The Complete Adventures of Victoria Neaves & Romney

by Michael White

  “How odd!” he said out loud, and the customer in his chair squirmed a little, trying to catch Les’s eye in the mirror whilst counting his ears at the same time. Les came back to himself and to his customer’s visible relief began to cut his hair again. The customer hadn’t taken the bait with the twenty-five years of acting line and so it was the weather, holidays in the Algarve and what the guy was doing with his day off. Gardening, it appeared. “Dull, dull, dull.” thought Les and finished the cut as soon as he could. A minimal tip sent Les into even more of a flat spin and so it came to nearly lunch hour and not a single customer who needed a haircut. It was like this some days, he thought. All or nothing. At this precise moment in time it was definitely nothing. “I think I’ll take an early lunch.” he sighed, looking out of the window and up and down the square outside. There were a few people about, but not many. None seemed to be heading in the direction of the hairdresser’s shop however. Sally simply nodded and Les decided to pop along the square to Mr Hinnerty’s to get a sandwich.

  Stepping out of the shop he made his way along the square to the general store. There was a certain art to getting in and out of Mr Hinnerty’s shop in less than forty-five minutes. The first rule was never to ask a question that could in any way be related back to a tall story of any kind, and the second rule was at all times to remain focused on what you wanted. It was very easy for Mr Hinnerty to distract you, most people found. Les simply approached it as if it were some form of acting challenge or test. Primarily, he pretended to be simple. For Les this gave one benefit: quick service. From Mr Hinnerty’s perspective this made him extremely wary of getting a haircut, and he would only ever let Sally cut his hair. He thought it was a bit much allowing a man who clearly had a few marbles loose to cut people's hair. There was however, a compromise of kinds: on most days Les took sandwiches to work with him. Sadly, this was not one of them. His act worked however, and he left the general store within a time period that would have amazed any other customer that frequented the store, carrying a freshly wrapped chicken sandwich in a neatly folded brown paper bag. Just to be extra careful and provide extra customer service, Hinnerty had written “sandwich” in large friendly letters on the front of the bag,

  He hurried back to the hairdresser’s shop. He had brought his scrapbook of press clippings with him today and he had a new one to add. He had decided very early on in his career that he would keep every newspaper clipping he could find, whether they were good or bad. His rationale was that once he made the big time (he thought of it in his mind now as “making it big”) then the reviews that were less than perfect would be the source of many an amusing anecdote once he was a major player in the field of UK entertainment. He compared this to the Hollywood producer who once famously remarked that a then unknown Fred Astaire couldn’t sing, couldn’t act, was going bald and could maybe dance a little. Les stroked his own full head of hair. He liked to keep it short - you could never tell when you may be required to wear a wig for a part - and although his dancing skills were by his own admission limited, his acting skills were, as far as he was concerned anyway, considerable. Not that the cuttings in his scrapbook would seem to agree though. The vast majority of his reviews were terrible. Still, good to his word he kept them anyway. One day when he was lunching at the Ivy he would be able to dine out on them. He hoped.

  He flicked through the scrapbook now, his latest review put off to one side ready to be sellotaped in. He munched distractedly at his chicken sandwich as he scanned the reviews page by page. Unlike the reviews, the chicken sandwich was very good he thought. The beginning of the scrapbook was probably about twenty-five years old now, and some of the earlier cuttings were definitely showing their age. School plays mostly. He moved forward a few pages, scanning the words as he did so. He was fairly well insulated from most, if not all of the scathing comments therein.

  “Les Sanderson was unfortunately disappointing.”

  “More wood in his performance than there is in the New Forest”

  “Sanderson must learn that lurking is not acting. One’s eye is rarely drawn to him; if it is then it is purely out of curiosity.”

  “This man is depriving a village of an idiot. Can’t act for toffee. Awful.”

  And so on. Les did not feel anything about them really. He knew he was good. What did a drama critic know anyway? If you knew it, do it, if you can’t do it, teach it, was his motto. They were all arseholes. He was just awaiting discovery. He looked around the small store room that doubled up as the canteen. Fame couldn’t come soon enough as far as he was concerned. At least then he would be able to drink decent coffee. He unfolded a tea towel from the radiator and gave a few mugs a wipe, placing them back on the tiny table once he was done.

  He didn’t feel like putting the new cutting into the scrapbook right then. It was as equally scathing, but he had a thick skin. Sometimes, like now, less so. Les closed the book and sat staring at the water boiler. He could see into the shop from where he was and could see that it was still quiet, Sally busying herself with brushing up whilst she had the chance. Les had the feeling that it was going to be one of those quiet days, then also began to wonder if the old guy would be back again in the morning for yet another haircut. He placed his scrapbook back into his rucksack, carefully folding the as yet unattached new cutting inside the pages.

  He considered his acting career so far. School plays, amateur dramatics. He was a fully-fledged member of the local amateur dramatics club, and though they rarely let him take centre stage as such he was always there for rehearsals, performances, meetings. He just had this unshakeable faith that one day he would be a famous actor, and nothing that anyone else could say or criticise his acting abilities for, ever swayed him from this idea. He had spent several fortunes over the years on coaching, lessons, and courses and had completed them all. He did know however that there was something missing in his acting skills. Something at the core of his dramatic personality just didn’t fit, and it rubbed at him endlessly, like a pair of badly fitted shoes. He had of course tried everything to fix this issue: method acting, various workshops and courses; the lot. He had spent many a lonely night sitting up into the small hours trying to find his motivation, and so on and so forth. He felt that he was getting it right. He knew he was missing something, however. He just didn’t know what it actually was.

  He sighed deeply and peered around the doorway into the shop. It was still empty but he noticed an older guy walking across the green and heading straight for the shop. He knew he was coming in because of the way he was walking: looking to see if the shop had any customers waiting; not committing himself. Once he saw that the hairdressers was indeed empty his pace increased exponentially His lunch was over so he went back into the shop.

  “Do you want to take your lunch?” he asked Sally, and she put the broom down. The floor was spotless as it was.

  “I’ll go and get a sandwich myself.” she said brightly, “Yours looked lovely.” and went into the back of the shop to get her handbag. Les smiled distantly. He could not remember eating the sandwich at all, never mind if it was tasty or not.

  He stood patiently waiting as the man from the green reached the shop and entered. To the customer’s slight surprise Les ignored him completely and as the man removed his jacket and stood waiting, Les failed to acknowledge him at all, instead standing motionless. He stared across the green to the pub, watching the pub sign swaying in the slight breeze. He wasn’t sure what it was but there was something elusively strange about that sign. It was something to do with the lettering, he thought, but could not get any closer to figuring out what it was any more than that. He shook himself and studiously not paying any attention to the customer shouted, “Next!” The customer looked around, making a bit of a show of checking that he was the only person in the shop, and seeing that yes, he definitely was he took a seat. Les covered him up, and catching his eye in the mirror decided not to ask for instruction with regards to the type of cut the customer wanted. Short
back and sides was almost certainly exactly what the man was about to say. How many times did he hear that a day? He sighed deeply and managed to catch the customer’s eye in the large mirror.

  “Twenty-five years in show business!” He suddenly exclaimed, and beneath the cover the customer jumped as Les continued. “Who would have thought it?”

  “ANYONE”

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