“Look here, you stupid, stupid woman, these people want to take part! Can’t you see it?” he says to Jane. Jane gasps at him. But she leaves the podium.
“I had to be uncompromising to her,” he will explain later to Tracey.
Anyway, even if he had been paying attention to the small troupe of dancers from The Prep who were at that precise moment, shivering in their leotards behind the sheet, it would have been no good.
The large man who seemed to be the leader of the group has risen to his feet.
“Yeah, we’ve got stuff. We’ve got talent too, you know. Come on, Kylie,” he says, grasping the hand of a small girl dressed entirely in white.
Jane rolls her eyes theatrically.
“It’s hopeless,” she says sadly to Patrick, flopping down into her chair. She is furious at the way Alan Makin has talked to her, and a tiny bit ashamed. She should have invited those dreadful people, but she just couldn’t bear to. “It’s hopeless.”
She thinks about George and his piano piece with a sort of low level horror. Several women near her turn and smile sympathetically. Most, however, are loving the excitement and the combined frisson of jeopardy, class war and a possible fight.
“Most exciting thing that’s happened here for about a decade,” says Larry, to no-one in particular.
Kylie, a small child with furiously braided hair and a lot of blue eyeliner, takes the microphone.
“Mah baybeee luurves me!” she sings, both in key and a perfect mid Atlantic accent, into the microphone. “He lurrves me true!”
“Is this appropriate for a prepubescent child?!” sniffs Jane to Patrick, who is grinning and sitting forward in his chair.
“This is marvellous,” whispers Patrick back to her.
“Have you gone mad?” she says.
Kylie comes to the end of her piece. Her compatriots all stand up and cheer her madly. Brenda is grinning and waving at her.
“Well done babe!” she shouts.
“Thank you Kylie,” says Alan Makin grandly. “That was excellent.”
He gestures to the dancers. “And now, from The Prep, a piece of modern dance.”
Twelve girls in bare feet and lime-coloured leotards, each bearing wispy pieces of net, launch themselves out from behind the sheet to some music by Béla Bartók.
The middle class residents of the Square all sit watching the display and nodding their heads encouragingly. They would like to tap their feet, but the music doesn’t seem to have any reasonable sense of beat, so they just sit there, smiling and nodding.
After this, several non-problematic pieces are rolled out. A child does a bit of unconvincing magic; Grace sings a Robbie Williams standard, with recorded backing. Another person from the council estate group gets up and sings ‘When I Need You’, by Leo Sayer. The Single Mother shows how her dog, a large and friendly Labrador, can walk on its back legs. Everyone laughs.
Kylie’s father and some of his friends start smoking.
To Jane’s astonishment, the vicar takes one off him.
“May I?” says the vicar, reaching for a Benson & Hedges.
“Gwan then Rev,” says Kylie’s father genially. “Have a Bennie.”
Jane hears a commotion behind her, turns, and opens her mouth. No sound comes out of it.
The figures of Philip Burrell and Gilda are slowly walking up the path, accompanied by Jas, who is waving at Alan Makin.
“I think we have a last minute entry,” says Alan, who is enjoying himself hugely by now.
Jas detatches himself from Philip and Gilda, and walks up to Alan. He whispers in his ear.
The audience is transfixed by the figures of Philip, who is wearing a white boiler suit imprinted with the outline of a naked man, and Gilda, who is in her long gown with a train, caked in beads, sequins and glitter. On her head is a small crown.
Alan coughs.
“I would now like to introduce tonight’s surprise guests, our resident artists, Philip Burrell and Gilda.”
“Piss artists!” someone shouts from the audience.
“Sssh,” hisses someone else.
“Gilda is going to sing ‘It Don’t Mean A Thing If It Ain’t Got That Swing’,” says Alan Makin, somewhat incredulously.
Belle ducks her head down and giggles. What happened to the Russian folk, she thinks.
“Which, as everyone probably knows, is by Irving Mills. Music by Duke Ellington and… er, Philip Burrell.”
He hands Gilda the microphone. She takes it in a jewelled hand and coughs loudly.
Philip, in the meantime, gets out his harmonica.
“No,” whispers Jane, shaking her head. “No, no. Please no.”
Patrick is enjoying himself hugely.
“Is this the sex-mad couple? I have to say, they certainly look as if they have talent. This is totally fucking brilliant.”
Foot tapping, Philip Burrell starts to play.
“What good is me-lo-dy,” starts Gilda, a mite huskily. “What good is mu-sic… if it ain’t po-ses-sin’ something sweet?”
Philip attacks the harmonica with gusto. Amazingly, he manages to hit the correct notes.
“It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing,” croons Gilda, swaying in her beaded carapace.
“Doo wha doowha, doowah, doowha… ”
The audience starts laughing, then clapping.
“That’s more like it,” shouts one of the men with the dogs, who, it turns out, is Jas’ uncle. Jas smiles, relaxes, gives a thumbs-up to Belle.
“Fucking hell!” says Larry to Tracey. “They’re not bad.”
The presence of Philip and Gilda, who lack allegiances both with the residents of the Square and the outsiders from the estate, seems to provide something which everyone can enjoy.
Gilda comes to her final, triumphant ‘Doowah’. Philip gives a trill on the harmonica. Everyone applauds, loudly.
Gilda bows deeply from the waist, throwing her head forward. Her crown bounces off her head, but Jas is there, gallantly picking it up and giving it to her once she regains her vertical position, somewhat dizzily.
She takes Philip’s arm, waves to her audience, walks regally with her lover back down the path and out of the park.
“Thank you, er, Gilda and Philip,” says Alan Makin faintly.
There is a commotion on the podium. What next, thinks Jane.
She doesn’t know if she can take many more surprises.
It’s Larry, setting up the projector. Oh, God. George. She has forgotten about her own son’s performance. He is there, walking solemnly beside Roberta through the park, spectral in his Storm Trooper uniform.
“And now,” says Alan Makin.
“In the spirit of George Lucas, I bring you the Square’s very own George.”
How could she have forgotten about him, thinks Jane. Thank God for Roberta. George marches up the aisle between the chairs in his outfit. He bears his gun aloft. He has his helmet jammed down over his head.
Jane’s friends clap softly.
“I fear the worst,” says Jane.
“Nah,” says Patrick. “He’ll be fine.”
As soon as he reaches the dais and clambers awkwardly on it, he turns around.
“May the force be with you,” a muffled voice comes out from under the helmet. The residents of the Square clap in a patronising manner.
However, Kylie’s father and friends go mad with enthusiastic cheering.
“Oh what the fuck!” shouts Jacky.
“Whoop whoop!” shouts the person who had shouted the same thing earlier.
George removes his helmet, which has the effect of making his hair rise above his head in a crested tuft. He sits down at the keyboard.
He looks over at Larry. Larry raises his hand in a salute, and starts the projector.
By now, it is dark enough for the images to show up clearly on the sheet.
He starts to play.
Behind the sheet, Anya and Roberta are hugging each other and clenching their fist
s, willing for him to get through the piece without a major disaster.
As soon as he begins the familiar tune, everyone cheers loudly.
Darth Vader, in Lego, is there, flying above George’s solar system curtains and wielding his lightsabre. The Death Star appears, and rather oddly, vanishes. A small Lego milk float appears for a brief moment, replaced by a hand bearing the Millennium Falcon which does a few circuits of the curtain/ galactic backdrop. Everyone cheers even more, then whistles and boos as General Grievous’ own personal ship appears above it.
Larry turns to Tracey.
“This is clearly full of meaning for the child. Meanwhile I have not got the faintest idea what is going on.”
Tracey puts a hand fondly on his knee. “Just enjoy it,” she says.
The music comes to a short, assertive climax.
“My idea,” whispers Roberta to Anya. “Short and sweet.”
Darth Vader swoops once more across the screen, followed by a train of other figurines from the movie. Chewbacca, Han Solo, Princess Leia and after a pause, Yoda.
George triumphantly finishes the piece. His small hands play the final chord.
He stands, puts his helmet back on, regrasps his gun, and bows low.
The audience are all on their feet, cheering loudly.
“Fucking masterstroke,” says Patrick, running to the front. He leaps onto the dais, embraces George, who stands stiffly to attention.
“Well done old sport,” he whispers in his ear.
“Dad! You are so embarrassing!”
“Well done lad,” says Patrick, taking no notice of his son’s attempt to push him away. “Erasing the class war with Star Wars. Bloody brilliant.”
George acknowledges this mysterious motto with a nod, jumps off the dais, walks down through the cheering audience. Roberta skips round the sheet, grabs the music from the keyboard and follows him away and out of the park.
“Encore! Encore!” shouts the crowd to George’s retreating back.
Patrick finds himself still upon the dais with Alan Makin.
“Back off,” whispers Alan. “I need to wrap this up.”
Humbled, Patrick walks around the sheet where he finds Anya, laughing.
“Your son is marvellous,” she tells him.
Emboldened by this, he enfolds her in his arms and kisses her, properly this time.
“And now,” says Alan Makin. “That is the end of our fundraising Talent Show. Thank you, all of you, for coming. I really mean it. I will be here for a short while,” he says, nodding to his fan base, “to sign autographs. I have also brought copies of my latest book, so if any of you are keen… it’s quite a good read, I think.”
Behind the sheet, Patrick and Anya are clenched together. He decides to venture towards unclipping her bra.
“That man Alan Makin has no shame,” pouts Jane to Harriet.
“Where is Patrick?” she says, to nobody in particular.
Patrick’s whereabouts are soon made very public. As Alan steps off the dais to sell books to his fan base, Larry, mindful of the fact he must not forget to take back the bedsheet, leaps onto it.
Without any warning, he unties the rope holding the sheet in place. The sheet falls to the ground, revealing to the entire audience the sight of Patrick wildly kissing Anya. The only noise in the Square is a few seconds later, when people start wildly reaching, scrabbling for their phones in order to capture the moment.
“Not only that,” as Belle, still gasping with excitement, later tells Roberta, “but he had his hand right up her shirt!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine Tracey
In the Square, banks of irises are nodding gracefully, their violet sheen offsetting the sward of emerald grass behind them. A flamingo willow provides splashes of creamy ivory. Scarlet roses stud the earthy beds. The park keeper bends down, picks up the last remaining empty crisp packet, surveys the flattened grass, straightens his shoulders.
The chairs were all taken away early that morning by a van from Rayners. The small podium had also been removed. In short, there is nothing left standing of the Talent Show in the Square.
In Jane’s room, the curtains are still closed. Jane is still in bed.
“And I may remain here all day,” she shouts towards the door, a half sob catching in her throat.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” asks Patrick gently.
“Fuck you.”
After a while, Patrick calls George down for breakfast. They begin to eat Weetabix together. A spirit of male cameraderie is palpable in the room. This has been largely brought on by Jane’s refusal to talk to anyone since last night. Having run back to the house in a fit of hysterical sobbing, she is now disdainfully ignoring all living creatures in it.
The impact of the end of the Talent Show on the Square has been significant. In response, a respectful community silence has been draped over Jane and Patrick’s house. Nobody has dared to call, ring or email. This has been a group, yet somewhat unconscious, decision. The other way of looking at it is that nobody dares.
“Alright, old sport?” says Patrick, to George. “Any, er, plans?”
The boy nods brightly.
“Yes. I am going to take apart General Grievous’ ship today and rebuild it.”
“Ah,” says Patrick knowledgeably. “General Grievous. Good name. Is he a Jedi?”
“No,” says George.
“Isn’t he linked to… Yoda?” offers Patrick, hoping to impress the child with another name from the film.
“No,” says George happily. “But Yoda IS a Jedi, at least.”
“Oh. Well, it’s Sunday, isn’t it? Nice to have a day full of nothing. Do you have any prep, sport?”
“No,” says George.
Patrick, at a loss for other avenues into George’s diary, gives up the attempt at conversation, and resorts to the Daily Mail. He whistles a little. He feels the brooding presence of his wife dripping through the house like malicious oil.
Over at Larry and Tracey’s house, there is a similar hush, although Larry persists on breaking it. Essentially he is far too amused to stop talking about it all.
“It was just that the timing was so perfect,” he says again, to break a conversational lull. “Couldn’t have been better if it was on stage. Which, in a way, it was. Masterful.”
“Dad,” says Belle wearily. “We know you think the timing was perfect. You keep telling us that it was. It may have been perfect for YOU. It was not perfect for most of the other people concerned, frankly.”
“Just the way that they didn’t actually realise the curtain had fallen down, for a good few crucial seconds,” he chortles.
“That was the killer. Good old Patrick. Tongue right down her throat! Hand up her wotsit.”
“Dad!” says Belle, desperately. “Will you kindly shut UP. The way you go on about it, it’s weird.”
“Shut up everyone,” hisses Grace. “Here comes Anya.”
“Morning,” says Anya, coming into the kitchen.
“Morning,” the girls chime in unison.
“Good morning Anya,” says Larry, beaming as if his face is about to be bisected.
“How are we feeling today?”
“Fine,” says Anya neutrally.
“Did we enjoy the event last night?”
“Yes, it was good,” says Anya. She is not going to rise to this.
After she and Patrick had been so dramatically revealed by the dropping curtain, she had turned, picked up her bag, unplugged the keyboard and shouldered it. Then she had left the dais, carrying the keyboard. It was such a long piece of equipment that nobody could see her face or, more importantly, catch her eye.
She had simply walked back to Tracey and Larry’s house, carrying the equipment. Then she had not come out of the house again.
The phone rings.
“Who can that be?” says Belle. “Nobody ever uses the landline. Hope Grannie is okay.”
“It’s probably some electricity salesman,” observes Larry, barrelling ov
er. He picks up the reciever.
“Hello,” says a commanding voice. “Have you fired her yet?”
“Ah, good morning Jane,” says Larry, signalling furiously for the girls and Anya to leave the kitchen, or at least, stop talking. Anya melts away.
Grace and Belle turn into one giant ear.
“What was that?” asks Larry, although he has heard her perfectly.
“I asked if you have you fired her yet. Have you fired her… your… au pair?”
She cannot name her. She spits the offensive word out.
“Jane, Jane,” says Larry in what he hopes is a placatory tone.
“Don’t Jane Jane me,” retorts his neighbour icily. “Have you fired her yet?”
Larry takes a deep breath. “No. And I don’t intend to.”
There is a dreadful silence on the other end of the line.
“It’s a free world and she is a grown woman. I’ll take a look if you like, but I don’t recall anything in her contract which says she must not kiss her neighbour… deeply,” he adds, mischeviously.
There is more silence on the line.
“Well thank you very much,” says Jane, eventually. “I am so grateful for your neighbourly support. How on earth do you think I can carry on in the Square, holding my head up when everyone has seen your… bloody au pair, of all people, snogging my husband? Have you thought about that?”
“I’m sure everyone has forgotten it already,” lies Larry. “Give it a week, Jane. Jane? Damn.”
He replaces the reciever in its cradle and wanders to the kitchen door.
“Tracey, do come down here,” he shouts.
“You should know that Jane has just called. She probably wanted you, but she got me instead. Then she slammed the phone down on me. She is in a frightful bait.”
He turns back into the kitchen, smiles at his daughters.
“This is the most excitement I can remember having since we won you know what. Marvellous stuff.”
Tracey appears in the doorway, humming happily.
“What? Do you know, I’ve just been counting the money we took last night, Larry. Lucky I was still at the door when all the… fracas happened, otherwise who knows what would happen to the cash box. Jane just abandoned it, you know. Rushed off! Anyway, we’ve made nearly a grand, that’s good isn’t it?”
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