by Tara Basi
“He’s completely mad,” Madge announced as we headed back to the bus stop and our next appointment. “It’s a waste of time charity wise but good material for the film.”
“You want me to organise a charity challenge for a secret cause, even though you just told me what it’s for?” Mr McTater asked while wiping his bloody hands on his butcher’s apron.
“Exactly right Mr McTater. We need as much money as you can raise by next week at the latest, and for you to send it all to Mr Singh,” I answered.
“And it’s got to be a real challenge, something exciting to put in the film,” Madge quickly added.
“Why’re you sending his dad to Berlin on holiday?” McTater asked suspiciously, or so it seemed to me.
“He likes sauerkraut and beer,” I quickly improvised. I’d picked Berlin because it sounded very expensive.
“Lucky for you I got a cousin with a B&B in Berlin and an uncle who runs coaches all over Germany. Do a whole week for the three of them for less than £500,” McTater explained with a broad smile.
“Fantastic, really great,” I replied, trying to smile while thinking I should have said Bobby’s dad wanted to go to Sydney.
“And of course it’ll have to involve meat,” McTater mysteriously added.
“Meat? Like sandwiches for the trip?” I quizzed.
“No boy, the challenge, has to involve flesh,” McTater continued. He picked up a particularly large liver from his butcher’s chopping block and squeezed it affectionately.
“Time to go,” Madge whispered and we quietly left leaving McTater staring at the liver as though searching for inspiration.
“You’re barred boy, you little tease. You… illiterate… dyslexic, get out,” Mr Dicklightly lisped angrily from behind the counter in his book shop.
“Please Mr Dicklightly, it’s for charity, it’s for Bobby’s dad,” I pleaded, knowing Mr Dicklightly was probably one of the richest people on the island. He was always off on some holiday to Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand or such like. He’d probably come up with an expensive place to send Bobby’s family.
“I’m not interested in anything connected with you. What’s your little strumpet doing?” Dicklightly said, suddenly noticing Madge and her camera. “I’m making a documentary about the whole thing, you big tart,” Madge answered defiantly.
“A film? I’ll be in a film, you should have said. Can we start over?” Dicklightly squealed and rushed upstairs. Madge looked at me and I shrugged. Ten minutes later, just out of sight, Mr Dicklightly screeched at us from the top of stairs.
“Is the camera on? Turn it on, turn it on!”
The he stepped dramatically into view with a big flourish of his arms, just like a magician’s assistant after a big trick. I noticed that his hands kept flourishing even when his arms had stopped moving. He looked very nice. He was dressed in some sort of blue and white sailor’s outfit, with a little white hat balanced on his head and a silky pink scarf around his neck. I think he had lipstick on.
“It’s on you daft old queen,” Madge hissed.
“Hello lovely boy, I hear you want me to help with some charity thing, which obviously I will. Tell me all about it,” Dicklightly sort of sang while staring intently at Madge’s camera and dancing down the stairs.
It was quite difficult explaining everything to Mr Dicklightly. He would only look into Madge’s camera, and he changed his expression in seemingly random ways unconnected with what we were talking about.
“Yes an event, a landmark event,” Dicklightly suggested after he’d grasped the three principles of not mentioning Bobby, getting the money by next week and sending it to Mr Singh.
“Or, you could just give us a huge donation. Your idea of sending them to San Francisco is a great one by the way, but I guess it’s very expensive?” I added, hopeful on both counts.
“I’m broke I’m afraid, I have expensive tastes. But San Francisco is very reasonable, there’s cheap flights and they can stay at the YMCA, I always do. £800 max should cover it. Now be gone lovely children I must give the event some thought,” Dicklightly explained as he ushered us out of his bookshop, all the while smiling crazily into Madge’s camera.
“I’ve got to go home, it’s late and the camera’s battery’s almost flat,” Madge announced as she turned away to head off home.
“OK, sure, I’m gonna write some begging letters tonight, I’ll see you at Mr Singh’s Café Tent tomorrow morning,” I called after Madge as she waved goodbye over her shoulder. No kiss today then and still only the one so far.
“How much we got Mr Singh?” I asked after posting my begging letters.
“Account only opened yesterday boy, what you expecting, miracle? Take passbook and leaflet, tells you everything.”
I eagerly opened the little green book to find one entry for my £25, and that was it. Still, it was early days, and there was nearly a whole two weeks left. The leaflet told me everything there was to know about telephone banking. The main thing was I could ring up anytime and get the balance and it was a Freephone number. So I spent the next 10 minutes ringing up the bank from the payphone in the shop while I waited for Madge. My balance sounded bigger when some posh woman said, “Your current balance is £25, that is two five pounds only. Press 1 to repeat this message, 2 to buy pet insurance, or 3 if you’re having difficulties with this service.” After hearing my unchanging balance for the tenth time and not having a pet, I thought I’d try option 3.
“This is our simplest electronic banking service and has been officially certified as completely idiot proof. Your IQ may fall below the minimum levels required to operate this facility and you may be in danger of injuring yourself by handling a telephone unsupervised. Hang up immediately and seek psychiatric help.” That’s a cool message, I thought. With a little tinkering it could be used in any number of uncomfortable social situations when you didn’t know what to say. Before I could take that thought much further Madge arrived.
“Terry, before we do anything else you have to tell me about the letters,” Madge ordered as she switched on her camera.
“I’ve got to have my CAC first.”
“For goodness sake. OK, get me a skinny CAC. I’ll be in the tent.”
With a hot CAC to sip on and comfortably settled in the comfy tent I told Madge all about the letters while she filmed.
“One letter was to Mr Crumb. You remember him, he ran the Post Office before Mr Singh and did something for the EU. Anyway while doing Global Warming Bobby got him a fantastic deal for his swamp-bog plot when the EU bought it to protect the Vampire Rat. So, maybe, he might want to contribute. Then I wrote to Maria, you remember her, the novice nun Bobby had a real crush on. I suggested she might want to organise a charity pole dance or something for Bobby. The last letter was to the Brainchewers, asking if they could organise a benefit concert and do a heavy metal cover of that Beyoncé song about putting a ring through it or something. Anyway it’s one of Bobby’s favourites. Worth a try, I thought.”
“You’re very sweet,” Madge said and then kissed me on the cheek. I’d had two, two kisses, wow. Still enjoying my after kiss glow like one of those TV breakfast kids we set off to see the next person on my list.
“Dimple, it’s crazy boy, and crazy girl,” Mummy-ji shouted out of the side of her mouth without taking her eyes off me and Madge.
“Terry and the fighting girl, what’s up?” Dimple asked. She looked very slim and pretty in a maroon trouser suit.
It took a while to explain what we wanted, but eventually Dimple and Mummy-ji understood.
“Harley Street, that’s the place. Very special, people go, get cured of everything all the time,” Mummy-ji announced, finally deciding which was the best place for Bobby’s dad to go.
“Sounds expensive,” I hopefully suggested.
“Thousands and thousands, if you go to London,” Dimple answered, which was very encouraging.
“So, that’s impossible, he go Dundee. My cousin runs Harley Street super
very alternative health centre. Acupuncture, leeches, pure ghee massage, tandoor deep heat treatment, special chilli yoghurt enema, everything else and a B&B. So, family can see Dundee sights while Bobby’s dad gets treatments,” Mummy-ji concluded, with a big smile and a swish of her shawl over her shoulder.
“Shouldn’t we also think about the Harley Street London option,” I ventured, timidly guessing Dundee was not going to be hugely expensive.
“You racist? Harley Street Dundee just as good as Harley Street London, you ask anybody, anybody. Ask me,” Mummy-ji concluded quite firmly, leaving little doubt what her answer would be if I asked.
“That’s great, so we’ve got a lovely destination, how much will we need to raise?” I asked, guessing it was better to admit defeat and get something for Bobby instead of just the door slammed in my face.
“He too sick for bike so has to be expensive coach and guess you want deluxe B&B room with toilet, so we need lots and lots, £200 I think. So much money,” Mummy-ji calculated slowly using her fingers while staring at the ceiling. She ended up looking very sad, as though it would be quite impossible to raise such a huge sum.
“We’ll do it Mummy-ji, we’ll put on a fantastic show. Uncle can sell special tandoori chicken feet during interval. It’ll be called… A Star Is Born. Again! Starring the legendary dancing fitness coach, Dimple. And you, crazy punchy girl, you can put the whole show in your little film,” Dimple shouted, while jumping up and down and waving her arms about wildly.
“Great, just send all the money to your uncle. Bye for now, we’ll see you at the show,” I said, pleased that we had another money raising event organised. Time for our last appointment.
“Where are you going? You have to direct, like last time,” Dimple screamed, obviously still over excited. “You’re very good, it was a great success. Brilliant idea to go at super speed.”
“Actually I’m really busy at the moment Dimple. But Madge will be there to film the show, and I’m sure there are lots of better directors than me around. How about Mummy-ji?” I suggested while trying to back slowly away. Dimple’s face screwed right up, she folded her arms across her chest, opened her mouth and screamed, like she’d swallowed an air-raid siren. Nobody moved. Me and Madge tried to cover our ears while Mummy-ji seemed to ignore the noise and just glowered at me.
“Dimple gets what Dimple wants if little boy has any sense and wants money for his friend,” Mummy-ji said when Dimple finally fell silent.
“Sure, no problem, I’ll direct. But I can’t start till tomorrow, there’s something I have to do today.”
“You’re such a lovely little boy. Tomorrow’s good, today I shall meditate and prepare, like Madonna does, with 1000 mystic push-ups,” Dimple announced with a huge beaming smile as Mummy-ji slammed the door shut. With Dimple semi-sorted we rushed onward to our last appointment with Mr McFont, the Editor of the daily Small Island International Vanity Times.
Mr Mcfont listened quietly while I explained all about our Bobby charity mission.
“I can see a bit of a problem. You expect people to just handover their money to a charity for an unknown cause?” McFont asked incredulously.
“Yep, what’s wrong with that? People give money to the government without knowing anything about what’s going to happen to it,” I answered confidently, having heard Mr Singh lament the evils of the government’s tax for lazy people who sponged. Though I wasn’t sure what they sponged.
“Listen boy, if somebody came up to you in the playground and demanded money, what would you say?” Mr McFont continued, still unconvinced.
“Take everything, just don’t grate my nipples,” I stammered instinctively as I was suddenly back in the playground in the days before Madge had hung up her cheese grater forever. I noticed Madge had stopped filming and was sheepishly staring at her feet.
“What? You barmy kid, no one’s going to just give you money if they don’t know what it’s for. You could be collecting for something completely mad like bringing a nuclear waste reprocessing plant to the island,” Mr McFont explained, still not buying our mystery charity idea.
“We tried that once,” I mumbled, remembering Bobby’s scheme to bring Global Warming permanently to our little island.
“What did you just say?” McFont blurted out in surprise, obviously not believing what I’d just said.
“The nuns are helping,” I answered defiantly, though I did see Mr McFont had a point. Would anybody give us any money if they didn’t know what it was for?
“Why didn’t you say so? If you could get Mother Superior to endorse Charity X, that would make all the difference,” Mr McFont answered with a sly smile, suddenly taking our idea a little more seriously.
“So you’ll give us some money?” I asked, pouncing on the opportunity.
“Better than money boy, publicity,” Mr McFont answered, looking very pleased with himself.
“I think I’d prefer money.”
“OK, OK. How about a special charity edition of the Vanity with a pull-out guide to all the events? Plus a foreword by the Mother Superior, at only £1.20p, all proceeds to Charity X, asterisk,” McFont grandly proposed, making quote signs with his fingers when he said the word ‘asterisk’.
“Wow, we’ll get a quid for every copy sold,” I figured, knowing the Vanity normally sold for 20p.
“Pretty much, less of course, the ‘asterisk’,” Mr McFont added without explaining anything.
“How much is that?” I asked hoping it wouldn’t be a quid.
“Market price,” Mr McFont explained without adding anything to my understanding, He was good.
“What?”
“Boy, do you want a high quality, glossy, full colour pull-out charity guide, or something you wouldn’t even wipe your bum on?” Mr McFont added, making the situation a little clearer.
“Non-bum wipe version, please,” I answered decisively, though in my own mind the question of what made the best bum-wipe was not so clear cut. Once I’d tried wiping my bum on glossy magazine cover when we’d run out of toilet paper at home and it wasn’t a happy experience.
“Exactly. Right, so I need a 500 word foreword from Mother Superior and details of all the charity events, with pictures, by 4pm tomorrow. We need to hit the print run and be in the shops on Friday morning in plenty of time for the weekend, which is when I assume all this kicks off,” Mr McFont declared, already ushering us out the door.
Outside it suddenly struck me that I had to direct Dimple’s extravaganza tomorrow; get around to see McStrumpy, McTater, and Dicklightly, find out the what, when and where of their events; write it all up; track down Mother Superior and get her 500 words; and get photographs of everyone involved and all before 4pm tomorrow. I suddenly felt very faint, cold and sweaty. I slumped down on the ground with my back against Mr McFont’s door breathing raggedly. Luckily Madge noticed my subtle signs of stress.
“Look, you get Dimple to do her show on Saturday night,” Madge explained calmly. “I’ll get the other three old farts to work around that so nothing clashes and everybody can go to every event.”
“Oh, yes, good idea,” I whispered, still clutching my chest but breathing a little easier.
“And, you go see Mother Superior, tell her about the 500 words for Charity X, I like that name by the way, and I’ll collect it tomorrow for McFont. Then, all you have to do is direct the Dimple show. Easy peasy,” Madge pronounced, which comforted me less as it still seemed an awful lot for me to do. My chest started thumping again and it felt as if someone had put a plastic bag back over my head.
Madge rushed off towards Dicklightly’s book shop to catch him before it closed. I dragged myself to my feet and stumbled towards the church hoping to catch Mother Superior before the 6pm mass.
“Clever boy,” Mother Superior responded cheerfully to my breathless explanation of events so far in the Charity X saga. “A Vanity Times charity special, what a good idea. Tell Madge she can collect my piece for Mr McFont tomorrow morning, just bef
ore 6am mass.”
I didn’t know what was scarier, telling Madge what time she had to be up tomorrow or directing Dimple. It seemed evenly balanced, both tasks were terrifying.
Dimple stood at the front of the church hall stage. To her left and right were freestanding clothes rails jam packed full of colourful outfits.
“You’ve got a lot of outfits, Dimple,” I couldn’t help observing. I wondered how one person could possible need so many clothes for their whole life, never mind a ninety minute show.
“Small selection. Mummy-ji’s been buying for wedding since I was born and now they actually fit me,” Dimple replied casually.
“Oh, good, so, any thoughts on the show? Still going for A Star Is Born, Again?” I asked. I was bemused by the idea of wedding plans with no groom in sight, though lately Dimple had been attracting a lot more male attention. Even I’d noticed she had developed nicer lady bumps and matching thinner bits. Though of course I was virtually engaged to Madge and so wasn’t the slightest bit interested, well maybe the very slightest. Thinking about Madge made me sad; I hadn’t told her about my news. I’d probably never see her again after Christmas.
“Change of plan, we’ll be doing a show inspired by Slumdog,” Dimple shouted, then twirled and squealed.
“Who dog?”
“Like the film, you know. It’ll be a musical version with small changes. Obviously we’ll reverse the sex of the main roles, you’ll play the paralysed deaf dumb and blind boyfriend who’s not involved very much at all. I’ll play the heroic game contestant fighting off gangsters to a pounding beat, in many different costumes each more fabulous that the one before,” Dimple explained while waving her arms about.
“You want me to be in it, and direct?” I whispered in shock, wondering how I was going fit everything in. I still had so much to do: raffle tickets to sell; carol singing; making sure McStrumpy stayed sober; McTater didn’t do anything cannibalistic and Mr Dicklightly didn’t get arrested, well, not at least until we’d collected the money.
