Chasing the Sun with Henry

by Gary Brockwell

  Chapter 8

  Clive

  My flesh-coloured wig cap is always the first thing I put on. Then I concentrate on applying the make-up in front of the bathroom mirror: left eye, followed by the right – red ovals, outlined in black. To be honest, it took me a couple of years to perfect the shape and outline, finally making me appreciate why Sally can take so long to get ready. Not that her face looks like my own creation after she has applied her make-up, you understand. I apply the same colours to my mouth to create an exaggerated smile and finish with a red circle on the tip of my nose.

  Next the costume: stripy socks – I have a white vest on already – and black jacket and trousers, two sizes too short in the arms and legs. Next garment is a bowler hat with a ginger wig sown in, which hangs down on over my ears and neck when worn . I still do not know why, but the bowler hat and ginger wig combination always makes me smile when I see it. It also extracts a multitude of double-takes from people in vehicles and pedestrians whenever I drive to a venue.

  My audiences also delight in the hat, when during the show I casually take it off and scratch my head, revealing to them my ‘bald’ head. They shout and point at me while I pretend to not understand what the issue is until I look at my hat and notice the hair inside. At which point I throw the hat into the air in shock and catch it on my head – well, most of the time. But if I am not successful and the hat rolls around on the floor at my feet, my audiences are always forgiving. Primary-school children are always forgiving.

  I reach for the final item, an oversized stripy bow tie that matches my socks. I secure it around my neck and my transformation is complete. I look deeply into the mirror and Clive the Clown stares back.

  Admittedly, Clive is not a name usually associated with clowns; it is more in keeping with the image of a steady accountant type or an institutionalised government employee. True, there was Clive of India and his fabled chronicles of derring-do, but Clive was his family name and therefore I do not count it as actually being in the Clive mould.

  I wanted to choose a name that was safe, secure and subject to alliteration. Clive works – plus, and most importantly, under-elevens find the sound amusing.

  Clive has no road sense. In fact, he has no sense or memory retention at all. With each show he discovers anew, and the audience are reminded of, when and where to cross a road safely.

  I incorporate a zebra crossing, flashing Belisha beacons and three pedal cars into the performance, powered by selected children from the audience. Eric the Psychic Duck from my birthday party magic show makes a cameo performance as Clive’s friend; simply called ‘Duck’, who quacks loudly each time Clive is in danger when attempting to cross the road. Duck’s frantic quacking alerts the children to also warn Clive.

  To be honest, Clive is initially so hopeless crossing the road he shouldn’t really be trusted to dress himself, let alone be out unaccompanied. Before each calamity, Duck plays a scene from an information DVD to demonstrate to Clive what he should do to cross a road safely. Clive nods to confirm he understands and then subsequently fails to conform. Resulting, as already mentioned, in much quacking from Duck and shouting from the children present.

  During the show the scenario of running out onto a road from behind parked cars is played out. Two pedal cars are parked up, and true to form, Clive, forgetting the message revealed to him moments before on the DVD, decides to stand between the cars and cross the road into the path of the third car that is being driven. Suffice to say, Duck and the audience prevent certain carnage once again. With the increased decibel count, Clive realises his mistake and moves away from behind the cars and heads toward the zebra crossing instead.

  If one child finds themself in the position of attempting to cross a road from behind parked cars and sees in their mind my stripy socks, oversized bow tie and bowler hat with ginger hair protruding underneath and stops, thinks and moves away to a safe crossing place, then my metamorphosis into Clive is justified.

  I obviously have no way of knowing if my show has any effect in achieving this, so I will continue to perform once a month during term time, until I have proof it is no longer required.

  I checked my appearance one more time in the mirror, ensuring my tie was straight and my make-up was not streaky or smudged. Quite frankly, I looked ridiculous, and I was content for Clive to continue his crusade, to spread his message before the Easter break.

  As I left the bathroom, Sally appeared in the doorway. She looked immaculate.

  ‘You off out?’

  ‘Meeting Trafford,’ she replied, not making eye contact as she brushed past me.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Trafford, the buyer from the supermarket. Need to run through some more things,’ she stated, looking at her reflection in the mirror. ‘I did tell you, Eddie,’ she said to her image, while running her fingers through her hair, fluffing it outwards.

  My past record speaks for itself; I do have a tendency to forget things I have been told. For example, I have been known to arrange to go to a football match, only to be informed we are due at one of Sally’s friends and her boring husband’s house for dinner on that same evening. Or I’ve promised to help Clifford with a job that clashes with a prior engagement with Sally’s mother, choosing wallpaper or some other tedious activity which was planned ‘weeks before’.

  In reality, these instances occur because I am a man, and there is not very much I can do about that. But I do not recall this being mentioned – I am quite sure that, even with my failings, I would have retained a name like Trafford in my mind if I had heard it before. Not that it mattered where Sally was going or who she was meeting; she didn’t have to tell me. It was just that there was something different about her appearance as she stood there, but I could not pinpoint what it was.

  ‘I could meet you for lunch,’ I stated brightly.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know when I will be finished,’ she replied, her eyes still studying her complexion.

  ‘Oh, okay, was just a thought.’

  Sally turned away from the mirror and looked at me briefly for the first time. Her mouth formed a half-smile as she diverted her gaze to the floor.

  ‘Right, have a good day,’ she uttered flatly as she passed me.

  I went to speak, but remained silent.

  I heard her feet hurry down the stairs, heard the front door open and close firmly. Her car door closed with a thud and moments later I heard the engine pulling her away from me.

  It was at this point I realised what was different about Sally’s appearance today. For the very first time I could remember, after all the years I have known her, her face was bereft of any make-up.

  I drove to the venue, courting thoughts that were alien to me. Thoughts that had never invaded my consciousness before, thoughts that jostled with the others that routinely sit and cause my heart to ache. These are the same thoughts that always accompany me in the van prior to a performance by Clive. Then the journeys to the beach these past few weeks and the bitter disappointment I felt on returning to my van each time flooded my senses with a slap for my hypocrisy.

  I parked up in the school car park and checked my appearance in the sun visor mirror. I still looked ridiculous, and headed to the reception area of the school to announce my arrival.

  The show went well. My hat landed squarely on my head as intended and Clive gained guidance from the children for every misdemeanour he attempted to undertake. The only issue was the selection of two overly eager seven-year-old boys who were picked to operate a pedal car each, on the merit of sitting up straight with their arms in the air. Once behind the steering wheels of their respective vehicles, they became less able than even Clive to follow simple instructions. Each egged on by the other, the proceeded to ‘duel’ across the assembly hall floor, accompanied by screeching sound effects when they turned at the perimeter of the hall. Until such time, after the
ir third warning, as the year head relinquished them of their responsibilities.

  ‘You have let yourselves down’ could be heard as she let them out of the hall, back toward the classrooms and an unknown fate.

  I chose again, more carefully this time. I selected two girls, again sitting up straight, who performed their duties with diligence and composure. Perhaps this episode was an indicator that females do in fact make better and safer drivers than males.

  Sally was back when I returned, sitting in the living room, reading a newspaper. She greeted me with a warm smile from her chair and made eye contact. Not fleeting, not nervous, but prolonged eye contact, boring into me. My mind now confined her previous detached state to a memory, and with her facial emancipation covered under a layer of freshly applied make-up, normal service had resumed. I cursed myself for allowing my imagination to massage my thoughts.

  ‘How was it?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine, just fine. Think we are getting somewhere. And you? How was it?’

  ‘Usual, went well.’

  At this point, silence joined the conversation and decided to lead.

  ‘I went to Mum’s on the way back,’ stated Sally eventually.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘I am a bit worried about her, Eddie.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘On Sunday, she was dusting the dining-room table when she saw a bird sitting outside on the windowsill.’

  I looked at Sally, trying to discover where this story uewas leading.

  ‘It was small and white,’ she continued, ‘and not a species she knew – you know how she loves looking at the birds on the feeding table through her kitchen window. It didn’t fly off when she came near. In fact, she says it stared at her, studied her face. It was still there the next day, and the day after that. So she decided to feed it. Throw some crumbs out, from the fan light.’

  Sally paused, looking at me.

  ‘Today, she went to the room and it was still there, sitting outside, looking in. She cannot explain why, but the way it was behaving was causing her distress and she decided, on impulse, to shoo it away. She opened the window, presuming it would fly off as the pane swung outwards, but instead, it merely flew up, fluttered its wings, and headed in through the open window. It landed on the back of a dining chair. She waved her arms at it to frighten it into leaving, but it merely flew up onto the top of her dresser and sat with its head to one side, looking at her. She knew she couldn’t reach it up there, so she left the room, closed the door and decided what to do next. When she went back, it was again perched on the back of the same chair. She went to force it to leave out of the open window, but again it flew up onto the dresser. This happened four further times, with the bird always on the same chair when she came in. And that’s when it hit her.’

  ‘What did?’ I asked, trying to keep up with the story, which I thought was going to end with Sally’s mother experiencing a fall or injury and us discussing the installation of ramps, stairlifts and walk-in baths, or in the worst-case scenario, her moving in with us.

  Sally took a deep breath.

  ‘The bird keeps landing on Dad’s seat in the dining room. You remember the seat he always sat at?’

  ‘Yep, the one closest to the door,’ I remembered out loud.

  ‘Well, she is convinced the bird is Dad!’

  I tried desperately to contort my stomach muscles to hold in my laughter, a laugh that was primitive, a sound that is buried deep inside all of us, that explodes with force and with scant regard for the situation or the feelings of those around.

  Yet, I somehow held my composure.

  ‘She thinks your dad has come back as a little white bird?’ I asked flatly.

  ‘Yes,’ hissed Sally. ‘She called Greg to ask him what to do. She didn’t tell him she thought it was Dad, though, you know what he is like. He said he would come around and get rid of it for her. He arrived when I was there. We waited in the doorway as he entered the room and went toward the bird – it didn’t fly away, but instead it launched itself at him and pecked at his outstretched hand, before defecating on it.’

  ‘It had taste, then,’ I stated.

  ‘Eddie!’ snapped Sally. ‘It then flew toward and out of the window,’ she added. ‘As it left, Mum started to cry, much to Greg’s annoyance. He told her it was just a stupid bird, which made her worse and him even more annoyed.’

  ‘Strange, I thought the fact his hand was covered in bird shit would be making him annoyed. Or perhaps that’s just me,’ I replied, barely hiding my sarcasm or contempt for her elder brother.

  The phone in the hall began to ring. Sally ignored my comment and got out of the chair.

  ‘While Greg washed his hands,’ she stated, walking to the door to the hallway, ‘Mum sobbed on my shoulder that she had sent Dad away. I am worried she misses him so much she is giving up, Eddie.’

  ‘It’s been two years though, Sally,’ I offered.

  She turned to look at me for a second before disappearing into the hallway.

  ‘Oh, hi, Jenny,’ she answered after her initial hello.

  With Jennifer on the phone in the middle of the day, normal service had been very much resumed. I decided it was time for me to retreat upstairs and remove my make-up, for me to be cleansed of Clive until the next time.

  Looking into the mirror, wiping off the make-up, I reflected upon Sally’s mother’s belief that her dead husband had visited her. Who was I to question the physical improbability of his manifestation with no chin, feathers and a beak for a nose? She had lived with the man for over forty years; they had shared that special bond you only find with one person in your life. The bond where you know when your partner is going to ask you a question and what the topic will be; yet no one else is aware of the thoughts sparking between your minds. It is as if a telepathic link occurs between you.

  Sally and I are close, but do not share that link. Her thoughts remain a mystery to me until they are spoken, by which time everyone else is aware of them too.

  Maybe her mother really felt his presence in the shape of the bird; saw a resemblance of his soul reflected through the window of those beady black eyes. Then again, it could be grief attacking her in a cruel and malignant way, making a room an out-of-bounds area, forcing her eyes to instantly see his shape sitting forever at the table in his chair ; forcing her mind to retreat, coaxing her to hold the pain of loss ever closer to herself.

  Sally and I have jointly been attacked by grief. But neither of us could support the other, could take the burden of the moment and hold it away, albeit for a short space of time, to enable the other to regain strength, to breathe. Instead we dissolved into our own independent voids. I do not know what is worse to face: the pressure of attempting to be outwardly strong while inside you are falling to pieces, or the helplessness of watching someone fade before your eyes into the shadows of their darkest fears and not want to be found or rescued.

  My face clean, I cupped cold water in my hands and splashed upwards. The sensation banished memories. With my head partially lowered, I raised my eyes to find my reflection. Water dripped from my nose and chin as my hands held the edge of the basin. As is the norm, my reflection said nothing, nor gave away how I was feeling.

  I held the pose for a moment until, with a shiver down my spine, my grandmother’s voice rasped in my mind as it has for all these years. She told me when I was ten years old that if you stare at yourself in a mirror for too long, your vanity invites the Devil to your side, and without warning, you will suddenly see him sneering at you from over your left shoulder.

  From the top of the landing I could see Sally sitting on the bottom stair, the phone pressed firmly to her ear. I watched for a few moments and saw that her contribution to the conversation was seemingly to listen. From my position, Jennifer’s voice was audible to me but her words were not dis
tinguishable. What disaster had sought out the unfortunate Jennifer this time, I thought? And why, as usual, did she deem it acceptable to offload the entire twisted and sorry tale into the ears of Sally?

  I began to descend the stairs.

  ‘Okay, Jenny – again, that is fantastic news. Just goes to show, good things do happen. I will let Eddie know. Bye-bye. Bye-bye,’ Sally said, getting up and replacing the telephone on its cradle on the hallway table.

  ‘Eddie!’ she called loudly, not looking behind her.

  ‘I am here,’ I replied from the bottom step.

  Sally physically jumped at the sound of my voice.

  ‘Eddie! You scared me! Were you eavesdropping?’ she accused.

  ‘No, of course not, just out of the bathroom,’ I countered, not knowing why I felt the need to defend myself and my actions.

  ‘That was Jenny.’

  ‘I gathered that. What world-ending crisis has beset her today?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t be unkind. It’s nothing like that,’ argued Sally. ‘She was calling to tell me the police have released her from their enquires regarding that vile dog-fighter.’

  ‘Wallace,’ I added helpfully.

  Sally looked at me. ‘How did you remember his name?’ she asked.

  I shrugged my shoulders in response.

  ‘Anyway, she’s been allowed to collect her passport. You remember the man she was working with?’

  ‘The bloke she didn’t get on with?’ I replied with confidence.

  ‘Yes, what was his name?’ Sally challenged.

  I shrugged my shoulders again.

  ‘Faruk,’ she suddenly remembered.

  ‘Oh yes, Faruk,’ I replied knowingly.

  ‘Well, he has come forward and vouched for her good character to the police. He has revealed the numerous times she came in early to work to clean out the dogs and walk them. How she checked every night before she left that each had enough fresh water. All of this was recorded on the centre’s CCTV, and he produced a copy as backup for what he had disclosed for the police to view. He also described how on two occasions, she broke down when a dog had to be put down due to an infestation of mites.’