Read Online The Bricks That Built the Houses by Kate Tempest - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kate Tempest
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noticed the things Paula would do. Little things in the home to make it feel brighter when he got back. He ate and he smiled and he touched her, but he wasn’t there.
In 1992 John Darke was thirty-eight and had become a formidable force in public opinion. The negativity that he was lambasted with by the establishment only served to prove to his followers that he was committed to change. There were societies set up at the universities to discuss his ways of thinking, leagues of his followers gathered in pubs and cafés across the country and, as the local election loomed, he stood outside the shopping centre, without placards or leaflets, at a table, answering people’s questions. The media hated him, the government hated him, but the people loved him and so he was dangerous. Dangerous John fought on. He expressed himself with the clarity of someone who was telling the truth. The general consensus was that John Darke was about to do something no one had ever seen done. And the feeling was everywhere.
At home, he was uncommunicative. He didn’t sleep well at night and was often in bed long after Paula had fallen asleep and up long before she awoke. He showed no interest in cooking meals, or sitting with Paula and talking in the evenings. He was a crumpled shell, often collapsing in the hallway as soon as he came through the door. Paula would see him canvassing on the streets and answering questions for reporters, and it would shoot her through with jealousy that he could be so sparkly-eyed for them but he could barely raise a smile for her. A loneliness had fallen on him, the like of which he’d never known. Nothing could cure it, not his girlfriend, his daughter, not his friends, not his studies. It was only momentarily dispelled when he was giving his speeches. But they would leave him, in his private moments, more depleted than ever.
The Darke day, as it came to be known, fell on 22 February 1995. Becky was a little over five and was dancing all the time. Paula was sitting in a tap and jazz class with Becky at the leisure centre and her daughter was a marvel. Becky’s teacher smiled over at Paula. Paula blushed and fiddled with the tops of her socks.
That evening John had promised to cook them all dinner. She was not prepared to lose him to his politics. As she watched Becky doing her steps she was sure things were going to get better. He was her man and he was her daughter’s father, and she had resolved that that night they wouldtalk. It wasn’t enough to skirt over the fact that he wasn’t himself and was losing them both.
As Becky counted the beats and pointed her toes, John Darke was in his study amending the opening of a speech he was to deliver the next day. He was just debating whether it was better to start with a friendly greeting or a damning statistic when he heard three knocks at the door. He opened it and saw the usual students gathered in crowds, waiting, as they had been doing these past few months, for an audience with him, but at the head of this crowd, staring stone-faced, three large policemen stood, legs parted, arms by their sides. Two of them wore uniform, one of them was clearly Special Branch, dressed as he was in a once smart trench coat and beaten-up shoes, his pursed lips opened beneath his weary moustache.
‘Mr John Darke?’
They crucified him. Painted him a villain. He was drawn in the press as an alcoholic manic-depressive dope-fiend. A callous reprobate out for the country’s young. Lurking in the classrooms of the university where he taught, poisoning minds and seducing bodies. Features were written by TV personalities calling him an insatiable sexual deviant. Columnists, gossip hounds and serious political journalists all had their piece to say on the matter, and it wasn’t just in the right-wing papers. It became fashionable to hate John Darke. Damning him meant you absolved yourself. They discussedhis homosexual leanings in the comments pages. They burned his reputation
In 1992 John Darke was thirty-eight and had become a formidable force in public opinion. The negativity that he was lambasted with by the establishment only served to prove to his followers that he was committed to change. There were societies set up at the universities to discuss his ways of thinking, leagues of his followers gathered in pubs and cafés across the country and, as the local election loomed, he stood outside the shopping centre, without placards or leaflets, at a table, answering people’s questions. The media hated him, the government hated him, but the people loved him and so he was dangerous. Dangerous John fought on. He expressed himself with the clarity of someone who was telling the truth. The general consensus was that John Darke was about to do something no one had ever seen done. And the feeling was everywhere.
At home, he was uncommunicative. He didn’t sleep well at night and was often in bed long after Paula had fallen asleep and up long before she awoke. He showed no interest in cooking meals, or sitting with Paula and talking in the evenings. He was a crumpled shell, often collapsing in the hallway as soon as he came through the door. Paula would see him canvassing on the streets and answering questions for reporters, and it would shoot her through with jealousy that he could be so sparkly-eyed for them but he could barely raise a smile for her. A loneliness had fallen on him, the like of which he’d never known. Nothing could cure it, not his girlfriend, his daughter, not his friends, not his studies. It was only momentarily dispelled when he was giving his speeches. But they would leave him, in his private moments, more depleted than ever.
The Darke day, as it came to be known, fell on 22 February 1995. Becky was a little over five and was dancing all the time. Paula was sitting in a tap and jazz class with Becky at the leisure centre and her daughter was a marvel. Becky’s teacher smiled over at Paula. Paula blushed and fiddled with the tops of her socks.
That evening John had promised to cook them all dinner. She was not prepared to lose him to his politics. As she watched Becky doing her steps she was sure things were going to get better. He was her man and he was her daughter’s father, and she had resolved that that night they wouldtalk. It wasn’t enough to skirt over the fact that he wasn’t himself and was losing them both.
As Becky counted the beats and pointed her toes, John Darke was in his study amending the opening of a speech he was to deliver the next day. He was just debating whether it was better to start with a friendly greeting or a damning statistic when he heard three knocks at the door. He opened it and saw the usual students gathered in crowds, waiting, as they had been doing these past few months, for an audience with him, but at the head of this crowd, staring stone-faced, three large policemen stood, legs parted, arms by their sides. Two of them wore uniform, one of them was clearly Special Branch, dressed as he was in a once smart trench coat and beaten-up shoes, his pursed lips opened beneath his weary moustache.
‘Mr John Darke?’
They crucified him. Painted him a villain. He was drawn in the press as an alcoholic manic-depressive dope-fiend. A callous reprobate out for the country’s young. Lurking in the classrooms of the university where he taught, poisoning minds and seducing bodies. Features were written by TV personalities calling him an insatiable sexual deviant. Columnists, gossip hounds and serious political journalists all had their piece to say on the matter, and it wasn’t just in the right-wing papers. It became fashionable to hate John Darke. Damning him meant you absolved yourself. They discussedhis homosexual leanings in the comments pages. They burned his reputation
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