Have you done any television? Is that why I am not hearing from you? You are involved in some epoch-defining saga that will be talked about for years to come? I actually had half a moment to myself last night and tried googling your name. Nothing much came up. For another half-moment I was a little worried. Surely, my good friend and favourite understudy hasn’t packed it all in. Surely, she hasn’t turned her back on the theatre and all those adoring fans just waiting for a glimpse of her talents. Or could it be that you have changed your name? Or haven’t been well? And now you are on the mend. Soon to be as good as new. Because on no accounts should someone with potential like yours call it a day. On no accounts! Tell me I’m wrong and I will refuse to attend the Academy Awards next February. What am I saying? With my schedule the way it is these days I’ll be lucky if I get to the airport. Oh my God! I almost forgot. My stalker. He turned up outside my gate last night. The creep actually pinged stones at my bedroom window. Luckily, Ennio was here. He wasn’t long sending Mr Creep packing. Now, please. Get in touch! If you don’t want to write, give me a call. Kiss, kiss. Bang, bang. You’re dead! Mel. x
This time she has attached the front-cover image of Total Film. And there she is. A slightly off-centre headshot captured in the smoky darkness. And a tagline that reads, All right, Mr Scorsese, I’m ready for my close-up. Well, bully for you, Imelda. It so happens I am expecting some exciting news myself. So, if you will completely pardon my French (or is it Italian?), kindly shove that potential like yours up your panini.
Downstairs, I am greeted with the announcement that mother has volunteered me to look after Little Juan for the day. Jennifer needs to travel to Dublin in order to administer a no-nonsense bollocking to someone at the Mexican Embassy who is holding up urgent documentation for her latest work contract. This bollocking, she feels, may also serve as tangible evidence as to the matter of her existence now that she has sourced the Mexican bank official in constant denial about her. At first, Jennifer seems reluctant to make the trip. Her throat is niggling her, she’s already been to see Doc Harper (of course she has). Then she considers taking Little Juan to Dublin with her. Mother encourages her to go alone, to leave Juan with us. Laura will entertain him. We both will. Off you go. It’s only one day. We’ll be fine.
‘Why don’t you take Juan to the circus?’ mother suggests after she has helped facilitate Jennifer’s departure.
‘What circus?’
‘What do you mean, what circus?’ she says, laughing. ‘You can practically see the tent from the front window.’
I go see and, like mother, allow myself a little laugh upon glimpsing part of the blue-and-white marquee. I am only too happy to spend some time with the little fellow. Of course we can go to the circus. We can visit the arcades, play the stalls, chomp candyfloss ’til it clogs up our ears. After all, this is going to be a good day, a momentous day, a day to remember. It is going to be the day I get to tell everyone that I’m back. Jennifer, I got the part. Mother, I am returning to the stage. Talk to me, Fleming, tell me some of these television ideas of yours. Play your cards right, I might even star in them. Most of all, I can’t wait for my next cemetery visit so as I can let daddy know. Already, I can see the press release I will read aloud for him.
Laura Cassidy to play Blanche DuBois
in Khaos Theatre production of Tennessee Williams classic
And maybe I should get in touch with Imelda. Let her know that she is right. I am all set for a significant moment in my career. Who knows? In the not-so-distant future she can expect some company over there in West End London. A rival for all those parts thrown at her. And, hey! Maybe the two of us will get to tread the boards together. Pit ourselves opposite each other. Wouldn’t that be interesting?
Yes, it will, Laura.
Yes, it most certainly will.
First things first, then. A day at the circus with the little man. Bright lights and good company. Not a bad combination when word from the theatre comes through. Not bad at all.
If his excited little face is anything to go by, Juan already knows all about the circus. As does Fleming, when I message him to meet up.
‘OK, little man,’ I say, making sure my phone is fully charged. ‘Off to the circus we go.’
*
We reach the bridge and I lift Juan onto the wall. Gripping the little fellow, I turn him towards the water and ease him into a sitting position. I point to the swans, some seabirds and to a Hooker making its way into open sea. I look about for Fleming. Presently I hear the familiar voice calling up at me from his back-to-the-wall perch.
‘Hello, Beggar,’ I say without looking down. ‘Today’s the day.’
‘Is it now?’
‘This time tomorrow you’ll be addressing a leading lady.’
‘And I hear Walt Disney is going to sail into the harbour with Donald Duck. Who’s the sprog?’
‘This little fellow?’ I say, as Juan starts vigorously scratching himself. ‘This is Juan. He belongs to my sister, Jennifer. She bought him at a flea market in Mexico.’
‘I once knew a woman from Portugal. Make him say something.’
‘He speaks in tongues, Beggar. Spanish. Gibberish. Other stuff.’
‘He’s met his match in you so.’
I look at the Beggar’s blackened hands, his scratched skin, his bitten nails. The tufty beard on him. The gone-to-hell-and-back teeth. Two men, suited and in a hurry, pass by. A woman wheeling a buggy. Someone drops a coin into his cap. I watch him reach out and claim it, hear him whisper a curse as he confirms its value.
‘How much do you make, Beggar?’
‘Mind your business.’
‘Little Juan here wants to know. Go on, tell us. How much do you make in a week? Not much, I’d say. Any time I’m on the bridge your cap is empty.’
‘Who are you looking in my cap? If you must know I used to be this town’s top-earning beggar.’
‘Isn’t it amazing how fortunes can so quickly turn around?’
‘Do me a favour, will you? Turn your head around to the water and amaze yourself somewhere else.’
I do as I am told. ‘Breathe in some of that sea air,’ I tell Juan. I inhale heavily for his benefit and he laughs and, draping my arms about him, I make a shield of my hands around my eyes and stare out over the bridge. To my left, a few terrorists mooch by the Arch. Clusters of youngsters sit on the grass near the quay. Pisser Kelly loiters. Seabirds screech. I look around for Fleming. The river roars its way into the harbour.
‘She’s in a bad mood today, Beggar.’
‘That one is always in a bad mood.’
‘If anyone should know, it’s you, Beggar.’
‘You should have heard her last night. And stop calling me Beggar.’
‘Someone goes in there they are not coming out. That’s what I think. Chew you up and spit out nothing.’
‘You just make sure you hold on to what you have,’ Beggar says, and I pretend-tickle Little Juan’s ribcage. He kicks up his feet and for his benefit I squawk like a frightened bird. He laughs, heartily.
Again, I face the surging water, grimy and petulant, roaring its way into the harbour, the waves ragged and every which way, with no clue as to the direction they should be taking. I watch them clash against each other mercilessly, the ferocious banter of them, the hell-to-pay bluster. Relentless they are and furious and individual, every lick without allegiance to the one coming before or after, every madcap rise looking for a way into carnage, every chop and charge part of a gathering storm.
A gull swoops low and close enough for Little Juan to see its unpitying face. It screeches right at him. I summon a matching glare and screech right back. Little Juan laughs some more. ‘Those seabirds are losing their minds,’ I tell him, and below me I hear Beggar’s phlegmy cough.
‘Yes, indeed. It has the makings of a wild one. What do you think, Beggar? Is it going to be a boy or a girl?’
‘I care less what they call it.’
‘I think we’re at
G. Storm Gloria has a good ring to it.’
‘Storm Gloria sounds like nothing more than a wheeze in a paper bag.’
‘Maybe not, Beggar. Tell you one thing, though. This wind is going to drive everybody mad.’
‘You’ll have company so.’
*
I have lifted Juan down from the bridge and am about to message Fleming again when I spot him coming towards us, his bobbing stride throwing him a few inches into the air.
‘Look who it is,’ he says, as soon as he reaches us, already crouching down in front of Juan.
‘Remember this crazyman?’ I tell the little fellow. ‘He’s going to hang around with us today. Is that OK with you?’
Fleming pokes Little Juan gently in the ribs. Little Juan grabs my hand and leans into my leg.
‘He’s a brave boy,’ Fleming says, now going for Little Juan with both hands as he chases after him around my legs.
‘Don’t mind me,’ I say, producing a rollie from my pocket while frisking myself for a lighter. By now, Juan is squealing with laughter,
‘So what do you say, little man?’ Fleming goes on, kneeling down again. ‘Fancy hanging out with your uncle Fleming for a few hours. Yes? Come on, then. What say you and me begin our adventure with a knickerbocker glory?’
Little Juan slaps his hand off Fleming’s, the two of them now the best of friends all over again.
‘Hey!’ I call after them. ‘Wait up.’
And here we are. Me holding Little Juan’s hand. Little Juan licking the ice cream Fleming has bought for him. Fleming providing a running commentary. The three of us strutting our stuff along the river walk. The sun has come out and I’m feeling pretty good about things. Working with my new director. Opening night at the Story House. And after that . . .
‘So, little man,’ Fleming says. ‘What do you like to do when you’re out and about? Catch a movie. Go to bars. There’s an exotic-dancing place that’s just opened up down near the harbour.’
Fleming mimes his way through his list of ideas and Little Juan grins and gives us a happy nod of his curly noggin.
We pause at Middle River and watch a lad in boxer shorts snorkelling in the not-so-deep water. He plummets and rises up and plummets again, each time taking a moment to inspect the coins he has swept off the riverbed. He then tosses them onto the pile steadily accumulating on the grassy bank. Thinking they might come in useful, when he dives again I reach down, grab a fistful of the liberated coins and pocket them. As though he cannot believe what he is seeing, Fleming covers his eyes with his hands. Little Juan laughs and copies him.
And we’re walking again.
A little further on fishermen cast their lines and hope for the best. Fleming coaxes Little Juan over to the riverside railings for a closer look. Jennifer messages from wherever she is. Hope you’re having fun. Still nothing from the theatre. Not to worry. It’s not even eleven o’clock.
‘Tell me something, little man,’ Fleming says, when we’re walking again. ‘What do you think of Laura’s chances? Do you think she’s got the chops? Is she convincing enough? You know. If you were the director, would you tell everyone else not to bother? Hello, everyone, and goodbye. The part is taken. Know what I mean? Aw, man! Don’t shake your head so vigorously.’
I take another roll-up out of my skirt pocket, light up, take a drag. Fleming pulls a doobie out of his shirt pocket, lights it and drags. ‘Hubba bubba,’ he says as two young women, high-heeled and miniskirted, walk towards us. One look at Little Juan and the pair of them are cooing and aahing and hunkering down to say hello.
‘Is he yours?’ Pink Miniskirt asks me.
‘He certainly is,’ I say, patting the little man’s curls.
‘He has your mouth,’ says Yellow Miniskirt.
‘So everyone says.’
‘But not your hair,’ she continues.
‘No. Definitely not that.’
‘Nor your colouring,’ the first one decides to contribute.
‘He gets his colouring from his father.’
‘He must be very striking.’
‘I’m the fairy godmother,’ Fleming says, dragging on his doobie.
The two women look at Fleming, then at each other. Then they return their attention to Juan. To milk the moment I pat the little fellow’s curls again.
‘What’s his name?’ asks Pink Miniskirt.
‘He has three names,’ I say. ‘When it’s sunny we call him Rafa, as in Raphael. When it’s wet we call him Paddy, as in Patrick.’
‘But mostly we just call him the Abomination,’ Fleming adds with a smirk.
The Miniskirts reach out their bangled arms and scold Fleming good-naturedly. They smile and coo and aah some more, and make some other strange-sounding noises that may even be words from another language.
‘This little fellow speaks Spanish,’ Fleming says.
‘Really,’ says Yellow Miniskirt.
‘I love Spanish,’ says the other.
‘Say something in Spanish for your new friends,’ I say.
I take a drag of my rollie and smile at the little fellow, basking in all the attention. To my surprise and to the delight of his admirers he even starts talking.
‘What’s he saying?’ asks Pink Miniskirt.
‘He’s saying you have the most supple lips I have ever seen and I want to leap inside your eyes,’ Fleming says. ‘He’s saying you two are the second and third most beautiful women in the whole world. He’s saying I am on cloud ten when I look at both of you.’
‘You mean cloud nine,’ says Yellow Miniskirt, reaching out again and squeezing Little Juan’s jaw.
‘No, he means cloud ten. Cloud nine is for another woman,’ Fleming says.
‘What’s he really saying?’ ask both Miniskirts at more or less the same time.
I shrug my shoulder and let Little Juan talk away. He’s probably telling them all about how he hasn’t had anything proper to eat since breakfast and about the unpredictable woman he has landed himself with and to cap it all she has been joined by a doobie-toking non-stop-talking madman while his woe-is-me mother gets to swan around in Dublin for the day.
‘Well. Do you want to buy him off me?’ I ask the Miniskirts. ‘An hour in this fellow’s company and it’ll be like you’ve known each other all your lives.’
But they’ve had enough of Fleming and me. They pat Little Juan, toss his curls and one last time solicit another of his irresistible grins. My phone goes off. I’m convinced it’s Khaos, calling with the news, and I am about to answer when I see that it’s my darling sister. No doubt it has hit her what she has done with her little boy and she is expecting the worst. Well, sister. He’s in safe hands. No need to stress yourself. I let the phone ring out.
Juan and Fleming wander ahead of me, towards the harbour. Bobbing boats. Hazy light. Couples holding hands. Others drinking cans of cheap beer. Laughter and shouting. Further out into the bay and Little Juan is reacting to the cruise ship that has berthed for a night or two. Then a loud clanging threatens to smash my eardrum and when I turn to locate the source of the din I see that we are a stone’s throw from the circus marquee.
‘Hey!’ Fleming says, hunkering down beside Juan and pointing at the marquee banner. ‘Look at those lights. It’s the circus. And not just any old circus. Duffy’s Circus is in town. They do the best candyfloss. Bet you didn’t know that? Follow me, little man. You’re in for a treat.’
When I catch up to them, Fleming and Juan are standing before a shooting gallery, staring at the display of prizes. Furry ladybirds and elephants and dolphins. And there are footballs. Juan has spotted the football he wants, and he’s watching the lad who is out to impress a statuesque brunette grip the rifle, take aim and blast the target into the middle of the next stall. The hotshot presents a pink bear and, his spadework done, guides the brunette swiftly out of there.
Step right up! the shout goes out, and with the coins from Middle River I pay over a few shots’ worth and Fleming takes the rifle in his
hand.
‘Did I ever mention I am a crack shot?’ Fleming says, eyeing up the target. ‘Oh, yes. God help any man facing the firing squad I am a member of. Tell me, what would you like, then?’ he asks Little Juan. Juan points at a red football.
‘The red football it is,’ Fleming confirms and takes steady aim. ‘Watch out.’
His first shot favours artistic impression over technical merit. He looks the part but misses by a country mile. His second shot is a mystery. So much so that I am not all that convinced the gun has actually responded when Fleming squeezes the trigger. Shots three and four are let off quickly and without much regard on Fleming’s part for the intended purpose. I catch the little fellow’s anxious eye and encourage Fleming to make an effort with his last shot. Nobody, not the attendant, not the couple patiently awaiting their turn, certainly not me, has any idea how this last effort fares. By now, the little fellow is regarding the red football as something that will never find a way into his toys room.
‘You know,’ Fleming tells him, as soon as I have hauled Juan forlornly away from there. ‘You know back there at the shooting gallery. You know why I missed? It was a right-handed rifle. Me? I’m a lefty. A southpaw. Put a left-handed gun in my hand and I’ll take out anything that moves.’
We pass a palm reader called Gypsy Teresa. Two sad-face clowns, a three-card-trick table and a quartet of tuxedoed stilt-walkers. A masked man dressed in a black-and-white prison uniform is dragging a ball and chain about the place. A ghost-face in a skeleton suit slides by.
Fleming looks back to the palm reader as though he has left something important behind.
‘Come on,’ he says, grabbing Little Juan by the hand. ‘Let’s hear what the gypsy has to say about what’s in store for us.’
Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame Page 14
