New Cardiff

by Charles Webb

  He removed his hand from the top of hers. ‘I was pissed out of my mind that night, Mandy. When people get pissed they blubber and spout rubbish.’

  ‘They say the truth.’

  ‘They say the opposite.’

  ‘Then what about that day at the Battlefield Monument,’ she said. ‘Just after we met. Why was getting drunk the only way I could say to you how I felt then.’

  He shook his head. ‘Altogether different.’

  ‘It wasn’t, Colin.’

  Mrs Wynter and Mr Penrose-Smith had come to wait by the exit door, standing several feet from each other, facing in opposite directions.

  ‘It was the only way I could express my true feelings,’ Mandy said, ‘so don’t say people don’t tell the truth when they’re drunk—or pissed, if you want to call it that—because that’s exactly what they do.’

  Colin glanced over at Mrs Wynter. ‘They’re gathering.’

  Mandy turned to see Mrs Campbell walk past the other two and toward the door. ‘We’re going to wait inside till everyone’s here,’ she said, getting to her feet.

  Mrs Campbell went back to stand with the others. ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten your promise last time about the photograph, Mrs Ware.’

  ‘We’ll do it on our way back.’

  ‘It’s to be an Easter gift for my twin grandsons in Glasgow.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Mrs Campbell.’

  A long stretch led from the arcade to the end of the pier where the rides and other attractions were, and it was as they were walking along that section that Mr Church began comparing Mandy and Colin unfavourably with the former managers. ‘The Crofts may have had their faults,’ he said, staying behind with the two of them as the others went ahead, ‘but they never objected to my going on the Turbo when we came to the pier.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard about them,’ Mandy said, ‘I’m sure the Crofts wouldn’t have objected to you jumping off the end of it.’

  ‘Last time, Mrs Ware, I believe you told me I’d be allowed on the Turbo if I got permission first from social services.’

  ‘And that’s what I still tell you.’

  ‘You’re quite serious that you’d send me through the entire bureaucracy of Brighton for five minutes of fun.’

  ‘Mr Church,’ Mandy said, as they stepped aside to let a woman pass with her baby stroller, ‘tell me why you think they have a big sign right in front of the ride saying no one with a disability can go on it. No one with a back problem. No one who’s pregnant, and no one with a heart condition.’

  ‘None of which applies to me, Mrs Ware.’

  ‘But all of which will apply,’ Colin said, ‘with one exception, by the time you get off.’

  Mr Church walked on ahead of them. ‘And you needn’t treat me to a ride on the Cup and Saucer this time to assuage your conscience, Mrs Ware,’ he called back, rejoining the others.

  It was a second or two later that Mandy stopped and put her hand on Colin’s arm. ‘Wait a minute.’

  ‘What.’

  ‘Come back here a minute.’ She returned a little way toward a souvenir shop they’d passed while they were talking to Mr Church. ‘What about him.’ Mandy pointed to the man in the shop.

  Colin looked at him through an open window as he tied a balloon up to the ceiling.

  ‘There’s plenty of light in there. You can really see him well. He’s standing pretty still.’

  Colin continued looking through the window at him.

  ‘I’m sure you could draw him, Colin.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Will you try?’

  The man reached through the window to rearrange several plastic fish on the shelf outside.

  ‘Go get your things,’ she said. ‘Just let me know where you park, and I’ll take everyone back.’

  The man glanced up at them. Colin nodded to him.

  ‘You’ll have all the time you want.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Colin said again, studying the man.

  ‘Because you really do have to get back to work, Colin. Jeremy told me that’s really, really important.’

  ‘I’ll see what he says,’ Colin said, starting toward the shopkeeper.

  By the time Colin had returned with his art materials, the others were finished at the end of the pier and had gathered at the photography stand Mrs Campbell had noticed on their last visit. There was a large painted board with two figures on it, one of them a mermaid lying on a rock, and beside her a deep-sea diver emerging from the ocean. But instead of faces, two oval holes had been cut in the board, and looking out through the hole for the mermaid’s face was Mrs Campbell, the mermaid’s long blond hair flowing down over her bare shoulders to partially cover her breasts.

  They were farther on down the pier, so they didn’t see Colin as he stopped, watching as Mandy tried to persuade one of the men to put his face into the opening beside Mrs Campbell’s, then finally going around to the other side of the board herself to put her own face into the opening for the deep-sea diver, so the photographer could click the picture. Then the seven of them continued on along the pier toward him.

  ‘You have your set of van keys then,’ Colin said, as she reached them, ‘and you can get along without me for a bit.’

  She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Just draw, Colin.’

  There were windows on all sides of the souvenir shop, so after he’d tried and failed to draw the shopkeeper from one angle, Colin was able to go around and attempt to portray him from another. But after tearing up the second attempt he decided not to waste another sheet of paper and closed his pad.

  The man came out of the shop carrying a shirt on a hanger. ‘How’s it going.’

  ‘I’m done.’

  ‘Do I get to see it?’ He hung the blue-and-white striped shirt on a nail beside the door.

  ‘It didn’t work out. I apologise for taking up your time.’

  The man turned around to watch Colin putting his pencils back in his case. ‘Why didn’t it work out.⁽

  ‘I couldn’t say.’ Colin snapped shut the clasp. ‘I wish I knew myself.’ He lowered the case to his side.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it.’

  ‘I am worried about it. I’m very worried about it.’

  ‘We all have our bad days,’ the man said.

  ‘Try bad months.’

  The two of them stood looking at each other a few moments.

  ‘Are you visiting Brighton?’

  ‘I live here now. Since November.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘London.’

  The shopkeeper began straightening a row of small rubber figures on the shelf. ‘Maybe you miss the urban rhythms. My sister and her husband saved up twenty years for a cottage down in Cornwall. Finally moved there, got so bored they were back before the month was up and haven’t left the city since.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘You’re sure.’

  ‘A couple of mornings I’ve taken the train up to London. I tried to get working again by going around the old places. I hoped the associations would trigger something.’

  ‘No good?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  The man picked up one of the rubber figures, which was a sunbather in a beach chair. ‘Look at this shit they send you now.’ He showed Colin where one of the figure’s legs was hanging partially off.

  ‘My inspiration,’ Colin said. ‘It’s just gone.’

  ‘Globalisation. That’s what this is all about. They never sent me shit like this before globalisation.’

  ‘I’ve lost my art.’

  The man shook the figure, then took hold of its leg and twisted it till it came off.

  ‘Jesus Christ, I’ve lost my art and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘The global village,’ the man said, reaching into his booth to drop the figure and its leg into a wastebasket. ‘That’s where your global village belongs.’

  ‘I’ve lost my very essence.’

  ‘No you haven�
�t.’

  ‘I have. Don’t tell me I haven’t.’

  ‘It’ll come back.’

  ‘I heard about a woman who lost her religion,’ Colin said, looking off across the sea. ‘This is the same.’

  ‘What happened to her.’

  ‘She tore all her hair out and they had to lock her up.’

  ‘Why don’t you take a few deep breaths.’

  ‘I’m realising the most terrible thing an artist can realise about himself,’ Colin said, looking up at him again. ‘My wife and I are in charge of some pensioners. I haven’t told this to anyone before, but sometimes I’ll get in a panic and go in and try to draw them while they’re asleep. Or through the window when they’re out on the lawn. Or from behind without them seeing me. I’ve been leading a secret life, the life of someone slowly losing their sanity.’

  ‘Aren’t there any johns on this pier?’

  They turned to see a woman standing beside them holding her bag.

  ‘What do you have to do for a john around here,’ she said.

  The man glanced at Colin.

  ‘A John,’ Colin said. ‘Yes. Well I think there’s one back in the arcade.’

  ‘Where?’

  Colin pointed. ‘The big building with all the games in it.’

  There was another tourist coming toward them with a large leather case on a strap over his shoulder. ‘He says there’s one where the games are,’ she yelled at him. She looked back at Colin. ‘I didn’t see one in there.’

  ‘I think you have to ask for the key at the snack bar.’

  ‘He thinks you have to ask for the key at the snack bar,’ she said to her husband, as he approached.

  ‘Well get your butt back there and ask for it then.’

  ‘What are you going to do,’ she said, as he stopped next to them.

  ‘Wait here for you.’

  She looked toward the front of the pier for a moment, then back at her husband. ‘What time is it.’

  ‘Look at your own watch.’

  ‘I didn’t change it for here yet.’

  The man unslung his case from over his shoulder and set it on the pier, then pushed the sleeve of his shirt up enough to see his watch. ‘Quarter of three.’

  ‘Write it down,’ she said, starting away.

  ‘You can’t write it down this time?’

  As the woman hurried back toward the arcade, the man bent down to unzip a compartment of his case and remove a small pad of paper. He felt the pocket of his shirt, then looked over at the shelf beside them where several pens were lined up. ‘You don’t mind if I borrow this,’ he said, picking one up. He scribbled on the back of the pad with it till the ink began flowing. ‘What day of the month is it.’

  ‘Tenth,’ the shopkeeper said.

  ‘That’s right, I knew that.’

  Colin and the shopkeeper watched as he wrote in the pad.

  ‘Write down every time the wife does a damn bowel movement,’ he said. ‘What the hell kind of a vacation is this.’ When he finished writing he held up the pen to look at it. ‘What do we have here now,’ he said.

  ‘A souvenir pen, sir.’

  ‘What’s the picture on it.’

  ‘The Pavilion, sir.’

  ‘The Taj Mahal or something?’

  ‘The Pavilion here in Brighton.’

  ‘How much,’ he said, reaching into his pocket.

  ‘One pound fifty.’

  ‘She’s got that trick bowel,’ he said to Colin, pulling out a fistful of change. ‘They chopped three feet out of her small intestine last summer.’ He opened his hand in front of the shopkeeper.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Colin said.

  ‘The hell of it is there was no need for the damn operation in the first place.’ He continued holding his open hand in front of the souvenir-shop owner. ‘Take what you need, man, don’t just stand there staring at it.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Purely precautionary,’ he said to Colin as the man picked through the coins in his hand. ‘I said, “Jean, leave the damn intestine alone till they see an actual spot on it. They told you they’ll see a spot on it in plenty of time.’”

  ‘Thank you.’ The man stepped into his booth to put away the change.

  “‘I want peace of mind”, she tells me. “I don’t want to be worrying about going in for a scan every six months.’” He returned the rest of the money to his pocket. ‘You call this peace of mind? Our lives revolving around your damn “bm”s?’ He touched Colin’s shoulder. ‘Listen to this—where was it.’ He frowned. ‘Tivoli Gardens, one of those. She goes in the damn John. “Write down my time,” she says. There I am, sitting in the outdoor café trying to have a nice cappuccino or whatever. Gorgeous place. Just breathtaking. Trees. Jesus. “Write it down,” she’s squawking at me. ‘And this time don’t forget to put how long since my last meal.”’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, five minutes later out she comes again. “Tear out the page. Just gas”.’ He reached up to feel the material of the shirt the man had hung on the nail. ‘What’s this, a special shirt or something?’

  ‘Those are the Seagulls’ colours,’ Colin said.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The colours of the Brighton side,’ the shopkeeper said.

  ‘Side?’

  ‘Team,’ Colin said.

  ‘Oh, soccer?’ He took the hanger off the nail. ‘The local soccer team.’ He frowned at the inside of the collar. ‘Large, that should be right.’ He removed the shirt from the hanger, quickly took off his own shirt and handed it to Colin while he pulled the striped one down over his head. ‘How’s this,’ he said.

  ‘A very good fit, sir.’

  ‘Have you got a medium in there for the wife?’

  ‘I should have,’ he said, going into his small shop.

  ‘I was in America last year myself,’ Colin said, handing him back his shirt.

  ‘Oh? What part.’

  ‘Vermont.’

  ‘Oh sure.’

  ‘A town called New Cardiff.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘New Cardiff.’

  The tourist shook his head. ‘Can’t say I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘It’s quite small.’

  ‘New England. That’s not really our beat. Nothing against the place.’

  The shopkeeper came out carrying another blue-and-white shirt. ‘My last medium,’ he said.

  ‘Good, and get one for yourself while you’re at it,’ the tourist said, taking it from him. ‘Put it on my tab.’ He bunched up the shirt he’d been wearing before, bent down and stuffed it into his case. When he straightened up the shopkeeper was still standing looking at him. ‘Now what,’ the tourist said.

  ‘I didn’t quite understand, sir.’

  ‘Get yourself a shirt.’

  ‘A shirt?’

  ‘Like mine.’

  ‘For myself?’

  The tourist reached over to pull slightly at the front of the man’s sweater. ‘I catch any of my people out on the floor in a ratty old thing like this,’ he said, grinning over at Colin, ‘they’ve got a broom in their hand and they’re back at square one.’ He looked back at the shopkeeper. ‘Are you running this place to make money or what. Get: one of these nice shirts on yourself.’

  The man turned around and went into his shop again.

  ‘How about one for you,’ the tourist said to Colin.

  ‘I’m Fulham.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘Listen,’ Colin said, ‘I’m thinking of something.’

  The man glanced down at the shelf coming out below the window of the store. ‘Look at this.’ He motioned for Colin to step over beside him. ‘Look here.’

  ‘What’s that,’ Colin said, looking down at the rows of souvenirs on the shelf.

  ‘First of all,’ the tourist said, picking up a cellophane-wrapped stick from the shelf, ‘what in hell is he doing with his candy canes out this time of year.’

  ‘I think that’s Brighton Roc
k,’ Colin said.

  ‘You think it’s what?’

  Colin took it from him. ‘That’s what it is.’ He unwrapped one end and showed it to him. ‘The little letters going around,’ he said. ‘They spell “Brighton”.’

  The man squinted at it.

  ‘They go all the way through,’ Colin said, turning it around to show him the letters on the other end.

  The man took it back, finished unwrapping it and broke it in half. ‘I’ll be goddamned,’ he said, looking at the tiny letters on the broken ends.

  ‘It’s a tradition here.’

  ‘What’s he want for these.’ The tourist picked up a sign from behind the rock. ‘Will you look at this thing?’ He held it up in front of Colin. ‘He’s got some kind of stencilled numbers on an old piece of cardboard. Christ, it looks like something left over from the last World War.’ He studied the numbers. ‘A pound twenty each. Then he’s got five for four pounds. Where’s the logic to that—this character’s a real piece of work.’ He returned the sign and picked out four more sticks of rock. ‘I’ll tell you what his problem is. Hold these.’ He handed them to Colin. ‘First of all. he’s got his candy coming down here, then his buses.’ He began exchanging the row of rock with a row of little red double-decker buses. ‘Then he’s got another fucking row of candy over here, separate from the first candy. Keep your candy together, man, you’re scrambling up your product areas. How basic can we get.’ He picked up a souvenir from another row. ‘What’s this now.’

  ‘Big Ben in the snow,’ Colin said.

  He shook it, watching for a moment as the tiny white flakes whirled around inside the glass globe. ‘I mean these things went out with the hula hoop, but if you’re going to have something like this at least set up your table so your eye is drawn from item to item in a pleasing motion. The way he’s got this stuff set up you go cross-eyed looking at it. Let’s put these back here for him.’

  Colin watched as he moved all the globes of Big Ben into a row along the back.

  ‘I have a small favour to ask,’ Colin said. ‘I don’t know if it’s something you have time for or not.’

  The man finished arranging the glass domes and stepped over beside Colin. ‘Listen, I don’t want to say this directly to him myself. I don’t want him to take offence, but when I see a fellow man who could be doing something a little better than what he is, I always want to reach out and help—that’s just the way I am.’