by Les Dawson
I shot out of my seat like a startled fawn and broke all records to get to the phone.
‘Hello?’ I managed to stammer.
Tracy’s breathless voice came along the line: ‘Why didn’t you call me back? We can be friends, can’t we?’
‘Oh yes, yes, we can,’ I panted. Although I would have preferred her to say she loved me passionately, I was content with her friendship … in any case, I had no right to expect anything more.
I went back to my beer and John eyed me with suspicion but said nothing. I told Mo that we were just going to be friends and she smiled knowingly.
At last I knew where I stood. I had been foolish to allow myself to forget my loneliness in secret dreams of a woman I could never have; now I would get on with my life without any more thoughts of romance.
In any case, it was just as well. She was married, albeit not happily, but at least I wasn’t responsible for that as both she and her friends had told me that the marriage hadn’t been right for a long time. She had her two children and I had mine … our two lives were not destined to conjoin.
The run of Babes in the Wood ground on to its conclusion and frankly I was knackered.… Fourteen weeks, twice nightly, takes an enormous amount of stamina, and I needed a rest. I didn’t see Tracy for a month. I kept myself busy at home writing magazine articles and attempting to write a new book. There were also a few engagements I’d agreed to do, golf pro-celebrity occasions that I hosted for charity, radio interviews, and a commercial for an organ and piano manufacturer, which didn’t pay a lot but was fun to do. This led to a poster advertisement for Heineken, in which I was shown dressed as Ada drinking from a pint pot. The last frame showed me with a paper bag over my head, and the caption read: ‘… Refreshes the parts other beers cannot reach’.…
I thought of Tracy quite often and I was glad that our relationship had been purely platonic, otherwise I think I would have gone potty.
The year strode on; March gave way to a skittish April and I was back televising Blankety Blank once more. The show never failed to amaze me: its popularity never seemed to wane and it looked as if it would be on the screens forever.
I called into the St Ives to see a friend, and there was Tracy, beaming and vivacious as ever.… I nodded to her and she seemed pleased to see me, but I kept a low profile. I didn’t want to appear to moon over her; in any case she was surrounded by hearty customers, all of whom were vying for her attention. I looked at myself in a mirror and I didn’t like what I saw – a woman’s man I wasn’t.
Then something occurred that made me hopeful that my life wasn’t just meant to grind joylessly on into oblivion. Rummaging through my suits to make sure no money was secreted in them, prior to having them dry-cleaned, I chanced upon a letter that was still in its envelope.
Curious, I sat on the edge of the bed and glanced through it … baffled at first, but then the penny dropped. I recalled the stage door-keeper handing me the letter saying that it had been left by an elderly lady who claimed to be a spiritualist specialising in automatic writing. She had told him that what was written on the paper had been guided by Meg’s hand. As I sat on the bed, all the memories flooded back and the tears came.
Eventually I read the letter. Frankly, a lot of it didn’t make sense, but the one indisputable fact was that the letter was written in Meg’s handwriting. The slant of the sentences, the quirks of certain letters.… One snatch of a sentence: ‘need to find the bag’. Another: ‘Les.… Must watch his chest,’ Bits and pieces.… ‘Be happy, find someone to care.’
I have to say that I keep an open mind on the paranormal.
The letter made me wonder if the outer limit of our solar system is not one vast telephone exchange.… Silly idea? Well, science tells us that sounds never really fade into nothingness; if I tap a pencil, for instance, on a table top, the sound will be sharp and loud but will then dissipate from my hearing – but that does not mean the sound has died out … it has merely gone from my earshot into the ether, where it will stay. Sounds are like ripples on a pond: without the banks to contain them, they would go on for ever.
In that strange, disjointed astral letter was a warning of something to come much later on.… A portent.…
Meanwhile, life in the here and now had to go on. I had to look after my two teenage kids – no easy task! My cooking wasn’t getting any better, and they were eating more junk food than ever. As for myself, I seemed to exist on strong drink and pies, which caused my weight to balloon into obesity.
I still went for my talks with Meg, but I think if she could have replied she would have told me to bugger off, I was so maudlin.
I heard that Tracy and her family were going on holiday together, which seemed to indicate that they were patching their marriage up.
One or two women were showing an interest in me – God knows why, I can only assume they were part-time workers for the Samaritans. I dated one lady who appeared normal on the surface but who had one burning ambition, I discovered: to drink the planet dry. Her behaviour before alcohol wasn’t too bad, but after a bout with the demon drink she became Mr Hyde. Once she even tried to take her clothes off on the prom.
Another lady, introduced to me by a friend, steered me to the window of a large furnishing store and cooed: ‘Isn’t that bedroom suite…?’ I fled; I’d only met the lady an hour or two before and already it appeared that she had matrimony on her mind.
I’d never realised how vulnerable a lonely man can be. Some men are natural loners … believe me, I wasn’t. I liked having a woman around and all too easily I made myself the prey of calculating females.
One night, feeling a trifle down in spirits and determined to top up with the other kind, I ventured to see some friends in the St Ives. I couldn’t believe my eyes: Tracy was behind the bar – she should have been away on holiday.
She told me that she hadn’t wanted to go; despite the children, something had stopped her from going. I didn’t pursue the subject, feeling instinctively that she was still upset.
A week later I saw her by accident in St Annes Square. She was pale and looked awful. I dashed over to her. ‘Hi Tracy, what’s the matter?’ I said.
She looked at me helplessly. Without speaking she drew an official-looking document from her handbag and handed it to me. It was a divorce petition from her husband.
I went to Meg’s grave and I told her what had transpired. ‘I loved you, Meg, you know that, don’t you?’ I whispered to the headstone. ‘Now there’s this young woman, a lot younger than me, but I just know that we could be happy together.… We’ve both been unhappy – please, Meg, tell me that I have your blessing to love someone again … please.’
It was quiet in the graveyard and only the murmur of a tired breeze disturbed the silence, but on that breeze, and lingering around Meg’s grave, I swear I caught the scent of freesias. Meg’s favourite flower. Was she watching me? Was her spirit energy there?
Tracy moved into a flat in the hotel where she worked and I prepared to leave for the tour of Run For Your Wife. What time we had we spent together either driving aimlessly in the car, munching Kentucky fried chicken, and acting like calf-lovers all over again, or walking along the beach by moonlight. I was head over heels in love. After playing Plymouth, Tracy agreed to spend the week in Bath with me and Pamela.
At this juncture I have to own up to a certain cowardice in breaking the news to my three children, all of whom were quite old enough to be consulted, I must add. On the couple of occasions when Tracy had been to my house, I had merely introduced her in a very off-hand manner to Julie, Stuart and Pamela. Never once had I intimated that our relationship was more than friendship; I didn’t want to upset them because I knew they were still grieving for their mother. Certainly they had received Tracy warmly enough, but they remained more than a little wary of her. What was I to say? That I was in love with another woman when their mother had only been gone eighteen months?
And so I opted for treating my relationship wit
h Tracy as just a pal’s act. It was to take the children a long time to come to grips with their father falling for another woman.… When they did, they gave me a telling off for not being honest with them at the time.
Having Tracy around was wonderful and our stay in Bath helped her to overcome her depression at the impending divorce. From Bath, we played Nottingham (Theatre Royal), Lincoln, Manchester, Reading (the Hexagon) and then the old Theatre Royal at Brighton – a week of pure delight. What a lovely old traditional place to perform in!
The long haul to Darlington, too, was well worth the trek, for the Civic Theatre in that old railway town is quite superb, and there was the bonus of staying in a baronial suite in a 12th-century castle that reeked of the past – and my ninety-per cent proof breath.
Although no great traveller, I adore touring. It’s a chance to see what a varied country we live in and the differences to be found in the people within relatively short distances. From Darlington to Norwich and from Norwich to Dartford, we played to capacity houses, and with Tracy at my side, my happiness knew no bounds.
In September I was invited to play golf in the Howard Keel Pro-Celebrity tournament. Unfortunately, being in transit between theatre dates, I couldn’t play in the actual competition, but I was able to attend the dinner. I asked Tracy to go with me, but first I cleared it with her solicitor who said there was absolutely no reason why she should not accompany me as she was now on the verge of divorce.
I felt so proud showing off my new love, but I was also worried what people’s attitude would be, for many of the stars attending the ball that night had known Meg for years and she had been adored by so many in the business. But it had to be faced.
As soon as my fellow guests saw Tracy, they melted, as I had done, under her radiant charm. I need not have worried after all.
Love Under Scrutiny
* * *
The other revellers at the Howard Keel Golf Classic Dinner looked curiously at the fat little man with the Junoesque beauty at his side. They saw them hold hands tightly throughout the evening, and he seemed to make her laugh a lot.
Their table companions joined in the laughter when he told the joke about the old man sitting on a wall in the street, crying his eyes out.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked a passer-by. ‘Are you all alone in the world, old chap?’
The old man shook his head.
‘You seem to be very unhappy,’ said the passer-by.
The old man blew his nose and replied: ‘I’m the happiest man in the world. I’m ninety-seven, married to a twenty-five year-old ex-beauty queen who is also a Cordon Bleu cook. We have sex three times a day and she’s bought me a Rolls Royce for my birthday.’
The passer-by said angrily, ‘Then what the bloody hell are you crying for?’
And the old man said, ‘I can’t remember where I live.’
What the fat little man didn’t see was a furtive figure snatching a photograph of him and the blonde beauty at his side.…
* * *
I awoke on Monday morning with a gnome tapping out a tattoo on my head. I turned over but the tapping wouldn’t go away. I sat up and the tapping went on, but it wasn’t coming from the gnome’s hammer, it was coming from downstairs. Somebody was knocking on my back door.
I squinted at the clock. Eight-thirty am. Who could it be? The tapping was now beginning to irritate me. I groaned to my unsteady feet, donned my moth-chewed dressing-gown and lurched down the stairs. The tapping was more insistent. ‘For the love of Christ,’ I yelled, ‘I’m coming…’
I shuffled into the kitchen and banged into the spindrier in the wash-house. Peering through the glass panels of the back door I saw the shapes of two men.
Gingerly I opened the door a crack and was about to scream ‘I don’t want to be a Jehovah’s Witness’, when a voice from the other side shouted: ‘Morning, Les, have you got a minute? It’s——from the Daily —.’
Newspaper reporters at this time? Some bugger big must have cashed his Giro in, I thought, as I opened the door.
‘What can I do for you, chaps?’ I said, not suspecting a thing.
One of the heavily overcoated gentlemen held out a newspaper photograph of Tracy and myself at the Howard Keel ball.
‘Who is she, Les?’ he asked, and before I could answer, his friend held out a copy of another tabloid, and there for all the world to see was the same photograph with the caption: ‘Who is the mystery blonde in Les’s life?’
The report went on to make the point that I’d only recently lost Meg and here I was, a respected family man, already frolicking with another woman.…
The one thing that I had feared had happened. I tried to make light of it. ‘She’s just a friend, fellers,’ I smiled. Why had this been raked up? I smelt a bad time ahead with the press.
‘Is she married, Les?’ the bigger of the two men smirked.
I held on to my temper. It’s no use letting reporters like this get to you, it only serves to give a piece of trivia more substance than it deserves.
‘I don’t know, chaps. She’s just a lady I took to a dance, that’s all,’ I lied through my fillings.
On and on they probed. I fended them off with bad jokes; finally I ran out of patience and slammed the door on them.
I telephoned Tracy to tell her the news that our relationship had been leaked to the press, and naturally the poor lass cried in horror. For somebody who has never been exposed to the glare of publicity, it can be a terrible experience, and I find this type of sensationalist journalism an indictment of the grotesque society we’ve built for ourselves. When you think that half the planet’s population is dying of hunger or disease, that millions of people live a hand to mouth existence, yet what makes headlines? A Northern comedian who lost his wife to cancer and has somehow managed to find a new love to share his life.
That morning the phone never stopped ringing. Was it true? Had I found another woman? Over and over I heard the same banal questions.
I telephoned Tracy again and reminded her that she hadn’t done anything wrong. I had taken her as my guest to the Howard Keel gala dinner with the full blessing of her solicitor. Despite the threatened squall of sensational stories, she could hold her head high … and stop thinking that we were a sort of suburban Bonnie and Clyde.
To my horror, a local radio station crooned out the story of ‘Les and his mystery blonde’, ending with ‘Do you know who she is? If you think you do, give us a ring.’ Carte blanche for every crackpot north of the Wash to jam the airways!
As I went round the shops I was aware of much staring and nudging – however this was tempered by a lot of encouraging smiles.
Early Monday morning I had tried to drive to Bradford, and a black saloon that had been parked by the side of my garden wall slid into gear and followed me all the way from my home, across the M62 motorway, to the doors of the theatre, where two shifty, ill-kempt men – obviously press – were trying to make themselves invisible at the stage door entrance. The Big Heat was on. The theatre publicity lady had a Bradford newspaper showing yours truly on the front page, and as usual it was the most unflattering photograph possible.… I looked evil and quite pissed, and my eyes glared from the photograph like those of an oversexed ferret.
I warned the theatre manager and the company manager to watch out for the newshounds, and went ahead with the rehearsal, putting the other business out of my head … for the time being. The cast – Peter Goodwright, Jilly Foote, Anna Dawson and her husband John Boulter, Brian Cant and Brian Godfrey – were marvellous. They had met Tracy and liked her, and of course they had known of my unhappiness. Now they shielded me from the prying noses of the tabloid legions, who by this time were encircling the theatre. I was damned if I’d make any statement yet.
Apart from being kind and comradely, the cast were also highly talented, and our opening night in Bradford was a resounding success. We took five long curtain calls; nobody in the audience heckled me about Tracy. There was a solid ring of re
porters around the Alhambra, so after the first-night party, Jilly Foote donned large dark glasses and strutted out of the stage door and into the heaving mêlée of reporters and fans waiting for autographs. The press thought she was Tracy and she pretended she was, which gave me a chance to be smuggled out another way. The management pushed me into a waiting car and off we sped to Lancashire … silently pursued by the black limousine.
As soon as I arrived home, I ran the gauntlet of some newsmen at the gate, and telephoned Tracy at her flat … then almost wished I hadn’t, because the press had found out her identity, and the hotel where she worked was now under siege. I could tell by her voice that she was frightened. I hadn’t got the heart to tell her that it was going to get considerably worse. The house was empty. My son was out with a girlfriend and Pamela, who was my dresser in the show, had stayed on in Bradford at my request. I didn’t want the press to start questioning her at this stage of the drama.
Although I was replete with the fiery spirit, I still managed to find accommodation for another few large whiskies, and then staggered around the house talking loudly to no one, uttering audible profanities to the hacks outside and feeling generally sorry for myself. What sort of bloody future lay ahead? I was experiencing such guilt, I cried out for Meg … and then a sense of peace came over me when I smelt the heady perfume that suddenly hung in the air. It was the smell of freesias.
I slept in late and ignored the never-ending jangling of the telephone. I made myself coffee and glanced at the newspaper headlines. Normally I only bought one particular newspaper, and that was just for the crossword in it, but my local newsagent always scanned the papers in case there was anything in about me, and he’d send along anything relevant for me to peruse. He’d had a field day with the morning editions.… I was plastered on the front pages, the middle pages; there were articles wishing me all the happiness in the world, as well as one calling me a dirty old man.