All the Fun of the Fair

by Jamie Sinclair

  From then on young Etchman had no real parental input. His sloth-like and by now vastly overweight mother spent her days watching television, shouting at him or sitting in the arcades dropping two pence coins into one-armed bandits for hours at a time. Out of this lethargy and disinterest came Lee Etchman’s drive to succeed at any cost, to make for himself a better life than he’d endured so far thanks to his oafish parents.

  He left school at sixteen, tired of and constrained by education, keen to earn money and have independence. Within six months he had his own flat and was working fifty hours a week as an apprentice joiner on the site of a new nuclear power station under construction on the outskirts of Morecambe Bay. Suddenly finding himself with a well paid job and a clique of like minded mates, Etchman went out every night, drinking and enjoying himself. From this came the appetite for women.

  Always good looking, Etchman’s swaggering, arrogant manner was successful with the ladies and he played upon it to the extent where, if he went home alone on any given night, the evening was deemed a failure.

  In his early twenties Etchman’s mother, Maureen, passed away. Lee was the only one at her funeral, save for the strange, wild-eyed man who shouted obscenities at passers-by and lived in the flat above Maureen. Etchman took the afternoon off work to attend the funeral but was out the same night as if nothing had changed, which, of course, it really hadn’t.

  To leap forwards perhaps seven years we find Lee Etchman now just the wrong side of thirty; running his own, moderately successful joinery business, but still living the same way as he always had. Going out several nights each week, still up for the conquest of women and still without a care in the world save for his thinning hair and expanding beer belly. Then, Etchman received a call from a lady named Loriana Cipriani. She was relatively new to the area with an enormous, recently purchased house to which she wanted to add an extravagant conservatory.

  In Loriana, Lee Etchman saw everything he desired. She was obviously wealthy, with the kind of lifestyle he sought for himself. So, he set about seducing Loriana, softly, softly, catchy monkey. He was experienced enough to know his usual brash nightclub tactics would not work on this older, more sophisticated woman. So instead Etchman made himself indispensable around the house, doing hundreds of odd jobs for free, running errands, gradually offering advice on some of her business activities until, at last, Loriana fell for him and they were married. From that moment on Lee Etchman was quite literally living his dream; money, a big house, nice car, success. His life was perfect.

  Now, we return to the present day. Etchman in his late-thirties, stomach distended from years of heavy drinking, face red and hair receding noticeably, but still with the twinkle in his eye that had wooed so many women over the years. His life had taken an almighty step backwards and he found himself returned to a life he thought – hoped – he’d left behind. He was living in a council property, short of money, starting again with the first job he could find. It was like leaving school all over again only now, instead of his mother slumped on the couch and living off benefits, it was Chrissie, pregnant with his baby. It all seemed very unfair to Etchman, very unfair indeed.

  He pulled up outside Modhubon in the tiny second hand Renault 19 with rust spots on the wheel arches and one faulty brake light and smiled ruefully at the memory of all the meals he’d enjoyed in this restaurant, some with Loriana but most with a succession of girlfriends and mistresses.

  * * * *

  Kuldeep’s hyper-focussing was a skill which his father, Mr Bhumbra, was generally happy to exploit when it meant that Kuldeep was channelling his abilities towards the Modhubon accounts or his schoolwork. But obsessions are an inherent part of autism and recently Kuldeep had become dangerously obsessed with Tania Streatham.

  As such when Tania abruptly terminated their courtship, Kuldeep’s usually placid manner evaporated resulting in a hapless attempt to climb into her room using some ladders stolen from Mr Streatham’s garage and a trip to hospital following an ungainly plummet from these ladders into some bushes.

  After this, Kuldeep began to further obsess about Lee Etchman’s relationship with Tania. He was now stalking Etchman and had developed a series of scenarios in his mind where he might kill Etchman to remove him from Tania’s life permanently.

  Ordinarily, Kuldeep’s mind operated in a methodical way. He planned in advance, adopted a considered, logical approach and did not respond well when events took a turn which he had not anticipated.

  Just such an event took place one evening while Kuldeep was at Modhubon preparing for opening. The restaurant door opened and Lee Etchman entered. Kuldeep’s reaction was to panic. He assumed that this man had somehow figured out that he was being followed and had now come looking for confrontation. Reasoning that he would lose in a straight fight, Kuldeep ran into the kitchen and emerged several moments later brandishing a ten-inch knife, pulled from a sink full of water, the handle covered in suds, the blade dripping wet.

  Perhaps luckily for all concerned a young man named Ryan, one of the waiters, had greeted Etchman and was speaking to him now.

  ‘Kuldeep,’ the waiter announced. ‘This is Lee Etchman, new starter.’

  ‘Evenin’’ Etchman said, eyeing Kuldeep up and down. ‘With a knife like that you’re either security or the chef…’ He laughed and held out his hand.

  Kuldeep considered quickly. Lee Etchman didn’t strike him as being particularly intelligent. Surely if he had been aware that it was Kuldeep who damaged his car or had been following him Etchman would have made it known, perhaps attacked Kuldeep in some way. Kuldeep decided Etchman must indeed be here for a job and as such he lowered the knife.

  ‘Hello,’ Kuldeep replied, shaking Etchman’s outstretched hand. ‘This is my father’s restaurant and I’m not the chef and we don’t have any security except for the alarm. I just help out.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Etchman said, the smile still fixed to his face.

  ‘You have to wear this.’

  Kuldeep handed a black clip-on bow tie to Etchman, which he attached to his white shirt.

  ‘There’s a mark on it.’ Kuldeep gestured.

  ‘Sorry?’ Etchman asked, still beaming.

  ‘He’s right mate,’ Ryan the waiter added helpfully. ‘On your right sleeve, looks like chocolate.’

  Etchman tugged at the sleeve with his left hand and finally the smile left his face.

  ‘Little fuckers,’ he muttered under his breath, referring to Chrissie’s young children with whom he had lived since his wife had ejected him from their house.

  ‘One of the kids,’ he explained. ‘I must have lent on it, they must have left some sweets…you know how it is.’

  ‘You’re meant to wear a clean shirt.’ Kuldeep said.

  ‘He could put a tea towel over it, or a napkin, like in posh restaurants.’ Ryan seemed to suddenly realise what he’d said and grimaced. ‘Not that Modhubon’s not nice, best Indian in town, everyone says so, everyone.’

  Ryan opted to disappear into the kitchen, leaving Kuldeep and Etchman face to face.

  ‘So then,’ Etchman began, smiling once more. ‘What time do we open?’

  ‘Half past five,’ Kuldeep answered. ‘We are usually busy between six and eight and then again after ten.’

  Ryan reappeared with a white napkin for Etchman to drape across his stained right arm and then proceeded to show him around the restaurant. Kuldeep allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. Clearly his campaign against Etchman had so far gone unnoticed but now the man was working in the restaurant it would be that much easier to keep an eye on his movements.

  * * * *

  For the next hour Etchman was shown around the restaurant, the kitchen and the storage area. He was shown how to lay the tables, fold the napkins and where to place orders once he’d taken them from customers. That done, he was then instructed to linger by the front door to greet customers while studying the menu to learn the details of each dish. The décor wasn’t up to much
in Etchman’s opinion, a little dated, but the smell of the various sauces, herbs and spices coming from the kitchen was superb causing his stomach to rumble and his mouth to water. Finally, at 8:30, a couple wandered in and Etchman began to work.

  ‘Evening folks,’ he said cordially. ‘Can I take your coats?’

  He seated the couple, lady first (‘that’s a very nice dress you’re wearing madam. Primark you say? Lovely’). He then took a drinks order and brought them a menu each. He waited ten minutes, took their order with a smile, refilled their glasses while they waited for the food, served the meal, brought out a selection of pickles and chutneys, cleared the plates and brought their bill. For this service Etchman was rewarded with a tip of 38 pence which was added to an empty pickle jar in the kitchen to be divvied out at the end of the week.

  ‘Lee, dad’s here. He wants to talk to you.’

  Etchman, who’d been tucking into a Chicken Bhuna on his break – an unexpected perk of the job - hurried from the kitchen into the restaurant to meet his new boss and owner of Modhubon.

  ‘Ah, good evening, Lee is it? How are you enjoying your first evening as an employee in Morecambe’s premier Indian restaurant?’

  Mr Bhumbra beamed a smile, shaking Lee’s hand vigorously as he did with all new members of his staff.

  ‘Fine thanks, fine. Been fairly quiet but that’s given me time to get into the swing of it.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  Mr Bhumbra delved into a box under his arm and handed a pamphlet to Etchman. ‘You may find this interesting.’

  ‘What is it?’ Etchman asked, making a show of eyeing the booklet front and back.

  ‘It is a brief history of my family, where we are from, our journey, fascinating.’

  Etchman returned to the kitchen to finish his Bhuna, a smile on his face for the first time in weeks. In spite of everything he felt better. He was earning and a job meant less time in that bloody house with Chrissie and her vile children. Also, much as he’d been dreading getting a conventional run of the mill job, this was his true nature, this was Lee Etchman.

  He’d come from nothing and dragged himself into a position to meet a wealthy woman. But that had been a sham; he’d been living someone else’s life. Etchman was from a poor background and he’d worked non-stop since he was sixteen. If he was honest with himself, he was surprised at just how easily he’d slipped back into it. Perhaps, he thought, shovelling a forkful of pilau rice topped with a generous lump of chicken into his mouth, he’d hit rock bottom and was on his way back up.

  20 A shift in the balance of power

  ‘Good evening gentlemen, ladies. I call the meeting to order. If I may have your attention?’

  Mr Bhumbra looked out across the uninspired, slightly run down function room situated to the rear of the pub and took a deep, calming breath. He raised his hands and gestured to the floor in order that those assembled lower their voices and divert their gaze upon him. His heart shifted up a gear and he allowed himself a small, barely perceptible smile of satisfaction. This was his favourite part, the introduction, when all eyes were on him, waiting for him to get things started; when he was in control.

  He’d only become involved with CHIMP in order to monitor his daughter’s relationship with Brandon but Mr Bhumbra was forced to admit there was a certain thrill to be derived from public speaking, especially when he was able, even encouraged, to speak about political matters.

  ‘Welcome all of you,’ he began, ‘to this meeting of the Coalition Hindering Immoral and Murderous Politics. On tonight’s agenda; the main topic will be the upcoming mass debate to be held on the university campus. As you are all no doubt aware, our local MP, Mr Leslie Horsham Fox will be in attendance. I am also told that the event will be covered by local radio and television news assuming nothing more newsworthy happens to steal our thunder…’

  There was a slight round of applause and a ripple of laughter.

  ‘Let’s not forget that we still need someone to man the stall Saturday afternoon.’

  Mr Bhumbra turned to his right and stared at Brandon, who had taken it upon himself to speak.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, the stall. If there are no volunteers I shall personally arrange for someone to be on the stall and ensure that our message is available to the people.’

  Again a few people clapped and somebody at the back whistled. Sharada meanwhile, seated in the front row, folded her arms crossly and scowled up at her father because she knew that the ‘someone’ on the stall would end up being her. Mr Bhumbra again raised his hands for silence.

  ‘Now,’ he said eagerly. ‘I trust we all have our pamphlets.’

  These had been an inspired idea, just a few glossy pages giving a brief outline of Mr Bhumbra’s Sylhetti origins. There was a limit to how much politics, especially politics local to Morecambe, could be discussed so Mr Bhumbra had racked his brains for an alternative and came up with himself. He thought that the people might enjoy the diversion and, since they all gladly tucked into the food he provided, Mr Bhumbra thought they might like to learn more about its origins.

  ‘In that case, carrying on from where I left off last time, I will share with you the story of how my uncle came to be in this country and the difficulties he faced.’

  There was an audible groan from Brandon who folded his arms and looked up at the ceiling while, for the next thirty-five minutes Mr Bhumbra enlightened his audience. Afterwards the meeting was opened up to the floor and various questions were raised about the success or otherwise of previous events. The outcome of the protest against Nightingale Farm was discussed, as was the possibility of selling crafts made by members on the stall. But, inevitably, most of the chatter concerned the forthcoming debate at the university, by far the coalition’s biggest event to date and the only one which might include a television crew.

  Mr Bhumbra, name badge pinned to the lapel of his suit, fielded all questions with grace, patience and authority. This was much to the growing impatience and displeasure of Brandon Shine who still considered himself the leader of the group although to the gathered members it had been obvious for some time that he was not.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Mr Bhumbra again climbed to his feet. ‘If there is no more new business and we are all agreed on the important questions we need to focus upon for the debate I suggest we bring this meeting to a close. I thank you all for your commitment and perseverance and would, as always, like to draw your attention to the food provided at the back which is courtesy of my restaurant, Modhubon.’

  This comment prompted the night’s largest outbreak of applause and even a few drunken cheers. Mr Bhumbra smiled, offered a little wave of appreciation and took his seat while the various members of the group headed either for the bar or the trestle table decked out with free curry and sundries.

  ‘Another successful meeting, Brandon, I think.’

  Brandon scoffed. ‘Oh yeah, great. Except we hardly even touched on the aftermath of the Nightingale Farm rally and I don’t think the march in London even got mentioned.’

  ‘You could have brought it up anytime you wished.’

  ‘And what the hell is that booklet all about, and these bloody lectures on India?’ Brandon demanded angrily.

  ‘Lectures? My dear boy, I am not lecturing the people, I am enlightening them, opening their minds.’

  ‘Bollocks. How the hell is your uncle working on a ship before the war relevant to what this group does?’

  ‘Dear Brandon, if you had read your pamphlet and listened to my talk, you would understand it is highly relevant; it’s all politics after all, on a global scale.’ Mr Bhumbra spoke slowly, as if talking to a child.

  ‘Politics, what politics?’

  ‘The low wages paid to the workers – immoral - the long hours and poor conditions – murderous - the unskilled jobs my uncle and thousands like him had to take when they migrated to England. You see it is all relevant to CHIMP, very much so.’

  ‘And the curry?’ Brandon fumed. ‘How is that
relevant?’

  ‘Because that is the food of my homeland, of my people, my family.’

  Brandon rolled his eyes and knew he could not win.

  ‘Give over; you’re doling out free food so they’ll listen to you, that’s all.’

  ‘Really, if there is an issue you should bring it up in the meetings, that is why we have an open floor.’

  ‘Open floor!’ Brandon rose angrily to his feet. ‘I’m the sodding leader, it’s my group, I don’t need an open floor.’

  ‘Now, now, Brandon please. This group is not property; it does not belong to any one individual. We are here because we share a common interest.’

  ‘Yeah, but that common interest used to be about making a difference, standing up to be counted and having a voice.’

  ‘And now?’ Mr Bhumbra asked, genuinely curious.

  ‘And now it’s just a bloody popularity contest and a flaming curry club.’

  ‘Are you not pleased that CHIMP has been invited to take part in the debate at the university?’

  ‘Of course I bloody am but…’

  ‘And does it not represent the largest event in this group’s history?’

  ‘Yes.’ Brandon agreed weakly. ‘Though God only knows how you managed to get us invited as the sole representatives from this area.’

  ‘All I did was appeal to the leader of the council, we share many common interests.’

  Mr Bhumbra decided it best not to divulge that the council leader was a regular patron of Modhubon who, in return for a handful of free meals had been more than happy to allow CHIMP a seat at the debate.

  ‘Really I fail to see what the issue is.’

  Brandon didn’t reply because they both knew what the issue was, or rather who the issue was. CHIMP had been Brandon’s group and now it was, without doubt, Mr Bhumbra’s and, it could not be denied, the group was growing and going from strength to strength. The problem, it seemed to Brandon, was that all this was happening very fast and without any input from himself; he was merely hanging on for the ride and enjoying the free Indian snacks. If Brandon was honest with himself, he wished he’d never introduced Mr Bhumbra to the group in the first place.