‘Erm, well, you see…I need to lock the gates.’ Alfie explained.
‘Lock the gates?’ Rodney asked. ‘Why on earth would you be locking the park gates?’
That one simple question represented the collapse of the fragile house of cards Alfie had built. All the tales he had told since his arrival in Morecambe, the stories he concocted about his past, his job, even the car he drove. All lies, obviously, but necessary, habitual lies.
Alfie had been constructing elements of his life since the day his brother, Frank, died. The shock had been beyond anything a boy of Alfie’s age could comprehend and so his mind had not even tried. As far as anyone knew, Frank had joined the Army or the RAF or gone to university. The stories changed but within them Frank remained alive.
But schoolchildren can be perceptive and Alfie was caught in a lie. Rumours quickly spread and he was bullied, mocked and gradually ostracised, labelled as mental. Therapy followed, sessions with Mrs Cowley, a Child Specialist and he had made progress, of a sort.
But then Alfie’s father was found hanging in the garage. Alfie’s mother was admitted to a psychiatric hospital and young Alfie, not yet ten years old, found himself alone in the world. Months and years of orphanages and foster care followed. For Alfie, reality was simply too much to cope with, it was far easier to make-believe until finally Alfie simply left, ran away and never came back.
In each town Alfie visited he could be anyone he wanted. He could tell people anything and they would believe him because they’d no reason to doubt and whenever he did get caught out he simply packed up and moved on. This had been the pattern of Alfie’s life since he’d been sixteen.
Now, in his forties, standing in a seedy toilet block in a park in Morecambe, Alfie Peter Gorman had once again been tripped up, caught in a lie. He tried to recall the words of his counsellor, Mrs Cowley. She’d said that it was hard, but that it was best to accept reality, process it, work through it. But that was no good because he was Alfie Gorman, the weird kid, the special kid, the boy who told stories because his brother died and he went mental.
‘Come on Alfie,’ Rodney said again. ‘Why would you be locking the gates?’
‘’Cos he’s obviously the flaming Park Keeper. Why else would he be here so late with a bunch of keys in his hand?’
Rodney and Derek laughed in surprise.
‘But you said you were an engineer, you told me you saved the power station from blowing up.’
Now the others began to chuckle.
‘Looks like someone’s been telling porkies.’
Alfie raised a hand to his temple, trying to focus on the here and now, trying to stay in control, but the bullies, the mocking tones, it was like being a child again, after Frank went away. It was so hard to cope, so difficult to know what to say.
‘Is that right Alfie, is it all made up?’
‘I bet he doesn’t have a Jag either,’ Derek added.
‘So then, what’s it all about Alfie?’
All five men looked at an increasingly intimidated Alfie, sweating profusely, an alarmed grimace on his face, eyes darting across each of his tormentors, the urge to run away as strong as it had ever been.
‘Look,’ he began, rubbing his temples, eyes closed. ‘I just have to lock the gates; I don’t need to know what you’ve been up to…’
‘Up to?’ One of the men took a step forward. ‘We’re not up to anything sunshine; you need to forget you saw us.’
‘Yeah, I’d clear off while you’ve still got the chance Parkie.’
‘Might be another emergency at the Power Station eh?’
The men snickered. The same cruel, derisive laugh the kids at school had used, the same wicked glare in their eyes and Alfie felt so inadequate, so withered. His lies, his stories had been found out. Now everyone would know, they’d whisper behind his back, call him names, trip him in the corridor, pin notes to his blazer…
He had to try and focus, stay in the present.
‘Look, the park is closed; just take your cameras and leave,’ Alfie insisted, his voice shaking but determined.
‘Steady on Parkie, I don’t reckon you’re in any position to be giving orders.’
Alfie rubbed his head again and took a deep breath.
‘Stop it! Leave now or I’ll…call the police.’ He said defiantly.
‘Fuck this!’
One of the men suddenly charged forward and, before Alfie could react, had swung the camera he held, catching Alfie with a blow to the mouth that sent him spinning. His head hit the paper towel dispenser with a loud metallic clang. He was vaguely aware of sliding to the floor and then the voices of his persecutors seemed increasingly distant until he couldn’t hear them at all.
A while later Alfie swam back into consciousness and for the initial seconds when his eyes flickered open he assumed he was in bed and had been asleep. Then the pain in his head and face kicked in and the smell of the urinal cakes sharpened his senses like smelling salts.
He sat up slowly, a layer of blue paper towels that had been covering him like a blanket fluttered to the floor. He touched his lip, there was blood on his fingers and his jaw throbbed, as did his head. Alfie felt pathetic; a grown man, reduced to a snivelling heap on a toilet floor by a bunch of perverts who got their thrills doing who knew what under cover of darkness.
It had been so frightening, so familiar, a scene he’d been part of so many times since he was a kid, since Frank died. The stories, the half-truths, pretending everything’s okay and gradually believing it so. As a child when he was picked on Alfie would run away and as an adult he was no better. In each town he’d visited since leaving home, whenever the going got tough Alfie got going. Whenever someone saw through his carefully constructed façade, he disappeared. Except this time it was different because Alfie had let someone in, Loriana, and he wanted to stay for her as much as he wanted to leave to protect himself.
* * * *
At lunchtime the following day Gerald Grimman was sitting in the Prince Albert bar - one his favoured haunts where he was friendly with both staff and customers - talking with his newest, and indeed only, female friend, Trish. Following their initial meeting at a transvestite ball the two had become good friends and wrote regularly to each other. They didn’t get the opportunity to speak as often as they would’ve liked and this was only their third face to face to meeting.
‘So,’ Gerald continued on his return from the bar with a pair of gins. ‘If you hate your job so much why stay? I certainly wouldn’t tolerate being spoken to like that.’
This was an easy thing for Gerald to say. He had drifted, briefly, through the world of gainful employment. His last job being a non-descript administration position which had lasted a handful of years until the timely death of his grandparents afforded Gerald the luxury of becoming his own boss.
Trish sighed. ‘I did lose an order for over ten thousand pounds.’
Gerald scoffed. ‘Could’ve happened to anyone, anyone at all.’
‘I unplugged my computer to plug in a toaster because I was hungry. How could that have happened to anyone?’
‘If that bunch of pirates you work for provided suitable kitchen facilities then you wouldn’t have needed a toaster in your office. Besides, how were you to know which plug did what?’
Gerald nodded with certainty and sipped his gin.
Trish was unconvinced. After all, she knew there was a break room which was, admittedly, out of bounds for a day or two because the firm she worked for were having it redecorated and modernised. Plus, as her office manager had pointed out, if Trish had saved the file she’d been working on there would’ve been no harm done.
‘And to call you stupid in front of other staff members,’ Gerald pontificated. ‘No, Trish, it’s not on, really I feel you should be looking for work elsewhere.’
‘That’s easy for you to say, with your own flats providing a tidy income.’
Gerald wisely chose to let this argument go unchallenged and turned his mind
to other matters.
‘Quiet in here today,’ he observed.
The bar was indeed quiet but it was a workday afternoon and the weather outside was foul. The tide was high in the bay and a vicious wind whipped salt-filled air through the streets.
‘I’d like to see you in action on the stage sometime,’ Trish said with a grin. ‘I bet you’re quite the showman, sorry, showgirl.’
‘I do my best. I certainly enjoy it. Not really my crowd the gay lot, and we get next to no women in, but Morecambe’s a small town so I mustn’t grumble. It beats the hell out of prancing around in front of the bedroom mirror with a brush for a microphone.’
They both laughed at the image and drank more gin.
‘I’ve never had it in me, the talent to be on the stage, the nerve to do it,’ Trish said.
‘Talent’s got nothing to do with it pet, at least not for me. It’s about showing off, being the centre of attention. Take the whole tranny thing. I don’t do it because I’m brave. I dress because I love you women, everything about you and dressing is my way of being a girl, of being like you, dear. It’s the same with performing here in the bar. I know I’m pretty crap but I get to dress up, prance about and have a bloody good time. Now if it’s talent you want, old Mrs Hird’s your woman.’
‘Mrs Hird?’ Trish asked. ‘Who’s she?’
‘My longest serving tenant and former music hall star. Singing, dancing, Paris, London. She’s met anyone who’s anyone. Magic. Loads of stories and the outfits, well…’ Gerald rolled his eyes theatrically.
‘I get it. But I thought you disliked all your tenants. You said Morecambe’s full of weirdos and oddballs, I seem to recall,’ Trish said. She was toying with Gerald but warming to her theme. ‘You may even have described your house as the last vestige of the damned and the desperate.’
‘Darling please, you never know who might overhear.’ Gerald looked about them and confirmed the bar was still deserted. He shrugged. ‘I may well have been drunk when I said that. Mind you, I’ve had some nutters in those flats. Drug addicts, an alcoholic, a bloke fresh out of prison who vanished, turned out he was back inside. Alfie Gorman, he’s an odd sod, seems harmless enough but he’s a troubled soul, you can see that a mile away. I found him trying to kill himself in the bath a bit back. I get them all on Westminster Road.’
‘But you like Mrs Hird?’ Trish asked, waving her glass at the barman and indicating she’d like two more drinks.
‘She’s a lady, a proper lady as it turns out, and a performer. It’s hard not to have respect for someone who’s seen and done as much as she has. I feel sorry for her too, though. I like to keep an eye on her, see that she’s okay.’
‘You’re a softie Gerald Grimman, much as you like to pretend otherwise,’ Trish teased. ‘It’s nice, sweet.’
‘I’m really not but her life’s the sort of thing people write books about, she’s living history,’ said Gerald with genuine warmth only partially fuelled by three post-lunch gin and tonics. ‘Her old man was Lord Cattermole, borderline aristocracy, stately home, hundreds of acres…’
‘Impressive,’ said Trish.
‘It is, but it’s not the money, the title, any of that. I respect her because she ran away and became a showgirl. She lived the life she wanted and was bloody good at it. She mattered, which is more than most get to say. She’s inspiring.’
‘And unlike your own mother you can be totally honest about who you are because she totally gets it,’ Trish ventured.
Gerald smiled. ‘You’re not daft are you Trish? Mrs Hird understands pretence, deceit and putting on the show. You ask any transvestite, ask your own husband, it’s all about putting on your face, the mask, and becoming someone else. My mum would never have understood. Mrs Hird’s pretty much unshockable because she’s seen it all.’
‘You’ll have to introduce me at some point,’ said Trish. ‘But not before we have another gin.’
19 The fall and rise of Lee Etchman
Two days after their relationship took a far more physical turn, where they moved from close friends to lovers; Loriana Cipriani was sitting in her vast kitchen waiting for the doorbell to cease ringing.
At the front door, inevitably, was Alfie, Lee Etchman having lost all interest in his wife within twenty-four hours of his eviction. But Loriana didn’t wish to see anybody, especially Alfie. The previous day he’d telephoned and she’d answered and spoken only to inform him that she needed time to excogitate what had happened between them. Now he was at the door, not making a scene as had her boorish husband, but the desperation was evident in his voice as he gently begged Loriana to answer. Eventually, receiving no response and presumably feeling ridiculous, Alfie left her alone.
The problem was not Alfie, Loriana was aware of that much. He was, Loriana was virtually certain, a tender, respectable, sincere man, whose feelings for her were genuine. No, the worriment lay with her feelings, her own decency and background. Her whole life Loriana had been brought up to distrust boys, men – English men. Her father had been so protective, so paranoid, to the point where school friends, male ones, were not allowed in their home unsupervised. Loriana’s dilemma now was that she feared her father may have been right. After all, she’d felt this way before, believed another man to possess all the same qualities she saw in Alfie yet she had been hurt, terribly and unforgivably wounded.
Following the death of her father Loriana lived by the same rules, always suspicious of men’s motives, especially because her father left her so financially secure. Then, five years ago, she’d met Lee Etchman. Swept off her feet by his cocky manner and left breathless by his drive and vivacity; Lee Etchman made himself a fixture in Loriana’s life and when he proposed she simply couldn’t find a way to refuse him.
Now, having been played for a fool by her husband, her father’s warnings seemed more appropriate than ever. Loriana had taken a chance and invited Alfie into her bed, and it had been enchanting, but then he’d run out on her and now she wasn’t sure what to think.
* * * *
Alfie was distraught. He had, uncharacteristically, acted spontaneously and it seemed that, amazingly, his actions had been successful. Not only had he made up with Loriana but she’d invited him to stay and, as far as he was concerned, they’d begun something new and wonderful.
But now, for some reason, Loriana was ignoring him. The first time Alfie had telephoned she had answered but insisted she needed time to think and that was the last he’d heard. Naturally worried that he’d done something wrong, he telephoned again and again to no avail until finally, beside himself, he’d gone to the house but Loriana had simply not answered the door. Now he was miserable and without any clue how to handle the situation.
Alfie, the man, was a very different animal to Alfie, the young boy. Formerly an outgoing, playful, inquisitive child, he was now withdrawn, almost pusillanimous, facets of his character shaped by events in his life and developed over time. One thing he’d never lost, however, was his desire to help people, to always see the best in someone and it was this that convinced him to allow Loriana some time. Alfie recognised that the more he pushed, the more she would pull away. So he made the decision to leave her alone for a week, a cooling off period which would enable Loriana to assess her feelings. Then, if she still had no desire to see him, Alfie would respectfully agree to her wishes.
* * * *
So we return to the villain of the piece, the root of much heartache; Lee Etchman, hoist by his own petard.
While Alfie was getting on with running the park, feeding his cat and striving not to obsess over Loriana, Etchman had begun his new job as a waiter cum delivery driver at Modhubon, Morecambe’s premier Indian restaurant. His previous position as a dog waste receptacle engineer had lasted less than a day because the humiliation of being seen in public, placing dog waste bins, had proved too great.
Now, much as Etchman liked to be perceived as a successful, wealthy young playboy, cruising the streets in his Aston Martin, wearin
g designer suits, making deals, this was never really him. The true Etchman is from a very different background altogether.
Born in Portsmouth, Lee Etchman was the only son of Maureen and Gavin Etchman, an ill-fated pairing if ever there was one. Gavin, a carpet salesman with a major retailer, met Maureen in high school and they stayed together through the bad times and the worse times.
Gavin, a docile creature with no ambition other than to please Maureen, took the first job he was offered upon leaving school – as a trainee carpet sales assistant - while Maureen, being altogether bone idle and more than satisfied to spend her days either in bed or watching television while chain smoking, moved in with him and they lived in his one bedroom flat for several years.
Maureen had no respect, let alone love, for her hapless husband, and Gavin had no life at all other than his carpets and his increasingly portly wife. Their blissful existence took an unexpected turn when Maureen fell pregnant. Deciding that a baby might give her something else to do during the day, Maureen sat back and nine months later, Lee Gavin Etchman was born. Eight days after this joyous event Gavin was made redundant when the carpet retailer he worked for merged with a larger outfit and relocated, leaving the young family devoid of income.
There followed a series of moves up and down the country, half a dozen in as many years, with Gavin drifting from job to job; labourer, taxi driver, night watchman, all temporary and somewhat humdrum. By now, Maureen was expert at claiming benefits and obtaining accommodation. Eventually, this lifestyle led the family, on a whim, to Morecambe, because Maureen fancied living at the seaside.
At this point young Lee Etchman was at primary school and essentially did all his growing up in Morecambe. Amazingly, just before his son’s tenth birthday, Gavin, presumably in a moment of clarity, ran away leaving Maureen and Lee to fend for themselves. He simply left for work as a ticket-seller at the railway station and never returned. His family came to assume he’d boarded a train – travel being free for employees - and gone somewhere else. But for all they knew Gavin was dead.
All the Fun of the Fair Page 18