by George

by Wesley Stace

  Old Boys’ Reunion

  The evening of the memorial service, George was relieved to find the house empty. He wanted to lose himself, to disappear into the shadows. The further his bedroom fell into darkness, however, the more his eyes fought to accustom themselves, and there he was, staring back at himself in the mirror.

  A light, three floors down, announced Reg and Queenie’s return. “Georgie!” sung upstairs. “Fish and chips.” He had no choice.

  “Reg, remember when you found that bullet in your fish?” said Queenie, offering an oily newspaper package.

  “Air gun pellet, it was,” said Reg, holding his fingers apart to indicate its gauge. He spoke with his mouth full, and George could see chewed but as yet unswallowed white fish lodged in the pouch between gum and cheek. “Course we were lucky to have fish at all back in the war, but they didn’t have to shoot the poor buggers.” George couldn’t bring himself to participate. “Work all right?” asked Reg, picking at the front of his teeth with one of his ubiquitous toothpicks.

  “Just tired, I suppose. Where’s Frankie tonight, then?”

  “Manchester tonight, Sheffield tomorrow,” Queenie read from the scribbled itinerary stuck to the fridge door.

  “I’d like to see the show,” said George. “Maybe Sheffield.”

  “All the way up there? Just like that?” asked Reg.

  “Tomorrow?” asked Queenie discouragingly.

  He left the table soon after. There was only one thing on his mind, and he couldn’t mention it. He couldn’t now tell them about his sighting of Frankie. He hadn’t simply forgotten to mention the school magazines, Donald’s death, and the memorial service; he had deliberately kept it all from them, as he was lying to them now.

  But were they lying too? Perhaps they knew Frankie had been in town; perhaps the inanities of their dinner table conversation were designed to convince him that everything was normal. Perhaps they were in on it. What an absurd idea! Reg and Queenie weren’t in on anything. They were too wrapped up in their own little world, planning parties and the journeys there and back: all they cared about was the fillings of their packed sandwiches, the price of petrol, and their AA directions, before they sighed and put their legs up in front of the TV at the end of the day. He caught himself disparaging their little world, as though he was above it. Perhaps he was.

  In bed, he opened the final volume of his grandfather’s notebooks, but it was hard to concentrate on anything, let alone that. He wanted the books to be done. What could stop his mind? Frankie had to tell him, of her own accord, why she had been at the service. Even before he went to sleep, it was as if his prayers were answered.

  “Frankie! On the phone!” Queenie shouted up the stairs. He traipsed down in his pyjamas.

  “Hey, sleepyhead. How’s tricks?”

  “Tricks are sleepy.” He hadn’t heard the phone ring.

  “It’s the interval; I have a little breather before my big finale, and I just wanted to tell you that I was thinking of you and I love you.” Normally this sentiment would have been rewarded with an ironic groan, but for the moment he didn’t know how to react. He would have to act well. She continued as though he had groaned. “I’m your mother. It’s permitted.”

  “Why were you thinking of me?”

  “I’m always thinking of you.” She did not accept this first invitation. “How’s the world of Foley? Still bringing home the bacon? Queenie said you were going to come and see the show.” Although there was enthusiasm in her voice, an unspoken but coloured the end of the sentence. Would she dissuade him?

  “She told you already?” He wasn’t sure how to disguise his suspicion.

  “We were just chatting. . . . You know . . .”

  “It’s good, eh? The show?”

  “A nice bunch of people, good houses,” she said. “But nothing exceptional. Nothing you haven’t seen before.” She never belittled her work.

  “I’d love to see it. I am your manager, after all.”

  “You are my manager. Why not come to Birmingham? Next Tuesday, I think.” He was aware of the concentration of silence around him.

  “Well, everything’s pretty close to London, isn’t it? Not difficult to get anywhere and back in a day.” His second invitation.

  “Yes, next Tuesday. We’re working our way home. Will you come then, Georgie? Oh, do!” She made it sound as if she were thrilled he could come so soon, rather than relieved that she had put him off until then.

  “I’ll see with work.”

  She yelled away from the phone, her hand over the receiver, “I’ll be right there!” Then to him again: “An audience awaits, darling. See you in Birmingham. Perhaps Reg and Queenie want to come too?”

  “Perhaps.” That was the last thing he wanted.

  “Going up to Birmingham?” Queenie called through from the kitchen, but he didn’t answer. There was a bad taste in his mouth.

  Far from answering his prayers, the phone call had given him more to think about. There were two questions: why she had been there, and why she had not mentioned having been there. The more tired he was, the more ludicrous his theories became — she wasn’t on tour at all; she had rung from a hotel in London, having arranged a sub for that night’s show; at one point, it honestly occurred to him that she had a twin, or that Sylvia had dyed her chestnut hair like Frankie’s and was masquerading as her. And then these theories became absurd fantasies: her hat, a giant raven, toppled from her head and swooped around the chapel, cackling and crapping on the congregation.

  Sleep finally came as the night wore on, but he woke too early, his scalp tight, his body itching.

  To his relief, Queenie and Reg couldn’t make it to Birmingham, so he took the train alone and walked from New Street to the Abbey Theatre, where West End Story had its one-night stand.

  He’d never seen such a futuristic dressing room. In this decontaminated safety zone, fresh white towels hung from polished nickel racks beneath spotless mirrors. A battalion of gleaming bulbs surrounded the dressing-room mirror, and here he located Frankie, bathed in their glow.

  “Georgie!” They hugged. The real her could easily displace the fictional one who had wormed her way into George’s mind, the pseudo-her who did not share secrets.

  “Wow!” gushed George, taking in the intercom system, a complex instrument panel beneath the sleekest hi-fi speakers, straight from the bridge of the Enterprise itself. He produced a box of After Eights.

  “You didn’t! It doesn’t feel much like home,” Frankie said. “Mind you, I shouldn’t complain. You could eat your dinner off that counter. I arranged you a room at Joyce’s — we’re moving south this evening, I’m afraid. The bloody routing, excuse my French, but honestly . . . Cup of tea? Could you?”

  The kettle was pristine, presented on a black tray whose perimeter marked the prescribed limits of all messy brewing activities. Everything you could possibly require was neatly sorted within this boundary. George surveyed the many options: “Milk? Carnation? This powdery stuff?”

  Ricky’s Bunterish face beamed up at the door. “Hello, George. . . . Just a drop of Carnation. . . . Look, pet, according to his majesty you’re totally overpowering poor you know who on the duet. . . . Could you rein it in just a little? Think of it as a compliment?”

  “I will not dignify that with an answer.” She was curling fake eyelashes. She made a better principal boy or Peter Pan: those clothes didn’t look like costumes on her.

  “Tea, Ricky?” asked George.

  “Keep your tea, sonny Jim. Come and have a man’s drink with me. You’re of age, aren’t you?”

  “Go on,” said Frankie. “He’s got your comp.”

  “Halftime?” asked George, expecting to breeze back.

  “At the end, Georgie. Other people to consider. . . . It’s not a Fisher production.”

  “Far from it, in fact,” said Ricky, as Frankie blew a kiss. “Come on, boy. Pint’ll put hairs on your chest.”

  They went to the downstairs bar
, which, in contrast to the rest of the building, was cosily ancient in design, the walls decorated with coats of arms and facsimile Excaliburs. A fire burned medievally up a central chimney, as a rabble of peasants scrabbled for service, gesticulating with rolled-up programmes, flicking folded five-pound notes in the air. Ricky walked to the side of the bar, winked at one of the girls, and was served immediately.

  “Always come in and look after the bar staff evening of the show,” he advised George with a confidential wink as they sat down. Ricky was always dispensing tips, as if he assumed that you were applying to be his apprentice or, failing that, simply wanted to be like him. George had the vague feeling that Ricky was here to tell him something, even beyond the usual handy hints, but he knew that this could be the figment of an imagination already on alert. Ricky talked business, as he always did, whether people cared or not. George listened and nodded, sipping his pint. Eventually, he was saved by the bell, a strange electronic bong that dropped in pitch on each chime. Ricky said he’d rather die than sit through it again — he’d stand at the back, wielding the clicker with which he always kept a head count, independent of the theatre’s — so George took his seat in the stalls. A huge geometrical chandelier hung ominously from thin metal cables directly above his head.

  It wasn’t a bad show. The dancing and singing were well done, the band proficient, and the audience enthusiastic. Frankie, dressed in gingham, first appeared for a medley of songs with the male lead and a chorus of farmers and cowhands. Her partner may have been the bigger name, fresh from his hit television show, but it was she who owned the stage, even under instructions to rein it in.

  However, the show lacked an emotional component, and George, vaguely remembering that the MD had rejected a couple of Frankie’s arrangements in favour of something “more adult,” wondered whether the material was to blame. When she was giving it everything on the closing number at the end of act 1, however — a moment that would usually have brought the lump to his throat — he was reminded that the quality of the show did not usually affect his reaction: he had even teared up at Exit, Pursued Bare. The occupant of the seat behind his had not thought a hacking cough reason enough to miss her big night out, and when George felt a drizzle of germs spray the back of his neck for the third time, he turned his collar up conspicuously. The enormous chandelier poised above, George watched from his seat, irritated and unmoved.

  For Frankie’s rendition, in the second act, of a song he had never heard her sing before from a musical he didn’t know, the light found her at the top of a staircase in silhouette. At first, he focused on the cigarette holder poised at her mouth and didn’t notice the wide-brimmed black hat with the long feather that projected behind. But once he had seen it, he could see nothing else. The woman behind peppered him with snot once more, and feeling sick, he barged his way towards the aisle and went to stand at the back of the auditorium. Here he found Ricky.

  “Voted with your feet, have you? It’s a bit stiff, I know, but your mum’s doing a great job. And look at ’em. They’re lapping it up.”

  After the curtain call, they went backstage. Frankie was ravenous. “When does the coach go?” she asked.

  “Too soon for haute cuisine,” said Ricky. “But we’ll pack up something.”

  “Can we go and eat quickly?” asked George. He was used to meals on the fly: the usual request to hurry the order as they sat down (clinched by the mention that they were playing the local theatre), the momentary glance at the menu, a wolfed main course, dessert or coffee always accompanied by the bill. But tonight there was no time.

  “We have to go to the bar,” said Ricky. “Those BBC fellows are here, and I promised we’d say hello. Time is money.”

  Frankie saw George’s disappointment. “I’ll be home next week. Let’s go and have some fun now.” She put her arm around him and they walked to the bar. The black hat, on its way to costume, passed in the hands of a dresser.

  “Nice hat,” said George. “Looks like a big raven.” Frankie rolled her eyes: I wear what I’m told.

  Ye Olde Abbey Tavern was less crowded than it had been. Frankie introduced George to everyone.

  “Looks too old to be your son, Frankie,” said an elderly man. “Sure he’s not your younger brother?”

  “Your boyfriend?” said another.

  “Hey!” said Ricky, and he laughed before awkwardly catching George’s eye. George had seen that one coming all night. Ricky had finally inherited everything of his uncle’s.

  When Ricky called Frankie into his jovial negotiation, George knew there would be no chance to talk.

  “Look! There’s Joyce,” said Frankie, realizing he was left out. “Where we stayed with the Drolls.”

  “No, I have to be at work tomorrow. I can get the last train home.” He hadn’t bothered to check the schedule, but he felt a great urge to be back in London.

  “There you go, then!” said Ricky to Frankie. “I’ll give Georgie boy a ride to the station, and you can sweet-talk Mr. Light Entertainment.”

  Ricky walked George to his car, parked right outside the theatre. “Key space, this,” said Ricky. “Look!” He gestured around him so George could admire its proximity to the backstage door. “You don’t want to be in the car park, not at a place like this. But I don’t mind giving it up to do a mate a good turn. That’s what it’s all about.”

  George was so relieved to be at the station that he wouldn’t have been disappointed to find he had missed the last train. He hadn’t, but it was late. He would have to change at Coventry, which, at half past midnight, was dark, wet, and empty. There was no sign of the other train (or its potential passengers). George asked the only official.

  “Not tonight,” said the burly man, a cigarette stuck to his top lip. “Sorry, mate, cancelled. Next one’s at four-fifteen in the morning. Sleeping rough? Kid like you? I shouldn’t really, but you can lie down in that waiting room if you like.” He pointed to another platform.

  His accommodation smelled of pee, and George was quite relieved when the guard offered a cup of tea, saying his office was warmer.

  “Homeless, eh?” he asked, as they sat in front of a two-bar electric fire. The guard had a keen interest in his living situation. George explained how he came to be there, as the guard scrutinized him through his thick pebble glasses. “Not twenty-one, are you?”

  “Nowhere near.”

  “Not legal!” he said, as though this were a bad break for both of them. “All right, then,” said the man reasonably. “Only sometimes, you know, you get lucky. And you look quite a big lad. I don’t understand what all them age laws are about anyway.” He told a long, sorry story of the two willing kids, nice boys, who’d gone home with him. He’d come back the next day to find the place cleared out, everything stolen, and his TV smashed on the pavement.

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?” said George, who knew why but wanted it said.

  “They was underage,” said the guard and sniffed. “Little bastards. And I’m not protected in any way. Wanna digestive?”

  George started yawning regularly, saying he’d sleep in the waiting room, though he imagined he wouldn’t. As George left, noticing that the man had locked the door behind him as they entered, the guard said: “Well, it was nice to chat, anyway. It can be a long lonely night here, just me and me tea. Nice to have some company.” Back in the waiting room, George moved the bench so it blocked the only entrance and lay down.

  He wasn’t sure how to broach the memorial service with Frankie. If she didn’t mention it, that was because there should be silence. Their family had always been one of noise and chatter, but silence was how you kept secrets. Silence was the thing. Silence.

  He was woken up early by another guard’s fierce banging on the door.

  Crystal Clear emptied his mind. It was therapeutic to supply life with its proper soundtrack at the correct volume.

  At home, he found solace in finishing his grandfather’s books. He had been determined to get them
done, but it was in the very last volume that George finally glimpsed the man. He was somehow able to put his other worries aside.

  The final book began predictably enough with a lengthy encomium upon the virtues of distant-voice ventriloquism, its divine origins, the theoretical implications of its power. There was no precise instruction — George had long since given up hoping — but, unlike anywhere else in the recent volumes, there was a practical application for this knowledge: more than a practical application — an Act, an “Original Act.” A prologue boasted: “The audience will not believe that only one man is behind the entire spectacle.” Here, on paper, was the performance for which Joe had worked, timed to the last second, plotted to the square inch; the performance to which all his technical mastery, so minutely detailed elsewhere, had led; the performance on which he had staked his career. Here was the crying child, the retreating watchman, the midnight séance and the singing spirit in the rafters, the argument between two invisible protagonists. It was a grand entertainment (“comic, vocalic, mimetic, multiformical, and maniloquious”), a celebration of the history of ventriloquism from the Pythian oracle to Vox Knight — and there it stopped. There was no mention of a dummy.

  George had lost himself in this last volume, this Revelation, which reached a thunderous climax on page 92, as the curtain fell on Joe Fisher’s imaginary triumph. This entry was dated 1931, but on the next page, scribbled in pencil, crossed out so brutally that the lead had broken halfway: “Enough! Enough! Enough! This rough magic I here abjure.” The page was defaced with other random words: Technique, Personality, Charisma. All crossed out.

  After this outburst, there was another coda, a postscript, dated 1940. The pen, the hand: all was different, yet clearly the same man.

  I laugh at my ideals, the dreams of a young man that led only to frustration. But I was wrong, I was weak, to give up this work as I did. I took bad advice, afraid to do anything else, a cowardice for which I have paid ever since: but I alone am to blame. Through fear, I allowed myself to be trapped, and then my voice itself was trapped. But no more. No more “Theoretical Escapology”! Now I escape. And for my first and final act, I will unchain myself — the key was passed in a kiss — and I am gone, to a better world, a world I would wish for anyone as sad as I have been. I unbreak my staff! Undrown my book! Through me, voices can appear! The dead can talk! The living can hear! Only one boy knows how and he can tell you everything. Talk to George.