Boracic Lint

by Martin Bryce

see, it’s all very simple.’

  Yes, indeed it was. Everything had fallen into place nicely.

  Miss Blumberg was, predictably, allergic to cats. She began to sneeze and itch as soon as she entered the auditorium.

  ‘I cannot work with that thing in here,’ she wailed as she scratched herself violently.

  ‘I’ll put him in the car,’ Rowena said quietly. I kissed her on the cheek and told her she was my angel.

  Time ticked away as we waited for the Stonemason and the props girls to arrive. Members of the Company hived off into smaller groups to rehearse passages they were having most trouble with.

  ‘I hope they haven’t had an accident,’ Miss Pickering simpered. I half hoped that they had.

  ‘Alright,’ I called, ‘we’ll have to make a start. I’ll stand in for Mr Taylor again.’

  We were halfway through the first act when the giggling trio turned up.

  ‘Oh, look,’ Rowena whispered to me, ‘it’s Keanu Reeves.’

  ‘Can’t be,’ I replied, ‘his knuckles are dragging on the ground.’ Then, ‘Glad you could join us,’ I said as the three of them mounted the stage.

  ‘No problem,’ the Stonemason said, patting the two girls rumps to shoo them into the wings.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ I enquired.

  ‘We’ve just had a couple of drinks in the pub, to relax, like.’

  Relax! If he were any more relaxed he’d probably stop breathing. ‘We’re rehearsing a play, Mr Taylor, do you remember what it’s called, by any chance?’ I asked him pointedly. He said that he did, so I asked him if he remembered any of the bits he was in.

  ‘Er, can I borrow a script?’ he asked generally.

  ‘Why d’you need a script, Mr Taylor?’

  ‘Left mine in the pub, didn’t I?’ he replied.

  ‘No, why d’you need a script?’ I pressed the point.

  ‘For the words, of course.’ He looked at me as though I was an idiot.

  ‘You don’t know them, then?’ I said as Miss Blumberg picked up her copy and gingerly handed it to him.

  ‘Here,’ she said, ‘I know my bits.’

  ‘I know my bits, too,’ he replied waggling his hips obscenely. Miss Blumberg yelped and started to scratch furiously again.

  I ordered him to put down the script like everybody else. There followed a short argument during the course of which he claimed to be a major undiscovered talent who was being excluded from the profession by the likes of me in order to preserve some sort of theatrical mystique. I was surprised that he was able to entertain such sophisticated concepts and told him he’d be lucky to pass the audition for a chimps’ tea party.

  ‘We’re doing it without the script,’ I said finally.

  ‘Well you’re doing it without me, then,’ was his heaven sent reply.

  ‘Oh, Mr Taylor,’ I said, beaming, ‘that’s the best thing I’ve heard all week. Right, everybody, from now on Mr Taylor will be assisting Brian with the set and I am Randy Broome.’

  ‘You’ve had it in for me all along,’ he charged. ‘You just wanted the part so you could play with your girlfriend there.’

  ‘The last thing I want,’ I said calmly, ‘is a part in this travesty of dramatic art. But, I will not stand by and see the entire production wrecked by a simian like you! My professional conscience simply will not allow it. Places, please!’

  ‘She put him up to this,’ I heard one of the props girls say of Rowena.

  By their own standards the rehearsal actually went quite well.

  ‘Miss Blumberg,’ I said gently, ‘a little more voluptuousness, please, when you lie on the Vicar. We’ve spoken about this before, haven’t we? You’re seducing him, not viewing a corpse. And try not to scratch on the night.’

  Miss Neave promised to say that word on the nights of the performance itself, but not during rehearsals. It was the best I could hope for. As a final remark I implored them never to do Pygmalion.

  ‘Because I have a fair idea who would be cast in the role of Professor Higgins,’ I said staring at Mr McGregor.

  ‘Actually, it’s funny you should mention that,’ McGregor said, ‘but…’

  ‘STOP!’ I yelled. ‘I don’t want to know.’

  ‘You got rid of t’cat, then,’ H observed as I closed the front door.

  ‘Yes, but I’ve got Randy Broome instead, thank you.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a part,’ I replied.

  ‘Well you’re not bringing it in here,’ he said warily.

  ‘Too late,’ I said climbing the stairs. ‘I didn’t want it, but I had no choice. Bit like a disease really.’

  Whatsoe’er we perpetrate,

  We do but row, we are steered by fate.

  SCENE 15

  Saturday started off well enough. When the dawn finally arrived it turned out to be one of those crisp, bright mornings with just a touch of frost. The sort of morning that deserved the worship of a long walk across the moors, or by the sea. The sort of morning when everything feels so fresh it might be the first day of creation. Steady, I thought, it’s still Mafeking Avenue.

  ‘You’re taking that randy broom thing with you?’ H asked as I left the house. ‘Only, Mrs Higginbottom doesn’t like the sound of it.’

  ‘My constant, invisible companion,’ I said. ‘He dogs my every footstep. I can no more leave him behind than I can my shadow, Mr H.’

  ‘An improvement on t’cat, then,’ he remarked, relaxing a little.

  Mindful of the prospects in the canteen at lunchtime I had a good breakfast.

  I needn’t have worried. Harry was friendly towards me and the visitors to the Grotto that morning were, in general, charming, polite and cooperative. Perhaps the Bull had spoken to the ladies in the canteen about our little chat, or maybe it was the springlike sunshine bringing out the best in people, whatever it was, I had a good lunch and even got a hint of a smile from the lady on the till.

  I noticed the happy looking crowd in the toy department when I returned to my throne for the afternoon performance. I beckoned to Brian who was cracking jokes with several of them.

  ‘Like a breath of fresh air,’ I said. ‘Who are they?’

  Coach party of farmers and their families up from Somerset,’ he replied.

  Their talk lent an air of bucolic charm to the suddenly shabby-looking store. Their ruddy cheeks glowed with health and these horny-handed sons of the soil reminded me of my own childhood on the family estate in Devon. It was a time of rich, though simple pleasures, surrounded by a loving family and the truest of friends.

  ‘’Ere, dad, that be the bugger,’ a rustic youth said, pointing at me. Funny how the word ‘bugger’ sounds like a compliment when spoken in the rich, round, cider-soaked tones of the West Country.

  ‘No, I’m sure it isn’t,’ his dad, a huge man, said patting him on the head as if he were a prize bull.

  ‘I’m telling you, ‘tis ‘e!’

  ‘No,’ the man repeated.

  ‘You’m afraid of ‘im,’ the youth remarked. ‘Alf Lavis’s dad weren’t afraid of old Jack Edington!’

  The man told the boy to stay where he was and then walked across to me.

  ‘’Tis a bit of a problem,’ he said scratching his head.

  ‘Anything I can do to help?’ I offered.

  ‘Well, ‘tis like this. Ken over there saw me kissing Primrose, that’s the wife, by the Christmas tree last year.’

  ‘Well, surely a man can kiss his wife!’ I said.

  ‘It’s not as simple as that. You see, it was Christmas Eve and I was all ready to go and fill the kids’ stockings with their presents.’

  ‘Yes, go on.’

  ‘So, I was all dressed up in this Santa suit I’d hired. Just like your’n it were and ever since Ken has been convinced that Primrose and Santa are, well, you know.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said, suddenly understanding his predicament. ‘And you can’t tell h
im it was really you because then he’d know that there isn’t really a Santa Claus.’

  ‘’Twould break ‘is little ‘eart it would, bless ‘im.’

  ‘The only thing you can do,’ I suggested, ‘is give me a jolly good telling off.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Go on! Do it!’ I hissed.

  He launched into the most awe-inspiring tirade of abuse and accusations that I’d ever heard in my life. He mentioned things that I’d never have believed possible and to this day I hope some of them aren’t. It was rural language at its bestial best and this man was a creative genius.

  Within a very short space of time a large crowd had gathered to take in the rich entertainment. At the front was the Bull and passing among them was young Ken telling everybody how he’d seen his mother having it off with Father Christmas under the tree. His account and his father’s invective became an almost comic duet.

  ‘Go on, dad, hit ‘im,’ the blessed Ken encouraged. ‘That’s what Alf Lavis’s dad did to old Jack Edington when he caught ‘im by the cider press for the third time with Mrs Lavis!’

  ‘You’ll have to do it,’ I said to the man as he roared at me. ‘Pretend to hit me. I’m an actor so I can fake it and make it look really goo…’

  It must have looked good. I went down like a stone.

  It is the cause and not the death that makes the martyr.

  When I came round the Bull was standing over me with a look of utter contempt on his face.

  ‘You have to be the most depraved piece of humanity I have ever had the misfortune to come across in my entire life,’ he said quietly and deliberately. I noticed Harry standing nearby, grinning.

  I stood up slowly and unsteadily. I leaned against my throne for a moment and noticed the man from Porlock, pale and shaking, being held by Brian. The Bull turned and marched away followed by Brian leading my assailant by the arm.

  ‘Will you do the same to mum when we get ‘ome, dad?’ Ken asked eagerly. ‘Alf Lavis’s dad did when ‘e caught ‘er for the fifth, or was it the sixth time? I’m going to sit up all night on Christmas Eve and get the bugger myself when ‘e comes down our chimney. Can I borrow the pitchfork, dad?’

  I sincerely hoped for his own sake that Santa did not exist. Harry gave me a wink and walked away. I needed treatment and I was rapidly using up my entire supply of Kleenex, but first I needed to clear the man from Porlock. I made my way to the Bull’s office.

  ‘It’s all my fault,’ I said. Not the best start to my explanation, given what everybody was thinking, but eventually the dreadful misunderstanding was settled amicably and I was invited down to the farm for a holiday whenever I liked, for as long as I liked.

  ‘Ken can show you what ‘e can do with ‘is new air rifle,’ the man from Porlock promised.

  I said I would think about it.

  The Grotto remained closed for the rest of the day. I went to first aid for treatment and clocked off early.

  ‘Not a word,’ I commanded as I passed through the warehouse.

  Harry didn’t need to say anything. The look on his face and the low laugh said it all.

  One thing is certain, there is now no way that I am going to play Father Christmas at the staff party.

  I managed to sneak into my lodgings without disturbing H who was checking the football results. Every Saturday was a day of disappointment for him as the Pools win eluded him by miles.

  I made a cup of tea and settled down with the previous Sunday’s colour supplement in an effort to find something worth reading among all the ads. In no time at all I heard the familiar chimes of On Ilkley Moor b’aht ‘at, which was the H’s front doorbell. Moments later H himself was knocking on my door to announce that Rowena had arrived.

  ‘So soon?’ I said. ‘Come and meet her, Mr Higginbottom.’

  ‘I already ‘ave and what the ‘ell ‘appened to you?’

  I told him it was a long story. I formally introduced H to Rowena and told Rowena not to worry about my face.

  ‘Rowena’s looking after Cloudesley,’ I told H.

  ‘Mrs ‘igginbottom and I are right grateful to thee, love. Although it’s too late now, of course,’ he added shooting me a