by Nev Fountain
‘I think so. Thank God we didn’t have the money to make the things in aluminium.’
‘Good was it?’ said Smurf eagerly to Nicholas. ‘Didn’t see it meself.’
‘He fell beautifully, dear heart. Such grace. What a stuntman he was. Duggie “Don’t lean against that window” Fletcher would have been proud.’
It was Smurf’s turn to giggle along with Nicholas, and Mervyn’s to scowl.
‘Just what is Bernard’s problem?’
‘Don’t be too hard on him, Merv. I don’t know if you know this, but Bernard’s had a rough time of it these last few years. He couldn’t get another job in telly after the incident. After you—’
‘After we—’
‘Alright, after we caught him leaving the BBC with half of studio 6 up his jumper. And after I had to fire him.’
‘So what’s he been doing?’
Smurf had wedged a large cigar in his mouth and lit it with what looked like a small flamethrower. ‘He set up a special effects company in the late 80s, didn’t he? Lasted all of ten minutes before it went tits-up.’
‘I hardly see why he should fail. He made great model spaceships.’
‘He did it just before computer graphics became the in thing.’
‘Oh dear.’ Mervyn felt guilty now. I definitely shouldn’t have sent that young fan to show Bernard his ‘improved’ footage. Perhaps I should apologise to Bernard.
Their chat was interrupted by an unhealthy revving. They turned to see a huge wedge-shaped object growl into the hotel car park. It was a much larger and vibrantly coloured version of the Styrax Sentinel. Built around a car (a clapped-out Mini Metro, to be precise), it was a formidable-looking beast. A bunch of fans were clustered around it, giving off appreciative noises. Bernard stood to one side, eyeing them suspiciously. Occasionally, one would get near enough to touch it, and he flapped them away as if scaring crows from a field.
Mervyn whistled appreciatively. ‘Crikey, that’s the Styrax Superior, isn’t it? I’d forgotten how damned impressive it was.’
‘God yeah,’ said Smurf, admiring the fibreglass monolith. ‘A bit more bloody comfortable than the little ones, I can tell you that for nothing. Me and Sheldon used to fight over who got to operate it. Sheldon always won. Always. Let him do it just to shut him up. Prickly little bugger he was. Always giving it that.’ He flapped his hands like a glove puppet. ‘Yap, yap, yap… Used to call me “small fry” he did! Half an inch between us, and he called me small fry! And as for his politics… To tell you the truth, I’m glad the little fascist got turfed out during series two.’
Mervyn glared at Smurf reprovingly. Smurf realised what he’d been saying. ‘Course, I wasn’t glad about the other thing that happened. Not his burning to death. No,’ he gabbled hastily, ‘not that.’
‘It’s the best thing Bernard ever made,’ said Nicholas, looking at the Styrax Superior with genuine awe. ‘He really is a very good designer.’
‘So how did he get hold of it, then?’ said Mervyn. ‘I doubt he was able to shove that thing down his trousers during a quiet moment.’
‘No, he didn’t.’ Smurf piped up. ‘He bought up a lot of props quite legit after the series ended. He exhibits that thing around the country, doing fêtes and conventions. He does charity events too.’
‘Ah! Enlightenment dawns!’ Mervyn snapped his fingers under Nicholas’s nose. ‘I now understand this “Don’t be too hard on him” stuff. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You and he are putting a little something together, aren’t you?’
‘Me?’ Nicholas said innocently, ‘Merely a little touring exhibition of props from the show, dear heart. Money in the bank.’
Smurf looked curiously at the machine. ‘If Bernard’s out here… Who’s driving the thing?’
Andrew Jamieson sauntered lazily up to them, a cigarette dangling from his lips. ‘I’d watch that habit of yours,’ he said to Smurf, pointing at the cigar clenched between the dwarf’s teeth. ‘It’ll stunt your growth.’
‘If I’d had a penny for every time you’ve said that,’ growled Smurf, only half-jokingly, ‘I’d have enough to stand on and punch you right on the nose.’
With an impressive ‘phtttsh’ noise the Styrax door opened (a recorded sound effect—the doors were like any normal Mini Metro) and Simon Josh poked his head out with a beaming smile and a regal wave.
‘What’s he doing in there?’ muttered Smurf. ‘It’s not like Bernard to let anyone near that, let alone that little tit.’
Andrew grinned. ‘He can’t do much about it since it’s not his any more. Bernard sold it to him about five minutes ago.’
‘What?’ erupted Smurf, ‘I’ve been trying to get him to sell that to me for years! And he sells it to Simon arsing Josh without so much as a squeak? What the hell does he think he’s playing at?’
Andrew shrugged. ‘Might have been Simon’s price for not booting him out of the convention.’
‘Hell of a way to say sorry,’ muttered Mervyn, ‘I’d have just bought him chocolates.’
Nicholas said nothing.
There were ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from the onlookers, as if someone had let off a firework. It wasn’t too far from the truth. Simon had thrown a switch inside the machine, and the Styrax Superior lit up. Red lights designed to give the impression of robotic eyes glowed from the front, and strip lighting pulsed around the weaponry. The whole effect was like a lovingly preserved mobile disco.
There was a cheer, and respectful applause. Simon bowed.
The crowd barely noticed Bernard slinking back into the hotel like a wounded animal.
Smurf did, however. ‘I’m going to see about this. Sell that thing to Josh? What the hell’s he thinking?’ The dwarf marched hotly into the hotel after Bernard, the glass door revolving angrily behind him.
‘Lunch?’ Mervyn said to Nicholas, but there was no reply forthcoming from the ex-Producer. Nicholas was also looking in the direction of the hotel entrance. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, his normally placid features knotting in concern.
It’s amazing, Mervyn mused, all this fuss over that old thing. When all’s said and done…it’s just a used car.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mervyn went back to his room. No sooner had he stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes than there was a dull thud on the door—not quite a knock, but too deliberate to be an accident either. He got back up and opened the door. On the floor was a large jiffy bag, sealed and unaddressed. He picked it up.
He suddenly tensed, realising what he was doing. One learned to be wary of anonymous packages when one lived in London. Perhaps it was a piece of hate mail left by an angry fan? Or worse—some kind of explosive device courtesy of the paramilitary wing of the Vixens from the Void Appreciation Society? Bloody vengeance for the dead Styrax?
Oh what the hell…
He tore it open. Incredibly, it contained Vanity’s book. Had Vanity dropped it off? Probably. Like a lot of larger-than-life female stars she was always firing off presents, more out of a need to be reassured that someone somewhere was thinking of her, than any feeling of generosity.
One of the pages had been folded over. It was the first page of Chapter 13. He read quickly, his eyes tumbling from left to right.
Chapter 13: From Little Acorns do GREAT BIG Oak Trees Grow!
Let me let you into a little secret. I’ve always wanted to shag a midget. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some midget fetishist. I don’t get my kicks while watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or anything, but ever since I’d played the Wicked Queen in a production of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves in Bromwich, I’d always been curious about what it would be like, about whether they’re ‘to scale’ downstairs, if you catch my meaning!
I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but midgets (or dwarves, or whatever they like to call themselves—in these days of political correctness, they probably demand to be called vertically impaired persons. VIPs. Geddit?) are hell to get hold of at Christmas time. E
verybody wants them for their pantomimes. This particular pantomime had so much trouble getting hold of the darlings, in fact, that the only way we could make the quota of seven was if Dopey, Happy and Doc were all played by girls!!!
I’d just finished my fourth curtain call and was heading offstage when I heard noises from a dressing room. The door was ajar, and I peeked in. Well, my stars! It was like that old joke about the dwarves in bed all feeling happy, and happy got out and they all felt grumpy!! They were all at it; their tiny wee bodies humping away, still with make-up on their little cheeks. It looked like a porn film in Lego. And my young co-star was there too! Well, if she was Snow White at the beginning of the run, she certainly wasn’t by the end of it!
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. I had heard all the stories from the filming of the The Wizard of Oz, about how those munchkins were at each other like jackhammers. Like midget jackhammers, I guess. Or like those little hammers doctors hit your knees with.
Naturally, from that point on I was keen to try one on for size, so to speak. I’d become well acquainted with the old showbiz adage ‘the bigger the star the smaller the twinkle,’ if you catch my drift! Many’s the time a leading man has dropped his pants in front of me and I half expected the police to enter, put a cordon round him and say ‘Move along Vanity! Nothing to see here!’
Talking of police, I’ve already mentioned I’d stepped out with a certain actor—Mr X—from Juliet Bravo, who I can exclusively reveal had a truncheon that was FAR from arresting!
Anyway, this is about Vixens, isn’t it? As you know, I had already tried out a few of the full-size actors, and the old saying was pretty true. Poor Roddy. When he sat down his great sweaty belly almost covered everything save for his tip and balls, bulging out from underneath. It was like he was squashing a surprised ostrich to death.
*
Mervyn flicked hastily through the rest of the chapter. It was with some relief that he didn’t see himself name-checked—not in relation to having a disappointing ‘twinkle’ anyway. He flicked back and resumed reading.
Sorry, I’m being vulgar. That’s the thing when you’re not saying these things out loud. No one shushes you or takes you away to have some black coffee.
I was desperate to try one of our fun-sized cast members, so I aimed to make certain before the end of the series. By the time we started filming series two back in 1987 (God, is it over 20 years?) we had two, Sheldon Ellis and Billy ‘Smurf’ Smurfett. Smurf and Sheldon were the guys who operated those Styrax robot monsters.
I bet you thought they were moved by remote control, didn’t you? Everybody does.
It always got Smurf annoyed when anyone thought that, but then everything got dear Smurf’s dander up! He was an ‘angry young man’. Well…they say it’s always the short ones, don’t they? He was always rowing with the other dwarf, Sheldon, about this and that—mainly politics. Thing was, Smurf was a leftie—up the workers and all that. Sheldon fancied himself as a bit of a posh boy. He wore a monocle and everything! He even invented himself an extra name so he could hyphenate himself. He got quite irritated that Forbes-Ellis never caught on! Oh yes, he really wanted to be a yuppie. Young, upwardly-mobile blah blah. Well, as upwardly mobile as a dwarf can get!
He appeared with Mike Batt and Tim Rice on one of those Conservative election rallies as a ‘celebrity’, would you believe! They introduced him as ‘the man inside the monster’. That wasn’t very clever! If you remember, there were loads of cartoons in the papers the next day, showing him sitting in Maggie Thatcher’s head, pulling levers.
Anyway, darlings, let’s say Smurf and Sheldon didn’t get on…particularly when Sheldon called Smurf ‘small fry’ because Smurf was a whole half an inch shorter! I presume he meant height! Otherwise that would have decided it for me there and then!
Well, which one was I to have? Sheldon had a certain class. He had manners after all, and I could have sensible intellectual conversations with him. I agreed wholeheartedly with him about world affairs. I mean, what was all that fuss about Nelson Mandela? He had a lovely smile and everything, but so do most criminals. Look at Buster Edwards.
So Sheldon was civilised, but Smurf was cute. Nice bum, cheeky little grin… Most importantly from the way those dinky little jeans hung on his crotch, it looked like he had one as big as a baby’s arm! Not bad for four-foot nothing!
Well…who to pick? Funnily enough, as it turned out, the decision was made for me. Sheldon got tossed off! The show I mean!
Suddenly, Sheldon was let go. I don’t know what happened, but my guess is that Smurf had something to do with it, because on Sheldon’s last day he went up to Smurf and punched him right on the nose! They had an almighty fight in the car park and a lot of the lighting crew came out and took odds on who would win. I suppose most of those bent-nosed, cut-throat socialists missed their dog and cockfights.
*
Mervyn remembered that was the last he’d seen of Sheldon: lashing at Smurf, struggling and wriggling, trying to escape the grasp of a stage manager who had him by the scruff of his neck, yelling expletives at them all as he was carried from TV Centre like an angry ventriloquist’s doll.
The next time Sheldon’s name had been mentioned, it was three months later, at the season two wrap party, when a tearful Nicholas was informing the production team about Sheldon’s death at a fire at his house.
It was a sad end to a friendship. Well not a friendship exactly, but Mervyn had nothing against the little man, despite his pugnacious ‘sod the poor’ attitude, and his gloating about the Tory Party’s iron grip over the country.
He remembered how shocked they were at the wrap party, when his death was announced. How unbelievable it all was. Vanity cried loudly, honking into a silk handkerchief. Smurf went deathly pale, face agape in disbelief, like a tiny snowman with one piece of coal for a mouth.
And for it to have happened the exact same day as they’d finished recording series two. What a coincidence!
Mervyn wondered if it was such a coincidence… But no. It was just an accident. Definitely. Mervyn’s brain was getting affected by all this talk about his ‘sleuthing’. His suspicious nature may have caught Bernard with ray-guns in his pockets, but to start assuming foul play at every ancient dog-eared tragedy? He’d just look stupid. He read on.
Anyway; Sheldon was gone from the show, so Smurf it was. I unpacked the old Mycroft box of magic tricks. You’ll be surprised how many succumb when I show them I’ve got nothing up my sleeve! I threw the lot at Smurf; getting him to drive me home after my car conveniently ‘conked out’ in the BBC car park… Letting him catch me au naturelle after I ‘accidentally’ got hold of his key and ‘mistakenly’ used his dressing room to
*
Mervyn was beginning to realise why Smurf was so angry. He scanned down the page, speed-reading Vanity’s extensive ‘box of tricks’. He was well acquainted with them himself.
Nothing worked, would you believe! Gracious, was he slow on the uptake! Must be the thin air down there on the ground, makes their brains sluggish.
Weeks passed. It was the last day of filming. It was the last day before we broke for at least six months; maybe forever if we got cancelled. Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.
Early morning, and everyone was setting up cameras and stuff. I saw his little Styrax in the corner of the props area. It waggled one of its claw thingies, so I knew he was inside. So I hurried towards it. But damn and blast my luck! I had to hide behind a pillar. Ace producer Nicholas Everett was leaning on it, going through the shooting script with Smurf. I could see Smurf’s adorable little head poking out the back, and occasionally an arm came out, and pointed at bits in the script. Mervyn Stone our cuddly script editor
So Nicholas was ‘ace’ and he was ‘cuddly’ was he? Huh!
came over and had a quick discussion with Nicholas, and they put Smurf’s hatch on for him. My goodness! If the props boys had seen them handle the Styrax, they would have been up i
n arms! It would have been an instant strike; lights out, all out, and they’d be standing outside round their braziers, waving their placards.
Anyway, they left Smurf alone, and finally I could make my move. Finally. In the organised chaos, I crept up to it and knocked on the back of the Styrax. My special secret knock reserved for other people’s husbands and secret admirers. Knock knockity-knock!
No answer. Was he there?
‘Smurf darling, it’s Vanity. Are you in there? Because if you are, I’ll huff and I’ll puff…’
‘Yes. I’m in here.’
‘I’ve got something for you, sweetheart. Could you meet me in the
*
Suddenly, there was a loud knock at the door. Mervyn yelped and dropped the book.
Knock knockity-knock.
‘Merve darling, it’s Vanity. Are you in there? Because if you are, I’ll huff and I’ll puff…’
My God! He stared at the book as if it was bewitched.
He swallowed. ‘Yes. I’m in here,’ he said in a dry croak.
‘They’re looking for you darling. You’re late for the fancy dress. I’ve come to escort you.’
He gingerly picked up the book and put it on his bedside cabinet—for further inspection.
CONVIX 15 / EARTH ORBIT ONE / 8.00pm
EVENT: FANCY DRESS COMPETITION
LOCATION: Vixos Central Nerve Centre (main stage, ballroom)
CHAPTER TWELVE
Vanity swept down the hotel stairway, accompanied by Mervyn. To the more generous onlookers, she looked like a star in a 1940s musical. To the less generous ones she looked like Bela Lugosi gliding down the steps of his Transylvanian castle. Scuttling alongside was the thin-faced girl in the cardigan, never speaking, never more than three feet away from Vanity.
‘I waited for you darling, and you never came. That was naughty.’
‘Ah. No. Well you know what this place is like. I got waylaid by a fan who kept me busy.’ Well that was only half a lie, wasn’t it? he thought.
