"Look at this!" shouts Michael, stabbing his finger at the article in the newspaper. "Typical. Absolutely typical. That's all they can manage for a headline. What kind of news is that? Nothing happens. Wonderful newsworthy stuff eh? Typical bloody Hertford. The main news of the week. Nothing Happens. That's Topcat all over. Useless. Absolutely useless.”
Michael stomps up and down the room, his legs flapping around as if they are not quite attached to him. He kicks off bits of furniture as he stomps past. His arms are swinging around as if he is forging his way through deep jungle. His expression is that of a worried and much harassed man.
He stomps back down the room. "Just look at it!” He jabs a ruthless finger back on the paper.
His mother waddles in carrying a teapot. "There's no point in getting so worked up. Isn't it?" She talks in a broad Austrian accent. She has been living in England for over thirty years and she still sounds as if she only landed yesterday. "You don't own the paper. What does it matter anyway? No-one reads it." And she grins. "It doesn't matter what they say. It's all forgotten in a moment."
"That's not the point, it's the attitude. Topcat sits on any decent story. He's never happier than when he's printing nothing. Keep everything down. Keep it all under cover. Don’t let's rock the boat." Michael sticks his lower lip out. "We might as well all be dead. It's the typical attitude of the councillors and people who run this town. They don’t care anything about the youth of the town." And he stomps back down the room, banging his feet down and rucking up the carpet.
His brother, Roy sits at the table by the window grinning at anyone who wants to be grinned at. His mother pours me out a cup of tea. It is the second cup she's poured. I am still drinking the first.
"I'll have some more tea mum," says Roy as he places his empty cup back in the saucer.
"I'll make another pot," she says, happy to be busy in the kitchen, and waddles back out again.
I peer over Michael's shoulder at the offending article.
HERTFORD IS PROUD OF ITS QUIET NIGHTS
The headline blares across the front page of the local rag.
"Who wrote that?"
"What we need is someone to kick the buggers up the backside. We need some action. This place dies on its feet every night at half past five. There's nothing to do, nowhere to go" He stomps off down to the other end of the room again.
Mrs Adams comes back in and peers at Michael over the top of her glasses. "You'll trip over that carpet if you push it up like that any more." She gets hold of a chair to move it out of the way. But Michael is barging his way back up the room again. "Oh, stop faffing around woman. This is important."
She mutters something and starts pulling at the chair. "It's only nothing, isn't it?" She looks enquiringly at me.
"It's Hertford," I say rather flatly. "Everyone goes anywhere else to do things. Who comes to Hertford to do anything? You go to Hatfield or Welwyn Garden City for dances. People go to Welwyn or Watford for shopping. About the only thing you can do in Hertford is go to the flics or play snooker down at Burtons. Who knows, perhaps people come here from Harlow to appreciate our quiet nights."
"And they're proud of that; proud of their quiet nights. Bah!"
"What can you do about it?" asks his mother.
Michael sticks his lower lip out. His black hair has fallen across his rather florid face.
"Make a noise," says Roy, and laughs.
"Yes, we all ought to make a noise."
"But what sort of noise?" I ask.
Mrs Adams comes back in with a fresh pot of tea and starts filling cups, almost at random. There are four of us in the room and six cups. She pushes a plate of mince pies under my nose. "Have one," she says, and puts three onto my plate. "Do you want an apple?" She places two on my plate. "There's some bread and butter if you want it."
I put one of the apples back in the bowl, and replace two of the mince pies.
She waddles back over from the sideboard. "I have some cherry brandy. Would you like some?"
No-one is listening to her. Roy is staring out of the window, dreaming of some project with his cine-camera, and Michael is still fulminating against Topcat, the editor of the local newspaper. He is down the other end of the room, staring out at the street and idly kicking the wall with his big black boots. His hands are deep in the pockets of his old baggy trousers. He is searching for a plan. He is searching for a better future. He knows there is one out there, if only he can get the old farts out of the way. That's the real trouble with the place. There are too many people blocking up the road in this backwater of a town.