A place or opportunity for people to meet and discuss something.
– table, n. –

Worst night of the year. The one I dread a month in advance, regret a month after it’s gone, and spend all the months between in sickening suspense of. The Christmas meal.

           E. and I have been doing this—having these little meet-ups—for years. Usually toward the end of the university term, before we both take off home for the holidays. These meetings aren’t just a chance to chew the fat on the term gone, but a celebration of yet another milestone. It always started off fairly pleasant: small talk while ordering drinks. As the starters arrive, we’d move to a shared friend or acquaintance. Main courses were nearly always defined by some controversial topic or other. And, by the time dessert rolled around, we were in full wanky-academic-debating mode.

           Not that bad, I can already hear you saying. But, no matter how much you like a person, if all you do when you see them is spend the time biting back retorts, smiling and nodding; pretending to be someone else, to have different tastes and interests, just for the sake of keeping the conversation going (and more than a little because you know, if you say the wrong thing, you’ll be laughed at and called ignorant, and that “ignorance” will make you the butt of every joke for months on end); refusing to acknowledge that every time you’re together you feel a little bit of yourself choking a slow death—trust me, if you had to go through this same farce, on the same night of every year, for four years straight, you’d quickly tire of it too.

            In many ways, the two of us are strikingly similar: both fairly old-fashioned, politically centrist, fond of witty humor, keen to be listened to (less keen on listening), generally slow to annoy, and passionately devoted to our respective fields. We both had experiences of being bullied in school, difficult relationships with our parents, and suffered from anxiety disorders. Both of us have siblings—sisters, specifically—which we’re convinced has made us more insightful on the topic of women; that didn’t stop us being virgins until our twenties. And our particular interests, though divergent, often bring us to similar ground.

            With that said, we couldn’t be more unlike.

            I was born in a terraced house, in an old mining colliery, brought up in a working-class household that voted Labour, and attended the local state comprehensive. When I applied to university, I had to provide a portfolio of work—proof that I could participate in the course adequately. Meanwhile, he grew up in a fully-detached property that had been in his family for generations; his parents were middle-class, grassroot members of the Conservative Party; he attended a private school, and received an endorsement from them for an unconditional offer of study.

             Don’t get me wrong, I know how privileged I am to have had opportunities that made me aware of these differences. But that doesn’t stop the fact of it being fucking infuriating. And even now, when I know I’ve earned the right to a seat at the table with people like E., there are times when imposter syndrome grips me hard, and won’t let go.

            Whenever I go to an academic conference and get asked which school I attended; whenever I’m spontaneously invited for a coffee, and need to sneak a look at my bank balance; whenever there’s a comment about my accent, or my clothes, or some other stupid thing—I become gratingly aware that I may be sitting with the privileged, but I don’t have a place of my own; it’s mine by permission of those who expect me to play by their rules, one of which is pretending that those rules don’t exist.

            And that façade, in the very act of wanting to be invisible, draws attention to itself.

*** 

             I buck up the courage and begin drafting a text message, following all the usual civilities—asking how he is, double-checking we’re still on (an utterly pointless exercise—it’s never changed in all the time we’ve known one another, and it’s highly unlikely to; E. is a creature of habit, and what’s more hates changing plans), the usual rigmarole of figuring out where he’d like to go.

It takes only a handful of minutes before he responds.

I’m well, thank you. How are you? Saturday still works for me. As to the restaurant, I don’t mind. Do you have somewhere you would recommend?

 Fuck.

This is another thing we do every time. Just like clockwork…

 I’ve been meaning to try The Three Kings for a while. How about that?

 If you like, he responds.

 We don’t have to. I really don’t mind where we go.

 Neither do I.

 Okay.

 Even over message, the pause feels awkward.

 So Three Kings? I venture.

 Sure.

 Alright.

 A couple minutes pause, and then—

 You know, The Chateau has a discount on its specials tonight.

 Would you like to try that instead?

 I already know the answer before it comes.

 I don’t want to put you out if you’ve starting booking The Three Kings.

 It’s not a problem, I like the Chateau. And this is true. I do. But my wallet doesn’t.

 Excellent. Shall I book us a table?

 I can do it. It is my turn, after all.

 You sure?

 Of course.

 Thank you.

 Again, a pause. Within a few minutes, just like I’ve learned to expect—

 Could you ask them to put us not too near the bay window? It gets quite chilly in there.

 Of course.

 But not right by the fire, either. I ended up sweating the last time haha

 Yeah, I’ll be sure to ask.

 I’ve checked and it looks like Table 13’s free.

 I roll my eyes. Would you like to book it, since you’re looking?

 No, no. Please, I don’t want to take over. It’s your turn to decide.

 Right-ho! (I cringe as soon as I hit send. How does he not sense the clenched jaw in the tone?)

 Capital! I will see you then.

 See you then

I swear under my breath, dial the restaurant’s number, and book Table 13—in the corner, away from the bay window, but not too near the fireplace—and am charged a deposit of £15 per person for the pleasure. I don’t want to take over. It’s your turn to decide… Woo-fucking-hoo.

The people sitting at a table.
– table, v. (single / plural) –

             My great-grandmother always kept her table well. 

         Durable. Polished. Gleaming. Not to be touched by grubby hands. Not to be touched at all. She spent hours buffing it with Gilboy’s Beeswax—the smell cloying and sickly-sweet. A musk reaching from 1960-something to early 2010, containing what seemed to me the ethos of an entire generation, all compacted into a palm-sized tin of piss-colored wax. 

       Whenever there was a family event, we’d all take our places (compulsory floral tablecloth included): Great-Grandma Nancy at the head of the table, my grandparents to her left, my dad’s oldest brother and his family to her right, and the rest of us crammed in at the bottom. Organizing those meals was part of the reason she lived so long, I think. She couldn’t face letting my grandmother take the reins and run the family. Always stubborn, she was. 

        The last time we met there, the chicken was streaked through with a bloody-pink and the carrots had been cremated. “Losing her touch,” Dad joked when she excused herself to use the bathroom. 

          Everyone except Grandma laughed. 

To leave something for discussion or consideration at a later time.
– table, v. –

         I’m running late.

Though I want to be able to blame it on the buses, the clothes taking ages in the tumble-dryer, and the line at the barber’s (all true, by the way)—ultimately, all that comes down to the absolute travesty that is my time-keeping.

I jump off the bus at the corner of Regent’s Street and leg it up the hill to The Chateau. Unless you’re driving a car—which most people who eat here do—you have to walk along the footpath, which snakes its way through the grounds (yes, it’s that sort of restaurant), weaving in and out of trees planted far too symmetrically for my taste. Because it’s damp, and not altogether well-lit, I slip and end up with a smear of mud down my side. And, if all that wasn’t enough, it starts raining.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

By the time I stumble through the front door, I’m soaked (didn’t bring a waterproof coat in December, genius that I am) and I probably look like I’ve been pulled backwards through a hedge. Or over broken glass—my side certainly feels that way.

“Can… I help you?” ventures the sniffy-looking waiter. He’s standing beside a sign bearing the exclamation, PLEASE WAIT HERE TO BE SEATED. I don’t know why the sign feels the need to yell at me. I’m not a complete wanker.

“I – I’ve booked a table,” I stammer, trying to pull my phone out with the reservation. I’m much too aware of his eyes; they’re a cold, pale blue, and currently fixed on my (now ragged) attire.

“Name?” He looks slightly bored.

“Bailey. Thomas Bailey.”

“Ah, yes.” He taps something out on the little digital tablet he’s carrying. “If you’ll follow me, please.”

“You don’t need to see my reservation?”

He doesn’t turn to look at me as he walks off. “Some of your party has already arrived.”

That doesn’t really answer my question, I think, but fuck it.

He leads me through a number of high-ceilinged rooms, all richly decorated in shades of blue and silver. We pass one or two families, but the majority of the diners are older couples; the men wear shirts and blazers, the women dresses. Although I put on my nicest outfit specifically for tonight, I couldn’t feel more out of place (yes, the big smudge on my leg isn’t helping, but even without it, I’d be acutely aware of how close-fitting my blazer is. It was bought for my grandmother’s funeral. Five years ago).

When we finally reach the table, after what feels like a deliberately elongated walk of shame, I see E. has already taken the liberty of ordering a drink for himself. Fentiman’s Ginger Beer—never anything else. He turns to me and smiles, “T.! Damn good to see you!”

I notice his eyes flicker to the stain and the smile slips, momentarily.

“I’m fine,” I say, trying to project feeling happier than I am. “How are you?”

“Quite alright, thank you. Please…” He gestures to the seat opposite.

“So sorry I’m late—”

“Oh, no need—”

“—traffic was a nightmare…”

After the first round of drinks and the starters, I’m more at ease. The stress of the journey is just far away enough to put out of mind, and we’ve exchanged anecdotes about our current research projects. Eventually, as ever, we get onto the topic of mutual friends.

“I saw R. the other day,” E. says, as the waitress takes our plates.

“Oh? How is he?”

“All fine, all fine…”

“Good.”

There’s enough of a pause for me to begin hunting around for another topic. But then—

“Mind you, he’s been chasing after L. again.” E. murmurs this so conspiratorially one would think he was telling me a highly-classified state secret (but it’s nothing much more interesting than close encounters of the threesome kind).

“You’re kidding,” I say, feigning interest. Of course I know R.’s chasing L. I also know that L. is chasing some new guy, O. The two (three?) of them have been on and off since the start of the academic year and, frankly, their relationship drama is getting boring, stale. I’m aware, however, that E.’s topics of conversation follow a distinct pattern, and so I try to hurry him on to the next part. “Well, I suppose when you’ve got that much privilege…”

“Quite! He knows nothing about real life…”

Irony, thou art a cruel mistress.

 * * * 

The same year as the disastrous family meal, Great-Grandma Nancy—survivor of World War II and an abusive father, formidable matriarch of the Bailey Clan—went into a care home for dementia patients. Within a week, she stopped correcting my grammar. Within a month, she stopped trying to get us to send her home. Within a year, she stopped.

When the time came to clear the last of her possessions, the final thing to go was the table. That enormous, 1960s-smelling chunk of oak that symbolized a history—our family history. The place where my Great-Grandma sat to do her sewing, belly swollen with lives and generations still to come; where my Grandma laughed about my Grandad when they first met, and where she cried after their first break-up; where my sisters and I sat puzzling over mind-numbing crosswords every Saturday. Where the ethos of entire generations had been felt growing, and living, and loving, and being beautifully, stupidly human.

Grandma was desperate not to lose it. After watching her mother waste away, unable to do anything but put a brave face on for the rest of us, I think she saw a chance to salvage something. In the weeks that followed, she went back and forth to her mother’s bungalow. She’d measure the table every which way, then do the same to the dining-room in her terraced house. She took pictures, drew up plans, reorganized furniture—all in the hope of finding some abstract way to make that table fit her pokey dining-room. Even if she’d found the perfect layout, I don’t think she even thought about how she’d get it through the door.

In the end, she turned to other people. Her sons—my dad and uncles—had homes and families of their own; they didn’t have the space (or, I suspect, the desire) to keep it. Friends and neighbors were a similar story. With her list of options growing dismally short, she even tried selling it (“At least it’ll be going to a good home,” became her favorite catchphrase).

No luck there, either.

 * * * 

E. is telling some anecdote about a person on his course when the waitress plonks an overfilled pot of tea down on the table. Amber liquid gushes at the spout, and splashes close to my hand. I wince. E. notices. Neither of us says anything.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asks.

“Just the bill, please, when you have a minute,” I answer.

E. is suddenly fascinated by a smudge on his cuffs that wasn’t there before. I want to say, You can put your hand in your pocket, mate. You’re the one who wanted to come here. Instead, I find myself reaching across for it.

He looks up. “Oh, don’t—I’ll get that.”

And I’ll get an honorary doctorate from the University of Big Fucking Chance.

“No, no, it’s fine. I’ve got this one.”

“Are you sure?”

I was sure when I paid the deposits for dinner, wasn’t I? You made sure of that.

“Yeah, ‘course.”

“Alright, then. Thanks.”

INTERNAL SCREAMING…

Fifteen minutes later, we’re back under the comforting glow of streetlights, walking down the high street. The pubs and bars on either side are full to the rafters with people enjoying the weekend (I wonder how that feels?). A heady smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke hovers in the air.

E. stops outside one in particular.

“Wasn’t this the first place we went for a drink together?” he says, turning to me.

“Think so.” I’m not in the mood for extending the conversation past the minimum level of politeness. After everything else that evening, the last thing I want is to be crammed into a noisy pub with a load of drunk people.

“Shall we pop in for a swift half?”

“Er—I mean, we can…”

“You don’t sound too eager,” he laughs.

“I’ve got a bit of a headache. If it’s okay, I’d rather not.”

‘“We’ll make it quick—ten, fifteen minutes max!”

“I’m not really in the mood…”

“You’re only saying that now, you’ll feel different once you’re in there. Come on!” He seizes my arm and begins steering me towards the door.

I pull away. Forcefully.

He stares. “What was that about?”

“I said I don’t want to.’”

“Come on, T., there’s no need to be short; I only came out tonight to see you, after all. We’re supposed to be having fun, aren’t we? You’ve got to be able to laugh at yourself. We’ll just pop in, get a feel for the old favorite, and then—”

“Listen to me: I said no. I’m not.”

“Why are you being such a spoilsport? Ruining a perfectly good night…”

“For you.”

It slips out before I can stop it.

“Beg pardon?”

In that moment, I can see the entirety of our friendship—its past and future—stretched out before me, like old-school film footage. I see the first time we met, in the lecture theater that was always freezing; we were on opposite sides for a debate with the university’s Student Union. Although my team beat his, he came up and complimented my debating skills. We got to talking and went out to get to know one another better. Flash forward a few weeks, and already the cracks are beginning to show: the little displays of thoughtlessness that put me out, like the time we had agreed to meet for coffee and he never showed up because he bumped into a friend from school; the point-blank refusal to take responsibility for his own actions, unable to see anything other than the version of events he wanted to be true.

Standing here, outside the place where our friendship started, watching its slow atrophy sped up, like a film played at triple speed, I see—really see—for the first time ever, just how much it has degraded. Though I want to blame him, to think of him as an enormous dickhead—because that would make it so much easier to be angry with him—I don’t and can’t. He’s a product of his upbringing, and that upbringing trained him to think of friendship as transitory, tit for tat. Even beyond our backgrounds—education, politics, family—we are completely different, facing one another over an enormous chasm of social expectations and differences. Whether it’s always been quite so overt or has become so over time is impossible to say; what I know with great certainty, however, is that this is not the friendship I want. Not anymore.

“I’m ruining a perfectly good night for you. Nothing about tonight has been perfect for me. And it hasn’t been for a while now, actually.”

He says nothing.

“I don’t want to go in. If you do, that’s fine. But don’t expect me to chase after you. I’m going home.”

E. stands there, looking me up and down. For a moment, I’m unsure of what he’s going to do—whether something I’ve said might have struck a chord with him—because he looks as though he’s about to speak. Then, without a word, he turns and walks inside.

 I’m left alone in the street.

A flat surface, usually supported by four legs, used for putting things on.
– table, n. –

On the last day of the last month that Great-Grandma Nancy’s house was in her name, the entire family stood on the curb outside, as we had so many times before. The table was carried out through the French doors at the back of the house by a regiment of workmen, and I was struck by how similar it was to the funeral. Except I don’t remember the coffin being lifted over a garden wall.

Once they were back in the street, the leader of the workmen (at least, I assume he was the leader) looked at my Grandad and asked, “You sure?”

Grandad looked at Grandma. And she said, “Yes. Let’s get on with it, so we’re not keeping the bairns out in the cold.”

He nodded. Maybe he said something more, I can’t quite recall.

What I do remember, vividly, was how, once they started using the saws, Grandma didn’t look at the table. She kept her face turned toward us. At the time, I thought we were sombre witnesses to the occasion, a familial form of jury duty, but now I can’t help but wonder if we were also, partially, the accused: forced to reckon with the impact of our crime, and of our failure to do more.

When it was done, the workmen tossed the broken remains into the back of their lorry. We climbed into our cars, likewise laden with old bits of tat that no one wanted, and followed them down the road.

It’s strange: I have no idea where Great-Grandma Nancy is buried, but I could still tell you the exact tip where we left the remains of her table. There’s nothing particularly special about it, no signs or special markers to say, “This is where history is erased.” Just an ordinary old tip, where an ordinary old family left an ordinary old table.

A place where certain people are not wanted.
– table, n. –

We like to think of tables as communal places, as static points in the hectic blur of our all-too-mobile lives. We’re meant to work at them (after all, what’s a desk if not a fancy table?), eat at them, gather around them in social spaces like bars and cafés… yet, for all that, the main thing they do is reinforce our own worst fears about ourselves.

            A table can simultaneously be a reminder of our immediate social circle—those relationships to which we have dedicated our most scarce resource, time—and of the rules governing that social circle. The “proper” way to behave, the “appropriate” thing to do. But appropriate is just shorthand for “polite” and polite, more often than not, means “knowing your place.”

Here’s what kills me about the whole damn thing: I do want a seat at the table. Desperately.

I want to be able to have the conversations you can only have at the table, can only have with the people sitting at that table. The conversations that recognize the struggles of working-class people, and of working-class people approaching the middle-class, of the inhospitability with which we’re met, of the prejudices of the system toward those working-class people pursuing higher education, and—most importantly—of the need to do something about it. Those types of conversations, with those people able to at least try and make a difference, are the ones I want to be having.

Because that little boy sitting with his family around his great-grandmother’s dining-room table, in a terraced house, in a former mining colliery in the northeast of England, and that young man with his “friend” at the restaurant table, in a university town in the northwest of England, are one and the same. Neither of them should have to change to accommodate the existence of the other.

Both deserve—and demand—that recognition. I demand it.

  I demand a seat at the table.