by Paul O'Grady
The plane didn’t go down. Instead it turned back to Manila and all the passengers were put up in a nearby hotel for the night with the promise of a flight in the morning. After oversleeping and nearly missing the flight the next day thanks to a heavy night in the bar with a couple of Germans, I finally made it to Bangkok, although the airline had other plans for my luggage and sent it off to an unknown destination on a long holiday all of its own. At Bangkok airport I was told that there wasn’t much chance of me going anywhere for the next couple of days as all flights were full.
Outside the airport I was mobbed by taxi touts. The most dogged of the lot won the day and I ended up agreeing to a guided tour of Bangkok for what I now realize was an extortionate price. At the temple of the Emerald Buddha I met a girl who looked like a forties film star, dressed in a crimson jumpsuit with a matching turban and spiky red heels.
‘This place is Hustle City,’ she drawled in a thick New York accent. ‘Ya gotta watch’em like a hawk or they’ll fleece ya first chance they get.’
I thought her the ultimate in sophisticated glamour, the Lana Turner of the Temples, and it wasn’t until she removed her enormous tortoiseshell sunglasses that I realized that underneath the slap she couldn’t be much older than me.
‘The name’s Roxanne,’ she said, ‘Roxanne Casey from New York City, pleased to meet ya.’
She was in the same predicament as me, unable to get a flight home and stranded in Bangkok where she’d spent the previous night sleeping on the floor at the airport. I asked her how she’d managed to look like she was about to step on to the red carpet at the Oscars, remarkable in the circumstances.
‘The washroom, the goddamn public washroom.’ She shrugged. ‘What else is a girl to do? But I sure as hell don’t fancy doing it for much longer. Y’wanna get outta this heat, go for a beer? See if we can’t figure a way how to get the hell outta here?’
Roxanne was quite rightly suspicious of the taxi driver, wanting to know how much the ‘son of a bitch’ was charging me and haggling furiously with him before she agreed to let him take us any further.
‘OK,’ she said, once she’d managed to bring the price down to a sum she considered respectable, ‘take us to the Oriental Hotel.’
She explained to me in the back of the cab that it was the best hotel in town and we stood a good chance of meeting a couple of guys there who might be able to ‘help us out’. ‘A couple of nice guys, businessmen looking for a little company,’ she said, sitting back in her seat, ‘who in return will put us up until we can get a flight.’
I seriously doubted Roxanne’s hair-brained scheme to get us bedded down for the night but pretended to go along with it for something to do. I couldn’t imagine anyone lusting after me, man, woman or beast, not unless they were into extremely rough trade as I was still wearing the same clothes that I’d left Manila in – jeans, T-shirt and flip-flops. I also hadn’t shaved for a few days and my hair, which badly needed cutting, was as high as the proverbial Maori’s hut. And it wasn’t the only thing that was high. Having overslept and nearly missed my flight to Bangkok, I’d had no time to shower or even clean my teeth and I was conscious that I must be more than a little ripe.
Tagging along behind Roxanne, who sailed into the Oriental as if she owned the place, I grinned sheepishly at the doorman, surprised that he’d let me in, and followed Roxanne to some tables and chairs in the busy lobby.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God!’ Roxanne exclaimed when she saw the prices on the drinks menu, ordering two beers nevertheless. ‘Now all we gotta do is sit tight and wait for a couple of big fish to swallow the bait.’
I was content just to sit in the cool of this beautiful lobby listening to the piano and people-watching. Roxanne was certainly attracting lots of attention from both men and women – it would have been hard not to notice her in that jumpsuit and turban, she put the colourful flower display to shame – but to her growing chagrin no ‘nice businessmen’ approached us with the offer of bed and board until eventually, after what seemed like an hour, a man made his way over to us.
‘Quick. Look interesting,’ Roxanne hissed as he gave us the once-over before settling himself at a table next to ours and unfolding a newspaper.
Leaning across to him and waving a cigarette she asked coyly if he had a light. Lowering his paper, he gave her a look that managed to convey that he was used to being hustled by a more superior calibre of con woman in hotel lobbies and, indicating the lighter sat on our table, asked her why she didn’t provide her own.
‘It’s broken,’ she simpered sweetly.
‘I don’t smoke,’ he replied curtly, getting up and moving to another table. ‘But I’m sure one of the waiters will provide you with a book of matches if you ask.’
‘What is it with these guys? They all celibate or something?’ she protested, watching him go.
‘C’mon, let’s get out of here, we’re wasting our time.’ I was anxious to leave, worried that any minute now we would be thrown out.
‘OK by me,’ she said, gathering her few possessions and marching smartly across the lobby towards the exit. ‘The place is a bore anyway.’
On the way back to the airport I asked the driver if he could recommend a shop that sold jewellery. My sister had a thing for what she called ‘Siamese silver’ and I wanted to see if I could find something to take home that was within my limited price range.
The driver took us to a shop. ‘The best prices in Bangkok,’ he said.
‘He probably gets commission for every dumb mug he takes here,’ Roxanne said, looking around her. ‘Jeez, what a load of crap.’
She haggled like a trooper with the shop assistant over a bracelet of ‘Siamese silver’ that I wanted to buy.
‘Silver my ass. Leave this thing on overnight and you’d wake up with verdigris poisoning. I’ll give ya five bucks for it.’
My sister got her bracelet but we were not so lucky when it came to getting a flight out. At checkin we were told again that there were no seats available on any flights and that unfortunately for us we were at the bottom of a very long standby list.
Roxanne took herself off to the washroom to change for ‘bed’ and re-emerged a different woman, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. With her face scrubbed clean of make-up and her squeaky-clean shoulder-length blonde hair freed from the confines of the turban, she looked like a little girl.
Trying to get to sleep in a small plastic chair is impossible, no matter how tired you are. In the end I joined Roxanne on the floor, where she at least had a jacket to cover her and a holdall for a pillow. We talked for hours until Roxanne finally fell asleep. I lay on the hard floor trying to get comfortable, wondering what the hell I was going to do. The little money I had left wouldn’t last much longer and it looked like I was stuck here for days, maybe a week. I could just picture myself starving, my clothes in rags, harassing people on the streets of Bangkok for the price of a meal. No, I had to get out of here and as I lay on the floor a brilliant if devious scheme to get us home slowly unfurled in my mind. Roxanne’s luggage had gone AWOL, as had mine, so what we’d do was this: we’d go to the offices of the airlines for which we were on the waiting list and tell them we were diabetic and that since our luggage containing the necessary supplies of insulin had gone missing we were now in danger of going hyperglycaemic as the little we had with us in our hand luggage was running out fast. Brilliant.
‘Hypergly-what?’ Roxanne asked the next morning as I explained the plan over breakfast in the airport café.
‘Hyperglycaemic, it’s what happens to a diabetic when they need insulin.’
‘How do you know this shit?’
‘I used to look after kids who had it, so I know all the facts. It’s worth a try.’
‘OK, I’m in.’ She took a slug of coffee and peered at me over the tortoiseshell sunglasses. ‘Now run all the details by me again.’
I managed to dissuade her from putting on the warpaint and the crimson jumpsuit, explaining that she
looked more vulnerable au naturel.
‘I’d rather die than be seen without lipstick,’ she moaned. ‘You’re a goddamn sadist.’
In the office of KLM I gave a performance worthy of an Oscar, keeping my fingers firmly crossed as I relayed my sorry tale to the nice lady behind the desk, not wanting to tempt fate by telling such an outrageous lie. Eyes brimming with tears, I’d managed to convince myself that I was about to go into a coma at any minute by the time I’d finished. The nice lady was very concerned and after a few phone calls she managed to secure me a seat on a flight leaving for Rome that night. Making a mental note to God promising to make amends for telling such a whopper, I went in search of Roxanne. She was coming out of the offices of Pan Am with a huge smile on her face.
‘Guess what? They’re putting me on a flight to New York tonight,’ she shouted excitedly, rushing towards me and giving me a kiss. ‘They said I could use the first-class lounge while I waited, and I got you a pass as well. You’re a genius!’
Roxanne went to town in the first-class lounge, availing herself fully of the facilities in the ladies’ washroom to transform herself from all-American girl back into forties vamp. We exchanged addresses and made promises to keep in touch and then went our separate ways, never to see each other again. Once safely on the plane I was beside myself to find that I’d been allocated a seat in business class. After a lovely dinner I settled down in the luxury of my enormous seat and went to sleep. Heaven.
CHAPTER 15
The Glamazons
FIVE DAYS AFTER LEAVING THE TROPICANA APARTMENTS AND still wearing the same clothes, I’d finally made it home. It was Friday afternoon, Vera was out and there was someone sleeping in my bed.
A tousled mop of curls appeared from beneath the blankets. They belonged to Chrissie, a queen I’d seen around the clubs in Liverpool and wasn’t very keen on. He was camper than a Dora Bryan film, mincing around Sadie’s screaming like a one-man ghost train. Underneath the mane of corkscrew curls lurked a face that could have been very pretty if it wasn’t set in a permanent scowl, and his mean little mouth framed by a pencil-thin moustache always puckered up as if he were sucking a mouthful of sherbet lemons. Appearances were deceptive, as despite his delicate looks he was as hard as nails and ferocious in a fight. I once saw him come to blows with the cloakroom attendant from the Bear’s Paw over something as petty as a spilt drink. The attendant, himself a tough little queen, rose to the challenge when Chrissie ‘offered her out’ and they set about each other like a pair of psychopathic Shih Tzus fighting over a bone, until eventually Chrissie put an end to the matter by belting the poor queen over the head with a chair. I was wary of Chrissie; he was not one to cross.
‘Hiya, queen,’ he screeched as if we were long-lost friends. ‘We didn’t know when you were coming back. Vera’s at work.’
‘Vera? Work?’
‘Yeah, she’s working behind the bar of the Black Cat.’
‘It’s Cap.’
‘Whatever, she’s’avin’ a ball anyway, pissed every night. You haven’t got a vogue going spare, have yer? I’m crawling up the wall here in desperation for a little whiff.’
I threw a packet of duty-free at him and asked if he’d like a cup of tea.
‘Ooh, I’d love one – no milk please,’ he said, slithering out of bed in his vest and underpants to get a light from the gas fire, ‘an’ I wouldn’t mind a little bit of toast with that if you’re making any, queen.’ There was more than a hint of Uriah Heap about Chrissie when he was attempting to ingratiate himself.
‘What are you doing here, Chrissie, if it’s not a daft question?’ I asked as I waited for the kettle to boil.
‘Well, you see, Lil,’ he said, taking a deep drag on his fag, pulling the strap of his vest over his bony shoulder as delicately as if it belonged to an elegant satin chemise, ‘I had to get out of town. It was closing in on me, y’know? Well, I had the promise of a job down here so I rang Vera and asked if yous’d mind if I crashed here for a couple of days.’ He took another pull on his fag, idly flicking the ash in the general direction of the fireplace and missing. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Lil? I’ve tidied up.’
That was an understatement. The place was transformed; for the first time in months I could see the bedroom floor.
‘I’ve done all the washin’ and hung up every scrap of clothing. I’ve also scrubbed this dump from top to bottom. You two are a dirty pair of bastards, I thought you’d been broken into when I first got here, the state of the place.’
I left him to get dressed and made the tea, unable to believe that for once the kitchen sink was devoid of dirty dishes and our motley collection of mugs were now hanging from cup-hooks on the end of the shelf. Chrissie had been very busy in my absence: an army of spring-cleaning fairies couldn’t have done a better job. I took a look in the front room and saw the turquoise lino shone like a lake and the net curtains that had previously been a smoky grey were now a gleaming white.
‘How was the Far East then? You’ve got a smashing tan,’ he shouted from the bedroom. ‘Did you have a good time? We thought you were never coming back. Work’s been on the phone looking for yer, you’d better give’em a ring.’
‘Thank God you’re back,’ Maura was saying on the other end of the phone. ‘Now I realize you still have a month to go before you’re due to come back but a job’s come up that really only a man can do.’
This sounded ominous. It was obviously an unsafe house with a drunken father who’d kick the door down in the wee small hours, hell-bent on killing me. Why did I leave Manila? Why didn’t that bastard Ryan say, ‘Come with me to Jakarta’?
‘He’s an elderly gentleman suffering from dementia. His wife, who is also his full-time carer, badly needs a break so we’re going to provide a bit of respite care while she goes off and has a holiday.’
‘How long is the assignment?’ I asked, crossing my fingers and hoping to God that it would be a short one.
‘Three weeks.’
My heart sank. Three weeks looking after a demented old man 24/7. I’d go out of my mind along with him.
‘Now he’s a big fellah,’ Maura went on. ‘Very strong despite his age and prone to violent outbursts towards strangers, but apart from that he’s a nice owld boy. His name is Mr Pantucci and he loves his classical music.’
Great, dodging blows to Mahler.
‘When do you want me to start?’
‘Monday morning. Now write the address down and I’ll meet you there.’
I went off to get a pen.
‘Everything all right, Lil?’ Chrissie was munching on a piece of toast and smoking at the same time as I rooted around for a pen. It was always the same, you could never find one when you wanted one. I swear to God we had Borrowers living behind the wainscot who specialized in biros.
‘If you wanna pen, they’re all in the kitchen drawer. It’ll probably take you a while to get used to a bit of order.’ He yawned. ‘Oh well, I better have a wash. I want to do a bit of shopping, I promised Vera I’d get something in for later. Watcha fancy?’
I took the address down off Maura and hung up the phone with a heavy heart. It was going to be hard to adjust after Manila. I felt displaced, unsettled and the prospect of three weeks’ solitude with a crazy old man did nothing to cheer me up.
‘Anyway, Lil, welcome home,’ Chrissie shouted, heading for the bathroom. ‘It’s nice to have you back.’
Yeah, welcome home, Lil, wherever home was.
*
Vera and I were sat in the kitchen catching up over a pot of tea and twenty duty-frees when Chrissie arrived back from the shops, carrying a highly varied assortment of goodies. ‘I’ve got bacon, bread, beans, sausage, a bottle of wine and a pork pie, oh and half a bottle of whisky for you, Lil, to welcome you home.’
Strangely none of this was carried back from the shops by the orthodox means of a carrier bag. Instead he produced this seemingly endless stream of merchandise from deep inside the recesses of his overco
at, a garment that Fagin had obviously left him in his will. ‘I’ve gorra bit of cheese somewhere,’ he said, rooting around an inside pocket, ‘and a couple of jars of sandwich spread as well.’
‘I thought you had no money, Chrissie?’ Vera asked, examining the bottle of wine.
‘I haven’t.’
‘So where did this little lot come from then?’
‘Where d’ya think, soft shite?’
Vera gasped. ‘Are you mental? Shoplifting when you’re on the run from the pol—’ He tried to swallow his words as they came tumbling out but it was too late. The cat was out of the bag.
‘Are you on the run from the police then?’ I asked, trying my best to sound casual, as if I was used to harbouring queens on the run every day of the week. ‘What did you do?’
‘Nothin’ much, just a bit of shoplifting.’
‘And she’s at it again now. You’re gonna get your collar felt, Chrissie, if you don’t watch out – and where did you nick this little lot from? I hope it wasn’t out of Mrs Bhakta’s.’ Vera was referring to the lady who ran the corner shop, who we both loved because she allowed us to get things on tick.
‘No, it wasn’t Mrs Bhakta’s, it was the Co-op if you must know.’
‘That’s all right then,’ Vera said, changing his tune. ‘In that case open that wine and I’ll make a little sarnie.’
That evening we went to the Black Cap to witness Vera in action behind the bar. The feisty Irish landlady, Babs, had given him the moniker ‘McGoo’ after the short-sighted cartoon character. At closing time she would hammer a shillelagh forcefully on the wood panelling in the front bar in an attempt to coerce the stragglers to drink up and go home. ‘McGoo! Are you pissed again?’ she would cry as an inebriated Vera staggered ever so slightly while supposedly collecting glasses.
