Redbridge, Seacourt, Pear Tree and Thornhill; former Park and Rides; now act as bus interchanges for services between different parts of the Outers. Regular services orbit Oxford, stopping only at those four stops from where there are onward services to the various suburbs and the gates to central Oxford.
Redbridge, three miles away round the ring road, is the closest stop to Jak’s house. There is an hourly bus that goes there from Cowley Centre, which is easy enough to get to, but the first one doesn’t run until after eight in the morning.
Jak wants to get to St Aldates Police Station as soon as possible after it opens at eight in order to have time to get to Cowley Road for the Pride Parade starting at eleven. To access the city centre, she needs to get to Frideswide Gate at the top of Botley Road on the opposite side of town. So she leaves home just before six thirty, a bit later than planned but still early enough to walk to Redbridge and catch the 7:23 orbital clockwise service from Redbridge to Seacourt, if she hurries.
The morning sky is grey. And the air is still. Clouds like slabs of stone seem to hang just above Jak’s head as she hurries past the site of the old Kassam Stadium, the deserted multiplex cinema, bowling alley and burger bars, and heads through Littlemore, weaving through quiet residential streets and past small shops to the ring road.
She walks quickly along the wide pavement.
‘Get a move on, Jak. For fuck’s sake get a move on. You can feel tired once you’re on the bus.’
Lorries trundle heavily past. Occasional cars overtake them and accelerate into the distance. Leaving Oxford for the weekend? For good? Where are they going?
The ring road crosses the sluggish, low River Thames, grey water sliding unseen beneath a grey bridge beneath a grey sky. Jak keeps her eyes on the pavement in front of her. It is shared between pedestrians and cyclists. But she is alone.
At the bottom of Abingdon Road, the traffic lights are not working. But it’s quiet. A car honks its horn when another cuts it up, and a few others join in without knowing why, like geese disturbed by a phantom predator.
Jak checks the time on her phone and breaks into a jog, looking for a chance to cross the road. She can see the Park & Ride from here, and that there is a bus waiting. When there’s a big enough gap in the traffic she dashes across the road, runs full pelt to the stop and catches the bus. It sits for another three minutes before setting off.
The scheduled journey is short, 15 minutes along the A34, in such light traffic and no stops en route, the actual journey will probably be shorter. Jak rehearses what she’ll say at the police station.
‘I’m here to arrange a visit with Carly Griffith. Where is the form I need to complete?’
‘I want to see my friend, Carly Griffith. How do I arrange that?”
‘I looked online and it said I had to come in person to request a visit to Carly Griffith. So here I am, requesting a visit. Oh fuck’s sake Jak that sounds stupid. Just ask how do I visit Carly Griffith and they’ll probably ask you some questions and then give you a form to fill in.’
She looks up to see the weird looking Seacourt Tower, a sort of nineteen-sixties tower block with a tall cathedral-style spire, on her right as the bus heads off the A34 up to a roundabout and then down to the Park & Ride. According to her phone, it’s 7.33.
It’s a twenty-minute walk to Frideswide Gate up Botley Road, eerie retail parks and decaying office buildings that eventually give way to older terraced houses and smaller shops. A rainbow flag hangs limply from the pole on St Frideswide Church’s low but impressive octagonal tower. Jak wishes the wind would pick up, even for just a second. And the road carries on over the River Thames, which flows sluggishly, almost unnoticed, below the flat Osney Bridge.
Frideswide Gate is actually two gates, the first giving access to Oxford Train Station, as well as the second gate, for which you can buy a pass for £5, the second set beneath the railway bridge at which you can pay for a half-day visitor’s pass for £35 or a full day visitor’s pass for £50 – in addition to the £5 you have already spent.
The queue for the first gate, even at this time on a Saturday, snakes down the road. Even people with work visas for the second gate have to buy a £5 pass. Only central Oxford residents get to go through for free.
An agitated man in front of Jak checks and rechecks the time on his phone. He’s worried about missing his train, pre-booked at a reduced fare, valid on the named service only.
“C’mon, c’mon, what’s keeping you?” he turns round to Jak, “what time do you make it, my darling?”
Jak shows him her phone: ‘7:51’
“Thanks. My train’s at five past eight.”
When he reaches the front of the queue, he already has his phone ready to scan and pay. And he’s through in seconds and running up the winding path to the station’s rear entrance – the front entrance (and exit) being in Frideswide Square, the other side of the railway bridge – ‘a valid visa is required for exiting this station by Frideswide Square at all times’.
As Jak pays the £35 for entry through the gate, she hears a station announcement: ‘the eight oh-five service to Worcester will soon depart from Platform One. This service is on time. Please note that train doors may close up to a minute before departure for your safety. Refreshments and toilets are available on this service. This service will be calling at…’, and the sound of the announcement is lost as she walks under the bridge.
‘I wonder where else that train goes? C’mon Jak, focus. Across Frideswide Square, along past the ice rink and the arse end of Westgate and onto St Aldates. Carly is there somewhere. I wonder how close I’ll be to her.’
—
From the outside St Aldates Police Station is handsome in an old institutional kind of way. A solid, three-storey, golden sandstone building with large rectangular windows subdivided by grills, giving the impression of prison cells but of a refined variety. Its architectural elegance and rational facade slightly spoiled by a gaudy blue ‘Thames Valley Police’ sign above a clear-plastic canopied entrance.
It’s beginning to spit with rain. Jak hurries in.
“Um, hello. I want to visit Carly Griffith, um, I want to arrange to visit Carly…”
“Here’s a form,” the desk sergeant speaks briskly, efficiently, “fill it in at the table over there. Then hand it back to me once completed. Make sure you include a daytime phone number. You have to be contactable otherwise any offer of a visit will be rescinded.”
“I work on the wall… on the Magdalen Arch, they don’t let us use our phone while we’re on shift.”
“We’ll leave a message. But make sure you call back before six o’clock, same day.”
Jak sits down on a low plastic chair at a table, paint peeling away from splintered wood. There is a pen chained to the top of one of the table legs. The chain is just long enough but no more to enable her to write on the form.
Behind her is a curtained booth, like an old fashioned phone booth. Jak imagines that maybe that’s where they take prisoners’ mug shots. Has she seen a mug shot of Carly? Probably on her socials somewhere, despite her trying to avoid it, but she can’t really remember.
‘Was there a green curtain? Don’t be silly Jak, that won’t be in the picture.’
It’s a simple form. But she double-checks her answers anyway: her name and date of birth and address and job, Carly’s name, reason for visit, today’s date, available / not available times; just in case she’s made a silly mistake.
“Thank you for completing the form, Miss Churchwell,” the desk sergeant seems warmer now, more human and, glancing briefly around him, he leans towards Jak and whispers, “and good luck, a few of us here would like to see your girl released as soon as possible. She’s a good sort. Not like those Yanks. She helps me out with my crossword app.”
—
Jak Churchwell: Cowlet road pride today. Wanna go with me?🏳️🌈
Ped: Im not gsy!
Ped: Gay
Ped: Not gay
Jak Churchwell: ???
Ped: Why sgould i go to gay pride if im not gsy?
Jak Churchwell: Solidarity
Jak Churchwell: With me
Jak Churchwell: Dont have to be gay
Ped: No
—
Outside Ali’s Bottle Shop, the air is full of drizzle. A man in a half-buttoned shirt and sunhat struggles past, dragging a supply of thin but waterproof rainbow ponchos. Robbo thinks about buying one but then remembers he’s broke. If it rains, it rains but he can always go inside.
“Ah, my friend,” Ali greets, “I’m so glad you’ve made it. Just twenty minutes late, no worries. How are your knees?”
“Fine,” Robbo frowns warily.
“Good, I’m glad. Both for you and for me. This rainbow bunting is very bright and decorous but climbing the ladder to put it up, well that’s proving somewhat painful for my arthritis, you know how I get on damp days like today, and so you are a God send, a gift from Allah, a present from Jehovah, you get my drift…”
Ali’s voice trails off as he considers how best to persuade Robbo that putting the bunting up is a privilege rather than a chore, “now I used to always make and put up Pride decorations, every year without fail. It’s such a colourful, joyful occasion. And good for business, of course. But my knees…
“… and something you are very good at is going up and down ladders. You are like a mountain goat. If ladder climbing was an Olympic sport, well, you would be there with a medal round your neck and God Save the King blasting out. Anyway, to get to the point, I have an old man’s knees, Robbo, while you have a teenager’s. Would you like to put up the rainbow bunting?”
“Yes. Okay.”
“And this flag as well,” Ali unravels a large multi-coloured flag with the words ‘Queer as Beer’ written in black marker pen, “for the window display. Thank you.”
Half-way through putting up the bunting, Robbo’s phone rings.
“Hello… oh, hi Jak… up a ladder… what?… oh, Ali’s shop… yeah, love to… okay, see you.”
He jumps off the step-ladder, “meeting Jak.”
“After you’ve done the bunting and the flag?”
“Now,” and heads towards the door.
“Parade doesn’t start for nearly half an hour yet, Robbie Bobs.”
“Gotta meet Jak,” he calls back, “can’t be late.”
—
Jak hugs her dad, “thank you so much for coming. I’ve been worried about you, you know.”
Robbo passively accepts the hug and takes her arm, as if walking down a wedding aisle, to join the parade.
At the bottom of Cowley Road, where it joins the Plain, a large throng of people have gathered. Many are dressed specially for the occasion, colourful and sometimes risque costumes abound, variations of the rainbow flag try their best to flutter and rhinestone sunglasses defy the drizzle.
Jak and Robbo are both wearing jeans, Jak’s are black, Robbo’s blue, and dark shirts. As she walks along, arm-in-arm with her dad, Jak enjoys reading the handwritten signs others have brought – “We’re here, we’re queer”, “Love aloud”, “Let me be perfectly queer” and “Pride is for everyone even in Oxford”. Others advertise where they’re from, including towns and villages from miles around as well as central Oxford neighbourhoods – “Eynsham LGBTQ+ Alliance”, “Trans Jericho Super Group” and “We’ve come out all the way from MK”.
Jak spots the poncho seller and buys two – more to wear something colourful than to stay dry. Robbo rolls his up and ties it round his waist.
But she also finds herself looking for where Carly would’ve been, what she’d have liked and disliked. Her ‘Queer Socialist’ banner. Would she have carried that at Pride? Or come up with something new? She would have come up with a good quote for sure.
Jak catches the eye of a man in drag, pink dress and smeared make up, and he smiles at her. She smiles back. Carly would say something both funny and friendly to him, but she can’t think of anything. The man seems to be there on his own, maybe she could invite him to join her and dad… but by the time she thinks of that, he’s disappeared into the crowd.
The parade progresses slowly up Cowley Road in fits and starts, the crowd packed into the narrow street punctuated by signs, bollards and jutting out pavement filled with onlookers and drinks vendors. Many shop windows are adorned with rainbow designs or advertise special offers for Pride participants.
As they shuffle to another stop, the brims of the couple-in-front’s pink cowboy hats nearly catching them in the face, Jak puts an arm round Robbo’s shoulders and takes a selfie of them smiling in the rain.
—
After looking round to see if there are any men sat on their own, Sylvie sits down, next to a window, in the Gardenhouse Cafe. She taps her fingers on the table and watches the drizzle-drops very slowly trickle down the pane.
‘Is he coming? Is he even real? Should I just order if he doesn’t show up in, say, half an hour?’
“Would you like a drink while you’re waiting, madam?”
“Oh, erm, just a mineral water please. I’m driving.”
“Certainly madam.”
“Actually, can I order Shakshuka please. But wait a bit before bringing it?”
“Er, sure, madam. How long do you want to wait for it?”
“Oh, I dunno. Fifteen minutes?”
“Certainly madam.”
—
At the end of the parade, the patch of grass where Manzil Way joins Cowley Road is awash with colourfully adorned stalls – food stalls, craft stalls, campaigning and information stalls, face-painting for kids – and people milling around.
While Robbo queues for the portaloos, Jak browses the stalls. Nice beads but can’t afford them. Rainbow hair weaves, not really her style. Chipotle sweet potato fries, mmm, she is quite hungry all of a sudden. Then she sees the ‘Queer Socialists’ stall. The banner is just like the one she held for Carly on May Day. Donny, dressed in a pearly queen-style suit that is managing to sparkle in spite of the rain and a large, slightly drooping, feathered hat, is on the stall.
Jak stops. She starts to wave but thinks better of it and pulls her hand down just as she catches Donny’s eye. Jazz is there as well, in bermuda shorts and hawaii shirt, twirling a bright pink umbrella above an older woman in a hummingbird tiara, while sipping from a cocktail glass.
Donny waves back in acknowledgement but then turns to talk to someone at the stall. Jak moves away just as Robbo, clutching a half-drunk can of warm lager, rejoins her.
“You know the Moonie boys?” he asks.
“Sort of. They’re friends of Carly’s,” replies Jak, before adding, disapprovingly, “where’d you get the beer?”
“Tudor. Over there,” Robbo waves his hand in the direction of the toilet queue, “he didn’t want it.”
“Who’s Tudor?”
“Oh, just a guy. A good guy. Well, Ali doesn’t think so, but he’s a laugh,” he proclaims before then mumbling, “and gets beers and blow.”
Jak prepares to change the subject, “dad?”
“Yes.”
“Has anyone asked you questions about Sticks?”
“No. Cops should get him,” exclaims Robbo, “thieving bastard!”
“Oh, okay, fair enough.”
Robbo downs the rest of the lager and looks around to see if there are any other unwanted drinks going free.
“Um, okay, let’s head up the road,” suggests Jak, taking Robbo’s arm again, “let’s go see Uncle Ali.”
—
‘Not too bad, seems okay’.
The man walks into the restaurant, folds up his umbrella, thanks a waitress for hanging it up, and then looks around. He looks quite like his photograph. Maybe a little older. And a little podgier, his open necked yellow shirt a little tight, his charcoal slacks a little saggy beneath his bottom. But reflecting on her own choice of profile image, Sylvie thinks that this man is being fairly honest.
She waves and catches his eye.
“Sylvie?” he smiles expectantly.
“Yes, that’s me,” Sylvie smiles back.
Sylvie Churchwell: On a date. Don’t think he’s a mad axe murderer🤞
Lakshmi: You go girl!
—
“Jak, my dear, how good to see you,” Ali steps out from behind the counter to greet them, “and Robbie Bobs, I see you are still just about sober after the parade. Your daughter is good at making you behave then?”
“Yeah, but, beer now?”
“Well, seeing as you walked out on your shift after about thirty seconds…”
“Fifteen minutes…”
“Fifteen minutes my sweet arse,” laughs Ali, “you were ten minutes late to begin with. I’ll call it five minutes. So seeing you walked out on your shift after five minutes, you have not yet earned a drop.”
“Oh Ali,” whines Robbo.
Ali reaches behind the counter and pulls out several sheets of small red stickers, “see these? These are my out of date stickers. Go through the two shelves at the back and these two opposite the till, look at the drink by date on each of the cans and bottles. And any that say July 33 or earlier, put a red sticker over the price label. Got that?”
“Yes, Ali,” mumbles Robbo sulkily..
“Then you can have any two of the ones you just put a sticker on, but,” he pauses for effect, “if I find you’ve put red stickers on, let me guess, two especially strong beers that turn out to still be in date then you’ll be going through the whole stock before you get anything. Got that?”
“Yes, Ali.”
He turns to Jak, “how are you, my dear? Any news on your Carly?”
“Thanks Ali, I’m okay,” smiles Jak, “I don’t know about Carly. I’m hoping to see her soon.”
“Good, you need to see her. They can’t be so cruel as to stop you, surely?”
“I hope not, Ali, I hope not.”
—
Drone, drone, stupid opinion, something about cars, drone, women’s football – ‘he doesn’t like women’s football. Does he like men’s football? He doesn’t offer an opinion on that, just drones on and on about his car and traffic restrictions. He’s as dull as that shakshuka. Oh well, at least the eggs were poached okay, I suppose.’
The waitress brings her an iced latte and a second glass of red wine for him.
He takes a large sip, “what’s all these flags about, eh? What’s that all about then?”
Sylvie’s mind snaps back into the room, “it’s Pride. The parade’s today.”
“I see. Well, look, I’m all for equality and all that. Men, women, Blacks and all the rest of them, but, er,” he clicks his tongue against the top of his mouth as he tries to find the right, polite, words, “the gay people, they seem to want to make everybody else like them. With all the bright colours and tarty outfits.
“You see, the Blacks, they’re alright you see, and the Muslims and Hindus, because they’re just being themselves and we’re just being ourselves and we’re different but it’s okay because they’re not trying to get us to be like them. Well, not much. Maybe the Muslims a bit. But the Blacks, well, they don’t like it when we try to look like them, do they?
“But gay people and the lesbians, and the cross-dressers and sex-swappers they all want us to be like them. And I don’t want to be. Why should I be? And they’re so public about it, unashamed. I don’t mind what they get up to in their own bedrooms, as long as I don’t have to know about it. That’s up to them.
“But shouting about it on the streets? And dressing up in whips and chains and leather pants. When there’s kids about? That’s just wrong.”
Sylvie looks at him over the rim of her cup, “do you have any kids?”
“No, not yet. Still waiting for the one. Never too late though,” he starts to wink but then thinks better of it, “just a bit of dust I think. In my eye.”
“I’ve got a kid,” Sylvie stirs her drink and watches the milky swirls form and fade, “and I love her very much. I think that’s the important thing.”
“Oh, yes, I mean that’s right obviously. Well said, Sylvie.”
Sylvie looks at her phone and apologises as she taps at it.
Sylvie Churchwell: Why are men such losers?
Polly Maguire: Coz they’re men
Ruthy Babes: Ask him about his cock.
Sylvie Churchwell: Why?
Ruthy Babes: To shut him up. They never know what to say to that.
Polly Maguire: Is that arab boy there?
Sylvie Churchwell: What if he wants to talk about his cock?
Ruth Babes: Run away!
Sylvie Churchwell: Might do that anyway
Polly Maguire: Ooh yes please 🍆
Polly Maguire: 😂
—
Jak throws herself onto her bed, props her chin on her hands and stares out the rain-lashed window. The row of sycamores sways in a gusting wind. Branches wave, crash and break. A litter of leaves scatters across the road, swirling and sticking to car windscreens.
Maybe the trees are old, reflects Jak, maybe if their branches fall and decay that is a good thing. Good for new life – insect larvae that feed on rotten wood and the birds that feed on them.
Her notebook is just out of reach on a table by the window. Jak drags a chair over and sits to write:
‘Things I want to say to Tabs:
- love you
- safe home for you if you need (make mum agree)
- give up job if you want
- weve got a cat!
- dont trust your uncle seriously what is he up to?
- keep job in case you need money?
- saw Donny ok I hope
- Pride felt weird but glad I went
- Dad getting into scrapes but seems ok
- Miss You Massively
- LOVE YOU MASSIVELY’