Mr Lonely, page 11
‘Thanks,’ he said, gratefully.
‘Who was the bitch? Eh? Who was she?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Sid said softly. ‘Drink up.’
Jim gulped the whiskey. ‘If I ever see her again, I’ll belt her in the mouth,’ he swore. ‘I’d recognize her by the size of her knockers. Did you see them?’
‘Yes,’ Sid lied. ‘You don’t get many of those to the pound.’
Jim sat down as Estelle started to repair her own make-up. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked in his usual tone.
‘I’m repairing my make-up,’ she said sweetly.
‘If you ask for any powder, I’ll kill you.’
Sid heard Al leave Serina’s room and the door lock again. Poor Al. Unbeknown to him, his brother—who was supposed to be ill—had been there before him. Benny, by now, had told all the staff. Sid had seen him in the room; Al had seen Sid see him in the room. In the excitement of the love-making and the powder-throwing, and being seen by almost everyone in the club, Al in the ensuing confusion picked up Sid’s glasses by mistake and was now bumping into things and people. Could it be right after all? he wondered. Did it make you go blind?
He walked back to his office, muttering, ‘Oh no, never again. That’s the last time for sure. That’s definitely the last time.’ He also thought of his brother, Manny. I must ring him to find out if he’s any better, he thought. What’s the time now? Nine-thirty. He’ll probably be watching TV.
Al got back to his office to find Benny standing outside the door with Henry. ‘Let me in, Benny,’ Al said hurriedly.
Benny grinned and said, ‘Right, glove,’ and then swayed a little.
‘Eh?’ Al demanded.
‘Right, guv,’ Benny said, slowly this time.
After a couple of minutes spent looking for the key, Al was let into his office. He told Benny to get Manny on the phone, while he went to the loo. Benny sat behind the desk and rang Al’s brother in Golders Green. Al came back and took the phone from Benny and waved him out.
The phone was ringing as Manny came in the front door. He ran up the stairs and in a voice completely out of breath said, ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Manny.’
‘Manny who?’ Manny said.
‘No, you’re Manny, I’m Al.’
‘Hello, Al.’
‘Are you all right? You sound bad.’
‘I am bad. Wouldn’t you be bad if you’d just run up a whole flight—Run up a frightening temperature.’
‘What is it?’
‘You rang me, so I say what is it?’
‘What’s your temperature?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe a hundred and eighty.’
‘A hundred and four is very dangerous.’
‘So, it’s starting to drop a little.’
‘Try some chicken soup.’
‘How’s the party, Al?’ Manny tried to sound low and miserable.
‘Great. Everybody says thanks and where’s Manny? One drunk thought he’d seen you leave the club through one of the fire exits. Ha, ha, ha, ha. He must have been drunk.’
‘Drunk? What drunk?’ Manny rasped.
‘Some drunk.’
‘Was he one of our drunks?’
‘What do you mean, one of our drunks? Anyway, my eyes are bad. You know that and they’re worse tonight.’
‘Does the drunk work for us?’
‘No, I think he was a juggler.’
‘A drunken juggler? Won’t his balls be all over the place?’
‘He isn’t working for us, Manny. He’s just here at the party. Are you in bed?’
‘Of course I’m in bed. I’m almost dying. Has Serina been on yet?’
‘Serina?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m asking, that’s why enough.’
‘I haven’t seen her all evening.’
‘Well, if you do …’
‘Yes?’
‘Just remember me to her.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m asking you to. Is there any reason why you shouldn’t? I’m not asking you to go out of your way. I just said if you see her, remember me to her. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing. Okay, I’ll give her your regards, but only if I see her.’
‘Al, you’re getting more like Granpa Bengie every day. And Al …’
‘Yes?’
‘Thanks for ringing. I’m getting tired now. I think I’ll take a pill and sleep. So don’t ring me back, I’ll be asleep. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow at the office, in the afternoon. Oh, and yes, I don’t think we should have that photo taken with the chimp next week. Bye.’
Manny put the phone down, went to his desk, flicked a telephone pad open, memorized a number, came back to the phone and dialled.
‘Hello, Manny here … Fine. You? … Good. How about supper at your place tonight? Great … Chinese? … Okay, I’ll get it on the way over. One day I’m going to open a Jewish take-away. I’ll be over in about forty minutes. Anything special you want? I mean Chinese food … Pancake roll. Okay. By the way, where’s wonder boy? … Manchester? You’re sure? … He’s just phoned you? … A cousin’s wedding … Two days … Well if I’m not too tired after tonight, I might take you out tomorrow for dinner … Well, to be on the safe side, the other side of Watford … Yes, leave it to me. See you soon. Bye, bye, Shelley.’
Manny put the phone down and rubbed his podgy little hands together, went into the bathroom and got out the Old Spice.
Al put the phone down after speaking to Manny and, from his inside pocket, took out a little address book, found the page he wanted and held it open. He couldn’t focus properly on the phone numbers in the book unless he put it down on the desk and stood up. Now he could see the numbers in the book and on the phone itself, but he was so far away he couldn’t reach the phone to dial. He took off the glasses and knew by the feel of them they weren’t his own. He sat down to think. I must have picked these up in Serina’s dressing-room and left mine there, he pondered, but whose are these, then? He put them slowly into his top pocket. He couldn’t see with them and could hardly see without them. He walked to the mirror in the loo, looked at himself without the glasses and saw a blurred Al looking back at him. He then put the glasses on, looked again and saw a much smaller blurred Al looking back at him. He went back to the phone and picked it up, held it very close to his eyes, picked up the little address book, held that very close to his eyes, and dialled the number he wanted with great difficulty.
‘Hello. Al … Fine. You? … Good. Nice to hear you. Sorry you’re not at the party. Yes, I know … Has it gone down? … Completely. Oh, good. Er … is anyone there with you? … What’s he doing in Manchester? … A cousin’s wedding. When will he be back? … Two days … Oh. Er, Manny’s not too well … No, I think it’s nerves and frustration. His breathing’s bad. He should have a friend like you to help him keep fit. Look, this “do” tonight goes on till about two-thirty, so I thought, seeing as you can’t come to the party, how’s about if I brought some Chinese take-away back to your place? One of these days I’m going to open a real Jewish take-away … Of course I will, a bottle of your favourite … Yes, advocaat. I can be at your place at about one-thirty. I’ll leave here before the end. I’ll see you later … What? … No food … You’re on a diet. Oh, okay. See you later. Bye and thanks, Shelley.’
Back in Sid’s room the Scotch was almost gone. Jim looked quite grotesque, sitting in the chair and still covered in now blotchy powder marks. His eyes were closed and he was snoring loudly. He had obviously passed out. Estelle looked at him and said, ‘Thank God for that.’
‘What made you come with him?’
‘I didn’t come with him, he came with me. I’m keeping him at the moment. He’s spent every penny he earned. He’s in so much trouble with the tax people. He owes more than he earns and every penny he gets goes to paying his tax bill, so at the moment I’m having to keep him and pay for everything. The only thing he pays for is booze and I think he takes the money out of my handbag for that.’
‘Jesus, you’re a cool one,’ Sid said quietly.
‘Most of what he told you was true, you know. I am in flesh flicks. I make a very good living at it and you know who got me the job in the first place? Jimbo there.’ She pointed to the brewery snoring in the chair. ‘But he was wrong about two things.’
‘What?’
‘The money is twice as much as he thinks.’
‘And?’
‘Whether he believes it or not, I am an actress. Maybe not in the Glenda Jackson class, but even in skin flicks, you have to act a little bit. I do what they ask me to do in these films and look at the camera as if it’s the greatest lover in the world, while some idiot watching thinks it’s him turning me on. It’s just for the money, Sid, strictly for the money. In my own world I’m a big star. Bigger than that lump in the chair. Do you know, there isn’t a sheik who wouldn’t give me a fortune just to spend one night with him.’
‘But surely you could have got on as a legitimate actress?’
‘Maybe, but the great Jim O’Toole didn’t seem to think so, or bother.’ Sid burst out laughing at the name. ‘Don’t laugh,’ she said. ‘That’s his real name and he tries to live up to it.’ Sid put out his glass towards her and she poured the rest of the bottle in it, maybe half a measure. ‘Don’t drink it neat,’ she said. ‘It’s not too bad for you in moderation with water, but whisky on its own can be a killer. My dad told me. He was a doctor.’
‘Was?’
‘Yes, drank himself to death, and so will he.’ She glanced at the slumbering body, who hadn’t moved in the last quarter of an hour, and his breathing was about once every minute.
‘So what happened when you met the mighty O’Toole?’ Sid asked.
‘The usual. He tried to get me into bed as quickly as possible. I’ll give him his due. He persevered for five months. He thought he was the greatest lover in the world and he gave me a soon-to-be-forgotten performance. He still thinks he’s great but he gets worried now because he doesn’t know if I’m acting or not.’ She laughed. ‘He did try and get me into a film with him, but it didn’t work out. He—well, I say he; it was his agent—Jim put some pressure on his agent so I got a commercial, where I was a half-naked girl lying on a water bed exhausted and out of focus in the background, while some fellow told the world that nuts were full of protein!’
‘What are you going to do about him tonight?’
‘Leave him here, if you don’t mind.’
Sid looked at Jim. ‘Well, I don’t think he’s going to move again for a long time so, sure, leave him here, I don’t mind.’
‘When he wakes up, he’ll get a cab and make his way home.’
‘I’m working later on tonight,’ Sid said. ‘I’m trying out a new act. It’s a little thing that I’ve had in mind for a long time now. If it goes well with this crowd here tonight I’ll have a new bit to work on, and if it doesn’t go well it doesn’t matter. Stay and watch it if you want. You might like it. I’m calling the character “Mr Lonely”.’
‘No thanks, Sid,’ Estelle answered. ‘Not that I don’t want to see you work, but I have to work early in the morning.’ She leaned over Jim and shouted in his ear, ‘Another day, another two grand.’ Then slapped his face as hard as she could. He didn’t waken.
‘You needed that,’ Sid grinned. ‘Will he make his own way back to your place if he ever wakes up?’
‘We don’t live together, Sid. I live with my mum, but she doesn’t know about my way of earning a living. She thinks I’m a very private secretary to someone high up in the government, who has to work all hours and can’t discuss her job. You see, like all mums, she’s dumb when it comes to her kids. Lovely, but dumb. She honestly does think I’m a private secretary with the government.’
‘Can I ring you sometime?’
‘If you want my phone number, I will give it to you with pleasure and I hope one day with all the pleasure you like.’ She wrote out a number and handed it to him, saying, ‘Thanks for all your kindness, Sid.’ She found her car keys and left with a, ‘Good luck with the new act.’
Sid looked at the still-sleeping Jim Parker. He washed the glasses in the sink and dried them on the towel. As he left the room he turned out the light and in the darkness he heard, ‘You didn’t believe any of that crap, did you?’ Sid switched the light back on. ‘I’ll watch your new act later on,’ Jim said, with still-closed eyes. ‘And that phone number is the Battersea Dogs’ Home. Close the door when you leave.’
Sid did as he was told and made his way to the phone. On the wall was the oldest telephone directory in the world. It was the one with God’s phone number in it. Many pages were missing and what pages there were were well and truly written on. He checked to see if the Bs were still intact. They were. He thumbed through till he found Battersea Dogs’ Home. He looked at the paper Estelle had given him. The Bitch! he thought.
I was lucky enough to see Sid the first time he ever appeared as ‘Mr Lonely’, at the club on the night of the party. He walked out after being introduced by another comedian, who was too drunk to do or say anything coherent or remotely funny. He did a couple of gags and slurred into the introduction of ‘Mr Lonely’. It was badly done. As Sid heard the name ‘Mr Lonely’, he cued the band and they played a fanfare of loud separate chords to get the crowd to look at what was going on. Then the club went into complete darkness. A few women gave out tentative screams and one or two jumped up as a few male hands made their way towards female breasts and thighs. A spotlight hit the side of the stage and Sid walked into it. The whole audience looked as Sid walked slowly down to the stage, dressed in his now-famous garb. The audience went quiet and gave Sid their full attention. He did about ten minutes, got some very good laughs, handled a few hecklers with simple ease, and left the stage to excellent applause. He was, as he said later, a small hit. It was the birth of the wonderful Mr Lonely.
He changed back into his dress-suit in the dressing-room as quietly as he could, trying not to disturb Jimmy Parker, and then headed for a table out front. He sat with a few of his fellow pros and listened to congratulations on his new bit. He was on his second drink when a small man, about forty years old, dressed in a blue safari outfit, with an orange neckerchief tied loosely around his neck, pranced over to his table. He was as queer as the government’s policies. He also had a soft-centred name, Ivor Nolan. Sid asked him to sit down.
‘Darling, I’d love to but I can’t. I’m with friends,’ he lisped. ‘I only came over to say how much I enjoyed your little act. It really was very sweet. Have you ever done it on TV?’ Sid shook his head. ‘Well, dearie, here’s my card. Please ring me and we can have a little chat.’ He handed a card to Sid and left.
One of Sid’s friends said, ‘You play that card right and you’re in there.’ They all laughed.
Sid looked at the card, then put it in his pocket. He noticed BBC on it.
CHAPTER NINE
August, 1976
Having been told by two almost armed guards that, ‘No way are you going to get in the BBC precinct with your car,’ Sid parked opposite, on a cindered, home-made car park, full of potholes, old bangers and rather sad-looking empty caravans. The price to park there would have made an oil sheikh shudder. He walked back towards the BBC entrance, was stopped, checked and then allowed in. He walked up to the main building and, after leaving the reception area, found his way to the lifts. He was still on time for his appointment, having left his home early, to allow for traffic he never encountered. In the lift with him were two stars and a tea lady with a trolley full of buns, rolls and biscuits. Urns contained tea or coffee and you had to guess which you got after the first sip. Out of twenty people that morning, five coffees were right, and five teas were right, there were eight don’t knows and two abstained. The stars in the lift only looked at and spoke to each other. The tea lady just blankly looked ahead. Sid pressed for the fourth floor, the lift doors closed on an old lady character actress, who walked as if she was permanently late. The two stars looked at Sid as if he’d just strangled a baby. They were all destined for the fourth floor.
At exit time, Sid asked the tea lady if she knew which was Mr Nolan’s office. She told him. He made his way there. It was his first time in the BBC television centre. His previous work on television had been with the other side in a talent show, in which he came last. The winner got 92 out of a possible 100; Sid got 11. The winner was a complete amateur, a crippled piano accordionist. He played ‘We’ll Meet Again’ and ‘Bless this House’. Two weeks after winning, he was dead. He went exactly the same way as he got his accordion; fell off a lorry.
Sid was now at the door he should have been at, and on time. After a quiet, nervous knock, to which there was no reply, he knocked louder, but there was still no response. He knew that people were in the room; he could hear Mr Nolan on the phone and a typewriter being hammered heavily. He turned the handle quietly, as if he was going to rob the place. It was locked. He had one more ace up his sleeve. He got as close to the door with his mouth as he could, looked along the corridor to check that no one else was about and, in a high-pitched voice, shouted, ‘Tea.’ The bolts on the door were unbolted and the locks unlocked quicker than Houdini could have done it.
He was now looking into the face of Mr Nolan’s secretary, a woman with a figure like a cornflake box, economy size. Her name was Bonnie, which she wasn’t. Her hair looked like two pounds of straight candles. Her eyes observed Sid the same way a just-wakened boa constrictor looks at a fat, juicy rabbit. He felt he was standing in the way of Charles Bronson with lipstick. She was the epitome of that wonderful saying, ‘She was the good time had by nobody.’ She pushed Sid to one side as she looked up and down the corridor for the tea lady. ‘Where’s the tea lady?’ she bawled. ‘Who shouted “TEA”?’
‘Hello, I’m looking for Mr Nolan,’ said Sid.
‘Who shouted “Tea”, eh? Who was it? Answer me. Who shouted tea?’ She came out of the office into the corridor. Sid looked into the office and saw Mr Nolan. Ivor waved a ‘Come in’. He was still on the phone. Sid walked in and was immediately attacked from behind by Bonnie. She grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip and bellowed, ‘What are you doing in this room?’
