by Giles Ekins
‘Please don’t do that Mr. Chilton; else Godzilla will have to stuff you down the grate headfirst to find them, now won’t he? And he might just forget to lift up the grating first.’
He knows he is beaten, so Charlie tosses the keys, none too gently, at the Bouncer who fumbles the catch and drops them. ‘Butterfingers!’
‘Don’t take it too hard Mr. Chilton, just a couple of working lads doing their job, you know how it is,’ Jack Russell says soothingly, as if kind words are going to ease Charlie’s hurt.
‘Aye? Well, piss off then man, ‘cos I’m a working gadgie an ‘all and that’s my livelihood you’re walking off with. Driving off with, I should say.’
Jack Russell reads the name of the side of the van, as if noticing it for the first time, an impossibility considering how garish it is. ‘That’s you then is it, ‘The Great Santini,’ Magician?’
“Aye, you want a fucking autograph?’ Charlie responds bitterly.
‘Remember that name. You ever played Great Yarmouth, four, five six year ago?’
‘Yeah, did a season at the Pavilion.’
‘Thought so, took my son to the show, said he wanted to see a real magician.’
‘Aye? Did he enjoy it?’
‘Nah, thought you were shit, says he still wants to see a real magician.’
‘Nice to meet you an’ all. First you steal my van. Then you fucking insult me.’
Jack Russell pats Charlie consolingly on the arm. ‘Don’t take it so hard, Mr. Chilton. It’s all in a day’s work. Still, I can’t hang around here all day, philosophising, chewing the fat, nice though it is,’ he says sarcastically, nodding at the desolate, desperate, decaying street. ‘So much to re-possess, so little time. So little time before everyone who owes does moonlight and changes their address. Times a flying and that one thing even I can’t re-possess.
‘Well don’t let me keep you on my account. Fuck off then.’ Charlie says bitterly, his former good mood now well dissipated.
‘Right then Cedric my man,’ Jack Russell calls to the Bouncer, ‘if you would just assist Mr. Chilton unload his goods and chattels, we’ll be on our way and we can show Mr. Great Santini a new trick whilst we are about it, we can how him to make a Transit van disappear. Right before his very eyes’
The van drives away and Charlie watches it until it turns the corner out of sight. He stands dejectedly amongst his possessions, his suitcase and tote bag, the plastic pillar, the painted box and lacquer screen, trunks boxes, more boxes, bags, all the props and paraphernalia of his profession. He kicks a box in rage and then turns and knocks on the door of The Kildare, bed and breakfast establishment for performing artistes.
FIVE
Clarrie’s hometown
A nice steak, he likes a nice steak, cooked well done, well done! Burnt to a blackened crisp more like.
CLARRIE GOT OFF THE TRAIN AT MIDLAND STATION; it had been a long journey from Whitburn on Sea, not long by distance but long and wearying by time. First she took the bus to Whitburn on Sea railway station only to find that the train to York was running late, the bench on the platform on which she sat waiting was hard, cold and unyielding and a bitter wind blew in from the sea. She huddled closer into her coat, there was a waiting room at the station but it was closed due to ‘staff shortages!’ What staff do you need to open one bloody door into a station waiting room?
On the platform across the tracks from Clarrie, a brightly coloured poster was displayed, showing a an apple cheeked child on the beach, happily making sandcastles, whilst behind him a girl in a one piece bathing costume leapt to catch a beach ball. ‘Sunny Whitburn on Sea’; it proclaimed, ‘for the holiday of your dreams.’ For the holiday of your nightmares, more like,’ she thought sourly.
A station worker desultorily sweeps the platform, brushing the dust and dirt onto the tracks for it to been blown straight back again by the wind. ‘You waiting for the York train?’ he asks Clarrie, a brilliant deduction considering that York was the only destination served by this line.
‘Yes, d’you know when’s it likely to arrive?’
‘S’late.’
‘I know that, just asking if you know when?’
He peers down the tracks, as if expecting the train to miraculously appear. ‘S’late,’ he says again.
Clarrie gives up, ‘Can you at least open up the Waiting Room?’ pointing towards it.’ It’s bloody freezing out here, that wind’ll cut you half.’
‘Open the Waiting Room? More than my job’s worth is that. Not trained for that am I?’ and he moves on, oblivious to the murderous look Clarrie is giving to his back.
‘Asshole’ she mutters, huddling closer into her coat.
The train to York eventually arrived and after what seems a age, sets off again, stopping at every station on the way, every cow in the field, every sheep in its fold, half the time stopping for no apparent reason so far as she could see. Another wait in York, but at least she could get a cup of coffee and a plastic tasting sandwich. Another train, finally reaching her home town, much later than she had intended.
She crossed the road to Pond Street bus station, her large bright red suitcase heavy in her hand, the handle digging deep into her palm, so that she frequently had to stop, put the case down and pick it up again in the other hand. Her shoulder tote bag was heavy as well, as was her handbag into which she had stuffed small items she could not get into her suitcase or tote .They were digging painfully into her shoulders, her back aching from the weight of them. She had left another suitcase with Charlie, unable to carry it, assuming it to be in Charlie’s van, he had promised to send it on to her, but which now resided, unknown to her, in Maeve O’Donnell’s basement
Her bus, No 63, was waiting at its stand, which was a small blessing. ‘Frank’ll be surprised to see me,’ she thought, smiling at the thought, she had intended to ‘phone him from Whitburn, tell him the story, but in the end was too busy packing, not only her own clothes and stuff, but also helping Charlie pack up all the stage material, her costumes, the trunks and packing cases, tracking down bits of equipment for illusions not used and stored in the theatre under stage store, besides which the battery on her mobile was flat. ‘I’ll call from York,’ she told herself but once there found she did not have enough coins for a phone box, could not be bothered to queue up for change and so in the end decided to surprise him, just be nice to see the look on his face, the smile of welcome and surprise, he’s got a lovely smile when he wants.’
Now she had made the decision to quit the stage, Clarrie was surprised how much she was looking forward to a life without greasepaint, increasingly second rate or third rate venues, sordid changing rooms, backstage bitchery, provocative costumes, dingy digs and constantly watching her weight. Despite Charlie’s accusations she had been very careful with her diet and the discipline necessary to keep lithe and supple. Especially supple. Every morning she did an hour’s warm up with stretching exercises and yoga to ensure she could manipulate herself through the Disappearing Illusion, the Swords in the Box and some of the other tricks she and Charlie had performed over the years. Glad to put all that behind and relax a little. She was still of child bearing age, she and Frank could try again, they’d tried before, often, without success but now they would have time, time for her to be a proper wife and mother and she smiled at the prospect, ‘start on the proper wife bit straight away tonight.’
‘Wonder what Frank would like for dinner? He’s probably been living on fish and chips and other takeaways, maybe beans on toast. A nice steak, he likes a nice steak, cooked well done, well done! Burnt to a blackened crisp more like.’ Clarrie liked hers medium, medium rare, still pink and slightly bloody inside.
She slotted her key into the front door, lugged her suitcase and tote bag into the hall, hung her handbag on the staircase newel and turned on the lights, the afternoon was fading fast. Frank would still be at work, he had a good job, section leader in the Council accounts department, responsible for seven other staff, settin
g budgets for future acquisitions and preparing reports for the Finance Committee. She was very proud of him; he had started as a junior wages clerk and gradually worked his way up to his present position and he could go further – with the right wife behind him. Encourage him to join the Freemasons, get to know important people.
Strange! She could hear voices. Voices coming from upstairs. Frank must have left the television on in the bedroom, she told herself, but not really believing it as a chill settled into her stomach. Her heart pounding, she slipped off her shoes and slowly climbed the stairs. The voices, male and female were coming from the bedroom, their bedroom. The door was slightly ajar; she could hear Frank’s voice and another female voice she almost recognised. She closed her eyes, wanting to scream, gathered herself and kicked open the door, a fury such as she had never experienced raging through her.
They were both naked, her hand around his erect penis, bent over him as if to take it in her mouth. Frank started up as if shot, colour draining from his face as though doused in whitewash, a strangled croak, ‘CCClarrie.’ The woman, somebody Clarrie did not recognise after all looked up, puzzled, indignant almost. She was heavy, bulky, no spring chicken, flat faced, frizzy dyed blonde hair, heavy breasts sagging, wrinkled buttocks fleshy and pale, pimpled and spotty with thick pubic hair sprouting between her thighs. .’What the …who you?’ looking from Clarrie to Frank and back to Clarrie again.
‘His wife, you fucking bitch!’ she shouted, her rage of such ferocity that if she had had a gun in her hand she could have shot them both dead. She turned and fled the room, weeping, destroyed, wanting only to throw herself down the staircase and end her misery.
‘Clarrie, wait,’ Frank called after her but heard only the slam of the front door.
SIX
London, two or three days later
‘Went down like a stripper-gram at the Pope’s birthday party. You know, lots of deathly silence.’
CHARLIE EMERGES FROM THE UNDERGROUD STATION, turning up his collar against the sharp drizzly wind. Head down the walks purposefully down the road, suitcase in hand, a clear destination in mind.
The Hartshorn Road housing estate in east London had been built in the 1930’s ’ by the Adamson Trust, a charitable Quaker housing association, and housed some 800 families in seven 6 storey brick built blocks of flats. It was early evening and already dark as Charlie climbed the stairs to the second level and along the dimly lit external corridor to number 241 Hanson House and knocks on the door. He can hear the television playing, the closing theme for a popular soap opera. ‘She always did like her soaps,’ Charlie thought, ‘Coronation Street, Eastenders, Crossroads. Those crap Australian day time soaps…Dallas, Dynasty, load of bollocks mostly.
‘Yes? Who’s there? Who is it?’
Sensible girl, Charlie thinks, Can’t be too careful, these days, don’t open your door ‘til you’re sure who it is.’ ‘It’s ’me, Doreen. Charlie.’ Doreen, pronounced with the emphasis on Reen rather than Dor, funny that, he thought, never heard of anybody else who pronounced Doreen that way
‘Charlie?’ The door opens a crack, a security chain preventing any sudden entry and Doreen Chilton peers out through the gap, light flooding out across Charlie’s face. ‘Charlie, it is you,’ she says in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Is he here?’ Charlie asks, trying to peer around Doreen into the flat.
‘His name is Dennis, Charlie, as you very well know.’
‘Is Dennis here, then?’
‘No, he had to go to Harrogate for a conference.’
‘Harrogate? Nice town, played there once. Went down like a stripper-gram at the Pope’s birthday party. You know, lots of deathly silence.’
‘What do you want Charlie, only I can’t stand here all night reminiscing about your past triumphs?’
‘Can I come in, Doreen, please; it’s cold standing out here?’
Doreen unhooks the security chain from the door but still does not open it fully. ‘Charlie, what do you want?’
‘I need a bed, Dor. Just for a night or two. Just ’til I can get things sorted out?’
Doreen slowly opens the door further to let him in. “I thought you were playing summer season somewhere? Whitburn? Whitburn on Sea?’ as she takes his damp coat from him and hangs it up on a coat hook.
‘Yeah lovely place, not quite the end of the world but you can see it from there. Listen love, you got a drink, Scotch or something?’
‘Typical,’ said Doreen as she leads Charlie through into the living room, ‘I see your priorities don’t change. Drink first, explanations later. The bottles are over there on the sideboard, make one for me as well, I’ll have a scotch and water, fifty fifty, I’ll get the water,’
Charlie pours the drinks, two fingers for Doreen, three and a bit for him. ‘Hmmm, Macallan,’ holding up the bottle of 12 year old Sherry Oak malt whisky as Doreen comes back with a small jug of water. ‘Old Dennis must being doing all right for himself. What is he now, door to door insurance salesman?’
Doreen thumps him on the arm, not too gently. ‘He is in insurance but he does not do door to door. He’s an insurance advisor, he advises big companies on liability issues and liability insurance.’
‘Sounds just the right job for him then.’
‘What do you mean,’ she responds sharply.
‘We’ll, he’s a bit of a liability himself, isn’t he? Ouch, that hurts,’ as she thumps him on the arm again.
‘Serves you right for being such a pig.’ Charlie takes a sip of his drink; he has taken it neat, no water for him. ‘I can get ice,’ she says, ‘if you like?’
‘No it’s OK; beggars can’t be choosers, only losers.’
They sit down side by side on the sofa, new since last time I was there Charlie notes, old Dennis is really getting his feet under the table and feels a sudden irrational surge of jealousy, even though he and Doreen have been separated for some years he has never really accepted Doreen’s relationship with Dennis.
‘So, what was it this time, the drink again I suppose?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, well it wasn’t really my fault.’ Charlie replies self pityingly
‘Charlie, according to you it is never your fault. Ever. No matter what, it’s always somebody else’s fault. Face up to things, for God’s sake, for once in your life face up to something.’
‘Aye, you’re right of course. You always were right. I should have listened to you, pet; things might have been a lot different.’ He takes a sip of his scotch then another, licking his lips, savouring the rich smooth peaty taste the single malt, it been a good while since he could afford a single malt, usually it was supermarket own cheap brand, guaranteed to be at least three months old . Can also be used to unblock sinks. He sighs, a deep sigh of resignation. ‘Ohhhhh, shit, why do things always get fucked up, eh?’
‘Usually because it’s you that …messes them up, Charlie. So, tell me, what happened this time. And don’t tell me it wasn’t down to you ‘cos I’ll throw you straight out the door, honest to God, I’ve heard every one of your pathetic excuses over the years and I never believed a one of them and I’m too old to start believing now. So be warned.’
‘Aye, all right, all right, no need to go on. Message received and understood.’
‘So?’
It’s a long story; don’t you want to watch telly? Corrie’s on tonight, in’t it?’
‘I’ve got all night, I’m not going anywhere and I’m sure your sordid story is far more interesting than Coronation Street.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Just get on with it, stop dithering about, that’s the story of your life.’
‘OK, but how about another scotch first?’
‘Another story of your life,’ Doreen says tartly but gets up from the sofa, turns off the TV which had been playing quietly to itself and walks over to the sideboard as Charlie watches her. She is wearing a plain white blouse buttoned to her throat and a plain black skirt, not short, k
nee height, showing good legs; bare legs no stockings or tights, no shoes, barefoot .Still looking good after all these years. Charlie thinks, admiring her legs and bottom as she pours out the drinks, adding water to hers. Charlie is still taking it neat. She comes back and sits down next to Charlie, a little bit closer than previously, a fresh soap smell about her, no perfume that he can detect.
‘So?’ she asks again.
‘Well, it was a grotty booking to start off with, God knows why I listen to Neil Bannock, that bloody agent of mine. But I do, every sodding time. Every year he says it’s going to be different. Going to be a big year this year, Charlie, you just see. Going to get something good for you, Charlie, and every year the smarmy bastard tells me the same thing and every year I believe him and every year I ends in these crummy fucking flea pits like Whitburn and every time it’s a sodding nightmare. A nightmare!’
Doreen says nothing; she knows full well that it is Charlie’s drinking and unreliability that has led him to these depths, the best agent in the world was not going to get him any better bookings.
‘Listen,’ he continues, ‘what’s brown and black and looks good on an agent?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘A Rottweiler! What do you call fifty agents at the bottom of the sea? A start. Anyway, there we are, stuck in this dead bloody shithole, Whitburn on fucking Sea! The best thing for that place is a bloody great landslide; send the whole sodding town into the water, Whitburn in Sea.
Charlie tells his story; he is a good raconteur, especially when fueled by a good malt whisky and he has Doreen chuckling when he recounts the scene in Benny Marsden’s office, having glossed over the fiasco on stage. He now has his arm around her shoulder and she has snuggled in even closer. ‘So there I am. Out on my ear and in deep shit with Stan Elkman.’
‘Stan Elkman? You don’t still have dealings with Stan Elkman, do you?’