Changing Destinations

Nick Callaghan found a free seat on the bus. As the bus trundled its way across the city, he rummaged in his rucksack for his pen and paper. The traffic was the usual rush-hour gridlock. He didn’t mind the morning slog. The journey to work gave him chance to work on his latest short story. 

He would scribble away on the long bus journey to work in spiral bound notepads. He ordered the notebooks from the website of the country’s top university. It somehow made him feel more intellectual. If he had been writing on bits of scrap paper, then, he felt his stories, his writing, wouldn’t have been the same. 

He stared out the window at inner city Salford, past the run down shopping centres and tower blocks. Families board the bus, squeezing their buggies onto the packed aisle and manoeuvring into the space at the front of the vehicle. Commuters like him, on their way to work, exhaustion in their eyes and on their faces. The bus hissed and shuddered before moving on. 

As the bus weaved its way across the city, Nick looked up from his notepad and let his mind wander. He dreamed of escaping these urban surroundings. He pictured in his head, his usual day-dream. He often tried to escape the everyday drudgery by imagining himself at an exclusive university in the Nineteen Twenties. He always dreamed of being at an elite university a century ago. 

All his heroes were rather upper-class literary types. Lord Byron, Mary Shelley, Charles Dickens, Oscar Wilde, Tolkien. Those were the people he looked up to. 

He was particularly obsessed with the famous writers of a century ago. He longed to be part of an intellectual literary movement. Despite his aspirations, Nick had left school at sixteen, just about passing his exams. He’d been working the dull nine-to-five in offices in the decade since. 

He particularly idolised a certain literary group. The Marylebone set. They were a group of poets and authors from early in the twentieth century. In the 1920s and 1930s, the group flourished, living an artistic, bohemian lifestyle, in the exclusive West End of London. 

They would meet at their mansion houses or in tea rooms around leafy Marylebone and called themselves the Marylebone Set. Nick looked up to these writers and would have loved to be part of a university writing clique like his heroes. On his living room wall, Nick had a framed black and white photograph of the group.  

In his own way, he tried to live his life as though he was moving in those circles, as though he is attending an elite university. Just because he wasn’t studying at these institutions, didn’t mean he couldn’t live the academic life. He would read the classics, and would write short stories, while listening to classical music. He did everything he could to capture the feel, the vibe, the aesthetic of being a student at these institutions.

Nick arrived at the office, bidding his colleagues good morning. They barely grunted in response. He knew he was seen as something of an eccentric by his work-mates. He didn’t really see that as fair. He didn’t judge anyone else for the way they lived, why should anyone judge him? He did stand out from the others at the office, but he didn’t care. 

Nick wore a shirt and tie to the office, despite the rules stating the dress-code was smart-casual, and polo shirts at least to be worn. While most of his colleagues opted for the more casual polo shirts, Nick wore his tie every day, even on the dress-down days when you could come in as casually dressed as you liked. 

On his lunch-break, Nick would head down to the office canteen. He would make himself a cup of tea, and find a free table. He would eat his packed lunch sandwiches, and read his book, usually one of the classics, or a literary biography. While his colleagues would chat and scroll on their mobile phones, or flick through the morning newspapers, he would immerse himself in the world of literature.

The Marylebone Group absolutely fascinated Nick. He had read countless biographies of the dozen writers and poets who made up the Marylebone group. Like a lot of authors and poets of the period, they had gone away to university and had flourished. 

In the gothic splendour of the university halls and plush grounds of Cambridge, they discovered friends with similar literary ideals and ambitions. All these writers and artists would go on to achieve greatness and recognition in their chosen field. 

Nick knew that a lot of these literary types formed such groups at the country’s most elite universities. There would call themselves societies and groups, named after exclusive tea shops and well to do areas. They focused all their energies on the arts. The groups would organise themselves and have rules and mottos and official meetings. 

Nick longed to be part of such a group. As he busied himself with mundane tasks at the office, he imagined himself in a university library with a group of like-minded studious people. His reality was far from the dreaming spires of Cambridge and Oxford. Having left school at sixteen, after doing distinctly average in his exams, Nick had drifted into a series of office jobs. 

As the years went by, he began to yearn for academia and to regret that he hadn’t gone on to college and university. 

Even outside of work, Nick dressed in a more formal way than his friends. The way he dressed and acted made him stand out among his friends. While his mates would dress far more casually, in sportswear, all tracksuits and t-shirts, Nick dressed in what his friends described as a ‘preppy’ kind of way. While they wore t-shirts and jeans, Nick favoured rugby shirts and cricket jumpers and chino trousers, deck-shoes rather than trainers. 

During the winter months, Nick would wear a university scarf flung dramatically over his shoulder. His friends referred to his fixation with old school academia as his ‘olde-worlde vibe’, but for him it was more than just a vibe, more than a style. It was an aesthetic. It was the life he wanted to live. It was a way of life, rather than simply way of dressing.

He worked on his stories, writing furiously away, in the university notepads, with a fancy silver pen. The rucksack he carried was designer, made by an exclusive Scandinavian brand and cost over a hundred pounds. Nick had seen vloggers online at Oxford and Cambridge sporting these bags, and had treated himself to the bag, as an early birthday present.

That evening, as Nick watched a documentary on the history of art over a glass of wine, his mobile phone pinged. One new message. His friends were arranging a night out, a few beers while watching the football, followed by a curry. He quickly tapped out a reply saying he was up for it. 

Most of his friends were in to football and none of them had read a book since leaving school. They didn’t have the same interests that he did but it didn’t seem to get in the way. They were a decent bunch and they were all very close. 

While they didn’t quite understand his interests, they supported him and backed him all the way. He still was one of the lads, they had known him for years, most of them since their school days. The way they saw it, if he wanted to dress like their grandad and study like he was still at school, then fair play to him. He did have a good laugh and a strong connection with his friends. 

Nick poured himself another glass of wine. Rather than the beer that his friends guzzled, Nick favoured white wine. He turned to face the framed photograph of the Marylebone group and raised his wine glass. 

‘Floreat Etona.’ He said. 

The motto of Eton College, was a common toast for the Bloomsbury group. It translated as May Eton Flourish. Over half the group had gone to Eton, the rest attending other public schools of equal standing and reputation. The Etonian motto had become the slogan of the group.

The nearest Nick had got to attending public school was a visit to the town of Eton during a recent trip to London. As he had wandered along the cobbled streets, passing the halls of the school, he’d dreamt that he was a student of the elite college, making his way to a lecture on Ancient Greece.

The following evening, Nick joined his friends in the pub as arranged. They were all excited for the big football game, talking excitedly, discussing which players were injured, who the referee would be, and making predictions about the final score. Nick ordered himself a glass of wine and joined his friends at the table in front of the big screen.

Nick joined in the conversation where he could, chipping in on the chat that wasn’t about the game. When the match kicked-off and all focus was on the big screen, Nick took the paperback book from his pocket. While his friends lost themselves in the match, Nick read a couple of chapters of his book. 

His friends were used to him preferring to read while they watched the game. He would often join them in the pub and have a laugh and a catch up, while not actually paying any attention to the game on screen. 

He finished his drink, and headed to the bar for another glass, his paperback book tucked under his arm. As he was paying for his drink, a lad in a football shirt pointed at the book Nick was carrying. He had a glint in his eyes and was clearly looking for trouble. With Nick, he had found his victim.

‘If you’re here for the book club, you’ve got the wrong night.’ He gave a sneering, mocking laugh.

Nick said nothing, and turned to head back to his table.

‘Hey,’ the guy called, ‘Harry Potter, I’m talking to you.’ 

The guy pushed him hard on the shoulder. 

Suddenly, Nick was surrounded by two of his friends. They stood in front of Nick, like nightclub door-men. They squared up to the guy, pushing and shoving him.

‘He’s our mate. You mess with him, you mess with us.’ One of them said, pointing a finger at him.

‘I don’t know why you let that weirdo hang around with you.’ The guy snarled, jerking a thumb at Nick. 

‘I was gonna ask your girlfriend the same thing.’ His friend said, with a grin. 

As everyone burst out laughing, the guy, red-faced and embarrassed, picked up his pint and went to find another corner of the pub to hide in.

A few days later, Nick came home to find the package he was waiting for had finally arrived. The new biography about the Marylebone group was supposed to be a sensation. He had the book pre-ordered weeks ago.

Nick held the new book about his treasured literary group as though it was Shakespeare’s first folio. Sitting on the sofa, he carefully opened the heavy volume and flicked through the book. What insights would be revealed on these pages? The new publication promised to provide a revealing new insight on the famous literary group.

The previous study of the group had been published over thirty years ago. A new work on the group would be just amazing. He made himself a cup of tea and got comfortable on the sofa, and settled down to get stuck into the new book. 

The introduction promised to shed new light on the group. Wonderful, he thought. It would be so inspiring. That would help with his own writing. The book about the group that he admired so much, would be a revelation. 

By the time he finished the first chapter, there was something rather unsettling about the tone of the book. While Nick held the group in such high regard, judging by the tone pf the writing, the author of the book did not. Rather than be a must-read for fans of the group, this author seemed to set out to ruffle feathers and bring the exclusive bunch of artists, writers and thinkers, down a peg or two. 

There was a scandalous, scathing feel to the book. As he read on, Nick was drawn in. He couldn’t put the book down. As he read on, he was treated to a warts-and-all insight into the lifestyle of the upper class group. 

There was lots of scandal, how the group treated the staff that worked in their mansion houses appallingly. As well as treating them generally awfully, as almost sub-human, there were certain instances that were shocking to read. 

One of the group who was about to be married, was sleeping with one of the maids. When she became pregnant, he forced her to have a back-street abortion and then promptly fired her, accusing her of stealing from the property. The author suggested that the silver ashtray she was accused of stealing, was planted on in her bag by her lover. 

An hour later, when Nick went into the kitchen for a glass of wine, he took the book with him, reading as he went. The book was a completely different take on the aristocratic circle of friends. 

Something Nick had read a while ago came to mind. A publisher, after an unproductive meeting with several members of the group, had commented in her diaries, that the literary group were ‘extremely elitist and were trading on their wealth and reputation rather than any talent.’ 

Nick had initially dismissed the publisher’s jibe as jealousy at the group’s literary talent and success. But now, though, he wondered if the publisher had been correct. There had been stories and rumours about the group for years. But, that was the case with every successful person, wasn’t it?

What if there was some truth in the negative stories about them? Even if half the stories were true, that would paint an awful picture. 

He read on and on, about the exploits of the upper-class friends, fearing that what he was reading was the truth. 

He closed the book, and crossed to the fireplace. He stared at the framed photo of the Marylebone group. Were they an inspiring group of writers and bohemians, as he had thought? Or were they a bunch of spoilt, upper-class people, who had exploited their wealth and privilege?

On the bus to work the next morning, as Nick worked on his latest story, he forced the negative thoughts of the group from his mind. It really niggled at him. He tried to concentrate on the story, rather than dwell on the idea that the writers he had hero-worshipped and idolised for years, could actually be not that talented, and not that nice people. 

Could that be true? Were they rather horrible people, who were only published and held in such high regard because of their privileged position?

He had to admit, the book was chipping away at his pre-conceived notions and starting to change his opinion. He sensed that there was some truth in the book’s allegations.

Over the next few days, as he read chapter after chapter, checking out the footnotes, to discover the factual sources of the claims, he found that he was starting to agree with the stance that the book was making. There was lots of despicable behaviour, exploitation, elitism and frankly awful opinions. He knew the book was on the level. The people he had idolised, were in fact horrid people with objectionable views.

After a busy day at the office, he got soaked in the lashing rain on the walk from the bus stop. The rain was driving, hanging in the air like a sheet of water. By the time he arrived home, he was soaked to the skin. The water was running off him. He was drenched. He looked as though he had dived head-first into a swimming pool.

He hung his coat up, and went straight through to the kitchen, and opened a bottle of wine. He poured himself a large glass.

Still wearing his damp clothing, took a large swig of wine and went through to the living room. He raised the glass to the photograph. Floreat Etona. 

He stopped, standing still, arm raised in salute. In the glass of the photograph frame, he caught his reflection. It was as though he was seeing himself for the first time.

He stared at his reflection in the glass, water still dripping from his soaked shirt sleeves. He looked like an ordinary, working class man. An ordinary bloke. He looked every-inch the man in the street. He looked like what he was. An ordinary working class man.

He took another long gulp of wine and stared at the framed picture. The sepia faces stared back from behind the glass, upper-class arrogance and privilege in their eyes.

It was as though he was looking at the photograph for the very first time. It was a different time, but it also felt like a different world. It was so far removed from his daily life. 

They were not his people, not his kind. They were the aristocracy. They were all artists and bohemians because they could afford to be. They didn’t have to be up at dawn to keep a roof over their heads. They were the privileged. They were the bright, young things, the intellectuals. They were the lords and ladies in their mansion houses. 

From what Nick knew of his own family history, his ancestors had been working long days and living short lives, in the mills and the factories of the Industrial north, not composing lofty verses in large mansion houses and holidaying in Europe. This group were not like him. 

He was pretty sure that the writers he admired so much, didn’t have to get the bus to a mind-numbing job in an office full of people they hated, to pay the rent, nor did they have to try and find the time to write around that draining schedule. In fact, he had an awful feeling that those writers he aspired to, would look down their noses at his working class, ordinary life, and his plebeian attempts at writing. 

Why should he, a working class guy from a Northern inner city, idolise and have aspirations on the upper class literary set of a hundred years ago? It suddenly struck him as rather absurd.

Having changed out of his wet clothes, and poured himself another glass of wine, he read on, turning page after page, each paragraph delivering more details, more facts about the awful truth behind the group. 

In the last chapter of the book came the bombshell. By the early 1930s, the group looked admiringly on the Nazi party, even visiting Hitler’s Germany regularly, and schmoozing with high-ranking figures in the party.

They also spoke disparagingly of Britain’s working classes. Their attitude was that, if it came to war with their beloved Nazi Germany, then the working class men should go off to fight. They should be sent straight from the factories to the battle-fields. They were, as they saw it, little more than cattle. The upper classes couldn’t be expected to fight, they were built for greater things. 

At the end of the passage, it was mentioned that the awful comments had come from a previously un-broadcast radio interview. There was also the footnote listing, backing up the author’s claims. 

Nick reeled as though he had been stuck. It just hammered home his suspicions. There could be no denying the truth. These people were awful, with fascist sympathies, and they saw the likes of Nick as so far beneath them, so very inferior. 

This group and their like, these people he had been idolising for years, were not worthy of his adulation. 

He felt as though the stuffing out had been knocked out of him. Everything he looked up to, all he had stood for, for years, seemed suddenly tainted, corrupt somehow.

He took down the framed photograph of the group. He stared at the black and white image for a long moment. For years he had aspired to be like them, to be with them in their grand houses, with gardens and stables, but he now realised that he would never be part of that set, and that they wouldn’t have him, even if he had access to that life. The only way anyone like Nick would come close to these people, would be working in their mansion houses.

Nick marched into the kitchen and tossed the photograph into the rubbish bin.

Nick had no idea where he went from here. Everything he had clung to, had identified with, had been snatched from under him.

He knew he was having some kind of existential crisis. The ideals that he had based his life on, his writing, and almost his very personality on, had been a waste of time. He didn’t know who he was anymore, or what to do with himself. 

Nick didn’t get his notepad out on the bus to work the next morning. He couldn’t bring himself to write, he was done with the craft. 

He looked out at the rows of red brick terraced houses, the tower blocks, the boarded-up shop fronts, the people heading off to work, some, like him, wore shirt and ties, others wore polo-shirts and name badges of high street stores and fast food chains. The bus was filling up. Most of the seats were occupied.

Whether he liked it or not, this was his city, these were his people, not some aristocratic circle from an exclusive university a century ago. He didn’t know where he went from here.  

Over the next few weeks, Nick fell into a rut. Everything just seemed hopeless. His head had once been full of ideas for stories and characters and plot-twists, and studying literature, and the history of the literary figures he admired so much. Now, he just didn’t know what to do with himself, didn’t know what the answer was.

Six months later. 

Nick was on the bus to work as usual. He hadn’t written or read anything since having his illusions shattered about the writers he’d previously admired. He just couldn’t bring himself to immerse himself in the world of literature and words.

He would watch television, rubbish quiz shows, unfunny sitcoms. He felt lost, as though he was drifting aimlessly, wondering just what to do with himself. He would meet up with his friends, have a few drinks a catch up. He would stare at the screen while they watched the football and try and summon up an interest. 

When they would ask what he’s been upto, Nick would just shrug, not a lot, really. 

A guy got on the bus at Salford precinct, or Salford Shopping City, as the run-down mall proudly called itself. They guy was in his twenties and had a uniform for a mobile phone store. He had long, scraggly hair that touched his collar and a cool, unkempt style that reminded Nick of the singer in a rock band. 

Nick moved his rucksack from the seat beside him so the guys could sit down. As the bus moved off through the city, the guy rummaged in his coat and pulled out a crumpled magazine.

Nick couldn’t believe the title of the magazine. He couldn’t take his eyes from the guy and the publication he was reading. 

The guy lowered his copy of the Creative Writer and looked at Nick.

‘You okay, mate?’ the guy asked.

‘Sorry, yes. Are you-? I mean, do you write?’ asked Nick.

‘Yeah, man. Always have. Been writing short stories since I was a kid. I’m halfway through my first novel. Are you a writer?’

‘Yes.’ Nick said, ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Always good to meet a fellow writer, dude. I could let you have a look at my first chapter, if you’d like?’ the guy said.

Nick replied saying he would be honoured. As they swapped mobile phone numbers, Nick suddenly felt excited about his writing once again. In the most urban of settings, he knew he had found his writing community.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom