Catherine O'Flynn - News Where You Are

He gave up any pretence of jogging now and walked slowly along the lane, following in the wake of an empty crisp packet blown along the tarmac. Without its example he wasnt sure hed have the will to move forward.

His steps were heavy and the elasticated cuffs of his tracksuit made his wrists itch. He looked at the loose flesh on the back of his hand pinched by the bright red polyester and found the contrast grotesque.

Mikey had let him down again. Finally he understood that Mikey would never do it.

The sky had darkened as he walked along and now the first fat drops of rain splattered on the road around him. Phil nodded his head. Rain was all that had been missing.

He heard a car approaching. Its passing force would whip the crisp packet away and he didnt know what hed follow then. The driver was making the most of the straight country lane and picking up speed. Phil moved slightly closer to the hedgerow on his left. He knew he cut a pitiful figure an old rain-soaked man dressed head to toe in Nike. Jimmy bloody Savile.

The car was getting closer now and as it did it veered slightly towards Phils side of the lane. Phil smiled blandly in its direction force of habit. As it drew down upon him, he realized that the driver wasnt going to swerve away. In the last few seconds, the skys reflection on the windscreen vanished, and Phil saw the familiar face behind the wheel, white with fear and running with tears.

Franks daughter sat in the front passenger seat humming the same tune over and over. The notes spiralled upwards and then abruptly plummeted, before starting the ascent again. Frank drove towards the city.

Whats the tune, Mo? asked Frank.

Its a song by The Beatles. Its a man asking questions about when he gets old.

What? When Im Sixty-Four?

Yeah. Thats it Dad, do you want to know something?

Erm, yes, please.

When Im sixty-four, Ill be eight times older than I am now. Eight times eight is sixty-four.

Thats true.

She looked out of the window. Eight hundred per cent! She shook her head in amazement and began to hum again.

Frank frowned. But When Im Sixty-Four doesnt sound anything like that.

Mo beamed. I know! I invented a new tune. Its better.

Oh, okay. Frank paused. Its very different to the original. Are the words the same?

I dont know, Im just humming.

I know, but in your head are the words the same?

No. Theyre better too. He wants to know will there be robots, and will his cat be able to talk and will his car fly.

Its quite a strange tune.

Its how he thinks music will sound when hes old.

Oh, I see, future music. That explains it.

Mo hummed another few bars and then, to Franks relief, stopped.

Dad?

Yes.

Do you think Gran ever listens to music?

Not future music. I dont think so.

No. I mean any music.

Yes, Im sure she does sometimes. She has a radio in her room.

I know, but its all covered in dust. She should listen to music. I think it would make her less sad. She could listen to stuff she remembered when she was young.

Frank said nothing.

Maybe I could take her some old music and she could listen to it on my headphones.

Frank glanced at Mo. Sometimes old music makes people sad. It reminds them of the past and things that have gone.

Oh, said Mo.

Frank reached across and squeezed her hand. Mo spent a lot of time trying to think of ways to make his mother less unhappy. It was a project for her.

Are we going a different way to the supermarket?

I want to show you something first.

Okay.

Frank put the radio on and they listened to a comedy programme. Mo laughed when Frank laughed.

He parked on a meter in a back street and then walked with Mo down to the busy ring road. A pedestrian bridge spanned the six lanes of traffic and Mo and Frank climbed the zig-zagging concrete steps to the top. Halfway across they stopped. Frank bent down towards Mo so she could hear him above the roar of the traffic. Her hair blew into his face.

Remember I told you about my dad.

That he had a dog! said Mo excitedly.

Yeah, thats right. He had a dog when he was a boy. But do you remember what I said my dads job was?

Yes. He was an architect. He made buildings.

Can you see that block over there? The tall one with the dark glass.

Yeah. I can see it.

Thats called Worcester House. My dad designed that building.

Did he live in it?

No, he didnt live in it. We lived in a house. He made this for people to work in.

How many floors has it got?

Twenty.

Are there escalators?

No, there are two lifts.

Can we go up in them?

No, Im sorry. We cant go in the building now.

Can we go and look at it?

Thats where were going.

Mo ran across the rest of the bridge and then waited for Frank to catch up. The building was a little further away than it seemed from the bridge, tucked amidst a cluster of other blocks, converted townhouses and car parks. Worcester House was a classic mid-period Douglas H. Allcroft and Partners creation. Built in 1971 it was an uncompromising, thuggish-looking block, clad in precast concrete panels and devoid of all exterior decoration. Despite its height it appeared squat and defensive, occupying a large plot on the corner of Carlton Street and Newman Row, glowering down on the few Georgian blocks still remaining in the centre.

As they drew closer to it at street level, Mo noticed the white boards all around the outside of the building:

Why are the boards there, Dad?

Theyre there to protect people when they demolish the building.

Mo stopped walking. Theyre demolishing it?

Frank nodded. Thats why I brought you today; itll be gone soon.

But why are they knocking it down? Is it broken?

No, its not broken; its fine. Its just they dont need it any more.

But, Dad, loads of people could work here. Or they could use it to put homeless people in thatd be better than sleeping on the streets. They could sleep under desks and go up and down in the lifts.

They want to build new homes in the city now apartments for the people who work here and this building isnt right for homes. Dad didnt build it for that, and so they say it has to be taken down and started again.

Mo thought for a while. Does that happen to all buildings? Do they all get knocked down?

Some stay for a long time. Like Aston Hall. But lots dont. Its a bit like clothes. You know, you wouldnt wear the clothes Mom and I used to wear theyd seem really uncool to you and sometimes that happens with buildings. People just dont like them any more; they arent fashionable.

Frank realized that unfashionable wasnt quite adequate. People did not feel about his fathers buildings the way they felt about marble-washed denim or ski-pants. They might smile ruefully and shake their heads about their own lapses in taste, but not those imposed on their city. Aside from the family home he built in Edgbaston, only two of the eight buildings his father had created in the city remained. In a few weeks there would be only one.

Mo was squinting at the building, counting the windows. When shed finished, she turned back to Frank. But, Dad, sometimes things come back into fashion. Like Mom always says the clothes in the shops now are the same as twenty years ago. Maybe if they waited this building would be in fashion again.

Frank nodded. Maybe. People dont always agree, though. A few of us thought it should be saved, but others didnt and well, they won in the end.

I dont think this building is uncool.

Frank got out his camera. Anyway, I want to take a photo of you and the building behind you. So however many different buildings come and go youll always know this building was here, and that you and I stood on this spot and talked about it one morning.