Mr Lonely, page 14
Carrie was sitting at home watching the television, waiting for Sid’s afternoon show to come on. She had eaten a snack lunch, poured herself a second cup and had just switched on the television as the phone rang in the hall. It was her mother, phoning from Nether Wallop, near Stockbridge. Her mother phoned every now and again; a complaining lady. When she phoned, it was as if she had saved up two or three weeks’ worth of bad news. She never phoned in the cheap rate because she hated Sid and she thought he would be out in the afternoons, and if she phoned in the evening he might answer the phone. When he did answer the phone, she always said, ‘Sorry, I’ve got the wrong number,’ and put the phone down.
‘Hello,’ Carrie said.
‘Hello, Carrie, this is your mother.’
‘Oh. Hello, Mum.’
‘Hello, Carrie. Sid there?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
‘He’s working. He’s—’
‘You can’t call what he does work.’
‘Well, he’s on television this after—’
‘His last show was terrible. I can’t go out shopping here now. I have to go into Middle Wallop for my shopping.’
‘As a matter of fact, he’s on “Good Afternoon”.’
‘He should get a real job. Your father says it’s only nancy boys go into television.’
‘How is Dad?’
‘By the way, the doctor avoids him now, I don’t think he’s got long left with me.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Seven years she’d been saying this.
‘Last week the undertaker bought him a drink in the Swan … a pint.’
‘Mum, Sid’s on television this afternoon. Why don’t you watch it and I’ll ring you back?’
‘What time is it on?’
‘Now.’
‘What’s he doing on in the afternoon?’
‘It’s a chat show, you know, an interview. They ask him different questions. It’s called “Good Afternoon”. It’s on commercial.’
‘We can’t get it here.’
‘You can. I’ve watched it with you when I’ve come home.’
‘They’ve altered it. It comes on earlier here than when you get it so I’ve missed it.’
‘But it’s live.’
‘You see.’
‘What?’
‘Hello.’
‘Hello?’
‘Is that you, Carrie?’
‘Yes, I’m still here.’
‘I thought we’d been cut off. The butcher’s run off with that funny maid from Windy Hills. You remember that funny maid. She entered the Sainsbury’s Low Fat Yogurt Competition.’
‘Sid’ll be on in a minute, Mum. Mavis Nicholson is talking to Magnus Pyke.’
‘He’s daft. Anyway, she didn’t even qualify.’
‘Who?’
‘The maid. The compère at the hall said, they were after low fat but not as low as that. Well, laugh, everybody did.’
‘But how cruel.’
‘Yes, wasn’t it?’
‘Look, Mum, I must go. Sid will be on any second now.’
‘Roger, the policeman, thinks she’s pregnant.’
‘Mum …’
‘Yer dad says the vicar’s got cancer.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘And his wife had a breast off only six months ago.’
‘Sid’s on.’
‘The left one, like Mrs Ford, the ex-American president. She had the same, at least, I think it was her. It was either her or Gracie Fields’ mother. No, it couldn’t have been. Yes, it was the American president, had his left one off. Carrie? Carrie?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Are you listening?’
‘Yes, Mum.’ She was trying to watch Sid through the crack in the door.
‘Yer dad’s got his limp back, but he’s very brave about it. He never tells anybody. And the cat’s died.’
‘Oh, Mum, when?’
‘Just now, I think. She’s sitting by the fire but she doesn’t seem to be breathing. Her tail’s going so I suppose she must be all right.’
Carrie was watching through the crack but the sound was so low she could not hear it. ‘Mum, I must go,’ she said. ‘I’ll ring you back as soon as the programme has finished. Mum?’ Silence. ‘Mum?’ One heavy breath. ‘Are you all right, Mum?’
‘Your dad’s just limped in. God, he looks pale. Would you like a word with him? I think you ought to. Hang on, I’ll go and give him a hand over to the phone.’ The phone was put down and Carrie could only hear muffled noises at the other end and hardly any sound on the television. She still looked through the crack of the door.
‘Hello, Carrie.’
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘It’s your dad. He can’t make it.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s his leg.’
‘Which one?’
‘Both of them.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The doctor says he should really have one off.’
‘Can you get the phone to him?’
‘Oh, look at him. He’s trying again. He’s trying to walk over to the phone. Hold on, Carrie. He’s here.’
‘Shello.’
‘Hello, Dad.’
‘Shat you, Carrie?’
‘Yes, Dad. How’s your leg?’
‘Shfine.’ (Belch) ‘Whyshoult … why shoultded be?’
‘Dad?’
‘Yesh?’
‘Put Mum back.’
Carrie heard, ‘She wantsa, she wantsa talk with you … why, I’ll never know. She’ll never getta word in.’
‘Carrie, it’s Mum again. Wasn’t it wonderful of your father?’
‘Mum, he’s drunk.’
‘No, dear.’
‘Yes, Mum. He’s as drunk as a lord, and in the afternoon, Mum.’
‘Drugs. That’s it, drugs. Doctor Sowerbutts has put him on drugs. It’s been nice talking to you. I’ll see you soon. Is your husband well?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘Good. What’s he doing at the moment. Is he in?’
‘No, Mum, he’s out. Goodbye, Mum.’
‘Bye.’
The phones were both put down, Carrie’s much quicker than her mum’s. She rushed into the room, sat on the settee opposite the television and turned the sound up. Mavis was asking if Carrie told the truth about her age. Then the front bell went, and went and went. Carrie slowly got up to answer it. At the front door was a dark-brown-skinned man with a turban.
‘Good afternoon, lady,’ he said. ‘First, do not let me startle you. My name is Ramish and I am here selling you the wonderful tablecloths and napkins I am having here with me in my suitcase.’
‘I am sorry, Mr er …’
‘Hydrobradanann,’ continued Ramish Hydrobradanann.
‘Well, I’ve bought all I can use.’
‘Me, too, lady. That is why I’m trying to sell you some. My wife hand-makes them and my little daughter girl makes the napkins. All beautiful embroidery. I’ve been selling here in North Finchley now for many, many years and my father before him. Let me show you please, lady. Let me show you the beautiful work in all of them.’ He snapped open the suitcase and had three flying tablecloths in the air. ‘Feel them, lady. I am wanting you to feel them, please.’
‘I honestly don’t need any.’ She tried to be nice.
‘How about a carpet, please? I could get you some from the van.’
‘No, thank you. I have all the carpets I need.’
‘Persian carpets?’
‘Yes,’ she lied.
‘Very well, lady, I will not interfere with you any more. A few hankies maybe?’
‘Look, Mr Hilowbaddin. At the moment my husband is on the television.’
‘Then maybe you would like some chairs. I go get them from the van.’
‘No, please. Nothing at all, thank you.’ She closed the door in his face and in a heated state went back to where the television was blaring out. Mavis was just saying, ‘And John Junkin, scriptwriter to the stars, will be telling you what some of them are really like and why he now lives as a tax exile in Jersey. So from me—good afternoon.’ The commercial followed. It was from Allied Carpets.
Sid, with the others, was being ushered back to the hospitality room for a couple—or three if you wished—drinks, crisps and nuts.
‘Great. Liked the part where you …’
‘Yes, but when you put your arms out …’
‘Really? I thought it was …’
‘One of the best that’s ever been …’
‘Goodbye, Magnus.’
‘Goodbye, Sid. It was a pleasure working with you. When I told my kids you were going to be on this show with me, they were very envious.’
‘Obviously very intelligent children,’ Sid said and everybody laughed.
Magnus spent several minutes waving goodbye. Sid thought, I bet he could dislocate his shoulder saying hello.
Mavis was talking to her producer. Sid was looking for the secretary, but at the moment was talking to the stage manager. ‘Well, that’s very kind,’ Sid smarmed.
‘No, it’s true. We all think you’re bloody great.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Well, we do.’ The stage manager picked up his third, or was it his fourth, G and T. ‘You’re a lucky bastard, ‘cos the lads like you, all the scene lads like you. It gets around, you know, those who are nice to work with and those who are not.’
‘Yes. Well, I suppose it does,’ Sid said, trying to look interested. He thought, How the hell does Prince Philip do it? I wish that secretary would come in.
‘You see, we’ve seen ‘em all here. You should see some of the crap we’ve seen who’ve made it big. Pass the nuts, just at the back of you.’ Sid did and watched him take a handful, put them all in his mouth, swig his drink down and say, ‘Now I know I shouldn’t tell comedians a joke, but this is a belter. You can use this in one of your sketches. A wife is in … no that’s not, oh yes … her husband comes home early from work.’ The stage manager laughed. ‘And he finds his husb … I mean, his wife, in bed, you see, having it off with this fella, so he says … the husband says, “Hey, what’s the meaning of this?” ‘
‘I’m sorry, Sid, that I couldn’t come over before,’ Mavis said as she walked into the middle of the conversation.
The stage manager snarled, ‘Oh, Christ, Mavis, I was halfway through a bloody joke.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Colin.’
‘Where was I?’
Sid said, ‘The husband.
’ “What’s the meaning of this,” the husband said.’ ‘… meaning of this, and the wife said, rolling over, “That seems a fair question. What is your name?” Ha, ha, ha, ha. Oh, dear, ha, ha, ha, ha. You could use that one, Sid.’
‘Yes, but not under my own name,’ Sid answered.
Mavis led him away from the stage manager, who had moved to another group and had picked up someone else’s drink and was again stuffing his face with nuts and crisps. She said, ‘I would really like to say thank you for doing my show, Sid. I know it’s only an afternoon programme, but it gets very good figures.’
‘Not as good as yours, I bet.’ Her black eyes flashed.
‘Anyway love, you know what I’m trying to say. Just a special thanks, that’s all.’ She kissed his cheek and walked towards the door. ‘Bye, everyone. See most of you tomorrow. Thanks again.’
The stage manager came back to Sid and, almost in tears, said, ‘I’m sorry, Sid.’
‘What for?’
‘About that joke.’
‘Forget it.’
‘No, I told it wrong. I left a bit out. The husband said, “What’s the meaning of this? Who is this man?” I left out, “Who is this man?” you see. And the wife said, “I think that’s a fair question. What is your name?” Ha, ha, ha. “What is your name?” Ha, ha, ha.’
Tears were starting to roll down the stage manager’s face. Sid suspected that drink was coming out of the right one and crisps and nuts out of the left one. He thought, It’s time I left. The secretary won’t be coming now, so I’ll fade.
He made his way towards the door, saying his thank yous and goodbyes, when a voice from the back of the room shouted, ‘Sid. Sid. Just a minute.’ The stage manager ran across the room, pushing a couple of people aside. ‘Goodbye, Sid. You were great, great.’
‘Thank you, and thanks for all you did.’
‘Yeah. A fella knocked on this house … the door … of this house … and said to the lovely young woman who answered the door, “Do you use Vaseline in your household?” “Yes,” said the woman. “We use Vaseline when me and my old man have it off. We put it on the door knobs so the kids can’t get in the bedroom.” Ha, ha, ha.’
Sid grinned and left. As he closed the door, the lift door opened and out came the secretary. ‘Are you leaving, Mr Lewis?’ she asked.
‘Well, er, yes. I was just waiting.’
‘Oh, well, goodbye and thank you. I’m sure it was a good show.’ With that she went into the room he’d just left. As she opened the door, he heard, ‘… on the door knob so the kids can’t get in.’
Sod that, Sid said to himself. I’m not going back in there while he’s in there. Anyway, she probably lives with one of the cameramen or some actor. So he left the building.
Sid knew you could always get a cab outside Euston Studios—well, if you held up a five-pound note and had the gift of being able to convey a ‘Keep the change’ look. There have been drivers who have actually shouted the number of a five-pound note correctly from across the other side of the road at between twenty-five and twenty-eight miles an hour.
But where to go? It would be no good going home. That was just an evening watching television, no laughs and Carrie. I mean, he thought, why shouldn’t I have a bit of fun? A few laughs. I’ve done my work today and finished early. What time is it? Four-fifteen, and if I go home I’ll be caught up in the middle of all the traffic. No, I’ll ring Carrie and ask her about the show and stay up in town for a while, till the traffic dies down.
Sid went back into the reception area. The smiling and efficient lady was still sitting behind her counter. ‘Yes, Mr Lewis?’ she said.
‘Is it at all possible to use your phone? I’d like to—’
‘Of course. What number do you want?’ Sid gave her his home number. She dialled it. ‘It’s ringing out.’ She smiled and handed him the phone. Sid automatically turned his back as Carrie said, ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, darling. Sid.’ As if anyone else would call her darling, anyway.
‘Hello, Sid. Is anything wrong?’
‘No. I just rang to say I won’t be home till later.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right.’
‘Yes …’ What excuse? ‘It’s the traffic. If I left now, I wouldn’t be home till sevenish. Well, between six-thirty and seven. I’m calling from the studio.’ He whispered as people walked around him, and he had to turn away from them. If you could have set it to music, it would have been a dance routine. ‘And I still have to get to Marble Arch underground car park to get my car, and at this time of day, cabs are impossible to get. I mean, looking out now there’s at least six people waiting to get a cab.’ Sid looked out. It was as empty as an old maid’s bed in the afternoon. ‘And it looks a bit like rain.’
‘It’s lovely here.’
‘Yes, you’ll probably miss it.’
‘Most likely.’
‘Did you see the show?’
‘No, I’m sorry but I missed it.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Well, I sat down to watch it, but I had the BBC. I thought it was on BBC. So by the time I’d realized, it was too late. I switched over just in time to see “Produced by Rita Gamble”.’
‘Gamerlingay.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Rita Gamerlingay.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did anyone ring after the show?’
‘Well, I don’t know, Sid. Elspeth had left the phone upstairs off the hook. It must have been like that since she went out. I’d only just put it back and you rang,’ she lied. Sid could not shout or lose his temper, where he was, so Carrie took the easy way.
‘Oh, okay, then. Anyway, I’ll be home between seven-thirty and eight.’
‘I thought you said six-thirty to seven.’
‘No, darling. Seven-thirty to eight. Okay. Bye, sweetheart.’
‘Oh, Sid?’ she almost shouted.
‘Yes?’
‘An Indian gentleman called this afternoon with some tablecloths and things.’
‘An Indian?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t buy anything, did you?’
‘No.’
‘Good. It was probably Spike Milligan, anyway.’
‘Really?’
‘Goodbye, love. I won’t want anything to eat.’ Sid put the phone down, thanked the receptionist and once more left the building. He was standing outside wondering what to do and where to go, when Miss Roberta Moor-Roberton also came outside carrying a briefcase.
‘Hello, Mr Lewis,’ she said.
Sid turned quickly, his face brightened. ‘Hello, er … I’m sorry I can’t bring your name to mind.’
She smiled. ‘Moor-Roberton.’
‘No, not your second name, your first,’ he lied.
‘Roberta.’
‘Of course. Roberta.’
‘Bobbers. Are you waiting for a taxi?’ she asked.
To Sid she had what he thought was the Swedish look. Blonde hair to her shoulders, dark blue eyes, full lips and very white teeth, tallish, around five foot eight, a great figure, and age-wise twenty-six or twenty-eight. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering what to do. I have a few hours to kill and I was wondering what to do with them.’ He held his hand over his eyes to shade them from the sun. It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky and no chance of rain. He thought, I hope Carrie doesn’t see any pictures on the news taken in London, or worse still see the weather forecast with some idiot saying, ‘Well, haven’t we had a beautiful day, especially in London?’
‘You’re lucky, having to wonder what to do,’ Bobbers was saying. ‘I always seem to have something to do. I’ve got to get these scripts to Henry Sullivan.’
