Rebuilding Coventry Read Online Free PDF Page A

In the city where I lived I have often seen buskers bullied
away from shop doorways by policemen; once, even, a violinist playing Mozart,
the height of musical respectability. So I kept away from the group and walked
around the station looking for dropped coins.
    Envy is
a destructive emotion but I envied everyone I saw that night. I envied them
their coats, sweaters, shoes, boots, handbags, money, chips, cups of tea, clean
skin and clear consciences. I envied them the beds they would sleep in, the
front doors they would open, the cigarettes they would smoke. I’ve never had
time for people such as my husband, who constantly indulge themselves in
self-pity. But I have to confess that, as I stood and watched the people
purposefully walking about the station, I felt very sorry for myself indeed.
    It was
now eleven o’clock. Drunks in dinner jackets joined the queues for the trains.
A pretty girl met a pretty man off a train from Scotland. They said ‘I love you’
to each other. The girl was more enthusiastic than the man. An old woman with a
shaking disease pulled a too-heavy suitcase towards the taxi rank. A skinhead
with a spider tattooed on his neck ran athletically for a train and caught it,
leaving shock waves of public alarm behind him. ‘Only muggers run, ‘said a man
to his wife.
    The
automatic doors opened and a pair of policemen walked through. I stood behind a
pillar and watched them stop the song about the suicidal Irish butcher. The
three chaotic women stood up unsteadily and fussed over their slithering
mountain of plastic bags. Eventually they moved on and out into the wet night.
The policemen watched them go, then they strolled around the station, looking
for minor infringements of the law.
    I, who
had infringed the law in the most major way possible, moved around the station
to avoid them. Blue lights flashed outside and more policemen poured through
the entrances. Some of them were trying to control wild-eyed Alsatian dogs
which were straining on short choke chains. They looked as though they hated
humanity and constantly lurched towards innocent passers-by, barking. One dog,
called Baskerville by his handler, was in such a frenzy that it had to be
choked into silence, watched, at a distance, by censorious British animal
lovers. There was an announcement on the loudspeakers:
    ‘The
nine-thirty football special from Leeds has now arrived. Members of the public
are asked to keep clear and assist the police in their duties. British Rail
apologizes to members of the bona fide public for any inconvenience they
may suffer as a result of football fans passing through this station.’
    Hidden
behind a pile of luggage I could see the train as it pulled in with its cargo
of young men. They were waving red and white scarves out of the carriage
windows. They were singing, “Ere we go, ‘ere we go, ‘ere we go.’ The sound
crackled around the station. There was enough electric power in their combined
voices to run a fleet of milk floats. As the train stopped, the policemen ran
and stood two to each carriage door. The Alsatians seemed not to like the
colours red and white; they leapt at the open carriage windows, as if their
teeth were aching for football supporters’ flesh. Baskerville was head-butting
the carriage in frustrated frenzy. All down the train, carriage windows were
slammed shut. The singing stopped. The dogs were out of control. The bona
fide public corralled themselves into corners of the station, away from the
dog handlers who strained and shouted, ‘Sit! Sit!’ and choked the dogs into
uneasy submission. Baskerville was the last to quieten down; his eyes were
rolling around in his crazy head. He yipped and yapped and scooted his powerful
haunches along the platform towards the train. He was sitting, but only
just.
    A
police inspector ordered the carriage doors to be opened. Then he spoke through
a mechanized loud hailer to the young men. ‘Once on the platform you must line
up in fours, and