by Tara Basi
I breathed a sigh of relief as a satisfied Tony headed off home.
“What did you just tell Tony?” Madge demanded.
George and the rest of the cast were huddled behind her, eagerly waiting to hear what secrets I had to tell. I had no choice but to tell them what I’d just told Tony. Only the details of Bobby’s performance were left to sort out.
“So Bobby, you’re OK with going on at 6pm Friday? Exactly how long do you think you’ll need?” I shouted through the broom cupboard keyhole.
“An evening start is in keeping with the solemnity of the material but this is art Terry, not science. It will take as long as it takes,” Bobby unhelpfully replied.
“Sure, but Mr Jones needs to know when he can lock up and we have to organise interval nibbles,” I persisted.
“How tiresome. Very well, I suggest we plan an interval at around 9pm for 15 minutes and I would expect, after encores and curtain calls, to finish around midnight,” Bobby informed me with some reluctance.
Come Friday Mr Jones was going to have to lock and barricade the church hall doors just before 4pm and not open them again till Bobby had finished. It would be awful if people managed to escape while Bobby was in full flow.
All too soon it was Tuesday, time for Dimple’s first rehearsal. “Gosh Dimple, you look nice, lots of gold and red, lots of cloth but I think you’ve cut your forehead, shaving?” I called out in greeting.
“It’s a bindi you idiot! Here’s the music CD, start it when I tell you,” was Dimple’s curt response.
“Sure Dimple, could you tell me roughly how long your delightful show will last?” I inquired tentatively, still worried that Mr Singh might pull out if Dimple went all Amy Whine-House on me, but Mr Singh was surprisingly supportive about limiting Dimple’s exposure.
“Four to six hours, but it can be longer. Anyway, why are you asking little boy?”
“Ah, well, urm, you see, there’s a health and safety issue. Musical acts can’t be longer than 45 minutes. It weakens the roof. It’s a grade 7 listed roof, did you know that? Historical significance etc.”
“What, that’s impossible! Mummy-ji tell this stupid boy I need at least four hours,” Dimple screamed.
“We’ll see what your Uncle-ji has to say about this,” Mrs Mummy-ji was already stabbing at her phone. “What do you mean it’s true? Dimple’s talents can’t be squeezed into 45 minutes. What do you mean that’s not all she can’t squeeze into? Less than an hour is an insult, we won’t do it,” were Mrs Mummy-ji’s last words as she violently hung up.
“Come Dimple we’re leaving,” Mrs Mummy-ji growled at me as she grabbed her daughter’s hand and headed for the door. Mummy-ji didn’t get far and nearly wrenched her own arm off as Dimple remained solidly rooted to the floor, unmoved and deep in thought.
“No Mummy-ji, this is my big chance! I’ll do it. I’ll just do it faster. Stupid boy, can you play the music faster, about five times faster?” Dimple asked as she poked me in the chest with a long red fingernail.
Apparently it could be played faster and so we started the rehearsal. I nearly fainted from exhaustion just watching. Dimple screeched dementedly and careened around the stage like she was herding invisible cats for exactly 45 minutes. Her clothes and hair were soaked in sweat and she could hardly speak when she finally stopped.
“Mummy-ji, OK?” Dimple panted.
Mrs Mummy-ji was staring, open mouthed, unable to speak. She just nodded very slowly.
“Fantastic performance, absolutely no need for any further rehearsals! So, you’ll be on at exactly 5pm on Friday and I’ll blow the whistle at 5:45pm,” I shouted over my furious clapping.
Come Friday the whole island was at fever pitch. They’d been starved of any kind of entertainment for two weeks, apart from sheep shows. They were desperate. I just hoped they were desperate enough. Our church hall tended to be monopolised by crazy cults and rarely visited by normal people, except when there was a wedding reception, which didn’t happen that often after the nuns discovered Mr Jones was a Mormon-Quaker who was hooked on wedding receptions, and was happy to have one every month with or without a bride. The main church hall fanatics were the jam ladies. It had started off as a simple monthly Best Small Island Jam Competition, but had evolved into an Ultra-Smack-Down-World-Domination Jam Raw Death Match event every first Tuesday in the month. The old ladies would wrestle each other for the best fruit one month and then have the Tasty Jam Ultimate Tasting the following month. With the lack of TV the jam events should have sold out but the old ladies did it naked and folk hadn’t got quite that desperate. The church hall was about four times as big as our assembly hall. It was down by the old fishing docks and was originally a repair shed for the trawlers. The smell of cod gut and diesel still lingered, but was now mixed up with old lady sweat, jam and rancid wedding cake. The stage at the front was a simple raised platform; there were no curtains, just some spotlights hanging from the manky ceiling. The performers would be coming in through the back door and have to climb up on to the back of the stage and then leave the same way. Mr Jones worked a little control panel from the back of the stage for the lights and the music. There was not a lot of working for Mr Jones to do. During the early rehearsals he would set things off then run round the front to watch. He soon decided that was a bad idea and ended up staying at the back, ears stuffed with wax catching up on his flossing. Unusually, Mr Jones didn’t just floss between his teeth: he’d extended the technique to many other parts of his anatomy. One horrible afternoon I went round the back to ask him something and found him flossing between his toes. After that I couldn’t stop picturing where else he might be flossing for a long while afterwards.
By 3:30pm our excited audience, dressed in their Sunday best, started to trickle into the church hall. By 3.45pm the trickle was a flood. It was “a sell-out,” Mr Singh told me with some glee, as he set-up his food and beverage stall at the back of the hall. Everyone had even agreed to the returnable deposit if they stayed to the end of the show. I just couldn’t bear the idea of our audience dismantling the barricades to escape before Bobby even got started. The boy had really worked hard on his preparation; he’d even taken his meals in the broom cupboard.
Time to get this show on the unpaved rocky road that is show-biz. I walked to the front of the stage. “Everyone, thank you, thank you, just some admin before we get started. Fire safety regulations require that the doors be locked, bolted and barricaded; they’ll be opened again at the end of the show. King Singh and the Nuns are Alive to the Sound of Music is presented in three parts. We’ll start with the Smack Down introduction, then Crazy Cat and to finish, Lear! A single blow from my Bay Watch whistle will be the kick off and a second blast will signal the end of each bit, or an interval; a tinkle from my old cycle bell is the end of the interval. Have fun and remember your £10 deposit will only be returned if you stay to the end of the show.”
Having got the preliminaries out of the way, I signalled Mr Jones to kick off his background music suggestion for Smack Down, the Swastika Eyes CD by Primal Scream, checked the time, and blew my whistle.
As I got ready to blow my whistle for the end of Smack Down it was the lovely Madge who’d fought her way to the very front of the stage. She was wearing a cardboard crown, tin foil armour and a big cape made out of old blue curtains, all badly tattered and scrunched by the end. Moments before I’d watched Madge stomp proudly across Tony’s prostrate body heading for the very front of the stage, pushing aside the fallen masses, and screaming, “Croissants, Croissants, Sacre Bleu!” The best part was seeing Tony and George crushed. They hadn’t stood a chance. Within the first few minutes of the start they’d been swamped by a tide of charging bodies, desperate to be spotted. For the rest of the time the Power Two had just been trying to get up.
“That was interesting Terry,” Mother Superior said as she bit into her samosa. “It must have taken a long time to rehearse, such co-ordination and timing. And having Joan of Arc emerge victorious from t
he chaos was very clever. Inspirational line at the end, ‘Christus, Christus, Sacred Blood’. Well done.”
“Wasn’t my little Douglas just fantastic, and all that fake blood and stuff, very realistic,” mummy Douglas squealed.
“Inventive blend of music, dance and primitive song. Perhaps I’ve misjudged you, well done Terry,” the Choirmaster observed.
“What the hell was that? That’s no disco or dancing or anything. Just a lot of kids dressing up and fighting,” Mr Singh hissed.
“All the good bits are in the next part, really. How’s the t-shirt sales going?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“Selling lots and lots, it’s great. Are you sure we have to give the deposit back?”
“Yes Mr Singh, I believe we’ll have to before we’re done.”
To my surprise everyone rushed back to their seats as soon as I dinged my bell. I braced myself and blew the whistle for the start of Crazy Cat.
I imagined this was how storm chasers must feel when they got too close to a twister. At the end of Dimple’s frenzied rampage there was just stunned silence for a good minute and then Mr Singh and Mrs Mummy-ji went wild, whooping, screaming and clapping. Then everyone else seemed to get caught up in the moment and went clapping crazy.
“She must have lost 10 pounds. I’m signing up now before her aerobics class is full, out of the way Terry,” Mum said as she lunged into the crowd of women besieging Dimple.
“Exorcising evil through self-flagellation, I hadn’t expected that Terry, that was quite something,” Mother Superior said, as she ripped a piece out of her tandoori chicken leg.
With a dingle and a whistle it was Bobby’s turn. He walked onto the centre of the stage, carrying a tall stool in one hand, the play in the other. I looked around at our audience to check for any escape attempts but everyone looked happy enough as they nibbled on kebabs or sucked Kulfi lollies. Bobby looked very smart, dressed up in his Sunday suit, sat on the stool, alone in the centre of the stage bathed in a pool light. He stared straight ahead in silence for a moment and then he began. I couldn’t really concentrate in the beginning; I kept expecting screams of “Get off” or “Rubbish”, but the only sound was Bobby’s voice. After a little while I started to relax and concentrated on my friend’s show.
Sometimes he referred to the book but mostly he just spoke from memory. Bobby used his hands a bit but he never left the stool. I didn’t really understand all the words but they seemed to make sense anyway and at the end I felt really bad for poor Mr Lear.
Afterwards the clapping went on for a long time and no one wanted their deposit back.
“That so good, but very, very sad, such bad daughters, just like real,” Mr Singh sniffled as he packed up his empty stall.
“Terry, here, for you, less overheads,” said Mr Singh, pressing our share of the profit into my hands, “and a couple of King Singh and the Nuns are Alive with the Sound of Music tee-shirts. My gift.” With that Mr Singh wandered off into the night trying to hum Dimple’s soundtrack and sounding like a chipmunk on helium. I looked at my hands: a whole £5! We were rich.
When everyone had gone and it was just Bobby and me sitting on the edge of the stage I said, “That was beautiful Bobby, shame your dad was too sick to come. Hope he’s better soon.” Bobby turned his head and smiled but he didn’t say anything.
It was funny, but ever since his dad had got sick and stopped working he wouldn’t talk about him or discuss anything to do with my absentee dad troubles.
Chapter Eight – The Olympics
“I hate cod.”
“I didn’t think you were that interested in religion Terry,” Bobby dully replied.
“Not God, cod! Why do we have cod lessons every week? I know more about the cod’s sex life than my own egg fertilisation cycle, and young cod seem to have a lot more sex than we’re ever likely to. Unless I can seduce Madge with my version of the mating cod’s bladder dance, there’s no point! A bit like sports day, equally pointless,” I ranted, in part to try and break Bobby out of his lethargy. He’d been in the dumps for days, which was a bit weird considering his surprise triumph in last month’s King Singh show. Finally, Bobby stirred enough to speak.
“My Dad’s looking forward to it. And it’s traditional. It used to be the island’s main industry, cod fishing, back when cod in the sea outnumbered the frozen immigrants in Mr Singh’s Mexican fish fingers,” was Bobby’s limp response, followed by a long sigh.
“Your dad’s coming to a cod lesson?”
“Sports day, you idiot!”
“Why? We always lose, at everything. Anyway, I thought he was too sick. He couldn’t come to the King Singh, sorry, Lear show. Lucky your mum videoed it for him.”
“He’s in remission. Wants to see me doing well, just like in the show. It might be ages before he’ll be well enough to get out again,” Bobby sighed.
“Like an intermission? Anyway, that’s nice. So why’re you moaning, it’ll be great day out, lovely July weather at least, no chance of snow.”
“It’s not nice! The Protestants always humiliate us. We never win anything, you said so yourself. My dad’s got this idea I’m some sort of superstar. It’s going to be awful.”
It was true, just last year the Protestant kid in the wheelchair had won the high jump and that was our best event. Our conquerors came from the neighbouring big island. We got ferried over to them, or they came to us. This year we were at home. Strangely we did slightly better when we were seasick, but it made no real difference, we always got thrashed. Football, cricket, running, jumping, we hadn’t won one medal, one cup, nothing, ever.
“Well, maybe this year will be different, maybe we’ll come second or something,” I said, desperately trying to think of anything to cheer Bobby up.
“Second’s not good enough for my dad. We need a plan.”
Now Bobby was being completely unrealistic. We were a modern school, great at video games and all types of bullying. Organised sports were for organised kids. We were chaotic, free styling, couch-crisp types. The Protestants practiced, trained, and used complicated tactics, like teamwork. How could we possibly compete?
“We have a few weeks, if we could find a way to motivate the school, get in some training, throw in a few performance enhancing drugs and a little cheating we could win,” Bobby muttered to himself.
“Who cares about the school, shouldn’t you be concentrating on yourself?” I quizzed.
“My dad’s got it into his head I’m the head boy and captain of the sports team,” Bobby sheepishly replied.
“I guess you’ve got the brains to be a head boy, whatever that is, but you’re not seriously talking about us beating the Protestants, all of them in everything. You’re daft, sorry, double-daft!”
“Maybe not everything, but enough golds to win the day. There are only five events: long jump, high jump, 100m, 400m and 800m. We just have to win three.”
“But we haven’t won even one for thousands of years, and no one in the school is interested, apart from the nuns.”
“What did you say?”
“Thousands of years?”
“No, the nuns bit. That’s it. We can do this Terry, we can win.”
“You really think we could win Bobby,” Mother Superior whispered breathlessly, sounding like she was almost afraid to believe.
“It’s a question of motivation. A prize would help,” Bobby hinted, “a really, really good prize.”
“Well, we do have these new stainless steel rosaries we were saving for a special occasion,” Mother Superior offered.
“When was the last time we beat the Protestants?” Bobby quietly asked.
“Actually there’s no record of us ever having won. The Catholics have never ever beaten the Protestants,” Mother Superior sadly observed.
“Yet rosaries have always been on offer,” said Bobby pointedly.
“Bobby, I don’t want you to get the idea that we have anything against those nice Protestant boys or mind tha
t they sometimes sing rude things about the Pope when they win, which of course they always do, since they always win. No, we’re not annoyed or upset, it’s not about the winning, the Lutheran heresy or the jokes about our Papal Father. It’s just a sports day, an event for young people to let off steam and get some exercise. We don’t mind losing, all the time, at all. No, not at all. No. So, Bobby, hypothetically, what sort of prize do you think it would take for us to win just one of the events?”
“I think we understand each other Mother Superior, just leave it with me. I’ll get back to you,” Bobby replied.
I was organising the rumours and the trials for sports day. Soon everyone knew that this year there would be a fabulous prize for anyone who won an event, and if our school won the competition an unbelievably amazing prize for the whole team. Prizes of such enormity their names could not be spoken for security reasons.
“No one’s signing up for your stupid trials until we know exactly what the prizes are. Get it, dirt face?” Tony snapped, and Madge reinforced his point with a medium grade thump to my head.
It was working! They had shown the slightest interest. I rushed off to find Bobby and tell him the good news. He was in Mr Singh’s shop.
“More sponsorship! I’m not made of money little boy. Though, last time was good earnings,” Mr Singh was telling Bobby when I arrived.
“This will be bigger, Mr Singh, much bigger. Double the population, two islands. Once the Protestants taste your food you’ll be exporting vast quantities of nosh to that heathen land, maybe opening an offshore branch. Next stop London.” Bobby was in full flight.
Involving Mr Singh in sports day could get out of hand. What if he wanted to introduce his own events - throwing the chapati, vaulting the sacred cow? I was worried.
“So it’s agreed. We’ll wear the Singh sports togs supplied by you Mr Singh, plus you’ll have sole trading rights on the day and sponsor a fabulous prize for the winner of each event,” Bobby summarised for Mr Singh.
