Turning Forty Read online

  Crossing over the road I pass Boots, a curry house I don’t recognise and a couple of cafés before I come to a halt outside an upmarket charity shop which appears to fancy itself as a cut above the rest. Not for this emporium dog-eared copies of Catherine Cookson novels, semi-naked Barbie dolls and dead men’s clothing. Instead, judging from its tasteful window display it’s all literary novels with unbroken spines, pre-owned must-have classic albums in vinyl and arthouse DVDs. It’s like a cooler version of the Exchange shops in Notting Hill run for the purpose of aiding humanitarian works. Intrigued, I dodge past the pristine vintage pistachio Lambretta parked outside and enter the shop.

  The first thing I notice is that they’re playing The House of Love’s debut album. The moment I hear ‘Christine’, I’m transported back to a scene of my youth: me, Gershwin and the rest of the gang hanging out at Ginny’s listening to music and pontificating about life. I haven’t heard this album in years, and it immediately puts a smile on my face, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by the guy behind the till. He looks familiar but I just can’t place him.

  Despite grey hair and lived-in craggy features, there’s something eternally youthful about him. He’s easily ten years my senior, but he looks effortlessly cool. Not for him the male fashion menopause that has afflicted most of my generation. He is exactly the kind of man I want to be ten years from now, a pinnacle of maturity and style rather than some combat-trousered off-duty dad lookalike in sagging T-shirt and comfortable footwear.

  ‘Cracking band weren’t they?’ he says in a soft Brummie accent.

  ‘The absolute best,’ I reply. ‘I saw them a few times. They were a great band live.’

  ‘We were probably at the same gigs. Dunno what they’re up to now. I had a guy in this morning trying to talk down the price we were charging. I told him to sod right off and then put it straight on!’

  I laugh politely and try desperately to think of something else to say because I don’t want this conversation to end. I’ve just realised who he is. He’s Gerry Hammond, lead singer of The Pinfolds, and this is easily the best thing that has happened to me for ages.

  The Pinfolds were Birmingham’s answer to The Smiths. Ginny got me into them after we became friends and as teenagers we saw them countless times before they got famous and moved to London, and even after that at least half a dozen times between the release of their debut album, Newhall Lovers, and their final tour some three years later.

  On behalf of my seventeen-year-old self I want to say something to Gerry but my mind has gone blank. We do the awkward smile thing to signal the end of the conversation and then I start browsing the paperbacks behind me while conjuring up reasons why one of my all-time heroes is working in a charity shop.

  After much deliberation I pick up a copy of The Return of The Native for £1.99 and Leonard Cohen’s Songs of Love and Hate on CD for £2.49 by which time I have concluded that Gerry is one of those pop stars who like to give something back. This, I decide, is very much in keeping with The Pinfolds’ left-wing ethos as I remembered them and only serves to make him even cooler.

  ‘Hardy and Cohen at the same time,’ he says, chuckling as he puts my purchases through the till. ‘You’ll be a barrel of laughs tonight in the pub!’

  Retorts (cool or otherwise) elude me so I just laugh and nod. He hands me the bag with my purchases in adding: ‘Come back soon. We’ve always got tons of new stock coming in.’

  That night I spend half the evening watching old Pinfolds videos that fans have uploaded to YouTube. It’s great hearing songs like ‘Charmed and Delighted’ and ‘Union Street Nightmares’ again but disappointing to see how few times they’ve been viewed (in the low thousands as opposed to the millions that Smiths videos have) and it makes me wonder whether I might have exaggerated their success. Obviously to me at the age of seventeen they had been this huge band, local heroes living the dream. Was it possible that their place in the pantheon of pop wasn’t quite as secure as it was in my head? Closing the lid of my laptop I find myself thinking about Ginny again as though my unconscious is trying to make a connection between her and The Pinfolds. Have I exaggerated what we used to be to each other? When I see her will she take one look at me and wonder who I am? If I really am going to make contact with her then I’ll need to get a bit more background information on her and who better to get it from than Gershwin Palmer, my oldest mate, and my eyes and ears on the streets of Birmingham. If anyone will know what Ginny’s up to he will and so I reach for my phone and type out the following text: Split up with the missus and back in Brum. Fancy a pint?

  9

  It’s just after nine and Gershwin and I are nursing our pints in the crowded rear bar of an Irish pub in Moseley. I’ve told him my news and rather than asking me why it’s taken six months to tell him about me and Lauren, which would be fair enough, he says: ‘Mate, I’m really gutted for you. No one knows better than me how tough divorce can be.’

  It was hard to believe it had been five years since Gershwin and his wife Zoe had split up, especially as they’d been together since their late teens. Of course they’d had their ups and downs and had once even separated for a short while, but after fifteen years together I’d been convinced they were in it for life. No one was more surprised than me when Gershwin called and told me it was over. They’d been rowing all the time and eventually Zoe asked him to move out; a few months later she met someone else. The thing that really broke my heart about it was that even after the divorce was finalised it was obvious he still loved her.

  ‘So what’s your plan?’ asks Gershwin. ‘Sell the house and move on?’

  ‘Pretty much, although it doesn’t help that I quit my job too.’

  ‘I thought you loved it.’

  ‘So did I. Turns out I was wrong. Truth is I just couldn’t do it any more. I’ve been in this business nearly twenty years and I’m burned out.’

  ‘But you’re not going to come back here, are you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I say. ‘I’m just here to lick my wounds and move on.’

  ‘Good,’ says Gershwin, relieved.

  His reaction is confusing. I decide to ignore it but he immediately corrects himself. ‘I don’t mean it like that, of course, I mean . . . you know it’s good that you’re not just going to sit around here. You don’t want to come back to this place. It’ll suck the life out of you.’

  It isn’t like Gershwin to criticise his home town like this. In fact there have been times when he’s almost come to blows with people who have had a go at the city in his presence. Something feels wrong but I have no idea what it is.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’ve been better,’ he replies in a voice so steeped in Brummy lugubriousness that it would put even Ozzy Osborne at his most melancholy to shame.

  ‘Work stuff?’ Gershwin was deputy programme director for a new government regional health initiative that was always taking him off around the country. Maybe his job was getting him down as much as mine had been.

  ‘There’s rumours floating around about redundancies and cuts,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t bode well.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. You’ll be safe though won’t you? I mean, you’re pretty senior.’

  Gershwin shrugs. ‘It’s impossible to tell.’

  I look around the pub. The Patrick Kavanagh, with its open fire, worn oak floorboards and comfortable ratio of under thirties to over which meant that people like Gershwin and me could have a pint without feeling like we’re in a disco or conversely a retirement home is as good a drinking venue as any, and under normal circumstances I wouldn’t be fussed; but it isn’t The King’s Arms, the place that used to be our home from home.

  ‘It changed hands and went downhill,’ says Gershwin when I question him about the pub that had over the years acted as the unofficial clubhouse for Kings Heath Comprehensive alumni. ‘The new people did a big refurbishment and started doing fancy food so it lost every drop of atmosphere that all the years of neglect an
d indifference had given it.’

  ‘Sooner or later change kills everything, mate,’ I say. ‘It’s the way of the world.’

  For some reason the conversation falls flat after this. Gershwin sips his pint and I sip mine and occasionally one of us nods as if to say, ‘Wow, look at this we’re having a drink together.’ It’s good to see him though. His hair is all but gone now, shaved right close to the scalp with only minuscule stubs of silvery grey to show that he’d ever had any at all. But the mischievous grin that was perched on the schoolboy I first met on my first day at Kings Heath Comprehensive is still just about there.

  I want to ask about Ginny, if he’s seen much of her and what she’s up to, but it seems a bit too obvious now that he knows about Lauren. Gershwin, as well as being aware of the ‘complicated’ nature of my relationship with Ginny, is also an expert in how my mind works. If I even mention her he’ll assume I’ve come back to start things up again and as a fully fledged thirty-nine-year-old man it feels a bit school playground to be that obvious.

  I get another couple of pints in and decide on a different tack.

  ‘Heard from any of the old crowd?’ I say, referring to Pete, Bev, Katrina and, of course, Ginny.

  ‘I’m terrible about that kind of thing,’ he says. ‘Haven’t heard from anyone in ages. I have got one piece of big news that’ll blow your mind a bit: Ginny got married.’

  ‘Ginny? Married? When?’

  ‘Back in the summer, apparently.’

  ‘Did she tell you that?’

  ‘Haven’t seen her in ages. I can’t even remember where I heard it first. You know what it’s like. You go out, you have a few and you bump into an old mate and they tell you a bunch of stuff and you only remember when you wake up the following morning.’

  ‘So who is it she’s married to? Do we know him?’

  Gershwin shakes his head. ‘I think it might be some guy she works with.’

  I don’t know what to say. All this time I’ve been so focused on the changes in my own life I haven’t given any thought to the changes that might be happening in hers. She’s married. Ginny’s married. And now the only hope that’s been keeping me going these past few weeks is gone.

  ‘You look a bit stunned, mate.’

  ‘That’s because I am,’ I say. ‘You might as well know this given it’s not going to happen but I don’t know . . . I had this big plan to look her up again and . . . you know . . .’ I laugh. ‘It’s ridiculous, look at me, I’m not even divorced yet and already I’m looking for another happy ever after. Is that stupid?’

  ‘Of course not,’ says Gershwin, ‘You two have a lot of history. But it’s probably for the best she’s not single. You know how complicated stuff got whenever you guys got together.’

  ‘Do you think I should go and see her and wish her well and all that? I mean, we are still friends.’

  Gershwin looks disapproving. ‘Bad idea, mate. Think about it: she didn’t invite you to the wedding. I doubt that she wants you turning up on her doorstep. Believe me, you’re best off steering clear.’

  A night at the pub with Gershwin traditionally only ends when the bar staff are stacking chairs around us as the two of us hatch plans to go on to somewhere else but tonight on the dot of ten Gershwin drains his glass and announces that he’s got to be up early in the morning for a meeting in Bristol.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he says, ‘no one’s more gutted about it than me. But you know how it is with work, mate. Next time I promise we’ll do it properly: pub, curry, the works.’

  Standing outside the pub with our breath rising up into the cold night air we prepare to part ways: me towards Kings Heath and Gershwin towards his garden flat in Church Road.

  ‘So I’ll see you soon, fella,’ says Gershwin, giving me the kind of hug men of my generation no longer feel the need to douse in irony. At forty it’s an achievement to have any mates at all, let alone ones you’ve known over half a lifetime, and though the Book of Bloke says you must take everything for granted, when it comes to mates this is a step too far.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I reply, ‘it’s been good to see you. I know it’s not for a while yet but have you given any thought to your fortieth? We should book something in now. You know how much planning these things take.’

  ‘I’m giving the whole thing a miss,’ he says. ‘I mean, what’s the point? All that forced jollity, to celebrate a birthday that I’m not even vaguely interested in. Forget it.’

  ‘This is your fortieth, mate! The big one! You can’t just let it pass you by. Just tell me who you want to be there and I’ll sort everything.’

  ‘It’s not going to happen,’ he says firmly.

  ‘OK, then why don’t we do the curry and beer thing like you said?’

  Gershwin shakes his head, unmoved. ‘Cheers mate, but honestly I’m fine giving the whole thing a miss.’

  ‘So when it happens you’re just going to stay in?’

  Gershwin nods and it seems as if there is no more to say. We do the man hug again and then he stands back and looks at me like he’s got something on his mind. ‘Listen,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry about Ginny. I know she meant a lot to you. I shouldn’t have . . . well, you know . . . I should’ve been a bit more sensitive about it.’

  ‘Nah, it’s fine, mate, honest. I’m just glad that I knew before I made a bigger fool of myself than I already have. I mean, it’s not like we’re seventeen any more, is it?’

  10

  The morning is all but over as I come downstairs and slope into my parents’ kitchen. Scratching the back of my head I yawn and glance at the clock next to the back door: it’s half past eleven. A year ago at this time of day I would either have been at work for four hours, or more likely than not on my way to a pitch meeting in an identikit office somewhere around the globe and now I’m only just getting up having spent yet another night in my parents’ spare room. Verily, my life is falling apart and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

  I suspect that my lethargy is in no small part due to Gershwin’s news about Ginny. Without her in the picture I am effectively a man without a mission. Why didn’t I come back to Birmingham when Lauren and I first split up? Maybe things would’ve been different if I had. Who am I kidding? Who’s to say that it would’ve made the slightest difference? What? Am I that much of a catch that Ginny would have chosen me over some guy who she was actually planning to marry? And anyway, who in their right mind convinces themselves they’re in love with a woman they haven’t seen or spoken to in six years? This whole exercise was pure pie in the sky, a desperate attempt to make life right before time runs out and I get stuck in Loserville for good. I need to face facts: Ginny isn’t going to fly in to the rescue; I’m probably going to end up living with my parents long after I turn forty; and I may never see another woman naked in the flesh ever again. And the sooner I accept this state of affairs the easier it’s going to be for me in the long run.

  Still frowning at my own idiocy, I turn round to see my mum looking for all the world like a woman on a mission.

  ‘Who’s rattled your cage? You look like you’re about to punch somebody.’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum, honest. I was just thinking, that’s all.’

  ‘How was last night?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You didn’t drink too much, did you?’

  I look to see if she’s joking and the absence of a smile tells me all I need to know.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Mum scowls to indicate it’s a completely legitimate question. ‘Your father used to frown like that whenever he had a hangover.’

  ‘I had three pints and a pack and a half of salt and vinegar crisps. Shall I call Alcoholics Anonymous or do you want to do the honours?’

  Her face immediately becomes outraged. ‘I asked you if you wanted seconds at teatime and you said you were full and then you go off stuffing your face with junk food. Well from now on I won’t bother listening to you!’

  I ho
pe we’ve come to the end of the conversation and to test the waters I edge towards the cupboard and take out the cornflakes. Big mistake.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Getting breakfast.’

  ‘Not while I’m still talking to you, you’re not. Your dad and I are thinking that you might like to come with us to see your sister and the children. What do you say?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Your sister’s been hoping you’d pop over ever since she heard that you were back and the boys are desperate to see their favourite uncle.’

  ‘I’d be no fun in the mood I’m in right now. Tell her I’ll be over to see her some other time. I promise.’

  ‘What will you do with the day instead? Go back to bed? This is no way for a man of your age to be spending his life. Is that what your father and I sent you to university for? To waste your life dossing? At the very least you should be outside, getting some fresh air!’

  ‘I was out late. I’ve got a lot on my mind. I don’t want any fresh air, I just want to get some rest.’

  My mum can barely control her indignation. ‘Rest? What do you want rest for? You haven’t even got a job to make you tired in the first place! Don’t you think I wanted a rest when I was working all hours as a nurse and then coming home to look after a house, a husband and four children? I would’ve loved to have had a rest, believe you me!’

  Over the eighteen or so years that I was resident at 88 Hampton Street I had heard this speech in all its forms and the result is always the same: her point gets made and I accept defeat.

  ‘You win, OK?’ I say, desperate for the emotional blackmail to stop. ‘I’ll come!’