Mr Lonely, page 7
Sid’s name on the bill was just a shade smaller than ‘Printed by’. One day Sid asked the funniest-looking chorus girl for a date the next morning and a coffee, purely and simply because, although she had a slightly funny look, a small cast in her left eye and slightly protruding teeth, she had a figure that made Lana Turner’s look like a man’s. This girl’s figure was perfect. Sid thought, I could always get her to look the other way. But she said ‘No’ to the date. Sid knew why. Ed was using her in a couple of his ‘pull your pants down’ sketches. Sid suspected that by next mid-June, her figure was not going to be the sensation it now was.
Sid spoke to her nicely. ‘Hello, Lavinia.’ He never heard what they called her for short. ‘Fancy a coffee in the morning and maybe a drink afterwards?’
‘No thanks, Sid,’ she said in a full, nasal, northern accent.
‘Why not?’ he asked, slightly offended.
‘Mr Low might not like it.’
He was liking it all right, Sid thought. He’d be a berk if he wasn’t. ‘What’s it got to do with him anyway?’ he asked aloud.
‘Well, yer see, he doesn’t like anyone working in his sketches mixing with too many people in the same company. He sez it’s bad for the show’s image.’ Her ‘Bugs Bunny’ teeth flashed.
Sod yer, Sid thought, although he said, ‘Oh, okay, er … Have you heard about Ed?’
‘Heard what?’
All chorus girls love gossip, even the kind Sid was about to deliver made-up. He thought he would have a little fun.
‘Well, it’s only a rumour,’ he said.
At the word ‘rumour’, her Bugs Bunnies flashed again and her ears almost stood up.
‘Well,’ Sid continued, ‘and I am only telling you this in secret because somebody told me in secret and that somebody was someone outside show business.’
Her big blue eyes looked like organ-stops except, of course, for the slight cast. ‘Yes?’ she said excitedly.
‘Well, this particular someone saw him in Boots.’ Sid waited.
Lavinia looked at him. ‘Boots?’ she echoed.
‘Yes, Boots—the chemist, not the cobbler’s.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, he was talking … to a girl … behind the counter. Now, listen to this bit. He was, or, so this fellow said, he was actually … smiling!’
‘How d’yer mean?’ she asked, thinking the least he had done was flash himself.
‘Now, this stranger was asked if Ed had showed his teeth, and the stranger said, “The smile happened so quickly it was over in four and a half seconds.” So the stranger said that he, personally, did not see them and the reporter from the local press asked the girl behind the counter the same question but she had fainted.’
Sid stopped abruptly. Lavinia just kept looking at him, nodding her head, waiting for him to continue.
‘Well?’ she finally said.
‘That’s it. Ed smiled!’ Sid replied.
After about ten seconds’ wait and several more nods she said, ‘Yer daft bugger,’ and walked away.
There were two other girls on the bill who were acrobats, with pretty faces, nice boobs—and legs like male Russian shot-putters. They would run to the front of the stage from the back in their act, and people nine rows away shook in their seats. The first three rows were always covered in a thin film of dust, and the cymbals on the drums played of their own accord. Children cried and an old man had a heart attack one first house. He was sitting in the middle of the third row and everybody thought he had stayed for the second house. Nothing was suspected until a lady arrived with the same numbered ticket. She thought he was being rude and ignoring her so she told an usherette, a dear old lady of over sixty-five, who shone a torch on him that was stronger than the spotlight for the show. She had to disturb the whole row to get to him. As soon as she realized he was a gonner, she fainted over his legs, pulling him down to the floor with her. Her torch hit the ground and went out. He landed on top of her and this poor old usherette actually fainted six more times before the interval. The manager brought the ice-cream down but he could not find her so he had to sell the ices himself in his dress-suit. She eventually managed to roll down past the front two rows, while the boys, Court and Bold, were doing their soft shoe dance to ‘Home in Pasadena’. She arrived at the curtain partition that separated the audience from the band. She rolled through and the musical director, who was standing up conducting, disappeared very quickly from the audience’s view. The usherette stood up in his place and shouted to the audience, ‘He’s dead.’ They thought she was talking about the conductor. Everybody in the band stopped playing except the drummer, who was extremely deaf and permanently drunk. The band and the front row all got up to look and to see the conductor’s body but he was only knocked out by the edge of the piano. The old usherette ran up the aisle and out of the theatre and was never seen again. Court and Bold carried on. Well, Bold did. Court ran off. The drummer kept going, and the manager of that particular theatre still holds the record for selling the most ice-creams.
Sid met Carrie while he was appearing in summer season at the Wellington Pier, Yarmouth. Although she would never admit it, and he would never refer to it, she had let him pick her up. She was twenty and he was twenty-four.
Poor Sid—no birds. They had all been taken up and by the end of June each girl in the show had her own fella. During the last week in June, Sid came out of the stagedoor—no mail, as usual; even his mother and father had not written. Well, they had, but had misunderstood and thought he had said Dartmoor, so they had been writing to Sid Lewis, c/o Wellington Pier, Dartmoor. His agent had now got a phone but only took incoming calls. As Sid walked down the few steps from the stagedoor on to the planks of the pier itself he looked to the left, as he always did. It was a great view—one enormous expanse of water. It was his favourite view because you could not see Yarmouth at all. Leaning on the rail this particular morning, looking out to sea, was a young woman with long brown hair. She wore a dress, and that was all it was—a dress, a cheap, thin, cotton dress. It was a bright day and with any luck he would be able to see through it, but alas—no—she was wearing a slip. She turned and saw him and as they looked at each other she moved away quickly, sending her ice-cream scoop flying into the sea. She was left holding an empty cone.
Sid walked over, smiling, and in his young, sophisticated way said, ‘Well, it’s better than being left holding the bag.’
She went the colour of strawberry ripple.
‘Can I get you another one?’ he asked.
‘No thank you. It wasn’t your fault. It was loose.’
‘A coffee?’
‘I don’t like coffee ice-cream.’
‘Are you on holiday?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ She had toned down a little in colour from strawberry ripple to raspberry explosion.
‘Alone?’ he pursued.
‘No.’
‘Oh?’ He waited. Nothing more came from her. ‘Right. Well, I’m sorry to have troubled you. I’ll leave you to your empty cone.’
He started to walk away. After he had gone no more than four paces he turned round to do his Gary Cooper wave. He saw her trying to force the heel of her shoe into the division between the planks. She did not see him turn towards her so he turned away quickly.
‘Oh,’ she screamed.
Sid turned back again. ‘What is it? Has your ice-cream jumped back?’
‘It’s … er … my shoes. One of them is stuck.’
‘Allow me to take it out. But first you must take it off.’
Sid bent down and gently took hold of her calf. She started to tremble a little and had to steady herself by putting her hands on his back. He undid her shoe, took her foot out but held it in his hand. The shoe was not really stuck but Sid acted as if it was very difficult to get out. Finally he freed it. He put it back on her foot and fastened it.
‘Thank you very much, Mr … er …’
‘Lewis. Sid Lewis.’
‘Mr Lewis.’
‘I’m appearing here.’ This threw her. She obviously did not know that there was a theatre on the pier.
‘Yes?’ Strawberry Ripple said.
‘Here. I appear here. I’m a theatrical.’
‘What?’
‘A theatrical. Show biz. Like people in films.’
‘Laurence Olivier?’
‘Well—in a way. Come and have a coffee.’
‘I can’t, Mr Laurence.’
‘Lewis.’
‘Mr Lewis.’
‘Well, why not? I’m not going to harm you. Just a coffee, as I feel partly responsible for the lost ice-cream. You know, just a coffee. No touches. No footsies under the table.’
She was now sunset red.
‘A coffee,’ Sid urged. ‘A tea. Sit there with an empty cup. Look, the café’s full and you’ll be quite safe.’
A little boy of about four years of age stood at the end of the pier next to them and peed into the sea. She almost fainted. ‘All right,’ she gasped, and ran towards the café.
Sid followed her shouting, ‘And get one for me, two sugars.’
She slowed down and he caught up with her. ‘I mustn’t stay long,’ she said. ‘I’m supposed to meet my mother at twelve outside the hotel opposite the pier.’
‘Are you staying there then?’
‘Good Lord, no. We’re at the holiday camp, and very nice it is. It’s just Mummy and I. Dad’s working.’
‘How long are you here for? Two coffees, please. I mean—how long are you here in Yarmouth?’
‘Two weeks. This is our third day.’
‘Oh. Would you like to see the show I’m in?’
‘No thank you. We can see them free at the camp.’
‘Well, I meant … I thought I’d get you a couple of comps.’
‘Comps?’
‘Complimentaries.’
‘No, don’t please go to any trouble. Mum and I go to the camp dance every night.’
‘You dance?’
‘Yes. Mum leads.’
The waitress brought the two coffees. ‘One and six, please.’
Sid flipped two bob. ‘Keep the change, sweetheart.’ He felt like Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon.
They sipped their milky, non-coffee-tasting coffee and kept silent for a while. After a couple of minutes Sid said, ‘I’ll take you over to your mother.’ Coffee went everywhere from her mouth. A new colour came to her face—deep Smith’s Crisp, Sid called it.
‘Sorry. Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she said to everyone. ‘I’ll be all right. Please don’t.’
He saw that she was more frightened than worried. ‘Well, can I maybe see you tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘No. Er … no. Oh dear. Yes, I’d like to but I can’t. This is the first time I’ve been alone since I’ve been here and look at me. I get into all this trouble.’
‘Trouble? What trouble?’
‘This.’ She spread her arms. She was almost in tears.
‘Listen.’ Sid spoke quietly. ‘I come here every morning between ten-forty-five and eleven. I hang about the pier and at about one p.m. I go back to my digs for lunch. Digs, you know, where I stay, and after lunch I maybe go to the flicks, or if it’s a nice day, to rollerskate.’
She looked at her watch. ‘I must go.’
‘Well, if you’re here any morning, I’ll see you.’
‘Yes. Please can I go?’
‘Of course you can. What’s your name?’
‘Carrie.’
‘Okay, Carrie, off you go.’
He watched her leave the café and slowly got up, feeling in his pocket for a threepenny bit to leave as a tip, which he did. He had reached the door, when he suddenly realized he had already done the Bogart bit, so he went back for the coin but within those four seconds it had gone. He looked through the window of the café as Carrie crossed the road. He saw her meet a woman and remembered saying to himself, Thank God, she must take after her father.
On the morning of 5 November, 1954, Sid jumped out of his hotel bed, washed, shaved and dressed, before his breakfast. It was his wedding day. He was going to marry Carrie. In five more hours, at eleven o’clock, that very morning. At six-thirty a.m. he knocked on my door, opposite his. I was hard and fast asleep—well into dreamland. In my dream I was appearing at the Dunes Hotel, Las Vegas, to the biggest crowd they had ever had and to the biggest laughs they had ever heard. What was so amazing in my dream was the ease with which the laughs came. I only had to walk on stage wearing a string vest and a large cap, shouting, ‘I love you all.’ In my dream I had received the keys to the city and was being made an honorary Indian chief (Cherokee) by a topless squaw with the biggest knockers I’d ever seen. I remember saying, ‘Those knockers, those knockers,’ when, as the dream faded and reality stepped in, I was actually saying, ‘Who’s knocking? Who’s knocking?’
A distant voice said, ‘It’s me, Sid.’
Not knowing for the minute where I really was—I was still taking bows at the Dunes—I sprang out of bed in the darkness, hitting the wall the side of my bed was up against. Although I did not leave the bed, I very quickly left the Dunes.
‘Open up. It’s Sid.’
‘Aren’t you well?’
‘Great.’
‘Just a minute.’ I had slow recall coming through. I swung to the other side of the bed and, with a sigh, put my bare feet on to the freezing oilcloth of a hotel in Luton. Once out of bed it took only one step to reach the door and from the darkness of my room I looked out to see Sid in his dark suit—a flower in his buttonhole, a smile on his face, just waiting to say, ‘I do.’ He stood there in the most dimly lit corridor it has ever been my pleasure to almost see. I am sure the light bulb was the one Edison threw out, shouting, ‘Another failure, Mum.’
‘Come in,’ I said.
He did and looked at me. ‘Aren’t you ready?’ He looked perturbed.
‘Sid, it’s only twenty-five to seven.’ He stood there and grinned.
‘So. I once played the Old Black’s Regal, Gateshead, and it’s always twenty-five to seven there, even at a quarter-to-four it’s twenty-five to seven in Gateshead.’
I said, ‘If you carry on like this you’ll be asleep at the wedding.’
‘Put some light on,’ he replied.
I switched the wall light-switch down, up again, almost sideways, and back down again. Suddenly the whole room was plunged into a little less darkness. I closed the door and felt my way back to the bed. It was still invitingly warm.
‘You’re not going back to bed, are you?’ Sid said.
‘Keep your voice down a bit,’ I whispered.
‘What for? There’s only you and me staying here. There’s only two rooms and we’ve got them. Didn’t you notice when we came in last night they took the “Vacancy” sign down, turned it over and it said “No vacancies” upside-down.’ He glanced around. ‘I’ve never seen such a dark place.’ He found a standard lamp by knocking it over. He picked it up and lit it. The shade leaned to one side like Frankie Vaughan’s top hat. The shade was made out of imitation, imitation parchment. It also had a big burn mark on it.
Sid sat on the edge of the bed.
‘You shouldn’t sit there,’ I said. ‘You’ll get bits of fluff over your suit and you do your act in that suit, don’t you?’
He nodded as he went to sit in the easy chair. This chair also leaned to one side like Frankie Vaughan’s top hat. As I looked at him sitting there, he gave the impression he was turning for home and base in a Spitfire.
‘What’s the time, Eric?’ he asked.
‘Twenty-to-seven.’
A pause.
‘That was a great party last night.’
‘Good.’
‘Yep. My stag night—my bachelor party—last time out with the lads as a single fella. I know there was only you and me there, but we don’t know anyone here, do we?’
‘No.’
‘You’re not annoyed, are you? I mean, with me being here early?’
‘No. I’m asleep.’
‘Well, I couldn’t tell in this light. For all I know there could be a girl in that bed with you.’
‘I’ll check when the sun comes up.’
‘Anyway, I enjoyed last night. That was a good speech you made, when you said, “I’ll get the bill.” That was the best part.’ He smiled.
‘What’s the weather doing?’ I asked.
‘It’s pouring down.’
‘Pity. It might clear up.’
‘So might a leopard’s spots.’
That answer was followed by some seconds of silence. I could hear the rain. I remember thinking it could spoil the kids’ bonfire night. I had heard they were going to set fire to the town hall.
‘Am I doing the right thing?’ Sid asked.
‘You’re certainly not doing the right joke. It might clear up—so might a leopard’s spots. Bloody hell!’
‘I mean … am I doing the right thing … getting married?’ He stopped talking and made a nervous twitch with his mouth.
‘Well, four hours four minutes from now, you’ll know,’ I told him, trying to keep the conversation light.
‘I’m serious,’ he said.
‘Are you getting cold feet? Who’s getting cold feet, then? I thought it was only the girl who got cold feet.’
