by George

by Wesley Stace

  “Sonny, you have to know when to turn it off. Or it’ll drive you insane.”

  As he was setting off one morning for Crystal Clear, a large flat envelope arrived in the mail. He knew the postmark well. Upside had caught up with him.

  His daily journey to the tube station took him by grim Malcolm Collins. His satchel made him look like any other fifteen-year-old schoolboy, but the contents were specific to his new profession: his favourite lighter, some extra-thick cardboard that would surely be useful, a tin full of ball bearings, and some old cutlery he had found lying by the side of the road: all rubbish had sound potential now.

  He could barely recall anything of his year at Malcolm Collins. Of Upside, however, he remembered every moment. Three years on, it was the bucolic aspects of the school that came most readily to mind: the gardens sloping gently down towards the surrounding fields, the morning walk to the conker trees, the empty playing fields in winter. There was something he was forgetting to remember too, something out of reach.

  He’d have left Upside by now. Perhaps if he’d won a scholarship he’d be at one of those tersely named and important schools that sprang from teachers’ tongues — Eton, Harrow, Stowe — but if he’d failed, then he’d have ended up at long-winded Malcolm Collins School and Technology College anyway. Perhaps nothing in life made any difference, however radical a break it felt at the time. At Malcolm Collins (and probably at Eton too, for all he knew), they were just emerging for morning break. A passing boy yelled at him.

  On the tube, he opened the Upside envelope with some trepidation, removed the contents, and laughed. That was all they had for him? The last four copies of The Upsider? Did they waste a magazine, a stamp, and an envelope on every black sheep? He glanced in the oldest: the first eleven, the second fifteen, the field trip to Arundel, the old boys, the library, the obituaries, and a review: “Androcles a Roaring Success,” the headline. There was plenty of praise for Burgh’s performance, the review written by an Ernest Bunbury: possibly Burgh himself? George read between the lines, behind the words — everything was a sham. But the magazines held a morbid fascination, and he returned to them at any free moment at work. That day’s project involved a lot of stabbing for a particularly violent crime movie. Most of the morning was spent burying knives of all sizes into meats of every cut. Queenie and Reg would eat well tonight — almost certainly stir-fry.

  At lunch, in the Monkey’s Head, George nursed his half pint while the rest of Crystal Clear stood at the bar and solved the industry’s problems. George had read as much of the magazines as he could bear. Hessenthal had gone on to another school, and Poole was now vice headmaster. He flicked through the old boys’ news in the most recent issue: most of the names meant nothing to him, but a couple of the oldest boys from his year were already covering themselves in glory at their senior schools. Why they wanted to let Upside know about it, he had no idea. Lunch break nearly over, he cast his eye over the most recent obituaries. It was then he saw.

  Hartley, Donald (1937–1976). Pupil from 1945 to 1950 and sometimes groundsman at Upside; son of Stewart, headmaster, and Mary Hartley. A memorial service, to be followed by reception, will be held at noon on December 5th at St. Stephen’s, Marylebone, W1, to which all O.U.s are invited.

  George’s eyes suddenly swam with tears. Things never happened when you predicted they would. But when a possibility was left unconsidered, fate crept through the cracks. He would never forget that.

  The memorial service was in two days’ time. Of course he would go, but he wouldn’t tell his family. He didn’t want to remind Queenie and Frankie about the Upside fiasco, about which for the first time he felt guilt, as though he had wasted a valuable opportunity; he owed everyone an apology. He tore out one page, then threw the magazines away as he headed back from the pub.

  Frankie had been asked to step in at the last moment as one of three soloists on a tour for a “Best of the Musicals” show, West End Story. The tight budget and the unforgiving publicity schedule at local radio dictated, to Frankie’s displeasure, that much of her travelling was done overnight.

  On the day of the memorial service, Queenie and Reg were sitting over breakfast, chattering aimlessly, as George left for work. As usual he had his satchel, but a shirt and a tie replaced the normal clutter inside. He changed in the lavatory of the hamburger chain restaurant opposite the church, where, to avoid standing in an inch of water, he had to perch on the porcelain. Someone had attempted to mop up the flood by throwing yards of toilet roll onto it, which had disintegrated into a messy sludge.

  He had intended to walk straight to the front door of St. Stephen’s to pay his respects, but his nerve failed unexpectedly when he saw the Hartleys ahead, and he dodged down a side street by the graveyard until they were safely inside. He hadn’t considered the congregation and he was suddenly filled with an urge not to see them or to be seen by them. He loitered around the corner until the bell rang twelve, then waited for the first hymn.

  An old woman, impressed by the smartly dressed young man who had crept in so considerately, handed him an order of service and motioned him forwards, but George shook his head, turned around, and climbed to the gallery, where he could pay his respects unobserved. The stained-glass window behind him, through which no light shone, looked unfinished. At the end of the hymn, the vicar faced the congregation: “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Today we remember the life of Donald Hartley. We will begin with a reading from the Gospel of Saint John.”

  Hartley made his way to the pulpit, his pipe bobbling in his top pocket. George slunk back out of view as Hartley’s booming voice echoed in the rafters: “From John, chapter eleven, verses twenty-one to twenty-seven. ‘Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died . . .’ ” George opened the order of service. Here was what his friend Donald had come to, a name and some dates on a badly printed and ill-folded photocopy. “ ‘And Jesus saith unto her, Thy brother shall rise again. Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day.’ ” How convenient: he’d heard all this from Hartley’s own lips in the Upside chapel. Then it had seemed pointless; now it seemed like a good lie to tell yourself when your son had died. “ ‘And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?’ ” He doubted whether Donald had believed it or that he wanted to rise again.

  Hartley’s footsteps echoed down the pulpit stairs. George imagined his shoulders rising and falling with each step. The vicar himself read before calling another hymn number, “a great favourite of Donald’s from his days at Saint Catherine’s.”

  The congregation was about sixty strong. With their backs to him, it was hard to make identifications, though he knew Commander Poole from his naval uniform, his cap neatly tucked under his right arm, his hymnbook held as though he were presenting arms. Next to him, a pewful of Upside representatives: three or four teachers, mumbling their way through Donald’s supposed favourite, “All People That on Earth Do Dwell.” Towards the back, a family of four was sitting together, mother holding a baby. A woman in the front row wore a large black hat, from the back of which dangled a feather so extravagant that no one could sit directly behind her. It was a wonderfully absurd hat on such a small woman. And what a strange character she made in the church, sitting on her own in the front row — quite the oddest person at the memorial. A dotty relative, perhaps, singing loudest of all.

  The organ kicked into overdrive for the last verse, encouraging the congregation to sing more jubilantly. They resisted, and the final exultant chord heralded only a round of throat clearings and the creak of pews as they sat down for the sermon. That creak was worth remembering — quite specific, but nothing you couldn’t fake at Crystal Clear.

  “Let’s talk about Lazarus,” suggested the vicar. “And then we’ll talk about Donald.”

  The congregation settled in for the slow slog of the sermon. How long ago had Donald died? Presumably the first piece of busi
ness — the practical end of the matter: the burial, the cremation — had taken place some time ago. Since then, they’d been able to give Old Upsiders enough notice by putting the invitation in the school magazine. Had it been worth the wait? Had old boys turned up? Yes, obviously. George was there.

  The impossibility of paying attention to the sermon, due partly to the enervating oboe-ish quality of the vicar’s voice, led George to compose his own silent elegy. He had been so anxious about the memorial that he had forgotten the man — and now memories came flooding back: how Donald had first introduced himself, the trip to Mrs. Cakebread’s, and the walkie-talkies; not to mention the Ventrilo, the ring of which, painlessly but with a little coaxing, had made a belated reappearance far too late to alert Donald. George kept it with his loose change: at least he knew where it had been. He remembered how Donald had stolen Valentine Vox back for him. The thought of the book coincided with the baby crying, and George imagined the mayhem Valentine could have wreaked at this service. Perhaps the baby was entirely innocent, his wails the wild talents of Vox throwing his voice from another part of the church, hiding up in the gallery next to George.

  Vox would have pretended to be Donald come back to life, to show the vicar for the pompous old fool he was: “That wasn’t my favourite hymn! I didn’t like that one at all. Sing something I liked, you old hypocrite!” And the vicar would have got more and more annoyed as he struggled to make himself heard over the heckling spirit, until Valentine revealed himself, and everyone, including the unfortunate vicar, dissolved into gales of laughter.

  Oh, Valentine! Where are you now? And you, Donald?

  The gallery was the ideal hiding place for a Valentine, and this solemn event the ideal occasion, but George lived in the real world — a world where the trick would be an outrage, another atrocity perpetrated on the Hartleys and Upside by its darkest pupil. Other forms of ventriloquism were acceptable, neither noticed nor commented upon, but Valentine’s was out of the question.

  In the real world of St. Stephen’s — if one could consider a church realistic — there was merely a baby crying, annoying some, who wondered what kind of parents brought a baby to a memorial service, and touching others, a reminder of the renewal of life. The vicar was winding down, phrasing sentences like a normal human being: all were welcome at the reception in the church hall, please sign the book, perhaps adding a cherished memory. George wouldn’t go. He was there as an old boy, invited as such, but it would be unfair to confront the Hartleys with the unexpected on this of all days. He would leave and write a letter of condolence; that was the right thing to do.

  A final hymn was attempted. The Hartleys were the first to leave. As they made their way down the aisle, she smiled stoically, and he nodded at people reassuringly. George hid behind a large pillar, but they didn’t look up. As though the blessing had given it permission, light streamed through the stained-glass window behind him, and getting down on his hands and knees, he crawled forward for a better view.

  The congregation shook hands and made for the hall. In the front row, the dotty relative in the black Ascot hat didn’t move. She was crying, as she leaned on the rail in front of her. Out of kindness, one of the Upside crowd, whom he didn’t recognize, offered her his arm, which she took. Before long, somewhat recovered, she was ready to leave. As she turned round, George caught sight of the woman’s face for the first time.

  It was Frankie.

  He hid himself behind the rail of the gallery.

  Frankie.

  His mother, dabbing the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief, just as she did when she cried during a movie.

  How could his eyes have fooled him into hallucinating Frankie as the dotty relative in the big hat?

  It couldn’t be her for a thousand reasons: she was on the West End Story tour miles away in the north, playing (he was sure) Manchester. But forget why she couldn’t be here; why would she be here? She had no reason to be at Don’s memorial service, to know it was happening, let alone to pay her respects to a man she had only heard of in passing. It couldn’t be her.

  He peered over the edge of the gallery, desperate not to be seen. Frankie stood just beneath him, talking to the Hartleys as if she knew them, as if she had ever set foot near Upside. He could just make out her smile, her beautiful smile.

  Out of sight again, he lay on the clammy disinfected carpet, trying to block out the polite indistinguishable murmurings that floated upwards. He was waiting only for silence to descend, for the church to be empty besides the old lady clearing up leftover orders of service. Then he would make his escape.

  He would get back into his normal clothes and return to Crystal Clear, where problems were so easily solved.

  8

  Tonic for the Troops

  What with Belle and Bobbie, and our glorious nights at the Gala, I hadn’t been paying attention to the gathering storm. I’d heard the measured tones of BBC announcers (Hitler this, Hitler that) and the bleating beneath Duval’s beret, but, despite the forecast, I expected a light shower at worst. A few months ago, no one had mentioned it, but as the clouds darkened they spoke of nothing else, huddling around wirelesses, shaking their heads in resignation, tutting the latest news. Everyone just wanted to get it over with, to be at war. And soon enough we were. A car mowed down some poor old sod painting a kerb white for the blackout: the first casualty on British soil.

  At first, I was indifferent. Doubtless there were similarly unconcerned little Fritzes perched on the knees of Herr Fischers. We’re just the little people, I thought. It isn’t up to us. We wouldn’t be sent to the front; it was all beside the point, a distraction from our true purpose. But then I started to wonder what the war would mean for us. What if we were called up to fight, dispatched to a trench in some godforsaken muddy field? And what if we weren’t? What should we do then? What would happen to the theatres, the smokers, and the nightclubs? Would there be any? And what about Belle? Bobbie had the best attitude: “I’ll do my bit,” he said. “I’ve always fancied myself a Florence Nightingale, entertaining the men in their beds . . .” Very Bawdy. Very British.

  Without consulting his family, Joe volunteered. The first thing Echo and Queenie knew, he had failed his medical. They ascribed his impulsive act to a previously unknown heroism, but the real reason for the rush of blood was obvious: he could no longer stand Cadogan Grove. WAR was written in blinking lights above an exit door, and he saw no reason to wait for his call-up. To them, he came home a hero of sorts, but he was in fact a traitor, to his family and to me — happy to ditch me along with the women, to leave me marooned in the attic, a sitting duck for the falling bombs — a traitor whose health had failed him. Let down by his lungs! Foiled by some bronchial trouble! He cared for his life even less than I thought: not only had he volunteered, he’d chosen the air force.

  War had one saving grace: evacuation. When hostilities commenced, whole schools of children would disappear to the countryside in a puff of steam, and The King and Queenie Show would officially be no more.

  Operation Pied Piper began on September 1. We sat backstage at the Gaiety listening to a plummy broadcaster. “Here we are on the number eight platform at Charing Cross Station. The train’s in and the children are just arriving now — Saint Andrew’s School from Islington. And now here come the older children . . . behaving impeccably, I must say.”

  “Operation Pied Piper?” spluttered Bobbie in disbelief. “Do they remember what happens to the children in that story? And the moral? Always pay the entertainment. Poor little buggers.”

  Joe spoke finally: “Queenie’s taken Frankie away.” There were relatives in a village on the drab marshy border of Kent and Sussex.

  “Shh!” said Bobbie, and broke into song: “Wish me luck as you wave me good-bye.”

  I felt as bad as if I had ordered Frankie from London myself.

  * * *

  Blackout restrictions were immediately imposed; theatres and cinemas were closed forthwith, putting almost the
entire entertainment profession out of work overnight.

  In their hour of darkness, people needed the camaraderie of the theatre, the laughter from favourite shows, not a stodgy diet of radio news followed by Sandy McPherson and his uninspiring organ. They needed to be uplifted. And that was where the Fishers could answer their country’s call — for however much people wanted entertainment, the Fishers’ need to entertain was even greater. That was where I came in. The coming conflict would provide me with the thing I least expected: increased chances for ventriloquism.

  Echo had already attended tense meetings between those involved with the war effort who wanted to employ well-known artistic talent to keep morale high, and those artistes’ agents who, having their clients’ best interests at heart, could not accept the insultingly lower fees, war or no war. Voices were raised.

  ENSA, the Entertainment National Service Association, envisioned an army of entertainers, at a salary of ten pounds per week (irrespective of billing), ready to go wherever troops were stationed. Bobbie was enthusiastic: “You know me! It’s the closest I’ll get to going over the top with the boys!” Besides, he was happy with a regular pay packet, however paltry — “Ten quid’ll keep us in spangles” — and he instructed Duke Duval to take soundings. Within a fortnight, he had accepted ENSA’s invitation. They asked him if he’d ever been abroad. “I’ve always been a broad,” he told them. “ENSA: Every Night Some Adventure!” he wrote on a forces postcard. He was right at home.

  Echo had other ideas. She immediately conscripted her own private militia of players, designed an ersatz military costume, and announced, within hours of the declaration, a gruelling tour of army bases throughout England. “No appeasement for Miss Endor!” trumpeted The Herald. She even tried to enlist a Private Joe Fisher, but he was having none of it.

  Fisher’s Fighting Fol-de-Rols roared into action, with Echo in her own personal coach, painted patriotic colours, the company name emblazoned proudly on both sides, “Say Her Name Once More” on the back. Joe called it the Evacuation Tour — bound as far as possible from the bombs that were sure to rain on London.