was an indication of her continuing reluctance to participate in the reunion or whether she was merely concentrating on her novel. He felt a renewed swelling of irritation with her. Disagreement had festered between them for the past three months, ever since they'd first been invited. He had been eager to attend, she was adamant they should not. They'd had the same disagreement over the same issue ten years previously, and on that occasion he'd deferred to her wishes. This time he'd been determined not to give way. Eventually she'd agreed to come on condition that it was London, not Leeds, that they didn't join the others until mid afternoon, and that afterwards they stay at a different hotel. When he'd reluctantly agreed to the compromises, she'd hurriedly added a further condition - that he inform Alan that they would not be able to confirm their attendance until the very day of the reunion. “Why?” he'd asked.
“In case I change my mind,” she'd said, meaningfully.
The cab pulled up outside the Hilton. Eric grappled with the luggage, Vivienne paid the fare, the automatic division of labour that comes after 38 years of marriage. He mounted the steps to the hotel entrance and stopped, confronted with revolving doors which prohibited entry to one carrying two suitcases. He waited for assistance from Vivienne: it was not forthcoming; she pushed through the doors leaving him to make two entrances, each with an individual case. His irritation was blunted by a sense of deja vu; something involving revolving doors. He dredged his memory, to no avail. No doubt recall would come when he was thinking of something else.
Inside the lobby it was blessedly cool. The necessary formalities at the reception desk completed, they entered the lift and ascended towards the fourth floor, Eric trying to avoid glancing in the mirrors that formed the walls on two sides. He didn't care for full length mirrors these days. A large pot belly protruded from his slight frame, and he was always undecided whether to pitch his belt above or below it. He noted his wife examining her reflection appraisingly: for a 61 year old she had a trim figure, still able to wear close-fitting jeans….
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