by Ray Connolly
‘Been doing some gardening again, have you?’
‘It’s not really the season for it. Bit cold out tonight.’ Somehow I felt a tension about what I’d been doing. I wondered whether the girl was under-age. Mike must have noticed the slight anxiety in my voice.
‘It wasn’t that little fourteen year old you were chatting up, was it? Not that little schoolgirl …?’ I didn’t answer for a moment. He looked annoyed. ‘Oh Jesus Christ.’
I tried to joke it off: ’She was insatiable.’ But Mike just stared hostilely at me. Suddenly I felt annoyed. Who was he to point the finger at me? ‘Well, you’re no bloody Jesus.’
‘All I’m saying is pick on someone your own size,’ he said with undisguised disgust, ‘Sometimes you really piss me off.’
I don’t know for a fact whether that girl was under age or not, but I learned something that night. I’d broken one of the unwritten rules. I’d gone over the top, and Mike couldn’t stomach it. To him, seducing a young girl was a betrayal of the position in which we found ourselves. I suppose he was much more aware of the need for a certain and specific code of conduct ungoverned by the old morals I’d been brought up with. He was right about the police hardly ever coming round the fair, but all the same, there were things you could and could not do, and I’d gone too far. Inside I realised that, and I felt a little ashamed of myself. But it had been nice. I’d probably done her a favour, I tried to tell myself.
Mike never asked much about my background, and he didn’t talk much about his. All I knew was that he had been brought up in an orphanage. One Sunday night in Portsmouth he told me a little more about himself. We were having a night off and after a few beers we wandered into a pool hall to play snooker.
Mike had been telling me how good he was for months, but somehow I rather doubted that. I was right. He shot first at the triangle of balls on the table, sending the whole bunch cannoning off in different directions, and setting several up for me. I didn’t know much about snooker, but I did know that anyone with any talent at all wouldn’t have done that.
‘sodding cue.’ Mike was a workman who was always ready to blame his tools.
‘Didn’t they teach you anything at that orphanage?’ I said, and moved in to begin my run. The balls couldn’t have been better placed for me to demonstrate my talents.
‘Taught me how to look after myself.’ Mike was in a more expansive mood than I’d ever seen him. ‘It was great, really. The first one was anyway. This matron organised a birthday party for me when I was eight, and made me a fruit cake with icing and candles. She was called Miss Wakefield, and I always remember that she smelled of hospitals. She was nice. She used to call me Mickey Rooney because I was so small …’
I’d never heard Mike talking like this before, and I stopped playing to listen. He was such a nice bloke.
‘Then they moved her somewhere else, and I never saw her again.’
He noticed that I was watching him, so I played a ball and missed the hole. It was his turn. He moved back to the table and began to take aim: ‘Makes you tough, though. Independent … that’s it. When I was fourteen my mother came to see me and I told her to piss off.’
‘Hang on … I thought you said your mum was killed in an air raid in the war,’ I said.
‘Did I?’ Mike seemed unruffled by the contradiction. ‘Well … Hie a lot.’
I’ll never forget the following night. We were busy all night long, dashing from car to car and by about ten o’clock we were both showing a healthy profit on the night’s work. It was then that I noticed Mike was in an argument with a young lad and a girl in one of the cars.
‘I gave you ten bob,’ the boy was saying.
‘I don’t think so lad.’ I moved across to help, but Mike was confident he could handle the situation and waved me away.
‘I did, didn’t I?’ The boy turned to the girl. She looked a hard little bitch in leather motorcycle gear.
‘Bloody right,’ she said.
‘I don’t remember … now piss off the pair of you.’ Mike began to look threatening.
The couple got out of the car. ‘I’m getting our Frank. You’ve had it,’ the girl shouted.
‘That’s right,’ shouted Mike. ‘More times than you’ve had your nappies changed.’ And then, laughing to himself, jumped on the back of a car holding a couple of middle-aged ladies. ‘These two darlings are for me, so hands off, Jimmy boy,’ he shouted nudging the women, who began to laugh. He was the sort of boy everyone laughed at.
‘For you Mike,’ I shouted, ‘anything.’ And I almost meant it.
The rest of the evening was uneventful. Neither of us pulled that night, and as Mike finished tidying up first he went back to the caravan slightly ahead of me. There couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes between us but as I walked home across the field I heard the sound of scuffling and fighting from behind one of the generator vans. I stopped, made sure that no-one had seen me, and stepped to the side of the van. Mike was on the floor, his leopard skin shirt covered in blood and a group of about six thugs were laying into him with chains. He wasn’t shouting or screaming. Just lying there trying to protect his head and his genitals and rolling over and over away from the chains. But there was no escape. For a moment I just stared, and then I ran, not to the caravan, nor to Jack, but back towards the fair. Anywhere away from what was happening to Mike.
Doreen was the only person who hadn’t finished covering up her stall for the night. Tarty Doreen, who I’d hardly spoken to, though often smiled at.
‘Where’s Tweedledum then?’ she shouted.
‘Oh, he’s in the caravan I suppose.’ I wondered if she knew something was wrong. And I wondered what it was that prevented me from telling her the truth. She looked at me, and I knew that she was to be my haven until I could work out what best to do. ‘Want any help,’ I asked.
Doreen smiled. She knew what I meant: ‘You’re almost too late,’ she said.
Later that night I watched from her van as the ambulance made a careful way through the darkened fairground. Doreen, middle-aged Doreen, my first middle-aged woman, had been a willing and welcoming hostess. I wondered about Mike, about why it had had to happen, but I couldn’t say anything. Instead I just stared as they took Mike away. Behind me Doreen stood watching, her coat covering her sagging body.
‘Just be glad it wasn’t you,’ she said. And I wondered how she knew.
Mike was badly injured. Very badly, with six broken ribs, a broken collar bone, twenty-four stitches in his forehead and a suspected fracture of the hip. No-one suspected that I’d known about it, other than Doreen, that is. And she never breathed a word about our night together.
Of course everyone was upset. Mike was well liked, but what had happened to him was one of the hazards of fairground life. He would be in hospital for some time, Jack told me the day after, but when he was better he would be able to join them again. In the meantime, said Jack, how did I fancy working on the whip. It could be a bit dangerous, but it paid better money. He had been going to move Mike over – a very definite promotion in fairground terms – but in his absence advancement fell to me.
That was really all I needed. There was nothing on the fair more glamorous, or faster and more virile, than the whip. I had the run of the fair, and the choice of the girls. And what’s more the money was good, so good in fact that I was soon riding about on a second-hand motor bike – paid for in cash. It had seen a few miles, but whenever I wasn’t working or pulling, I’d go out and fiddle with it, spending hours cleaning and polishing the chrome. I’d always wanted a bike.
I am a motorcycleboy
I live in caravans.
I want a motorcyclegirl
To clean my potsandpans.
If only Terry could see me now.
Chapter 10
‘Who wrote this?’ Terry was pointing at a poem I’d pinned to the wall of the caravan. I was quite proud of it, but I wondered what Terry would think. I cringed as he began to read it
out.
‘The mouth organ tremored
Jumped a scale or two
And quavered at the sight of her crotchet.
With trembling vibrato
He undid her discord
And, percussioning softly,
Ran a quick cantata
Saying
I’ll do you no harm-Monica.’
Somehow it didn’t seem the same when Terry read it, particularly as he’d somehow managed to acquire a posh accent in the 18 months since I’d last seen him.
‘I wrote it.’
‘You’re getting better. You’re probably the best poet working on a fair in all England.’
Terry clearly thought he’d come a long way since we’d been friends at school. I didn’t know why I’d ever bothered to contact him after so long, but although I despised what he’d done and everything he stood for, I still wanted to see him, or at least for him to see me and what a good time I was having. That was why I’d gone to all the trouble of finding out where he lived, and getting in touch with him when the fair made its way to Reading, where he was at university. On the phone I hadn’t known what to say after so long, so I’d just told him to come along to the fair and have a chat. I was off that night anyway.
I was immediately embarrassed when I saw him. He’d changed, and looked silly in a duffle coat with his university scarf round his neck. Also he was beginning to grow a beard, which hadn’t really taken. Naturally enough he was wearing a CND badge.
‘When does the revolution start then, Fidel?’ I’d asked, trying to look casual and carried on cleaning my bike. But he didn’t laugh, nor show any interest in the bike, so we went inside for a coffee, and began to talk of other things. That was when he’d seen my poem.
I changed the conversation to something less personal: girls. Girls, to me, weren’t personal: ’See all the crumpet hanging around outside?’ I asked. ‘It’s the same every night. Honestly. You wouldn’t believe it.’
Terry looked indecisive: ‘It’s pretty much the same at college.’
I’d never had it with a college girl, I thought. That raised possibilities.
‘What’s the social life like?’
‘At college? Well, there’s never any reason to go short … you know. Look, the dances aren’t bad. Come and give it a try tonight.’
Yes, I thought, why not. I’d show those stuck-up little blue-stockings what real men were like. College types always went for men of action like me.
‘Okay. A couple of spins around here, and it’s over to your place,’ I said and led the way across to the whip.
The couple of spins on the whip were less than successful from Terry’s point of view. I was a good operator and I knew the tricks of showing off without risking getting hurt too much, but the speed and thrust of the machine was too much for Terry. While I showed off in front of him by walking seemingly carelessly along the arms from the cars to the central area, Terry lay back in his seat looking sicker and sicker. I must have made myself look really silly, jumping over the arms as they came by and leaping on the back of every car containing a girl. God knows why I thought he should be impressed by such behaviour. At last Terry’s stomach dictated that we leave the fair and we set off for the students’ union, Terry clinging on to my back as we raced across the slippery streets on my bike.
I’d never been into a place like the students’ union before. It was worse than anything I could imagine. All the dances I’d ever been to had had little rock bands playing, but the people in this place were skip-jiving to a traditional jazz band. I knew there was supposed to have been a revival in trad. jazz, and that Kenny Ball and Acker Bilk were quite popular, but it had never really occurred to me that anyone of my own age might like that kind of music. Terry must have seen my expression because he turned rather superciliously towards me and said: ‘Everyone likes trad. here. All that rock that you used to like was just kids’ stuff.’
I couldn’t believe it. He looked so bloody smug I could have belted him: ‘Balls. They’ll be playing rock years after all that trad. crap is bombed and banned.’
It would have been better if Terry had got annoyed. But he didn’t. He just smirked a bit and went across to the bar to get the drinks, returning a moment or two later with a couple of girls.
‘Meet some ladies I’ve fixed us up with … Charlotte and Suzanne … Jim Maclaine.’ He did the introductions bit in the poshest voice he’d used so far. And then we all sat down.
As college girls went they didn’t look bad, although their figures were hidden inside those awful big baggy sweaters. All the same it must be nice to get a bit of scholarship with your sex, I thought, and began to wonder about the prospects of getting one of them back to my caravan on my bike. Or better still, maybe one of them had a room we could go to. Which one? I decided to smile at both of them and see which one took me up. Let them pull me, it was easier.
‘We all take economic history together,’ said Terry, for something to say.
‘That’s nice,’ I said. And smiled. They smiled back.
‘Jim and I used to be friends at school,’ said Terry.
They smiled again and looked at me. I began to feel uneasy in my leather jacket. I wished I’d had a shave before coming out. Things like appearances never mattered on the fair. Still my chat was certain to win one of them. It always did.
‘What do you do?’ asked one of the girls. She had short red hair, and a very earnest expression. The other one was blonde and a bit haughty looking.
‘He works on a fair,’ said Terry breaking in quickly. I wished he hadn’t said it. Coming from him it sounded all wrong.
‘Oh,’ said the red-head. ‘But what exactly do you do?’
I smiled at her. It was time I began to give some account of myself before Terry made me out to be a right twit: ‘Well, I’m the chief show off,’ I said. They both stared at me unresponsively. ‘I mean I pretend to be Superman on the whip and do a nightly flirting with death routine. I’m the bloke that everyone hopes will fall into the machinery and get my kidney twisted round my ear.’
The two girls looked at each other.
‘Let’s dance,’ said Terry to the blonde and they got up. Everything was going wrong. I wished I’d washed my hair. It was dirty and greasy from overhauling the motor-bike and too much fairground work. My hands were cracked and oily. I tried to hide them. Terry’s hands were spotless. I’d noticed that. He’d even stopped biting his nails. I looked again at the red-head. She was just sitting watching me.
‘Actually I’m only on the fair to write a novel … it’s nearly finished,’ I said. Suddenly I felt ashamed. This girl wasn’t impressed by what to me had always seemed a glamorous life. ‘It’s called Vanity Fair …’ The joke fell flat. I tried again … ‘Or Jim the Whipper Had a Big Dipper …’
The red-head’s mouth turned down at the corners, and she looked over my shoulder, noticing someone else sitting behind me. She got up: ‘Look, I must go. I’ve just seen some people …’
And then she was gone. For a minute I couldn’t think what to do. I knew that Terry was on the dance floor watching me, skip jiving to that bloody awful music, and I knew that he’d seen me humiliated. Probably he’d planned the whole thing. He must have known these weren’t my kind of people. I’d fallen into a trap. He’d got me on his own ground and made a fool out of me. Or maybe he was embarrassed by having me as a friend at all. Maybe he felt ashamed for having admitted that we’d been at school together. Slowly and as inconspicuously as possible I stood up, and edged through the beer-swilling beards back towards the door. To stay would have meant facing Terry. And facing defeat. I crept out.
The next night was different on the fair. All the fun had gone. Everywhere looked dirty, and everyone seemed shallow. I noticed for the first time the paint peeling off the carousel, and was sickened by the smell of the chips stall. For months I’d been living on chips and fish, chips and pie, chips and peas, off that stall. But tonight I couldn’t face any of it. At least t
he holiday camp had offered a variety of things to eat. I felt sick. Sick with the fair. Sick with myself. The glamour was gone.
At eleven Jack said we could close down and I put the wraps on the chairs. Over my shoulder I sensed I was being watched.
There was a girl of about eighteen. She was waiting for me.
‘Are you coming then?’ I asked. I might as well go through with the whole pointless ritual. There was nothing else to do.
‘I’ve got a room,’ she answered.
‘I’ve got a bike.’
Together we rode in silence back to her place, and, parking the bike outside a crumbling Victorian house she led me up to her attic room. Going up the stairs in front of me I watched her bottom moving in the dim lighting. I didn’t even know what her face looked like. Inside the room she suddenly turned and began kissing me. I felt disgusted. It was very dark in there, but a gas fire was glowing and slowly, as my eyes became accustomed to the light, I began to see more. It was a filthy slum room. There was just a bed, an armchair and a sideboard. And there by the window a baby’s cot. A baby’s cot? I pulled myself free from her and moved across to the cot. Inside was a young baby with dark hair, sucking on a dummy. A blanket half covered it, and from the side of the cot hung a plastic pink rattle.
‘He’s a good boy … never any trouble.’ The girl had taken her sweater off and was standing in her bra and skirt next to me.
‘That’s your baby? And you leave it alone …?’ I couldn’t believe it.
‘The woman downstairs listens out for him. But he never wakes up. I leave the gas fire on so he doesn’t get cold …’ She smiled and put her arms around my neck pushing her body into mine, and then sliding her fingers down my ribs and into the top of my trousers. ‘Come on … I didn’t think you’d be slow.’
No, I thought, no-one ever expects me to be slow. I’m Jack the Lad, living fast and loving hard.
‘Come on,’ said the girl, growing impatient. I looked at the baby again, and suddenly all the fury against myself that was in me welled up and I pushed out at her wildly so that she fell back across her bed.