Paulyanna, page 8
“What?” I came across as if astonished. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know?”
“No, I thought you were too young, for all those ” He replied matter-of-factly but stopped short of the word “shenanigans”. Dad never swore, unless you count the word “bloody”. He was a man of integrity who always supported the underdog. Dad was a straightforward person who was honest and lived up to his middle name of Frank. He even told me he had to gasp for breath when he read my letter.
Gosh, I miss him.
He did have faults: cold pragmatism had frozen his emotions. In our house you were not shown love, you couldn’t feel it. It was a given fact, one deduced from the knowledge that he wasn’t obliged to stick around but he did anyway. I can recall the last time I kissed him. I was six years old and for some strange reason I told myself I was too old for goodnight kisses and stopped. A few weeks later I regretted my impulsive decision but thought I couldn’t re-establish contact as I was even older by then.
I thought Dad was extremely intelligent. He would play chess for hours against himself, since nobody in our street played chess. He also finished crosswords.
Russell was bricking it when he heard my dad had arrived, worried about how the sixteen-year age gap would be perceived. It was also illegal in England for anyone under the age of twenty-one to partake in the practice of homosexual relations. Even if you did need the experience. He fully expected to receive a tirade of accusations and verbal abuse from an angry working-class man. Dad wasn’t concerned about me being gay or the age differences, although he did express his relief that neither of us were like my Uncle Tony.
Uncle Tony was the total opposite to my dad. He was very flamboyant in his mannerisms, frivolous and generous, but as deceptive as hemlock. An entourage of trepidatious undesirables often hung around him. He was well known about town. His reputation, although mainly psychotic, wasn’t unwarranted; he had the scars to prove it – an axe mark on one side of his head and an iron bar dent on the other. In the middle of his forehead was a birthmark that would redden when drunk or angry. He was wickedly mischievous and a proper sociopath. I half believed he was in league with the devil.
I watched, with much satisfaction, as the two men in my life drank, chatted and laughed. I asked my dad what he thought of Russell.
“I didn’t come here to see Russell, I came here to see you.” Which translated as “he seems pleasant enough.”
Russell took us to Harrods in Knightsbridge for something to eat. When we sat down, Russell mentioned that the restaurant did excellent Eggs Benedict. My quizzical expression implied enough to send him off into an explanation of the dish. Although I had mentioned my customer on the night of my job interview, I hadn’t told him anything else. Luckily, Eggs Benedict wasn’t on the lunchtime menu and my little pangs of conscience soon faded away.
I remember as we walked around the store Dad suddenly became all childlike. Parents have a knack of finding ways to embarrass their children. I suspect they enjoy doing it and some treat it like a perk. I knew I was not supposed to feel ashamed of someone I revered. Mostly I was paranoid that he and I were being judged by the sales staff that milled around. It was obvious they were not waiting to assist. Perhaps they implemented a hands-off approach lest they encouraged the commoners to linger. I felt protective as my vigilance became heightened, ready to pounce should anyone dare aim any snobbery towards Dad.
“Look at this Paul, that can’t be right, can it?” He spoke much louder than the rest of the shoppers. “What? For an ice bucket? No?” He was flabbergasted at the price tag.
“Yes Dad, it really costs £300,” I answered, showing a little too much exasperation. He was my father after all, and I did respect him. I just wished he didn’t sound so common.
“Hey Russell? That can’t be right, can it?” He was still astounded.
“Come on Dad! Don’t touch it!” I had become the adult and he the child. “You know you’ll have to pay for it if you break it.”
A devilish glint in his eye confirmed my suspicion that he enjoyed acting up. He had a “tell”. The corner of my dad’s mouth would quiver whenever he was having us on or telling wild lies.
So I became bossy for the rest of the day. There was no denying it, I adored my dad being around. The initial discomfort when my past life encroached on my new one was not pleasant. It was an unwelcome reminder that came with an irrational fear of being dragged home. These powerful emotions were, however, dispelled after a while and replaced by pride. I was constantly saying. “Look Dad, look at this, and that. Have you seen this?” I eagerly paraded him around, showed him that and, of course, the other.
I wanted to share some of what I perceived as glamour. I presented landmarks and local places, like Park Lane, as if I personally owned them. I introduced him to some of my favourite Carpenters regulars. He was bought a drink by George, who seemed to make an exerted effort to welcome my dad and show him the best side of himself. If there were any evil looks from the Crones, I can’t say I noticed.
The day was perfect. Before he headed for home, Dad told me that he thought Russell was very charming. It may have felt a little strained but, before my dad went back home, he gave me a proper hug and kiss on the cheek. It appeared I had been wrong: I wasn’t too old after all.
CHAPTER 9 The Early Days
Our first Christmas had been and gone and Russell still loved me. He had hosted a Christmas Day lunch in the upstairs function room. With the help of his mother and John’s auntie, they cooked up a real feast. Around twenty close friends and regulars were invited. The numbers soon swelled; Russell’s empathy and kind-hearted nature was well evident. The few morning customers who hadn’t rushed home to the bosom of their families were implored to join us, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Copious amounts of alcoholic beverages lay in wait on the bar for guests to help themselves. Which they did. A large table, laid out with cutlery, plates and three different-sized glasses, had been adorned with Christmas crackers and candles. All very festive.
People sat around the table and chatted, most already on their way to getting bladdered. On a trestle-table, a hot-plate kept warm a selection of cooked vegetables and roasted potatoes. The nauseating smell of garlic and Pernod filled the room. We’d had a bit of a spat earlier when I asked Russell not to use garlic. It was common knowledge, at least to him, that I detested the stuff. He said I was not the only one eating and accused me of being selfish, then insisted I wouldn’t taste it in the food anyway. His proof was that I had previously eaten meals that contained garlic which went undetected. I begged to differ as anything that wasn’t white or had more flavour than butter, I choked down like a bitter pill.
To hear him say that I was not the only one saddened me.
A traditional roast turkey, a succulent beef joint and a large honey glazed ham were presented with a vast array of side relishes. Russell carved the requested cuts of meat, whilst people helped themselves to whatever vegetables they wanted. It was an informal affair, no speeches or waiting to say grace; it was more “tuck in before it gets cold”. There was no chance of that. I looked around the table as everyone ate, knife in the right hand, fork in the left. I changed mine to suit. Cack-handed I ripped at the flesh in front of me. My cutlery emitted a high-pitched screech as it slid across my plate, a signal to those nearby that I clearly lacked breeding. I had spent my whole childhood eating meals with only a spoon or fork. I probably could have got away with using a straw for most of them.
A large contingent of Crones attended the lunch. Peggy, Eddie and the Poison Dwarf plus others that I feel merit no introduction. Suffice to say they were regulars that liked a tipple and were generally spiteful and negative, especially when I was the main focus of discussion.
Watching half-sloshed people gorge themselves on food repulsed me. Doubly so when I disliked them. Every grotesque nuance became animated. Greasy lips glistened and overstuffed mouths chomped. Splutters projected food fragments as they nattered. The continuous motion of fork to mouth and glass to mouth sickened me. Every slurp, dribble and sniff was reminiscent of the vilest of Dickensian antagonists. Why my gaze got drawn to the ugliness of my enemies, I will never know, but it had always been so. Whenever someone ranted at me, consciously or otherwise, my attention would focus hard on some overhanging nostril hair or a funky looking boil. No longer really listening, my disgruntled response would be delivered telepathically. “So what, you’m ugly anyway.” This silent protest could allow me to soak up an endless tirade of verbal abuse because, as far as I was concerned, that trumped everything. This first Christmas with Russell was a bitter-sweet memory.
I never got paid a weekly wage: “what’s mine is yours” catered for my every whim. I now owned lots of new clothes, a brilliant stereo system, a state-of-the-art flat screen TV, an Atari computer and every Prince album on CD. My self-satisfaction that I neither needed nor wanted any gifts, when Russell enquired about what to get me, was in itself a present of smugness wrapped in a bow. I still received a rather sweet Yves Saint Laurent gold watch, which admittedly looked a little offended hanging off my scrawny wrist. It perfectly concealed a homemade tattoo Welly’s older brother had inked in the form of a splash. Even at sixteen I’d purposely chosen that spot as I thought, one day, if needed, I could cover it with a watch. As 90% of the guests hated me, my gift’s flashy appeal was short-lived. I had nobody to show it off to.
Mean regulars were my catch-22 as they frequented the bar regularly and were valued because they drank a lot. Not binge drinkers or alcoholics, oh no, just healthy drinkers who preferred large measures. The more alcohol they consumed, the more aggressive they became. Not all, mind, some didn’t need the drink. I was expected to swallow it and smile. I had to sit around a large dining table with those bitter lushes. I had no allies but did have the odd sympathiser here and there.
There appeared to be a limit to the degree of hostility they could show towards me in front of Russell but I couldn’t fathom it. Totally blanking, scoffing and dismissing my remarks with an arrogant flick of the wrist were all allowed, as was petty whispering behind hands. Dogged and prolonged, they had been doing this from day one. They never tired. I couldn’t see what they actually got out of it since I rarely rose to them but when I did, I regretted it. My unsophisticated use of the English language would render any rejoinder useless. “Desist with your yap, you overgrown heffalump,” would have in the least been half a come-back. I hadn’t even the basic vocabulary to construct that, so instead “Shut it, ya fat cow” was all I could manage. Much to their joy, as this was then childishly mimicked. They had an unfair advantage because any malicious remark aimed towards me, no matter how inane, was guaranteed to be followed by an exuberant cackle. I survived the ordeal and learned something from it. I needed to reinforce my arsenal by stocking up on a lot more cutting nouns and bitchy adjectives.
How sweet it was watching the PD and his boyfriend, another member of the Crones, literally ripping each other to shreds in a mad drunken rage. Watching two people who really don’t like you scratching and flailing around should be on everyone’s Christmas list.
It wasn’t long afterwards that the PD handed in his notice. I always believed Jay joined the Crones for a different reason other than loyalty to Russell and John. Russell had sung his praises on numerous occasions, about how able he was at running the bar. I’d witnessed it for myself, one busy lunchtime session. He was always so alert for customers. Like a manic hen with his head twitching one way, his eyes the other. Jerking so quickly there was a real danger of whiplash. Zoom! He’s at the pumps pulling a pint. Thunk! Down on the bar. Ka-ching! Money in the till. He snaps his head to the left, spots a hungry customer. Scoots to the sink for a quick hand wash. Delivers an exasperated sigh when he almost collides with Joe. Then, zip! He’s at the food counter. A polite smile, he listens and nods. Blam! Slice of bread goes down. Whoosh! Sandwich comes up. One hundred and eighty degree pirouette to face the kitchen. A quick verbal exchange and his extended hand retrieves a meal. Heads out the staff door and into the bar. A deep inhalation as he adjusts composure and plots his route through the lunchtime crowd. Plate held aloft, focus and exhale. Mince, dip, pivot, mince, duck. A little twirl and voilà! Presented with an artistic flourish. Then he collects up some empty glasses. Throws Joe a look of contempt for being slack and he’s back behind the bar to start all over again.
Perhaps he perceived a threat in me being employed there. As Russell’s right-hand man he may have seen it as a demotion from second-in-command. I had no interest in that trivial position, as I occupied the other throne. I was Russell’s lover.
So Russell lost a proficient staff member, but every cloud, as they say. A probable ally would replace one of my foes: Wayne. “Our Wayne” first worked round the corner at the ex-servicemen’s club. I could instantly relate to him as he came from a working-class area that sounded similar to my own. I’d met many people like him growing up, although they were usually female and of pensionable age. Wayne was one year younger than me. He had a Scouse accent and was honest and spoke as he found. Although nervous and comparatively shy, there was no grey when it came to right and wrong. When Wayne had a bee in his bonnet, there was no stopping him, despite his timid frame. He would chastise the rude without compunction.
Running out of tumblers and pint glasses was a real nuisance. No more so than when we were busy. We got through an awful lot and they weren’t cheap. Joe dropped plenty – I suppose we all did – but he was the worst and he knew it. Every time he smashed one, it usually drew attention and cheers which infuriated him. People taking glasses away was a particular annoyance, especially for Wayne. Like an angry old washerwoman, he often marched right into the Tunisian Café opposite and demanded that the hookah tokers immediately relinquished glasses that belonged to our pub. Their macho egos challenged by a skinny puff meant they would aggressively strive to retain them but Wayne always won.
A lunchtime drinking ban had been hotly debated and enforced by many business corporations. The Marble Arch Tower, twenty-three floors of thirsty, white-collar workers, now stayed at their desks and supped bottled water. Drinker numbers dwindled from around fifty to an average of five, and this dramatically affected the takings. Hit by the sudden decline in clientele, Russell decided to transform the first-floor function room into a cabaret bar. Together, we painted the walls light blue, stuck up spot-lights and got a friend to build a six-foot square platform that could be used as a stage. We scoured the shops and market stalls for black and white prints of tragic-looking females known for their diva-like tendencies. These were framed and hung on the walls. We set up a PA system in one corner of the adjoining kitchen and partitioned the rest off to use as a dressing room.
We booked acts with the names Dockyard Doris and Maisie Trollette. The latter became our resident drag artist and I classed him as one of my sympathisers. He always showed me kindness. I was a bit too young to appreciate the true craft of the drag artist. Although I laughed at the banter and the flying insults, I found their singing insufferable. I just wanted to hear ‘Pump up the Jam’ by Technotronic but the new, weekend crowd of gay patrons roared for a third encore and kept the performer on stage.
Excluding the glitzy ones that told no gags and only lip-synced, there were two kinds of drag artists. Old established ones – gruff voice and a face like an old boot that’s kicked over the paint-can, looking slightly more like Arthur than Martha – and the new-wave of younger, more career-savvy ones. Who, in the right light and without your specs, could have been mistaken for women. Both were equally as popular with the crowds. I would say they hosted the evening rather than performed. They didn’t even have to sing well or look good. One in particular, whose talent was having none at all, had a massive following. Another would stand on stage, gabbing, hollering along with show tunes and drinking. The audience bought pint after pint, and the ‘artiste’ would attempt to knock them down in one go, whilst the audience counted down from ten. Throughout the show she’d just become more and more drunk. She was really terrible but was still rebooked time and time again. The tipping point, where bad became good, was indecipherable. More adulation was always bestowed on those that interacted with the audience.
I suppose that it was inevitable that our pub became labelled as gay and that a few of our ‘tolerant’ patrons decided it was now time to move on. In small doses and of the right calibre, gays are often tolerated by straights. However, the community consists of many species, and not all of them are as palatable as the ‘straight acting’ types. I began to recognise my own hypocrisy in judging those I deemed too gay. I was scornful, as though their idiosyncratic girlishness reflected badly on me and somehow hindered the gay plight for social acceptance. I made sure to try to amend my own attitude. I’d long become accustomed to life as an outsider so cared little about a cold embrace given begrudgingly from the mainstream. More so now that I had the acceptance from my family and friends.
If anything, uncompromising outrageousness was good for the gay cause. Putting themselves out there scantily clad, boners and all, with no sugar coating was an equally valid gay reality. Why should they suppress themselves anymore? The majority of gay people had to endure a childhood hearing words like “batty-boy” and “queer” being bandied around their own homes as a legitimate everyday insult. With Russell’s persona attached, I started to admire diversity and became aware that there were so many clans and subcultures – for the young and old, the butch and feminine, the weird and the wonderful. I did wonder which one I fitted in to. I wasn’t overtly camp or pretentious and I definitely wasn’t butch and moody. I had no compulsion to change sex or throw on a frock. A hyper intelligent power-puff or Stonewall activist wasn’t me either.
Life in the pub continued. The function room was once again empty, the stage had been dismantled. Friday and Saturday drag nights were a hit, so a new larger stage had to be constructed downstairs in the main bar. When we were closed in the afternoons, I’d draw the curtains and have a one-man Karaoke session. Sing along to a couple Prince’s not-so-screamy songs. I was a terrible singer and my persistence most certainly didn’t pay off.
