Kicking Up My Heels...in Heels

by Liam Livings

  It took me four attempts to dial the number. I cried for both Tony and for me, and for the teenaged girls who thought the worst that could happen after a little mistake was to be presented with baby nine months later, and for the teenaged boys who would find out there was much worse that could happen to them for making the same mistake having sex with another boy.

  I texted Tony the time of the next appointment available that wouldn’t mean waiting all morning in open surgery, in a few days’ time. I packed away my sewing machine and CDs, ran myself a hot bath and disappeared in a steamy uncomplicated world until Mum came home, shouting upstairs if I was ready for dinner. I got out the cold water, dressed and didn’t tell Mum anything on my mind. I worried if I told her even the slightest bit of information it would all come tumbling out of me. I’d betray Tony’s confidence with me, and it would all prove too sad to cope with and I wouldn’t have the strength for Tony when I really needed it at the clinic. So, I told Mum I’d had a busy day of “work” and didn’t have the strength to talk.

  We ate sausages and mash in silence, then watched an episode of The Waltons before going to our bedrooms without saying a word.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE NEXT DAY I drove to a bungalow in a cul-de-sac in Romsey. I rang the bell—a sing-song chime a bit like Big Ben ringing on the hour—and a small very bearded man in a baggy brown cardigan slung over his shoulders, reading glasses on a string of pearls round his neck and a wide, friendly smile greeted me and let me in, with a limp shake of his hand. “Hello darling,” he said, closing the door behind me. “I’m Ian. You’re here to see Daisy, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, if that’s all right.” I stood in the hall which smelt of strong lavender air freshener, had a beige carpet and a small telephone table next to a door I assumed to be the loo.

  “Of course, darling. Bruce told us all about you. Now, sit soft through there and I’ll bring in some refreshments.” He pointed to a room off the hall. “She’s in there. Sit wherever takes your fancy, darling.” He shuffled into the kitchen, his leather slip-on slippers making a swishing noise as he moved. He pulled his cardigan around himself, put his reading glasses on, and shivered before walking into the kitchen.

  Curiouser and curiouser. I walked through the door.

  On the pink and white flowery sofa sat a drag queen well into her sixties, pointed sixties purple glasses, three strings of pearls around her neck, dark purple cardigan slung over her shoulders and a light purple flowery patterned dress down to her ankles. She stood, pulled me towards her, kissed one cheek—not continental round these parts “Lovely to meet you, darling. I’m Daisy Trollied. Have a seat.” She patted the sofa next to her.

  Not wanting to be rude and sit on the chair at the other side of the room, I instantly sat next to her, wishing I’d taken off my shoes as the carpet was spotless—spotlessly hideous with a white and pink and purple swirly pattern, but spotless nevertheless. I smiled weakly, my mouth felt dry, my heart beating in my ears and my hands sweating. And this was with an audience of one, what on earth was going on with me? “Kev Harrison.” I held my hand out for her to shake, but hers remained firmly folded in her lap, next to a purple shiny leather handbag.

  “Well, I say Daisy. I’m really David Smith, but I thought Daisy Trollied went better for a stage name, don’t you agree, darling?”

  I did, so I nodded, clasping my hands in my lap.

  “I don’t bite…” She looked up as Ian entered the room carrying a large tray full of bone china teacups, saucers, teapot and accoutrements. “Ian, ducks, would you pour love? I put too much lavender hand cream on this morning and mine are still slippery. I’m afraid I’ll hold the teapot and it’ll slip right out of my hand. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  Ian nodded very slightly then poured, asking us about milk and sugar preferences. He added the milk after the tea had gone into the cups I noted—something Mum and I never did.

  I took the cup he handed me, clamping it on my knee to stop it rattling in my hand.

  Ian lifted a large gilt-edged china plate towards me, covered in pink, yellow, and white cubes of cake. “Fondant fancy, love? Homemade, none of this Mr Kipling nonsense, love.”

  I accepted and rested it on the saucer, noting the pink fondant was now melting against the cup of tea.

  “Bruce said,” Daisy started, “that you’re in a bit of a pickle, that you’ve gone and thrown in your job and want to be an artiste, a performer full time. But you’re finding it the most awful fag to adjust. Is that correct, darling?” She put her hand, with its long purple nails, on my leg and stroked it, stopping it jangling up and down.

  I nodded. Why was I so nervous? What had spooked me so much? I think it was the way Dave had disappeared so completely into Daisy, leaving not a single trace of man about the person sat next to me, and how Daisy now filled the room completely. I was in awe of it all.

  She pursed her lips. “Do ask us questions, darling. That’s what we’re here for after all.”

  My leg continued to jangle up and down.

  “Oh dear. We’re not going to get very far like this, now are we? Kev darling, what is the matter? Would you prefer if I weren’t dressed? Would it help if you were talking to plain old Dave Smith? I don’t normally sashay around this place dressed, it’s normally a much more casual affair, isn’t it, love?” She looked at Ian.

  Ian nodded. “It’s normally silk kimonos all round unless we’re going out.”

  “I’m just. You’re…it’s so much…seeing you…” I tried a few times to respond.

  Daisy leant forward, steadying my leg once again. “Yes, darling, go on. You almost had it out there, didn’t you? A few more words and you’ve got yourself a whole sentence.”

  “How you are, it’s…”

  She shook her head and leant backwards on the sofa. “We almost had a whole one then, didn’t we? I must say, darling, you’re nothing like how Bruce described you. He said you were all guns a blazing, firing on all four drag cylinders, you’d had a hard life, something about your bastard of a father throwing you out, then leaving, then coming back, then ignoring you. I must say, love, I did think you’d be made of sterner stuff than this. Now, come on, spit it out.”

  Bloody hell, Bruce had literally told them my whole life story, warts and all, nothing missed out. I thought of Mum and her “we’ll manage” and how I’d managed to lay in, loll about and swish away the first two weeks of the new job, and how I knew it couldn’t go on. I closed my eyes, clenched my fists, then said, “I’m in awe. It’s so impressive what you are here. What you’ve built up from your performing work. Bruce said you’d been in the business for forty years—the two of you. And that’s the main source of income. And this.” I looked round the, albeit not to my taste but very impressive, home they’d created.

  They both smiled at me.

  Daisy said, “Do you want me to change back into my civvies, I can take all this slap and stuff off in a jiffy. I thought you’d like to see what I’ve built all this on. Under this, I’m plain old Dave Smith, who used to be a bricklayer, and who used to sing in the working men’s clubs, until I found I liked to raid my mum and nan’s dressing up boxes.”

  Ian picked up the conversational baton and continued, “Ask us anything, what do you want to know, or do you want us to tell you what we think you should do? There’s no rush, we don’t have to be anywhere. If it weren’t for your visit, like I said, we’d still be swishing about in our kimonos.”

  I tried to think of something summing up what I was struggling with. Why so far I’d only managed to go at it pretty half-heartedly. “I think I’m still thinking like it’s a hobby—something to make me some beer money. Only, now, since I chucked in the job, this is it. This is the job. So how do I…?” I got my note pad and pencil from my bag, poised to write as they spoke.

  “That’s better, darling,” Daisy said “Quite a few whole sentences there. Marvellous. I think we’re off now, don’t you?” She shot a look at Ian,
then continued, “It’s a job. You have to treat it like a job. You must get up, get dressed and go to a room that’s not your bedroom and do your job. You might not be clocking in and reporting to a manager, but you’re the manager. If you mince about all day, watching TV, the only person you’re cheating is yourself. What sort of price do you charge for a performance?”

  I stopped my scribbles, having filled a page in my notebook, then told them, adding proudly, “Plus travel expenses obviously.”

  “Obviously,” they both said, nodding at one another.

  “Is that wrong?” I asked quietly.

  “It’s not wrong, my darling, but,” Daisy said, “you’re underselling yourself, flower. If what Bruce darling said is right, you’re in demand. People book you time and time again. Word’s got round and you’re spreading. If you’re good at this, and rest assured, lovey, there are plenty of others who are either mediocre or plain old fucking awful—” She put her hand over her mouth. “—excuse my French, that’s Dave coming out again! So, you see, if you’re better than them, if you’re a good showman stroke show woman, depending, if you can sing, can mime, can do a bit of audience banter and chatter and you know what, get them dancing in the place, really enjoying themselves, you’ve got it. And you can’t teach someone that. You must instantly double all your rates. Tell them if they want to see Kev Harrison that’s what they have to pay. You’ll lose some of the tight bitches, but you always lose those tight bitches, because, well, they’re…”

  Ian joined in now, “Tight Bitches!”

  Daisy continued, “Exactly. You’ve either got it or you haven’t, love. And from what Brucey’s said, you have it. The rest is …” She snapped her fingers.

  Ian jumped in with, “Paperwork and planning.”

  “And a bloody lot of hard work of course.” Daisy offered me another fondant fancy.

  I looked down at the half melted, half eaten one on my saucer and laughed quietly.

  “Is this helping, darling? Any use? This the sort of thing you’re after?”

  I nodded. “It’s perfect, it’s just what I needed.”

  “Ian, love, get him a napkin or some kitchen roll would you, poor boy’s got himself in a terrible sticky mess.”

  Ian left the room, rolling his eyes and muttering something about chance’d be a fine thing.

  Daisy and I shared a look, then a little giggle, which built to a proper laugh. She said, “He loves it really. He’s only happy when he’s looking after me.”

  As Ian returned, with some kitchen paper, Daisy said, “That’s another thing you need. You need to get yourself a manager. I’m living with mine, but that’s not compulsory, you understand.”

  Ian resumed his seat in the over-sized Alice In Wonderland-esque high backed black velvet chair with purple flower pattern across it. “No matter what happens, never under any circumstances pay a manager anything up front. The money flows to the artiste, and the manager takes his or her money from the money of the artiste.”

  This, I now knew well, having been seriously burned by Suave Charles, but rather than reliving that painful memory now, I nodded and wrote it down in my notebook.

  We talked for hours, with Daisy explaining the importance of getting someone to do my tax return and what tax deductible meant and suggesting I keep a note of costs and money as I went along. “A little lined book, a section for each month, darling. Ian has the most marvellous one, he can show you. His accountant gives us one every year.”

  Ian brought in some tiny triangles of cucumber, salmon and cream cheese, and crab and watercress sandwiches, presenting them to the room with a little bow and a flourish of his hands. “Actually, darling, I do that. The accountant used to get right on my tits, I ended up doing it all for him anyway, so I do it now. Not that she’d know.” He nodded to Daisy with a wink, then resumed his seat, leaning forward for a few sandwiches.

  When Daisy found out I was doing my own bookings, she reiterated the manager point once again.

  I underlined MANAGER in block caps in my notebook.

  “Get yourself one of those week-to-view diaries. He tried to get me to do it on the computer, whatsit called, but I said I wasn’t learning another thing if I could put it in a diary.” She paused, for dramatic effect. “With a pen or pencil. You need to be taking bookings quite far in advance. If you’ve got a quiet week, use that to practice, to make outfits, to ring some new places you’ve not played before. Always be busy. The root of business if busyness, love. Just think about that one.” She tapped the side of her nose, then winked to Ian who winked back.

  I looked down at my notebook and had filled six or seven pages of scribble. My hand ached.

  After we’d eaten the tiny sandwiches, and Ian had brought out a fresh pot of afternoon tea, this time he said, Daisy and I were like old friends. I felt like I’d popped round to see my two slightly odd but hilariously funny gay uncles for tips. It was marvellous.

  Daisy, her tongue loosened from all the tea and jollity we’d shared, leant forward conspiratorially and said, “One thing I learned too late, is always remain professional.” She let that hang there in the room between us, swirling around the purple decor and over-sized furniture from Alice in Wonderland.

  I looked back at my notes, flicking back a few pages. “Treat it like a business, stay busy, yes, you’ve said that. What do you mean, remain professional?”

  “In life, you’ll meet some people who are, excuse my French, cunts. Arse holes of the highest order. And in life, it’s very reasonable to tell these people what you think of them. However, in the performing circuit, it’s a very small world. People talk—you’ve said other pubs are asking for you, the managers talk to each other, the punters talk to each other. So, remain professional throughout. As the Queen Mother used to say ‘never complain and never explain’. You must remain civilised, to the face of everyone, even if they are a total arsehole. Fair enough if someone doesn’t pay you or they’re abusive to you, then within reason, you can give as good as you get. But I’m talking about the bitchy-queeny talk, the you’ll never guess what I know about so and so, behind people’s backs. Even if you hate the person and never want to be in their presence, smile, don’t comment, rise above it all. Do I make myself clear, darling?”

  I wrote, rise above it all, and underlined it three times. I nodded.

  “One final point, and this is where he and I diverge somewhat in our opinions.” She waved for Ian to take over.

  “Keep up with technology.”

  “I’m not good with emails, letters, computers, all that stuff. That’s why I dropped out of college. That’s why I’m singing and not in an office.”

  “Darling, I think there’s a whole host of reasons why you’re not doing that. No love, I mean microphones, CDs of music, public address systems, lights, that sort of thing—”

  Daisy interrupted, “Whereas I think, leave all that to the venues. Leave it to the man in the booth with the headphones on. As long as you, or your manager, has called ahead to explain what equipment you need, it’s fine.”

  “However, I, think it’s all part of the being professional, keeping up with the business as it moves element. We’ve not yet agreed on this. Mainly because anything more complicated than a kettle gives her hives, so you see, it’s always been an uphill battle.”

  “I’m an uphill struggle worth having aren’t I, darling? And you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you?” Daisy smiled sweetly at Ian.

  Ian stood, pulled his cardigan around himself a bit more, as it had fallen off while sitting, collected the tray of food we’d finished with, kissed Daisy on the lips, and left for the kitchen.

  I remembered a question I’d wanted to ask Daisy since arriving. “How do you do it so you are totally Daisy, and there’s no Dave left? I can’t see Dave, I see you, at the moment, and Daisy is filling the room. I don’t think I really do that. It is a sort of mask, like armour for me, when I’m on stage. Sometimes off stage too, but I still feel like it’s me if
someone’s shouting abuse at me. Maybe it’s cos my performing name is still Kev.” I shrugged.

  “Do you want the simple answer or the complicated one?”

  “Simple please.” My pen was poised above my notebook.

  “Practice.” She folded her hands in her lap and smiled at me.

  “Is that it?”

  “Every spare minute of every day when you’re not performing, making bookings, making costumes, you should be practising. Singing, dancing, miming, getting better at doing the makeup, whatever you do in your act. Which reminds me, we must come and see you perform, soon. When’s your next booking?”

  I smiled, hoping we could gloss over that. The thought of these two, coming to see little old me perform started my leg bobbing up and down again. “I haven’t got my diary on me. In fact, I need to buy a new one, page per week, like you said.” I smiled.

  Daisy nodded slowly.

  Eventually—after trying to leave a few times, amid much talk of how I must stay, they didn’t mind me taking up their time, it wasn’t really very precious any longer since Daisy only did the odd bit of work here and there, mainly pantomimes and some gay pride festivals—I left, promising to call with details of my next performance. They waved me off in my car, shouting for me to send their love to Bruce.

  Now I knew what I had to do. Now I had the New Plan or something like that. I hadn’t quite thought through the details of what I’d call it. The Plan had got me this far, it hadn’t done me bad, had the Plan, bless Tony. But now, at the beginning of a new millennium, when I was thrown out into the world, all alone, with no means of visible support except the odd corset and some help from Mum, I would embrace this new beginning, this new part of my life, and it would all be fine. We are Kev and Tony, hear us roar!

  Tony, shit. Poor Tony, and his bastard cheating boyfriend.