by George

by Wesley Stace

  After the war, there was more Echo, mute colours on stylish show bills, elegantly designed, and even a few polite mentions of Queenie (mainly from local papers); then came the rise of Frankie Fisher and a different kind of memento, on garish glossier pages.

  Evie told often how Joe had answered his country’s call as an entertainer for the troops. He hadn’t thought twice: he had gone to serve as soon as he could, and this had taken him to the most dangerous forward positions. There was Joe with his famous dummy — Evie always called them “boys,” though Frankie thought this a little ghoulish — pictures of the two of them with bravely smiling locals outside a bombed-out church, performing on a jerry-rigged stage to a company of soldiers, receiving the thanks of a mayor with a comically waxed moustache. Joe didn’t age. His years of fame had been cut short. And he had done the art a great service too, explained Evie, making it brave and heroic in a time of crisis. Alas, he had been too brave.

  The rest of the story had changed a little in the telling, adapted regularly to best suit the listener. The bare facts: in 1944, Joe “Death Wish” Fisher was performing to Canadian soldiers in Italy, when they were bombed. Many died. In the salvage operation, the few survivors, searching without hope, were amazed to see small black shoes sticking out from some rubble and, fearing it to be a local urchin, cleared the debris. It was Joe’s ventriloquist dummy, his body thrown through the air by the explosion.

  Joe Fisher was posthumously awarded the George Cross. “The least likely person ever to be awarded anything,” said Evie, though she was unspeakably proud. Garrulous George, on the other hand, was sent to a field hospital. His stay there provided some of the most poignant clippings in the scrapbook, for in these it was as if he had become Joe, as if the hopes of England were on a brave human of real flesh and blood pulling through. He was a symbol of triumph against all odds, of Allied survival against the evil onslaught of Nazism.

  Off camera, they shipped in a new tailor-made Tommy’s uniform, had a makeup artist restore George’s face, and, in the interests of morale, announced his perfect recovery. For the subsequent photo call, a replica George Cross, in recognition of George and Joe’s bravery, was pinned to his lapel, an honorary award that provoked humourless debate in the letters pages of leading newspapers. “Whatever next, a Victoria Cross for milady’s maid?” demanded a brigadier, who suggested that the newly founded Dickin Medal for brave animals — intrepid sniffer dogs, valiant carrier pigeons — might be more the ticket. The dummy, however, was no more animal than he was human, and, if only because of his name, an honorary George Cross was the popular choice.

  “What does it take to get a George Cross?” asked The Herald of the plucky invalid.

  “A Nazi with a bayonet,” Garrulous George replied from his sickbed. “But I’m not cross; I’m cock-a-hoop!”

  Britain’s secret weapon was flown back to England and displayed in the Imperial War Museum: a national treasure. After his exhibition, he was returned to a sad but grateful Fisher family in an official ceremony, where, at Echo’s fingertips, he delivered a eulogy to the bravery of Joe Fisher and expressed his gratitude to the country for his decoration. His exploits were over, his mark on the world made, and he was returned to the safety of his box. That was where he stayed, in his Tommy clothes, until the Fishers started to feel the pinch and agreed to sell him after all. They could still see him, behind glass, in the rather eccentric Armed Forces Museum, but since Evie had taken to her bed, it was a grave they tended less and less often. No such expedition had ever been suggested to George.

  Though the dummy was no longer in the house, he was still part of the family, the bravest boy in the world, the boy that all Fisher children had to live up to.

  “A learner should only move on when he has totally mastered a given effect,” advised his grandfather’s first notebook, and George vowed to obey this rule. Though he was desperate to get to the instructions on voice throwing, he mastered the urge to flip ahead. He began always to carry a pack of cards, another early instruction.

  After a few days, he predicted to Frankie that by his fifteenth birthday he would know all his grandfather had known.

  “You’ll be like my son and my father,” she exclaimed in delight.

  As the holiday ended, otherwise unremarkable pieces of domestic trivia became sources of unexpected sadness. George kept reminding himself to savour every moment.

  5

  Behind Enemy Lines

  I had two functions in the dressing room. For Queenie, I was a surrogate; for Echo, bait.

  Echo encouraged Queenie to have a go with me. Apparently, we made an adorable pair.

  “I couldn’t, Echo! I can’t do the lips.”

  Echo dismissed this: “Just turn your head a little, move his lips, and that’s where everyone looks. It’s called misdirection. Oldest trick in the book.”

  And so she toyed with me. It was not fun. You know what it’s like when a child practises the violin, that terrible hesitant caterwauling? Well, now imagine being the violin. Imagine being scraped, dropped, fiddled with, mauled. Echo had gone so far as to bring in some of her old practice scripts, routines even more infantile than the chestnuts Joe and I had performed in the Drolls.

  Queenie was practising ventriloquism, yes, but she was also practising for Joe. His future was in her every touch. I had been drafted in as an understudy for rehearsal while the main actor finished a previous engagement elsewhere. Though she made each manipulation with affection (and even love — for it was love that made her so determined), I watched a web woven around him.

  Queenie was what they call in the trade a natural. Though she would never be adept technically, she had a quality that transcended all — children loved her. She had been fiddling with me three days, three days mind you, when that magnificent old ham Lex Lyon unexpectedly deposited his son with us while he went to manjari. Fifteen minutes of friendly banter passed with the cheeky little chap. I may have been involved in some of it, asking if he liked school and so on, but my major contribution was turning my head from side to side and smoking a cigarette, while Queenie involved the little shaver in half-witted conversation.

  “You, my dear, have a gift,” said Echo, observing unseen over our shoulders.

  “Oh, I was only playing around.”

  “Precisely,” said Echo, swooping the room as she searched eagle-eyed for her replacement kingfisher. “You’ll make money with it.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

  “Nor do children. But they like you. Leave it to Echo.”

  I gulped. For Echo, I was bait, and with that woman playing Cupid, Joe stood little chance. He’d need all his wits about him, not to mention a considerable slice of good fortune, for this to end in anything but marriage.

  And then, true to form, there he was, between the two shows on Saturday: a lamb to the slaughter.

  “Look what the cat dragged in!” said Diane. Rain drummed on the skylight, and Joe’s newspaper had been doubling unsuccessfully as an umbrella.

  I was on Queenie’s lap. She was flustered, as though we’d been caught in flagrante, and this she communicated through her fingertips.

  “Visitor,” announced Diane. Echo ignored her, but when Diane added, “Family!” the diva immediately materialized.

  “Joe, have a seat. You’re soaked through. Sit down. A cup of tea . . .” Echo threw a towel over his head and stood behind him, talking to him, about him, as she dried his hair, making a fuss as never before. The end of her monologue coincided with her growing bored, and she whipped the towel away like a tablecloth from beneath a set of china. “. . . and I don’t think you’ve met Diane’s young cousin Queenie.” His hair was sticking up at various angles, still held by the remains of the Brylcreem that hadn’t been dried away. “She’s been . . .” Echo pointed high-handedly, indicating the contents of Queenie’s lap: me.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I’ve been playing with your . . . George.”

&nbs
p; “Not at all.” He sat down next to her. “I came to take him home. I was told he was getting in the way.”

  “In the way?” asked Echo in feigned innocence. Her work was done. Whether a horse drinks or not is no fault of the person who has generously bothered to lead him to water. If more persuasion was required, it could be done behind the scenes. “Lovely! She’s got to grips with George, Joey. Children adore her!” And then she was gone. “Di!” came her immediate cry. Out trooped Di. Queenie found herself alone with him at last, separated only by me. And that was the way it was going to stay.

  “Oh, look, his nose is a bit . . . ,” Joe observed.

  “My fault!” admitted clumsy Queenie. My head lolled to one side. “Can I tell you something? I’ve seen your act.”

  “The Drolls?”

  “No, you on your own. At the Eclectic Room.”

  “The Eclectic Room. Oh, well, I’m afraid they had to give me the old tin-tack. Two nights running I started a fight and the police got called in.”

  “With the voices at the end?” Queenie kicked herself for bringing it up. “I liked that bit. I liked the whole thing.”

  He had to change the subject. “Let me have a look at him, then.” He gazed at me fondly, as he never had before; it was as uncharacteristic as Echo’s recent hairstyling routine. “Hello, old fellow,” he said as he picked me up.

  “Hello, Queenie! Hello, Joe!” I said. Her necklace fell between her breasts on a trampoline of black brocade so taut that if flicked, the locket would have bounced two or three times.

  “Hello, George,” said Queenie. “How do you do that? How do you do that so well?”

  “How does he do what?” I said. She laughed. “It’s me doing all the work,” I added in exasperation. “And if you don’t know that, then you don’t know nuffink!” I turned round to Joe. “She don’t know nuffink! They always give you all the credit. What about me? It’s unfair!” She wasn’t looking at me at all but scrutinizing his lips, watching his Adam’s apple.

  “All right, old boy,” he said. “Calm down, calm down. And she’s been having a go with you, George, has she?”

  “Has she ever!” I said.

  Queenie laughed, pretending to be shocked by the innuendo.

  “And how do you like it?” he asked. I said nothing — but the question had not been intended for me.

  “Oh, I’m no good. But Echo thinks I’m all right. She says I should take him to Christmas parties and such, for children. But I’ve no idea how you do those lips. Echo said you might give me a lesson or two.”

  “She did, did she?” Joe asked sheepishly before requesting rather formally that she show him how she was getting on. She reluctantly agreed. Though he kept a straight face, I’m sure he must have winced throughout what followed, and I the unwitting agent of this catastrophe masquerading as entertainment. However, there was a bright side to the shambles. I knew his standards. He would see everything for what it was. By the end, however, Joe was smiling.

  “Echo’s right. You’re a natural. It’s all there.”

  “Oh, you’re just being nice.”

  “Well, I have some notes you might find interesting. It’s all quite straightforward. You just have to learn a few simple substitutions. Tricks of the trade.”

  Queenie and Joe’s first negotiation was almost complete. Echo and Diane passed through on their way to the stage.

  “Bake an egg,” I said, as Echo passed by with Narcissus on her arm.

  “Thank you,” said Narcissus, bowing graciously.

  Everything was going exactly as they had planned. Perhaps his mother was right, despite her Machiavelli impression. Perhaps Queenie was just what Joe needed. Echo had been right about the ventriloquism; perhaps she was right about everything. How depressing.

  “I must dash. I’m at the Razzle-Dazzle for two weeks: just a warm-up, but I do get my own spot every night.”

  “Can I come and see you?” She put me down on the sofa.

  “I’d rather . . . It’s not very . . . I’m not . . . You see, I’ll only play places that I’m sure aren’t booking me because . . .” He gesticulated at the empty dressing room that was Echo’s. “Go on, then,” said Joe with a shrug of decision. “Why not?”

  “Do you want to take George?” she asked.

  “No, I really don’t need him. You hang on to him until we meet again for a lesson or two.” He got up to leave, but she stopped him.

  “Your hair, Joe. It’s a little . . .” The mirror confirmed this. “It’s stopped raining now too. Hang on a mo.” She ran next door into Lex Lyon’s dressing room and returned with pilfered Brylcreem, then borrowed one of Narcissus’s combs. “You sit down here. I’ve done a bit of hairdressing in my time.”

  He sat in Narcissus’s chair, in front of Narcissus’s mirror, surrounded by Narcissus’s things. What Echo had started with the towel, Queenie now finished. That was how it was going to be: he was being passed on, handed down. He had no idea what he was getting into.

  After the good-byes, Queenie made straight for me, picked me up, and crushed me to her.

  “And? And?” said Echo five minutes later. She swam in from stage like the tide, leaving starfish and sequins in her wake. Diane put Narcissus back in his chair, tutting with distaste to see his comb besmirched with Brylcreem. “And? And? And?” insisted Echo. “Be not coy!”

  “And he said he’d help me with a few lessons,” said Queenie, as though her heart had not soared at the offer. She and Echo were in league, but Queenie was determined to enjoy her innermost feelings in private. “He invited me to see him at the Razzle-Dazzle.”

  “That fleapit. Ha!” said Echo; she snorted and left.

  Queenie took me by bus back to the unspectacular beige surroundings of her boardinghouse. She’d done her best to pretty the room up, but it had resisted her attempts.

  Finally, after twelve nights, he came and lessons got under way. I call them lessons (and teaching did occur — he showed her how the alphabet broke up into easy and hard, how simple were the substitutions for the hard letters, how a relaxed smile was better than a fixed grimace), but, though the avowed purpose was to get Queenie’s act shipshape for the glittering career as a children’s party entertainer for which Echo had her marked down, it was all a polite excuse for them to be together. Progress, on all fronts, was slow.

  Queenie told Joe she was wondering whether she could use me for her act, for which she even suggested changing my name, “for the children.” Pip Squeak, she said, had been Echo’s suggestion. The nerve of it! Couldn’t he see the irony? Couldn’t he see she was in league with the enemy?

  “I don’t want to be Pip Squeak,” I said, trembling on Joe’s knee. I wanted to be a children’s entertainer even less than he did.

  “No, you’re George, and I christened you that,” he said with a smile. “Perhaps you need your own boy, Queenie.”

  “I’ll have to look into it,” said Queenie, keen not to offend. “Are they dear?”

  “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you practise with George, and if you get an engagement, use him until you get your own.”

  Thus continued their ponderous courtship. Neither of them had a great deal of experience with the opposite sex. Queenie had dreams of imposing herself physically upon someone — I had experienced them momentarily — but was too demure to bring this about. Further, she did not respond well to romance, nor had she ever sought to spark it in others. Flowers, yes, if trimmed and put in water immediately, but no poetry. Her straightforward manner punctured any party balloon lobbed in her direction; people took the hint and stood off.

  All was quite proper, and there was little prospect of progress. Both were waiting to be asked, and neither knew the question.

  One night, Queenie went with a friend to see Joe at the Beauchamp, where he had finally secured proper billing. The two girls, dressed to the nines, set off like gamblers on their way to a casino, but Queenie came home earlier than I had expected, an amateur who had bet her entire
allowance on the first spin of the roulette wheel and lost.

  “Anything?” asked Diane one day, her forthrightness a relief amidst all the dithering. “Young Lochinvar. Any progress?” She stabbed her cigarette into a shell ashtray. “It’s been months now.” Had it? “Nothing?”

  “Why the interest?”

  “Her Highness asked. She’s requested an audience with you. We’re out of town, Brighton, from tomorrow. Perhaps you should pop down.”

  “What is it? Birds and the bees?”

  Diane lit another cigarette, shrugged, and looked at the rain-flecked window. “Might be nice this time of year.”

  The next lesson took place a week later in the early evening. Queenie helped them both to an ominous sherry, and we all sat down on the sofa. He could smell unusual perfume about her, spotting the source on her dressing table: a decanter labelled Denholm’s of Brighton, his mother’s favourite perfumer. Both bars of the fire kept the room rather too warm; flowers were arranged with precision in the only vase. Queenie did not mention that she had seen Echo, but she did mention his engagement at the Beauchamp.

  “Oh, I thought that was an awful shame,” she said. “It went well apart from the technical difficulty. But the people will interrupt, won’t they?”

  “Well, you’ll have to get used to that at your parties.” They laughed at the thought of children, then stopped laughing at the same thought. “On to business,” said Joe abruptly, and the lesson began. There was no doubt about it: Queenie was coming along — she had the basics, her handling had improved, and she was easily qualified to take children’s minds off cake for fifteen minutes — but today her performance was particularly cack-handed. By this stage, Joe had even given up using me for demonstration; he merely held up his hand like a little ostrich head and talked to it. Lessons would soon be over.

  She put me aside, got up, and poured two more sherries. When she sat down again, there was silence.

  “Well, perhaps I’d better . . . ,” said Joe, the full glass of sherry in his hand.