Chaplin & Company

by Mave Fellowes

  There is a whistle from outside and she is moving again, opening the freezer and putting handfuls of ice creams into the soft drinks bucket. She carries the bucket outside and Eric takes it from her, doles out the ice creams. She stands and waits in the beating sun, the soles of her feet aching flatly in her trainers. Pigeons are pecking at sandwich crumbs around the tourists’ chairs. A man in a sun visor and sandals shoos them with his plastic bag.

  Chugging out from under the bridge now is the wide black bow of the refuse barge, its pan filled with objects picked out of the canal: a car bumper, the silver cage of a shopping trolley, a wooden chair, a door, foam squares from a mattress, rubbish bags ripped and spilling, cardboard boxes sodden and collapsed. The whole length of the barge comes into the sunlight and dark smoke coughs out from a pipe at the rear cabin.

  ‘I think we’re done with these,’ says Eric, pointing to the sandwich tray. She leans forward to take it and stacks the cups and empty drink cans on top. Eric claps his hands, ‘Shall we enjoy our ice creams on board, folks?’ The tourists begin to zip up their rucksacks and camera cases. Vera hooks the bucket back over her arm and carries the tray away into the kitchen.

  There are new customers inside wanting ice creams and drinks. She serves them, punching numbers into the till, counting out change – even the coins feel hot in her hand – and then goes outside to wipe the tour group tables. Eric’s boat is pulling away from the bank, turning its nose towards the top of the pool on its way back to Regent’s Park. Another pair of customers ask for the bill. She clears their table and comes back with the till receipt on a metal saucer. They give her a note and wait for change. More customers arrive and sit down outside, pulling their table a few metres over so they have a better view of the Little Venice pool. She carries the chalked menu board over. Sparkling water and two paninis. Inside, she heaps salad on to the sides of two plates and, sweating, shuts her eyes as she waits by the machine for the paninis to toast. She lifts them out with tongs and slides them on to the plate. Sprig of parsley on top (Mr Zjelko is particular about presentation). She delivers them to the table with the bottle of water and two cups. Takes the metal box of sauce sachets from an empty table and gives them that too. Strains to bend for a used napkin stuck to the leg of a chair. And then back inside.

  The microwave clock says it is 12.58 and so Vera looks outside to check she is not needed before going over to the radio, which is in the corner of the counter, next to the till. She turns the volume down before twisting the dial to the World Service. After a minute she hears the beeps for the news programme. She looks outside again and then, keeping her finger on the dial, bends her head to listen.

  News from England.

  News from America.

  News from the Middle East.

  She turns the volume up, listens for the next feature. They must have a report from home soon.

  She hears a step behind her and turns around into a big, polo-shirted chest. She looks up, tripping back into the cafe counter. It is one of Mr Zjelko’s men, one of the crew-cut giants he sends to check on his establishments. The other one is standing in the doorway, blocking the brightness from outside. He is also wearing a polo shirt, and three-quarter-length trousers with flip-flops. How did she not hear them? She spins round and jabs at the radio, gets fuzz. She twists the dial to try to find the station. Gets dialogue, twists it further. Mr Zjelko’s man reaches a heavy, muscled arm around her and turns off the switch at the wall. Silence.

  ‘The aerial is broken,’ says Vera, ‘I am trying to find the station.’

  These men have no names. The one by the door steps into the cabin and comes towards her. He looks into the bucket on the counter and takes out an ice cream, unwrapping it as he goes back to the step. He leans against the side of the doorway. Takes a bite.

  The man in front of her flexes his jaw. He is burly-faced, the middle section of his nose is flat and he has military-style dog tags sitting in the neck of his polo shirt. His biceps stretch the sleeves.

  ‘So. What do we tell Mr Zjelko?’ he says thickly, in English. Since she was hired, no reference has been made to where she comes from. And they refuse to speak to her in her own language, though she knows this is their language too. But this is how they all do business.

  The man carries on, manoeuvring his huge, blunt features into a look of concern. ‘He will be so upset when he hears that his favourite radio station is not being played. Mr Zjelko takes very seriously the atmosphere in his cafes. He gives instruction to always maintain this atmosphere.’

  Vera opens her mouth but doesn’t say anything. She has backed herself against the counter, gripping on to it with her elbows up behind her. She keeps her gaze fixed on the polo-shirted chest in front of her, stops it from flicking back to the low double doors at the back of the cabin. Her hiding place.

  Zjelko’s man opens his hands to his sides and looks round at his friend in the doorway. He’s hamming it up. ‘How can he continue to employ a person who cares nothing about this? Who cares nothing for the atmosphere for his customers?’

  The man in the doorway shrugs. He is holding the ice cream stick out between his thumb and forefinger. It is dripping on to the cafe floor.

  ‘I know the rules,’ Vera rushes. ‘I am just looking for something. There are no customers inside today.’ She gestures to the empty cabin.

  He sighs and she can smell beer in the exhalation. ‘I really don’t want to upset Mr Zjelko,’ he says. The man in the doorway shakes his head slowly, regretfully.

  Vera closes her eyes. ‘Please.’

  Silence. Brightness and chatter uninterrupted outside.

  The man steps back and puts a fist inside his other hand. ‘Mr Zjelko takes pride in his establishments. He needs employees who will respect these environments he has worked to create.’

  Vera nods her head.

  ‘There are so many who would like to work in Mr Zjelko’s establishments.’

  She nods her head again.

  He gestures at the radio and she turns around to switch it on at the wall, and twists the dial until she finds the station. More sunshine songs on their way for you now . . .

  ‘We will see you soon.’ He ducks his head and steps out of the cabin. The man in the doorway drops his ice cream stick on the floor and turns to follow. They walk away through the tables, huge square heads stacked on top of dense chests, the pink palms of their hands facing backwards like apes.

  Vera goes to the sink and turns the hot tap on full so that it thunders into the metal tub. She loads in plates, bowls, cutlery, panini tongs, and shakes washing-up liquid all over them. She lifts things out, sluicing them with water. She grabs bunches of cutlery and grips them tight so that they dig into the fat flesh of her hand, drops them clanking on to the drying rack. She doesn’t bother to turn the tap off, keeps it running and steam rises to wet her face and cloud the rectangular window above the sink. Hot thundering water to block out the noise of the radio, to block out everything.

  So she doesn’t notice until she turns around for the dishcloth that there is another visitor standing behind the counter. The figure makes her half laugh in surprise. It is a tall girl dressed in men’s clothes, a caramel-skinned girl in a baggy shirt, braces and billowing trousers, with a long neck like a stalk, a crooked mop of black hair and blazing eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Vera. ‘You give me a shock.’

  ‘Do you serve hot chocolate?’ the girl says, glaring. She is upright as a stick, her lips puckered forward, hardly moving. Vera wonders if her face is frozen from an illness.

  ‘Yes.’ Vera points at the drinks board above the till. ‘Two pounds forty.’

  ‘Oh.’ The girl drops her head and turns to go out. She looks so thin, Vera can see the sinews of her neck, the bony corner of her shoulder under the white shirt.

  ‘Take a seat,’ says Vera, pointing to the stool. ‘I can make you one for free.’

  ‘Okay,’ the girl says, and returns to the counter. Vera rips the top
off a sachet and shakes the chocolate powder into a foam cup. She switches on the hot water and looks up at the girl, who has swivelled her small head to the right and is looking out of the porthole window. Her black thatch of hair touches the cabin roof. She turns back to Vera, rolls her eyes up in thought, and then brings a small blue spiral-bound notebook, an A–Z and a biro out of her trouser pocket on to the counter.

  Suddenly, words are fired out like little barks. ‘Are British Waterways who I should make a complaint to about an assault on my boat?’ The voice is much older than the girl.

  Vera shrugs. ‘I don’t know about that.’ She presses her palm to the side of the water dispenser. ‘Your water is taking a minute to heat up, okay?’

  The girl opens her notebook, folding the cover behind it, and picks up the biro, taking the cap off and slotting it on the top end. Vera notices numbers down the side of the page, each next to a line of narrow writing.

  ‘Do British Waterways offer lessons in steering?’ she continues in the same barking tone.

  Why does this girl think I am the person to ask, thinks Vera.

  ‘I don’t know about that either, I’m sorry.’

  The girl looks at Vera blankly. A pause, then another question.

  ‘How far is it to Covent Garden?’

  ‘Oh, you can take the bus, number 23 to Trafalgar Square, then you can walk from there. It’s not far.’

  The girl dips down over the counter and scribbles into her notebook. She holds the biro oddly in her left hand, curling her forefinger around the body of it. She straightens up.

  ‘Do you know where to buy gas cylinders for on-board use?’

  This is an interrogation.

  ‘For the cooker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can get them on Harrow Road. From the hardware store by the crossroads, that way.’ She points towards the back of the boat. ‘Sometimes my boss sends me.’

  ‘How much is a fifteen-kilogram cylinder?’ The girl’s voice breaks on the word cylinder, it wavers and ends in a squeak.

  ‘The one I get is sixty pounds, I don’t know how many kilograms. It’s this size.’ Vera opens the cupboard next to the oven and steps back to show the red tank inside.

  The girl looks at it and then bends down to write. Her handwriting is as tall and stick-like as she is. At the end of every word she makes a curl from the last letter. She flips upright again, the biro still hooked rigidly by her finger and pressed against the page. Vera can see the words ‘CONVENIENCE STORE’ written in capitals next to the ball of the pen.

  The next question:

  ‘Where is the nearest convenience store?’

  But before she can answer, a shadow falls across the threshold. They both look round. It is John Kettle, wet-lipped and grinning desperately. He is on the towpath, but sways as if at sea, and holds on to the barge’s doorframe for support.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies!’ He smells stale. He is in the same crumpled clothes as yesterday but his hat is gone and a strand of yellowed hair is pasted across his bald head. The beard has been shaped into a greasy point. A baggy cigarette hangs from his fingers. Vera nods to him but the girl has jerked her head back round towards a porthole and is staring furiously at it. Vera notices the girl’s hands gripping her notebook and pen. They are shaking.

  ‘I was going to introduce you two but I see you’ve beaten me to it. Vera, this is our new resident artist.’ He makes a presenting gesture and then slaps his hand to his lips and sucks at the cigarette. It has gone out. He pats his shirt pocket and finds a lighter, slumping against the doorframe as he uses both hands to try and get the thing lit, pushing the spark with his grubby thumb. The paper catches and he straightens, grinning again, pleased with himself. Sucks at it and coughs out smoke. Vera thinks of the refuse barge.

  ‘You know you can’t smoke in here. It’s the rule.’

  ‘I’m bloody outside, aren’t I?’ He looks down at his boots on the step and jabs a finger at them. Then lifts his chin and squints to focus on the girl.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say good afternoon?’

  He leans his head in her direction, the girl swivels hers around even further towards the porthole and sniffs.

  ‘Eh? Just a hello?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Not interested in making friends?’ He winks at Vera, who doesn’t wink back. The girl doesn’t move. Vera shrugs at John Kettle, hoping he will be on his way. He looks at the cabin floor and then turns, manoeuvring himself around in the doorway and staggering off. Vera hears a scrape as he bashes into one of the metal tables outside.

  ‘Well done,’ she says to the girl. ‘I can never get rid of him so quickly.’

  The girl brings her head round and checks the empty doorway. She looks at Vera and it is like someone has animated her frozen face – her eyebrows are now halfway up her forehead, the eyes are stretched open.

  ‘Is that man dangerous?’ she spurts in a shrill, broken voice, her mouth wider and more elastic than before, showing small, inward-pointing teeth.

  ‘I don’t think so. Just unhappy.’ Vera feels the hot-water tank and then fills the girl’s cup to the top and puts it on the counter. ‘Here you go. You ask about a convenience store. There are some by Paddington Station – carry on along the towpath and you come to the back of it.’

  The girl stacks the notebook on top of the A–Z, replaces the cap of the biro and then clips it on to the cover of the notebook. She takes the cup and moves towards the entrance, no nod of farewell, making an exaggerated stoop as she ducks under the doorframe. Vera sees that her huge trousers are held together at the back with a crooked line of safety pins. As she listens to the clip of the girl’s shoes on the towpath, she thinks she hears a small thank you, but can’t be sure.

  SEVEN

  In the ladies’ toilets of the Globe, Odeline is packing her props into their box. She lays out three silk handkerchiefs on the baby-changing shelf – red, white, black – and folds them carefully. As she reaches for the red one the hand-dryer turns on and blows them all to the floor, into puddles of water under the sink. She has to get on to her knees to pick them up and feels a darned patch of her trousers give way. She looks down: beneath the bumpy stitched square across the knee she can see a slice of skin. She squeezes the cloth together, pinching the skin beneath it so tight that her fingers shudder. Her mother was in charge of costume repair. Couldn’t she have darned it properly? Can’t Odeline kneel down if she needs to without her suit falling apart? Professional mime artists should never have this problem. She stands up and chucks the wet handkerchiefs into the bottom of the box without wringing them out.

  The job has not been a success.

  After this morning’s hot chocolate she’d followed her A–Z successfully to Lisson Grove. She said each street name out loud as if it was destiny, and saw her figure stride along the pavements of Maida Vale, over the zebra crossing of Edgware Road, as if watching herself on film. The other characters on the streets were minor parts, extras. The backdrops of mansion blocks, shops, restaurants and market stalls, brilliantly painted sets. She felt this to be a seminal moment in her life: she was on her way to collect the first correspondence from her estranged father, celebrated international artiste Odelin the Clown.

  The British Waterways building was in an industrial yard on a road opposite the Lisson Grove bridge. Odeline opened the door into a small foyer with framed photographs of canal scenes on the walls. She could see someone’s silhouette through the frosted glass of an office door ahead. There was a rack of wooden pigeonholes on the right-hand wall. Names had been written on card and slotted into brass plates by each one. She found ‘MILK’ but there was nothing in the pigeonhole, nothing in the one below either. She checked the names on the post in the other pigeonholes, just to be sure her letter hadn’t been given to another person by mistake. Nothing. She considered knocking on the office door and asking the person behind the frosted glass about lost post. She stood and watched the blurry shape move around
behind a big dark rectangle, which was presumably a desk. Heard a telephone ring and a muffled voice speaking. But when the telephone call ended Odeline decided not to knock. She had something else to deliver, which required anonymity: a formal complaint about the warden, written on her notebook paper, folded inside an envelope she had made out of another page of the book, sealed with Sellotape. She pushed the complaint under the office door and walked quickly out of the building and away from the industrial yard. She had signed it ‘A Person Who Wants To Be Left Alone’.

  She reasoned with herself on the walk back. Obviously her letters were taking some time to reach her father. It must be a complicated business, delivering post to someone of a nomadic persuasion. Presumably they had been sent ahead to somewhere he was about to arrive, some exotic circus location. Perhaps they were going abroad! This would definitely take longer – luckily she had enclosed sufficient postage for this possibility. She had bought stamps for as far as Australia and China from the Arundel post office and included them in the packets. Once her father reached his next destination and found her letters there, his response would be lightning quick. Charged with paternal feeling. And that would be that, the reunion of two artistic soulmates, father and daughter would inspire themselves and others for years to come. As she walked back to the boat she became overwhelmed with anticipation for this moment. She felt sure that her next visit to Lisson Grove would be the changing point of her life.

  When she got back to the canal, she had to stay on the lookout for the warden in case he tried to accost her again. She looked over the bridge railings and saw him a safe distance away down the towpath, leaning on the side of an old sailing boat, talking to a pack of children. She crossed the bridge and looked along the other stretch of canal towards her own boat. There were two pigeons on the roof, pecking at the patchy paint. Next door the tattooed man was sitting on his front deck, leaning against the side of the cabin with what looked like a handmirror squeezed between his knees. He was wearing the same khaki shorts and vest as yesterday and had his hair pulled back again in a ponytail. She could see the ornate drawings running down his arms and legs even from here. Next to him on the deck was a bucket of water and he was swishing a razor about in it. Half of his face was smooth, half covered in soap. She dipped around the end of the bridge and came down to the towpath, walking quickly past his boat, gaze fixed on the ground. It didn’t work.