by Martin Bryce
the Grotto,’ the boy said with a puzzled look. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘And your costume,’ the girl remarked, ‘it’s such a mess, particularly the beard. Yuck!’
‘Never mind,’ I replied with a wave of the hand, ’it’s too long a story.’
‘What do you do the rest of the year?’ the girl asked.
I was in no mood to assure them that I really was Father Christmas and anyway, they would never have believed me, not those two. I told them I was an actor.
‘You can’t be a very good one,’ the boy remarked. ‘Not if you’re having to do this.’
‘No, probably not,’ I replied gloomily.
‘We know all about it, don’t we Sly,’ the girl said brightly, turning to her brother.
‘Indeed we do, Nic,’ he said to her. He turned to me. ‘We go to a special school for talented children like ourselves.’ He turned back to Nic. ‘You can’t get in without a perfect audition, can you, Nic?’
‘No that’s right, Sly.’ She turned to me. It was like watching the worst of breakfast TV. ‘Besides our ordinary curriculum we have real actors and drama specialists teaching us just about everything to do with showbiz. Take me. Sly would you tell Father Christmas?’
‘Certainly, Nic, I’d be delighted.’ He turned to me. ‘Nic here has just graduated in tap. Her solo was fabulous and I helped her out with a bit of a routine I’d choreographed, just for fun you understand, last year.’ They took their places then launched into a display of hoofing that would have impressed Astaire and Rogers and which I could never hope to emulate. It drew warm applause from the small crowd that had gathered to watch.
‘We sing, too,’ Sly said, ‘and I’m taking a special course in stunt work in the New Year.’
‘That’s terrific,’ I congratulated, ‘but you know, the theatrical profession is very difficult to get into and mostly very poorly paid.’
‘Nonsense,’ Sly contradicted with a slight laugh. ‘We’ve paid for all the family holidays for the last four years. Sailing in the Whitsundays was the best. Wouldn’t you agree, Nic?’
‘Indeed, Sly. And only last month we bought dad a new Merc.’
I knew I was goggling at them, but I couldn’t help it.
‘As a matter of fact we’ve just come from the studio. Bit of television work,’ Sly remarked casually, then stood looking at me, arms folded, head to one side. Very film poster.
‘How much do you earn?’ I asked quietly.
‘Oh, we never bother with that kind of thing, leave it all to our agent,’ Nic said.
‘But take this week,’ Sly pitched in, ’we’ve done seven, or was it eight, Nic?’
‘Commercials? It was nine, actually. And there was that week on location in Morocco immediately before that.’
‘That was great,’ Sly said. ‘They always manage to get the best hotels and, of course the catering is always five star. But at a rough estimate, I’d say in the last fortnight we’ve probably grossed between us about, ooh say …’
‘In the last FORTNIGHT!’ I gasped fighting hard to prevent myself falling off the throne. It was more than I’d earned in my entire professional career. ‘Who’s your agent?’ I demanded grabbing the boy by his expensive lapels.
‘D’you mind?’ he said pulling away. I apologised as he made a show of brushing himself down.
‘Daddy does it all,’ Nic said. ‘But he won’t take you on.’
‘No,’ Sly added with a nod of superiority, ‘he doesn’t deal with old spear-carrier types, just child prodigies.’ He gave me a supercilious smirk.
‘Well, we must be going,’ Nic said consulting her Tissot Junior Professional watch. ‘We’ve a bit of a reception in about half an hour and then there’s that premier this evening, Sly.’
‘Break a leg,’ Sly said as they walked away.
I’ll break yours, I thought. Both of them. God, the humiliation! But I had to rise above it. There can be no greater millstone than envying somebody who, with consummate ease, has achieved what you have been struggling to do for years.
Let age, not envy, draw wrinkles on thy cheeks.
‘Close the Grotto,’ I said to Mrs J, pulling off my beard.
‘But there’s still twenty minutes to go, look you,’ she complained.
‘I don’t care about that, nor about the show going on. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ I walked away. I was on the point of resigning not just from the store, but from acting as well.
On the way home I bought an Evening Standard and scanned the job columns.
Could I a backhoe operator be,
Or just the boy who makes the tea?
A taxman, banker, engineer,
Or one who brews and sells good beer?
But none of these are right, you see,
What Jove has destined
I must be.
An actor’s life is full of woe,
But that’s the only life I know;
And so, because I know just what I am,
I’ll carry on
And be a ham.
Or perhaps
I could be a poet.
No.
I arrived at my lodgings to find the Hs being artificially pleasant in a nervous sort of way. I fed Cloudesley and went straight out again to the launderette. I ate a Chinese takeaway while watching the Santa suit slopping around in the machine.
I went to bed early, but sleep eluded me until well after midnight.
SCENE 13
Pay day again and one more week to go until Christmas.
These thoughts turned the sight of a rainy, Mafeking Avenue winter dawn into a vision of a bosky lane in high summer. Briefly.
I had just enough of Rowena’s money left for a continental breakfast and the fare into work. I went straight to accounts after clocking in and submitted my bill for the previous night’s dry cleaning.
I wished I’d aired the thing instead of leaving it stuffed in the carrier bags all night. The fumes from the residue of the dry cleaning fluid that remained in the fabric were quite overpowering and within minutes of putting it on I was staggering through the store. Mrs J said she’d never seen anyone who wasn’t a turps merchant so drunk so early in the morning. But I was feeling very happy and I gave her a merry wave as I lurched past the shimmering, psychedelic toadstool.
I was humming a jolly little tune when the Bull appeared.
‘What’s this?’ he demanded, thrusting the dry cleaning bill at me.
‘What does it look like?’ I asked in return and then wished that I hadn’t.
‘I’ll ask the questions,’ he growled. ‘Did you get authority to clean the suit?’
I replied I didn’t think it was necessary since I had been made responsible for it.
‘Not on the fiddle, are we, lad?’
‘Of course not,’ I snorted. ‘Look, why don’t I go and see whoever it is who’s responsible for policy decisions about Santa’s suit and get retrospective authority?’
‘You’ll need an official receipt as well,’ he told me.
‘Launderettes don’t give receipts,’ I giggled.
‘Well, you’re out of luck then, aren’t you? What’s that smell?’
‘Dry cleaning fluid probably,’ I said, taking a deep sniff of the arm of my suit. I held out the arm for him. ‘Here, have a snort. Make you feel really good.’
The Bull recoiled and threw the expense claim back at me.
The rest of the morning was uneventful and the pay was brought round just before lunchtime. After the various deductions I was left with one hundred and seventy-nine pounds and twenty-one pee. Of course I would have earned more if I hadn’t had time off with the Old Bill earlier in the week. I was going to have to pay Rowena back in instalments.
In the canteen I chose the steak and kidney pie for lunch. It looked chunky and succulent with a golden flaky pastry crust. I was famished after the meagre breakfast and I was salivating like a dog.
‘
Pie’s off,’ the lady behind the counter said, making a great show of removing the tray from the bain-marie and placing it in the oven behind her.
‘But there’s plenty there!’ I protested.
‘That’s for canteen staff later,’ she told me frostily.
‘Well, the hot-pot looks good,’ I said enthusiastically.
‘That’s for security. They’ve just phoned down and ordered me to save it for them.’ She repeated the huffy performance with the tray of hot-pot. That left some indifferent-looking fish cakes, a rasher of scorched bacon left over from breakfast, a shattered pasty and at the end of the counter, some curly cheese sandwiches.
‘Er, the fish cakes, then, please.’
She slammed a fish cake on a plate and thrust it at me.
‘I thought two was the portion,’ I said meekly.
‘If you want two it’ll cost you twice as much. Take it or leave it.’
‘Two, then, please.’ I passed along the counter and was about to order mashed potato when I saw a new batch of hot, golden chips arriving from the fryer. God, they looked good. ‘Chips, please.’ The lady serving the chips thrust out her arm to prevent her colleague putting out the fresh ones.
‘Just a minute, Thora,’ she said as she scooped up the small pile of flint-hard, blackened fragments from the corners of the existing tray. ‘Waste not, want not is my motto.’ And she dumped them onto my plate. ‘Was there anything else?’ she demanded, looking about her impatiently.
‘Perhaps some peas?’ I requested nervously. Instead of using the wire mesh scoop, she grabbed the ladle out of the gravy and used that instead. My meal, such as it was, was now afloat in a sea of green liquid and I had never before had fish cakes with gravy. Still, remembering that the Buddhists believe that each time you try a new food it adds a year to your life, I remained positive.
‘Anything else?’ the woman demanded again, eyeing the custard. What on Earth had got into her?
‘Just a mug of tea, please.’
‘Mugs are for permanent staff only.’
‘But you gave me mug yesterday,’ I said incredulously.
‘That was yesterday.’
‘A cup, then, please,’ I demurred. She slammed the plate down on the counter, huffed and went to the tea-urn. I got my cup of tea, but half of it was in the saucer. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ she replied, avoiding eye contact and hitching up her bra strap.
I moved on to the lady on the till, I always managed a spot of friendly banter with her. I was sure she would clear up the mystery. On the contrary, she overcharged me.
‘Prices have just gone up for casual staff,’ she spat.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Manager’s cancelled subsidised prices for anyone who isn’t permanent. Don’t blame me, I’m just following orders.’
‘Where’ve I heard that before?’
‘Oh, and there’s the serve of gravy,’ she added. Didn’t notice that.
‘But I didn’t ask for gravy,’ I complained.
‘Well it’s there on your plate,’ she said, pointing with her cigarette.
I cut my losses and removed the plate from her reach before the long ash fell into my food. I started for the most distant table I could find.
‘Don’t know where we’ll find another Father Christmas for the party at this stage, Peggy,’ I heard one of them say.
‘No, it’s a real shame poor Mr Wilkinson isn’t still with us,’ Peggy replied. ‘Real gent he was, bless his soul. Not like some!’
So, that was it. Well, I had no intention of being intimidated by such reprisals. In fact my resolve stiffened. I ate my meal with dignified relish. Even Charlie Chaplin with his boot would have envied my performance.
Half way through the afternoon I received a summons to attend the Bull’s office. Not the dry cleaning claim again, I thought as I opened his door. But no. There was Harry, Mr Lloyd from wages and a large, middle-aged woman, who I didn’t know, but who had KILL written all over her face.
‘Am I glad to see you,’ Harry, seeming a little paler than usual, remarked. Even the Bull appeared slightly subdued.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, my stomach rumbling loudly.
‘Didn’t I say last week that I was
