by Paul Kelly
“No need, dear boy “ Bertie shouted as he shot out his pink tongue and leapt from where he was sitting. Suddenly there appeared in each man’s hand . . a shining, amber beacon, with a white frothy head. “I wish everything I had to do was as simple as that dear boy,” said Bertie, “Up the hitch dear boy.”
“Hatch, Bertie.”
“What?”
“Down the hatch, Bertie . . not up the hitch.”
“Oh! well, what does it matter . . hitch or hatch, up or down . . who cares,” Bertie complained as he belched twice and licked his lips as he blew the froth from his beer.
“Tell me more about this lady friend, Bertie . . please?”
“Nice beer, isn’t it Joe . . . well, I met her . . Let me see . . Yes, it must have been in mid-summer, 1650 . . or thereabouts . . or maybe it was 1660. I can never be sure. It was round about that time anyway, because I remember . .”
“Never mind the dates Bertie. Tell me about the romance.”
“I will, I will dear boy . . it was about the reign of Henry . . Henry the eighth, you know. It must have been nearer 400 years ago then . . .”
“Go on Bertie . . what happened?”
“Oh! Joe . . she was the most beautiful creature I had ever set eyes on . . and how she could sing. Sounded like a little bird, she did . . you know one of those little birds you can hear in the early spring mornings when you’re . . . . . . . .”
“Yes Bertie . . I know . . . but what happened . . PLEASE. Do you have a photograph of her?”
The old man laughed and stuck his fingers in his ears.
“Don’t be silly Joe. There weren’t any cameras in those days. You had to have your lover’s face painted on canvas instead, but then again, that was only if you were rich, like Henry. He had all his wives faces painted on canvas, dear boy . . . but that was before he had their heads cut off, that was . . .
Chapter Sixteen
Bertie lingered by the tent, studying his body with pride as he waited for the fortune teller to finish with her last caller and it seemed an age as he fidgeted from foot to foot until at last a thin old man came out and raised his hat to the lady.
“Thank you Ma’am. . I feel a lot better now,” the thin man said and the fat lady smiled at him as he left.
“Are you next Sir?” she enquired, looking from left to right outside the tent and Bertie grinned as he did a little dance just as Joe appeared from behind the Big Wheel.
“Yes . . yes, me next please,” he said and disappeared into the tent before Joe could stop him.
***
Bertie sat down opposite the lady and she dusted her nose with some talcum powder before she started to speak and some of the powder went up Bertie’s nose and made him sneeze.
“Manners,” she said, without looking up and Bertie smiled and said “Manners” after her. “Now then Sir . . Is there anything in particular you would like to ask me?” The fortune teller enquired as she nestled her double chin in the palm of her plump hands, with her elbows resting on the table, where she kept her crystal ball under a chamois leather cover. “I can only tell you about your future, but I cannot help you with your past, I’m afraid.”
“The past . . the past,” said Bertie, “Oh! No . . I don’t need to know about that. I know enough already thank you . . Madam,” he said quickly and pulled out his scarlet coloured handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow
“Well now . . May I just ask you a few simple questions. First of all, what is your star sign?”
Bertie stared at the tent wall and wondered how to answer that question as he had never been asked anything like that before and he wasn’t really sure what to say, but as he looked about him, he saw some signs on the wall and picked one that he thought looked the nicest.
“The same as that,” he said and pointed to the sign of the scorpion, to which the fat lady fortune teller raised her eyes and assured him that there was wealth and health in abundance ahead for him in the sign of the scorpion, with a sure . . very definite indication of impending romance to which Bertie grinned his appreciation. . . and wished Joe had been with him to have heard that . . .
The lady then looked up and touched the side of Bertie’s face, tenderly with her fingers as she looked into his eyes. . . and although he thought it was very kind of her to do that, he would have preferred if she had done it when his face wasn’t there . . .
“What is your lucky colour, Sir? she asked and Bertie was again lost for an answer and wished that Joe had come in with him when he had first thought of this fortune telling business. It was harder work than he had anticipated and he didn’t expect to be asked all these funny questions as the lady continued to study his features He thought carefully for a moment, hoping that perhaps Joe might read his mind from where he was waiting outside the tent and advise him what colour to choose, but his mind remained blank, even after he had waited for a few moments with his eyes squeezed tightly shut.
“Blue,” he answered, glancing down at his socks for help, but one was pink and the other green, however the fortune teller nodded again as if that was just what she had expected him to say as she returned her gaze to her finger nails.
“That is a good colour, Sir. It shows a warmth of character . . perhaps a little extravagant, but then that also shows a free spirit and a generous heart. May I ask your age?” she asked and it was at this point that Bertie was lost for words. How could he tell her how old he was . . but then what was the use of telling her a lie if she was to tell his fortune truly. He swallowed hard and blushed as he whispered, “Twenty-nine” very quickly and the fat lady scowled, sniffed and twisted her nostrils as she pulled the cover swiftly from her crystal ball.
“Are you sure of that, Sir?” she asked as she sucked her lips and raised her head to have another look at her client. Assuredly, the tent was dark and the shadows seemed to lend character to the atmosphere, but even in the dark, the lady fortune teller was obviously confused. “I seem to see . . an older man in my crystal, Sir . .Perhaps someone in their early fifties . . Yes?”
Bertie coughed and looked towards the tent entrance. Maybe Joe was standing somewhere nearby, but he couldn’t call out to him and he simply nodded and swallowed again.
“Fifty something or other. Yes, that’s it . . You’ve made a good guess Madame. . You’re right . . fifty something,” he stammered and at that point Joe called out to him from where he was standing outside.
“Bertie . . Bertie . . Are you in there Bertie?” he shouted and the fortune teller nodded again, tightening her lips and narrowing her eyes.
“I can hear someone calling a name . . It could be yours, Sir . . Is your name,” She tightened her eyes as she went into a swoon of some kind. “Is your name Bertie?”
But before he could answer her, Bertie could hear Joe calling out again.
“Tell her the truth, Bertie . . Only the truth dear boy . . You’re seven hundred and forty three . . .”
Bertie stared at the fortune teller and she stared back at him as he wished with all his heart that he had never come to see her, but it was too late now. He thought she looked as though she was about to faint, but she already had information about him and was on the verge of telling his fortune when he suddenly thought of what he should do and in a second, the lady was sitting on her own . . . on the tent floor, with her legs outstretched in front of her and her Crystal ball lying on her chest . .Her client had disappeared from sight.
“Is that you Joe?” Bertie called out as he staggered from the tent and Joe recognised the Voice. . . but the body had gone. . . and after a few moments the fat lady fortune teller appeared at the tent door rubbing her eyes with the back of her chubby hands.
“Hi . . You there,” she called out as she staggered and dug her fingers into Joe’s side. “Have you seen an old chap around here? A funny old geezer, with long white hair, w
ho wanted his fortune told but he hasn’t left me any money?”
Joe looked down at himself casually and realized that he wasn’t invisible but he couldn’t see Bertie anywhere.
“No . . I haven’t seen anybody of that description,” he said softly, but he could feel Bertie breathing on his neck as he spoke and an invisible hand gripped his arm.
“Well I’ll know him again if I see him . . Rotten old twister. Must think I’m an idiot, he must,” she snapped and pulled the tent flap aside to go in, shouting about another idiot who didn’t even know his own age . .
“Yes . . I’m sure you’re right, Madam,” answered Joe . . .He thinks most everyone is an idiot . . he said and he and Bertie went back to the pub laughing.
Chapter Seventeen
They took their drinks to a small table near the pub door where Joe felt it was safer in the event that they had to make a quick get-away, since Bertie was becoming visible and invisible at the drop of a hat. It seemed that there was no way he could control it and Joe felt that Bertie’s nervous experience with the fat lady fortune teller had something to do with it.
It was when they were talking and drinking, that suddenly Bertie’s body went, as quick as a flash, but his glass remained suspended in the air as he kept talking to Joe . .
Did I ever tell you about . . .” Bertie went on, but Joe stopped him in the middle of his sentence as he could see the barman staring at them
“I think I’ll just get another drink Bertie and a packet of crisps if you like,” he said, “What flavour do you prefer?”
“Flavour . . Oh! I like flavours,” said Bertie. “I’ll have strawberry please,” and Joe shook his head slowly and smiled as Bertie put his glass down on the table and rubbed his hands together, which made the barman look again. Not that he could see the hand rubbing, but he saw the glass move from mid-air and rest on the table and this started him thinking something was amiss. . Joe went to the bar.
“Could I have two more beers please and . . Now let me see, a couple of packets of salt and vinegar crisps . . Yea, that’ll do, thanks.”
He looked back to where Bertie was sitting and smiled again. The glass had left the table and was circling round in the air and Joe guessed that Bertie’s glass was empty and he was waiting eagerly for a refill. . . . and that the barman was beginning to look pale.
“Thanks Joe . . You are kind to me. Did you get the flavours?” Bertie enquired when Joe returned to their table and threw the crisps on Bertie’s knee, but they fell to the floor and the old man’s face dropped when he saw that there were no strawberry ones . .
“Joe I wanted . . I didn’t want this vinegary stuff . . I wanted something sweet. Why didn’t you get that for me?” he demanded in a high pitched nervous voice as Joe sipped his beer slowly.
“They don’t come in sweet flavours Bertie . . They’re potatoes, don’t you know. Potatoes all cut up in little slices and baked until they’re crisp . . That’s why they’re called crisps, you see. . You couldn’t get them in strawberry flavour or raspberry or whatever else you wanted. They just don’t make them like that,” said Joe, but Bertie screwed his face up and went into a sulk.
“Yes, they do,” he snapped and his lips went down.
“No they don’t,” argued Joe.
“They do . . they do . . they do . . I know they do,” Bertie argued back and Joe sighed heavily as he closed his eyes and Bertie stamped his old foot.
“Potatoes are potatoes and sweets are sweets . . They don’t mix, Bertrand,” Joe shouted emphasising his friends name as his mother would have called him and Bertie sulked all the more.
“I saw them in a shop just along the road then. . How is that?” he asked and Joe glared at him as if he had lost his senses.
“No shop would sell crisps with those flavours, Bertie . . You must believe me. You’ve made a mistake.”
“I never make mistakes, Joe . .” he shouted before he hesitated for a second, “Well not with things like crisps, I don’t,” he added quickly, “and don’t you say I do . . I saw them and it said in the shop . .’We sell SWEET POTATOES, so there . .”
Joe grinned and went again to the bar, but he knew he would never get sweet potatoes there, however it might have satisfied Bertie if he saw him making enquiries.
“Barman . . What kind of crisp flavours do you have please,” he asked, but the barman didn’t seem to hear him and he asked again . . with the same results.
“I don’t know much about the flavours Sir . . I only work here twice a week and at weekends,” the barman informed him, “But . . that trick I see you doing with the glass in the air. How do you do it?” he asked and Joe grinned again.
“Sorry mate . . a trick of the trade, you know and we artistes don’t give away trade secrets,” he said and returned to his table with a broad smile on his face as he pretended not to notice the glass in the air that emptied itself, and a loud belch roared through the air, somewhere to his right. . .. a few moments before Bertie’s body sat upright in his chair. . . but only for a second before he disappeared again.
“Keep a low profile Bertie. We don’t want to be thrown out of here, do we?” he said, knowing that it would only be himself who would be thrown out if he didn’t join Bertie soon and become invisible, but Bertie misunderstood, forgetting about the crisps with this new compliment that he thought was being paid to him. He preened and threw back his shoulders, closing his eyes with pure delight. . . as he came and went at regular intervals, like a light bulb being switched on and off.
“Oh Yes, of course, dear boy. That has always been my best pose . . the profile, you know. My right one is much more superior to my left. Just get a load of that nose from the side . . isn’t it just gorgeous? Have a good look . . and take your time, lad.”
Joe coughed and turned his eyes to the ceiling as a crashing sound came from the bar and when he looked, he could see that the barman had fainted. He rushed towards the bar to help, but already someone had revived the barman and was plying him with brandy as they mopped his head with a cold cloth.
“Why do you keep doing this Bertie? Being here with us one minute and being invisible the next? You’ll scare everyone around here. Don’t you realize that?”
“Cos I want to . . so there. That’s why and besides, that poor young man was straining to see me and why should I disappoint him?” Bertie smiled smugly showing his toothless gap as he sipped his beer complacently.
“Cocky devil . .” muttered Joe under his breath.
“What? What are you talking about?”
Joe smiled and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and the old man jumped up from where he was sitting. He put his five fingers up to his nose and hopped about in glee to perform a little jig as the barman dropped another glass, but he caught it this time in his hand before it crashed to the floor.
Bertie grinned widely as he looked towards the bar, crossing his eyes as shook his arms lightly in the air, as if he was about to fly.
“Exhibitionist,” muttered Joe . .”Show off . . You should be ashamed of yourself,” but Bertie ignored that remark as he glanced at the barman, who ducked when he saw the old man looking at him.
“I’ve had rather a sad life when I reflect back, dear boy. Did you know that?” said Bertie as if his antics were in revolt of the hardships he had to endure when he was a younger man and Joe nodded sympathetically as he continued to sip his beer and the barman re-appeared at the bar with his glass and cloth in his hand, taking sly glances towards a table where he wasn’t sure if there was an old man sitting there or not . . .
“But there must have been some good times too Bertie. Surely?”
“Of course there was . .” Bertie replied and then he fell into a deep sleep.
“Bertie . . Bertie, wake up . . You’re spilling your beer all over the place. Wake up Bertie,” Joe called out and
the old man tottered for a moment where he sat before rubbing his eyes and staring into Joe’s face.
“Sorry about that, dear boy . .Where was I?”
Bertie paused to think and tugged at his long nose with scrawny fingers, but Joe was concerned.
“Are you alright Bertie. I’m sorry . . I shouldn’t have probed into your private life.”
“Oh! That’s perfectly alright Joe. I’m glad in a way to be able to talk about it. You get rather lonely when you’re my age you know . . and not many people are interested in what you’ve done or what you’ve been,” he said and toppled over into another sleep.
“TIME GENTLEMEN PLEASE”
The barman interrupted as he shouted for last orders and continued to study Joe and his friend with grave suspicion.
“Come on Bertie. We’ve been here long enough and it’s closing time now. What are you going to do? You can’t come home with me, you know . . unless you go invisible again and sleep on the settee,” said Joe, but Bertie only yawned and twitched his nose as stroked his chin.
“Goodnight Bertie,” Joe added with a wide grin on his face. “Do take care won’t you and if you do change your mind I’ll leave a key under the door mat.”
“Goodnight Joe. I would just lock up as usual if I were you. The Guest House people might not like their keys lying about any old place and besides, walls don’t present any problem to me. I thought you realized that.”
“Well I should have done I guess, but then I’m just another one of those idiots, aren’t I? Goodnight.”
Joe sauntered back to the Guest House with his hands dug deeply into his trouser pockets.
He glanced along the still, calm esplanade before staring up at the large, clear moon. The earth was quiet and peaceful now and he thought again of Bertie’s long life and of all the things that had happened to him . . good and bad . . Idiots all, he thought. Idiots all . . . .