Mr Lonely, page 18
‘Really?’ Dawn asked.
‘Well, the couple over my left shoulder—’ they both looked over Sid’s left shoulder at Cecil and Vera, now meeting the McCartneys ‘—can you see them? They’re the ones that look like a politician and his wife.’
‘Got them,’ Carl said.
‘Now, I’m not complaining, but they’ve never heard of me. He actually asked what I did for a living.’
‘Don’t let it get you down, Sid,’ Carl said. ‘People like that are still talking about the Profumo affair.’
Dawn interjected with, ‘They’re still trying to get something good on radio.’ They laughed.
While the McCartneys were involved in an animated conversation about horses with Sir Cecil and Vera, Duncan spotted the theatrical group and nudged his wife, but the nudge was ignored. He tried to manoeuvre her so that she would be able to see two of her favourites together. It was like watching a game of badminton without racquets, shuttles or net, and in slow motion. Eventually he had his wife in the position he had originally been in. She saw Sid and Carl across the room and almost dropped her glass, as Cecil was saying, ‘So she’d broken her leg and we had to shoot her.’
To which Duncan’s wife replied, not having heard Sir Cecil’s last few words, ‘I hope they’ll be very happy … Would you excuse us, please?’
She and her husband left Sir Cecil looking at Vera as if it was all her fault that the world was full of idiots.
Duncan spoke to Sid. ‘Hallo,’ he said, with the softest of Scottish accents. ‘My name is Duncan McCartney, and this is my wife, Ella. She’s so thrilled to see you here, Mr Lewis, and you too, Mr Travers.’
They all smiled and looked at Ella, who said, ‘It’s true. I’m such a fan of both of you. And when Lord Henry asked Duncan to come here and then said you two would be here, well, I got so …’
‘There’s been no holding her,’ Duncan smiled.
‘Well, I wouldn’t say no to holding her,’ Sid said sweetly.
‘Oh, Mr Lewis,’ Ella guffawed.
‘May I introduce Miss Dawson,’ Sid said charmingly.
‘You’re very beautiful,’ said Ella, with a naïvety and freshness that hadn’t been heard in their circle since the Flood.
‘Well, thank you, Ella. I … er … don’t know what to say. I mean, what do you say, other than, maybe you and I can go over and find a corner for a while and chat?’ That, according to Carl, was the longest speech Dawn had ever made.
Wilson, the Fastnet flier, opened the door and almost held back the couple with him while he read from his card.
‘Mr Kennedy P Carradine III, Augusta, Georgia, USA, and Miss Hope Johnson Flick, New York City, New York, USA.’
‘Hi!’ Hope smiled to the room.
‘Hi there,’ Kennedy grinned.
At the door stood two handsome, suntanned Americans with more teeth between them than all the Osmonds put together. Henry ran to meet them.
‘Ken, Hope,’ he said. ‘How lovely to see you.’
‘Hi.’
‘Hi there.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is Kennedy and Hope, who, as you all know, last year won most of the international doubles matches, and they’ve just flown in from Paris—’
‘France,’ Hope grinned.
‘Yes, of course, France,’ Henry mumbled, ‘just to be with us tonight.’
‘Hi.’
‘Hi there.’
Everyone nodded towards them.
‘Please help yourselves to a drink and make yourselves at home,’ Henry smoothed.
‘You gotta root beer?’ Kennedy III grinned.
‘I’ll have a buttermilk,’ Hope said.
‘Yes,’ said a flustered Henry. ‘Er, please go over to the bar and help yourselves to anything you see.’
Sid looked up and saw Henry having what could be called a mild hot flush, so he excused himself to go over and meet the tennis players, and help his friend. Having worked with quite a few Americans, he could almost understand their language.
‘Ken, Hope,’ he began. ‘My name is Sid. Sid Lewis.’
‘Hi.’
‘Hi there.’
‘Henry, I think your …’ Before Sid finished his sentence, Henry had split.
‘Lewis,’ Kennedy said. ‘Now hold on thar. You wouldn’t be any relation to Big Bill Buster Lewis, who beat Connors at the Fort Lauderdale tourno, would yer?’
‘Er, no.’
‘Cracker Lewis? Forest Lawn, New York, 1970?’ Hope grinned.
‘No, I’m not a tennis player.’ ‘Uh huh,’ one of them said.
‘I’m a—’ It’s no use saying a comic, Sid thought, that would really throw them. ‘I’m a jockey,’ he almost whispered.
‘I have no wish to be rude, sir, but they must have big horses in this country,’ Hope said.
‘Yep, sure must be big,’ Kennedy added.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have any root beer or buttermilk,’ Sid said.
‘Okay. That’s okay. Have you got any water?’
‘Of course.’
‘Out of a bottle?’ Hope inquired.
‘Lord Hamlyn St John Laurent Mountfort and Lady Louise Susan Webb,’ Wilson shouted, like Charles Laughton shouted to Clark Gable, in Mutiny on the Bounty.
Sid and Henry looked up at the same time. Henry almost ran to the most beautiful man Sid had ever seen—blond, six foot three, wearing a suit that made Sid think maybe his was one of Cary Grant’s old suits, or even Cary Grant’s first suit. Louise was hidden behind both Henry and Wilson. Sid had never seen Henry so flustered. For the first time, to Sid’s knowledge, Henry didn’t seem to care who knew he was gay. Everybody did, but for the first time you could actually see it through his excitement, rather like a little boy who had been told, ‘You’re not getting a train set for Christmas,’ then on Christmas morning being told to go to the front room where the whole thing had been set up. Sid couldn’t give a sod, as long as Henry moved out of the way so he could see Louise. He excused himself from his new-found American friends, who were still trying to sort out a drink.
‘Is there any cream soda?’ Ken grinned.
‘Seven-up?’ Hope asked.
‘Coke, even,’ they chorused.
Wilson left the room, Henry moved to one side of Mountfort, and there she was. As was said earlier, Sid had seen some beautiful women in his time, but Louise shimmered. Henry was so thrilled with Mountfort, he forgot everyone else. Sid made his way over to Louise.
‘My same is Lid, Lid Sewis.’
‘My name is Louise. How do you do.’
‘May I call you Louise?’
‘Of course.’
‘You won’t call me Lid, will you? It’s Sid, really.’ He smiled. ‘A drink? Can I get you a drink?’
‘You’re not the Sid Lewis?’
‘Yes, thank God,’ Sid said.
‘Have you met Hamlyn?’ Louise asked.
‘No.’
‘Hamlyn?’ she said, turning to Mountfort.
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like you to meet Mr Lewis.’
‘Hello,’ Hamlyn said, without looking at Sid. ‘Are you one of the Leicestershire Lewises?’ he asked, looking into the distance for Henry.
‘No,’ Sid replied. ‘I’m one of the drunken Lewises.’ It had no effect on Hamlyn at all. Sid looked at Louise. She hardly flinched, apart from biting her bottom lip.
‘Where’s Henry?’ Hamlyn pouted.
‘He’s just gone for my favourite drink. He’ll be back,’ Louise said.
‘Would you excuse us?’ Sid asked Hamlyn, putting his hand on Louise’s elbow, to guide her away.
Hamlyn never spoke. He just stood there, this tall, handsome man, looking hurt because Henry wasn’t with him. Sid and Louise made for an empty corner. Louise was looking around the room, while Sid looked around Louise. She was beautiful, quite beautiful. Her hair was black, but shiny black, the same black as a liquorice allsort. Her eyes were large and dark brown. The whites were like two perfectly-stretched hospital bedsheets. She turned to look at him. Her nose was perfect, her mouth was a dream, her neck, her shoulders … Sid was almost in a trance.
‘Do you think you could send out for a coffee? Regular,’ Ken interrupted, with a grin.
‘I’ll settle for a malted milk,’ Hope grinned.
‘The best thing you can do is go into the kitchen. You’ll see the man who brought you in here, a man called Wilson. He used to be one of our prime ministers. If he can’t get you what you want to drink, nobody can.’ It was Sid’s turn to grin. Hope grinned and Kennedy III grinned.
Five minutes later, dinner was announced, a quick affair, with Lord Henry and Lord Mountfort trying to get upstairs as rapidly as thought decently possible. Sparks were coming from their knives and forks. There were two empty chairs at the table—Ken and Hope had left when Wilson asked them what the bleeding hell buttermilk was. Sid and Louise talked, ate and drank, and smiled a lot at each other. Dessert was an ice-cream with a raspberry stuck on it, like a nipple.
The meal, which wouldn’t have worried Charles Forte, was over. Coffee and drinks were brought in. A conversation was started, mostly through Sir Cecil, with Sir Cecil and about Sir Cecil. The two Hs left the table individually; Sid and Louise left twenty minutes afterwards. Wilson left them to it. Everybody was merry. He took a bottle of port and a bottle of brandy to his room, and drank almost to oblivion. The last words uttered by him that night were, ‘Bleeding buttermilk’.
Henry and Hamlyn could be heard upstairs, arguing about the whips and whose turn it was with the sugar tongs and the warm spoons.
As Louise and Sid walked and talked from enormous room to enormous room, on the second landing a door opened and Hamlyn, dressed exactly the same as Mia Farrow in F Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, ran out, chased by a completely naked Lord Henry—naked except for an enormous, white, Robert Redford trilby. He seemed to have a wooden spoon in his hand. Louise and Sid carried on talking, as if nothing was amiss. As if they had been married for a few weeks, they went into a room opened by Louise and locked on the inside by Sid.
‘Will you sleep with me, Sid?’ she asked.
‘No, I’ll do better than that. I’ll stay awake with you.’
‘You don’t have to do anything, just be there.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
November, 1978
Arriving at Las Vegas Airport only twenty minutes late all the way from Heathrow, with only one change at Los Angeles, thrilled Sid. He was proud to be seen in the airport terminal carrying his British Airways bag. The fact that it was an American-built plane never entered his head. The pilot was British. He was from Coolgardie, near Kalgoorlie, Western Australia, and that was the thing to be proud of—not who made the bloody plane, but who flew it—a British pilot from Australia. To Sid, all Australians were British and proud of being so. To Sid, a pom was something a Scotsman wore on the top of his hat.
He was being met by a man he had never seen and who had never seen him. As he walked along to the luggage area a chocolate-coated voice over the Tannoy asked if a Mr Sidney Lewis from England would make his way to the United Airlines desk and make himself known. This he did and was soon joined by the man sent to meet him.
‘Mr Lewis?’ a transatlantic voice asked.
‘Mr Hunter?’ They shook hands. ‘I was wondering how you were going to contact me …’
‘Is this all your luggage?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Uh, huh. Well, if you carry the small one, I’ll see to the rest.’
‘Good Lord, no, I’ll take the big one,’ Sid protested.
‘Mr Lewis,’ Hunter said with a condescending voice, ‘I’m here to look after you while you’re here in Vegas, so if you’ll leave it all to me, please. I’ll see you outside that door in a few minutes. Huh?’ He pointed to maybe thirty glass doors. Sid nodded and made his way to the outside and the hot sun. Mr Hunter thanked the United Airlines receptionist and in return she flashed him sixty-three teeth and wished he had a nice day. Sid stood outside and waited in seventy-seven degrees of sunshine. He always felt that degrees Fahrenheit were hotter than centigrade. Mr Hunter came out with a black porter pushing a luggage trolley with all of Sid’s luggage on it.
‘Hi,’ Hunter shouted to Sid.
Sid was not yet confident enough to do a ‘Hi’ on his own, so he mimed ‘Hi’ back to Mr Hunter.
‘By the way, everyone around here calls me Olly. It’s short for Oliver.’ He lifted his arm to attract a black limousine. ‘Sorry about the weather not being up to scratch.’
‘Why? Did it rain this morning?’ Sid asked, as Olly laughed.
‘Very funny, Lew.’
‘Sid. Sid Lewis.’
‘Oh, yeh, of course. Geez, I’m so sorry, I really am. I mean, well geez. It’s Sid. Sid. Ahh. Alrighty, yep, got it.’ He hit his forehead with an open palm. ‘Okay, Sid, buddy boy. In there.’ He pointed to a never-ending, low-slung black limousine that had silently cruised up to where they were standing. Olly opened one of the doors for Sid to get into the car. Inside was really an air-conditioned room with an engine. Sid settled down and turned to see Olly give the black porter what must have been a very good tip, as the porter smiled a thank you bigger than the entrance to the Mersey Tunnel. Olly joined Sid in the living-room.
‘Okay, driver,’ Olly said and the long, black car gently drove off, seemingly without effort, noise or movement. After a few yards, Sid, out of the corner of his eye, had a long look at Olly. He was dressed in a pair of bright red slacks, white socks, and red patent shoes that matched his slacks. His top half was covered in a splash-of-green-and-white-with-a-touch-of-yellow-here-and-there shirt, that would have looked quite at home in a salad bowl. Black sunglasses covered three-quarters of his face, and what Sid could see of the remainder was suntanned to about the same shade as a bangle to help arthritis; almost golden. His hair was silver and thick. He was a very handsome-looking man. His teeth were all crowned and paper white. If you were in the dark with him you would be able to read by the glow from them.
‘Have you been to Vegas before, Sid?’ Olly asked.
Sid thought he heard a very slight English accent.
‘No, this is my first trip.’ A small lie.
‘You’ll love it,’ Olly said, as if it was a law. ‘I suppose your manager and your musical director have been here a few days already.’
‘Good Lord. I haven’t got a manager or a musical director. The only thing I’ve got is an agent, to whom I pay ten per cent.’
‘He’s here, then.’
‘No.’
‘But why not?’ Olly sounded amazed.
‘He’s petrified I’ll fail out here, and if I do he doesn’t want to share it with me, but if I’m anything of a success he’ll be out on the next plane saying, “Didn’t I tell you you would be great?” But he’s fairly confident in me. Before I left he sent his dress-suit to be cleaned.’
In the slight embarrassed pause that followed Sid looked out of the darkened side window and watched Vegas silently glide by.
‘Where are you from, Olly?’ Sid asked.
‘Here.’
‘No, I mean, where in England?’
‘Can you still tell, then? I thought I’d lost my English accent completely.’
‘No, you’ve still got a touch left. I’m pretty good on dialects. I’m no Professor Higgins, but I can usually tell, and listening to you I would say, north. Where were you born?’
‘Gateshead.’
Sid laughed out loud. ‘Don’t be ashamed, Olly, I won’t tell anybody here.’ Olly forced a grin. ‘Any family at home?’ Sid went on.
It was the kind of conversation Olly did not want. ‘A brother,’ he quietly murmured. ‘I’ve been here in the States since I was a young man. I’m an American citizen now,’ he said proudly.
‘Why aye, yer bugga,’ Sid said in almost perfect Tyneside.
Olly gave him a stiff smile. ‘You won’t be able to use anything like that in your act here,’ he said. ‘They won’t understand a Newcastle dialect here.’
‘I was stationed in Newcastle during the war,’ the driver said over his shoulder. ‘Well, a few miles outside of Newcastle, to be exact.’ He looked at them through his rear-view mirror. ‘They were very nice to us Yanks.’
‘That’s as may be, but this is Vegas,’ Olly said sharply.
‘You can say that again. It sure as hell is.’ The driver said it more to himself than to anyone in particular.
‘You think they won’t understand the way I talk here?’ Sid asked.
‘If you slow down a little, they might. They’ve got to get used to you and the sound of your voice,’ Olly told him.
Sid said, ‘Can you understand me?’
‘Sure I can, but that’s—’
‘Driver,’ Sid called, ‘can you understand me?’
‘Jesus, sure I can. I can understand you better than some guys from Texas.’
‘I’d still advise you to slow down and have a good look round and listen to people,’ Olly urged. ‘This town’s a one-off. I know lots of New York comedians who mean nothing here. They’re big mommas and poppas in New York and the Catskills, but here …’ He made a derisive laugh. ‘Here, they can’t draw their breath. Comics from Chicago sometimes mean nothing. Acts from LA, which is forty minutes’ flying time away—I’ve seen them bomb out. Then suddenly one guy hits it big in Vegas. It could be anyone. It works out about the same odds as winning a jackpot. It could be anyone from anywhere—even a Mex. If he makes it here, he’s a star all over the country, but not always the other way around.’
‘Who was the last British comic to make it big over here?’ Sid asked.
Olly closed his eyes as if thinking. After a few seconds he said, ‘Charlie Chaplin and Stan Laurel.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Sid cried.
‘Okay. You tell me who. Go on, who? Sure, you’ll get one or two who earn a fair living in Vegas, or even the whole of the States, but big, who?’
It was Sid’s turn to close his eyes and think. ‘Engelbert Humperdinck.’
‘He’s not funny.’
‘He makes me laugh.’
‘You can’t think of anyone, Sid. Singers you got, pop groups you got, comics you ain’t got. The only time a British comic does well here is when he plays an upper-crust Englishman, who talks with a lisp and takes the piss out of himself. Then maybe—and only maybe—he might get by. But stand-up comics, they started here. This country’s had smart-arsed comics while England was still laughing at Dan Leno playing dame in pantomime. You can’t compete. What can an Englishman do? First of all they think, why is he talking like that? Then they think, what’s he talking about? You go out there and mention one English politician and they won’t know who you’re talking about, including the Prime Minister. There’s only one politician you can name, and that’s Winston Churchill, and half the audience don’t realize he’s dead.’ Olly nervously lit a cigarette, thinking he had probably gone too far. Sid remained quiet. After a couple of lung fulls of smoke, Olly asked Sid if he was nervous.
