by Martin Bryce
note ‘ere. It’s got a gift tag on it signed, from a well-wisher.’
‘P’raps you could change it,’ I ventured.
‘’E is rather sweet, love,’ Mrs H chirped as she lightly tapped the bars of the cage.
‘Sweet? Sweet! You’d better watch it or t’bloody thing’ll ‘ave your bloody ‘and off.’
‘Anyway, Mr H,’ I said, changing the subject, ‘have you cashed that cheque yet?’
‘I were just going out when this thing arrived,’ he told me. ‘And I couldn’t leave Mrs Higginbottom alone in t’house with it, could I? I mean, ‘ow do we know it isn’t one of they carnivorous parrots from New Zealand? Saw a programme on t’telly about them. Carry off sheep regular, they do.’
‘Well, here’s the ten pounds,’ I said handing him the money. ‘You can tear up my cheque, please. And here’s the money for the budgie.’
‘You can keep that,’ he said quietly. ‘Reckon we’ll make a go of this thing.’
‘Who’s a pretty boy, then?’ I heard him ask uncertainly of the bird as I climbed the stairs. The parrot replied that it certainly wasn’t Mr H, in language more suited to the gun deck of a man o’war than a northern kitchen in southern England.
Onstage at the Arts Centre the set was shaping up nicely. The rehearsal itself can be summed up in one word, catastrophic. I concentrated less on trying to turn the players into accomplished actors and more on correcting the worst of the mistakes in the hope that the audience wouldn’t notice the minor ones. After all, they were amateurs who were only trying to fulfil some private fantasies and if they were happy with that, then so was I. I envied them in a way. I wished that my ambitions could be so easily satisfied, but that was something I would have to work on.
Better a little fire to warm us than a great one to burn us.
Rowena was pleasantly surprised when I tried to return her some more of the loan. She insisted on taking me for a meal that evening. I told her of my plans for Christmas. She was a little disappointed as she had been meaning to ask me to her parents’ place to share the day with her. She arranged to collect her parcels from my lodgings after the staff party.
And so the week passed quickly and largely incident-free. I enjoyed every minute of it, even the staff party where, like everyone else, I had a touch too much to drink. There was real joy on the face of each of the staff as I handed them their Christmas bonus. I saw in the eyes of some of them the sort of look I had been expecting to see in the eyes of the children, but had only rarely. Each of the canteen ladies insisted on sitting on my knee for a photo opportunity and gave me a kiss on the cheek afterwards.
Ramona and Dave were surprised that news of their engagement had leaked out and when Dave finished his little speech the champagne corks popped and they were presented with a set of Waterford Crystal by the manager.
At the end of it all I was exhausted, but happy and I travelled to Hampshire laden with gifts for the family and without a care in the world.
Having known so little about the character I’d been playing, this not quite whimsical creation of a grandfather telling stories to his grandchildren during the final winter of his life in ancient times, I had learned a lot.
As children he brings us happiness in a number of ways; through magic, expectation, obedience and reward. If you don’t believe me about the obedience, think back. Who else, parents included and in spite of his absence, did we spend the entire year trying not to offend? And why did we spend our Christmas Eves lying in bed, eyes peeping over the sheets for as long as we could keep them open, thinking of all the things we shouldn’t have done during the previous year? And then, in spite of it all, we find our stockings filled to overflowing on Christmas Day. An example of forgiveness and generosity which shames all those who promise nothing but hell and damnation for sinners. It is because of these things that he is Father Christmas.
And when we become old and grey he remains the same, delivering not a sackful of novelties, but memories. As long as we can remember the magic of Christmas that we knew so well as children, then part of us will remain forever young. That is his true gift. He is the one who turns children into kings and queens for a night and grown-ups into jesters. He blesses childhood with a sort of immortality and it would be a poor man at Christmas who, if only for the briefest moment, didn’t feel just a little like Peter Pan.
Epilogue
Christmas at Sam and Godfrey’s was magnificent. The best I had had since childhood. Although the twins repeated the performance with the nappies, nothing seemed to matter. I agreed with Nanny when she said that the disposable nappies weren’t a patch on the good old towelling ones. She taught me how to put one on properly; the knowledge could be useful if I am ever offered the part of father in the future.
I managed a valuable talk with the Admiral. The loss of his favourite dog had mellowed him. He’d sold his arsenal of hunting weapons and taken to reading more. Over dinner he told some very funny stories about his time in the POW camp where he had been in charge of the concert party. Apparently, he used to do a reasonable impersonation of Al Jolson and he tried to repeat this for us, but his gout was too bad. He smiled, shook my hand and wished me luck when I left to return to London on Boxing Day after an early morning canter across the fields with Godfrey and Rodney. The stallion threw me and I landed badly, but the local GP had strapped up my leg for the journey back in Rodney’s Porsche Cayenne.
As for the play, well, the critic said it all and although I have always found Byron’s words a great source of consolation:
As soon seek roses in December, ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Before you trust in critics.
This time the critic was spot on.
I don’t suppose it helped that I had to appear as Randy Broome with my leg in plaster. The X-ray at the hospital, where Mandy insisted on taking me, revealed the sprained ankle from my fall to be a full-blown fracture. The Stonemason took particular delight in wishing me luck in the traditional theatrical way backstage on the opening night. I thought it a trifle malicious.
The script received a pasting and deserved it. But the critic’s final suggestion that the Director leave the planet as soon as possible was, I felt, a little harsh. I had, after all, done my best.
Two positive things came out of Scent. I’m very pleased about the first and I suppose I should be about the second. First, Brian received unqualified praise for the set and he deserved it. As a result he was invited to apply for the post of assistant Stage Manager with a well-known youth theatre. He wasted no time in giving up his security work when he was finally offered the job.
Second, McGregor’s off to Hollywood! Goldman came to the final night of the show and was so impressed by his performance that he landed him the second lead role, that of the rough, seedy, Glaswegian Detective, Tony Macari, in the film version of that gritty novel Gorbals Nights. According to Goldman he was a shoe-in for it. The thing is, he’s playing alongside Robert de Niro whose character, Jack Corr, a cop with the LAPD, swaps beats with McGregor’s character for six months. So while Bob will be enjoying the sights and sounds of the Trongate and living it up sharing buckfast in the rain with the Neds on Sauchihall and Renfield Streets, McGregor will be slumming it on location in Beverly Hills. Good luck to him.
The romance with Rowena fizzled out as I had secretly known that it would. Shortly after the show ended she and her entire family were arrested and charged with dealing in stolen and forged works of art. Rowena was secondarily charged with selling a range of men’s toiletries, stolen from Harridges, on a market stall in St Albans. I’d often wondered what was in the boxes she’d stored in my room. Mandy told me that they all jumped bail and did a runner overseas. Rumour has it that they went to Australia.
I left Mafeking Avenue for good in early January. The Hs were getting used to the parrot and although Mrs H had no trouble
handling it, Mr H had taken to wearing welder’s gloves and a fencing mask whenever he went near the cage.
I’m now working on Sam and Godfrey’s estate helping Goosepipe dig ditches and lay hedges. I’m getting fitter and stronger by the day with all the fresh air, good food and honest manual labour. But I think I’m developing trench foot.
Mandy has taken to spending most weekends with us and she and Sam are getting on like a house on fire. Her skills as a horsewoman, honed, apparently, working as a Jillaroo in Australia, have impressed Godfrey no end. I have to say that I’ve become very fond of her. The old Trout and the Admiral enjoy her company enormously. They’ve had her parents to stay with them on several occasions and I have the feeling that something’s afoot, but know not what. Aye, loud conspiracy walks darkened corridors with muffled tread!
The great thing is that Goldman’s found me two engagements. The first is a minor part (I play a dustbin actually) in a new play opening in Bristol on April the first for a three week run. After that I’m booked as a stand-up comedian at Minehead for a summer season. I’ve never done anything like it before and I’m quite looking forward to it, but I’m also a little nervous. I can never remember jokes. Even Goosepipe, a wet blanket at the best of times, knows more one-liners than I do. I also lack that great wealth of experience from which so many successful comedians derive their inspiration. Nothing funny ever happens to me.
Break a leg.
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About the author
Martin Bryce AKA Graham Houghton, began his working life in the British military, but returned to civvy street for a girl who immediately dumped him. He spent a year in menswear retailing selling clothing to the stars. He then discovered 1 archaeology, 2 writing, 3 his wife and has been enjoying them all ever since. He is most content when he is by, on, in or under the water.
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