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‘Is he married?’
‘I don’t know. I never asked him. How can I say, “Hello, Mr Jackson, are you married? I’m asking for my wife”?’
‘Is his first name really Lard?’
‘As far as I know—yes.’
‘How does anybody call themself Lard?’
‘Well, he says, “What’s cooking?” a lot.’ Sid looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup. After fifteen years of marriage he knew when she was on edge. She wasn’t happy about him coming home late.
‘I suppose his dressing-room was full of women.’
‘Packed,’ Sid smiled to himself. ‘We counted them. Seven black and seven white. All the black women were dressed in white and all the white women were dressed in black, otherwise we couldn’t have told them apart.’
‘Very funny.’
‘I thought so.’
‘Do you want another cup?’
‘Nope.’
‘Elspeth saw something this morning,’ said Carrie.
‘Pardon.’
‘Elspeth. She saw something.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘What do you mean—good?’
‘Well, I’m glad for her sake.’ Sid was at a loss. ‘I will have some more coffee if there’s any left.’
‘She’s twelve.’
‘I know.’
‘Well—she saw something.’ Carrie whispered, ‘You know, she saw something.’
Sid looked blankly at his wife.
‘Her periods have started,’ Carrie said.
‘Good God. She’s only twelve.’ Sid was embarrassed. ‘I mean—she’s twelve years old.’
Carrie smiled to herself for the first time that morning. Now she felt in charge. ‘I was thirteen.’
‘Yes—but you are older than her.’ Sid wanted to get off the subject as soon as possible. ‘Er. Is she all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘Good.’ That was final as far as Sid was concerned. ‘What was that you meant about the tomatoes? You said, “You see all the tomatoes you want at the club.” Do you mean tomatoes as in women or as in thrown?’
‘Nothing.’
‘If it’s women, I’m flattered. If it’s thrown, I’m hurt. But if it’s women, which women? The waitresses, or the bar ladies, or the disco dancers? And what about all those young women who work in Boots or Marks and Spencers? If I’d had as many women as you seem to think I’ve had, I should have died a long time ago from a rare disease called ecstasy.’ Sid stood up from the small breakfast table and put the chair back under it, picked up his cup and walked towards the sink. ‘And if the term is thrown, I’d like you to know I’m good enough not to get anything thrown at me, and if you would come to the club and see me work sometimes you would find that out. I’ve been working there for the last two years and you haven’t been once. Half the staff think I’m a widower.’ He was rinsing his cup under the tap.
‘I don’t like nightclubs.’ She picked up the drying cloth and took the cup from him.
‘Sweetheart, there are times when I hate the sodding place.’
‘Don’t swear!’
‘But I work theatres, clubs, TV and kiddie shows. I sometimes work seven days a week.’ Carrie gave him back the cup. ‘And I do it for two reasons. One is that I enjoy working and the other is that I do it to earn money so I can give you and Elspeth a nice home. There’s not many other comics who work as regularly as I do.’ Sid washed the cup again. ‘But I still get the impression that you want me to have a nine-to-five job.’
Carrie said, ‘That’s twice you’ve washed that cup.’ Sid put it down. ‘I’m going to Sainsbury’s.’ Carrie didn’t want to get caught up in a quarrel because she never did win a verbal argument with Sid anyway. He was much too devious. It was all the practice at the club. She put her coat on. Sid wiped the cup dry. There was a little bit of silence now, except for Glenn Miller belting out ‘Little Brown Jug’ for a senior citizen of ninety-seven. ‘Mrs Gerry will be here about ten. She’s having her hair done. I said it would be all right. Don’t stop her from working by telling her how hard you work. Could you pass me the plastic carrier off the doorknob?’ Sid did. ‘I’ll be back about one o’clock to get you a bit of lunch.’
Carrie left by the back door to get to the garage. Sid watched her go. She’s still an attractive woman, he thought. He had to smile to himself. She was going to Sainsbury’s with a plastic bag that told the whole world how good Macfisheries were. Maybe she had a sense of humour after all.
The elder DJ obviously had a sense of humour. He was now talking to some idiot who had written a new book on diet and health called Fry Your Way to Fitness. The DJ got in a good ad lib. He said, ‘I’m a stone overweight. Fry me.’
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_9ed9f167-3555-5624-87b6-5d6020203a65)
March, 1976
Sid opened the left door on the third floor and walked out of the Tardis towards the door with ‘MGM Agency’ on it. He took the advice of the sign that said, ‘Enter’. A young, attractive woman was busy typing directly opposite the door. To his right on the carpeted floor was a comfortable bench seat fully occupied by the three it would take. Nearest to Sid sat a sixty-eight-year-old, once-famous film star screen lover, Gavin Wright, now hoping for any small part, but it must be a part—‘I will not do extra work’. He was seated next to Lennie Price, the very latest black comedian from the new wave of black comedians. His style was to knock his own kind, his own people, make out he was white. Next to Lennie was an actor with a small ‘a’ whom millions of people had seen on television at least once a fortnight for the previous five years and yet not one of them would recognize him if he offered to pay their income tax. He had the kind of face that made people say, ‘Just a moment. Aren’t you … er? You know … the, er. My wife thinks you’re … You do the … er. You’re on every … night. Yes. You’re what’s-his-name.’
Sid had an appointment with Leslie Garland, the ‘G’ part of MGM: Mitchell, Garland and Maybank. He had been with Leslie now for about six years. Leslie did the light entertainment side, clubs, one-nighters, theatres, summer season and pantomime. Stan Mitchell was the straight side—West End plays, straight plays on TV—while Richard Maybanks was the overseas rep; Singapore, Hong Kong, the States and Australia. Sid had never seen Maybanks.
The girl looked up from her typing and smiled. ‘Good morning, Mr Lewis. I’ll tell Mr Garland you’re here.’ The others in the waiting-room looked at Sid as he gave a nod. She phoned through to Leslie’s office and told him: ‘Mr Lewis is here.’ Sid waited for the reply. ‘Mr Garland says five minutes, Mr Lewis.’ Another phone rang. She put it to her ear. ‘Yes?’ She put the receiver back. ‘Mr Mitchell will see you now, Mr Wright.’
The sixty-eight-year-old, once-famous lover of the silver screen creaked through the waiting-room towards the big red leather door and disappeared behind it. Sid sat next to Lennie Price on the still-warm seat left vacant by the old screen lover. Lennie looked at Sid and, with a smile, said, ‘I’m Lennie Price.’
‘Sid Lewis.’
They shook hands.
‘I saw you at the Starlight Rooms, when the Three Degrees were there. Great,’ Lennie said.
Sid didn’t know whether he was saying that Sid was great or the Three Degrees. He took no chances. ‘Yes, they were.’
‘Fantastic.’
‘Great.’
The actor with a small ‘a’ was reading the television part of The Stage and never once looked up.
‘Does Leslie do your work, then?’ asked Lennie.
‘Yes. I’ve been with this office over six years now.’
‘I’m hoping to see him. I’d like him to do my work. Do you think he’s any good?’
‘Kept me in pretty regular work.’
The red leather door opened and out came the ex-silver screen lover. You could tell by the look on his face that work was not coming his way that day. He left the waiting-room without a word.
‘Who’s at the Starlight Rooms this week?’ asked Lennie.
‘Cliff.’
‘Cliff?’
‘Richard.’
‘Great.’
The actor asked, ‘What time is Mr Maybanks due?’
‘I’ll ask his secretary,’ said the pretty typist. She dialled a number and asked, ‘What time is Mr Maybanks due? I see. Thank you.’ She put the receiver down and looked at the actor. ‘Not till Thursday. He’s been delayed in Canada.’
‘Oh. I thought he was due back yesterday.’
‘He was, but it’s snowing in Canada.’
‘Yes. Well, I’ll call again on Thursday.’
‘Fine. Who shall I say will be calling?’
‘Colin Webster.’
Of course, thought Sid, Colin Webster.
‘Goodbye, Mr Webb,’ said the pretty secretary.
Exit stage left, thought Sid.
Behind the big red leather door Sid and Lennie heard male and female laughter. Leslie held the door open for a woman called Marcia Vaughan, the best stripper in the country. Well, if not the best, certainly the fastest. The star of all the sexy revues.
‘Hello, Sid,’ she said. ‘How’s Carrie and Elspeth?’
‘Fine, thanks. Reggie okay?’
‘As good as he’ll ever be. That’s not saying much. I think he thinks it’s fallen off. He’s put on so much weight. I see it more than he does. Goodbye, darling.’ A kiss was exchanged that wouldn’t have shocked a vicar’s maiden aunt. ‘Bye everyone,’ she said and left.
‘Bye, darlink.’ Leslie smiled at everyone in the little room and they all dutifully smiled back. He seemed to be enjoying a certain power. Slowly he lit a small seven-inch Havana cigar. ‘Sid,’ his voice cracked. Sid jumped up to follow him through the red door. He noticed it wasn’t held open for him as it had been for Marcia.
‘How’s Coral?’ Leslie asked.
‘Carrie’s fine, thank you.’
‘Good.’ They were now halfway up the small corridor. ‘And the kids?’
‘She’s fine.’
‘Good.’
They entered his office. It was very large. A beautiful desk was placed so that Leslie sat with his back to the window and a couple of easy chairs were on the other side facing him. On a bright day you had the sun in your eyes so that you could not see him clearly. You were always in an inferior position. You were being looked down upon. A psychological advantage. A beautiful, small carriage clock was facing you. It had a loud tick. Leslie always kept turning it towards you and he always gave you the impression that you were wasting his time.
‘Sit down, Sid,’ he said.
‘Thanks. I … er … won’t keep you. I know how busy you …’
‘Good.’ Leslie turned the clock full-face towards Sid and rested his hand on it.
‘It’s … er … just to … you know, er … to … er. How’s Rhoda?’
‘Who?’
‘Rhoda. Your wife.’
‘Haven’t you heard?’
‘What?’ Sid asked, with fear in his voice.
Leslie Garland’s eyes raked Sid’s now almost quivering face. ‘No matter.’ He looked at the clock again.
Sid wondered whether to ask about Rhoda or to carry on about himself. What he said was, ‘Oh, I’m really sorry about that.’
‘About what?’ Leslie asked.
‘Rhoda,’ answered Sid, giving a sickly grin.
‘What about Rhoda?’
‘What you said,’ Sid said, with a nervously drying mouth. ‘Carrie will be upset.’
‘Who’s Carrie?’
‘My wife,’ Sid replied through an almost closed mouth.
‘What is it you want to see me about, Sid?’ Leslie asked with a small sign of temper.
