The Ghost in the Electric Blue Suit

by Graham Joyce

He wound up his act and went into “Autumn Leaves.” I did my best with the light gels, as instructed. At the climax of the song he hit a superb, soaring note, and as it faded I brought the colored lights down through a narrowing circle. Luca finished to rapturous applause. When I killed the stage spots and brought the house lights up, I noticed that amid the applause one or two women were dabbing their eyes with a handkerchief. I wanted to laugh: not at them but at myself. It was moving. Transforming, even.

  There was a small dance floor in the nightclub and the show was followed by a disco, mostly of golden oldies. The fact is that in the 1970s only kids like me listened to ’70s music. The music most people listened to in the 1970s—that is everyone over the age of twenty-five—was their preferred ’60s and ’50s and ’40s music.

  After a while Luca came out of his dressing room clutching a makeup case, ready to make a brisk exit. I intercepted him. I wanted to ask him if I’d done okay with the lights.

  “Beautiful, my boy!” He had a strong Italian accent. He was a tiny, dapper figure who somehow managed to project himself as much larger onstage. “Thank you! I appreciate. Very much.”

  I said I was glad and all that because I’d been a bit nervous. I was burbling at him. He smiled at me. “Come. I buy you drink.”

  “That’s not necessary!”

  “I insist.”

  We went to the bar and sat on high stools. He ordered a glass of wine for himself—which in 1976 in that place, and had he been an Englishman, was dangerously close to a declaration of homosexuality. I opted for a manly pint of Federation ale.

  “You are studenta? What you study?”

  “English literature.”

  “Ah! Shakespeare! But you know in reply I can offer you the divine Alighieri!”

  “Dante. I know of Dante.” Well, I’d heard of Dante. I can’t say I’d read him. Perhaps I’d read the book cover of a paperback.

  “We are all in hell,” he said cheerfully, “we just don’t know what level. What a joy, to have a person of culture in a place such as this.” He offered a hand to shake and I told him my name. He held up his wine so that we could clink glasses.

  He asked me what I would do with my studies and with my life. I did have one half-formed and slightly ridiculous ambition, one that I tended to keep very quiet about but for some reason I blurted it out. “I’d like to be a writer.”

  He widened his eyes at me and tilted back his head. Then he stroked his chin judiciously and leaned forward close enough for me to smell his coconut-scented hair oil. “Then I advise you. If you go into this kind of life, you need a strong a-heart. And a strong liver. In some ways it is like show business. You need a strong liver because some days you only eat bread. And find a good woman. This is terribly important. Not one of these silly girls who likes shiny necklaces and bangles and such things. No.” He summarized this advice for me. “Good heart, good liver, good woman.”

  Then he tipped back the remains of his wine, stood up, and bowed formally. He wished me “Buona notte” and was gone. I stayed at the bar sipping my beer. When I looked round the nightclub, I noticed quite a few women who seemed to like shiny necklaces and bangles and such things.

  BUT I LIKED the holidaymakers. They were relaxed, friendly, and hell-bent on enjoying their well-deserved break from the grubby offices and the scruffy factories and the dirty coal mines of their industrial year. I saw them at their best for the two weeks when they put down their loads and kicked off their shoes. They laughed easily and loved to share a joke or a story. I saw how the mothers loved their children and how the fathers indulged them. Perhaps it was that, and the fatherly talk from Luca Valletti, that made me call home the next day.

  The conversation started badly. “You’ve remembered us, then,” my stepdad said.

  I think I had disappointed Ken. I don’t know when or how it started. He was a thoroughly decent man who had provided everything for me and my mother. Ken had spent his life developing his construction business. Raised in poverty, he knew the value of a good roof. I think he was always afraid that some misfortune, or a thief, or bad luck would come round and steal some of the tiles from the roof of our own home. Yes, he was a workingman made good, but he was the kind who wants to pull the ladder up behind him so that no one else from a similar background can make good.

  It was somehow assumed that, as an only child, I would follow him into his business—he had no biological children of his own. I’d surprised him by wanting to go to college and by standing up to him. He took it badly, as if my rejection of his trade was a personal insult. I don’t know why—I’d never once played that despicable game of saying you’re not my real dad and so on. Now that I was old enough to understand what he’d done for us, I was grateful to him. But he seemed to take the whole college thing as a rejection of all he’d done for me and my mother, too.

  I knew that his plan for me to work for him that summer was part of a deeper scheme to embroil me in his business. Presumably he thought I would come to my senses after I’d finished my three years at college. In a sense I had run away from all of this; run away to sea, or at least to the seaside.

  The conversation with Ken was short and stilted. He passed me on to my mother, who asked a lot of questions about where was I washing my laundry and where was I doing my shopping. She finally came to the point. “Why Skegness? Why have you gone to Skegness?”

  “I told you. There’s a job here. Plus I’ve got one of the better jobs going.”

  “It’s an awful place.”

  “No, it isn’t. It’s a lot of fun.”

  “Of all the places you could choose,” she said. “Of all the places.”

  THE DAYS WERE getting hotter. The thermometer was reading in the upper eighties day after day. It was all highly unusual for this temperate island of ours, so the cool shadows of the empty theater were a regular seduction. I still wasn’t sleeping well, and during one of my breaks I knew I could find a seat in the dark corner of the auditorium as a comfortable place to take a nap. I was snoozing in there one evening, drifting in and out of sleep, disturbed now and again as the theater acts began to arrive to make preparation for the big variety show we had that night. It was too early for any of the holidaymakers to be inside so the acts breezed in through the front of house, walked down the aisle and up the stage steps to go into the wings.

  I woke properly to the sound of an industrial vacuum cleaner. It was Terri, pushing the machine around the carpet in front of the musicians’ pit just below and in front of the stage. I smacked my lips and rubbed my cheeks, thinking I’d better go and throw water on my face. Then to the left of the stage the emergency doors swung open and Colin came striding in. He spoke to Terri. The hoover was still roaring so I couldn’t hear what was said, and I was pretty sure neither of them knew I was in the upper auditorium watching them from the shadows. Terri opened her mouth and said something in reply.

  It was like watching a dumb show. Colin seized his wife by the throat with one hand. He shook her side to side and lifted her a few inches off the ground. It was like seeing a dog shake a rabbit. Then he dropped her back on her feet, turned around, and marched out of the theater the way he’d come in.

  It all happened in a second. Terri stood with her hands on her hips, looking at the door by which Colin had left. After a few moments she switched off the hoover. She bent to pick up some cleaning cloths and a spray polish, starting in on the mahogany woodwork that defined the edge of the stage. Whatever had just happened, it didn’t seem to faze her much.

  I was trying to think how I might slip out without her noticing. I didn’t want her to know that I’d just seen that small exhibition of marital bliss. But then she started singing again. At first she sang softly, then after a few bars she let her voice ring out, just as she had the previous morning. Whoever was in her heart when she sang these songs, I couldn’t imagine it had much to do with Colin. She was using her singing as an antidote to her woes. It was self-medication.

  From behind m
e I heard the swinging doors open and then I saw Luca Valletti padding down the carpeted aisle. Luca didn’t see me, either. He had his makeup bag in one hand and his other arm was flung wide. His face was illuminated with delight.

  “My darling girl!” he shouted. “What is this songbird I hear?”

  Terri stopped in mid-flight. As she turned to him in surprise, her palm fluttered to her face in that already familiar gesture.

  Luca moved toward her in a skip. “Beautiful, my darling! Beautiful! Why you not on the stage with me? It’s a crime! We should make music! We should make the duet? It’s like the Cinderella to see you here when you should be up there! Under the lights! It’s a songbird you are! A beautiful songbird.”

  Luca stood with his hand outstretched to her, smiling, his head tilted back and to the side, delighted.

  The emergency exit door cracked open. Colin came in. He seemed to be in no hurry and yet something in his step alarmed me. It had calm intention but his face was impassive. As he crossed in front of the stage he was like a postman walking up to someone’s front door with a letter.

  He attacked the unprepared Luca and with his left hand around the Italian tenor’s windpipe, pushed the singer up against the wall, sweeping him off the ground. He held his right fist bunched and drawn back, ready to strike. “Don’t you no never never never speak to my wife like that! No fuckin’ never! You don’t never you fuckin’ wop, you what? If I ever you fuckin’ wop! If I ever!”

  I made out the words but it was more like hearing a dog barking rapidly. I got to my feet—not to intervene, because I was too afraid of Colin, but to let him know that there were other people around witnessing this assault. The racket drew others from backstage. Among them was Tony, his face half plastered with orange stage makeup. “Put him down, you dozy bugger!” Tony roared.

  Colin didn’t seem to hear any of it. He was in a zone of his own making. Tiny bubbles of saliva beaded his lips and yet his eyes were cold.

  “Colin,” said Terri quietly, but firmly. “Colin.”

  Pinky Pardew appeared on the scene holding a carton of No. 6 cigarettes. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Colin,” Terri said again.

  Finally Colin released his grip on Luca’s windpipe. The Italian slid to the floor, gasping, holding his throat.

  Pinky was red in the face. “Enough. You don’t come near this theater again. Nowhere near. Set foot in here again, I’ll have you off the resort and you can pick up your cards. I’m not having it.”

  “He was having a pop at my wife!” Colin stated mildly. He pointed at Pinky. “What would you do if he had a pop at your wife?” Colin looked around. He pointed at me. “What would you do if some wop had a run at your wife?”

  “Go on, clear off,” Pinky shouted at him. “Terri, you get on with your work. We’ve got a fucking show to run around here.”

  Colin bared his teeth, put his head down, and left.

  Meanwhile Tony had helped Luca to his feet. Two of the dancers were fussing around him, dusting him off. “It’s finish,” the Italian was saying. “It’s finish here.”

  “Come on, old son,” Tony said. “Let’s get you backstage and straightened up.”

  “No, I can’t. It’s no possible. It’s finish.”

  “Look,” Tony said, “you know we all worship you, Luca. Never mind that fucking idiot. We all love you. You know that.”

  Terri burst into tears. “I’m sorry, Luca. I’m so sorry!”

  Luca seemed suddenly to recover his composure. “My darling, was it you? Or was it him?” He stepped over to Terri and took her hand, bent his head, and pressed his lips to her trembling fingers. Then with a sad smile he released her hand. “Yes. Sì. Sì. We have a show, no? We have a show.” He turned and skipped up the steps and onto the stage to disappear into the wings, followed by Tony and the dancers, all still babbling incredulity at the event.

  I was left out front with Pinky. Terri switched on the hoover and moved away from us. “I saw it all,” I said.

  Pinky sniffed. “Was he?”

  “Was he what?”

  He nodded at Terri. “Was Luca having a sniff?”

  “Christ, no. Luca was just telling her what a great voice she has. That’s all it was. Unless that constitutes ‘having a sniff.’ ”

  Pinky turned away from me and followed the others up the steps onto the stage. He puffed on his unlit cigar. “Sometimes it does,” he said, “sometimes it doesn’t.”

  I was left with Terri as she trawled up and down the aisles with the hoover. I wanted to go but then again, I didn’t. I watched her work as if nothing had just happened, and I knew she was aware of me watching her. It was ridiculous. She was beautiful. It didn’t seem possible that she had become yoked to a man like that, someone twice her age, someone who was a beast and who could offer nothing but raw violence and meanness and a life of low instinct.

  Very slowly she worked her way back toward me with the vacuum cleaner, bringing the thing close to where I was standing. I wondered if I was supposed to lift my feet like I’d seen my dad do for my mum, but when the machine was almost touching my shoe she switched it off. The new quiet pulsed in the empty auditorium. A stray lock of hair had fallen across her face and she pretended to blow it out of her eye but I knew it was a breath of relief. She gave me a deep, searching look. Then she parted her lips and mouthed one single, painful word.

  She didn’t even have to say it.

  4

  TO FIGHT THE SAVAGE FOE, ALTHOUGH

  The following morning I got to find out who I was billeted with. It turned out to be the missing Greencoat, a cheerfully psychotic Mancunian chain-smoker called Nobby. After another bad night I was actually sleeping well that morning, only to be awoken when his key hit the lock from the other side of the door.

  If he was surprised to encounter a new roommate he didn’t show it. He stood over me in a Greencoat outfit of whites—or rather off-whites—and a blazer identical to mine. “Are you with us, son? It’s a brand-new day!”

  I blinked up at him from my pit. He was at least ten years my senior. His hair shook in its tight perm of dark curls streaked gray at the temples. The tremor was from an endless nervous energy that would never—I was about to discover—allow him to be still.

  “You the new Greencoat, then? Shake a leg and I’ll walk down with you. Though you can have this shithole to yourself ’coz I’m never here how the fuck they expect two grown men to sleep side by side in this depressed hen coop for plucked chickens I’ll never know are you up yet? Come on, son, come on.”

  “I’ll get a shower,” I muttered. I grabbed a towel and walked out into the corridor.

  For some reason Nobby followed me. “Shower? Shower? Throw water on your face, you’ll be fine. There’s a drought on! War rations. I mean war footing! Plus showering every day is bad for you no one ever tell you that scrubs away the natural oils so essential to your vitality, son. Not to mention the pheromones yes yes yes. Did I mention the pheromones?”

  There was a communal shower at the end of the building and I walked in and switched on the faucet. “The what?”

  “The what? They told me you was fuckin’ educated. Pheromones, son, pheromones. This is what it’s all about, innit? Are you getting plenty? If you are that’s ’coz of your very fine zinging pinging pheromones. If you’re not getting plenty that’s ’coz your pheromones are no good. Or rinsed out. Wash it all away and well, damp squib sort of thing.” He stood watching me shower and didn’t stop talking except to light up a cigarette. “Too much fuckin’ showering that’ll do it. Hey! Hey! Hey! You listen to Nobby. Nobby knows, you know.”

  I dried off and padded back to my room. Or our room, as with increasing dismay I now felt I should call it.

  “Flip-flops! Get yourself some flip-flops. ’Coz o’ the slops they’re dirty lazy bastards in here and you’ll get athlete’s foot off this shower floor and verrucas and viruses and what else trench foot I don’t know warts corns blisters ingrown toenails
instep fungus hammertoe, hey hey! That floor is like a smorgasbord of infection, hey!”

  I made the mistake of trying to listen to this barrage but it was impossible. I found my brain starting to tune him out. I’d known him maybe three minutes and already he exhausted me. As I got dressed I said, “I thought you’d quit.”

  “Why? Why’s that then? Why?” He went over to the open window and flung his cigarette butt outside. Then he sat on my bed, took out a fresh ciggie, and did that trick of flipping it in the air and catching it in his mouth.

  “Well, you’d been missing for a few days.”

  “Missing? I haven’t been missing. I’ve been on my other job.”

  “Other job?”

  “Look at the state of your whites! Bit of how’s your father round the waist I’d say. That the best they could do? That’s a joke that. A joke. Go and see Dot and don’t take any shit. Better still I’ve got some as will fit you better.” Then he slapped his thigh and fell sideways on the bed, laughing, a cancerous cackle. “A joke.” When he’d recovered from the hilarity of laughing at my ill-fitting whites, he recovered to light up his cigarette. “Yes, I’ve got another job up the road.”

  “Aren’t you full-time?”

  He did a double take and then looked over his shoulder as if the management team might be hiding in the tiny wardrobe. “ ’Course I’m full-time. Full-time up the road, too. You ready? You look like shite! Hey! Let’s go.”

  We walked together to the theater for the morning briefing. I was keen to ask him some questions, but it was almost impossible to break into his constant stream of chatter.

  “Everyone’s doing two jobs, son, everyone, and if they’re not in the category of everyone they’re on the skim, they’ve all got their skim. Welcome to skim city. Hey! If you find a way to live on these wages you let me know about it.”

  “Well, we do get food and lodgings,” I suggested.

  Mistake.

  He leaped in front of me, stopped dead, brought his feet together, and leaned forward at a forty-five degree angle. “Food and lodgings! You call that mouse cage that squirrel farm a lodging?” We started moving again. “It’s a matchwood tent! A shantytown! A papier-mâché ghetto! That famous east-coast wind better not blow too hard or it will all come down. Huff and puff, Mr. Wolf. What’s that? Pigs. Dunno. It’s not even a barn. Better not get caught with a woman in your room or they’ll have you off the site. And you can’t even keep your own alcohol in your own room, have they told you that? As for food, hey!” He suddenly lowered his voice. “Eyes right! Eyes right!” I thought he was asserting himself, saying I is right, but then he said “Three o’clock!” and I realized that he wanted me to look to my right.