A short story by Benjamin Duncan
The first sign that they had made a mistake in moving to the village came when Hugo and Lydia found a bag of man’s clothes under the bed of their twelve-year old daughter.
With houses significantly cheaper, and both now working from home, Hugo and Lydia made the decision to move the family from London to the North-West of the country. In the end all it took was a cursory browse on an online estate agent. In doing so they were far from alone in partaking in the feeding frenzy. Traffic to such websites no doubt spiked. Wealthy professionals on London wages circled. Reasonably priced houses were no match.
Before Hugo and Lydia decided on their house, Thea Clarke told Lydia about a friend of hers who had purchased a semi in Stockport without even viewing it in person. People are going totally mad.
At first neither of them felt out of place in the North-West. They had met like-minded couples in the quaint village where they lived. Overall it was a sound financial decision, too, and not once did they regret it—that was until they found, among other items under their daughter’s bed, a dirtied pair of men’s Slazenger tracksuit bottoms.
Okay, I guess you could say a sort-of warning sign came to them when Hugo walked to his car one afternoon—parked in its usual spot on a quiet residential street—and found a handwritten note, folded in a ratty sheet of A4, which said, Car tax???
Lol, he thought, what a saddo. But then he started thinking. Shit. They had changed addresses a lot recently, so maybe the officious reminder letters had gone to the old apartment in Peckham or maybe even the one before that in Finsbury Park.
After checking the government portal, Hugo discovered that he had no car tax, nor an MOT. What’s worse, the discovery of this illegality led to him being unable to drive for the time being. He lodged an application to change the registered address of the car, but until that was complete he couldn’t renew his car tax, and he couldn’t renew his car tax until he had an MOT, which he immediately booked, but the local garage had no availability until next bloody week.
Hugo asked his daughter, Who does that, who checks other people’s cars for valid tax?
NIMBY cloud-head misers who have nothing better to do than keep the rest of us down.
Hugo looked to his wife for guidance on how to respond, whether to castigate or not, but Lydia raised her eyebrows and shrugged, as if to say, Well, I’m not gonna disagree with that, are you?
Their daughter, Laura, mostly kept to herself when they first moved to the village. Hugo and Lydia were busy getting the new house straight, and on weekends that meant trips out to get a curtain rail, a lamp, artwork, picture hooks. For the first time they actually owned a home, one which they didn’t have to share with anyone, and they wanted it to really be a home.
So mostly Laura was left by herself, often opting, regardless of the weather or the position of the sun, to stay in her room playing on the vintage video game collection Hugo had helped her accumulate.
Laura spent long nights on her computer, surfing for the answer, music blasting through her studio headphones. She took up painting but tried in vain to destroy any evidence she had done so, believing at the time that the single worst thing that could ever happen to her would be either or both of her parents discovering one of her self-portraits.
Hugo and Lydia, outside on the balcony enjoying a glass of Prosecco on a rare sunny afternoon, were surprised by Laura, having emerged from her cave during the day, asking if she could have a friend over for dinner.
We didn’t know you had made any friends, Lydia said.
Despite what you two think I do have some social appeal.
Laura told her parents that this new friend was from school. They had been chatting online for a while.
Lydia said Yes, yes, of course they can come over. Both Lydia and Hugo were so stunned they almost forgot to answer.
It’s not a boy is it, Hugo asked.
Hugo, Lydia said.
What? Just asking.
FYI—not that it would matter anyway—it’s not a boy, Laura said.
Well okay then, Hugo said to Lydia, let’s get cooking.
Sitting on Laura’s bed before dinner, Eva told Laura to close her eyes. They were sat cross-legged facing each other. Laura closed her eyes. Eva brought her rucksack onto the bed and pulled out a gift which she placed between them. Laura giggled, her toes twitching. Eva told Laura to open her eyes.
Ooh, what is it.
Open it.
Laura tore off the wrapping to reveal a blank cardboard box. Eva watched excitedly as her friend used a pair of paper scissors to carefully cut the sellotape holding the flaps in place. When Laura opened it she put her hand over her mouth and gasped.
I can’t believe it, she said. My parents never would have bought me one. Thank-you thank-you thank-you thank-you.
Maybe don’t tell them, not sure how they would react.
Laura nodded. They hugged tightly. Then came Hugo’s familiar cry: Laura, dinner’s ready.
By the time dinner was over and Eva had been picked up, Hugo and Lydia had shared enough WTF glances that by the end of the evening they were bursting to talk to each other.
From the window they watched Eva pull away, waving from the passenger seat of her mum’s new electric Discovery. Soon as the car was gone and Laura was out of earshot they turned to each other and let out a synchronised sigh of relief.
Pulling Hugo into the kitchen—the room farthest away from Laura’s bedroom—she asked her husband rhetorically if they were just too old, too un-hip. They had heard of the North-South divide so maybe this was just how kids talked in the North.
Over gnocchi Eva had expressed a number of concerning views. For example, when Hugo brought up the topic of obesity, seeking to make conversation on a vaguely topical subject, he was left agog when Eva responded by suggesting the government should introduce a ‘fat tax.’
Lydia laughed. Ha—good one.
But Eva was po-faced. No, she said, seriously. School inspectors should routinely measure the excess fat of children—what is it, the BPI or something—don’t remember. Anyway, parents should be fined based on how far over this BPI-thing their child’s fat content is. If your child is far over it, like they’re really obese, then the parents should get heavily fined, and it will continue to hurt them financially until their child is a normal weight. Child obesity is child abuse, I won’t have it any other way.
Hugo and Lydia didn’t know how to respond. Their mouths dropped open slightly, prepared to perform either an act of laughter or of shock. Laura seemed fixated on her friend’s words. It looked like she was mentally making notes. When Hugo looked at his daughter to confer if some kind of joke was being played on them, Laura only shrugged. Apparently she didn’t know what to make of it, either. Later, he knew she was playing dumb.
Not wanting to discourage her from bringing friends over again, neither parent shared their concerns with Laura. Instead, they pledged to be more engaged next time. If there was to be a next time.
A week after the dinner Hugo came home from an IRL work event early one evening. Lydia was out with Joanna Spicer at pilates, and Hugo expected Laura to be in her room, as usual. He had made loose plans with himself to binge eat a family-sized fruit-and-nut chocolate bar and watch an action film, something stupid and loud. His heart sank when he heard the television was on in the living room. As he turned the corner, he almost started on at Lydia about the shit reality programmes she liked to watch. Not this shite again. Oh. Laura was spread out on the couch. He heard a cheer, and looked around at the screen to see a man’s tattooed, hairy forearm collecting darts from a dart board.
Hugo said, Are you—?
Laura waited impatiently, chin jutting out. Yes?
You’re watching darts.
I am watching darts yes, very well observed.
One-hundred and twenty!
Hugo, now in a state of confusion, edged away and retired to the bedroom, where he lay on the bed fully clothed, unsure what to do with himself.
The last time he had felt such confusion was when Lydia’s almost-best-friend Meg Traynor ‘accidentally’ sent him a bikini selfie. Walking away from his phone, he hesitated for what felt like an hour, during which time he mentally evaluated all possible outcomes, and then he decided not to respond.
So sorry! It was meant for somebody else, somebody with a similar name.
Afterwards Hugo felt confused. He didn’t know what to read into the ‘accident’ and whether to tell Lydia. He had no experience with this—he didn’t know what to think, what to say, or how to broach the topic with his wife.
What does the definitive parenting book—Ms. Finch’s Prime Parenting (6th Edition)— say on finding your teenage daughter indulging in…darts?
It doesn’t, but there’s a clue: Let them be. Don’t try and shape their interests, because if you do, they’ll only rebel.
By the time Laura starting drinking cans of bitter in her room, Hugo and Lydia were at panic stations and sought help from experts. Desperate, they contacted the Ms. Finch, who agreed to a one-off consulting session. Money was no object, and so they paid without negotiating the extortionate fee Ms. Finch demanded. After all, she had written the definitive book on parenting.
Ms. Finch thought long and hard about the anecdotal evidence Hugo and Lydia had sent them via email before the meeting.
On the other side of the screen, in their bedroom, Hugo and Lydia bit their nails, tapped their feet.
Who’s this man Fred she mentions?
We don’t know, Hugo said. But we think he lives somewhere in Yorkshire.
Laura said, She talks about him like he’s some kind of superhero. Fred this, Fred that. She’s always telling me how they just don’t make men like Fred anymore. Men are too soft these days. We didn’t even know she was interested in men.
Worried that Laura had been sucked into some kind of cult, Hugo had called the non-emergency services line and asked them to look into this Fred. With no other information they apologised and said they were unable to help. This came after Laura had contacted the school about a possible grooming situation.
Yes, the deputy head told them, we have heard of Fred. Whispers, that kind of thing. Confiscated drawings. Graffiti of, strangely, chimney stacks with his name on. But really nobody knows who he is. If we discover anything conclusive then a letter will go out to the parents. Rest assured, our eyes are peeled.
Ms. Finch asked about Laura’s habits on the weekends.
Hugo and Lydia looked at each other. Well, Hugo said, there’s the darts, the snooker, and then the football. By the way, her birthday is coming up soon and guess what she’s asked for—a snooker cue.
Who would have known, Lydia said, almost to herself, that there was so much football. And after she’s done with these sporting activities, she demands food on the table. Where’s my dinner. This is cold, she complains. This is too oriental. Give me steak and potatoes. All she wants is bloody steak and potatoes.
Ms. Finch thought about this, and then she asked what kind of views Laura had been expressing, if at all.
Well, Laura said, seeming ashamed, we’re actually veryconcerned about what kind of views she’s spouting.
Hugo started, She’s not very racially tolerant. She keeps saying awful things like, We should stick to our own. She tells me how there’s ‘no-go’ areas in England now—places where white people can’t go.
And then, Lydia added, she says things like ‘They’re taking over’ and that those in the ‘Westminster bubble’ are too out of touch to understand, and that we’re the ‘silent majority.’ What does that even mean?
Ms. Finch shook her head. She didn’t know. She promised, at the conclusion of the session, to do some research. She would provide a follow-up session free of charge because, she said, this was a deeply concerning situation.
Many in the village had reported to Hugo and Lydia that they had witnessed Laura, dressed in tracksuits, drinking cans of bitter alone on a park bench. Others had seen her being turfed out of the bookmakers after being caught trying to sneak in to place bets on horses. When they tried to placate Laura they were called ‘do-gooders’ and told to ‘fuck off” and/or ‘piss off.’
After a while, whenever the family were out in the village, they attracted cautious looks from residents.
Hugo and Lydia decided to host a dinner party to try and help them smooth things over. Despite professionally crafted e-invitations and reminder phone calls, they could only manage to persuade a few people to come. The rest, it seemed, shirked the idea of being in their company.
Twenty minutes or so before the guests were due to arrive, with Hugo busy in the kitchen, Laura sat on the sofa and put a DVD on.
On the screen, a man in a multi-coloured onesie wearing some kind of vintage flying cap told ‘jokes.’
Busy preparing the desert—Hugo’s speciality, homemade tiramisu—Hugo overheard the man on the screen do a bit about women who wore niqābs. He said he would put himself in a post box and talk to them and say, See how you like it, cunt!
Laura burst out laughing. The remote in her clutched hand, she thrust it down, repeatedly hitting it against the sofa.
Lydia approached first, shocked, horrified, disappointed, and sternly told her daughter to turn it off before their guests arrived. We are trying to mend the damage you have caused.
Laura shrugged, If they don’t like it, they don’t have to come here.
Laura, Hugo said, this is our house, ourrules—now turn it off!
Fucking snowflakes.
Even before the follow-up session with Ms. Finch there was an air of resignation around Hugo and Lydia, but mostly Hugo, who felt that all had been lost, that his daughter had succumbed to the influence of this mysterious Fred. As soon as he was able to drive, he declared, he would take his daughter out of this stinking fucking place.
Lydia asked Ms. Finch, What do you have for us?
Ms. Finch was solemn but dutiful. The news would not be easy, but as an International expert, author, spirit guide, wellness coach, millionaire, photographer and counsellor, it was her duty to inform, no matter how painful the information might be.
For the first time during the call Hugo looked at the screen.
Ms. Finch began. It appears, she said, that your daughter is undergoing a most unusual transition. For whatever reason, she’s displaying interests beyond her years. She’s displaying views that are quite uncommon for her age group—but nevertheless, the facts remain, your evidence amounts to one thing and one thing only—
Please, Hugo said, just get to the point.
Ms. Finch swallowed a retort. No, she wouldn’t be brought to that level, not again. After pausing to regain her composure she continued. Now what I’m about to tell you depends on how far gone she is—although from what you’ve told me it sounds like she’s quite far gone. She may soon take up a number of interests which you may find—
For God’s sake woman!
It appears your daughter is becoming a middle-aged Northern man.
Hugo’s head dropped. Ms. Finch could only see the crowning of his hair. Lydia moved closer to comfort Hugo. She put an arm around him and kissed the side of his head. There there.
Not this, he said. Anything but this.
Ms. Finch could barely hear what Hugo was saying. Without warning he jumped to his feet and left the room, the door opening with such force it slammed against the wall, nearly breaking the hinges. Lydia ran after him, shouting his name over and over.
The sounds coming from Ms. Finch’s speaker grew faint. She moved closer to the speaker to hear better. Her ear was no less than an inch away. She could hear the faint sounds of marching footsteps. She could hear shouting and screaming. And then, suddenly, all went quiet, and she could only hear the hiss of static.
Hello, Ms. Finch called out. Hello? But nobody ever came back.
Overground Underground: fiction, poetry, visual-linguistic ephemera
Illustration by Alex Insurrection
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