Mr Lonely, page 9
The conductor barred the man with his arm. ‘You’re not coming on my bus with that lot, mate.’
Mr M ignored him as he tried to get further into the bus.
‘Mate, you’re not coming on my bus with all that stuff,’ repeated the conductor.
‘Why not, eh? Why the bloody hell not? Tell me that. What for, eh? Come on, why not? Why the bloody hell not?’
‘Because we haven’t got a music licence.’
The conductor pushed the old man and the bell at the same time. The bus moved, the old man lost his balance with the weight of the bass-drum so he had to step backwards as the bus moved away.
Sid looked back to see the old Mr Music waving his arms and shouting filthy abuse at the bus in a drunken rage. The conductor looked at Sid and asked, ‘What the hell was that?’
‘I think it’s the 1812 Overture.’
‘Pity,’ smiled the conductor. ‘We could have dropped him off at the Albert Hall.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
July, 1978
Many, many years later, more than I care to remember, I went to see The Right Reverend Martin Laureston Watson-Tucker DD, OBE. He officiated at Sid and Carrie’s wedding. Over the years we have all vaguely kept in touch with him. He told me how well he remembered the wedding—it being his first wedding followed by his first funeral. ‘I remember it well, indeed I do.’ He spoke and looked exactly like the late, and very much missed, Margaret Rutherford dressed as a man.
‘I was highly nervous, Erik.’ He always sounded my name as if it was spelt with a ‘k’ instead of with a ‘c’—very crisp and with a lot of chin movement. He was a good man. He gave much of his time to charity and the young. He was now a bishop and being spoken of as a future archbishop, and to think that it all started in Luton.
‘Highly nervous with it being my first wedding and my first funeral.’ He sat back suddenly in his chair and clasped his hands at the back of his white head as if he had just solved an Agatha Christie murder. I remained silent in my chair opposite. He then shot forward, almost leaving his chair; so fast and violent was the movement that the ash in the open fire swirled up the chimney with a small hiss.
‘They were late arriving at the church, what?’ He went back to a more normal chair position. ‘Forty-five minutes late to be precise, what?’ A pause. ‘If it hadn’t been for you, Erik, Sidney wouldn’t have been there at all, what, what?’
‘That’s true, Martin. It had reached ten o’clock and he wasn’t anywhere to be found so I borrowed the landlord’s bike and went looking for him. I had the feeling he would run.’
‘What, what?’ He found a new position in the chair, leaning back with one little, fat gaitered leg over the arm of the chair and the other one tucked under him. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever forget you riding towards the church in the pouring rain with Sidney sitting on the cross-bar, Carrie crying, her father lying asleep along one of the pews, what? Her mother was the only one who seemed to be smiling, but even she burst into tears when she saw you both on the bicycle, what, what? You know I had a feeling about that wedding. I felt something would go wrong. You see I’d never met theatricals before I met Sidney. I asked him what hymn he would like sung by our choir, Mr and Mrs Free-body, and he said, “The one about a bear whose eyes were crossed and bear’s name was Gladly.” It took Mr and Mrs Free-body and myself four hours to work out the hymn he meant. It was that beautiful hymn, “Gladly the Cross I’d Bear”.’
He moved again in his chair. He was now sitting cross-legged. ‘The wedding service went well but it was only minutes before the funeral was due. Sherry, Erik, what, what, what, what?’ The ‘what whats’ were coming thick and fast.
‘Not for me, Martin. I’m fine, thanks.’
He rose from his chair and stood with his religious bum pointing towards the roaring fire. I felt like Mr Tutman in the presence of Mr Pickwick. I said, ‘I always thought it was nice of Carrie to follow your … er … career.’
He looked at me with soft, blue eyes—watery would be a better phrase. ‘What, eh, what, oh, yes. A lovely woman—always came to see me when she came back to Luton. I think that’s too sweet, don’t you?’
‘She’s a nice lady.’
There was a pause. ‘I meant my sherry.’ He walked towards the sideboard, poured another sherry and swigged it straight down, then poured one for the glass. All this was done with his back towards me, rather like a conjurer setting up his tricks. He came back to his chair and sat down. His body was facing me and both his legs were over the arm of the chair like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
‘Carrie was on time at the church, eh … what, eh … what, what?’ It was now the more sherries, the more ‘whats’.
‘Yes,’ I murmured.
‘It was you and Sidney, you naughty boys.’
Here I was at fifty-two years old being told I was a naughty boy. ‘Sid had lost his nerve,’ I explained.
‘Her mother was a funny colour,’ Martin said. ‘I thought she was going to die.’ He took another drink. ‘I’m sure it was that that made me go wrong in the service, eh, eh?’
‘Really?’ I was genuinely surprised.
‘Ashes to ashes is not supposed to be said in the wedding service, what? But what’s the difference, the amount the people listen, eh, what? The Generation Game could use that one, eh, what?’
What the Generation Game could use I couldn’t figure out.
‘Another small one, Erik?’
‘No, honestly.’
‘Quite right,’ he said as he glided back to the sideboard.
‘I thought the funniest …’
‘Are you sure?’ he asked from the sideboard.
‘Positive.’
‘Not even a small one?’
‘No, really.’
He went back to his conjuring act.
I continued, ‘The funniest thing was when we all made our way up the aisle to leave, and what with being that bit late.’
‘Forty-five minutes, eh, what? Eh, what?’
‘… and the rain, the coffin and the mourners, coming down at the same time, and Carrie and Sid having to go in single file to get by the coffin and the bier running over Carrie’s mum’s corns –’
‘Her screams still live with me.’
‘But when she tried to take her shoe off to rub her foot and she bent down they kept going and she was almost run over. When she got up, she had a wreath hanging round her neck. She looked like the winner of Le Mans.’
Martin emptied his glass. ‘Whatever happened to Carrie’s mother?’ he inquired.
‘Nothing.’
‘Pity.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing, you say.’
‘No. Carrie’s folks live in Hampshire in a cottage in the Wallops, for which they pay a small rent to Sid.’
‘Would you like another drink, eh, what?’ He asked me as if I had kept up with him. I had not had one yet. ‘A tiny one, Martin, really,’ I said.
‘Of course.’ He poured a small sherry for me and a large one for himself. He looked more like a conjurer than ever. He was almost into self-levitation and he was certainly making the sherry disappear. He rejoined me by the fire, sitting in his easy chair quite normally. He leaned back looking towards the ceiling.
‘She was a bitch,’ he mused. I thought I heard a slight slur in his speech.
‘Well?’ I said, leaving him space to elaborate.
‘Are you doing a Christmas thing this year on the telly?’
‘A Christmas show? Yes.’
‘Good. I shall miss it as usual but I watch the “returns”, eh, what, what, what?’
‘Yes.’
‘I saw part of your last Christmas thing, last May. Quite nice. Do you make it all up as you go along?’
‘No, it’s written and rehearsed.’
‘Is it really?’ It was his turn to sound surprised.
‘Yes, at least two to three weeks.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘And we get paid.’ I was used to this kind of conversation.
‘Really? I see you have a Rolls Royce. What do you earn? A fortune, I presume. Something like £120 a week, what? That’s what the miners are after, you know. They deserve it, don’t you think, eh, what? Eh, what?’
‘Well, I suppose …’
‘A real bitch, a viper. She didn’t want that marriage to take place. She would have stopped it. She had no love for Sidney. I remember saying to my wife, Carla …’
‘Carla?’
‘Yes, Carla.’ He sounded a trifle irritable.
‘Only I never met your wife, Martin.’
‘No, er … well, we … She … You see, early on in our marriage. She … wanted to do God’s work, so she went abroad to help the less fortunate.’
‘Where?’
‘What?’
‘Where abroad?’
‘Monaco,’ he almost whispered, followed by a loud ‘ahem,’ and a dry, embarrassed cough.
‘Monaco? I didn’t think there would be needy …’
‘Oh, yes. The French are a very needy race,’ he said quickly, then threw a log on the fire with such venom that for maybe a full minute he was covered by a shower of sparks. I brushed one or two off that had landed on me. I only hoped that the smell of burning cloth was from the man of the same. He was regaining his composure. I thought it time I left.
‘Well, Martin,’ I said, ‘I must be going. It’s quite late and you’ve been so kind.’ I started to rise.
‘Eh, what? No.’
‘It’s getting late and I have to drive back to London, Martin. It really has been lovely seeing you again.’
‘Listen, sit down. Have another drink.’ He almost ran to his conjuring box. He poured two very large sherries. I put my hand out as if to say no. He put both drinks on his little table by the chair. He sat down cross-legged on the chair, leaning his head on his fist, and resting his elbow on the arm of the chair.
‘She came to me before the wedding and told me Sidney was already married, and that if I went through with the ceremony I would be a party to bigamy, what? Do you like Monty Python?’
‘Who doesn’t?’
‘Me.’
The door leading from the hall then opened. I would like to tell you that John Cleese walked in. In his place came a beautiful woman bearing gifts of coffee, cheese, biscuits, celery, thin brown bread, butter and Marmite. She was tall and about thirty-five. No wedding ring, I noticed. Her tights, shoes and dress were black. Her hair was beautiful, the softest of auburn. She had large green eyes that looked directly at you without the slightest sign of embarrassment.
‘Allow me,’ I mumbled, trying to help.
‘Please sit down, Mr Morecambe. I’ll manage. You can’t be any more difficult than an archbishop or a dean. We had the Dean of Westminster here last week.’
‘I knew the Dean’s brother, Dixie.’ Right away I knew, wrong joke, wrong place, wrong time. I felt ashamed.
‘Would you like a brandy, Bishop?’ She looked at him with a kind of look that would have got a round of applause from an audience watching Emmanuelle One, Two, Three and Four!
‘Yes, please. You haven’t met my housekeeper, Mrs Clapp, have you, Erik?’
I was deflated. How could such a beautiful body and face have a name like Clapp attached to it?
‘You know who this chap is, Amanda?’ asked Martin.
Good God, I thought, Amanda Clapp. It sounded like something you hear of other men getting. I can’t come out at the moment, I’ve got a touch of the Amanda Clapp.
‘Are you doing a Christmas show this year?’ she inquired.
‘Yes.’ I squirmed.
‘Good. I’ll miss it. I’ll see the repeat. I saw your last Christmas Show last May. It’s very good the way you make it all up so quickly.’ I did not bother to argue. She poured Martin’s brandy and my coffee. ‘If there’s anything else, please ring.’
As she left the room I remembered thinking, Somebody’s prayers have been answered.
Martin and I sat and ate in silence. After a while Martin said, ‘Two years.’
‘What? What?’ I said. I thought, Good God, I’m doing it now.
‘She’s been with me for two years. A widow. Her husband died, of natural causes. He was run over by a car.’
‘Really?’ I tried to appear disinterested.
He picked up his glass of brandy. Amanda must have poured four doubles in it. Then he sipped and talked for the next half hour, before falling asleep. He was still asleep when I later thanked Mrs Clapp for having me. She said, ‘It was a pleasure,’ and I left.
CHAPTER EIGHT
August, 1976
The group rapped out a chord and Sid walked out on stage.
‘Hello eeeevvveeery-boooody … May I, the late and great Sid Leweeeeis, welcome you to Al and Manny’s ding-dong at the …’ Sid waved his arms to get them to shout the name of the club … Nothing. ‘Welcome to Al and Manny’s party at the … Come on, you berks, you’re not drunk enough yet not to know where you are. If you don’t answer this time, you’ll have to pay for your own booze. At the …’ Everybody shouted at least six different names. ‘Okay, you bastards,’ Sid grinned. ‘Al and Manny want you to have a good time and, as always, they will foot the bill. At least that’s what it sounded like.’ Sid looked round the room. ‘And if anyone wants to entertain their peers, no comments please, they have our permission as long as they and the audience are drunk. Now, everybody, daaaance.’
Another chord and Sid jumped into the arms of waiting friends and left the stage. The group played some easy-to-dance-to music and the party started to glow. Sid was in his element, hopping from table to table, knowing everyone, smiling, talking, gagging, drinking.
‘Hello, Sid. How’s the wife?’
‘Fine.’
‘And the kid?’
‘A lot better.’
In the background there was a raucous laugh, followed by, ‘It’s the way I tell em …’
More noise.
‘Hello, Sid.’
‘Hello, Jeff.’
‘Hello, Sid.’
‘Hello, Arthur. How’s your mum?’
‘She’s doing fine. She comes out next week.’
‘Hospital or prison?’
‘Prison hospital.’
Arthur and Sid laughed together.
‘By the way, Sid.’
‘Yes?’
‘If you see Chick, don’t ask after his wife.’
‘After his wife’s what?’
‘Oh, don’t joke, Sid.’
‘Why not?’
‘She’s er … You know, she’s got the er …’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘The big one. Terminal.’
‘Good God.’
‘Yes, the big “C”.’ He looked around. ‘She doesn’t know.’
‘Oh, that’s terrible.’
Arthur looked around again. ‘He’s only told me, so keep it quiet, Sid. I’m telling you in confidence because it was told to me in confidence.’
‘But she can’t be that old. I mean, she’s what?’
‘Thirty-seven.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Had most of her stomach taken away last year.’
‘I remember that.’
‘Anyway, Chick’s very cheerful about it.’
‘What about Rita?’
‘She doesn’t know.’
Arthur moved away and Sid moved on. Poor Rita, thought Sid. He was walking round and through groups of people, actors, comics, singers, and hearing snatches of conversation.
‘… I told him straight. I said, don’t call me a pouff … I wouldn’t have minded but we were almost back at the park and I thought, “Oh, Jimmy, Jesus, I wonder if he’s a policeman.” He was ever so tall …’
Over to the left ‘… It’s the way I tell ‘em.’
‘… A Rolls.’
‘What year?’
‘Oh.’
‘… about back at your place …’
‘Naw.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’ll try to do me.’
‘Of course I won’t.’
‘Well, then there’s no point is there? I mean if you don’t fancy me, what’s the use?’
‘Of course I fancy you, you stupid, beautiful thing.’
‘Well you just said you wouldn’t do me.’
‘How would you feel if I said I might …?’
‘Sid, Sid, over here … Hello, Sid.’
‘Hello, Al.’ Sid shook Al’s hand, probably because it was a non-working day. ‘Is Manny here?’ he asked.
‘No. Manny’s ill. He’s not well. You know how it is, Sid, we’re brothers. Always have been. Have you heard about Rita?’
In the background, ‘It’s the way I tell ‘em.’
‘Yes,’ Sid answered.
‘Who told you?’
‘Arthur.’
‘Chick told me. He told me not to tell anybody else.’
‘It’s very sad.’
‘Very sad. She’s such a lovely woman. We’ve got Yarwood on the third of September.’
‘He’s great.’
‘I only hope that while he’s here Heath and Wilson stay alive.’ Al looked at the party going on around him. ‘Come to the office, Sid,’ he invited. He put his arm around Sid’s shoulder and steered him towards the office.
One wall of Al’s office was covered in pictures of every star who had appeared at the club. The thing that made Sid smile was the fact that every picture was the same. Every one was taken at the same place—Number One dressing-room—with the star in the middle, Al and Manny on either side of him, her, them or it, and with the same expression on both their faces in every picture—a stiff smile caused from fear.
‘Scotch?’ Al asked.
‘Fine.’
‘Ice?’
‘Please.’
Al poured two stiff ones. ‘Do you know how much these “do’s” cost Manny and me?’ he said. ‘Two grand.’
‘I thought it came out of the—’
