Mr Lonely, page 8
‘Look, I want to know. Am I doing the right thing?’
‘Will you please keep your voice down,’ I hissed. ‘How the hell do I know if you’re doing the right thing? I’m your best man, not a clairvoyant. If you don’t know, how do you expect me to know? I mean … I don’t know, do I?’
‘I love her. I’m almost sure. Yes, yes, I love her very much. She’s the best thing that’s happened to me in my whole life, but I have this nagging thought at the back of my mind. Am I doing the right thing?’
I thought, Here we are, two kids—him and me, in this scratty hotel in Luton, and one of us—him, is all dressed up to take the biggest plunge since Blondin fell off his tightrope. I couldn’t help him. I mean … what could I do? I was almost as bad as him. I had got up twice during the night to make sure I hadn’t lost the ring. I did the only thing I do well. I said a few stupid remarks, like, ‘It’ll all turn up in the wash. It’s all my eye and Betty Martin and Jerry Lewis. He who hesitates supports Fulham.’ And finishing with, ‘He who laughs last wears false teeth.’
I looked at him sitting in Frankie Vaughan’s hat. ‘Sid,’ I said, ‘I don’t know what you mean when you say, “Am I doing the right thing?” You know, I mean, if you love the girl and you’re sure, then you’re doing the right thing. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘What a bloody stupid statement that is!’
I had to agree.
He took the carnation out of his buttonhole. It was beginning to look a little jaded. He had bought his, and mine, the day before, knowing he would not get one from Carrie’s mother. She would never forgive him for marrying Carrie if she lived to be a hundred. According to Sid, the old trout was past that age already.
‘I’m not going to leave show business,’ he said, unwrapping the silver paper from his white carnation. I looked over to my carnation, perched in a plastic beaker of water. It was now brown. It had been white the night before. Probably the tap-water. I must remember not to drink it. I could end up with ‘Luton liver’.
‘I get the impression Carrie wants me to leave the business,’ Sid was continuing. ‘I know she wants me to get a normal job. She gives me subtle hints, like she only lets me kiss her goodnight outside the Vauxhall factory.’ He laughed and so did I. He went on, ‘But it’s true, Eric. It does worry me. I know she doesn’t understand show business and I’m adamant that I won’t leave it.’
The silver paper was now on the floor surrounded by a few carnation petals. My carnation was almost black and the water it was in seemed to be bubbling. The water from the tap was probably coming direct from the Okefenokee swamp. It was exactly like the water you see monsters slowly sink into at the pictures. I was fascinated watching it trying to eat the carnation.
Sid moved to the other side of Frankie’s hat.
‘Have you got much work lined up?’ I asked.
‘No. I’ve got three weeks arranged after the Salford panto.’
‘What about summer season?’
‘Nothing yet.’
‘Well, Ed Low’ll see you right, won’t he?’ I said.
‘No chance. He wouldn’t touch me with an Airwick on the end of a twenty-foot barge pole.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, he found out what I’d been saying about him in Yarmouth.’ Sid shrugged. ‘From that toothy bird. What’s her name? Lavinia. So my chances of working with him have been well and truly Friar Tucked.’
‘What Lavinia?’
‘That girl I told you about with the buck teeth. The raver with a great body. Anyway, she’s four months gone.’
‘Really?’
‘So I was told. It happens every summer season with Ed. He’s known as joke ‘em and poke ‘em. Good God, there’s more Lows in our business than impressionists of Al Jolson.’
I looked at my watch on the bedside beer box and waved goodbye to my carnation as it sank slowly in the mess. It was half-past seven. ‘Something’ll turn up.’
‘Yeh, her mother saying “I told you so”.’
‘Well, the way I see it is, you’ve got three and a half hours to make up your mind. Nobody, but nobody, can do that for you. That’s for sure, and if you’re going to run, run now, because—’
‘You sound like James Stewart in Mr Smith Goes to Washington.’
‘If you run now,’ I went on, ‘you’ll make Carrie unhappy and her mother happy. If you stay, you’ll make Carrie happy and her mother unhappy.’
‘I’ll stay—just to make her mother unhappy.’
‘Good. I will now arise, shave, wash, check on the ring, so there will be no jokes at the church. You nip downstairs and tell our landlord, Wild Bill Hickock, I’m in town and waiting by the breakfast table. It’s to be hot, buttered rolls at forty paces.’
The pub where we were staying was called the Dog and Badger, which, I am sure, was what I had for breakfast that morning. Neither Sid nor I ever saw the landlady, only the landlord. Sid did say he heard moaning coming from an upstairs attic very similar to Mrs Rochester in that film of Jane Eyre, but, knowing Sid, it could have been a joke, although, having seen the landlord, it could also have been true.
Sid slowly climbed out of Frankie’s hat. ‘I’ll get a paper,’ he said.
‘Get me the Sketch or the News Chronicle,’ I shouted.
The water was now over the rim of the beaker.
Not being there, and having to go on what Carrie said, her wedding morning went something like this.
At seven-thirty the alarm bell went. Not the alarm clock, the alarm bell. Carrie’s mother pounded into her bedroom in their council house in Baden Powell Street. She was wearing an old, grey, heavy material dressing-gown that reached the floor. She weighed a good fourteen stone and always, when she wore that dressing-gown, reminded Carrie of a barrage balloon. A cup of tea in one hand and a saucer in the other, she landed near Carrie’s bed. Carrie was already wide awake. She took the tea from her unsmiling mum, who then put the saucer in her dressing-gown pocket.
‘Thank you, Mum. What’s the weather like?’
‘Pouring down,’ she answered darkly.
‘Never mind. It might clear up by eleven o’clock,’ Carrie said happily.
‘No it won’t. You’ve still got time to cancel everything. I’ll ring the vicar and the Dog and Badger.’ Her mother looked at her with unblinking and expectant eyes. ‘Think about it, Carrie. Think about what I am saying. It’s for your own good, dear.’
Carrie calmly sipped her tea.
‘Me and your dad only want what’s best for you. We only have your interests at heart. We could keep the presents until you marry someone else. No one would mind. Your dad’s very upset but he’s not the type to tell you.’
‘Oh, Mother.’ Carrie looked up. ‘He doesn’t even know which church I’m getting married in and by eleven-thirty he’ll be drunk. That’s all he cares about.’
‘That’s not true,’ her mother snapped. ‘You don’t seem to care what you say anymore since you’ve gone around with that fellow. I wish I’d never taken you to Yarmouth. I hate Yarmouth.’
‘You always said you loved Yarmouth.’
‘I used to.’ She was getting desperate. ‘I mean … look what happened to your auntie May.’
‘What happened?’
‘He left her. Her husband left her.’
‘He had to, Mum. He died.’
‘Ah, yes, but had he lived he’d still have left her.’ This was said as if that bit of information was a family secret.
Carrie’s mum slowly lowered herself on to the bed. Carrie heard the springs in the mattress fight back and quickly give in. ‘My dear little girl,’ she said. A new ploy, thought Carrie.
‘Did I ever tell you about your father’s sister’s cousin, Rene?’
‘No.’
‘Well, she married into show business.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, well, it was almost show business. He was a salesman for women’s underthings.’ Carrie’s mum looked around the room with slight embarrassment.
‘Yes?’ Carrie questioned.
‘He thought like … er … er …’
‘Sid,’ Carrie helped.
‘Yes, he thought he was funny, too. He used to say selling corsets was living off the fat of the land. Well, Rene used to laugh until one day she found him living with one of the fat of the land. So anyway, she left him.’
There was a short, sharp silence.
‘And you’re saying Sid will do the same with other women?’ Carrie asked.
‘It’s written all over him. He’s got thick eyebrows.’
‘Well, Mum, if he does, it might be my fault. Maybe because I’m not good enough for him in bed.’
‘Carrie!’ Carrie’s mum almost screamed.
‘Well, tell me this, Mum. When did you and Dad last make love?’
The springs in the mattress wailed in sympathy.
‘I’m going to tell you something you don’t know, young lady,’ Carrie’s mother said. She was almost in a state of shock. ‘Thank the Lord, and you will thank the Lord, that when they reach the age of about thirty-eight they lose interest.’
No wonder Dad drinks, thought Carrie. She said, ‘Why don’t you like Sid?’
‘Who?’
‘Sid, the man I’m going to marry.’
‘What makes you think I don’t like him?’
‘Who, Mum?’
‘Him.’
‘Sid?’
‘Yes.’
The situation was saved by Carrie’s dad walking into the bedroom. ‘Hello, my precious,’ he said, ‘and how’s my little princess this special morning?’
Carrie’s dad was the opposite of Carrie’s mum, small-framed and thin. He was the kind of man who had a size fourteen and a half neck but always wore a fifteen and half collar around it. Together they were the image of the Bamforth’s Seaside Saucy Cartoons.
‘Hello, Dad.’ Carrie smiled. ‘It’s a pity about the weather.’
‘Well, never mind. This time tomorrow you’ll have had it.’
Carrie’s mum turned the same colour as the always-damp mat under the sink—puce. Carrie’s dad had not realized that he had said anything remotely naughty.
‘Do you like Sid, Dad?’ Carrie asked.
‘Sid who?’
‘The man I’m going to marry this morning.’
‘Oh, a nice boy, I’m sure.’ He looked at Carrie’s mum to see if he had done the right thing. He noticed her colour. ‘Having a hot flush, dear?’
‘Get out.’
‘Yes, dear. See you later, Carrie,’ he said.
‘Yes, Daddy.’
As he left she climbed out of bed. Carrie’s mum watched her. There’s no doubt, she thought. She’s got a lovely, young body. (Carrie stretched herself.) And a lovely, young face to go with it, and it’s all going to waste on that idiot. What can she see in him? Oh, God, why didn’t you hear my prayers? She could have done so much better for herself.
Carrie had now slipped into her dressing-gown. Her mum was still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing, one of her curlers hanging loose on the back of her head, still thinking: only six doors down that Frankie Priest, a lovely boy, he’s down in Newmarket now learning to be a jockey. I know she’s six inches taller than him and a stone heavier, but he might win the Derby one day. Billy Lee. His father is a manager of one of those Freeman, Hardy and Willis shoe-shops, and his spots would eventually go. Roddy Margerison …
‘Mum, Mum, what time is it?’
‘Eh? What? Oh, it’s nearly eight o’clock. There’s plenty of time. Go and have a long soak in the bath. I’ve told your dad to stay out of there this morning. He’s using next-door’s. You know what it’s like in there after him. It’s worse now since he painted the bathroom and we can’t open the window anymore.’
‘Poor Daddy,’ Carrie mused.
‘It’ll be poor Mummy and Daddy if you marry this Rodney.’
‘Sidney.’
‘Yes, him. He’ll take us for everything we’ve got.’
‘Mother, we’ve got nothing.’
‘We might have nothing but it’s a damn sight more than what he’s got. Is he Jewish?’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t think Lewis is a Jewish name.’
‘Aren’t you sure?’
‘I think he’s Welsh.’
‘They’re as bad.’
This was the story Carrie told me six months after the wedding.
Mr and Mrs Sid Lewis waved goodbye from the reception room of the Bricklayer’s Arms in Thomas Road. Carrie kissed her mother on the cheek and her father on the floor. Sid and Carrie’s mum touched gloves. He kissed his own mother, stepped over Carrie’s father and shook hands with his own dad. All the guests waved and cheered and Aunt Hilda’s dog, Toffee, was getting too excited and barked at everybody. Aunt Hilda was crying and Toffee now began grabbing guests’ legs in such a manner that his name should have been Crumpet.
The taxi arrived to whisk the honeymooners off on their journey of love and gentleness. London was to be the venue, Paddington the area and the Alma Hotel the location. Sid gave the driver the destination from the back of the cigarette-smoke-saturated car.
‘The first Greenline bus-stop going towards London, please.’
‘Wha?’ asked an astonished driver.
‘The first Greenline bus-stop going towards London, please, and we’ve got ten minutes to find one. The bus leaves Luton at two-fifty and it’s now two-forty, so hurry up!’
‘But your mother said we were going from the railway station,’ Carrie said.
‘Not my mother.’
‘That would be my mother,’ Carrie uttered faintly.
‘Awrigh, your mother. First Greenline bus-stop going towards London,’ Sid resumed, over-sweetly.
‘But I’ve probably lost a fare thinking I was going to the station,’ said the driver.
‘That’s better than two or three teeth,’ Sid answered impassively. He was beginning to lose his cool with this man.
Carrie grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back fully into his seat. ‘Don’t be like that,’ she whispered discreetly.
Sid kept looking at the driver through the rear-view mirror. Every time the driver looked in his mirror, Sid was looking straight into his eyes. The driver, a man of at least seventy with a touch of asthma—his breath sounded like car tyres on a gravel path—was now intently looking for a Greenline bus-stop. He saw one and stopped. They had been in the car no longer than five minutes.
‘What number is the Greenline bus, darling?’ Sid asked, without taking his eyes off the driver.
‘Seven-fourteen,’ Carrie and the driver both said together.
Sid helped Carrie out of the car and then walked round to the boot, opened it and took out his three cases. The driver stayed where he was and lit a nipped cigarette. The driving side window was open just enough to drop money through. Sid had the luggage out on the pavement and walked round to the driver’s window. He leaned down towards the small opening.
‘How much?’
The driver looked nervously everywhere except at Sid and coughed out, ‘Twenty-seven and six.’ He then wound the window up an inch more. Sid looked at him and continued to look at him as he slowly took out his wallet. The driver relaxed a little thinking he had made it.
‘Twenty-seven and six. Not bad for five minutes’ driving,’ said Sid. ‘Here’s ten bob and that includes the tip. Your bloody car isn’t worth twenty-seven and six.’
They looked hard at each other like an Australian fast bowler looks at an English opening bat. Then the driver snatched the note quickly and professionally and drove off, winding the window down and giving them a reversed Churchillian sign.
Carrie and Sid were soon joined at the bus-stop by a small, drunken one-man-band. He slowly walked round the corner carrying all his equipment. He was a small man of a well-used sixty, wearing an old, long, gabardine, flasher-type raincoat. On his back was fastened a Salvation Army bass-drum with a picture of the prime minister on it. On his elbows, tied with rope, were two large drum sticks. Projecting from his chest was a piece of piping with a mouth-organ welded to the end of it, just resting maybe a quarter of an inch from his mouth, so close, in fact, that every time he breathed you were treated to a musical wheeze. Sewn to the shoulders of the raincoat, one each side, were two Morris Dancers’ handbells that played with a minimum of movement. Nestling under his left armpit was an old fashioned klaxon motor horn, tied by string to his upper arm. Under his right armpit was securely fastened a bagpipe, with a mouthpiece stuck through the buttonhole of his raincoat to stop it from going into his eye. Around his waist was a steel clamp similar to a stave round a beer barrel. This was holding a washboard with the legs cut off. On every one of his fingers were thimbles. Hanging by a length of string from a button was a penny whistle. In between his legs, at knee height, were two small cymbals. This gave him the appearance of being bow-legged. His shoes were tied with red ribbons from a chocolate box. One of the ribbons still had ‘Black Magic’ written on it. On his head was jammed a top hat with the words ‘Mr Music’ written on a card resting in the hatband. He had so many musical instruments attached to him, Joe Loss could have conducted him. He weaved up to Sid and Carrie and stood next to them. Sid looked at him. Carrie looked the other way, rather embarrassed. He took a half full or a half empty (depending on whether you are an optimist or a pessimist) bottle of Scotch out of his greasy raincoat pocket and took a long swig—the movement causing his attachments to move giving out a chord in B flat. He looked up at Sid. Sid looked down at him. Mr Music took another swig in B flat.
Sid smiled at him and said, ‘Do you play requests?’
Mr Music squeezed his left arm and a rather damp, rude noise came from the motor horn, via his sleeve. Carrie tried to pull Sid gently away, her face going quite red. She looked away from both of them and saw the Greenline 714 coming towards them.
‘The bus is here, Sid.’
After a third swig, Mr Music shook himself quite hard. It sounded like the Midland Light Orchestra tuning up.
Sid picked up his cases, one in each hand and one under his arm. When the bus stopped, he stood in front of Mr Music and nodded to Carrie to get aboard. Sid followed her. Mr Music tried to get on the bus. The conductor tried to stop him, but the Midland Light Orchestra had both his feet on the step and was holding tightly to the rails. The engine of the bus was still running and shaking a fugue out of Mr M.
