Chocolate and Cuckoo Clocks (31 page)

Not that there aren't little squabbles from time to time: Sunday, we had plums and custard, and little Barry likes to arrange the stones on the side of his dish. What he did not realize was that this makes Mr Noles from Gants Hill, who is on our table, punch people in the mouth. Big Kevin, as you know, is not called big Kevin for nothing and has had to learn to look after himself from an early age, due to where his father is unable to come inside and help him, big Kevin took hold of Mr Noles by his collar and chucked him out into the corridor, which was a terrible thing to do, it turned out, because Mr Noles has a horrible fear of narrow places and pays £2 per day extra to enter the dining-room via the fire-escape, but big Kevin was not to know this, he is only a boy, though getting enormous enough for me to feel queasy every time I stretch up to make sure he's brushed his teeth. The upshot of it was, Mr Noles was hurling himself about in the corridor for close on twenty minutes before Mrs Noles could get a net over him. He broke eighteen plaster ducks, three barometers, and put his elbow straight through ‘The Monarch of the Glen', though doing less damage than you might think since its face had already been painted out on account of the night porter having a morbid fear of antlers.

And all the time my Norman is shouting ‘
What's going on?
What's bloody going on?
' from the garden, deeply distressing his friend tied to the sundial who can hear all this breakage and shrieking and reckons gravity is beginning to pack up and bring things off the walls.

Still, it turned out all right, Mr Noles and big Kevin made it up, they have a lot in common, basically, both being unable to walk down a street without picking bits off hedges, and he asked big Kevin to join him on the beach because Mrs Noles never went there on account of her terror of being buried alive. She likes to spend her afternoons standing on the concrete forecourt with a big bell in her hand and a whistle between her teeth in case of emergencies, so her husband and big Kevin and little Barry and Tracy and Norman and me all went off to the beach. Trouble was, it would all have been all right if Norman's new friend hadn't been unsettled by the false alarm over gravity: he did not want to be left alone, so the porter found a huge coil of rope so that Norman's new friend could come down to the beach without untying himself from the sundial, but it was nearly three hundred yards and you have to go round two corners, so you can't see what's going on behind, and what happened was the rope got caught in a car bumper and one moment Norman's new friend was cautiously creeping along beside us, and the next he was suddenly plucked from our midst.

We visited him in the cottage hospital, but even our presence (minus, of course, Norman, also Tracy, who faints in the vicinity of linoleum) could not persuade him that he had not fallen off Earth and hurt himself dropping onto some alien planet. His argument was that we had fallen with him but, being unencumbered by rope or sundials, had managed to land on our feet, unhurt, and were keeping the truth from him so as not to alarm an injured man.

There was no convincing him, so we just left him there and collected Norman and Tracy and went down to the beach to find big Kevin and Mr Noles. But all we could find was big Kevin, he was huddled under a stack of deck-chairs and sobbing: we ran up to him (all except little Barry, who was terrified in case the shadow of the deck-chairs fell on his foot), and asked him what was wrong, and he said he had been getting on fine, he had buried Mr Noles in the sand, because Mr Noles had been told by his psychiatrist that this was a very good way to overcome his fear of narrow spaces, and he was just about to stick a little windmill over where he had buried him when a crab come out of the sea and started running towards him sideways.

We all gasped!

‘It is my own fault,' shouted Norman, from a nice open space he had found in between the airbeds, ‘I knew the lad was an arachnophobe, it never occurred to me that he would associate crabs with spiders, that is not the sort of thing what occurs to a claustrophobe on account of you never get near enough to anything to distinguish it.'

‘So what happened, big Kevin?' I said, aghast.

‘I run off, Mum,' he sobbed. ‘I must have run miles.'

A cold chill shot down my spine, as if I'd just seen the Eiffel Tower or something.

‘Where is Mr Noles buried?' I enquired, gently.

I think you probably know the answer to that, Sylve. I tell you, we prodded lolly-sticks all over that beach for five hours, i.e. well after it was too late anyway, and no luck. It was getting dark before I knew I would have to be the one to break the news to Mrs Noles. Her of all people.

She was still standing on the forecourt when we got back to the hotel. I put my hand on her arm.

‘How are you, Mrs Noles?' I murmured.

‘Nicely, thank you,' she replied. ‘I got a bit worried around half-past four. The sun was very hot, and I thought: any minute, this asphalt is going to melt and swallow me up. But it didn't.'

Quick is best, I said to myself, Sylve. So I come right out and told her that Mr Noles had been buried alive. And do you know what she said?

‘Serves him right, the stingy bastard,' she said. ‘I always told him we ought to have bought a bell each.'

That's the best thing about holidays, Sylve, I always say: you meet so many interesting people.

It takes you right out of yourself.

Your loving friend, Sharon.

45
Getting the Hump

A suit of armour sold last week for £1,850 is believed
to have been worn by King Richard III. It had been
tailor-made for a man 5ft 4ins tall with a curvature of
the spine and one shoulder lower than the other.

Sunday Express

A
lthough, on the morning of April 6, 1471, the bright spring sun may have been warming the narrow London streets and cheering the spirits of the teeming citizens, its heartening rays unfortunately penetrated neither the dank and tatty premises of Master Sam Rappaport (Bespoke Metal Tailoring Since 1216) Ltd, nor the sunken soul of its hapless proprietor.

Master Rappaport had staff shortages. True, Rappaport's had had staff shortages ever since that fateful day in 1290, but this week was particularly bad: his vambrace cutter was off sick, his hauberk finisher was in labour, and the heads of his two best riveters were currently shrivelling on the north gate of London Bridge for dishonestly handling a church roof which they had hoped to turn into a natty spring range of lead leisurewear.

‘So ask me where I'm getting gauntlets from!' he demanded bitterly of his senior assistant, as he walked through the door.

The senior assistant sighed; but it was what he was paid for, mainly, so he said:

‘Okay, Sam, so where are you getting gauntlets from?'

‘Don't ask!' snapped his master.

The senior assistant summoned his dutiful laugh, for the thousandth time.

‘Gauntlets I'm buying off the peg, thank God my poor father never lived to see it,' muttered Master Rappaport. ‘A man walks out of here in what he thinks are genuine hand-forged Rappaport gauntlets, he goes into a tavern for a glass of sherry wine, he bangs his fist on the table, and what is he looking at?'

‘What?'

‘Flat fingers, is what he's looking at. A webbed hand, is what he's looking at. Tin is all they are. Time was, a man in a Rappaport gauntlet, he wanted to shake hands, he needed two other people to help him lift.'

The shop-bell jangled.

A tall good-looking young man filled the doorway.

‘Good morrow,' he said. ‘I am the Duke of Gloucester.'

Master Rappaport turned bitterly to his senior assistant.

‘See?' he snapped. ‘I ask for underpressers, they send me dukes!'

‘I think he's a customer, Sam,' murmured the senior assistant.

The grey preoccupation ebbed from Master Rappaport's face. He smacked his forehead. He banged his breast. He bowed.

‘Forgive me, Your Grace!' he cried. ‘How may we assist you?'

‘I should like,' said the Duke of Gloucester, ‘a suit of armour. Nothing flash, and plenty of room in the seat.'

The master tailor beamed.

‘Wonderful!' he said. ‘Formal, but also informal, smart for day wear, but if God forbid you should suddenly have to kill somebody at night, you don't want to be embarrassed, am I right?'

‘You read my mind, sir!' cried the young Duke.

‘I have been in this game a long time,' said Master Rappaport. ‘Nat, the swatches!'

The senior assistant bustled across with a number of clanking plates gathered on a loop of chain. Master Rappaport flicked over them.

‘Not the toledo,' he murmured, mostly to himself, ‘toledo is all right on an older man, it's a heavyweight, it's fine if you don't have to run around too much, also the sheffield, personally I got nothing against sheffield, it has a smart glint, but you have to be short, there's nothing worse than a long glint, believe me; likewise, the cast-iron, a tall man in cast-iron, he can look like a walking stove. For my money, I see you in the non-iron.'

‘Non-iron?'

‘It's a synthetic, 20% copper, a bit of this, a bit of that; a lightweight, wonderful for summer battles. A lot of people couldn't get away with it, but you're young, you got broad shoulders, a nice figure, you can carry a thinner metal. It's flexible, it's cool, it don't creak suddenly when you're with – hem! hem! – a young lady, you should forgive my presumption. Also got a lightweight fly, just a little snap catch, very convenient; the cast-iron, for example, it's got a big bolt it can take you all day, first thing you know you're rusting from the inside, am I right, Nat?'

‘Absolutely,' said the senior assistant.

The young nobleman smiled generously.

‘I shall be guided entirely by you,' he said. ‘I have just returned from exile with His Majesty Edward IV, and have in consequence little notion of current fashion trends.'

‘With Edward IV you've been?' cried Master Rappaport. ‘So Saturday week you're fighting at Barnet?'

The Duke nodded.

‘Problems, Sam?' enquired Nat, catching his master's sudden furrow.

‘Eight days,' murmured his master. ‘It's not long. At least three fittings he'll need.'

‘Perhaps, in that case,' said the Duke, ‘I ought to try—'

‘We'll manage!' cried Sam Rappaport hastily,‘We'll manage! Nat, the tape!'

And, lowering his eyes respectfully, the master tailor, tape in hand, approached the comely crotch.

The senior assistant looked at the morning delivery. He shook his head.

‘We shouldn't send the greaves out for making,' he said. ‘They're a good two inches short. Also the cuisses.'

Master Rappaport stared dismally out of the little window.

‘Maybe he'll agree to crouch a bit,' he said, at last. ‘Look, Nat, he's been abroad, you heard him say he was out of touch. So we'll tell him all the smart crowd are crouching a bit this season. Who knows, maybe we could set a whole new—'

The bell jangled. The two tailors bowed.

‘I can't get on the leg pieces without crouching,' said the young Duke, after a while, panting.

‘Wonderful!' cried Sam Rappaport. ‘Look at His Grace, Nat!'

‘Perfect!' shouted the senior assistant. ‘It fits you like the paper on the wall. This year, everybody's crouching.'

‘You're sure?' enquired the anxious young man, hobbling uncomfortably before the pier-glass.

‘Would I lie?' said Sam Rappaport. ‘Tuesday, please God, we'll have the breastplate and pauldrons.'

‘Tuesdays,' muttered the senior assistant, ‘I never liked.'

They stared at the breastplate, for the tenth time. Then they measured the two shoulder pieces again.

‘So we'll tell him everybody's wearing one shoulder lower this year,' said the master tailor. ‘He's young, he's green, what does he know?'

‘Here he is,' said Nat.

‘It hurts my shoulder,' complained the Duke of Gloucester, after a minute or two. His left hand hung six inches lower than his right, his neck was strangely twisted, his legs crouched in the agonizing constrictions of the ill-made greaves and cuisses.

‘Listen,' said Master Rappaport gently. ‘To be fashionable, you have to suffer a bit. Is His Grace smart, Nat, or is he smart!'

‘Fantastic!' cried the senior assistant, looking at the wall. ‘Take my word for it, he'll be the envy of the Court.'

‘When will the backplate and gorget be ready?' gasped the Duke.

‘Friday,' said Master Rappaport. ‘On Friday, you get the whole deal.'

‘On second thoughts,' murmured the senior assistant, ‘Tuesdays are a lot better than Fridays.'

‘We're working under pressure!' shouted his master. ‘Miracles you expect suddenly?'

He held up the backplate. It was strangely bowed, like a turtle's carapace.

‘Well, gentlemen?'

They spun around. The door having been open, they had not heard the Duke come in.

‘We were just admiring the backplate!' cried Master Rappaport. ‘What cutting! What burnishing!'

‘And what a wonderful curvature!' exclaimed Nat.

‘Curvature?' enquired the Duke of Gloucester.

‘It's what everybody's talking about,' said Sam.

‘This time next month,' said Nat, ‘everybody will be bent. I promise.'

The Duke took the finished suit to the fitting room.

Time passed. The two tailors looked at their shoes, arranged their patterns silently, cleared their throats, looked at the ceiling.

After a few minutes, the fitting-room curtains parted, and the Duke of Gloucester slouched through, dragging his leg, swinging his long left arm, his head screwed round and pointing diagonally up.

‘It looks – as though – I have – a – hump,' he managed to croak, at last, through his tortured neck.