Mr Lonely, page 12
‘I have an appointment with Mr Nolan.’ Sid tried to blink away the tears as he slowly went towards the ground. He looked at her hand gripping his arm muscle. Her knuckles were whiter than a learner driver’s. He tried to shake her off but she hung on like the British bulldog she resembled.
Ivor put the phone down and said, ‘It’s all right, Bonnie.’ It was as if he had said, ‘Leave, leave,’ to a well-trained Doberman Pinscher.
The grip was unclasped and Sid pumped his arm to keep the circulation going. At the moment the veins in his right arm were almost twice as big as the ones in his left arm.
Ivor spoke. ‘Shut the door, my darling.’ Sid turned and was about to make for the open door but he was too late, Bonnie was shutting it and pulling bolts closed. ‘I suffer with my chest,’ Ivor said. ‘All these draughts. You don’t know what it’s like to have permanently to wear a thermal vest. Sit down please, Mr Montgomery.’
‘Lewis. I’m Sid Lewis.’
‘Well, sit down, anyway. Oh, yes, you’re Mr Lewis. Bonnie?’ Sid heard an animal-like grunt. ‘Who’s Mr Montgomery?’
‘He’s next, after you’ve finished with him,’ she said pointing to Sid.
‘Oh, yes,’ Ivor cooed. ‘He’s that impressionist.’
‘Yeh,’ was growled.
Ivor looked at Sid. ‘Have you seen him?’ he asked. ‘Calls himself Monty Montgomery—the eyes, ears, nose and throat of them all. He’s brilliant. He’s the only one I’ve ever seen do an impression of Mike Yarwood.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Sid said, putting his head on one side quizzically.
Ivor started to make a few notes on a scribbling pad. This gave Sid time to take stock of the man who sat opposite him. Today Ivor was dressed in a purple silk Russian blouse with a collared neck, and one of his ears sported a round, gold ear-ring. He put the pencil down and looked straight into the eyes of a rather nervous Sid. He spoke: ‘I’m going to Covent Garden tonight.’
Sid thought, I hope you get back. He said, ‘Oh, great.’
‘Yes, ballet, the Russian ballet.’ Sid watched his eyes light up at the mere thought of watching those great big male Russian dancers prancing about in their tights. ‘Do you like ballet?’ Ivor asked Sid.
‘No, not particularly. I mean, instead of getting all those dancers to stand on their toes, why don’t they just get taller people?’ Sid beamed. Ivor looked shocked, hurt and frightened. From behind him Sid heard Bonnie snort like a dragon spitting flames. He thought, The best thing to do is to ignore her and if she touches me, I’ll kick her in the groin, and if I break a leg that’s my hard luck.
‘Tea!’ was heard outside the door.
The quickness of Bonnie’s movement to the door actually made Sid jump. The door to Fort Knox was opened and Sid’s tea lady was there.
‘Russian tea for me, Bonnie … Sid?’
‘Eh, nothing for me, thank you,’ Sid said without turning round.
‘Did it take you long to get here?’ Ivor asked.
‘Forty-six years,’ Sid answered.
‘Pardon?’
‘Half an hour.’
‘Parked all right?’
‘Well, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid wouldn’t let me in the BBC car park.’
‘Oh?’ Ivor simpered.
‘Here’s your tea, Ivor,’ Bonnie roared. She leaned over the desk and put a plastic cup of black fluid with almost half a lemon floating in it on to a batch of never-to-be-read scripts. This gave Sid a chance to cast a sideways glance at the incredible bulk—fourteen stone at least, and wearing a dress that gave the impression her legs parted below the knees. In her hand she held a cardboard plate with six sugar lumps on it, as well as two doughnuts, two currant cakes, a cheese roll and a brightly wrapped chocolate biscuit. She left his vision and he heard the door close and lock.
‘Well, Sid, I’m glad you phoned and more than glad to see you here.’ Sid nodded, not knowing how to answer. Ivor took a black Russian cigarette from a tortoise-shell case, put it in a nine-inch amber holder and lit it with a slim, gold, Dunhill lighter. The room was starting to smell like a Turkish brothel.
‘They’re a lovely smell, Ivor,’ the beast said to the beauty.
‘Thanks.’ He turned to Sid. ‘I enjoyed your show. Very clever, and the party was fun, too. Bonnie, remind me to write and thank the Kepplemans.’ The noise of chomping food stopped and the sound of a reminder being written took over.
‘Have you seen any of the shows I’ve produced on TV?’ Ivor asked.
‘I’m sure, I must have,’ Sid lied.
‘Saturday nights mostly, sit-coms, variety and, of course, the specials.’
‘Ah, well. I work while your shows are showing. I’m at the club so there’s not much chance to watch TV, and there’s only one television backstage and that’s in the star’s room.’
Ivor’s face became longer and longer as the conversation went on. ‘I sometimes have a show on Sunday nights,’ he said. ‘Two weeks ago … What was it called, Bonnie?’
Bonnie put the chocolate biscuit down and put a pencil in her mouth as she thought. ’ “The Drum Beat Parade”,’ she said at last. She picked up her biscuit again. ‘The one with all those soldiers.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Ivor beamed.
‘Four weeks ago it was Bell Bottoms up,’ she went on.
‘Yes, yes. That was the one with all those sailors,’ Ivor said excitedly.
‘And next month you do that one about the rag trade -“Puff the Magic Dralon”.’ She went back to her eating again. Ivor looked at Sid inquisitively.
‘On Sundays Mr Nolan –’ Sid began.
‘Ivor.’
‘Ivor.’ Sid carried on. ‘On Sundays I do concerts and one or two extra bits with my own act up and down the country—you know, for the extra money.’
‘So you’ve never seen my work, then?’ Ivor almost sighed. Sid shook his head. ‘Pity. Oh, well, never mind … Now, the idea I had in mind for you, Sid, was first of all a pilot show. That’s a show we make and if it’s good we put it out. If it’s not, it’s scrapped. But it gives us all an idea if we’re going in the right direction. Now, I think your character, Mr Lonely, is ideal for television. It’s visual as well as verbal. He can be put into almost any situation and the part I like is, he’s topical. By that, I mean politically topical. How long have you been playing him?’
‘That was the first time I did it.’
‘Really?’ Ivor sounded genuinely amazed. ‘I must say that pleases me. That means no one except the people who were there that night have seen it.’
‘That’s right,’ Sid replied.
‘So we’re dealing with something new. Oh, good, that’s a challenge. We like a challenge, don’t we, Bonnie?’ He put his hands together as if about to pray. He sat there for a full minute, then sprang up, to reveal he was wearing Russian boots with his pants tucked in them. Sid looked towards the back of the door to see if a big, furry hat was hanging there.
Ivor came round and sat on the edge of his desk. ‘Listen. I’ve had a word with them up there,’ he said pointing upwards. Sid didn’t know if he meant God or the people in the rooms above him. ‘They listen to me. If I think I’ve found a new talent, they let me have a go.’ He turned to Sid. ‘Thank God, darling, we’re not bothered about ratings here at the Beeb.’ He floated about the room like Isadora Duncan.
No wonder they lock the doors, Sid mused.
The hitting of typewriter keys started at the back of Sid with a ferocity and speed he didn’t think possible. Maybe she’s just typing anything, he thought. Not real words, just rubbish. Sid looked at Attila the Hun and she looked as if she was really doing it.
‘I’ll try and get the show organized for a Sunday,’ Ivor said. ‘The audiences are better on Sundays. They have nowhere else to go … before or after.’
The typing stopped abruptly as Ivor sat down. Maybe she was playing for him to do his dance to, Sid thought.
Suddenly Bonnie clumped towards the door, unlocked it and left the room. ‘I’ll get these copied,’ she rasped.
‘Now, Siddles, about –’
‘May I ask you something, Ivor?’
‘My darling, ask away.’
‘That girl …’
‘Bonnie?’
‘Yes. Will she be on the show? I mean will she be connected in any way?’
‘Of course. She’s devoted to me.’
‘I can see that but—’
‘I think she might even kill for me. Bonnie’s been with me for six years. Of course, her name isn’t Bonnie. It’s Ann.’
‘Ann?’
‘Yes, her name is Ann Clyde, so that’s why I call her Bonnie. You get it? Bonnie—Ann Clyde.’ He giggled. ‘Isn’t that clever?’
‘Yes, very,’ Sid said slowly.
‘She’s quite harmless really. Now then, my darling. Writers. Have you anyone in mind?’
‘Writers?’
‘Now, I think we’re in luck. I have two boys I think might be able to do it. I’ve had my eye on them for months. University types. Very smart dialogue. Political satire, witty and crisp. I’m sure they could write for your Mr Lonely. I took them out of radio. They wrote twenty-six of their own series. That political show—Guy Fawlkes, MP for Uppminster. Big hit it was.’ He put his hand in his desk drawer, brought out a perfume spray and wafted it around himself, giving Sid a little squirt. Sid gave him a quick sharp look that would haunt a normal person. ‘Their names are Troughton and Davis. Edmund and Hilary.’
‘But do you think I need class writers?’ Sid asked. ‘I do gags, Irish jokes and the like.’
‘Not on my show you don’t, duckie.’
‘Oh?’ Sid was slightly taken aback at the venom Ivor used.
‘What you don’t seem to understand is what we’ve got,’ Ivor went on forcefully. ‘I’ll stake my reputation that with God and the writers’ help, I’ll make Mr Lonely into a national figure. What we have could be dynamite in television and comic terms,’ he enthused.
‘You mean that little thing I did in the club?’
‘Yes, my pretty one. That little thing you did in the club. A year from now, who knows? I mean, I’ve got a feeling, that’s all.’
Sid was starting to smile. He was beginning to pick up the vibes this middle-aged poofta was pushing out. ‘Well, I must say that I think it’s very clever of you to spot anything in what I did,’ he smarmed. ‘I’ve never done anything like that before. I thought of it in twenty minutes.’
‘Good.’ Ivor bounced. ‘The great things, most of them, have been spur-of-the-moment things. Look at Noel’s songs—thought of within seconds.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course. Now off you go. I have to see a Mr—’ He looked at his notes.
‘Mr Montgomery,’ Sid reminded.
‘Good memory. I hope that you can remember your words as well.’
Bonnie hurled herself back in the room. Sid stood up to go and Bonnie gave him an almost-smile.
‘Have we got his number, Bonners darling?’ Ivor asked.
‘No,’ she growled.
Sid gave it to them, said his thanks and left with a very light heart. On his way towards the lifts he looked around to see if he was alone again. He was. He shouted, ‘Tea,’ at the top of his voice and five doors opened, including Bonnie’s.
CHAPTER TEN
April, 1977
The television show came out one Wednesday night, fairly early in the evening. This was more by accident than anything planned. But it was great for the show because the youngsters saw it—kids between the ages of seven and fifteen, who, had the show been later, would probably have missed it because of homework, having a bath or some even being in bed. But the BBC, in its infinite wisdom, put it on at the completely awkward time of 6.40 to 7.10. It worked beautifully. Sid was happy with it and saw new possibilities not seen at rehearsals. Carrie quite liked it, although she had really never liked anything he had done before, so to Sid this was a step in the right direction. Carrie’s mum missed it. She went out to Bingo. Most of the people who saw it loved it. There was nothing to dislike about it. In particular, the kids thought it was great. Thousands of them wrote to the BBC demanding to see it again. It was a rarity in the fact that for once the whole family could sit down and watch a show together without wondering, ‘Am I going to be embarrassed?’ or the children asking, ‘What did he mean, Mummy?’
It’s not easy to explain why Mr Lonely became so big with the public. He had the gentle approach of the late Arthur Haynes, yet, at times, the coarseness and strength of Jimmy Wheeler. He would walk on to the screen alone, talk to you for a couple of minutes about life in general and soon have you laughing. Then he would introduce a guest singer or musician to you, leaving you to enjoy them. They would finish and back he would stroll and entertain you for a while without speaking, with things like putting up an umbrella, or taking it down. His gift was that he was able to make you laugh by doing the same things you yourself had done. He was soft but never a fool. That’s why children loved him. At other times he was sharp and penetrating, especially with his political routines. That’s when adults loved him. And always at the end of his show he would sing his famous Mr Lonely song, with the same sad appeal as the wonderful Bud Flanagan. The camera would slowly zoom out, leaving this tiny, incongruous figure standing there, while you at home would wait for him to fade from your screens. What can I say about Sid Lewis? Genius? Yes, that’s what I’ll say. Genius.
Ivor had done his job very well, being an extremely astute producer. He knew the character of Mr Lonely better than anyone. He kept the whole of the production light and simple. He wasn’t out to show how clever he was, yet through the simplicity and speed of production he showed everybody how clever he was. The BBC were cock-a-hoop and naturally wanted to set up a series and a deal for the autumn. Sid’s agent didn’t know what had hit him. He went out to lunch with—and was never off the phone to—people who were in charge of the negotiating side of that vast organization. Leslie realized, without understanding, that he was into something big. He made a deal for Sid that Sid thought was impossible. He signed a contract for more money than he thought was ever in the vaults of banks. After the first series, Sid Lewis became a major star.
He left the Starlight Rooms with mixed emotions. He had loved working there. He had never been a real success there, but Al and Manny had kept him in work at reasonable money. He was well into his third year there, but the future now beckoned. Leslie, Sid, Al and Manny had a lunch together and talked Sid’s contract out with a promise to Al and Manny that once a year Sid would work their club at reasonable money. Sid and Leslie gave their word. The first time he worked the club as Mr Lonely he broke all existing records. He was now paying more in tax than he’d earned the year before. Whether that’s a good thing or not I don’t know, but it’s the nearest thing Sid had ever had to a status symbol. Twelve months before he was doing his own tax. At most it used to take him two to three hours on a Sunday afternoon. Now he had a firm of auditors called by a very fancy name—Crawford, Adam and Foiley.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
May, 1978
Sid, the new star, paid the driver of the taxi and entered the Euston Television Studios. The faces of the staff and even other show business people smiled. Sid had a gift for making people who didn’t know him happy. People he had only just met felt happy at having done so. Harry Secombe has the same gift. If you don’t like Harry, you don’t like people. Only a few are given this gift and none of them realizes the happiness they give to others.
That afternoon Sid was doing a television programme, albeit an interview. He was wearing his best dark suit, a blue shirt and a plain tie. He could never understand how other performers went on any type of programme at all wearing a check shirt, jeans and what often looked like running shoes. In his mind you had to look smart. If he was run over by a steamroller, he would turn on his side to keep the crease in his trousers. His mother used to tell him, ‘A crease in your trousers, a clean collar, well polished shoes and you’ll get the job.’
He walked towards the reception desk. The lady who was in charge of the desk, phone and any person who was in a radius of her was an attractive lady, one who would give you no trouble but was the complete boss of her three yards. If she said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr So-and-so is out,’ and you saw him there sitting on her lap, you would say, ‘Well, when he comes back, would you mind telling him I called.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Lewis. Miss Gamerlingay’s secretary will be with you in a few moments,’ she said to him. She then continued with her phone conversation, while at the same time told someone else how to get to Mr Ashley Broad’s office.
‘I’m a little early,’ Sid said to her.
‘Believe me, around here that’s as rare as Willie Hamilton going to Buckingham Palace and asking the Queen if he could take the corgis for a walk.’ She beamed. ‘Ah, here’s Miss Gamerlingay’s secretary now. Hello, Bobbers, this is Mr Lewis.’
‘Hello, I’m Sid Lewis. I think I’m expected.’ Sid tried to keep the conversation low.
‘Hello, Mr Lewis. I’m Roberta Moor-Roberton, known to everyone here as Bobbers. I’m sorry you’ve been kept waiting.’
‘No, I haven’t. I’m a little early. I’ve been here no more than two minutes.’ He turned to nod his thanks to the receptionist. She smiled her thanks, while at the same time keeping half a star under control.
‘If you’ll follow me, Mr Lewis, I’ll take you to the hospitality room,’ said Bobbers. ‘Miss Gamerlingay is there, and Dr Magnus Pyke—he’s on time, too. It’s nice to know that both your stars are already here …’ She saw a small look of surprise on Sid’s face when Dr Pyke’s name was mentioned. ‘You get on all right with Dr Pyke, don’t you?’ She held the swing door open for him.
