by Stuart Evers
Beat.
‘It’s been a hard-knock life, I can tell you.’
Beat.
‘Not many fans of musical theatre in tonight, I see.’
Beat.
‘Like I said, I’m an orphan. My father died young. I still remember the last thing he ever said to me. Remember it like it was yesterday: “Son, please, please, please stop throwing knives at me.” ’
Beat.
‘My mother died very soon afterwards. I don’t remember her last words. It was hard to make them out over all the screaming.’
Beat.
‘There’s nothing funny about that, lad,’ a fat man near the front shouts. He is sitting next to a fat woman.
‘My, my,’ I say. ‘I used to be as fat as you, sir, but now you’re on benefits, your wife can’t afford to give me a biscuit after I fuck her.’
There is a collective intake of breath and a few sly chuckles. I smile, sweetly, like a child. It’s mainly the women who laugh.
‘My dad actually did die young. That’s true. No joke. He was killed in the Falklands.’
Beat.
‘It always was a rough pub.’
Beat.
‘I’ll tell you how rough it was. This bloke walked into the Falklands once and says to the barman, “What sort of wine do you have?” and the barman says, “Bottle or glass?” “Oh, glass, please,” the bloke says and the barman smashes a pint pot in his face.’
Beat.
‘Like I said, rough place.’
Beat.
‘After my father died, my mother, she remarried. On the morning of the wedding my new dad took me to one side and said: “Clive,” he said. That’s my name, he was clever that way. “Clive,” he said. “I’m going to treat you like my own flesh and blood. I’m going to treat you like you’re my real son.” And he was true to his word.’
Beat.
‘From that moment on he ignored me during the week and beat me senseless every Saturday night.’
It goes on. Five minutes. The audience is confused and annoyed by my deadpan delivery, by the one-liners, by the uneasy subject matter. It’s a relief when I can call time on the whole sorry mess.
‘I have been Clive Porter,’ I say. ‘And you have been my worst nightmare.’
I walk quickly backstage as the compere bullies the audience into patchy applause. The Englishman, Irishman and Scotsman are still on the armchairs drinking beer. The Englishman opens a bottle and passes it to me.
‘You don’t have a day job, do you, son?’ he says.
‘When you get one, don’t quit it,’ the Irishman says.
When we’re back home and she’s poured us both whiskies, Mother tells me what I have done well – the right level of menace in my put-downs, my timing on some of the weaker jokes – and what I have done badly – stage presence, clarity, poise, switch from set-up to punchline, pitch of voice, facial expressions, audience interaction and volume.
‘Your dad would have been proud of you, though,’ she says. ‘Yes, he’d have seen talent there. Real potential. And anyway, it’s a laugh, isn’t it? What could be better than making someone laugh?’
‘Making ten people laugh?’
She punches me on the arm.
‘Honestly, your dad would be proud.’
Two nights later she goes out with the Scotsman to say thank you. I have another gig arranged soon afterwards.
The best jokes and routines improve with repetition; they appreciate. The only people who tire of them are the comics themselves. My favourite routine of all time is recorded the same year I make my stage debut. Palin is stage right, smoking a cigarette, dressed as a shopkeeper; Cleese enters stage left holding a birdcage. Audience applauds. They laugh before a word has been said. Cleese says he wishes to make a complaint. Wild laughter, wild applause. There are thousands watching in the theatre; millions who watch it later. The audience knows every word. Each of them has their favourite synonym in Cleese’s litany of death; each one is ready to join in. The sketch follows the usual pattern, with Palin asking what the problem is and Cleese explaining that he wishes to complain about the parrot he has just bought. Palin asks what’s wrong with it; Cleese explains that it’s dead. Wild, wild, laughter. Palin pauses and takes an exaggerated look at the deceased bird. Palin glances up at Cleese. The audience giggles nervously. Palin puffs on his cigarette and says, ‘So it is. Here’s your money back and some holiday vouchers.’ The audience laughs, but are cheated. Cleese and Palin, twenty years on and still having to do that fucking parrot sketch. So sick of it, they have to kill it dead. It’s easy to understand; I feel the same necessity even during my third show.
What’s funny at home, funny with Mother, is not funny outside the flat. I want to ad-lib, freshen up the routine, but I have nothing. I just stand there, microphone in hand, running through the same lines, the same actions. Mother makes notes. This is the new thing: not laughing, just making notes. The audience laughs sometimes, laughs because they are predisposed to. They like the swearing; they like that they need do nothing more than laugh.
Unasked, the Scotsman puts in calls for me, recommends me. Unasked, Mother accepts on my behalf. Unasked, I am booked for six consecutive nights in various places across the south-east.
‘Isn’t that great news?’ Mother says as she holds me, tight enough to let me know I cannot decline.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s great news.’
That evening, I stay up and watch my father again on the video, his five minutes of fame on Live from the Palladium. He must have done that routine a hundred, a thousand times up and down the country. I was probably conceived a few hours after he’d delivered it at some club in Great Yarmouth. The cassette tapes of his act, which he used for bookings, is the same routine, but just his voice, not his skinny body in the trademark brown suit. I take the tape with me on tour; listen to it in guest-house rooms as the Scotsman and my mother have hushed but audible sex next door.
The first night is fine, the second the hecklers are vicious, violent. The men are drunk and hateful; they do not wish to laugh with but at. I watch my mother and she looks oddly calm, then strangely confused.
‘Well done,’ she says afterwards.
‘That was horrible,’ I say.
‘You were brilliant,’ she says and looks for all the world like she believes it. She does believe it. The next night she is laughing, no longer making notes. She can see it. There is no future in it, just the constant fucking present.
The last date is the biggest one on the itinerary. The Irishman joins us on the bill. He doesn’t recognize me and I have no interest in talking. I have a couple of drinks, and from backstage see my mother by the bar, an old guy chatting her up. For a moment, just for a split second, he could be Mr Hughes. But he is not Mr Hughes, just a man in a blazer, laughing loudly. It turns out that he is the compere; a filthy, innuendo-soaked old queen popular with the local students.
‘Apparently he’s a real cult,’ says the Irishman to the group of us, pointing over to him as he helps himself to a glass of wine. ‘Or at least that’s what I read in the Guardian.’
Everyone laughs but me; it is a joke I do not quite understand. Mother is still at the bar, now checking her eye make-up in a compact mirror. She does not belong here, surrounded by students in their DM boots and cardigans and limp, long hair. She looks out of time as much as out of place. I watch her until I’m given the nod.
The applause is warm, just as it is at the Palladium. I salute left, and I salute right. I stand in the centre of the stage and it all comes so easily; it’s the last gig and it’s all so easy.
I stand there and when I can take it no longer, when there is just a sense of audience unrest, I do the wink.
‘Hello, ladies and gents, my name’s Davey Cruz,’ I say.
‘I only have to wink at a bird and she gets pregnant,’ I say and look down to the front row. ‘Are you looking forward to raising me bairns, sir?’
I do the low reassuring laugh.
‘I’m only kidding!’ I say. ‘I can’t help it, me. I’m just a kidder, you know. This one time though this bloke, true story this, ladies and gentlemen, this bloke tried to attack me live on stage, as I was actually performing. Which is why I always wear a brown suit on stage. Just in case I have another little accident.’
The intonation, the accent, the stance, is purely my father. I’m not wearing a brown suit, but I do the brown-suit routine anyway. The room is nervous, the laughter sparse.
‘You’re shit,’ someone shouts.
‘No, sir,’ I say, ‘it’s just the brown suit. You need to get your eyes tested.’
It’s an ad-lib from the cassette version of the routine. It comes at around the right time and I try the little tip of finger to nose gesture he was good at. It works perfectly. I do the whole routine, line for line, word for word, ending exactly the way my father had.
‘My name’s Davey Cruz. Don’t go changing – I won’t recognize you.’
I turn away and see myself as a child, backstage, in the wings, standing beside my mother. Mum is young and applauding my father, her face set with joy. I turn back to the audience one last time, just as my father does on the video. Mum is standing now, applauding. Members of the audience are turning to look at her, the crazy woman clapping alone. She ignores them and continues to applaud. I can hear her even when I’m finally backstage.
She still talks about it. When she remembers. When she’s more lucid. But even then it’s hard to know whether she’s talking about me or my father. Perhaps it’s both. At the hospital, she tries her best, but jokes won’t be wrangled the way they once were.
‘Are you a doctor?’ she asks when I arrive.
‘I’m your son,’ I say.
‘But are you a doctor?’ she asks again.
‘I’m a proctologist,’ I say.
‘That’s right,’ she says. ‘My son, the proctologist.’
Acknowledgements
A grant from The Society of Authors provided time and space to write some of this collection. Its generosity is gratefully appreciated.
This book would not have seen the light of day without the guidance, help and patience of Andrew Kidd. Thank you, and good luck.
Kate Harvey for her editorial wisdom and continued support. Lucy Luck for stepping in as though she’s always been there.
Stuart Wilson for the cover, Nicholas Blake for the copy edit, Camilla Elworthy and everyone at Picador.
Nick Royle at Salt, Philip Davis at The Reader, Rachael Allen at Granta for publishing early versions of these stories. Ra Page and Steven Amos for commissioning ‘Swarm’, which benefited from the consultation of Pepe Falahat; Rowan Routh for excellent early editorial input.
Susan Ruszala, Kristina Radke, Lindsey Rudnickas, Tarah Theoret and everyone at NetGalley/Firebrand.
Suzanne Azzopardi, GJ Bower, Niven Govinden, Lee Rourke, Nikesh Shukla, Chimene Suleyman.
Jenny Offill, Eimear McBride, Teju Cole for their kind words.
The Chequers, E17, for excellent editing facilities.
William Atkins for his quiet wisdom. Nicci Cloke for being brilliant at whatever she does. Barbara Baker and Eugene Sorokin; Simon Baker and Hilda Breakspear. Gareth Evers and Matt Baker.
Oliver Shepherd for always being there; Daniel Fordham and Jude Rogers for inspiration both musical and written.
My mother and father, Joyce and John Evers, for setting the benchmark.
Lisa Baker and Caleb Evers. To the ends of the earth.
In memory:
Stephen Callender (1951–2014).
Molly Evers (1923–2014). YNWA.
Also by Stuart Evers
Ten Stories about Smoking
If This Is Home
Copyright © 2015 by Stuart Evers
First American Edition 2016
All rights reserved
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Evers, Stuart.
[Short stories. Selections]
Your father sends his love / Stuart Evers.
— First American edition.
pages ; cm
ISBN 978-0-393-28516-1 (hardcover)
I. Title.
PR6105.V48A6 2016
823’.92—dc23
2015029784
ISBN 978-0-393-28517-8 (e-book)
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