An Old Man In A New Town (29 July 1978)

The old man walked slowly along The Concourse.  Normally, he wouldn’t have been there at all, but it had come on to rain outside.  Idly, he wondered why they had given it that name.  A concourse was a place where two courses merged.  This course led only to a car park.  The only other possible course was that peculiar tunnel going off at right angles which he had not yet negotiated and probably never would.

But then, his whole world had been so changed these past few years that he didn’t recognise it any more.  For instance, he was now a stranger in the town where he had lived most of his life.  Who were these people milling around him?  He didn’t know one of them.  The only kind of place left where he would be sure to know somebody would be one of those clubs run by and for the elderly.  But a perpetual round of bingo and “Daisy, Daisy”, plus notices of those who had gone to hospital and those who had gone for good, was hardly his cup of tea.

Whilst these thoughts were going through his head he had narrowly escaped being bowled over by a woman pushing a pram and by young men brushing past him from behind.  He remembered the day when he himself would sometimes have been in a hurry, but he also remembered that he would have said “Sorry”.  Oh, how his mother had repeatedly told him to mind his P’s and Q’s, meaning his “Pleases” and “Thank you’s”, and how it had stayed with him for life.  He hoped it had been passed on to his own son and daughter, Oliver, now in Canada, and Muriel in New Zealand.

One of his late wife’s grumbles in her last years was how she had held shop doors open for the passage of people even less able than herself and then had to continue doing so while young folks took the opportunity of barging through.  If manners made a man, then a good many never would be men, however much they might think themselves to be.

By this time the old man had managed to reach the top of the tunnel.  A cold wind was blowing through it and he shivered.

This was because it blew around his bare head and he had just paid the pensioners’ price of 60p for a fourpenny haircut and had asked the barber – sorry, the hair stylist – to give him a very short back and sides so that he would not have to spend as much again for some time to come.

That was the kind of expense that did not seem to be covered by those who calculated pensions.  There were many similar costs, such as the renewal of underclothes, socks and footwear, none of which could be expected to last forever.  Washing and washing-up materials were another.  By using electricity only for lighting, baths, the telly, the fridge and the clock he had managed to cut that bill to £8 for the last quarter, but he was now wondering which of those he could do without.  Probably the telly.  He loved the sport but that was about all and the black and white licence fee looked like going up again.  He would make do with the radio, which was usually more interesting and cost nothing.  But he now had to use more gas.  He recalled how when North Sea gas was in the offing it was claimed that they would have it practically for nothing.  That had not happened and when a gas gadget went wrong it cost a good deal to repair, but on the whole it was still cheaper than the electric.

From there his thoughts passed to wider matters.  Like prestige.  What fancy titles people gave themselves these days for doing quite ordinary jobs.  They forgot that when everybody was somebody then nobody was anybody.  Yet didn’t the encouragement or provocation come from the top?  For instance, why was the Milton Keynes borough Council not content to be just that, but must fain describe itself on its car park notices as The Council of the Borough of Milton Keynes?  All bumption and no gumption, he called it.

Mind you, there were some things that might have been ordained by higher authority, for all he knew.  For example, instead of departments there were now directorates, no less.

The directors had assistant directors and the assistant directors had other people signing letters on their behalf.  Where did it all lead?  He would dearly like to see a public statement, quoting figure for figure – and making due allowance for inflation and increased population – of how much better off they were now than they had been under the old five district councils.

But then, the issue might be befogged by the presence of that high and cagey Milton Keynes Development Corporation, whose financial statements were about as illuminating as a burnt-out bulb in a coal mine unless and until some naughty borough councillor tripped up, spilled a few beans and got roasted for his pains.

But never mind these local touches, the big black blocks, the destruction of Fenny, the virtual drowning of villages, the stopping up of old roads and the making of new ones which were still not wanted, and all that.  Far and away more distressing to his applecart and disorientating to his personality was the Common Market and the decimation – as he called it – which, rightly or wrongly, was seen to go with it.  As for the decimation, he would never get used to one pound ten not being what it used to be.  Thank goodness for those Yorkshire farmers who told the milk board that if they wanted their gallons turning into killibobs they must do it themselves in their nice, cosy offices and not expect them to do it at half past six of a morning out on the farm.  After all, it was pints that were still to be delivered to the customers.  He wondered why all other products could not be decimated at the exporting end, if they were to be decimated at all.

As for the Common Market, he had been agin it right from the start of the argument 25 to 30 years ago and so far had seen no good reason for altering his view.  It was poking its nose into our usages in every direction so that our souls now hardly belonged to us.  The Japanese were in no bloc and no longer had cheap labour.  Yet today they were the most successful trading nation on earth.

He had never ducked a vote in his life, but he certainly would not vote in the European election. How could he when no candidate would pledge himself to try to get us out and thus lose himself a lucrative job?  He expected a 25 per cent poll fiasco, if as much as that.

At that moment the sun shone again.  As he made for the exit a young woman – he hadn’t yet got around to calling them girls – came round the corner.  She had fair hair and a smile in her eyes.  That was how his wife had looked when he first knew her over 50 years ago. An old chap once stopped her in the street and asked her to excuse him, but he had to tell her how good it was to see someone who always had a smiling face.  Now he himself was an old chap.  But he would not speak to this woman.  He would simply be content to know that perhaps not everything had changed, after all.