‘Really.’ Derek stokes in a forkful of risotto with a studied lack of grace. ‘We don’t.’
Absolutely inexcusable.
Bunny was enjoying a little slice of cake, something pistachio and ornate, but now she doesn’t touch it and only studies her hands and is too quickly too frail and Francis is on his feet and patently disgusted, breathless with it, incredulous.
Taking his hand, Beth stands with him. ‘I need some dessert. Francis, we’ll search for dessert.’ She leans into his shoulder. ‘Could we. Please.’
Francis unwilling to move, his hands getting angry and considering bad things – Beth can feel when his forearms twitch.
Bunny takes a breath, steadies and then tilts her face up to her husband’s. ‘And a cup of tea, darling. I’m dry. If you wouldn’t mind.’ She gives him a tiny shake of her head, ‘Go on.’ Which allows him to exhale and hook his arm in Beth’s.
As they step away Beth hears Derek add, too loud, ‘And a cup for me.’ And she has to work hard to keep Francis with her. He is trembling.
They make it as far as the tea urns before he dodges to stand in front of her, holds her quickly by both shoulders and then releases her, abashed. ‘Look, I know he’s your—’
‘He’s not.’
‘He’s . . . ?’
‘Derek – he’s not my anything. He was but he isn’t and I haven’t been able to tell him and I thought he would do, be all right . . . I thought he would be a safer, a saner . . . There’s another . . . There is a man and Derek isn’t him.’
‘Well, thank fuck for that, love – because he’s a tosser. Sorry, but really – what a fucking arse.’ Francis blinking and checking her, wary. He winces out a minute smile when she doesn’t seem upset. ‘But . . . you know that.’ Shakes his head, smiling more, glancing back at Bunny, watchful. ‘Sorry. Of course you do. You’re, from what I know, extremely bright and attractive and . . . I’m sorry, it’s none of my business, but I do get tired of seeing fantastic women with appalling men. It’s like some form of blood sacrifice, self-harm. I can’t be doing with it. Not that I’m any great catch or one to talk, but . . .’ And his fingers remember their previous intentions, tighten momentarily.
‘I wish it was your business, Francis – you’d have made it all . . . neater, or . . . And I’m so sorry he hurt Bunny’s feelings. I should never have brought him anywhere near her – or you – I was guessing I could manage him if you were around – and I am, I’m really sorry. And you can punch him if you want.’
Francis factual, ‘I do want.’ And keen.
‘I know you want.’
‘I wasn’t always a gentleman – it has grown on me over time, like moss. He is, in point of fact, lucky I do not punch ’is fuckin’ ’ead in. As it were. Ask Bunny.’ Enjoying his accent, a gleam of who he could still be.
Can imagine him – sharp and handy and Bunny fancying this dangerous young man. Not too scary, just right.
‘I will ask her. When we’re alone. And I—’
He grips her shoulders again, this time slightly fierce. ‘Look, this isn’t the time and I truly do not normally take advantage of being incredibly ancient to give advice. Nobody ever wants it, for a start – of course they don’t: it’s advice. But I have kids your age . . . No, I don’t . . .’ He’s rueful for a beat. ‘I was waiting for you to contradict me there. My sons are in their twenties. Nice boys. And I wouldn’t let them anywhere near you, you’d break them in half.’ Another beat so that he can smile if Beth does, which she does. ‘No offence – in fact, I mean it as a compliment. But – back to the previous topic – if I’d had a daughter . . . you can say this kind of thing when you’re 180 . . .’ But he can’t phrase this kind of thing in a way that suits him. ‘Oh, sod it. You and that doesn’t work.’ He cocks his head towards Derek, as if he wants him taken away. ‘You and whoever else seems to be excruciating, but at least you care . . . Obviously care . . . So maybe that would work. If he’s whoever made you look the way you look today.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This evening something is not the way it was with you – and it’s the sort of difference that’s . . . This is a being 180 thing again – seen it all . . . Almost all . . . Some of it . . . That is . . . In the words of the immortal Jimi – Have you ever been experienced? Well, I have.’
‘He likes Jimi. The other—’
‘The other chap. I know. It wouldn’t be Derek. And the liking of Mr Hendrix is in the other chap’s favour, of course . . . Not that we’re necessarily discussing quite the same experience as Jimi’s . . . Then again, it’s all intoxication isn’t it? Eventually . . .’ But he’d prefer to be with Bunny – she’s upset and he has been brave for her and will again – will have to be much braver – and he would like to be more helpful for Beth, but Bunny is Bunny and is everything. So he’s brief: ‘Give it a go.’ And then regrets it slightly. ‘See if you’re kind to each other. Try it. Maybe. It won’t kill you.’ And he shows her his face, his unarmed, unprepared face – ‘Lots of other things will. For sure.’ He gives her that, then fusses at his collar, brushes his shoulders free of invisible lint, retires into being jovial for her – and then stern. ‘Right . . .’ The voice of a father with sons. ‘The tosser. I need a word with him.’
‘No, but—’
He won’t actually punch him, though, will he?
Francis marching, bearing down and – despite a manifestly absorbing attack on a bowl of Thai green curry – Derek glances, falters, is dismayed and Francis tells him – carefully – ‘You are not going to eat any more. You are going to escort Elizabeth to the theatre. Don’t act as if you’ve never heard of it. You’re going to escort her courteously to the theatre and not take out how thoroughly disappointed you will soon feel with yourself on her or anyone else – you will not bother any of the staff.’ Derek’s head low and Francis maintaining his tone while his eyes look wicked and happy at Bunny and at Beth and he lies, ‘I’ve been in the service, I’ve seen your type.’ For a breath, he is joyful with how unlikely this is and then pointed, sober. ‘You will watch the show. That’s what a gentleman does with a lady. You escort her.’
Derek flounders his gaze up. He can’t work Francis out, doesn’t know who would actually win in a proper fight, because Francis is beginning to look quite useful and threatening and it would be just all upside-down to be beaten by an old man. Mainly Derek’s face is turning scared, but he’s also trying to present himself as polite, unwilling to contradict a senior citizen, ‘I don’t, I—’
That was a bleat – definitely an unmanly sound.
I shouldn’t be enjoying this.
I am, though.
Derek blinks. He is being humiliated.
But he hasn’t a clue how much, how deeply and that’s the part I’m not enjoying.
And Francis is right: the only place tenable for us will be the theatre. Where Derek can be diluted, where our position can be diluted, by an audience.
Francis is insistent – like an elegant cosh. ‘You don’t what? You don’t know what the show is? I don’t care if you don’t know what the show is. Whatever it is, it will be a delight. And, on your way, you can reflect repeatedly on your good fortune and continuing health.’
Derek puzzles at the silence.
Then, ‘Off you go.’ And for a moment Francis puts his arm around Beth’s waist – warm, light – kisses the top of her head. ‘Starts at 8.30. Don’t want to be late – it’ll help you both to get a good night’s sleep.’
And for saying this Beth could kiss him – so she does and this time she can’t avoid it feeling like goodbye.
Kiss him with a lover’s mouth. Francis also understands about love.
And then she kisses Bunny, ‘You have a top-quality husband there.’
Bunny who smells of Chanel and powder and constant moderate pain: ‘He’s not bad. But I can’t tell him that – he’s
unbearable as it is and in a funny mood at present.’
They conduct their conversation as if Derek has already gone and he soon does bump away from the table, heads out, fast and ungainly, between the other diners and then loiters at the far door.
‘I am not in a funny mood.’
‘He always says that when he’s in a funny mood.’
‘And you always say that.’ Francis sitting down beside his wife, attentively snug beside her and slightly pleased with his recent performance, excited, and Beth leaves them being themselves only mildly louder for her benefit and thinks that when she’s gone they’ll drink their tea and maybe have an early night and continue from there.
Derek escorts her so effectively to the theatre that they arrive fifteen minutes early.
Actually, he didn’t escort me – pacing a foot ahead of me in a morbid sulk isn’t escorting.
I should tell him – then he could go, or I could go. Put us both out of my misery. Let us get away, each to our own.
But I’m a coward.
After the show. I’ll do it then.
After the wait for the show and then the show.
I promise.
We can manage the wait – quiet wait. Quiet as staring numbly in a resentment-filled lift while Gordon from Nuneaton (with wife) and Ted from the Channel Islands – he doesn’t say which island, or maybe he lives on several – I know a man who lives on a single specific Channel Island, who talks about it – so this Gordon (with wife) and Ted (without wife) – Ted’s wife having an early night: he says it gives his ears a rest and we all smile at this, complicit in its minor hatefulness – all of us smile, that is, except Derek, who has troubles of his own, which I will add to and that’s why I despise them and myself.
Despising is as good as anything, though – it’s an adequate diversion.
So Gordon and Ted discuss their knee operations – and then, the lift finally letting us go, precede us into the auditorium while I ponder – as they have at great length – the benefits and drawbacks of keyhole, as opposed to open-cast, orthopaedic surgery and yet find myself truly more interested in whether Gordon’s silent but deep-eyed wife will one day strangle him with a pair of pastel golfing slacks – he needed the plastic knee to continue his golf – or whether perhaps she’ll swap murders with Mrs Ted, disguise herself as a hooker who looks like his mum – his preferences would undoubtedly lie that way – and then bugger him to death with some large unbuttered vegetable while he’s strapped to his own kitchen table.
I don’t mean that.
They were all right.
Probably.
Even Ted – sexually frightened and too old for his current persona, Ted. He thinks his world isn’t working because fox-hunting scenes have been banned from Christmas cards by socialists and Muslims and the UN. This, when the Prince of Peace’s tender birth, his virgin mother’s baptismal kiss, the harmoniously crowded manger, should obviously always be commemorated by drawings of borderline Nazis and admirers of Pinochet galloping out across farmland they no longer own to prove a point before watching dogs rip an almost-dog to pieces – or a cat, or some other equally tasty domestic pet.
Christ, I don’t want to be like this.
Or here – waiting for a magician.
Naturally.
Beth is almost relieved she has ended up having to watch ‘Not to be missed, the personality and magic of Matt Mitchell’.
And I have to be grateful for him because he’ll keep Derek out of the cabin and awake – until the heavy meal and the scopolamine kick in.
I hope.
Francis hoped.
When Francis ought to be saving his optimism for better things.
The house lights dim and then go out, but mean nothing melancholy by it.
If Derek’s sleepy, docile, then we can be civilised.
Or, putting it more frankly, I would like him to be temporarily disabled, because this will work to my advantage when I admit what I have to and should have long ago and everything becomes my fault.
A swirl of portentous music clambers up to the balconies and then washes back.
And here’s the lovely Matt.
Matt is vaguely tubby, something failed in the line of his shoulders.
It seems he hasn’t brought his personality with him tonight. I wonder if he’s got his magic . . .
Arthur said I was merciless.
Matt begins his routine, manipulates his velvet-draped props and scuffles limply round his strangely proportioned tables, as the stage creaks and heaves.
Black suit, orange waistcoat – I’ll bet he’s wearing, yeah, the orange socks to match . . . and the ladies and gentlemen adore him – and they adore his newspaper which he will now tear up and restore and then, I suspect, form into a tube and fill miraculously with milk.
This truly is the 1970s – ’74, or ’76.
And we’re all at a sodding birthday party.
Dad, he’d have rocked the place. He had proper patter and style and he could do it – genuinely prestidigitate – I thought that word was so magnificent – he’d throw in an extra pickpocketing, or a levitation, or move that card to where it couldn’t be, because you were sure it couldn’t be, because you’d looked, you’d concentrated, you’d expected to be fooled and you’d been careful, but there it is: inside the card box you’d covered with your hand for all that time, for surely every minute – you wouldn’t be confused about such a simple thing, or about when a trick is started and when it stops.
He would make you amazed.
Yes, he did the kids’ stuff mostly, but when he performed for adults – only once in any evening – he’d shake them. He’d move their thinking; not far, but he’d move it. I saw.
And the milk is poured into the newspaper and – goodness – now it’s gone.
How absolutely fucking amazing.
If I could make anything I wanted to appear, if I could take the broken and the ripped to pieces and make them whole and show the multitudes that here is a genuine, absolute miracle –– would I waste my gifts on newspaper and milk?
And here come the scissors and the bit of dodgy rope.
This is purgatory and I deserve it.
He didn’t like Arthur, my dad – and I wanted him to: two men with beautiful voices, strange interests, they should have negotiated an understanding.
Very clear that they wouldn’t – how could a dog like an almost-dog? And both of them thinking the other is only the almost-dog.
But I was being optimistic and introduced them.
Mum was making an effort: first meeting and I’ve said Arthur’s important and I’ve never brought a bloke here before and me and him, we’re braced for dinner – the finally we have to do this and just bite the bullet, catch it in our teeth, which is a dangerous trick and can kill you dinner – and she’d got the house pristine and there were fresh flowers and candles and she was treating Arthur like a blacksuitman, a member of the tribe, one that she’d accidentally missed and should know better and that’s as friendly as it gets. She made him eat too much dip – he hates dip, but he was also beyond his own skin with the effort of being the gentleman they’d favour: swallowing down this pinky goo and wearing a tie and a suit – blue suit – and taking her hand and kissing it. Dad leaning beside me but not speaking, a palpable shiver in the air around him indicating his need to be sitting in a Mississippi rocking chair, set out on a broiling porch with a shotgun on his knees and ready loaded.
Which was only the usual fatherly feelings and I think we were aware of that and managing. Dad cared. He was supposed to. He was expecting – just quietly, not getting ridiculously demanding – a presentable wedding with tail coats and hats and photos and his wife in enjoyable tears and then kids and more photos.
Only none of us could make a magic to manage that.
We were sitting down to ea
t – Mum and Dad and me and Arthur – a cheery four. She’d laid out the posh Christmas place settings, only minus the berries and tinsel and we were not without tension, but working on it. Arthur and I were working, concentrating out into the room harder than we’d thought we could – trying to harmonise with Mum and Dad and each other and to calm things, trying to help. And, on the other hand, it did not help that Arthur was teetotal. He had decided he needed an ultra-clear head always, so no additives or fixes. The teetotal phase came after the gloves. Dad viewed teetotal as peculiar. Christ knows what he’d have said about the gloves.
And early on, the evening still stiff and early on, before we were done with the home-made beef broth, Dad asking him, ‘And what do you do, Arthur?’
And Arthur told him the truth.
When he could have said anything and been believed.
Matt shows his audience rope in pieces, rope complete, rope knotted, rope pulled through the neck of a small and unharmed boy.
Tricks for a grandson – Dad was born for that.
The current magician laughing with his audience – an inward, piggy snort of laughter. He’s filling his hands with sponge balls – dear God, sponge balls, not even billiard balls – a wilderness of sponge balls and he’s snorting and shuffling his feet.
He is terrible.
Which is why they love him, why they will clap when he pushes that long needle through that big balloon – which, to be fair, is moderately tricky when the ship’s moving this much.
So tricky that he bursts the balloon.
Well, that’s fine, though – try again. The audience can wait.
And again.
There are two reasons for watching performances of any kind. They are both human and understandable reasons.
We can come out and see people, members of our own species, excel themselves, transcend expectations, burn in their work. And clearly these performers are bigger and finer and more amazing than we can be, but this is a good thing, this is wonderful, a gift – and maybe they have reached a place where we can go, are the truth of ourselves revealed. Maybe we have in us an equivalent light. They are people and we are people and when we stand up and applaud them, discover that we are standing, have been drawn up by this wonder they’ve provided, then we are applauding something of which we’re a part – we have humility and pride both avid in us and are delighted. We let them heat us into being slightly someone else.
The Blue Book Page 26