Boracic Lint

by Martin Bryce

There he was pulling strings here, having a word with old friends there. Buying you books endlessly, stethoscopes, paying for flying lessons. And you threw it all back at him. You didn’t want any of it.’

  ‘But I thought I did at the time.’

  ‘Can you blame him for throwing you out of the house the way he did?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ I replied ruefully. ‘But, you know, that male modelling was actually the turning point for me. It was then that I discovered my acting ability.’

  The thing said, ‘Really!’ As it raised its eyebrow.

  ‘And then I met that old school chum who’d made a fortune as a theatrical angel and well, one thing led to another and here I am, an actor.’

  ‘Playing Father Christmas in a Grotto.’

  ‘There’s more to it than you think, I said, slightly annoyed by his tone.

  ‘Reason number two for your old man’s hostility.’ Goldwhatever said, poking me in the chest with a surprisingly solid-feeling finger, ‘is that you’re doing what he wanted to do and doing it badly. The old bastard’s just a little bit jealous, my son.’

  ‘Jealous?’

  ‘How many jobs have you turned down in the past year just because they weren’t good enough for you?’

  ‘I’ve lost count,’ I said.

  ‘I rest my case. Well, I must fly,’ he said looking at his eerily glowing watch. ‘I’ve got a lunch appointment with Bill.’

  ‘Bill?’

  ‘Who d’you think?’

  ‘Not Shakespeare?’ I ventured.

  ‘He wants me to stage the haunting of a production of his Scottish Play they’re putting on at The Globe early next year. Always a bit of fun that is and the money’s good.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Goldman,’ I said. ‘Thank you a thousand times for what you’ve shown me tonight. I shan’t forget it. And I’ll go and see father as soon as I can.’

  Oh, I wouldn’t do that, not for a couple of weeks at least.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘He’s just accidentally shot his favourite gundog, so he’s not in a very good mood. Liable to blow your brains out, actually. Anyway, you haven’t finished yet.’

  ‘Haven’t finished? You mean there’s more?’

  ‘Acts Two and Three. This is the first interval.’

  ‘No! No more, Mr Goldman, please. I can’t go through any more of this! I’ve learned my lesson. Please!’

  ‘Shalom, my boy,’ he said. With that he disappeared in a great cloud of cigar smoke and I found myself standing in my dreary, cold room again.

  I gazed around and tried to smile, but instead, my face twitched nervously. The clock was ticking again, that, at least, was reassuring. I looked at myself in the mirror. Had I changed? Not noticeably. It was still me looking back at myself. A small, quiet, but nonetheless hysterical laugh caught in my throat. Coffee! I must have coffee!

  SCENE 17

  The fug of sleep was just beginning to descend when I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. So heavy, in fact, that I could feel the whole house trembling. I leapt from the bed and stood in trepidation in front of the door. The light flickered. I glanced at the clock which had again fallen silent. Ten to two! Only ten to two? Not possible, I thought and then remembered that anything was possible with Goldman. The room had turned brumally cold again.

  And then the hammering on the door! It was so violent that I leaped backwards, expecting to see it shatter into splinters.

  ‘Right, lad, open up!’ A voice bellowed. It was a voice I knew only too well. The Bull!

  No! Not the Bull! Anything but the Bull. Let it be a thousand screaming demons sent to tear me to shreds, but please, not the Bull.

  ‘Come on, lad, we haven’t got all night. So let’s get a jazz on!’

  There was no escape. I did what had to be done and with my entire being atremble I opened the door. There he stood, resplendent in the full dress uniform of the Coldstream Guards, but with one or two modifications. Instead of the dark trousers with a red stripe down the sides, his trousers were red to match his tunic. And instead of a black bearskin, his was white with sparkly bits in it. His pacestick was solid gold wound with silver tinsel. His moustache had also turned white and there was a festive twinkle in his eyes. He wasn’t the terrifying figure I had expected to see and despite his manner, which hadn’t changed much at all, he seemed quite benevolently disposed toward me.

  ‘Are you the one who’s compering Act Two?’ I asked in a voice that was barely audible to myself.

  ‘That’s right, lad. Thought our little chat the other day might’ve sunk in, but it seems you have to do things the hard way.’

  ‘But, I thought…’

  ‘Never mind thinking, lad. Try your conscience.’ He boomed.

  Yes, I remembered his words now – It’s your own conscience you’ll have to answer to.

  ‘Let’s get started, then,’ he bellowed. ‘Scene one.’ He pointed out onto the landing with his glittering pace stick. ‘Scene one. Downstairs in the kitchen.’ I looked at him, he looked at me. ‘You heard me, lad! MOVE!’

  I shot down the stairs so fast that I couldn’t stop at the bottom and fell in an untidy heap on top of the whippet. It didn’t seem to notice. I picked myself up and edged slowly along the hallway towards the kitchen door which had begun to open of its own accord. At the kitchen table Mrs H sat sobbing. Mr H was toying with a half empty bottle of whisky which he held in his lap.

  ‘Why are they so upset?’ I asked.

  ‘The budgie, lad, the budgie.’

  ‘But surely it was just a…’

  ‘Surely nothing. That bird was very important to them.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Like a child to them, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘A child?’

  ‘Never had any of their own, lad. Couldn’t. Had budgies instead. That bird was the last in a long line that they’d bred themselves.’

  ‘They’ve got the whippet,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Never bred whippets. They’ve all been done.’

  ‘Done?’

  ‘Yes, lad, DONE! All of them. They only bred budgies, not whippets, or children.’

  ‘You don’t mean Mr H has been…’

  The Bull cleared his throat, ‘Not physically, no. But in a manner of speaking…’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said,’I don’t really understand.’

  ‘Well, you’ve only got to look at her, haven’t you? If you get my drift.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was so important to them.’

  ‘Gather you were going to make a joke at the time.’

  ‘Was I? Oh, yes, that. Just a small one to try and lighten the situation a bit.’

  ‘Well, at least you won’t have to buy a turkey this year, Mr Higginbottom. That was it, wasn’t it? Bit inept, don’t you think?’

  ‘Well, yes, now under the circumstances. But I didn’t actually say it.’

  ‘But you thought it, didn’t you?’ he said preening his moustache and pressing his spectral face close to mine. ‘Nasty little mind you’ve got, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I have. I’m truly sorry. But what’s to be done? I can’t bring the budgie back, can I?’

  He snapped to attention. ‘Right! Scene two. House in Wembley. Christmas day. MOVE!’

  In an instant we were standing in the small dining room of a house in that part of Greater London. A family of four were seated at the dining table. The atmosphere was anything but festive, in fact you could’ve cut it with the carving knife that the father was using to dismember the turkey. The mother was trying to appear cheerful, but the daughter, a pretty girl of about twenty, was on the point of tears.

  ‘Cheer up, sis,’ her younger brother chirped, ‘you’re better off without the bastard.’

  The girl dissolved.

  ‘What has all this got to do with me?’ I aske
d.

  ‘Listen and you’ll find out,’ the Bull snarled.

  ‘Come on, ducks,’ her mother said, standing to put a comforting arm about her daughter. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘No,’ she sobbed, ‘it was all that rotten actor’s fault. If he hadn’t refused to play Santa at the staff party Dave and I would be engaged by now and instead he’s gone off with that slut, Bryony Williams. I mean, why did they have to cancel the whole party just because… oh mum!’

  ‘This is my doing,’ I said sheepishly. The Bull nodded.

  ‘Ramona there and Dave were going to announce their engagement at the Christmas party. But when there was no Santa, that’s you, the firm, in their penny-pinching, profit-motivated wisdom, sent out the bonuses with the wages and cancelled the celebrations.’

  ‘I mean, I know he was disappointed, mum,’ Ramona continued, ‘that’s why he went to the pub with his mates. But she had to follow him, didn’t she? Been trying to get him on his own for weeks and Dave’s always been a bit weak that way. Oh, mum!’ She broke down again.

  ‘But couldn’t they have found a replacement Santa?’ I asked in some astonishment. ‘This girl, she’s so unhappy.’

  ‘Damn making people happy, eh, lad?’ the Bull sneered. My very own words tightened like a noose about my neck.

  ‘Well, no, I didn’t mean… I didn’t want to make people unhappy. I just… Oh dear. This is not what I intended at all. No, it mustn’t happen, Mr Flowers,’ I said with urgent conviction. ‘It won’t happen. I shan’t let it happen. My mind is quite made up on the matter.’

  ‘RIGHT! Scene three. MOVE!’

  The scene changed again. It was Christmas night in the drawing room of my sister’s house. A log fire was blazing merrily in the grate sending bright sparks up the wide chimney. In one corner stood an enormous Christmas tree covered in sparkling decorations and glowing fairy lights. On a small table were bottles of brandy and port. Nanny, Sam and Godfrey each held a glass of one, or the other aloft.

  ‘Here’s to the berk, wherever he is,’ Godfrey toasted.

  ‘I do hope he’s alright,’ Sam said and then took a sip of her port. ‘I mean no one’s heard or seen anything of him since he left his lodgings last Monday. He’s not contacted Harridges, or mummy. Even that horrid little landlord of his hasn’t a clue what’s happened to him.’

  ‘Perhaps I was a bit harsh on him that day in the restaurant,’ Nanny remarked.

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, Nanny,’ Godfrey said yawning and as Nanny threw back another glass of brandy. It’s not your fault and he deserved to be told. I mean, he really is a prat the way he behaves.’

  ‘But I did invite him down, darling and I thought that maybe he would change his mind…’

  ‘They’re talking about me,’ I said.

  ‘Look,’ Godfrey began, pulling himself fully upright in his chair, ‘it’s probably just another of those hare brained ideas of his. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if we get a letter from him halfway through next year saying he’s joined some squalid little commune somewhere and is karmically happy, or whatever it is those types go in for. Mind you, I’ll say this for him, he’s a jolly good horseman. Always used to enjoy a gallop round the estate with him. Pity really. When you said you’d invited him I was rather looking forward to putting him on that new stallion to see if he could get the beast to behave.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ I said eagerly. ‘I’ve always loved riding. D’you know, when I was a boy I used to ride for miles and miles. And it’s true, Godfrey and I get on very well together round the stables. And when we’re out taking fences and that sort of thing, well, we goad each other on, I suppose. Godfrey’s no mean rider himself, you know. Oh yes, I must go and see them. You think I should go, don’t you, Mr Flowers?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘There’s a train on Christmas Eve, I’ve checked.’

  ‘I know you have,’ the Bullshade responded.

  ‘And it isn’t too far to travel back on Boxing Day for the dress rehearsal of that ghastly play.’ I was so happy at the prospect that it was a moment before I noticed