Mr Lonely, page 13
‘I don’t know,’ said Sid. ‘I’ve never met him. I didn’t know that he was also on the show, but I’m a great fan and he works like one, so I’m sure everything will be fine.’
Bobbers was one of the most attractive women Sid had seen in hours. She was wearing a man’s white shirt and black jeans. He had never seen jeans so tight. She could not live alone. She would have to have someone to help her get them on and off. Maybe they were sprayed on? He watched her walk as he followed her. Her movements were a sensation. Sid thought, And some people get a thrill watching Kevin Keegan. This girl walks like a pigeon on a hot pavement.
‘First door on the left, Mr Lewis,’ she said. This time he held the door open. She was obviously pleased by this. He followed her into the room. A small table was on the left-hand side and that was being used as the bar. Three armchairs were in the room and two television sets; one was in colour and one didn’t work. Just behind the door, four hooks were strategically placed for twelve overcoats. What it meant was, that in the winter you could not open the door for overcoats, and in the summer you could not open the door for overcoats, either. As Sid looked around he thought, Well at least there’s ice. It’s in a cup but it’s ice.
To be honest, Euston Studios were mainly offices, with little television output, apart from the odd show like this. As Bobbers and Sid entered the room the seven people in it turned towards them with typical British enthusiasm. Four of them looked away, while the other three ignored them completely. Sid smiled at everyone in the room with his now-famous ‘Share that amongst you’ smile. In a way he felt like a man who had been accidentally invited to a Tupperware morning, and not only had he arrived late but had brought a bottle of Scotch. The secretary and Sid looked at each other for a second. They didn’t speak. They were now joined by Miss Gamerlingay.
‘Sid, how nice to see you.’ She shook his hand firmly.
‘It’s nice to meet you, Miss Gamerlingay.’
‘Henrietta—Henrietta Sarah Gamerlingay. It’s a terrible name, I know, but I tell everybody as soon as I meet them and that gets it out of the way early on. My friends, and I’m sure we are going to be, call me Henry.’
‘Henry?’
‘Henry,’ she repeated as she straightened her bowtie and pulled down the points of her waistcoat. ‘Have you met Knickers?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Knickers—Mavis—Mavis Nicholson. We call her Knickers, you see. Nicholson—Knickers. Henrietta—Henry …’
‘Yes. We did meet once but in all probability she wouldn’t remember when.’
‘Knickers,’ Henry shouted. Mavis looked across the room at Henry and with a smile excused herself from the tall, thin man to whom she was talking. This was the thinnest man Sid had ever seen. You could only see him from the front. He was the original chinless wonder. Twenty years ago, if he had been convicted of murder and sentenced to hang, they would have had to put the rope under his arms. Mavis made her way towards them. Henry stood there waiting with a half pint of beer in one hand and the other hand stuck in her pants pocket. Mavis was wearing a plain, very nice, feminine dress. Sid thought, How feminine she looks. He also thought that, next to Henry, so did he.
Mavis joined them and in her soft, Welsh voice said, ‘Hello, Sid, how are you?’
‘Hello, Mavis,’ Sid replied. ‘I was just saying to Henriet—er, Henry, that we’ve only ever met once before.’
Mavis frowned, trying to think where, while Henry began to light a small cigar, which was stuck in a pipe-shaped cigarette holder. ‘Wasn’t it at some charity or other?’ she asked.
‘It was at the Lord’s Taverners Ball, two years ago. In the private room, where all the people who have done anything get a couple of free drinks, before they go downstairs and start paying for them.’
‘Have you met Maggers?’ asked Henry.
‘Who’s Maggers?’ Sid asked.
‘Magnus—Maggers—or Pykers—whichever,’ said Henry.
Bloody hell, Sid thought. Maggers, Pykers, Knickers. I suppose I’ll be known as Sidders, but Sidders wouldn’t mind some crumpers with that seccers Bobbers.
Mavis beckoned Maggers to join them. He was at the far end of the room and crossed it very much like Tarzan crossing the jungle, except Maggers’ vines were invisible. Maggers, Sidders and Knickers were talking to each other nineteen to the dozen, when Bobbers appeared and gave Sidders a whiskers and waters. She tried to give Maggers a ginners and tonners but he was moving his arms so much she gave up the idea and drank it herself. Sid thought that Maggers must get his drinks intravenously. He probably had a fellow who called at his home late at night, came in through the window, stuck the needle in his arm, gave him a large gin and tonic while he was asleep and left.
Unfortunately for Sid, Bobbers left the room. However, within a few minutes he was asked to go to makeup and from there into the studio for a run-through for voice level and cameras. The run-through only took a few seconds and so as not to lose any spontaneity, the questions for the show were to be different from the questions for the run-through. There were three cameras in the studio, but they might only use two. If so, they would take the third camera and put it at the back of the studio. To Sid there was nothing more sad than a dead camera with its long lens pointing to the floor as if it would never rise again, rather like a naked eighty-year-old man.
On this type of show—an afternoon show—there would be no audience; although there were forty or fifty seats in the studio, they were all empty. The working area consisted of two chairs, one for the guest and one for Mavis. The microphone was attached to your tie, or it was on a stand between the interviewer and the interviewee, or it might be a boom mike. That type of mike is controlled by a very long retractable arm, which the boom operator works backwards and forwards, and the mike head can also be worked from side to side. But the boom mike would probably not be used on Mavis’s show. It was the type of mike that would be used in a play, where they have rehearsed with the artists and know when and where the performer is to speak. It was not for a show like this, where there would be no definite pattern of dialogue. Anyway, there were Maggers’ arms to think of. One quick sentence could knock an inexperienced boom operator from Euston Studios straight into the BBC. Both the artists and the tech boys preferred the tieclip mike. For the tech boys the fun came when they had to fix one on to the dress of someone like Raquel Welsh or Sophia Loren. The man who had that job would pray for a go-slow or better still work to rule.
The idea was that as soon as Mavis had finished with her guest, she would then be given a close-up and the first guest would be dragged from the chair and the second guest transplanted into it. This was, of course, unseen by the viewer. It was always thought to be better to be the second guest as you had the advantage of getting a warm seat. In a soft accent the viewer would see and hear Mavis say, ‘That was Magnus Pyke, ladies and gentlemen. Now my next … Well, what can I say about my next guest that hasn’t been said before? Let’s find out. Ladies and gentlemen, will you say good afternoon to Mr Sid Lewis.’
It was at this stage that the nerves came. How many times have you watched a person on television who was not in the least bit nervous until he realized the camera was on him and on him alone? He doesn’t believe that the camera is on him, he’s fine if he thinks it is on anyone else, but when he looks slightly to the left or right and sees the camera is making its way towards him with a red light on it, lit up, you will see the strongest of men go a funny colour (that’s if you have colour: or go a funny black and white if you only have black and white). This is the time when the nerves creep up upon you. This is the time you start to feel like an oyster at low tide, or a turkey in November. But this is only an unrehearsed chat show—no sweat. ‘Come on,’ you say to yourself, ‘it’s not like doing your own show with twenty million people watching.’ Now that’s when you get the real nerves. That’s when your heart starts to thump—the kind of thump you would get if Sophia Loren walked naked into your bedroom and said, “Hello, Sid. Carlo’s had to go back to Italy for a few days. Move over.” ’ But this is a show with no studio audience, a relaxed question-and-answer show. Still, Sid felt a certain amount of deep-breath tension. Yet it soon passed when he started to talk.
‘May I say good day, Mr Lewis,’ Mavis began. ‘One of the first things—’
‘It’s a pleasure to be here.’
‘Thank you—’
‘Because you may—’
‘First thing I feel I would like to know, Mr Lewis—’
‘Sid.’
‘Sid.’ She smiled. ‘First—is the name Lewis. Are you a Welshman, Mr Lewis?’
‘No, I—’
‘You see, the reason I’m asking you is I’m Welsh and Lewis to me is a Welsh name.’
‘No, I’m not a Welshman, although there might have been a Welsh connection in the past. There’s no mention of it in my family. I’m a Cockney, born within the sound of Bow Bells.’
‘How wonderful. Where were you born?’
‘Potters Bar.’
‘Pot—but Potters Bar surely isn’t within the sound of Bow Bells? I mean you can’t hear Bow Bells in Potters Bar.’
‘I have excellent hearing.’
She said, ‘You must have.’
‘Pardon?’ he smiled. ‘I was deaf for six months you know, completely deaf. My mother took me to a specialist.’
‘Did you have an aid?’
‘Yes. Only a cheap one. It was a card with “Speak up” written on it. That was my father’s idea. But everything worked out fine, all by accident. My mother put some olive oil in my ear one night as she put me to bed and the very next morning I heard from my sister in Luton. She used to ring up every time Luton Football Club won. Sometimes she would ring up twice a year—’
Mavis was quick to realize that if she wasn’t careful, she would end up as his straight woman and she didn’t want that. She began again. ‘Your success came to you, if I may say so, rather late in life.’
‘Yes,’ Sid answered. ‘I suppose it did, really, but I was making a good living …’
‘How old are you?’
‘Could you make that question a little more direct?’
‘How old are you? You must be … what? Forty-nine? Fifty?’
‘Forty-six.’ She set the trap and I fell in, Sid thought.
‘And your wife?’ Mavis was going on.
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Oh, yes, what?’
‘She was a child bride,’ Sid said.
‘A lot of women don’t like to tell their real age. Why do you think that is? I mean your wife, what was her first name?’
‘Carrie.’
‘Carol.’
‘Carrie.’
‘Carrie.’
‘Yes.’
‘Does she object to anyone knowing her right age? I mean, if a woman is forty, she’ll usually tell you she’s thirty-eight. A woman of forty-three would say thirty-nine … fifty—forty-seven … until they get to about eighty-five, then they tell you they’re past ninety. Maybe you think I’m talking rubbish, but haven’t you noticed that most women take a few years off? Does your wife object to telling anyone her right age? I find that most men tell the truth or as near as doesn’t matter. Does your wife?’
Sid said, ‘I don’t … I, er, honestly …’ He thought, Carrie always takes a couple of years off except in her passport and that picture makes her look ten years older, anyway. He spoke again: ‘You see, Mavis, age is a funny thing, and I wish I was right now.’
‘How old is Carrie?’
It was like somebody saying, ‘Check,’ and you’d lost your queen early in the game. Think Sid and think quick.
‘Your age?’ Sid castled.
‘Forty-three.’
Check again and your bishop’s gone, he thought. Aloud, he said, ‘Yes, she’s thirty-nine.’ Checkmate! They both grinned.
‘Are you happily married?’ she persevered.
‘Very much so,’ he answered, a shade too quickly and definitely too automatically. ‘But you could soon put a stop to that,’ he said, wishing like hell he hadn’t.
‘Why? Are you a ladies’ man then?’ Two pairs, jacks and kings.
‘Of course, my wife’s a lady.’ Three deuces.
‘Does your wife mind you being a sex image?’
‘It’s better than a sex change.’
Mavis ignored him beautifully. ‘It’s rare for a comedian to have a sex image. You have. Does Carrie mind?’ Seventeens pay eighteen or over.
‘What sex image?’ Twenty-three—bust.
‘Well, you must know you are not disliked by your female fans. Ninety per cent of the letters that have arrived at the studios this week, after telling the viewers that you were going to be my guest this week, are from women.’ Nineteen pay twenties or over.
‘But that’s because more women than men watch this kind of programme, surely?’ Twenty.
‘Yes, but a lot of young women watch this programme. They are not all over ninety.’ Pay pontoons and five cards only. ‘So what would you do if a woman wrote you a sexy fan letter?’
‘How old is she supposed to be?’
‘Let’s say, she’s forty.’
‘I’d swop her for two twenties.’ Ace, two, three, four, five in hearts.
‘Are you a religious person?’
‘Good God.’
‘With that answer, you must be.’ Solo.
‘Well, I don’t read the Bible every day, but when I get to about sixty-five I’ll start reading it more. As I get older I’ll start reading it every day.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, you could say I’ll be cramming for my finals.’ Misere.
‘In your act you do religious jokes, don’t you? And even anti-religious jokes.’
‘Well, a joke is a joke is a joke.’
‘Tell me a funny religious joke.’ Abundance.
‘Oh? Well, er let’s see … Yes. A man phoned his priest and said, “Could you come over right away, my wife is dying and would like—” And the priest said, “Your wife? But I buried her three years ago.” “Well,” said the man, “I married again.” “Oh,” said the priest, “congratulations.” ’ Abundance in trumps.
‘You have a daughter, haven’t you? Elspeth.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she the only child?’
‘Yes, she is.’
‘Were you an only child?’
‘Yes, I was, apart from my brothers.’
‘Now I … Are you serious? I thought you were an only child.’
‘I am. It was a bit of a joke. Only a little bit. Yes, I am an only child.’
‘… because I was going to say, looking at you, I would never have said you were an only child. I would have said you had lots of sisters. It’s just an impression you seem to give.’
‘I don’t know why, but I am an only child, according to my mother. My dad never says much anyway, and he also has a bad stammer. If it hadn’t been for the stammer, I could have been two years older.’
‘And you were born in Potters Bar?’
‘Yes. In the saloon bar, to be exact.’ Sid thought, All these little gems are being ignored. Do they want a serious talk, or do I get in what I can?
‘Did you go or did your parents take you to see many shows as a child? You know, live entertainment?’
‘Well, there was always panto, and variety, at the Hippodrome, Golders Green.’
‘Anywhere else?’
‘The Palladium pantos, a few music halls here and there, but most of the theatres were closing. If you wanted to see any of the big shows with big names when I was a kid, I mean names no longer with us, Sid Fields, George Formby, Will Fyffe …’
‘When I first came to London to work, I used to see the plays in the West End every week. I never went to a music hall. I knew they existed but I never went. I would only go to the Palladium to see a big American star, like Danny Kaye or Judy Garland.’
‘Didn’t you ever see Max Miller, or the Crazy Gang, or Gracie Fields? They were just as good as any American star, you know?’
‘What do you think killed music hall?’ Mavis asked.
‘Well, you for a start …’ Two cherries and a lemon.
‘Only because it didn’t appeal to me. Surely you can’t force me to go, can you?’ Three plums. ‘And I used to go to a play a week.’
‘How many do you go to now?’
‘Well, er, um … I still manage …’
‘Come on, Mavis, how many a year?’
She smiled. ‘Maybe two a year.’
‘Did you go to the Palladium the last time a big American star was there?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I’ll take you there some time.’ Three sevens.
‘With Carol?’
‘Carrie can’t stand shows.’
‘I don’t think I should go with you alone.’ Jackpot. ‘When I was a little girl in Swansea, there were the Empire and the Playhouse theatres, but Dada used to come to London once a month. It was part of his job, and when he got back he would tell me all about the shows he had seen and the places he’d stayed at. One of his favourite places was right in the middle of the West End, the Mapleton Hotel. He would stop at the Mapleton Hotel—’
‘When my father came to London, he would stop at nothing.’
‘Well, it’s been a great pleasure and I’d like to thank you for spending your afternoon with me.’
‘It’s been a plea—’
‘And, of course, to the lovely Magnus Pyke. Next week I will be talking to an American doctor who says he can prove that cigarette smoking can be good for the health, and my other guest will be Mr John Junkin, scriptwriter to the stars, telling us what some of them are really like and why he now lives in Jersey as a tax exile. So from me—good afternoon.’
The camera made Sidders and Knickers into shadows on the screen. The sound was taken out and an organ played some unknown melody. The mikes were the first things to be taken off and the fellow with the earphones said, ‘That’s it. Thank you, everybody.’ The studio manager and the three performers all looked at each other as if to say, ‘How was it?’ But really nobody knows. You hear words like, ‘Great’, ‘Fantastic’, or ‘That’s the best for the last few weeks,’ or, ‘You were super, darling.’ But really nobody knows. Only the viewer. They are the only ones because they saw it and they are the ones you are trying to entertain.
