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Mr Toppit

Page 25

by Charles Elton


  There was Angie, who Erica described dismissively as “the cat person.” She came over to groom BJ and Marty. She was English, doing cat stuff and trying to be an actress. I used to flee whenever she came because she was such a big fan of the books. The first time I’d met her, she’d got me to autograph a set of paperbacks, then forced Lupe to take some photos of me and her with BJ and Marty on our laps.

  Kevin was Laurie’s wardrobe supervisor. Laurie always seemed to dress in black so I didn’t know why she needed anyone to help her, but I suppose if you were on television in America it was the equivalent to being in the Royal Family. You couldn’t wear the same thing twice, even though it looked like the same thing. People who watched the show regularly could probably tell.

  Then there were the program people. On Fridays, about fifteen of them turned up at the house for an all-day meeting—that was when the driveway got really chaotic—to plan forthcoming shows. It was obviously really popular: on Sunset Boulevard, I saw a giant poster with Laurie’s face, heavily retouched, staring down. She was now so well known that she didn’t even need a name: the caption simply said, “She’s the One!”

  Everyone had their job, and they didn’t intrude much in the life of the house. The exception was Rick Whitcomb, who was Laurie’s Manager. He intruded all the time, along with his wife, Jerrilee, and their daughter, Merry. The first time I met them was at supper—what Laurie called her “Friday Family Night,” even though none of us were her family. Travis and I had got back from the beach, and found Rick in the kitchen telling Consuela not to put so much mayonnaise in the chicken salad. Then as the pool boys were leaving, Rick shouted angrily out of the window, “Too much chlorine in the pool today, Jesus! I’m smelling like a pharmacy.” I supposed that being her Manager meant that he felt he had to manage everything.

  When we went to the table He put himself at the head and opened the wine while Jerrilee liaised with Consuela and Lupe over serving the food. I’d never been in a house where grace was said before a meal—we certainly never did it at home. I was already sitting down before I heard Rick give a little cough and realized they were all still on their feet.

  “Thank you, Luke. Erica, perhaps you would like to say grace,” he said. They looked very solemn.

  Erica cleared her throat and put her hands together. “Thank you for the bright sun we received today and the warm rain we received last night. Thank you for the opportunity to be together under your watchful care and for bringing the gift of Luke to us. Creator, Earth Mother, we thank you for our lives and this beautiful day.” Everyone turned towards me and clapped. Laurie leaned over and kissed my cheek.

  Travis said dreamily, “Did it rain last night?”

  “It’s a prayer, Travis, not a weather report,” Laurie said.

  “That was very pretty, Erica,” Jerrilee said with a sickly smile. “Some kind of Dutch thing? Lutheran?”

  “It’s Hopi Indian,” Erica said curtly.

  “Indian?” Rick said with a gruff laugh. “Dutch-woman-talk-with-forked-tongue. I’m not familiar with ‘Earth Mother’ as a Deity.”

  Jerrilee gave a little tinkle of laughter to indicate what a charming curmudgeon he was. “Oh, Ricky!”

  “The Hopi Indians have a very rich culture,” Erica said coldly. I could see there was no love lost between her and Rick and Jerrilee.

  Although Rick was the one with the job, Jerrilee came with him like a free toy in a cereal box. She wanted something to do as well. Maybe to be Laurie’s stylist: “Little too much blusher on the show yesterday. I’m not sure they’re getting your eyes right either. More definition, I’d say. Glad to come in and talk to your makeup girls if you want.” Or maybe her clothes consultant: “Your friend Kevin! Never understood why the gay boys think they know so much about our clothes. I saw some great stuff for fall at Barney’s. I’m sure they’ll let me bring it over if I say it’s for you.” Behind Laurie’s back she was less unctuously polite. One night in the kitchen I heard her whisper to Rick, “For Christ’s sake, talk to the producer about her clothes! She looked like a truck driver in drag on the show the other day.”

  It took me a while to understand Rick’s relationship with Laurie. One night she explained that when she left the TV station in San Francisco to come to LA, Rick had negotiated her contract and become her manager. I thought only pop stars had managers, and Laurie laughed when I asked her why she needed one. “Even managers have managers in this town. It goes with the territory. Martha must have a raft of agents and money guys and lawyers now, doesn’t she?” Then she grimaced. “I hope they’re smarter than Rick.”

  “Then why do you have him?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I’ve known him since I was a kid, I feel kind of loyal to him. He let me read Hayseed on KCIF, got me started.” She gave an uncharacteristically girlish laugh. “Anyway, I didn’t have my dad for long—it’s nice to have a man around the house,” and then, squeezing my arm, she added, “Apart from you.”

  Laurie’s view of Rick’s skills was not shared by him. He was always boasting about the success of the management company he had set up since moving to LA with Laurie. In fact, she told me, until a year ago she had been his only client, and it was her show that had opened the doors for him. Now he was trying to take on new clients including, she laughed, a ventriloquist he was grooming for stardom. He was certainly not short of opinions about the entertainment business. We listened to them endlessly at Friday Night suppers.

  There was a lot of stuff about the show, of course. It seemed to bear endless analysis from him—the audience share, how many stations it was syndicated to, ideas for the future. Rick would hold forth about his career plans for Laurie. “You shouldn’t dismiss endorsements. What you got to realize is that you’re a brand. Now, that’s a good thing, don’t get me wrong, but a brand’s got to move. It’s a living thing, it’s an animal, it’s like a shark. Keep moving, dodge the bullets. That’s line one, page one.”

  “I don’t think a shark is an animal, Rick,” Travis said. “Isn’t it, like, a mammal?” but Rick ignored him and turned his career advice onto me.

  “Listen, I know those books have sold millions of copies. I mean, you’re in the record books, son. You’re a phenomenon. But what next? That’s one thing I’ve learned—there’s always got to be a next. Your brand needs some savvy management. You should put me in touch with your mother. She sounds like a smart lady. You know Gone With the Wind? The estate of Margaret Mitchell is going to commission a sequel. Maybe you should do that with your books. You got a load of people wondering what happens when Mr. Toppit comes out of that forest. More when the TV show airs. That’s a lot of people with money to spend. Don’t turn your back on them.”

  Luckily, there was someone round the table who felt they could rise to the task of extending the Hayseed brand, improving it, even. Merry clapped her hands like a child given the present she had waited for all her life. “Oh, I could do that! I know so much about the books.”

  “Everybody knows a lot about the books, Merry,” Laurie said sharply.

  “Merry’s doing an English major,” Jerrilee informed us, with a little smile of pride.

  “Merry, the books are what they are,” Laurie said firmly. “Luke’s dad was a very special person. Nobody could follow him.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I have, like, total respect for his genius. But that’s what I’d want to do—bring out his genius.”

  “It’s in the books already,” Laurie said coldly.

  “But he died! He might have written more. Was he going to write more, Luke?”

  “I don’t know,” I said truthfully.

  “Don’t you want to know what happened next?”

  “There’s always got to be a next,” Rick said, nodding sagely, as if his statement of five minutes earlier had become a famous phrase or saying in the interim.

  “And how would you do that, Merry, bring out his genius?” Laurie could hardly keep the contempt out of her voice.

&nb
sp; “I’ve seen things in the books, hidden things.”

  “Like what?”

  Merry turned to me. “You know that bit in the fourth book, Garden Grown, when you think Mr. Toppit is chasing you through the Darkwood? When you get back to the house, you see that you’ve been cut by thorns and falling over and stuff. They’re down your front, those wounds, aren’t they?”

  “It’s not me, Merry,” I said.

  “Do you think your dad ever did chakra healing?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Well, I’m studying with this guy—Wade—up in Topanga. It’s a kind of healing energy. You use crystals and stones.”

  Laurie sniggered. “I don’t think chakra healing has reached England yet.”

  Merry ignored her. “Those wounds sort of correspond with the seven chakras—um, the crown, the brow, the throat, the heart, the solar plexus … I can’t remember the other two. You know, maybe Mr. Toppit is a kind of healer with a split personality that makes him bad sometimes. Like Lucifer being an angel before he became Satan. There’s so much you could bring out if there were more books.”

  Travis cleared his throat. “Well, the lady who wrote Gone With the Wind, she ended it with Scarlett O’Hara saying that tomorrow-always-comes-around thing. Maybe she wrote it like that because she wanted everyone to wonder what happened the next day. That’s why they’re doing a sequel.”

  “It’s a different book, Travis,” Laurie said crossly. “The Hayseed Chronicles do not end with Mr. Toppit saying, ‘Tomorrow is another day.’ ”

  “I love Gone With the Wind,” Jerrilee said, to nobody in particular. “Always makes me cry.”

  “But wouldn’t that be cool?” Travis said. “To know what happens to Mr. Toppit? Wow! Imagine him in the real world. Maybe he has superpowers.”

  Then Laurie did something quite mean: she shunted her anger at Merry onto the hapless Travis. Her voice was trembling. “Travis, just think for once before opening your mouth. This is really difficult for Luke. His dad passed away not so long ago. Can you imagine how he feels, you discussing it round the table?”

  Actually, five years seemed quite a lot more than “not so long ago” and, anyway, we weren’t really discussing Arthur’s death. Nonetheless, her eyes brimming with tears, Laurie put out her hand and squeezed my arm. Everyone looked at me.

  “It must still be so raw,” Erica said.

  Rick nodded. “Big thing to deal with.”

  “Hard, seeing him everywhere in bookshops,” Jerrilee added.

  Thank you, Laurie. Now the entire table was waiting for me to say something.

  “Is there any more meatloaf?” was the best I could come up with. In unison a sickly how-can-he-be-so-brave? expression settled on their faces.

  “Yes, life goes on, doesn’t it, son? That’s painful, too,” Rick said.

  Rachel

  Dear Luke,

  I’m missing you. Claude is, too. We imagine you sitting by the pool (I presume she has one) at Laurie’s swanky house, drinking neon-colored cocktails with little parasols in them. Claude says that the last great contribution to culture made by America was the martini and it’s been downhill all the way. I hope you’re not wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and if you are, make sure it isn’t turquoise. Not a good color with our porridgy Hayman complexions.

  You left a lot of chaos behind when you flew off! Let’s not even talk about the hangovers. There was a horrible photograph of you in the Daily Mail. Where do they find these things? Like Martha says about you, “Neck like a chicken, arms like a gorilla.”

  We were all quite jealous. It wasn’t just you who got the police caution! Claude would have loved his photo in the papers, even with his bad teeth. Anyway, the good thing is that Martha is furious, so that’s a result. What a fuss! It’s only a caution. We’re not going to be hauled in front of some hanging judge and publicly flogged, which, of course, is what Martha would like. Not that I’ve spoken to her for the simple reason that she isn’t speaking to me. Tant pis. I’ve had—and I expect you will find one waiting when you get back—a letter from Fräulein Löwenstein. Apoplectic, or whatever it is in German. Apoplechtische? What an old bag. Why doesn’t she mind her own business? “I hope you won’t mind me being honest with you, my dear, but I look on you and Luke as family … blah, blah.” We have let Martha down. She who has been so loving and kind. She who has proudly been the figurehead of the good ship Hayseed. She, who has taught us standards we have chosen to ignore. For fuck’s sake! I feel like writing back and telling her we’re talking about the she who cleared out Arthur’s stuff and put it on a fucking bonfire.

  I miss you. Did I say that already? Claude isn’t much fun at the moment. Endless rows with his grandfather over money. The old man twigged he’d only had his front teeth done and not used the money to repair all of them so he’s cut off Claude’s allowance. Apparently he practically had his hand in Claude’s mouth examining his teeth as if he was a horse! I’m broke, too. No point asking Martha for money. I talked to Graham about writing a biography of Arthur and he said he’d think about it. Then he said he thought it was a good idea but maybe someone “more academic” should do it! We had a row because I said he was just stealing my idea. Anyway, I’m going to work on him and shame him into letting me do it and giving me a fat advance.

  Claude and I are meant to be meeting Toby Luttrell tonight after they finish shooting. Claude is slavering with excitement. That producer, Jake, was on the phone asking if he could come as well, but Toby said under no circumstances. Apparently they all hate him and think he’s completely useless. Got to change now, though it’ll take much longer to help Claude sort out his outfit. I’ll go on with this later.

  I wouldn’t put much on today being a great filming day on the Hayseed set. Toby’s just left, called his driver and told him to pick him up here instead of at home. Late night. Claude’s just gone to bed and is snoring for England. Claude cooked one of his Thai things (again) and then sulked because nobody was very hungry. I expect Jake will accuse us of leading Toby astray. No leading needed, believe me. He’s got very bad breath. The difference between us and them is that we look after our teeth. Oh, my God! That wasn’t me talking, it was Martha! Don’t you find that? She’s so ingrained in me that I find myself thinking her thoughts even when I know they’re complete bollocks. All those ridiculous life lessons of hers keep invading my head. Only the intellectually inferior have “amusing” books next to the loo. It’s vulgar to serve a choice of puddings at dinner. “Silent Night” is not a proper carol and must never be sung at Christmas. Only idle minds have time to listen to the radio. And the real killer—that thing she’s always quoting from Goethe or Rilke or whoever it is, “Everything serious is difficult …” and then she gives that awful pause and says, like it’s a punchline: “… and nearly everything is serious.” God! No wonder we’re so fucked up.

  I wish you were here even though I know I wouldn’t get much out of you. I wish you were here now so I could talk to you and not have to listen to Claude snoring. I was hoping Toby would be like you, like a better version of you. Sorry, not better, but more sort of lifelike, like one of those super-real oil paintings—except he doesn’t look anything like you. That hair. That yellow—like a color that doesn’t exist in nature. Give me your mouse shade any day. And, of course, he’s the size of a toothpick. He kept nipping off to the bathroom as if we didn’t know what he was doing. Anyway, what did we care? Claude had got us a little party-bag (I know you disapprove but, honestly, we needed to cheer ourselves up) so we had some every time Toby disappeared, which seemed to be most of the time. In the end, like the good hosts we are, we came clean and pooled it. Then Claude made a bit of an idiot of himself with Toby. Even though he’s clearly game for anything, it was a bit much for the midget.

  Why doesn’t Arthur invade our heads? Why is it just Martha? What happened to his life lessons? I can’t even think what they could be. Can you? Spend as little time with your family as possible?
Lock yourself away in your study? Was he so unhappy? Did we make him unhappy? Do you remember sitting with Martha and Arthur years ago in their bedroom one summer and the window was open and there was a loud bang, some noise from the woods, and Martha said, “What was that?” and Arthur said gloomily, “Maybe someone’s shot themselves”? Even Martha was amazed.

  Sometimes I think he threw himself in front of that concrete truck, like Anna Karenina. Just thought he couldn’t go on. Maybe that gloomy, withdrawn thing is his life lesson. Maybe that’s what’s inside us and we dwell on Martha’s ridiculous ones because it’s easier. Wouldn’t you like to be a cat or dog and not feel much, just respond to simple physical stuff, like it’s either hot or cold or you’re hungry or not hungry? I don’t understand you. I never know what you’re reacting to, what’s going on in your head. You’re like Arthur. You hold it all in. I suppose that’s a defense, but I don’t know against what. What happens to people? There aren’t any cigarettes. I’m going out to see if one of those early-bird paper shops is open. I wish you were here. I might post this. Or I might not.

  Love, Rachel xxxx

  Luke

  Because of jet lag I woke up early, sometimes early enough to say good-bye to Laurie when her driver came to pick her up at six o’clock. Then I was on my own for a while before the day got going for everyone else. I liked the silence or, rather, the sounds that broke it: the sprinklers in the garden, which were set on timers, the tropical birdsong and the whir of the giant fridge in the kitchen. It would be a couple of hours before Travis was up. I would know because I could hear him practicing his guitar—mostly the chords from “Layla,” reverb-y and distorted through the primitive speaker system he had set up. When I got to the poolhouse where Travis slept, Merry was sometimes there—she could get to it through the garden without coming into the house—and we would do a ritual of bear hugs and hand-slapping as if we hadn’t seen each other for decades.

 

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