Jammy Dodger (20 page)

There were a number of agitated seat refugees accumulating in the aisle, and I was aware of a couple of them eyeing Oliver's unclaimed space. Where was he? I twisted around again for another scan. Bloody theatre. Still, if it was true to form I would probably be asleep by the end of the first scene. Always a high-quality snooze with drama. Why was that? Collective body heat? The lull of scripted conversation? Didn't Sean O'Casey make sure to include a gunshot late in the play to wake everyone up? Different, of course, if there's a chance of full frontal nudity …

I registered a displacement of air and a weight landed beside me.

‘Jeez, you're cutting it – ' I began, turning back, but instead of Oliver's full moon visage I was face to face with Grainne McCumhaill.

‘I take it there's no one sitting here,' she said, pulling off her beret and arranging herself.

‘There is now,' I replied with a phoney grin.

Not a flicker.

‘I didn't know you were a theatre fan.'

‘Just doing my cultural duty,' I chirped. Bloody Oliver.

Opening her programme, she began intoning in a low voice. Was she reading aloud or cursing me in medieval Irish? I couldn't tell. The house lights were doused and the narcissistic din was replaced by a diminuendo of rustling and coughing.

‘Do me a favour,' I whispered to McCumhaill. ‘Wake me up if there's any nudity.'

Even in the darkness I could feel the sting of her glare.

There was silence as the curtains parted and then a fusillade of lager cans detonated along the front row where Mad Dog had installed his friends and family. Onstage, illuminated only by the grey-blue strobe of a television set, a bear-like, tattooed man in a vest was slumped in an armchair. He had a cigarette clamped beneath the crow's wing of his moustache and he sported a classic ‘Weeping Willow' (a cheer of recognition erupted at the front). He seemed to be getting upset at something someone was saying onscreen. He argued with the voice for a while, then started to swear. Very angry. He hunched forward in his chair, his face a kabuki mask of fury. At last he grasped the heavy glass ashtray he was using and flung it at the TV which, after a few uncertain seconds, exploded and gave off copious smoke. At this point, a handsome, sleep-deprived woman in a fraying housecoat entered stage right and remonstrated with the man. They fought. The lights went down. In the next scene they began slogging through a gruelling passive-aggressive breakfast … I nodded off.

At the interval I met Winks at the bar.

‘Well Stanford, what do you think?'

He grimaced.

‘Isn't it ghastly?' he groaned. ‘I can't believe – Hi Tristan!'

Quigley had appeared in front of us, quivering like an unweaned fawn.

‘Well Stanford, what do you think?'

‘Tristan, it's an absolute triumph. A tour-de-force.'

‘Oh thank God you like it. What about you Artie?'

‘Tristan, I can honestly say I was transported.'

‘Just wait till you see the finale!' he cried, his eyes shining. ‘Oh look, there's the author …'

He shimmied into the crowd. Winks blanched and took a hungry pull on his gin & tonic.

‘Don't worry Stanford,' I said. ‘You've given him what he wanted. You're in the clear.'

‘I bloody hope so,' he replied with a shudder.

We resumed our places and the second act got under way with a clever split-stage device whereby we could see the reactions of the man as he listened in on his wife making mysterious telephone calls. He then went down the pub and voiced his suspicions to a friend, portrayed by Barney, somewhat incongruously, as a Sobranie-smoking sophisticate. This tragedy of errors continued until once again I succumbed to sleep.

Sure enough, I was jolted awake by the sound of gunshots, opening my eyes just in time to see a pair of blood-streaked female legs being dragged out of sight stage left. In the next scene, the man was again deep in his armchair. He seemed depressed. Then the phone rang and he had a conversation that appeared to clear everything up. Whatever it was that had resulted in the destruction of his wife's kneecaps, it was a big misunderstanding: she'd only been having an affair! (With the Barney character, as it turned out.) The man was laughing now, up and prancing and punching the air.

Cue music: spangling guitar over a frisky high-hat. The whole cast scuttling back onstage to sing the title track. To my horror, the audience began climbing to its feet. Participation! The front row was belting out the lyrics. It was contagious, and soon everyone was at it – even McCumhaill, who was bopping from side to side waving her beret in the air. It crossed my mind that she might try to embrace me and I cast around for an escape route, but the aisle was packed now too. I was caught in a trap! I couldn't walk out!

We hit the chorus, a key change that took an unexpectedly heavy toll on the collective vocal chords. The place was throbbing with bodyheat. Much to the delight of the punters at the front the leading man was attempting an ungainly Elvis impersonation. Then, at the back of the stage, his wife appeared, on crutches, inching forward, blinking in the spotlight. Faces around me began to crumple. People were openly sobbing. I watched through the protective cage of my own clawed fingers as she struggled towards us, wobbly on her shattered pins, gurning a spectrum of emotions … The noise, through
nine
curtain calls, was almost unbearable.

 

*

 

As soon as I walked in I knew something was wrong: Oliver's features were an even whiter shade of pale than usual and a half-eaten Snapjack lay abandoned by the phone.

‘Winksie's been on the blower,' he reported. ‘We got trouble.'

I sat down. What now?

‘Okay, let me have it.'

It transpired there had been an early morning meeting up on the hill at which The Hawk had shared the results of his latest brainstorming session. Of these, the highest priority was a plan to expose schoolchildren and other innocent members of the community to real live poets in, what was described in Council-speak, as ‘a bid to demystify the creative process'. Unfortunately, so impressed was he by what had been showcased in the latest
Lyre
, The Hawk wanted Tyrone Dunseverick to ‘spearhead the initiative'.

‘Holy shit. What did you tell him?' I asked.

‘Well I said it was most unlikely,' Oliver stammered. ‘I said Tyrone was a very private person …'

‘Yes, and?'

‘Who probably didn't like children …'

‘Righ-hht. And?'

‘And that he didn't even live here.'

‘Good. Hang on, what? Where did you say he lived?'

‘Um … Tyrone.'

I stared at him.

‘You said Tyrone lived in … Tyrone?'

‘He was yapping at me. I was flustered.'

‘And what did he say?'

‘He said the Council would pay travel expenses.'

I thought for a few minutes. Oliver did a bit of pacing.

‘Well, it's quite straightforward,' I said. ‘We'll just have to tell him no. We'll just say Tyrone is deeply focused on writing new stuff and he can't possibly waste time going around the country explaining himself to pesky kids …'

I rang Winks and apprised him of the situation. He understood completely.

‘There,' I said. ‘That's that. Another crisis dealt with. Now, let's get the kettle on.'

We selected some books and settled to a little light forging.

Ten minutes later the phone rang. It was Winks again.

‘Listen Artie, I've just been up to see The Hawk and I told him what you said …'

‘Right.'

‘And he's not having it.'

‘Pardon?'

‘I'm afraid no isn't an option on this one.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘He wants Dunseverick.'

I took a deep breath.

‘Well he can't have him. You'll have to get someone else.'

‘He doesn't want anyone else.'

‘What's so special about Dunseverick?'

‘You want my opinion? I think he detects real fresh potential in him, and you know he's got a crazy idea about some kind of poetry …
renaissance
here? A second wave of heavyweights? I think he might just see your man as the catalyst he's been waiting for … Just a theory.'

‘Well, it's not happening.'

‘Artie, he's insisting.'

‘He can't make him.'

‘No, but he can make you.'

Not for the first time in recent weeks did I find myself opening my mouth without any words to vocalise.

‘You're not without charm Artie,' Winks said. ‘I'm confident you can persuade him. I'll send over the dates and venues shortly.'

A crisp click on the line marked the end of the conversation.

 

‘We could kill him.'

‘For Godsake don't start
that
again.'

‘I don't mean The Hawk. I mean Tyrone.'

We were back in Betjeman's, in our favourite snug near the side entrance, the pints in front of us barely touched.

‘We can't. In all likelihood we're going to need him for the next issue,' I pointed out.

‘Oh yeah. Forgot about that.'

The door to the street was still open, despite the autumnal chill, and an intermittent breeze was depositing scraps of litter in the vestibule with a dry tinkling sound.

‘I hate to admit it,' I said. ‘But we could be well and truly snookered here.'

We lapsed again into morose silence. The previous day's jubilation in this same booth now seemed cruelly fleeting. Why did everything have to be so difficult all of a sudden? From our cubicle I could see the usual afternoon drowsers on their stools at the bar (most of the lunchtime trade had drifted back to work) and they looked as though they hadn't a care in the world. A radio that had been talking to itself in the background cleared its throat and began to get excited about the three-thirty at Lingfield, stirring a couple of them into an upright position. Two men entered, one of them calling for drinks, the other glancing idly around the interior. He made eye contact and raised a hand in greeting. It was Barney. I waved back.

‘Who was that?' asked Oliver.

‘Wee Barney.'

‘Who?'

‘Winksie's partner. You know, the actor?'

‘Never met him.'

‘Man of few words.'

The race started and quickly hit its stride, the commentator keeping pace with evangelical fluency, holding the narcoleptics spell-bound. The barman too, stood in reverential hush, polishing the whiskey glass in his hand to brilliance while the incantation built towards climax. Then the final furlong, the men hunched, heads cocked, one of them using his folded tabloid as a crop to pound the side of the counter ‘… 
And it's Cyrano de Bergerac by a nose
 …' Explosive swearing. The barman guffawed and turned towards the optics.

‘You know,' Oliver said. ‘I've been thinking.'

‘What have you been thinking?'

‘Well …' He faltered.

‘Go on.'

‘We invented this Tyrone character on paper. Out of nowhere …'

‘Yes?'

‘Well, I'm wondering … What's to stop us inventing him in the flesh as well?'

‘I'm not sure I'm with you.'

He was looking at me intently. I could see the thought process occurring live in his face, like clouds moving beneath his yoghurt-coloured skin.

‘Why don't we get someone to
be
Tyrone Dunseverick?'

‘To be … Tyrone Dunseverick?'

‘Yes.'

‘You mean like … an actor?'

‘Yes.'

I took a gulp of my stagnating stout; wiped away the yellowing foam. Oliver was staring at me with shiny, expectant eyes. Was this a viable idea? Could it be done? Could we do it? Could we get away with it?

‘No. We'd never get away with it.'

‘Why not?'

I thought for a minute.

‘For a start, this is a small town. Everyone knows everyone else. Especially in the theatre world.'

Oliver issued a hiss half way between a derisive titter and a weary sigh.

‘Have you never heard of make-up? The ancient art of disguise?'

He leant back and rested his arms, crucifixion-fashion, along the seat ledge, watching my reaction. I practised a musical scale on the table top. Had he actually got something here?

‘I'm still not sure it could work,' I said.

‘Why not?'

‘Because it would require absolute confidentiality and I'm not sure that's something human beings are capable of.'

‘Wouldn't that depend on how much they needed the cash?'

The door to the snug squeaked open and a newspaper was thrust into view. I took it and pressed a coin into the hovering flytrap of fingers.

‘I suppose that might be a factor … Okay, say we could actually swear someone to secrecy, who would it be?'

‘What about wee Barney?'

This was typical of Oliver: have one bright idea and immediately sabotage its credibility with a half-baked follow-up.

‘Do I really need to tell you why not? For one thing he lives with Stanford Winks, for another, he's probably not in urgent need of dosh. No, what we need is an impoverished unknown.'

‘Who has no scruples.'

‘Precisely. Although they wouldn't necessarily need to know the full story.' Despite myself, I was warming to this scheme.

I began flicking through the paper. The usual blend of shove-ha'penny politics and provincial feel-good. On page five, I noted, ‘Lovely Linda from Limavady' was pleased with her Harvest Fayre pumpkins. Insanely so, judging by the photograph. A phrase popped into my head and began repeating itself.
Lovely lemon liniment … Lovely
 …

‘You know what?'

‘What?' Oliver was groping abstractedly at his doughey jowls as though he'd just discovered them.