Visitors were rare, anyway. Kane was usually working (or partying) or crashed out. He didn’t deal from home (oh come on). And nobody who knew Beede properly would ever consider turning up uninvited (he was a busy man. An ‘impromptu’ impulse was pretty much on a par – in his eyes – with spitting or extreme flatulence).
Even Kane kept his distance. Beede had the only kitchen in the property (open-plan – the wall had come down in 1971; his last ever concession to what he liked to call ‘the modern malaise of interior renovation’), but Kane didn’t cook, so that wasn’t a problem (he had a kettle and a microwave gathering dust on his landing). Beede had a shower and a toilet (so spartan in aspect that they resembled something dreamed up by an over-zealous BBC props department for a gruelling drama about a Japanese prisoner of war camp) while Kane had a bath (which he absolutely luxuriated in), a toilet and a bidet. If they ever met or spoke, it was usually in the hallway, or at an appointed hour, at a preferred table, in a nearby cafe.
Imagine Beede’s surprise, then, on returning home (after his protracted interlude with Isidore), to discover two recalcitrant curs snarling on the stairway, Kane – fast asleep – on his sofa (a saucer containing several cigarette stubs balanced precariously on the arm; Beede quickly removed it, with a tut), and a shirtless Kurd (with a blood-stained hanky tied clumsily around the fleshy area just below his elbow) sitting quietly upon an adjacent chair.
The washing machine was half-way through its cycle. The Kurd was peacefully occupied in playing some kind of dice game on Beede’s reading table (all of his books now piled up, neatly, on the floor nearby). He was throwing two dice from a Tupperware beaker (the beaker into which Beede liked to drain off excess meat-fat from his roasting dish. It had a lid, usually, to keep the contents airtight. Beede had no idea where that lid had got to. The beaker had served him faithfully in this lone capacity since 1983. It must’ve been in a state of severe trauma).
‘Good afternoon,’ Beede said, quickly disposing of the tarnished saucer and then dumping his bag down on the kitchen counter. The Kurd nodded briskly, picked up a pencil (Beede’s pencil) and scribbled some figures on to a piece of paper (the back of Beede’s water bill). Beede scowled. While he knew that it was unfair of him to blame the Kurd for Kane’s apparent breach, he immediately took against him. ‘I’m Daniel Beede,’ he said curtly, ‘and this is my home.’
‘Gaffar Celik,’ the Kurd muttered, barely even glancing up, ‘and this is not my home; a fact I’m sure you’ll soon be only too keen to acquaint me with, eh?’
‘I speak a small Turkish,’ Beede answered, nonchalantly, taking off his jacket and hanging it up on the hook behind the door, ‘from my time of the navy. You offend my pride with this words.’
Gaffar winced, pantomimically, at his accent. ‘Ever considered taking evening classes?’
‘Yes,’ Beede back-handed, ‘that is why we are conversation. So what’s your excuse, Mr Celik?’
‘Yip!’ Gaffar exclaimed, making as if to duck a punch, then rapidly drawing both fists to his chin (in readiness for some kind of counter-attack).
‘Watch out,’ Beede smiled, drawing up his own fists in a similar fashion, ‘I was South-East Kent Boys Boxing Champion, 1956–1961.’
‘Wha?! You’re a fighter, old man?’
Gaffar was visibly moved by this information.
‘Yes. I used to be. In very far-back distance. And less of the old, thank you very much.’
‘I boxer,’ Gaffar announced proudly, ‘and trust me, I would’ve severely pulped your spotty, teenage arse back in ‘61.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes. In my country I’m a celebrity – famous, eh? – for my amazing talents as a featherweight.’
Beede appeared to take this bold personal declaration in his stride. ‘Unfortunately the time-space continuum prevents us from categorically establishing the better man between us,’ he murmured dryly, ‘but I take you at you speak, eh?’
‘Let’s roll for it, Greybeard,’ Gaffar was smiling, ‘I’ll even give you a head start, as a mark of your seniority.’
He removed a pound coin from his pocket and slammed it down, flamboyantly, on to the table.
Beede had no intention of playing dice. He hated all games (developed this deep antipathy during his long years in the navy). To Beede, game-playing was like aimlessly treading water in the fast-running Stream of Mortality; far better – he felt – to swim hard against the current, or to drown – spent and exhausted – in the attempt.
‘Did that Tupperware pot have a lid when you found it?’ he enquired. ‘Huh?’
‘Lid,’ Beede pointed and then performed a small mime.
‘Ah,’ Gaffar finally understood him and shook his head. ‘Uh-uh.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘No problem,’ Gaffar shrugged, ‘we don’t need one to play Par. Or Pachen, if you prefer.’
‘I suppose not…’ Beede was mournful. He peered balefully over the back of the sofa at Kane (as if hoping to find the lid protruding from one of his pockets; perhaps jutting out neatly from between his buttocks) then glanced up again. ‘So have you been here long, Gaffar?’
‘Twenty-eight months.’
‘No, I mean in this rooms.’
Gaffar inspected his watchless wrist. ‘One hour.’
‘I see.’
Gaffar vigorously rubbed his hand up and down on the goose-bumping flesh of his uninjured arm. ‘Your friend’s purple-haired whore broke her leg,’ he explained, amiably. ‘She fell off the wall outside. I was helping her – I have a special genius for massage…’
He pummelled the air, theatrically.
‘Good God…’ Beede was naturally alarmed by this news. ‘She fell off the wall? Outside? Was it a bad break?’
Gaffar calmly ignored his questions. ‘Then he – uh…Kane,’ he continued, nodding angrily towards the offending individual, ‘suddenly turned up from out of nowhere and threw hot coffee all over me. Smashed my Thermos. Ruined my shirt. Got me the sack. And the girl – whose leg was in a pretty bad way…uh…’ he paused, ruminatively, ‘Kelly. That her name…she went off in an ambulance. Which was when,’ he continued, ‘he kindly invited me inside and let the dogs maul me…’
He pointed at the handkerchief on his arm.
‘Ah…’ Beede suddenly caught on. He smirked. ‘So would that be Pachen with bluffs you’re playing there?’
Gaffar stared at him, blankly.
‘No bluff,’ he finally murmured, hurt.
While Beede wasn’t entirely convinced by the accuracy of this stranger’s report, he was impressed, nonetheless, by his good bearing and air of self-containment.
‘I’m afraid Kane is my son,’ he mused quietly, almost regretfully. Gaffar’s dark brows rose, but he didn’t respond.
‘I am his father, yes?’ Beede persisted (like a rookie attending his first AA meeting; determined to confess everything).
The penny suddenly dropped.
‘What?’ Gaffar pointed accusingly towards the oblivious Kane. ‘This big, fat, useless Yank is your seed?’
Beede nodded. ‘Cruel, isn’t it?’
Gaffar cackled, ‘Well your arrival home was timely. I was just planning to fleece him.’
‘Then you would’ve fleeced me,’ Beede declared, almost without rancour, ‘because this is my flat. Kane lives upstairs.’
He pointed towards the ceiling.
As he spoke the washing machine clicked quietly on to its spin cycle.
Gaffar grinned, slammed down the Tupperware beaker (in brazen challenge), pulled a nearby stool closer and patted its seat, enticingly. ‘Then let’s settle this the traditional way, Old Champion,’ he wheedled. ‘Come. Come and join me. Let’s play.’
Kane slept for three hours. When he finally awoke he found himself in his father’s flat, curled up on the sofa (covered in a blanket: Beede’s clean but ancient MacIntosh tartan, which had been so neatly and regularly darned over the years that the restoration work constituted m
ore than a third of its total thread content).
The air was moist and scented (Gaffar had partaken of a shower – eschewing Beede’s carbolic soap in favour of Ecover camomile and marigold washing-up liquid). There was some kind of tangy, tomato-based concoction bubbling away on the stove.
Kane blinked, dopily, as Gaffar emerged from the bathroom in an expensive – if slightly over-sized – Yves Saint Laurent suit.
He struggled to remember the exact course of events which had led him here –
Three Percodan
Seven joints
Half bottle Tequila…
His mouth was dry –
Dry
His stomach hurt. He shook his head. He cleared his throat. He inspected Gaffar more closely (his hands flailing around to locate his cigarette packet). Who was this man, again?
‘Ah, you’re awake. I just lifted £200 off your father,’ the Kurd informed him, chirpily. ‘Father,’ he quickly repeated. ‘Beede, eh?’
Kane sat up, alarmed. ‘Is Beede here?’
The Kurd nodded. ‘Now there’s an intelligent individual. Very generous. Very hospitable…’ Gaffar expectorated, then swallowed, then blinked and swallowed again. ‘But a miserable gambler…’ He shook his finger at Kane, warningly. ‘Never, ever let the old man gamble with me again, eh?’
‘The bathroom?’ Kane rapidly threw off the blanket, still panicked. ‘Is he in the bathroom?’
‘No,’ Gaffar shook his head as he strolled into the kitchen. ‘He – uh – work. He go. From…’ he shrugged, ‘half-hour.’
‘Jesus.’
Kane closed his eyes for a moment, in relief. ‘Thank fuck.’
Gaffar frowned, then abruptly stopped frowning as he peered into the bubbling pan on the stove.
‘So did you explain about the dogs?’
Kane’s eyes were open again.
‘Huh?’ Gaffar tested the edible medley (a large tin of Heinz baked beans with chipolatas). He winced –
Hot
– then sucked his teeth –
Too salty
How the English loved their salt.
‘The dogs? The…uh…Woof! On the stair,’ Kane valiantly continued, observing a cigarette-packet-shaped object in Gaffar’s suit pocket. ‘Did he see? Did you explain about Kelly?’
Gaffar half-smiled as he returned to the living area. ‘Yes I do,’ he said, with exactly the level of conviction most calculated to fill Kane with doubt. And then, ‘Woof!’ he mimicked, satirically (with a huge grin), in a way that (Kane presumed) might be considered ‘cute’ in whichever godforsaken part of the planet he originally hailed from –
But not here
Kane rubbed his face with his hands (he was finding the Kurd rather exhausting). ‘Would you get me some water?’ He mimed turning on a tap, holding a glass under.
Gaffar did as he was asked. He was accustomed to following orders. There was a kind of dignity in submission which the quiet ox inside of him took an almost active pleasure in.
‘Thanks.’
As Kane drank he assessed Gaffar’s suit.
‘Nice suit…’ He exhaled sharply as he spoke, then burped and wiped his mouth with his hand.
Gaffar nodded.
‘Where’s it from?’
‘Beede.’
Kane blinked. ‘No way.’
‘Yes.’
‘No,’ Kane reiterated firmly. ‘Beede would never own a suit like that. It looks foreign, for starters, and he religiously supports the British Wool Trade…’
Gaffar scowled. ‘He give to me. Beede. In exchange for his losses, yeah?’
‘What is it?’ Kane casually flipped open one of the front jacket flaps (feeling the seductive, semi-hollow crackle of his Marlboro packet through the lining). Gaffar immediately slapped it shut.
‘Yves Saint Laurent,’ he announced, haughtily.
‘Not a chance, man,’ Kane snorted. ‘It’s gotta be knock-off.’
Gaffar (rising like a pike to the bait) shrugged the jacket from his shoulders and showed Kane the label.
‘Wow.’ Kane perused the label at his leisure (it looked legitimate), while casually slipping his free hand into the pocket and removing his cigarettes. ‘So there you go, huh?’
‘So there you go,’ Gaffar echoed, scowling, as Kane tapped out a smoke and flipped it into his mouth.
He pulled the jacket back on (wincing slightly as it snagged on his neatly re-bandaged arm). Kane relaxed down into the sofa again (matches? Lighter?), his expression one of tolerant bemusement. As he leaned he felt something crumple behind him. He shoved his hand under the blanket and withdrew a large, slightly dented brown envelope. He stared at it for a while, frowning.
Gaffar, meanwhile, had returned to the kitchen and was dishing himself up a large bowlful of beans. In the bread-bin he’d located a half-used wholemeal loaf from which he’d already torn a sizeable portion. He balanced the bread on top of the beans and carried the bowl over to Beede’s desk, placing it down, carefully, on to the battered, leather veneer and taking off his jacket (hanging it over the back of the adjacent chair).
He sat down and began to eat, employing the bread as a makeshift scoop. Several mouthfuls in, he noticed a large World Atlas on a bookshelf close by, hauled it out, one-handed, opened it, and began casually paging through the maps.
Kane watched Gaffar for a while, patting away – like a zombie – at his pockets (impressed by the Kurd’s apparent ability to make himself feel at home). The suit (Kane wryly observed) gave Gaffar the furtive air of a man struggling to pass himself off as Minister of Sport – or Information, or the Arts – in a tin-pot military dictatorship (somewhere much too hot) after his brother, Sergio (the ambitious, pissed-up lieutenant), had shot the bastard general and promptly stepped into his highly polished, size eleven lace-ups –
Ah yes –
The whole tragic socio-political edifice was currently hanging – like a badly mounted stuffed elk – on Gaffar’s family resemblance, terror, and the faultless cut of his Yves Saint Laurent.
Sergio?
Man –
What am I on?!
He finally located a box of matches (tucked down the side of the sofa), lit his cigarette and returned his full attention back to the brown envelope. He inspected the seal –
Not glued, just –
He kept his smoke dangling loosely from his lip as he popped out the flap. He peered inside – inhaled – and saw a thickish sheath of photocopied papers. He exhaled –
Hmmn
– and gently removed them.
It was a very old book – forty pages long – badly reproduced and slightly blurry (although the frontispiece was in bolder type and so marginally more legible than the rest). It was written in Old English –
Well, old-ish…
Some (but not all) of the ‘s’s were ‘f’s.
SCOGIN’S JESTS;
he read:
Full of witty Mirth and pleafant Shifts;
done by him in FRANCE
and other places.
BEING
A Prefervative against Melancholy.
Then underneath that:
Gathered by Andrew Board, Doctor of Phyfick.
This was followed by a whole ream of publishing guff.
Kane casually opened to the first page. He stiffened. On the blank, inner leaf, in pencil, somebody had written: –
So Beede –
There’s a whole series of these things (one for each of the various monarchs’ funny-men, although I didn’t get a chance to look at any of the others). Apparently there was quite a vogue for them in the 1600s (and for several hundred years after that – I saw at least two editions of this one – the earlier called Scoggin’s Jests by an Andrew Boord – 1626 – and this one, in which the spelling’s more familiar, from 1796 – that’s a 170-year gap!), indicating how popular these guys actually were (plus: note the celebrity publisher…)
Kane returned to the front page again: –
Pri
nted for W. Thackeray at the Angel in Duck Lane, near Weft-Smithfield, and J. Deason at the Angel in Gilt-Spur-Street.
He stared at this, blankly, for a while, removing his cigarette from his mouth (looking around for an ashtray, but not finding one, so tapping off the ash on to the knee of his jeans and patting it into the fabric), then turned back to the inside leaf and picked up where he’d left off: –
The information enclosed isn’t considered especially reliable, though. This book was written years after John Scogin’s death. Much of it will be based on either legend or hearsay (would’ve been considered ‘tabloid’, even at the time of its publication).
The actual story of his life (and a critique of Andrew Board, this book’s compiler, who seems like a rather dodgy character – ‘physician to Henry VIII’, apparently) features in R.H. Hill’s Tales of the Jesters, 1934 (and I wouldn’t have a clue what his sources were), but – believe it or not – the text was registered unavailable (read as ‘some miserable bastard stole it’).
The librarian in the Antiquarian Books Section (who was actually quite chatty) sent me to go and see some journalist called Tom Benson who happened to be in the library on that day and in possession of an associated text called A Nest of Ninnies by Robert Armin (He’s writing a book about comedy and is very interested in jesters’, she said).
Darkmans Page 9
