All the Fun of the Fair

by Jamie Sinclair

  ‘I should’ve sorted you ages ago but the wife wouldn’t let me.’

  Then he punched Etchman hard in the midriff.

  Tania darted to Kuldeep, her stricken champion, and knelt at his side.

  ‘You bloody idiot,’ she shouted. ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘I was being a hero, your hero,’ he explained. ‘Like in films, girls like to be rescued by the hero and then they live happily ever after.’ Kuldeep said this like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  Tania laughed, despite the situation.

  ‘Oh Kully, for a clever lad you’re really dim sometimes.’ She kissed his forehead. ‘But thanks for trying, my hero.’ She kissed him again. ‘I love you,’ she admitted. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  Kuldeep smiled widely, his plan had worked. All the plotting, planning and thinking had paid off.

  ‘I love you too,’ he replied. ‘That’s why I saved you.’

  Meanwhile, mere feet away, Etchman and Mr Streatham continued to grapple. Although, owing to Mr Streatham’s almost daily sessions in the gym and Etchman’s inebriated state, it was a very one-sided contest. Loriana pushed through the assembled onlookers, ignoring Alfie’s protestations, and addressed her estranged husband.

  ‘Lee,’ she said firmly. ‘For goodness sake stop this; you are making a complete fool of yourself.’

  ‘Piss off you old bitch!’ Etchman spat viciously before Mr Streatham flung him to the floor and leapt on top.

  ‘Lee, you’re drunk, you should leave before this becomes any worse,’ she pleaded.

  Unfortunately for Lee Etchman it was already too late. The sirens could be heard before the blue lights became visible through the windows and then a large police van screeched to a dramatic halt outside the Great Hall, closely followed by an ambulance. Half a dozen officers entered, took one look at the scene and immediately arrested Mr Streatham along with a highly resistant and abusive Etchman.

  ‘Get off me,’ he roared. ‘I love this girl and she loves me.’

  ‘Piss off Lee,’ Tania shrieked, still on the floor cradling Kuldeep in her arms.

  Unluckily for Lee Etchman, one of the officers present recognised him from previous incidents outside Loriana’s house and at the Narracott hotel. It seemed this third offence in quick succession might lead to a conviction.

  The brawling men were hauled outside and handcuffed before being shoved into the van, full of protest. Inside the hall, paramedics wound their way through the mob and tended to Kuldeep and Mr Bhumbra, by now conscious but concussed. Father and son were taken away in the same ambulance.

  Gradually, after the ambulance had left with its casualties, the police had departed with their charges, the press had conducted interviews and taken photographs, the crowd dispersed. In a taxi heading through Morecambe towards the exclusive end of town, to the grandest house on a secluded cul-de-sac, Alfie stared out of the window, reflecting, disheartened.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t stick up for you,’ he said without turning to face Loriana, sitting next to him on the back seat of the cab.

  ‘Pardon me?’ She asked, shaken from her reverie, herself considering the disturbing events of the evening, of the entire day.

  ‘When it all kicked off in there, the way he spoke to you, I should have…I don’t know, done something, said something…’

  Alfie fell silent. The driver’s eyes flicked quickly between his passengers reflected in the rear view mirror. He raised his eyebrows in anticipation of a quarrel.

  Loriana reached for Alfie’s hand; the taxi driver turned down the volume of the radio.

  ‘It is not your job, your role, to fight on my behalf Alfie, and you are in no way responsible for the actions of my husband.’

  ‘It’s me all over, weak, feeble. Stuff like that happens all the time. I don’t like to get involved; I like to avoid fuss, confrontation…I…’

  He shrugged and continued to gaze out at the passing houses bathed in the amber glow of the streetlights.

  ‘Alfredo, my darling, there is nothing to apologise for. Tonight was unfortunate but it had nothing to do with you, or us.’

  The taxi pulled up outside Loriana’s house, the driver – disappointed that the squabble he’d hoped for had failed to materialise - was paid and Alfie followed Loriana inside.

  ‘Would you like coffee?’ She asked. ‘Something stronger perhaps?’

  ‘Something a bit stronger I reckon, if that’s okay I mean.’

  ‘Excellent, whisky, brandy, vodka…’

  Alfie shrugged and nodded thanks when Loriana handed him a generous tumbler of whisky.

  ‘I love you,’ he said simply, a statement that shocked her with its candour.

  ‘Uomo dolce, I know you do, and I love you too, and now we are together and…’

  ‘You’ve told me so much, about you, your family.’

  ‘Of course, you are so easy to talk to, so understanding.’

  ‘I…I haven’t…’ Alfie paused, drained his glass, stood and refilled it himself from the decanter on the table. ‘I haven’t told you what really happened, with my brother, my family.’

  Loriana didn’t gasp, her expression didn’t alter. Instead she looked directly at Alfie, stared into him and they remained unspeaking until his words had been absorbed and he could begin to explain.

  * * * *

  The following day an account of the evenings events would appear in the Morecambe local newspapers while the regional television news would lead with the story throughout the day. Every edition would recount how, what began as just another political debate, what should have been a question and answer session allowing Morecambe residents an opportunity to voice their opinions and discuss issues with local government representatives, descended into farce, a real-life soap opera.

  The day after that the story featured on the inner pages of several national tabloids. This led to a brief reference on a national breakfast television programme as part of a regular feature called Provincial Story of the Day.

  Upon his release from hospital Mr Bhumbra saw the assorted newspaper clippings and media coverage, his own image featuring heavily in the local editions, along with his name and that of his restaurant, and was euphoric. Copies were swiftly made and sent out via airmail to Sylhet for the perusal of the extended family, an opportunity for them to voice their approval of what Mr Bhumbra chose to believe was his chance to finally achieve his dreams.

  EVERYTHING REVEALED

  With what a deep devotedness of woe

  I wept thy absence – o’er and o’er again

  Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain,

  And memory, like a drop that, night and day,

  Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away!

  Thomas Moore

  30 A muted farewell and Alfie tells the truth

  The day of Mrs Hird’s funeral was bleak. A typically cold, cloudy day with gusts of wind coming in from the coast. A perfect day, thought Gerald, to say goodbye.

  The service was to be held at a small local church. A notice had been placed in the Morecambe Gazette and the folk at Morecambe Day Centre informed. Gerald had asked Trish to accompany him and, being the friend she was and sensing how important this was to him, she’d rearranged her shift at work.

  The service was due to begin at 1PM and, as the vicar appeared and nodded that he was ready to commence, just seven people were seated in the church. Gerald and Trish, of course, Alfie and Loriana (informed via a message left on Loriana’s answering machine by Gerald who had found her number by scouring the bill from the payphone in the flats) and three old dears from the day centre Mrs Hird had attended, one of these perched in the centre aisle in a motorised scooter.

  It transpired that some years earlier Mrs Hird had prepared a will. One of the stipulations was that, upon her death, she be given a woodland burial at a plot she’d purchased decades before. Gerald knew nothing of such matters and had entrusted all arrangements to the funeral direc
tor.

  Following the service, which was brief owing to the fact that Mrs Hird wasn’t, so far as anyone knew, particularly religious, the seven mourners (the scooter was left in the church) transferred into two cars and followed the hearse the few miles along the promenade to the Coastal Woodland Burial site. On a day like this it was the perfect setting. The wind was strong and the sky heavy, the trees bent almost in reverence, their leaves rustling one final round of applause for the former showgirl. Even with so few mourners there was a sense of occasion, a feeling that something important was taking place.

  Gerald had been told that once the plot had settled, a tree – Mrs Hird’s will had asked for a Willow because it had been her late husbands favourite – would be planted and a plaque bearing her name laid at the foot of it.

  ‘This is a joke,’ Gerald seethed as he and Trish walked away from the site. ‘Seven bloody people. A joke.’

  ‘It was a nice idea though,’ Trish offered. ‘I’ve never been to a woodland burial. A lovely idea.’

  ‘Except nobody saw it, nobody came. She used to be someone, Trish, she mattered once, she was important.’

  ‘I know, I understand. But you’ve done your best.’

  Gerald remained silent all the way back to Westminster Road, although his expression varied between anger and contemplation. Finally, Trish said she had to go as her husband would be home from work soon.

  ‘Do something for her,’ she said. ‘Something appropriate.’

  ‘The funeral was appropriate,’ Gerald argued. ‘It was exactly what she asked for.’

  ‘Think about it, sleep on it, maybe something will come to you.’

  * * * *

  It had taken Alfie a long time to be able to share the truth with anyone, even himself, but now finally it was time.

  ‘On the Tuesday, Frank became ill. It was quite sudden but Mum and Dad weren’t too concerned because Frank was a big, strong lad and would be fine in a couple of days. I thought he was faking to get a day off school and said so before finishing my breakfast and cycling away, school bag over my shoulder.

  ‘It all started to go downhill then. I remember Mum telling Dad about it, and the doctors and nurses at the hospital. Mum said she pressed her palm to Frank’s forehead and watched as he forced a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, it was an effort for him to swallow she said. He felt a little clammy so Mum suggested he went to lie on the couch, watch a bit of tele and she’d check on him in an hour or two.

  ‘In the meantime Mum decided to dash to the shops and said she’d be back later. It was during this time that Frank must’ve tried to move because I remember later when we came home there was sick everywhere and the house reeked of illness. Frank must’ve dragged himself from the couch to his bed which is where Mum found him when she came home. He’d thrown up everywhere apparently, I’m glad I didn’t see that.

  ‘Needless to say, Mum being Mum, she started doing her nursing bit, clean pillows, bottle of aspirin, cold flannel and all that. Anyway, Frank wasn’t getting any better so she finally called the doctor out and they rushed him into hospital.

  ‘Now, of course, I’d missed all this. The first I knew of it was when I came home from school. I remember saying to Mum that I could smell sick and, when I asked what was for tea she really bit my head off. I could tell she was upset because she used Italian and she only ever spoke Italian when she was cross or upset.’

  ‘Alfredo, you do not have to share these memories. If it is too private, too painful...’

  Alfie patted Loriana’s hand and smiled weakly.

  ‘If I don’t tell it now I might never have the courage again.’

  Loriana kissed Alfie’s outstretched hand and he continued.

  ‘Anyway, I went running upstairs out of harms way until Dad rang from the hospital. I knew then it was serious because Mum hollered up the stairs and bundled me out the front door.

  ‘When we got there I’d never seen anything like it, but then I was only eight. Our Frank was connected up to all sorts of tubes and there were drips hanging next to him. But the worst thing was they wouldn’t let us in to be with him, he was in a room all on his own. I had to stand on a chair to see in through the window.

  ‘Eventually a senior doctor, in a suit not a white coat like the others, took Mum and Dad into a dimly lit waiting room where they were told the seriousness of Frank’s condition, Bacterial Meningitis they said. The next twelve to twenty-four hours would be vital.

  ‘Nobody said anything to me but I’m not daft and I knew when my parents said they’d be staying at the hospital all night, and that I had to try and be a brave boy, that something was very wrong. I remember Mum wept, the first time I’d ever seen her cry. She pressed her face to the glass barrier between her and Frank while Dad paced the corridor. I stayed still; more still than probably any eight-year old boy ever has, and simply stared at Frank, waiting for him to be okay.’

  Loriana squeezed Alfie’s hand tightly and held it to her heart, not daring to interrupt.

  ‘They did some more tests and gave Frank a series of injections. Then, during the night, Mum dozed off in a chair, resting on Dad until he drifted off as well. Their faces were white and strained, stamped with worry. By this point we’d all been inoculated and been told Frank had to be kept in isolation to prevent the infection spreading. The mood was grim, though, because vital hours had been lost before Frank’s illness was even diagnosed, let alone treated.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, not with Franco so ill. Silently, with a quick look at Mum and Dad to make sure they were asleep, I climbed down from the chair I’d been perched on all night and stretched my legs. I slowly opened the door to Frank’s room; I had to use both hands because the handle was stiff, slipped inside and pulled back the plastic cover surrounding the bed. Then I climbed up next to him.

  ‘Franco,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘Franco, it’s Alfie.’

  He didn’t move but I wasn’t scared.

  ‘Everyone’s asleep out there so I thought I’d sneak in and see you; don’t tell Mum though ‘cos she’ll be cross. Il nostro segreto Franco, our secret.’

  Alfie paused and his body shuddered at the memories he was reliving, buried for so long and now, finally, shared with a new love. Loriana still clutched his hands tightly, tears flowing freely down her face as she witnessed the anguish on this poor man’s face.

  ‘I held Frank’s hand and lay down next to him, chatting away quite contentedly about our last holiday together, walking on the beach, the sandcastle we built – a big one with a moat - and all the fun of the fair we shared. It was sometime during the night, while I slept soundly next to him, that Frank John Gorman, aged 17 years, my big brother, died peacefully without regaining consciousness.’

  Alfie suppressed a sob but was unable to keep back the tears which had been threatening to fall for several minutes.

  ‘Frank’s death was the beginning of the end for our family. Mum and Dad blamed each other, blamed the doctors. I felt all but invisible and I had nobody to share my grief with. I became more and more withdrawn, hiding myself away and then my Dad…’

  ‘What?’ Loriana asked. ‘What about your father?’

  ‘He hung himself in the garage, just about three months after Frank died.’

  Loriana crossed herself and closed her eyes.

  ‘That was it, done.’ Alfie laughed. ‘It wasn’t even the fact that he killed himself. On the back of Frank’s death it seemed, I don’t know, somehow less dramatic, to have less impact. It was knowing that Frank was the favourite, that my Dad couldn’t bear to live without my brother, that I wasn’t enough for him to want to carry on. But worse than that, was that I wished Frank ill, even wished him dead.’

  ‘Why?’ Loriana asked, aghast. ‘If you loved him so dearly?’

  ‘He was maybe going to go to university, or join the army. He reckoned there was nothing for him at home. I didn’t want him to leave me, didn’t want to be on my own,’ Alfie said quietly, his voice muffled against
Loriana’s clothing.

  She had no words to offer that could make Alfie feel any better. She knew he needed to unload this burden of guilt and blame, to be free of it after so many years. She understood that such responsibility was too much for anyone to bear, let alone a child. Alfie had no choice but to block it out, to pretend his life was different. These events had broken him and his family. They had caused him to flee, to spend his life roaming, running from his dreadful and tragic past.

  Loriana wrapped her arms even more tightly around Alfie and kissed him softly on the head, her own tears falling on his hair.

  ‘Non siete soli ‘fredo,’ she said gently. ‘You are not alone.’

  31 A fitting tribute

  Alfie opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. He had returned to his flat to collect Kenny, his cat, and was now on his way to Loriana’s to discuss their future plans which, so far as he could tell, seemed to involve them living together but in a different house to the one she’d shared with the morally flawed Lee Etchman.

  Loriana had been understandably shocked by Alfie’s confession about the death of his brother. Alfie had even feared he might lose her; such was the gravity of his story. But she had understood, she seemed to sense the weight lift from his shoulders and now Alfie finally felt able to be himself.

  On the floor outside the door to Alfie’s flat was a copy of Hertfordshire Today magazine, issue seven of the current volume. Assuming it had been left outside his door in error, he picked up the magazine, planning to drop it by the front door.

  He glanced at the glossy front cover featuring a picture of a stately home and a young man standing outside it flanked by a number of expensive looking cars. Alfie suddenly paused. A by-line caught his eye. Curious, he opened the magazine and began to read.

  LADY EDITH CATTERMOLE DIES