by Giles Ekins
‘Yeah, yeah, Stan bloody Elkman, he was the promoter, put the whole Whitburn show together, I went to see him this morning, to try and get the money he owes me. Should be Neil’s job but he got the brush off, Stan told him if I wanted to talk about money, I had to go see the bastard in person. He’s got his offices in Soho, Greek Street, up on the second floor over a strip club, this African pimp by the door asking if I was looking for girls or drugs, didn’t bother to answer. Believe me, Stan does not believe in spending his money on fancy offices, Jesus what a dump.
He does not believe in spending money on new clothes either, doesn’t believe in spending money on anything, full stop. He’s been wearing the same ratty grey pin stripe suit ever since I’ve known him, you know the type, lapels the size of dinner plates and you could house illegal immigrants in the trouser turn ups.’
Charlie has another sip of scotch, now well into his stride. ‘Waste of time that was, going to see him, the bastard. Two hours he kept me waiting, two hours. And then he gives me all of three minutes of his precious time. Three fucking minutes! You should have seen him, Dor, keeps me standing, he’s sitting behind this battered metal desk, three or four telephones in front of him, as I walk in he deliberately picks up one of them and makes a call, just to humiliate me a bit more, keep me waiting a few minutes longer.
He was like a dog with two cocks, revelling in it, me having to grovel for my money, money he owes me. And then he gives me nothing. Not one fucking penny. Said if I wanted my money I’d have to sue and then he would tie me up in court for years. Then said he was even thinking of suing me. Bastard!’
‘I never did like Stan Elkman,’ Doreen says, ‘I remember I met him a couple of times somewhere with you, he’s got the eyes of a child molester and the hands of a corpse.’
‘That’s about the right of it, Bastard, he knows I can’t afford to take him to court, shit, he knows I haven’t got a pot to piss in, nor a window to chuck it out of. Sue-me Stan they call him, now I know why. Christ knows how I’m going to get an act back together now, not without that money. Aye, and he’s a cold-eyed vindictive old bastard, he really is. Likes to think he’s Lord God Almighty, king of the show circuit. He’d not welcome me back with open arms, even if I do get an act together. Which I doubt. I owe money all over the place, my credit cards, landlady in Whitburn, and worst of all, I’ve lost the van, It’s been re-possessed!’
‘Oh no, not your van! You always did have a thing about vans, even when we were first going out together, you remember, that tatty old Bedford you had?’
‘The one with the mattress in the back?’ Charlie answers with a big grin.
‘Trust you to think of that,’ Doreen says laughingly, thumping him lightly on the arm.
Charlie sighs, remembering, ‘We had some good times though, didn’t we girl? What happened eh? What went wrong?’
‘I grew up Charlie, I grew up but you never did, you just carried playing with your little box of conjuring tricks.’
‘And along came Dennis.’
‘Now that’s bloody unfair, Charlie. Our marriage was over long before Dennis, as I recall our marriage fell apart round about the same time you starting sleeping with your little girl assistants’ Doreen responded tartly.
‘Would you have rather I slept with little boy assistants?’
Doreen ignores Charlie’s comment, ‘So? What about this latest one, Cloddie?’ she asks.
‘Clarrie. Short for Clarissa’
‘Clarissa? Oh, how terribly poash’ Doreen says with an exaggerated accent, ‘You been sleeping with her then?’ turning her head to watch his face, his reaction.
‘Don’t be so bloody nosy, but no I didn’t, never, if you must know’
‘Not for lack of trying, I bet?’
‘Maybe, but no go.’
‘You’re not trying to tell me you’ve been celibate are you, that I don’t believe?’ enjoying putting Charlie on the spot.
‘Well, no, I wouldn’t say that exactly.’
‘So?’
‘So what?’
“So who? Who are you sleeping with, fucking, at the moment?’ Doreen hardly ever used words like fuck in general conversation, hardly ever swore at all, must be the scotch, thinks Charlie.
‘Nobody.’
‘Nobody? she exclaims, ‘Nobody, Charlie Chilton the king of goats becomes a monk. Bollocks.’
Well, there was somebody,’ Charlie admits, determined to admit nothing further. Alessya! Alessya and her sister Ayeasha, they were the exotic dance act on the Whitburn bill. The best act on the bill they were, far too good for that shithole. Beautiful, tall, absolutely stunning the pair of them. Alessya, an exotic cocktail of many colours and nationalities with skin the colour of rich buttery honey, the smoothest skin he had ever stroked. For a while Alessya and Charlie had been together, good together, might still have been together but the girls had been offered a job on a cruise liner, on a round the world cruise and they had jumped at the chance and who could blame them? Not me, thought Charlie wistfully, what did me and Whitburn on sodding Sea have to offer compared to that? Nothing. Nada. ‘For a while. Not now.’ is all he would say.
‘Who was she then, what was her name? Tell me,’ she asks persistently.
‘No’
‘Go on. Tell me.’
‘All right, Alessya. Now can we drop it?’
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Well, what was she like? In bed, your Alessya?’ she asks mischievously, a cheeky grin on her face.
‘Jesus Christ woman! What a bloody impertinent question, but since you ask, no, no, not as good as you, if that’s what you want me to say.’
‘Really? I just want you to tell me the truth, that’s all. Nothing wrong with that, is there? So? Am I, I mean was I, better than her?’ snuggling up a little closer to Charlie.
‘Truth be known, Dor,’ he responds a little sadly, although possibly not entirely truthfully, ‘you were better than any of them. Any of them.’
‘Really?’ she asks, very pleased.
‘Really.’
‘Really, honestly and truly?’
‘Really, honestly and truly.’
‘Well, I had a good teacher, didn’t I?”
‘Did you now? Who was he, the bastard? I’ll turn him into a newt.’
‘You, you fool,’ thumping his arm ‘There never was anybody else. You know that. Not until after we’d split up.’
‘We’re still married in the eyes of the law, you know, still my name on the rent book here,’ sweeping his hand around in an encompassing gesture, as if to say it’s all still mine (apart from the new sofa that is).
‘That’s only because my mother disapproves of divorce, you know that.’
‘But she approves of you living in sin with what’s his name?’
‘Dennis! She pretends to ignore it. As long as she doesn’t have to face Father McIntyre with the actual legal fact of divorce, she pretends that Dennis doesn’t exist.’
‘Much as she did with me, as I recall,’
‘She always thought a lot of you Charlie, you know that.’
‘Oh yeah? I can still remember that time when she introduced me to that snooty pal of hers, Celia?’ He puts on a snooty high pitched accent, ‘And this is Charles, our Doreen’s intended. He’s terribly talented; he does conjuring tricks you know.’ Charlie sighs, deeply, briefly closing his eyes. ‘Still we had some good times then, didn’t we though? When the world was young and whisky hadn’t been invented. Such great plans we had, we were going to conquer the world, weren’t we, girl?’
Doreen curled her legs up onto the sofa, underneath herself in that particularly feminine almost double-jointed manner, allowing her skirt to fall back, displaying a lot of leg (deliberately?) before pulling down it again. She now lying sideways against Charlie, her head on his shoulder, arm around his chest. Even watered down, the scotch she had drunk was having an effect, relaxing her, smoothing out any last lingering resentment of Charl
ie’s infidelities. Charlie likes the feel of her against him, his arm around her shoulder and he reaches across to stroke her throat. She gives a little purr of contentment and turns up her face to be kissed. They kiss, lips just brushing against lips, the passionless kiss of old friends.
They pull apart looking into each other’s eyes, and kiss again, deeply, Charlie caressing her neck and throat again as she clings even tighter to him. She holds his head in her hands as they kiss as he runs his hand down to cup and stroke her breasts, still as softly-firm as he remembered Her kissing becomes more urgent, tongue thrusting deep. His hand slides down her flank to her knees and under the hem of her skirt, along the satin-silk of her inner thighs up to her panties. Suddenly she grabs his hand, pushing it away from her and sits up, disentangling his hand from under her skirt, her chest heaving.
‘Eh? What?, exclaims Charlie in surprise ‘Come on, Dor, you know you want to, you always did, just as soon as I touched you I knew. You always did.’
‘Charlie,’ she says, kissing him lightly again. ’I’m 42 years old for god’s sake, far too old to making out on a lumpy sofa. Take me to my bed please. Take me to bed and make love to me like you used to. But after, you’re not sleeping there, right? Afterwards you go to the spare bed. Promise?’
She takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom. The bedroom door closes behind them.
SEVEN
London, the following morning
Don’t worry, Dor. I’m not about to break up your happy little home with your happy little gnome.
‘SHIT!’ CHARLIE EXCLAIMS, grimacing at the bathroom mirror, glaring at the cut on his face, the trickle of blood.
It is the next morning. Charlie, wearing only his underpants, (why an urge for modesty Lord alone knows) is shaving, using one of Dennis’s yellow disposable razors. They had made love again in the morning and both had had a bath, although not together. She, in a pink terry dressing gown, pink towel wrapped around her head like a turban is sitting on the toilet, she’s finished what she was doing and is just sitting there, watching Charlie shave, wondering how many times in the past she had seen him do this, upward stokes on the neck and throat, downward strokes to cheeks and chin, then upwards strokes to under the nose, rinse and the same sequence again, surprised at how much she is enjoying watching him.
‘What does he use for razor blades, your man, Salvation Army cast offs? This bugger’s about as sharp as my knob end.’
‘It wasn’t too blunt last night, as I recall.’ she says with a grin, handing him some toilet paper, but her mind is clearly preoccupied elsewhere. He dabs at the cut on his chin, bright red spots of blood on the pale blue paper, wincing at the sudden sting as he dabs it again.
Taking a deep breath, she asks, ‘So Charlie, what happens now?’
‘I bleed to death, what else.’
‘No, I mean about us. You can’t stay here; you know that, Dennis is going to be back on Friday.’
‘Aye, some say good old Dennis, whilst others tell the truth.’ Throwing the bloody tissue into the waste bin, tossing the razor after it.
‘I’m serious Charlie; you can’t even sleep in the spare room once Dennis gets home.’ She gets up from the toilet, inspects whatever she has deposited there, pulls the flush and lowers the toilet lid, crossing over to wash her hands in the basin, nudging Charlie out of the way. She does not look at him. ‘I mean it. It would be uncomfortable if you’re here when he gets back. Knowing what we did.’
‘Well I’m not going to tell him, are you?’ but she ignores him.
‘What are you going to do? Are you getting your act back together, that’s what I mean? What happened last night was a strictly one off, Charlie. I couldn’t go through all that again, not knowing where you were going to be off to next, not knowing which double-jointed little bitch was going to drop her star-spangled knickers for you. Last night was just two old friends saying hello, nothing to it. You understand? Please?’ Obviously regretting the night spent with Charlie in her bed, ‘it was the drink; she tried to excuse herself. ‘Drink, everything to do with Charlie revolves around drink.’
‘Don’t worry, Dor. I’m not about to break up your happy little home with your happy little gnome. Talking of which, does Dennis still buy his clothes at the Midget Emporium?’
‘Charlie! Dennis is not a midget.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know, he’s a giant travelling incognito.’ Charlie picked up a red toothbrush from a blue plastic beaker, which Doreen promptly takes from him and passes him the green one that was also in the beaker.
‘I know that Dennis, he’s…shorter than average, but he’s not a midget,’ she said defensively, squeezing toothpaste onto her brush and then passing the tube to Charlie.
‘All right, a dwarf then,’ in turn squeezing paste onto his brush.
‘Don’t be horrid,’ she said between brushstrokes as she cleaned her teeth, her dressing gown falling open, breasts swaying with each vigorous stroke of the toothbrush. ‘He’s not a dwarf either.’
‘Well, don’t tell Snow White, I hear she’s looking to replace Grumpy and wants to interview Dennis for the job.’
‘Still the same old Charlie,’ ‘she snaps as she rinses her mouth out, spitting toothpaste clotted water into the sink and swilling it down, she’s nursing a hangover and not in the best of tempers. ‘Never a kind word when a cruel one will do instead.’
Charlie holds up his hands up in mock surrender, pale green toothbrush in hand, ‘Whoa there. Whoa there, who’s pissed in your porridge? I was only joking. Honest. I’m sure Dennis is a warm and wonderful human being, even if vertically challenged and I hope he makes you happy. Anyhow, I hear that …dwarves…sometimes have…you know?’ and he holds his hands, still with toothbrush accessory, 15” apart, as if to indicate penis length. ‘You know, to compensate, like.’ turning on the tap to brush his teeth.
Doreen has now resumed her seat on the toilet – with the lid down - and noticing her gown is open pulls it tightly about her. ‘Dennis is fine there, thank you very much, not that it is any of your bloody business, but there again, I’ve only ever had you to compare. And you don’t. Compare.’
‘Ouch!’ Charlie says, a white toothpaste moustache on his upper lip which he wipes off with the back of his hand.
‘All of which is utterly besides the question, Charlie.’ she continues, not even looking at him, her arms wrapped tightly about her body, rocking slightly as she spoke. ‘You always do this, always, and you have no idea how bloody infuriating it is, every time when there is something you don’t want to talk about, you sidetrack, change the subject, make these stupid infantile jokes that only you think are funny, steer us off in the opposite bloody direction. I said, what happens now? You can’t stay here. You know that. I mean it Charlie, I do.’
‘I know. I know. Hey budge over a minute will you, I need a pee.’ Doreen reluctantly rises from her perch, Charlie lifts up the lid and seat and urinates long and strong, the yellow piss-stream acrid and sharp from last night’s scotch. He shakes, tucks his penis away into his underpants, flushes and without putting the seat and lid down goes back to the basin to wash his hands and then inspects his cut face again in the mirror.
Irritated, Doreen drops the toilet seat and lid with an exaggerated bang to make her point and sits down again, glaring expectantly up at Charlie, tapping her feet impatiently as he dabs at the cut again, leaving a piece of toilet paper stuck to the cut. Finally he turns to face her. ‘Look, Dor, you’ve made it perfectly clear that the Welcome mat’s been well and truly pulled out from under my feet, and I understand that, really I do. You and Dennis are just fine and I’d not do anything to upset things for you.’
Doreen nods, appreciating Charlie’s comments. ‘Like I said,’ he continues ,’ I only need a couple of days to try and get things sorted, even if I don’t get ‘em sorted, I’ll be gone and out of here long before the lord and master comes home. Though Christ knows where. Or how. I’ve got no van, all the gear for my act is stashe
d in the cellar of my landlady’s B& B in Whitburn, she’s keeping it as security for the rent I owe, as well as doin’ me a favour I suppose.’
‘You sleep with her as well?’ Doreen asks tartly.
‘No, no, course not,’ but he does not sound too convincing. ‘Trouble is, it might get damp down there. I don’t know, I just don’t know.’ He sighs, lifting his arms up in resignation, not knowing where to turn, his world completely upside down, with no means that he can see to right it again.
‘Can’t you get a job, I mean, a proper job?’
‘Now you really do sound like your mother! Dor, the only job I have ever had since I was 16 years old is to stand on a stage and do tricks and make things disappear. Who’s going to give me a job, a proper job, eh? Nobody. Unless I go and stack shelves at Tesco’s, no thank you.
What I need is a new act. Entirely new, not just my old act re-vamped or tarted up. Not just the same old act the every other bugger has, but something really sensational, something that’ll grab an audience by the fucking balls and not let go. Something that has never ever been done before.’ Charlie clenches his fist in frustration, as Doreen, suddenly needing to urinate, lifts up the lid, gathers up her dressing gown and sits down to pee but Charlie barely notices. ‘Magic tricks are ten a penny these days…all the magic has gone out of them, it’s blockbuster films the kids want nowadays, stupendous special effects, noise, action fighting. A poor sod like me standing on a ratty stage has no chance, just can’t compete with the big budget blockbuster films. That’s where the magic is these days, up on the big screen.’
Doreen finishes, wipes herself with toilet paper but does not flush the toilet, not wanting to distract Charlie’s chain of thought.
‘Adults don’t give a shit for magicians on the stage much either, not anymore,’ he continues, talking almost to himself, a reverie, a monologue with himself the sole audience. ‘Oh they don’t mind watching some pretty girl in tights sticking her tits out and getting sawn in half and little kids too young not to get frightened in the cinema can be held incredulous for a whole ten seconds with a few sleights of hand, pulling fat rabbits out of a hat, or pigeons from their sleeves, producing coins or table tennis balls from their grubby little ear’oles Why aye, I can do all, no sweat, but it’s not going to get me back on the road up to the top again, and anyway, all that kiddie conjuring crap is Stan Elkman country and I’ve got about as much chance of getting back in favour with him as a wet fart in a perfume factory. No, what I need is the most sensational, headline grabbing, kick ‘em in the crotch illusion ever invented.’