Bang in the Middle. Robert Shore

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СКАЧАТЬ My mother is hardly a strong dialect-speaker, but she does enjoy slipping into the local argot from time to time. ‘Can I call you back later? I don’t really have time to talk at the moment.’

      ‘Then why did you pick up the phone?’

      ‘In case it was something important.’

      I went into my hurt-silence routine, honed over decades.

      ‘Come on,’ she chivvied me. ‘What can I do you for? Spit it out.’

      ‘Mum, there’s a question I need to ask you.’

      ‘I love you and your brother both equally. I’ve told you before.’

      ‘Not that.’

      ‘Oh good, I was getting a bit tired of it.’

      ‘Mum, what does it mean to be a Midlander?’

      Now it was her turn to go silent.

      ‘Mum?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ she said, noisily chewing her lip. ‘I’ve never thought of it before.’

      ‘Well, would you think about it now, please?’

      ‘All right, keep your hair on … Well, I suppose it means we’re neither one thing nor the other – not Northern, not Southern. We’re just a bit middling.’

      And that was all she could think of to say. In one respect – the stoical acceptance of one’s own inconsequentiality – it was a thoroughly Midland sort of response. On the other, it was baffling, since my mother is anything but middle-of-the-road. Quite the opposite, in fact: she’s one of the most extreme characters I’ve ever known. That’s a Midland paradox.

      At that moment I realised that something important – life-changing, even – was happening to me: I was reconnecting with my Inner Midlander. This sort of thing happens to Northerners all the time, of course. It’s easy for them because there are so many clichés about Northern identity that they can tap into. But if you’re a Midlander? Instinctively, as well as in point of strict bio-geographical fact, I had always known I was one, of course, but I had no idea what that might signify in a wider sense. What is a Midlander?

      ‘Right,’ I said, putting the phone down and turning to my son with unwonted firmness of purpose. ‘You wanted to know where I am from, Hector. I say to you now that I don’t really know. Not geographically, obviously – show me a map and I will unerringly pin the tail of a donkey to the precise point on it where Mansfield lies. It’s just above Nottingham and a bit up and to the right from Derby. But in a broader sense – culturally, philosophically – I’ve no idea what it means to be a Midlander. So I must find out. We must find out. You have asked me the question and together we will discover the answer. Son, let us get into the car immediately and set off in search of my – I mean, our – identity.’

      I thought my speech stirring, but Hector just looked a bit confused and upset. After all, he’d been planning to watch Megamind on DVD.

      Putting her head round the door precisely on cue, his French mother came to his rescue again. ‘Hector’s got a birthday party this afternoon and we’re having lunch with the Downings tomorrow, so there’s no question of us going anywhere this weekend.’

      ‘Oh,’ I quivered, momentarily thwarted. ‘All right then, we’ll go next weekend instead.’

      * * *

      In truth, I was glad to have an opportunity to do a little research before setting off in search of my Midland heritage, and that is what I spent every spare moment of the following week doing. What I discovered by leafing through classic accounts of tours around England was very illuminating. Pretty depressing too, if truth be told.

      If you want to know about attitudes to the Midlands, you could do worse than start with Bill Bryson’s Notes from a Small Island (1995). Bryson is an American who settled in the UK – in North Yorkshire, to be precise, a choice that may be significant in itself – and made a reputation for himself as a travel writer. In Notes from a Small Island he set himself the task of explaining the British to themselves by undertaking a tour of this ‘small island’ – not so small, however, that he felt the need to engage in any detail with its sizeable middle swathe. No major Midland towns are marked on the map at the front of Bryson’s book. We find London, Oxford, Leeds, even Bournemouth and Halkirk (‘Where?’ I hear you cry), but no Nottingham or Birmingham – the latter being the largest city in the UK after London.

      Flicking through its pages, there’s a sense that for the most part Midland locations are beneath Bryson’s notice. When he does write about them, he adopts a tone of gentle condescension. Retford, for instance, he declares ‘a delightful and charming place’; ‘the shops seemed prosperous and well ordered. I can’t say that I felt like spending my holidays here.’ Worksop is ‘agreeable enough in a low-key sort of way’. After he quits the South, the people he encounters only really come to life again and begin to talk with vivid local accents when he reaches the great city-states of the North, Manchester and Liverpool, where ‘bus’ suddenly vowel-shifts into ‘boose’. If you tried to arrive at a working definition of the Midlands from Notes from a Small Island, you might be tempted to characterise it as the lowland bit between the national peaks, however defined – geographically, socially or culturally.

      Bryson’s book is part of a much wider tradition. The great surveys of the country tend to bypass the Midlands or emphasise its anonymity by other means. In his classic interwar study In Search of England, for instance, H.V. Morton names Rutland in the Midlands as ‘the smallest and happiest county in England’, but then adds: ‘I am the only person I have ever known who has been [there]. I admit that I have known men who have passed through Rutland in search of a fox, but I have never met a man who has deliberately set out to go to Rutland; and I do not suppose you have.’ Morton pays Rutland a great compliment, but in such a way as to stress its invisibility at a national level. As he says, ‘most people think [it] is in Wales’ – which, let’s face it, isn’t meant as a compliment.

      Another mid-century guidebook pays tribute to the beauties of the Midland landscape, suggesting that the ‘Peak District in Derbyshire – with Buxton spa as a Convenient Centre – is worth a visit’. It turns out to be a qualified recommendation, however: ‘Whoever cannot go to Cumberland, Northumberland or Yorkshire will find compensation in the moorlands and hills of the Peak District, and in its deep valleys and rugged cuttings.’ In other words: for real English scenery, you’d be better off in the real North. The Midlands can be delightful, the author allows, but it’s never more than a ‘compensation’, a second-best option, a silver medallist at best in the race for national gold.

      When an opinion is expressed about the region as a whole, it’s usually thoroughly damning. In 2003, the East Midlands found itself listed in a Spectator magazine travel special under the heading ‘Best Avoided: Places That Suck’. Recent research confirms how widespread this perception is. ‘Industrial, built-up, heavily populated, busy, no countryside; Uninteresting, nothing there, not touristy, unromantic; Dark, dirty and grey; Cold and windy’ were the words used to summarise the views of foreign respondents in a tourist-board survey of perceptions of the region. Booked your summer holiday yet? Well, now you know where you should be going.

      The West Midlands fares little better in the popular imagination. Researchers at King’s College London recently announced that, for most people, Birmingham accents were inextricably linked with low intelligence. СКАЧАТЬ