by Giles Ekins
Clarrie gives him the finger to his back. ‘Pompous little prick. Where’s he think he’s coming from, talking to you like that? Asshole!’
They walk off together, arms around each other waist, and an elderly stage hand gives them a silent clap of applause. ‘Good on you Charlie, little fuckin’ tosser, ain’t he?’
‘Why aye. Thanks, Jack, ‘preciate all you done.’
‘No bother, see you Charlie, Clarrie.’
‘See you Jack, take care.’
THREE
The Seville Theatre, Whitburn on Sea
Dream on, Charlie fucking Chilton. Dream on.
BENNY MARSDEN WAS ON THE ‘PHONE WHEN CHARLIE finally made his way to Benny’s cubby hole of an office. He had changed out of his stage clothes, washed off his sweat streaked make up, had a small, well not too small, tot of scotch, given Clarrie a kiss and a part of the bum before heading off for the confrontation with Benny. He does not bother knocking and makes his way in.
Benny ignores him and carries on talking; Charlie sits down and puts his feet up on Benny’s desk, just to annoy him as much as anything else. The air in the office is thick with smoke, Benny is a chain smoker, and even though talking on the phone he has a cigarette in hand, taking a drag between each sentence.
‘Yes…Yes…Yes…’ Takes a drag. ‘I quite agree…Yes Stan…I agree.’ Another drag, blowing smoke over at Charlie. ‘Quite agree…without a doubt…, no. no, no need to worry.’ Another quick puff and Benny stubs out the fag, tucks the phone tight between his shoulder and his ear whilst he pulls another cigarette from the packet and lights it with a disposable lighter. The ashtray is full to overflowing, ash spilling out onto the desk. ‘Yes. Yes Stan …no sooner said than done Stan…’ Another quick drag. ‘Right…right, yeah, quite within our rights…No… No… No point at all, yes, yes, I quite agree with you…’ Another drag, another cloud of smoke blown Charlie’s way, who flaps it away in irritation, as an ex-smoker he now hates the smell of smoke. ‘No. Right then, Stan. Goodbye then Stan.’
Benny puts down the phone and turns to Charlie, brushing his feet off the desk with an irritated swipe. ‘That was Stan. Stan Elkman. At Head Office.’
‘Aye, thought as much, what with you down on your knees and your puckered up lips all covered with the brown stuff. Jesus Christ, Benny, you got your tongue so far up Stan Elkman’s arse you must be able to polish his tonsils for him.’
Benny gave Charlie a sneering smile, revelling in his petty tyranny. ‘You always were offensive Charlie, even when you were in work. Which you aren’t, not any more, I’ve just told Stan about today’s fiasco and he agrees with me. You’re fired. As of right now!’
‘No Benny,’ you’ve got it wrong. Stan doesn’t agree with you. You agree with him. Whatever Stan says you just nod…’Yes, Stan, no Stan, three bags fucking full Stan.’ Fuck, you’re like one of them nodding dogs some prats have on the back shelf of their cars. You prob’ly got one yourself.’
‘Whatever,’ Benny responds, smirking with satisfaction, ‘It still means you’re fucked. Right royally fucked, up to your eyeballs in excrement and I don’t think there is any magic you can do that’s going to get you out of it,’ stubbing out his cigarette with a violence and then lighting another
‘I can still turn you into a newt, you know, the Lesser Spotted Brown-tongued Newt.’
Benny shakes his head sadly, as if remembering old times. ‘You’re not even funny anymore, Charlie. I remember when you used to be good. Not great, never one of the greats. But good enough. Look at you now, the only trick you can do is make the contents of a whisky bottle disappear.’
‘Aye, a lifetime of dedicated practice. It comes easy.’
‘And goes down hard. Anyhow, enough of the fond memories, like I said Charlie, Stan wants you out of here, like as of yesterday. Pack your bags and bugger off.’
‘Who’s going to replace me on the bill at such short notice? You’ll not find anybody. At least let me see the week out,’ seeing the slippery slope getting even steeper.
Benny shook his head, ‘You still don’t get it, do you?’ emphasising his point by jabbing his cigarette at Charlie, ’you’re not being replaced. It’s not worth it, Christ, those morons out in the stalls wouldn’t notice if half the show didn’t go on. It’s the end of season, nobody gives a toss, but we can’t afford another cock-up like today, business is bad enough as it is.’
‘So I’m out? Just like that. Just like that,’ he repeats in a very passable impersonation of the late, great Tommy Cooper’s catch-phrase; including the hand movement, even in a crisis Charlie cannot resist playing the joker.
‘That’s about the size of it. You’re out, just like that,’ Benny responds, having missed the Tommy Cooper allusion, ‘and the sooner the fucking better for me.’
‘What about my money, I’ve got money due.’
‘As for that my friend, you’ll have to go and see Stan yourself. I’m not authorised to give it to you; he made that clear, very clear. ‘If Charlie Chilton wants his money,’ he said, ‘let him come and see me about it, not a penny Benny,’ he said. ‘Not one penny, you do not give him even one brass farthing,’ those exact words. You are in the deepest, darkest shit with Stan you know, Charlie. He does not like being let down does Stan Elkman. As he said, you screwed it up once before, he gave you another chance and you’ve bollocksed up good and proper,’ pausing to light yet another smoke.
‘Just…’ Charlie started to say.
Benny held his hand up, ‘Not done yet. Stan Elkman is not a forgiving man Sunshine, and so, if you want to argue about money due, go talk to him direct. So as far as I’m concerned you can fucking well whistle for it.’
‘Come on man, I’ve got commitments, Clarrie to pay, the rent’s due, stuff like that. I need that money that’s due to me, I need it now,’ Charlie pleaded, he hated to beg for his money, but he was hard strapped. ‘Christ, can this fucking nightmare get any worse? ‘Come on, for Christ’s sake you miserable git, can’t you see clear to let me have some of it at least?’
Benny smirked, determined to milk this for all he could. ‘You don’t know what a pleasure it is to see Mr. High and Mighty Great bloody Santini grovel and beg. Music to my ears. Go on Charlie, why don’t you get down on your knees and beg for it, maybe suck my dick? It won’t change the answer but I might be persuaded to give you a couple of quid for a drink, how ‘bout that, eh?’
Angrily Charlie got to his feet, ready to rip Benny’s toupee from his head and ram it down his patronising throat. ‘Stick it up your arse, Benny, you and Stan Elkman both. Who needs this poxy bloody shithole anyway or Stan Elkman’s lousy fucking jobs?’
‘You still don’t see it, do you Charlie? You’ve come so far down the bloody ladder you’ve hit bottom. You can’t get any other bookings except in toe-rag dead end holes like this, same with all the other losers on the bill,’ waving his cigarette at the play bill sellotaped to the wall behind his desk. ‘And the only promoter putting on shows like this is Stan Elkman, See, see where it says at the top there, a Stan Elkman presentation? You don’t work for Stan Elkman, who the fuck do you work for? And like I say, Sunshine, Stan is not a forgiving man. No sir, the milk of human kindness does not flow through Stan Elkman’s veins. Which as I say, means you are fucked Charlie. Fucked with a capital F.’
Charlie storms out towards the door, knowing Benny is right but unable to accept it; he was The Great Santini , The Great Santini who had once played summer season with Bob Monkhouse and other big names.
‘I don’t need Stan Elkman. Or the likes of you. I’ll be back, pal. You just wait and see. I’ll be back, right at the top,’ he shouted, slamming the door behind him as he left shaking loose the blu-tacked photograph of a nonentity who had once played there from the wall.
‘Dream on, Charlie fucking Chilton. Dream on.’
How’d it go?’ Clarrie asks as he storms back into the cupboard that passes for his dressing room, she had been waiting anxiously in the corridor
outside, pacing back and forth like a caged leopard, still full of indignation at the way Benny was handling the affair, and annoyed by the fact that Charlie blamed her for the failed disappear, pissed as he was he had got the timing all wrong, removing the lacquer screen too soon, before she had a chance to get out of the box. Leastwise that was her story and she was sticking to it, even though, deep inside she knew she had also cocked up, taking too long to get out, distracted by all the errors and Charlie’s drunken erratic performance.’ Buggered if I’m going to admit that, though.’
‘The little bastard has kicked me, sorry, kicked us out,’ Charlie responded, looking for something to ram his fist into, preferably Benny’s face. ‘As of now, we’re out, no replacement on the bill and he’s brown-nosed his way into getting Stan fucking Elkman to screw us out of wor dues’ He could smell the smoke from Benny’s cigarettes clinging to his clothes ,wrinkling his nose in distaste , trying to brush the smell from his jacket with his hands . Hope the little fucker gets cancer, serve him right.
‘Bastard! What’s he mean, not paying us? Clarrie demanded indignantly. ‘I need that money’
‘Aye, too damn right, pet, don’t we all, thing is I can’t pay you ‘til I get my money, you know that.’ He pauses for a few moments, putting his next words in order. ‘Sorry, Clarrie, as it is, I’m going to have to let you go. There’s no act, nothing. You know we’ve got no other shows lined up, that gig in Manchester, whatever that club is called, that’s come to nothing. That Christmas show in Bristol? Nah,’ shaking his head, ’Nothing, absolutely nothing. Nada, absolutamente nada’ he repeats in very poorly accented Spanish. .’Anyway, you’re no use to me if you can’t get out of the box and over the hills and far away in under 12 seconds, you know that.’ He studies her face, expecting an explosion; nobody likes to be sacked, especially when you are not going to get paid what you’re due.
‘It’s all right, Charlie,’ Clarrie responds, ‘I was going to tell you soon anyway. I was thinking of quitting after this run, at the end of the season. Which I reckon is about now by the sound of it. Get back to Frank, I miss him; miss him more than I thought I would this time round. To tell the truth, I’m sick of this life, the grotty bookings, grotty stages, pillocks like Benny Marsden, grotty accommodation with the stink of boiled cabbage everywhere I want to be with Frank, it’s been too long, way too long, So it’s for the best really in a way.’
‘Glad you see it that way, taking it well. I’ll miss you though.’ Charlie says, a little sadly. ‘Been through good times and bad times, ain’t we, eh?’ They come together, arms around each other, gazing into the other’s eyes, they had never been lovers, although he had tried it on a few times before she slapped his face hard, ‘Charlie, I’m not that sort of girl, I don’t sleep around and I’m going to keep it that way. Try it on again and I’m out of here, understood? If we can’t keep it professional, then I’m gone. Gone for good, is that clear enough? ’ After that, they had got on fine, working well together, more than seven years later, knowing that good things, even less than good things, must sometimes come to an end, sad but not unhappy, the end of an era when both must move on. ‘Still friends, eh?’
‘Always, Charlie, always.’
‘Gan canny, then Clarrie pet. Gan canny.’
FOUR
Whitburn on Sea.
‘Why does it always have to be the hard way?’
RUNNING AT RIGHT ANGLES TO THE MAIN WHITBURN ON SEA seafront are Diamond Street, Pearl Street, Emerald Street, Amethyst Street, Sapphire Street, Ruby Street and Garnet Street. These are solid imposing Victorian terraced houses, mostly painted white, with a flight of steps up to the front door, with a portico and columned canopy and bay windows, which are now amongst the better class bed and breakfast establishments in the town, with pretentious names such as Superior, St. George, Emperor, Palace, Grande, Queens, Majestic, Imperial and Royale.
Walk down Diamond Street, cross over Sebastopol Crescent,, which isn’t a crescent at all, rather a straight road from nowhere to the town centre (from nowhere to nowhere?) and carry on for another half mile or so and you come to a less salubrious row of brick terraced houses, these are the poorer class of B & B, mostly with ‘Vacancy’ signs in the windows.
No 22 Balaclava Street is an end terrace, in slightly better repair than its neighbours, at least the front door has been painted in the past few years, the windows are clean and the lace curtains have been recently washed, this is The Kildare Bed and Breakfast, owned and run by Mrs. Maeve O’Donnell, a widow, catering mostly for performers and show people, having once trod the boards herself in a high kicking chorus before settling down with Jimmy O’Donnell and starting up in the landlady business. Whether she made the right decision or not must be open to debate, considering the parlous state of Whitburn tourism.
A Ford Transit van is parked outside, painted in the same colours and cabalistic symbols on the lacquer screen and box used in the ill-fated Vanishing Lady trick, with the legend ‘THE GREAT SANTINI painted in bright yellow letters like lightning strikes along the side panels.
It is the morning after the debacle at the Seville. The weather is bright and sunny, although with still a chill in the air. Even this far from the sea front, the raucous squawks of seagulls can still be heard, as if to reassure paying guests that they are in fact at the seaside.
The front door of The Kildare opens and Charlie Chilton emerges, carrying a suitcase and a tote bag over one shoulder. He is followed to the door by Maeve O’Donnell, the landlady. Charlie puts his bags down by the back of the Transit and then turns to back to her.
‘Now that’s a promise, Maeve, a promise. As soon as I get paid I’ll send you a cheque. Honest.’
You’d better Charlie, that’s all I can say. You’d better.’
‘Now, I’ve never let you down before, have I? Trust me.’
‘Huh, the last time I believed a man as said trust me, I ended up pregnant, so I did.’
‘Is that an offer then, Maeve?’ Charlie says, giving her what he imagines to be a winning smile, only revealing yellow teeth in dire need of a good scrape and polish.
‘Cheeky wee beggar.’ She waves fondly at Charlie and goes back inside, closing the door behind her as he starts to load his bags into the van, humming to himself, a tune he knows but cannot quite recall the title or who by, feeling in a far better mood than he had every right to. Considering. He had said goodbye to Clarrie last evening over a drink at the ‘Red Lion.’ Now that it had finally come to it, she was anxious to get away and like the landlady, accepting Charlie’s promise to send on her wages, when –and if - he ever got paid by Stan Elkman (he had assured her that it was only a formality) and as she walked away, he felt a pang of real sadness, the end of an era.
Whatever was to happen, and who knew what the future might hold, he and Clarrie and the act were in the past. ‘Onwards and upwards,’ he told himself but without any real conviction. Even so, he felt surprisingly cheerful, his hangover had subsided to a dull ache behind the eyes and the sun was shining. ‘Who could ask for anything more?’ he sang to himself, was that song from a show, he couldn’t recall? He took out the keys to the van and opened the rear doors, ready to load up his luggage. Suddenly he snapped his fingers, ‘Yeah, Judy Garland, I Got Rhythm’ and sings it aloud, going down on one to deliver the last line, ‘Who could ask for anything more?’
Just then a dark blue Ford Sierra, dusty and in need of a wash, pulls up in front of the Transit, creeping right up to the front bumper as if to give it a kiss and two men get out, one of them thin and wiry like a Jack Russell terrier, the other big and burly, with weight lifters muscles, built like a night club bouncer or a brick whatsit. The Jack Russell pulls out a notebook from his jacket, checks the registration on the Transit and gives a nod to the Bouncer.
‘Mr. Chilton is it? Mr. Charles Haydock Chilton.’
‘Who wants to know?’ Charlie answers cautiously, he doesn’t know who the gentlemen are but he knows that it whoever they and wh
atever they want, it means trouble. As if he did not have enough already.
‘He does,’ says the Bouncer, pointing at the Jack Russell.
‘Well that tells me a lot, don’t it?
‘I’ll ask again, polite like,’ says the Jack Russell, a hard smile fixed on his face. ‘It is Charles Clinton, is it not?’
‘Aye, so what if it is?’ Who are you and what do you want?’ Charlie asks, with the sinking feeling that he already knows what they want. ‘I’m a busy man, need to get on.’
Jack Russell hands Charlie a business card. ‘As you can see, we are from The Relentless Repossession and Debt Collecting Agency. By Appointment. And I’ve got a Court Order here,’ waving an official looking paper. ‘For the van, this very van in fact.’ patting it on the rear door. ‘You’re five months behind with your repayments and the finance company has re-possessed it, as they are fully entitled to under the contract.’
‘Take the van? You can’t bloody well do that!’
‘Paperwork’s all in order, Mr. Chilton. All legal and above board. Ticketyboo. You’ve had enough reminders, stacks of warnings and chances. Nobody to blame but yourself. Now, if you could just let us have the keys.’
‘Bollocks to that! You’re not taking it,’ Charlie answers angrily.
‘Why does it always have to be the hard way?’ Jack Russell asks with philosophical world weariness. ‘Look Mr. Chilton, it’s all above board and legal. And I’ve got the paperwork to prove it And I’ve also got Godzilla here,’ pointing to the Bouncer who nods in recognition, ‘who’s a tad pissed ‘cos he hasn’t had his breakfast yet and if you get him annoyed he’s likely to start breaking bits off you. Easier by far just to let me have the keys,’ and he holds out his hand to take them.
Charlie has the keys in his hand and thinks for a moment about dropping down the nearby road gulley, but Jack Russell seems to read his mind.