by Fiona Gibson
Picturing James’s handsome but distinctly beleaguered face at the handover today, she glances down and says, ‘My circumstances have changed too, Buddy. I think we’re going to get along just fine.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Harvey Chuckles is standing on a small stage in a draughty community hall, knowing without a doubt that every child in this room would give anything to be somewhere else.
‘Wanna play outside,’ a boy complains, triggering a ripple of dissatisfaction.
‘Make him go away,’ a little girl shrieks from the front row of chairs.
The woman sitting behind her taps her on the shoulder. ‘Hush, sweetheart. Don’t be rude …’
‘But I don’t like him. Tell him to go, Mummy!’
‘Just be quiet and watch, Cordelia,’ the woman snaps. Harvey blunders on through his act, producing his dove pan, an ingenious device the size of a saucepan which enables him to make small objects disappear. By this point, he is wishing he could crawl into the pan and magic himself to a place where strong alcohol is administered. He has juggled beanbags, ridden his unicycle and played jaunty tunes on his one-man-band. Yet his doleful audience look as if they’ve been forced to watch one of those late night Open University programmes on BBC2. Why did they hire him, he wonders? Is it that this particular bunch of pre-schoolers would prefer a freestyle party with no entertainer, or that he is a particularly substandard clown?
Think, think. Balloon animals – that always delights them (well, it works with Sam, Harvey’s four-year-old nephew, though maybe he’s just been humouring him). With a rush of determination he kicks his dove pan aside.
‘Now,’ he announces, ‘I want you to come up with the most outrageous animal you can think of and I’ll make it for you …’ His yellow clown wig is making his head itch and the children are growing more restless by the minute. Whatever made him think this was a good idea? Before his recent incarnation as a children’s entertainer, Harvey had led a reasonably healthy, functioning life, grabbing whatever small acting job came his way and keeping mind and body in shape with regular runs along the long, flat sweep of Shorling beach. He’d never realised that small people, who are barely capable of going to the loo unaided, could be so bloody hostile. Performing in front of a roomful of young strangers is nothing like entertaining Sam, who laughs at anything he does.
‘Anyone think of an animal yet?’ he asks, sweating a little.
‘A dog!’ chirps one of the mothers.
‘A dog. Great! That’s an easy one. While I do this’ – he starts twisting the sausage balloons between clumsy fingers – ‘the rest of you can think of something more challenging for me …’
‘Mummy …’ whimpers a little curly-haired girl, dissolving into quiet sobs as Harvey finally manages to fashion his sausage balloon into a dog, yes, but a dog with an unsightly bulge between its back legs, like elephantitis of the testicles.
‘Bit of a malfunction there,’ he sniggers, aware that it’s wrong to laugh when a child is weeping just six feet in front of him. ‘Now, can anyone think of any other—’
‘Er, excuse me!’ trills the malnourished-looking woman who booked him for this birthday party. ‘Would you mind doing something musical again? I think …’ She winces apologetically, ‘the little ones might enjoy that more.’
‘Oh.’ He adjusts his slightly-slipped wig. ‘Yeah, that’s … that’s fine.’
‘It’s not that we don’t like your animals,’ she adds quickly.
‘No, no, music’s great, that’s an excellent idea …’ He drops his unused balloons by his feet and struggles back into his one-man-band contraption. It’s home-made, constructed during his student years, and seemed funny and quirky back then. Now, strapped to the fully formed body of a thirty-three-year-old man, it seems … ridiculous.
‘Play “Cuckoo Clock”!’ the curly-haired girl commands, having miraculously stopped crying. Relieved, he starts to play a vague approximation of the theme tune he hasn’t heard for decades. ‘That’s the old one,’ she complains.
‘Uh?’
‘They changed it,’ one of the mothers offers, ‘last week. It’s more, er … modern now.’
Harvey stops playing. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t heard it.’
‘Haven’t you?’ the woman asks. ‘I’d have thought, with this being your job—’ She emits a small, withering laugh.
‘Nope, no idea.’ At this point in the game, there’s no point in pretending.
‘He doesn’t watch Cuckoo Clock,’ the curly-haired girl gasps.
No, he thinks, because I’m an adult, you see, and the only reason I’m doing this is because my agent just told me there’s nothing on the horizon – I think she’s building up to dropping me actually – and unless I can rake together a couple of hundred quid I’ll never make this month’s rent …
‘Well, er,’ the skinny woman says, glancing at the other mothers anxiously, ‘maybe that’s enough for today? What does everyone think?’ There are a few nods from the adults, and an air of relief fills the room.
With difficulty, Harvey unstraps his one-man-band and places it carefully on the scuffed parquet floor. The skinny woman appears beside him, addressing the audience with a rictus grin. ‘That was great, wasn’t it, boys and girls? Now let’s all put our hands together for Charlie Chuckles!’
‘Harvey,’ he corrects her, but she fails to hear. He checks his watch. He was booked till four, and it’s only twenty past three.
*
Of course, his name isn’t really Harvey Chuckles. He is Harvey Galbraith, an actor who grew up in Cumbria before heading south, and who has spent the past decade feeling ridiculously grateful for whatever crumb of work has fluttered his way. For a few years, he nabbed parts in enough TV dramas and plays to convince him that this was a career worth pursuing. Yet things dwindled away and, during especially barren periods, he resorted to doing a little modelling. There was the odd catalogue, or women’s magazine at the less glamorous end of the spectrum, in which he’d invariably be cast as the ‘husband’ in fashion shoots, kitted out in Aran sweaters and chinos, often accessorised with a Labrador on a lead. But even that has dried up now. ‘Sorry, Harv,’ Lisa, his old modelling agent told him. ‘You’re still a good-looking guy but you’re not striking enough to make it as the Mature Hunk.’
So here he is, packing his clowning gear into the boot of his five-year-old Punto in Shorling community centre’s car park. On this blustery Friday afternoon, he hasn’t even bothered to change out of his costume or take off his face-paint. This isn’t like him at all; when he started this six months ago, he vowed that no one would find out what he was doing. No one who mattered, anyway. Harvey has been single for a criminally lengthy period, and he suspects that, if any woman finds out what he does, he’ll have no chance of meeting anyone. What kind of adult female wants to go out with a clown, for God’s sake? Oh, maybe once – just for a laugh – but there’d be no possibility of anything serious, anything real. A sharp wind whips through the springy yellow curls of his acrylic wig as he closes the car boot. Scraps of litter twist and dance across the car park, and there are bursts of laughter from the children inside the hall. Now they’re having fun, charging up and down like a pack of raucous hounds which is all, frankly, children really want to do. They don’t want to watch a small metal bird disappear into a dove pan.
Spots of rain are starting to fall. Harvey climbs into his car and turns on the windscreen wipers, watching their back-and-forth motion for a few moments. A scrap of white paper is trapped under one of them and doesn’t appear to be dislodging. Clicking the wipers off, he steps back out into the rain and pulls it out from beneath the wiper.
‘Look, Mummy, a clown!’ a little girl yelps from the pavement. Harvey turns and gives her a half-hearted wave; she waves back, beaming delightedly. Still clutching the damp piece of paper, he realises he can’t just chuck it on the ground – not in front of the only non-hostile child he’s encountered all day. ‘I like your wig,’
she calls out, giggling.
‘Thank you.’ He bows graciously as she and her mother wave again and make their way down the street. Harvey glances down at the soggy fragment in his hand. Although it’s smudged and barely legible, he can just make out a single word: ‘piano’. Carefully avoiding tearing the paper, he unfolds it and reads: PIANO TUITION KERRY, plus a mobile number.
Piano lessons. It’s raining harder now, causing Harvey’s diamond-patterned satin trousers to cling to his legs. But he’s stopped noticing the cold and imagines himself sitting in an elderly lady’s front room, perhaps being offered tea from a china cup. The room would be warm, with a sleeping cat on the rug, and the piano teacher would teach him to play something beautiful. It doesn’t matter that Harvey doesn’t know anything about classical music, or that the nearest he’s come to playing the piano is tinkering about on his ancient Casio keyboard at home. Because right now, the music that fills his head is making this wet October day feel a little less bleak.
Imagine … not playing the wrong Cuckoo Clock song on his one-man-band but something lovely, like rippling water. What would it be – Handel, Chopin or another of those dead guys? Harvey has no idea. But he knows that being able to play would be an escape from all of this – something of his own. The clowning has to stop, he decides, climbing back into his car and pulling out his phone from the pocket of his baggy red jacket. He places the tiny, sodden piece of paper on the passenger seat. Then, with a swirl of excitement in his stomach, and making a mental note to switch back to his normal voice – not his Harvey Chuckles voice – he taps out the piano teacher’s number.
Chapter Twenty-Two
As soon as Kerry takes the call, Buddy zips across her path, pulling urgently on his lead. Until now, he’d been walking obediently at her side but, like a small child taking exception to his mother making a phone call, he seems to resent not having her full attention.
‘That’s great,’ she tells the well-spoken man, keeping a firm grip on the lead as Buddy strains ahead. ‘Yes, I still have some spaces, I’m sure I can fit you in …’
Mothers – plus the odd dad – are converging on the school gates. Despite the light rain, hair is neat and outfits look thought about rather than flung together in haste. Kerry feels suddenly self-conscious in her scruffy brown jacket.
‘I’m an absolute beginner,’ the man adds.
‘Well, that’s fine because I work with all abilities—’ Her words are drowned out by an outburst of barking. Buddy appears to have spied another dog – a small, fluffy black thing, like a Mongolian cushion, with no discernible features that Kerry can make out. It glides along beside its owner, as if on casters, paying no heed to the cacophony of barking several metres to its left. Apart from a quick frown in their direction, the owner hasn’t acknowledged them either. She strides on in her blue linen dress and camel trenchcoat, heels clicking as Buddy scrambles to get towards them.
‘Buddy, stop it,’ Kerry hisses as he continues to bark and lunge, nails scraping frantically on the pavement.
Now the cushion’s owner has stopped. ‘I’m not sure he should be going to school,’ she remarks over the racket.
‘Buddy, stop. He’s just … new,’ she explains. ‘I only picked him up half an hour ago. He’s probably a bit unsettled …’
‘Huh. Is that what you call it?’ the woman scoffs, dark bob swinging around her pointed chin. ‘I’d say he’s completely out of control. Is he aggressive?’
‘No, of course not,’ Kerry exclaims, realising that, actually, she has no idea. That man – James – said he wasn’t, but then, if he was desperate to rehome him, he was hardly likely to say, ‘There is a small chance he might savage your children.’
She realises she’s still gripping her phone. ‘Sorry, call you back,’ she shouts over the barking, not sure if the caller is still there or not. Quickly shoving her mobile into her jacket pocket, she grips Buddy’s lead with both hands.
‘That dog shouldn’t be around children,’ the woman says sharply, trotting off with her docile hound and merging with the other parents at the gate.
Kerry exhales fiercely. Great. First day as a dog owner and already she’s failed. Should she have primed herself to spot other dogs before Buddy did, and made a point of avoiding them? She’d always assumed dogs enjoyed mingling with others of their kind, with all the butt-sniffing that goes on. Relief floods through her as, with the other dog out of sight now, Buddy’s barks gradually subside. Now he’s just panting, which still doesn’t look especially friendly, but at least it’s unlikely to alarm small children when they come out of school.
Now Lara and Emily have appeared at her side. It’s spooky, the way they appear inseparable, always patrolling as a pair.
‘Ooh,’ Lara remarks. ‘I heard all that commotion. Got a new friend, I see.’
‘Yes,’ Kerry says with a grin, ‘this is Buddy …’
‘Oh, he’s very sweet. Bit nervy, though, isn’t he? I’d say he has issues.’
‘I don’t think—’
‘He was only barking,’ Brigid exclaims, striding towards them in a garish pink mac, her hair piled up messily and secured with a giant plastic tortoiseshell claw. ‘That’s what dogs are designed to do, Lara.’
‘Yes, but that one doesn’t.’ Kerry indicates the cushion dog lurking beside its owner, and quickly repositions herself to block it from Buddy’s vision.
Brigid has bobbed down to ruffle Buddy’s fur. ‘He’s adorable, isn’t he? What a gorgeous dog! And he’ll soon settle down. He’s just trying to assert his authority.’
‘Well, I hope so.’ Kerry checks her watch, willing the minutes to flash by and the children to rush out of school so they can meet Buddy and go home before he attracts any more sour looks.
‘Oh, is he new?’ A woman in a sky-blue running top and startlingly tight shorts grins down at Buddy.
‘Yes, I’ve just picked him up today.’
‘Bet the children love him.’
Kerry grins. ‘They haven’t met him yet. He’s a surprise for them, can’t wait till they come out …’
‘Ah, that’ll be nice for them after all they’ve been through.’
Kerry blinks at the woman. ‘Er, well, they’ve been begging me for years to get one. It’s been a long, intense campaign and I finally crumbled.’
The woman makes big, patronising eyes at Kerry and pats her arm. ‘That’s wonderful. I have to say, I think you’re all coping very well, considering.’
‘Do you?’ Kerry frowns, aware of Brigid regarding the woman with mild horror.
‘Oh yes. It must be so hard …’
What, to have your husband impregnate the work experience – sorry, editorial assistant? It’s shocking, the way details about your life spread around here, Chinese-whispers style. Kerry has mentioned her situation in passing to Lara, Emily and a couple of others, but is floored by this sudden outpouring of sympathy.
‘We’re all doing fine, thanks,’ she says firmly, making a point of turning away to cut that woman, with her you-can-tell-me-all-about-it-dear therapist’s voice, from her vision. Not much happens around here, that’s the problem, so any small event is leapt upon and gleefully discussed. And now that woman is murmuring to a friend, ‘That’s the one who …’ ‘That’s right,’ Kerry wants to scream, ‘and you know what else? His new girlfriend is twenty years old. That’s seventeen years younger than me. She is astoundingly pretty with huge blue eyes and small, sticky-out, modelly breasts. and I know this because I’ve not only met her, albeit briefly – but I also went out and bought that stupid magazine, Mr Jones, and when I saw her pouty picture on the contributors’ page I nearly threw up all over it …’
Thankfully, Brigid has swiftly engaged the two gossiping women in a conversation about plans for improving the playground. Kerry should probably join in, perhaps ingratiating herself by offering to make several hundred cupcakes to raise funds, but she doesn’t have the energy right now. She glances down at Buddy, wondering if this is how her
life will be now: hanging out with a black and white mongrel with an aversion to cushions. Well, at least he’s being sweet, pressed up lovingly against her legs, the pleasing warmth from his furry body permeating her jeans. And the benefits, she suspects, will be many. Unlike a husband of ten years, he won’t moan about the office or the fact that Freddie has crayoned his trousers or squirted his man moisturiser into the sink. Dogs don’t have jobs, trousers or expensive skincare. Their needs are simple: food, water, exercise and love – ah. And the other thing. The thing that appears to be happening now as Buddy shifts away from Kerry’s legs and assumes a squatting stance on the pavement.
For one brief, optimistic moment, she wonders if he’s merely … flexing. When Freddie was a baby, she’d signed up for a course of yoga classes in the hope of becoming one of those serene, dreamy mums who reacts to spilt milk-sodden Weetabix with a beatific smile. In fact, she’d only made it to one class, and Buddy’s tensed, slightly trembling pose reminds her of the only position she could manage: on hands and knees, bum to the ground, as if pooing.
Only, in this case, not ‘as if’, but actually dumping a load. ‘Oh, God,’ Kerry mutters.
She glances around at the glowy-faced parents in the hope that, by the time she looks back down at the ground, the mighty deposit will have miraculously disappeared, or at the very least have slipped discreetly away down a pavement crack. But no. It’s still horribly, conspicuously there, almost glowing like neon. Could she blame it on that cushion dog? She spots him through the gathering of parents, snuffling at the ground. No, he’s tiny compared to Buddy. Anything that drops out of his bottom will be no bigger than a chickpea.