The Alternative Hero

by Tim Thornton

  HONEY.

  He shot like the Concorde towards the Jam and Chutney section and rammed straight into a jar of honey with a paper lid. There he was, slurping and gulping his way through a huge pot of the sweet, sticky, glorious gunk.

  After a while, he got tired and squeezed his way out through the hole and flew in the direction of the fresh-bread counter. But he could only get as far as the cash registers, and then flopped out: tired, full, but happy.

  At about five o’clock in the morning Sid woke up, but not naturally. A baker had come in to make fresh bread for the day’s customers. Sid quickly rose from the cash register and flew as quietly as he could towards the bread section to get a better look. But the baker instantly heard Sid buzzing around and, to Sid’s horror, walked over to the fly-swat counter! Without further ado, Sid soared high into the air and zoomed over to the other end of the shop, far away from the fly-swat-waving baker. He spotted the pot of honey he had opened the night before, swooped down and soared into his breakfast.

  He was just about to leave the pot when he saw the huge face of the baker through the glass! But hang on! Sid had an idea. Where the baker had come in, he must go out. He shot out of the jar, making another hole, and zoomed towards the bakery, where he saw an open door. Just as the baker was about to smash down the fly swat, Sid flew out into the morning air.

  “Phew!” he gasped, heading towards his nest in the gutter of the train station. But he would be back soon, for some more of that delicious food.

  I stare at the lined page for a few moments longer. It’s not the first time in my life I’ve had no idea what to say. But it is, perhaps, the first time I’ve had a grinning former hero of mine merely two feet away, his face practically bursting off its hinges in anticipation of my considered opinion. I’ve got, ooh, probably four more seconds to think of an opening comment, so I buy myself an extra two by taking a large gulp of tea. This, unfortunately, is the wrong thing to do.

  “You didn’t like it,” Webster moans.

  Shit. Now I have to do double-strength lying.

  “No!” I begin. “No, not at all. It’s … sorry, it’s just not, um … not what I was expecting.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “Well, a … for a start, something for …”

  He frowns. Time’s up.

  “I didn’t think it was going be a children’s story,” I admit.

  He frowns some more. Oh God. Please say it is meant to be a children’s story.

  “I love children’s stories,” he mutters at last, in a tone an East End gangster might use to describe a favourite cuddly toy. “Roald Dahl, Enid Blyton, Michael Bond.”

  “Right.”

  “Penelope Lively, Astrid Lindgren.”

  I’m completely lost, and my face must be saying it rather loudly.

  “Pippi Longstocking,” he continues.

  “Blimey, some of these pen names,” I smile desperately.

  “No, that’s a character—one of Astrid Lindgren’s characters.”

  “Ah.” Glad he cleared that one up for me.

  “Jill Murphy, Helen Cresswell.”

  “J.K. Rowling?” I suggest hopefully.

  “Not my cup of tea,” he shrugs. “Norman Hunter?”

  “Sorry … who?”

  “You know … Professor Branestawm?”

  “Oh yeah, him! Fantastic!”

  “Then you must also like Spike Milligan?”

  “Yes!” I bark. “Genius!”

  I’m so relieved, I bang my mug down and tea escapes all over the table. Everyone in the café looks round and Marzy comes running over with a cloth.

  “Exciting stuff, this editing process,” Webster quips as she wipes up the mess. He smiles at her, and for the first time I see a drop of the rock-star charisma that must have worked wonders with the ladies back in the day. Marzy goes all gooey for a second and it strikes me she may be doing more for him than just making his lunch.

  “Thanks … sorry,” I mumble uselessly.

  “Not a problem, Alan,” Marzy replies, departing. Ugh! I’m sure people don’t remember my name so readily when I’m using the real one. Perhaps “Clive” is eminently forgettable.

  “Anyway,” Webster resumes, “for some reason I’ve been reading nothing but children’s stories lately. And when I wrote the other thing—the one about the people with the power—one of the publishers said it might actually make a cracking children’s book. So I thought I’d have a go at a kid’s yarn.”

  “Why not just make that other one into a … um … a kid’s thing?”

  “Wanted to do something new.”

  “Okay,” I nod. “Well, in that case, it’s …”

  “Go on. You can be honest. That’s what we’re here for.”

  So I launch into a timid examination of his piece, concentrating heavily on the few bits I thought were good (“slurping and gulping his way through a huge pot of the sweet, sticky, glorious gunk;” “across the sea of Persil Automatic”), and some harmless criticism about repeating words too often. I steer well clear of my true thoughts, i.e., that it’s as exciting as a maths lesson and would bore the bib off any self-respecting child within three sentences. My jaw is already hurting from all the fake smiling, and the temptation to blurt out, “Fuck all this, let’s talk about rock!” is daunting.

  “Oh, and of course—it’ll be accompanied by illustrations,” Webster declares, fishing around in his bag. “Sorry, I should have shown you these already. One of my friends has done some mock-ups.”

  He passes over some decent pencil sketches of a smiling housefly in various states of honey-related bliss, and a fly-swat-brandishing baker who bears more than a passing resemblance to a career-peak Webster himself, goatee and all.

  “Wow, these are great!” I enthuse. “It’ll make so much more sense with pictures.”

  Webster glares at me.

  “Better than the story, then, huh?”

  “Well, er …”

  “Come on, Alan. It’s obvious you don’t like it. There’s no point in us sitting here unless you tell me why.”

  “Uh … well, it’s just not really my thing … It’s a little bit … um …”

  There’s the glimmer of a smile on his face and it occurs to me he’s actually enjoying making me squirm.

  “A little bit what?”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “What, a fly buzzing round a supermarket eating food is unbelievable?”

  “No, but … you know, the things he thinks, and the fact that he’s able to read …”

  Webster almost spits his coffee out with incredulity.

  “It’s for kids! It’s make-believe!”

  “And there’s a whole section of the shop devoted to fly swats.”

  “It’s supposed to be funny!”

  “And who says ‘Drat it!’ these days?”

  “Yeah, well, you may have a point there,” he concedes, grabbing his notebook and scribbling in the margin.

  “And is ‘Hang on’ meant to be his catchphrase?”

  “‘Hang on’?”

  “Yeah. He says ‘hang on’ about six times.”

  “Three times,” corrects Webster.

  “Well, maybe he should say it more often—turn it into a catch-phrase.”

  “Okay,” he shrugs, jotting it down. “Fair enough. [BBC announcer voice] ‘Hang on, with Sid the fly.’ Anything else? You see—this is more like it!”

  “Right,” I reply dubiously. “Um … well, there’s heaps of product placement—Dairylea, Persil, Sainsbury’s, of course …”

  “Which could be an advantage.”

  “What, get some of them on board?”

  “Yeah,” he smiles craftily. “In fact, my illustrator knows some of the Sainsbury’s marketing team—they’re interested in taking a look.”

  “Blimey.”

  “Ha,” Webster snaps. “Gonna start taking it seriously now?”

  I pick up the notebook again. This potential interest s
eems to have nothing to do with his being Lance Webster, so maybe he’s genuinely got something. I still think it’s bollocks, though. And I can’t imagine Sainsbury’s wanting to advertise that their shops are crawling with insects.

  “Um … the Concorde doesn’t exist anymore,” I volunteer, spotting another glitch. Webster waves this away.

  “Doesn’t matter. Kids still know what it is.”

  I sigh and have a final scan, running out of straws to clutch at.

  “I guess you’re really not into kids’ stuff.”

  “Not really,” I admit, “not since I was … you know.”

  “A kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not enough beer involved, perhaps?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Ever think about having kids?”

  Uh-oh. Here comes his “life coach” act again.

  “Well, I probably would do, but …”

  “I understand. There’s an essential ingredient missing.”

  “Yup.”

  “Did you enjoy your own childhood?”

  Who is he now? Freud?

  “Yeah, well enough,” I grumble. “You?”

  Suddenly the café has gone very quiet, and I’m certain the five or so people present, Marzy included, are hanging on our every word. How I long to be elsewhere.

  “Tell you what,” says Webster. “Are you doing anything tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Saturday?” I reply, mentally flicking through my packed diary. “Not a lot. Why?” One thing that can be said for all this: at least it gives Alan (the real one) a kick up the arse. I’m on the bus when he rings me, about halfway down Mare Street.

  “Clive-ist!”

  This is Alan’s new thing, putting “-ist” on the end of everything. Much like a few years ago when he added “-ster” to everyone’s name: I became “the Clivester,” Polly “the Pollster.” For a short time Liz was “the wifester,” which was where the craze abruptly met its end.

  “Meet me for a jar!” he trumpets. “Liz went to her mum’s for the avo with Jocasta—I got let off ’cos of my sore throat.”

  “I can’t,” I tell him, reluctant to go into too much detail.

  “What you up to?”

  “I’m meeting someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Just someone.”

  “You’re meeting Webster again? Didn’t you meet him yesterday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Aren’t you guys getting a little friendly?”

  “Piss off. It’s actually all getting a bit annoying. He’s taking me on a ‘mystery tour.’ Says he wants to reacquaint me with my childhood.”

  “Wow. Can I come?”

  “No.”

  The line goes a little quiet; when Alan speaks again his voice has lost its edge of mockery.

  “What’s he like?”

  “Alan, I can’t really talk about this when I’m on the bus. I’ll meet you later if you like.”

  “How long you gonna be?”

  “Dunno. Depends what he’s got in mind.”

  “It must be quite cool to hang out with him, though?”

  I groan, and take a quick look round the bus to see who’s listening. No one looks remotely interested, but I turn back and lower my voice to just above a whisper.

  “He is cool to hang out with—as long as you can stand the way he continually asks you probing questions about your life, kicks his legs over to your side of the table, keeps banging on about children’s books, eats the most boring food known to man, never suggests meeting in a pub …”

  “Why don’t you suggest it, then?”

  “He says he’s on the wagon at the moment. I’ve also got to keep up the act of not knowing virtually everything there is to know about his life and career, and not having been his biggest fan for the past seventeen years, and not even knowing very much about bloody music at all.”

  “You seem to be managing okay so far, man.”

  “Yeah, but it’s bloody hard work! I feel so … suppressed when I’m talking to him. I’m not me. I trip over my words. My face aches from this perpetual grin. I spilt my tea …”

  “Well, that does sound a little bit like you.”

  “And I keep wanting to say stuff about his songs. He … when …”—I lower my voice still further—“when we were paying in the caff yesterday he handed me a fiver and said, ‘There’s my contribution,’ and I swear I was within fucking molecules of saying—”

  “‘… to this pretend revolution’?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fair enough, man, but look … just think, you’re in the presence of the bloke who gave you all that stuff. He got you through some tough times …”

  “Oh, please.”

  “He did! I don’t mean to be cheesy, man, but this guy wrote the sound track to your fucking youth … and he genuinely wants to hang out with you!”

  “Well, I can’t think why.”

  “Well, whatever! The fact is, he does. Just try and enjoy it for what it is. Be a bit grateful.”

  “Uh.”

  “And … honestly, man, if the opportunity arises … I wouldn’t mind saying hello.”

  “Ah! I see.”

  “Yeah, well. Like I said, if the opportunity arises.”

  “Right. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Have a good one. Later.”

  “Yeah.”

  I’ve been instructed to meet him outside Bethnal Green tube station, although as it turns out neither of us arrives by tube. I’ve been waiting a couple of minutes on the busy corner of Roman Road when a black cab pulls up, from which Webster leaps, again suggesting the reserve accounts haven’t completely dwindled.

  “Morning!” he beams. It is two o’clock.

  “Hi,” I wave, receiving that day’s frisson at the appearance of my companion. He’s looking more like Lance than ever—jeans, chunky trainers, a dark blue suit jacket and shades. His hair even looks relatively funky. He pays the driver then gives my hand a squeeze.

  “Let’s go back in time,” he announces, in a deep-throated American accent.

  “Sorry?”

  “Oh, cheer up, you miserable fucker!” he yells, slapping my back. “Christ, dunno why I bother.” He propels me briskly up the street, runs up the steps to a large red factory-looking building on the right, bursts through the double doors and two seconds later I find myself inside the Museum of Childhood.

  “Now,” he informs me, “this is just about the best fucking thing in London.”

  From that point onwards, my presence is purely incidental. Webster, with an enthusiasm more animated than anything I ever saw him do onstage, is truly besotted with the place. He bounds around, from toy exhibit to doll’s house, from antique pram to puppet show, whooping with joyous recognition (“Oh, man! My neighbour had one of these! I stole it one weekend and busted it. Got grounded for a month”), sobbing with painful memories (“My first girlfriend had this doll … When she moved away she gave me its cardigan to remember her by … I was heartbroken … was only five”), pointing out vintage remote-control cars and video games to any hapless kids that pass (“You see this? It was brilliant. You could programme it to go anywhere, up stairs, the works. Better than your ‘wee’ or whatever it’s called”) and almost, before I step in and calm him down, jumps into the indoor sandpit with a collection of toddlers. While it’s fairly entertaining in itself, the downside of this absurd behaviour is that I can’t, as I had hoped, furtively try to spot if anyone recognises him, because just about everyone in the building is gaping at him anyway.

  Compared with Webster’s larking about, the actual contents of the museum are of mild interest to me: the train set is pretty cool, some of the old video games raise a smile (Astro Wars!), but the Scalextric and Lego collections are underwhelming and I reckon it’s a bit of a swizz that you can’t actually play with most of the stuff. After half an hour I’m starting to eye the downstairs coffee bar hopefully—until I spy something out the corner of my eye a
nd proceed to make a total tit of myself.

  “Alan! Alan, man! You okay?”

  What’s come over me is anyone’s guess. I’m standing staring through one of the glass cases, sobbing uncontrollably. I can count the number of times I’ve cried in the last decade on one finger, so it’s really a rather bizarre sensation, made even stranger by the man comforting me—who is, funnily enough, the bloke responsible for me crying the previous time.

  “Alan, dude! Shit, what’s the matter? Can I get you anything?”

  I feel like saying, “For a start, you can stop calling me Alan”—but stop myself.

  “No, no, I’m fine,” I splutter. “Thanks.”

  “Jesus, man,” he laughs, “you should’ve just told me you were bored and wanted a coffee, no need to do this!”

  I break into a smile. “You know … actually, a cup of tea would be great.”

  We descend the stairs and Webster sits me down at one of the large tables. He dashes off while I wipe my eyes and continue to feel pretty bloody silly. A minute later he returns with a pot of tea and two pieces of cake.

  “Bloody hell, I’m sorry,” I tell him. “No idea where that came from.”

  “No worries,” he replies. “This place tends to bring odd emotions out.”

  “It was the toy.”

  “Well, I’m pleased to hear that. I’d be slightly concerned if you were crying because of the design of the carpet.”

  “It was my dad’s favourite toy.”

  “Right,” he nods solemnly. “Your dad is …”

  “Oh, no!” I laugh, catching his drift. “He’s alive and well and living in Elstree.”

  “Well, we can’t have everything.”

  “Ha. It’s just … oh, it’s so stupid.”

  “No, not at all. Please carry on. That is, if you want to.”

  “Yeah … well, that windup Pinocchio-on-a-donkey, he had it since he was a kid and … well, my dad wasn’t really much fun when we were kids. He worked loads, came home late. He was very much a ‘kids should be in bed already so I can have my sherry in peace’ kind of guy … not unpleasant at all, just … I dunno … distant …”