Devil in Disguise

by Julian Clary

  Very special thanks to Kirsty Fowkes, my editor, whose confidence and enthusiasm never wavered.

  Thanks also to Andrew Goodfellow and Gillian Green at Ebury, Hazel Orme my copy editor, Eugenie Furniss my agent, Allan Rogers for his knowledge of torch songs, Nicholas Reader, Paul O’Grady and Barb Jungr for their advice, Ian Mackley for staying away and Peter and Carol for feeding the chickens.

  And, of course, Valerie, who answered my sighs with her own.

  For Jackie

  Molly carefully painted her nails blood red, three vivid stripes on each neat oval to make a flawless finish. As the polish hardened, she gazed down admiringly at her hands. She had looked after them well: the skin was soft and moisturised, the cuticles a healthy pale pink with no breaks or hang-nails. When she sang on stage that night, these hands would sweep and flourish expressively around her, enhancing her performance and conveying the required emotions with skill and subtlety. They were tools as valuable as her voice, and must be treated with respect. She lifted each one in turn to her mouth and gave it a little kiss, rather like a cat might with its paws. A pity, really, that her role required her to wear gloves.

  Her hands might be her best feature but the rest of her, she knew, scrubbed up well. She had a pretty, plumpish face, with regular features that carried heavy stage makeup well, and her dark-blonde curls gave her the look of a cheerful country lass not overly concerned with matters of grooming or personal hygiene. She was fleshy and voluptuous. Her cleavage, when pushed up and powdered down, could heave and pant fetchingly as she filled her lungs with air — she had noted the admiring looks of her fellow performers, unable to resist the occasional furtive glance. She had a hefty rump and Rubenesque thighs, but these were usually hidden under the full-length robes that most of the musicals and operas she was cast in required her to wear. Her boyfriend Daniel said she had an hourglass figure. He lusted after her naked body, ripe breasts and big, wobbly thighs, and he would kiss them, bite them, part them at every opportunity.

  As Molly waited for her nails to dry, she went through her usual pre-performance ritual, making a conscious effort to think with gratitude about her life thus far. It was a trick her social worker had taught her when she was growing up in the children ‘5 home in Liverpool. Positive thinking. The glass must always be half full, not half empty.

  I’m twenty-three, she thought. I’m in my prime. I’m earning a living doing what I love — singing. It might be small-time at the moment but who knows what plans Fate has waiting down the line? Nobody hung out the bunting when Cilla Black was born but she made the big-time — and how! If she can do it, why not me?

  It was simply a question of willpower and determination, of being in the right place at the right time.

  Molly felt a sense of destiny hovering about her. One day she would be a successful recording artist or a West End star; for now she was honing her craft with a third-rate weekly touring company. She wasn’t proud. Community centres still had stages, and the punters still came to hear singing, even if it was in places as uninviting as Chatham, Port Talbot or Swindon. No matter. Sooner or later, things would change for the better.

  And there was Daniel, a handsome painter and decorator with a sexy Cockney accent. He had helped her to her feet when she’d slipped over in the street on her way to an audition almost a year ago. He picked her up in more ways than one. After a few dates and some rampant, adventurous lovemaking, she had moved in with him. She loved him with all her heart and he loved her too. Professionally and in her personal life everything was hunky-dory.

  ‘Thank you, God,’ she said aloud, her voice still carrying a strong trace of its original Scouse accent. ‘I’m made up. Work, sex, love. Cheers!’

  As if by way of an answer, the Tannoy in her dressing room crackled into life: ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the Midlands Operetta Company, this evening’s performance of The Mikado will begin in five minutes. You have five minutes. Thank you.’

  It was Saturday night, the last performance in glamorous Stevenage. After the show it would be time to pack her things away and move on. Next stop, Northampton.

  Oh, shit! thought Molly, staring at her own wide blue eyes in the mirror. Digs. I’ve forgotten again.

  She scolded herself as she gave her makeup one last check and straightened her thick black wig. She never remembered to arrange her accommodation for the next stop on the tour, and by the time she got round to it, all the best places had been snapped up by other, more organised members of the cast and crew.

  Oh, well, she thought, as she needlessly added a touch more blusher, comforted by the soft cool touch of badger hair. I’ll worry about Northampton tomorrow.

  She said goodbye to her perfect nails, pulled on her pink, elbow-length gloves and headed for the stage.

  Two days later Molly was wheeling her battered, dark-blue suitcase up the pathway of Kit-Kat Cottage in a village called Long Buckby. The theatrical-digs list for Northampton had been dismally short and, because she had left it so late, all the cheap and cheerful rooms near to the theatre were taken. In fact, she had been unable to find anything suitable at all.

  In desperation, she called the Derngate Theatre and spoke to a very helpful stage-doorman called Roger. Once he’d heard that she was about to be reduced to sleeping in her dressing room and washing herself and her smalls in the hand-basin, he’d come up with Kit-Kat Cottage’s phone number. ‘It’s not on our proper listings because it’s so far out most people don’t want to stay there. It’s a bus journey or two into town.’

  ‘I’ve got a car,’ she said quickly. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘I don’t know much about it, if I’m honest. No one from here has stayed there for ages. They’re an elderly couple making some cash out of their spare room, I think, and the old girl had theatrical inclinations once. A bit eccentric. Do you want the details?’

  ‘I’m all ears,’ Molly said, her eye-liner pencil poised over a crumpled envelope.

  So here she was. It was late spring, and either side of the pathway leggy daffodils and grass in need of a trim brushed her ankles. It wasn’t really a cottage at all, she noted, but a prefabricated bungalow, pebble-dashed in the same pea shingle as the path, giving an all-over mottled blond-caramel effect. Either the gravel or the Tarmac underneath it was giving off a curiously restful metallic scent in the afternoon sunshine. She heard a bee buzzing on a nearby rose.

  This is nice, she thought, taking a deep breath of fresh, country air. She had spent all her life in the city where everything was concrete, glass and asphalt, and had only ever peered at green fields from train windows. The closest she’d got to a farmyard animal was doing panto with Jim Davidson a few years ago.

  The path led to a small, pointed porch open to the elements. On either side there were generous bay windows. Both sills, she could see, were crammed with ornaments: ceramic ballerinas, glossy china Siamese cats, even a wax owl-effect candle, all facing outwards to the path. Behind them, shielding any further investigative glimpses into the rooms inside, hung startling cerise-pink lace curtains.

  Hmm. It’s all a bit Blackpool, thought Molly. But if that was the worst that could be said for the place, she was in luck. The relentless weekly searches for somewhere to lay her head had forced her to lower her standards, as far as aesthetics were concerned. She could cope with anything as long as her room was clean and her bed comfortable.

  She rang the bell and heard a cheery ding-dong inside, which made her smile. There followed two low barks and a woman’s voice saying something soothing but unintelligible. A moment later the door swung open, and revealed her landlady, or at least the top of her head. A full crown of henna-red hair greeted Molly. ‘Mrs Delvard?’ she ventured.

  Slowly the scarlet head tilted upwar
ds and a pale, powdered forehead appeared, followed by perfect painted eyebrows, milky green eyes, with matching emerald eye-shadow, a button nose and unnaturally flushed lips. The old lady was wearing a dark-blue, heavily embroidered kimono that had clearly seen better days; the slow raising of the torso, like a geisha girl recovering from a stately bow, was mesmerising.

  ‘Wilkommen!’ she breathed, as soon as she was upright. ‘You must be Molly. Do come in. But, please, do not call me Mrs Delvard. I am Lilia.’

  ‘Thank you, er… Lilia,’ said Molly. From that accent, the old lady was obviously German. She hadn’t noticed it on the phone, but it was only slight, so perhaps that was why. As she stepped into the hallway, she inhaled a strong jasmine scent and noted the old framed theatre posters on the walls and the bunches of dried roses hanging upside-down. It was all strangely familiar. She had met dozens of aged theatrical landladies during her few years of touring. They were often retired from ‘the business’ themselves, and loved nothing more than to reminisce about their glory days. She hoped Lilia was of this ilk, as she enjoyed hearing tales of high jinks and hilarious acting mishaps from productions gone and long forgotten.

  ‘Follow me, please,’ Lilia said, leading Molly down the hall. She had an elegant walk, Molly observed, but with a hint of an arthritic limp. As Molly parked her suitcase, the old lady steadied herself on a chair as she passed it and winced in pain.

  Poor old thing, Molly thought, filled with sympathy. Despite the glamour of her appearance, her joints were obviously weary.

  ‘I expect you are tired after your journey. Sit down, please. I will bring tea,’ said Lilia. Her voice was low-pitched, attractive and lived-in; its owner sounded as though she’d seen a few things in her time.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Molly. ‘That would be lovely, but I don’t want to put you out, love. Would you like me to help you?’

  ‘No, not at all, my dear. It is good for me to move about. I have been sitting here all afternoon lost in an old movie on the television. I am a little stiff, that’s all. I need to come back to reality.’ She gave Molly a warm, sad smile, then left the room slowly and with some effort. Soon there were the sounds of a kettle being filled and crockery being arranged.

  Molly looked about. Despite the bright sunshine outside, the lounge was gloomy and cluttered. It was a small room and the battered, dark-red-chenille three-piece suite was too large for such a modest space. An old-fashioned vanilla-coloured enamel fireplace squatted modestly against the chimney-breast. Above it, an incongruously grand full-length portrait of a beautiful red-haired woman, wearing a sapphire-blue dress, a cigarette holder between her fingers, gazed down at the clutter, framed by ox-blood-red flock wallpaper. A large television sat in the window bay, which was surrounded by dark-pink velvet curtains complete with a scalloped and fringed pelmet. At either side of the chimney-breast there were deep alcoves. The shelves in the one nearest to Molly heaved with a collection of lace fans, ostrich feathers in a crystal vase, photographs of Lilia in her prime and several more recent pictures of the present-day Lilia, hugging a large black-and-tan dog. There were no shelves in the furthest alcove, but instead a wooden upright chair. Molly gave a little cry of surprise when she realised a man was sitting there in the shadows.

  ‘Oh, I—Sorry, love, I didn’t see you there,’ she said, with a nervous laugh. He didn’t respond, didn’t even look at her. She raised her voice and stepped sideways a little so that she was in his field of vision. ‘Hello. I’m Molly.’

  There was still no response. He was a thin, elderly man, completely motionless and, she got the impression, unaware of her presence. It felt too strange to stand there staring at him and saying nothing so after a moment she tried again. ‘I’m going to be staying here for the next week,’ she said, as though she was talking to someone with a hazy grasp of English or a hearing impediment.

  Still he gazed silently into the distance.

  She pressed on: ‘I’m an actress and singer. I’m in a tour of The Mikado — you know, the Gilbert and Sullivan opera. I’m YumYum.’

  He remained oblivious to her. What on earth is wrong with him? she wondered. Without thinking, she opened her mouth and began to sing softly:

  ‘Ah, pray make no mistake,

  We are not shy,

  We’re very wide awake,

  The moon and I.’

  She stopped, and although the man didn’t say a word, he turned his head slowly in her direction. His sad, watery eyes looked beyond her into eternity.

  ‘Poor love,’ said Molly quietly. She sat down on one of the armchairs and the two of them waited in companionable silence.

  A moment later Lilia carried a tea tray gingerly into the room. As well as a pot, cups, milk and sugar, there was also a huge fruit cake and the old lady tottered slightly under the weight of it all.

  Molly leapt to her feet. ‘Here, Lilia, let me help you.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear. So kind.’ Lilia handed her the tray with a smile and lowered herself into a chair with a heavy sigh. ‘That’s better.’

  Molly placed the tray on the table and hovered uncomfortably. ‘Shall I pour?’ she asked.

  ‘Please do,’ Lilia said quietly. ‘I’ll have mine white with no sugar.’

  Molly poured the first cup, noting that there were only two cups and saucers, and two plates and forks. ‘Nothing for ?‘ She indicated the silent figure in the alcove.

  ‘Oh, goodness, no!’ said Lilia, with a chuckle. ‘My husband, Joey, by the way. I tried putting tea and cake in the food-processor for him once, but he wasn’t interested. He only seems to like those little tins of baby food and purées of steak and kidney pudding or the Bombay Palace Special.’

  No further explanation of Joey and his catatonic state was forthcoming, so Molly finished pouring the tea and slicing the cake, then handed Lilia her cup and plate before sitting down herself.

  ‘So,’ said Lilia, briskly, as if only now could she get down to the business side of things, ‘I would like to welcome you to Kit-Kat Cottage. I hope you will enjoy your stay here. Your front-door key is there, on the table. Breakfast is included in your tariff and you are welcome to share my meals for a small extra charge, or provide your own food and use the kitchen. Just let me know what you’d like to do. I used to charge for the phone as well but you youngsters all have mobiles now so there’s no point. You can come and go as you please, and there’s a television and radio in your room. I do not go to bed early so don’t worry about disturbing me when you come in late at night. I will make you some cocoa, if you like, or perhaps a small brandy would be good for your throat. I used to sing myself— not opera, like you — but I found a drink afterwards, brandy or schnapps, very acceptable.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s really kind of you,’ said Molly, pleased. She’d been in places with far meaner attitudes and more restrictive rules than this. A cosy brandy at the end of a long show sounded just right. ‘And while I think of it…‘ she reached into her pocket for a crumpled envelope ‘… here’s my rent. Eighty pounds for the week, as we discussed on the phone.’

  ‘Gratefully received!’ said Lilia, accepting the envelope and slipping it into her kimono. ‘There is plenty of hot water, have all the baths you want. I bathe my husband in the evenings, after Coronation Street. It is a rather tortuous process involving winches and so on, and can take up to an hour. Such a bother! But it has to be done at least once every two days or he starts to smell of Parmesan cheese. I don’t know why old men should smell so much but they do.’ She shrugged. ‘Another of life’s mysteries. Old ladies, as everyone knows, smell pleasantly of lavender and biscuits.’

  ‘It must be very hard for you,’ Molly said, grateful that she would be out at the theatre at that particular time. ‘And is your husband … ?‘ she ventured, not sure how to ask what Joey’s complaint was.

  ‘He had a stroke, the doctors say, two years ago. He’s been like this ever since. That’s why I call him Joey. It’s a bit like having a budgerigar in the room. Hi
s real name is Michael.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ Molly couldn’t decide if naming your husband after a budgie was an act of cruelty or simple desperation. Was Lilia unkind or just trying to make light of a sad situation?

  ‘Of course, you do not wish for life to turn out this way but marriage is, as they say, for better or worse. I just get on with it. It is not easy at my age, but there it is.’ Lilia gave another world-weary smile.

  Molly felt a wave of sympathy for her. ‘You’re doing a fine job. It must be difficult.’

  ‘I married Michael in the seventies. There is our wedding picture, up on the shelf. You can see for yourself we were a gorgeous, glamorous couple. I was a star then, and he was my partner, my manager, my lover and my friend. But he’s Joey now,’ said Lilia, her voice quivering. ‘I had to separate the two. Michael was a fascinating man: erudite, smart, inspiring. And Joey? Silent, staring… incontinent. Locked in his own head. Michael would have hated such a fate.’

  Lilia gazed fondly at her husband, who continued to stare, motionless, into space. Molly shifted awkwardly, wondering how to fill the silence. She placed her empty cup and saucer on top of the plate, put them back on the tray, and said brightly, ‘That was lovely, Lilia, thank you.’ By way of concluding things, she wiped the corners of her mouth with her middle finger and smiled.

  ‘I will show you your room now,’ said Lilia, tipping her teacup to slurp out the last drops.

  ‘Okay, then,’ Molly said, relieved. She was keen to get settled in and have some time to herself. She needed to phone Daniel and let him know she’d arrived safely, and Simon would be waiting to hear from her too. It was her custom to ring him on the first night in new lodgings and tell him what they were like. He loved hearing about her landladies, the more eccentric the better. Lilia would be right up his street. ‘Now, I’d better—’