Mr Lonely, page 3
Sid looked at Why. She did not look overworked. He noticed as she put down the tray that she had changed her dress. She was now wearing very little everywhere. She did not speak and, as she walked away from him, he looked at her lovely little firm, round bum and thought, I’ll never eat another hot cross bun again.
The gong sounded. Sid looked towards the river but nothing happened because Aye came through another door which was painted as a rice planter. As the door opened Sid thought he saw a pained expression on the face of the painted rice planter as the whole of his arse was moved from the rest of his body.
Aye was carrying a folder. Her outfit—well, with Why you could see through what she was wearing, and with Aye you could not see what she was wearing. To Sid twenty-five pounds was a lot of bunce, but at least they were working for it. Judith Chalmers would have difficulty in describing Aye’s costume—two pieces of elastoplast and a cork.
‘Why you no undressed?’ Aye asked Why.
‘Well, you see …’ Sid started to answer.
‘I was asking my sister, Why. Why you no undressed?’
‘Oh.’
Any moment Sid expected Aye to say, ‘Did white man arrive in big iron bird?’
‘Why? Please.’
Why went to the leg end of the high mattress, while Aye went to the other end, placed her hands on Sid’s shoulders and easily and professionally forced him down. Why grabbed his underpants and, with one deft movement, whipped them off, and his socks too, with such speed and dexterity that would have made a hospital nightnurse applaud and many a magician go home and practise. Sid’s first reaction was to reach for the towel, but that was by now in the same place as his underpants and socks, wherever they were. So, as he first thought, he felt like a chip.
Aye handed him the contents of the folder. ‘Please to take plenty good look at Chinese art,’ she said.
God, she was a bloody awful actress. Sid was given six ten-by-twelve blow-ups of what were once known as French postcards—the kind of thing all men looked at but would not have on their person in case they ever got knocked down or run over.
‘Are you showing me these for a reason?’ he asked.
‘To help patient relax,’ Aye answered.
‘Well, that’s the last thing they’re going to do.’
Why started to massage Sid’s big toes very gently, while Aye held his head up so he could see the Chinese French postcards without having to lift his arms in the air. The pictures were of hands and things. Sid recognized Why by the ring on her finger. After looking at the pictures twice through, Aye took them from him and let his head fall back hard on the table, which made his Adam’s apple bounce up and down fast enough to make cider. Why was now massaging the back of his knees. Aye put the pictures back in the folder and put them on the tray. She then picked up a tin of Johnson’s baby powder and powdered him with it, as if it was a salt-cellar and he was a chip. Aye and Why were now standing either side of his shoulders. The lights started to dim on their own. Sid wondered, Am I being watched? Am I part of room 70′s French lesson? He tried to look round for an eye hole but, from his position, could not see one. Powder and hands were everywhere. At one stage he thought he felt five hands, but he dismissed that thought.
‘Please—you have name?’ Aye smiled.
‘Er … Dick.’
‘Dick. Very nice name.’ Why said shyly, ‘You have number two name?’
‘Barton.’
‘Dick Barton. Velly nicee name,’ Aye said, with a resounding slap.
This woman must be the worst actress in the world, Sid thought. The nearest she’d ever been to the East was Ley Ons, the Chinese Restaurant in Wardour Street, and, as far as 69 was concerned, that was the special fried rice on the menu.
Powder was now settling. Another hard slap.
‘Please vill you turn ofer.’
That was the third accent she’d used. Sid did as she commanded just in case she said, ‘Ve have vays of making you turn ofer.’ Forget Edward G. Robinson, Sid thought, as Why tried to walk up and down his spine. But keep an eye out for Curt Jürgens rushing in to tell us all that the Allies have invaded France and the Führer is insane.
‘Over again, please.’
Sid turned, but a little too quickly, before Why could get off the table. She landed on the floor flat on her hot cross bun. Why came out with some language that Sid had only heard once before, when a red-hot rivet had landed on the inside of a ship-builder’s leather apron.
‘Sorry,’ Sid said and got up to try to help Why off the floor. As he did this the lights started to get dimmer. The room was now almost dark, obviously from some timing device. Why put out her hand to grab what was, she thought, Sid’s helping hand, but Sid’s helping hands were under both of her arms. Sid let out a scream that would have sent both Edward G. Robinson and Curt Jürgens running out of the room.
By this time Aye was making her way round to both of them, when, on cue, the room went into complete darkness. Aye tripped over Why’s legs and fell with arms outstretched. Nature being what it is, self-preservation took over, and she held on to the first thing she grabbed. Sid let out yet another scream.
The music got louder and faster. There was a knock on the rice planter and a female voice shouted, ‘Are you all right, Doreen? Doreen, Stella, are you all right?’
‘Switch the bleeding light on,’ Doreen or Stella shouted.
The lights slowly came up. The rice planter was once more in his painful broken position and Sid saw what he took to be Madame La Rochelle standing in the doorway with the eleven-foot negro, both naked.
‘Shut that door,’ one of the girls shouted.
What a great catch phrase, Sid thought. I must remember that.
Madame La Rochelle shut that door. The rice planter must have been in agony. Sid, Doreen and Stella were still on the floor.
Sid laughed painfully. ‘Well, at least it’s been different. Original, even. Stella?’
‘Yes?’
‘How do you feel?’
‘All right.’
‘Probably more shock than anything,’ Sid grinned. He stood up. ‘Well, Doreen,’ he asked. ‘Do I get a refund, or do we do a deal?’
‘Refund?’ She said the word as if she had just heard it for the first time, as in ‘Me Tarzan—You Refund’.
‘Well, it was you who had the thrills. Both of you grabbed me by the orchestras.’
‘Orchestras?’ they chorused.
‘Yes. Orchestra stalls. Now do I get a refund? Let’s say half, or do I tell the police you both tried to rape me?’
All three were standing up. Stella, Doreen and Sid.
‘No refund,’ said Doreen.
‘Okay then,’ Sid mused, ‘we carry on where we left off.’
All three smiled. Doreen nodded, Stella rubbed her bruises and Sid said, ‘Lights, music, action. Doreen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t keep doing that. It doesn’t help,’ Sid said in the darkness.
CHAPTER THREE
April, 1976
Sid’s way of earning a living was, to say the least, hard. The idea of his job was to entertain the people, who had paid sometimes £3.50, sometimes £15 per person, for what was loosely called dinner. Dancing was thrown in, rowdies were thrown out and, now and again, dinner was thrown up. Gambling, if permitted, was always kept well away from the entertainment because the management did not like the audience to hear the cheers of a man who had just won seventy quid, or the screams of a man who had just lost seven hundred quid, although they were less against the cheers than the screams. If the star name was big, so was the business; if the star name was not big, neither was the business. Service was normally slow but what’s the rush anyway. The waiters were mainly foreign, the waitresses were usually British and the customer was often hungry. Invariably the room was dark; only the staff could see their way around because God has given all nightclub waiters special eyes. The toilets were sometimes as far away, or so it felt, as the next town. The sound system was the nearest thing to all the bombs falling on London during the last war condensed into two and a half hours approximately.
Sid’s job was to come out on to a small platform or stage and try to tell you how much, thanks to him, you were going to enjoy yourselves. The nightclub audience is not prudish but it will not laugh at a dirty joke unless it is filthy. So the comic feels that he has to gear his material to that audience for safety, the safety of his job. No one is going to pay a comic good money if the laughs are not there, so laughs have got to be found and the safest way is the oldest way—give them what they want. That maxim still applies, from the shows at Las Vegas to opera at Covent Garden. If they do not like it, they don’t come. In this side of show business it’s called ‘arses on seats’. If the seats are empty, so is the till. So Sid had to walk out and face a basically uninterested audience and get laughs with the first of his four or five 12- to 15-minute spots, and, of course, have something prepared in case the lights failed, the star got drunk or the resident singer had not turned up because she had had a row with the fella she was living with and her husband had ever so slightly changed her face around a little when she went back to him. Not a lot, she’ll be fine when the swelling goes down!
Sid was on the side, waiting to go out there for the first of his spots. The group were on their last number, which received its usual desultory applause. Sid’s music started—‘Put on a happy face’. He checked his flies and walked out as if he was the biggest star in the world. Wearing a wellcut, modern evening dress suit, mohair of course, and a pale blue frilly dress shirt that d’Artagnan would have been proud to wear, he timed his walk to the mike so that he could take it out of its socket, put it up to his mouth and sing the last line of the song ‘S.. o.. o.. o.. o put on a happy f.. a.. a.. a.. c.. c.. e. Thankyouladiesandgennelmengoodevening.’ The end of the song and the welcoming words corresponded volume-wise with the air raid on Coventry. Three quick blows into the mike to check that the sound was working. ‘Now first of all, ladiesandgennelmen, can you hear okay?’
‘No,’ shouted a voice from the blackness.
‘Then how did you know what I’ve just said?’ He tapped four more times on the mike top with his fingers. ‘My name is Sid Lewis, ladiesandgennelmen. The most important thing is—are you enjoying yourselves?’
‘No,’ was the shout from the same voice from the same blackness.
Sid put his hand up to his forehead and looked into the distance, reminiscent of Errol Flynn as Robin Hood saying to Alan Hale as Little John, ‘Run, it’s the Sheriff of Nottingham.’ What he did say was, ‘Don’t worry about him, folks. He’s only talking to prove he’s alive.’ He put his hand down. ‘I’ll tell you something about him. He’s a great impressionist—drinks like a fish. His barber charges him 80p—20p a corner!’
He had no worries about the voice coming back at him again from the darkness because the voice was a plant, a stooge. By the time Sid had done his barber joke, the stooge was backstage drinking a pint, paid for by Sid.
Sid was now into his act, walking about with the mike. ‘Let me tell you something else. No, listen. A father and son. Got that? A father and son walking in the country. Now, listen. A father and a son. It’s all good stuff this. When suddenly a bee lands on a flower. The little boy kills it with a rock. No, listen, you’re laughing in the wrong place. His father says, “For being so cruel you won’t have any honey for a year.” Walking a bit further, the boy sees a butterfly land on a flower. He cups his hand around it and squashes it. No. Not yet. Don’t laugh too early. Soon. I promise you. S.. o.. o.. o.. o.. n. The boy’s father says, “For doing that you won’t get any butter for a year.” Then they went home. His mother was in the kitchen making dinner, when she saw a cockroach. She stamped on it and killed it. The little boy said, “Are you going to tell her, Dad, or am I?” … Cockroach … Do you get it? Cockroach. C-o-c-k … Oh, well, it’s up to you.’
Sid kept moving around the small stage, looking at nearby tables. ‘Here’s one. The same little boy. That’s right. The same little boy ran towards his mum wearing a pirate outfit. His mum says, “What a handsome-looking pirate. Where’s your buccaneers?” The little boy says, “Under my buccanhat.” Now, listen. Here’s another one you might not like. You’ve got to listen to me, lady. I work fast. The same boy, same boy. He’s on a picnic with his mummy and daddy and he wanders off. No, not for that, lady! Just for a walk and he gets lost … Aw … Aw … Come on, everybody. Aw … Sod you, then. Anyway, this little boy’s lost, same little boy, so he drops to his knees to pray. “Dear God, help me to get out of here.” A nice prayer. Straight to the point. Now then, as he’s praying, a big black crow flies overhead and drops his calling card right in the middle of the little boy’s outstretched hand. The little boy looks at it and says, “Please God, don’t hand me that stuff. I really am lost …” Now, listen … Here’s one. You’ll like this one, lady. I can see you have a sense of humour. I can tell by the fella you’re with. Now, listen. This one’s for you.’
Sid sat down on the stage close to the table where the woman was and helped himself to a glass of her wine. ‘A girl hippy said to another girl hippy, “Have you ever been picked up by the fuzz?” The other girl hippy says, “No, but I bet it must be painful!” Now, listen. A poem. I know you like poems …
A lovely young girl called Lavern
Was so great she had lovers to burn.
She got into bed with Arthur and Fred,
But didn’t know which way to turn.
Now, listen. Don’t get carried away … You’ll like this one, sir. May I ask? Is this your wife? Is she your wife, sir?’
The man nods.
‘I took my wife to the doctor’s this morning and he said to her, “Open your mouth and say moo.” You’ll like this one, sir. This could be you. A handsome husband … Why is your wife laughing, sir? A handsome husband, whose wife was a raver. I said you’d like this one, sir. “I’ve found a new position,” he tells her. “Great,” his wife says, “which way?” He says, “Back to back.” She says, “Back to back? How can that be done?” The husband says, “I bring home another couple.” I knew you’d like it. I have to go now. One more poem before I go and lie down. Poem …
A ballerina with very big feet
Would give all the stagehands a treat.
But if they asked for a ride,
She’d blush and she cried,
“It would ruin my nutcracker suite.”
See you later, folks.’
The music would start and Sid would run off to a fairly good response. They would not go mad for him because they realized he was coming back throughout the evening.
Twenty minutes later, Sid was back on stage, and happy. ‘Always happy when I’m out there working.’ He had been on for maybe ten or twelve minutes, handing out bouquets of flowers to the silver weddings, the twenty-firsts, the eighteenths, newly-weds and the engagements. As a matter of fact, Sid could present a bouquet to anyone. He was good at that. He’d been at it now for almost two years, night after night. He knew his audience, but more important, his audience knew him. They accepted him. It had been said that Sid could present a bouquet to a dead body and have the body go off smiling. The hard part was getting the body to come on, there being very few places on that small stage for it to lean against.
Perspiration was beginning to dampen his shirt collar. He undid his tie and opened his top shirt-button. It gave the impression he was working hard. He walked about the stage in the spotlight that followed him like the light of the top tower in a jail break at Sing Sing. The mike was almost glued to his lips. He never stopped talking. He was never at a loss for a word or an ad lib. His style was fast and full of energy. Nothing subtle and no fear. If he saw a woman in the audience with a large bust, he would go straight to her, look directly into her eyes and say, ‘We have our own bouncers here, lady. But I see you’ve brought your own, or are you just breaking them in for a friend?’ The table she was on would erupt into gales of laughter, the tables closeby would look and laugh, while the rest of the audience would carry on eating and talking, but Sid would walk around and within a second would come out with, ‘Here … no … listen. Have you heard the one about the Irishman?’ Then he would go into his latest Irish joke, this being the one he had heard from the petrol attendant on his way to the club that night.
‘I do POWER comedy,’ he used to say. ‘Never give the punters time to think.’ He would walk, talk, ask, beg and shout at the punters to help him get a laugh.
On stage with him were a young couple.
‘So, Sharon, your name is Sharon, isn’t it, Sharon?’ Sid put his mike to her mouth and Sharon nodded. He put the mike back to his own lips, ‘And your name, sir?’
‘Mar’in.’
‘Martin. Well, it’s nice to have you both with us. Sharon and Martin.’
The young couple shuffled about, Sharon on her six-inch wedges and Martin on his size-twelve Kickers.
Sid looked into the blackness of the moving, eating, talking noise. ‘Because tonight, ladiesandgennelmen, Sharon and Martin are here to celebrate their engagement. So how about a round of applause for Sharon and Martin?’
A table thirty or forty feet away from the stage whistled and applauded.
‘How old are you, Martin?’
‘Nine’een.’
‘Nineteen,’ Sid bellowed. ‘And Sharon, how old are you?’ he asked in a much softer voice.
‘Seveneenanaalf,’ she giggled.
‘Seventeen and a half.’
Sharon tried to hold Martin’s hand. Martin, embarrassed, slimed out of her grasp.
‘So what are you going to do with these lovely flowers, Sharon?’
‘Give’m to me mum.’
e’Give them to her mother,’ Sid told everyone. ‘What do you say to that, Martin?’
