Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

It is just as well that he is not with me when Rosie comes back from the beach an hour later. She has taken Jason down for a paddle and, I reckon, as an excuse to get into her new multi-piece bathing costume. The one in which none of the pieces quite covers the bit it is supposed to be covering.

‘Ooh, he is nice,’ she says.

‘Who?’

‘That big fellow, Sam something. He had a bottle of spirit down the front of his trunks–’ I feel better already. ‘–got all the oil off Jason’s legs. It’s disgraceful, isn’t it? Sidney should complain to somebody.’

‘He can’t find Liberia on the map.’

‘No? Well, this fellow was so kind. He was marvellous with Jason. He asked me if I was going to the dance tonight.’

‘No!’ Maybe the words did come out a bit quick.

‘What do you mean “no”? It’s in the hotel isn’t it? I’m the owner’s wife.’

‘Yeah, but it’s private.’

‘Not if I’ve been invited by the President of the Society. That’s what he said he was.’

‘I don’t want her going anywhere near there! It’s disgusting!’ Sidney’s reaction when I tell him of Rosie’s plans is not totally unexpected.

‘But you went, Sidney,’ I say innocently.

‘Don’t push your luck, it’s different for fellers. Everybody knows that. Anyway, nothing happened.’

‘Only because your bird went off with that big bloke. He’s the one that invited Rosie to the dance.’ I get more satisfaction out of Sid’s face than from an old Laurel and Hardy movie.

‘I don’t want to see her there,’ he says, gulping. ‘You know what she’s like. Give her a few drinks and she loses control. The wrong kind of bloke could take advantage of her.’

‘I always wondered how you two came to be married.’

‘That’s enough of that. I’m serious. I’ve got a position to uphold here and I don’t want any embarrassment. It’s in your interest too, you know. She’s your sister.’

‘What do you expect me to do about it?’

‘There’s a show down on the Pier, Frisky Follies of 1902 or something. I’ll get some tickets and you can take them off there.’

‘Take what off there?’

‘Oh, blimey. Take Mum, Dad and Rosie off there, of course. That should keep them out of harm’s way.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll have to stay here, won’t I? After all, I am the owner.’

‘But I like dancing.’

‘No, you don’t. You like getting your end away. Tonight you’ll have to do without it. Your job is to keep Rosie away from that dance floor.’

‘But, Sid–’

‘No “buts”. You let me down on this one and you’ll be able to flog your old man for valve washers.’

Sid can come on a bit heavy with the old-world charm sometimes and at such moments it is unwise to push the aggrochat. I swallow back my resentment and prepare for the tedium ahead. Hoverton’s light entertainment industry is no threat to Broadway and seeing any show with my parents has been a source of embarrassment since they took me to a pantomime at Clapham Junction. First of all they always sit on somebody else’s lap and then Dad finds a seat and sits on it while it is still tipped up. He wonders why everybody is shouting at him and a right old how’s your father goes on until the manager and three usherettes force him into a seat like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Then he never understands what is happening.

‘Why is he doing that, mother?’ he demands. ‘Look, look, they’ve got it wrong. He’s got different clothes on.’

Perhaps Dad’s worst fault is that he has always seen everything. Despite only having been to the flicks about six times in his life, there is always one moment in every film when he suddenly springs to his feet, points at the screen and exclaims, ‘I’ve seen it, I’ve seen it. The bloke with the ’tash does it.’ He even did that in the Sound of Music.

Perhaps he will be better at the live theatre. He is always rambling on about how you could not beat the old music hall.

Rosie is definitely not pleased at the evening that has been arranged for her.

‘I don’t want to go down the pier,’ she says as she shovels in her last mouthful of fruit salad. ‘Is Sid ashamed of us or something?’

‘I think it’s “or something” ’I murmur under my breath. ‘Come on, Rosie, cheer up! I’ve heard it’s a great show.’

‘Who’s in it then?’ I rack my brain for some of the half-forgotten names of yesteryear.

‘Terry Grimley–’

‘He’s not still alive is he?’ says Dad, wiping the custard off his chin–some of it anyway. ‘I remember him when I was a boy.’

‘Radio’s “Mr Romance”,’ I continue lamely.

‘I wouldn’t cross the street to see him wrestling in mud with Donald Peers,’ snorts Rosie.

‘Then there’s the Amazing Arturo.’

‘What’s amazing about him?’

‘I don’t know. He juggles, I think.’

‘Big deal.’

‘And Renato and his Little Squeaking Friends.’

‘Is that the one who has the vampire bats that feed him sugar lumps? Oh, I’ve seen that on the telly.’ Mum is obviously impressed.

‘It sounds disgusting to me,’ sniffs Rosie. ‘I don’t want to go.’

‘Have a cherry brandy,’ I say, waving desperately for a waiter. In fact, Rosie has three cherry brandys before I deem her sufficiently mellow to be led off to the Pier Pavilion. With maxiMum cunning I steer the conversation round to the brilliance of little Jason, always a subject calculated to soothe her savage breasts.

I have hopes of escaping from the hotel before the Pendulum Swingers finish dusting the inside of their toes with talcum powder but this is not to be. As we pass the ballroom, Sam the Ram is having words with the hotel electrician.

‘All those lights we can do without,’ he says. ‘I’m not planning to conduct an autopsy in there. Let’s make it strictly fanny by gaslight, you dig?’

‘We’d better hurry along,’ I say, glancing at my watch, but it is no good. Rosie gives the kind of delicate little cough which has been known to spark off avalanches and lurches into King Conk.

‘Oh!’ she says, ‘it’s you.’

‘You’re absolutely right,’ he says. ‘Geeze, but you’re looking lovely.’ When he turns round I can see that he is wearing a white ruffled shirt open at the neck and his trousers are so tight they look as if they have leaked through his pores. ‘I hope you’re going to save me a dance tonight?’

‘I’m being taken to the theatre,’ says Rosie, making it sound like she means quarantine centre.

‘Come along later.’ Sam smiles and runs his hand lightly up her arm. ‘I’d love to get you on the dance floor.’ The way he looks at her you know he means any floor. This bloke is definitely another Ricci Volare.

‘Charming, wasn’t he?’ says Mum, when I have eventually dragged Rosie away.

‘He looked a great poof if you ask me,’ says Dad, speaking the truth for once. ‘What’s he want to go wearing a woman’s blouse for?’

‘Oh Dad, don’t be so stupid. It’s fashionable to wear shirts like that.’

‘He won’t do himself any good in those trousers either. The body has got to breathe.’

‘In your case, I wonder why sometimes.’

‘Now, that’s unkind, Rosie.’

‘Typical, bleeding typical–’

‘–He shouldn’t go on like that–’

‘–Slave your fingers to the bone to give your kids a decent start in life and–’

‘Belt up, both of you,’ I groan. ‘Let’s get to the bleeding pier before it closes down for the winter.’

‘No need for coarse language, dear,’ says Mum. ‘I’ve noticed you’ve been a lot more free in your speech since you went on that boat.’ Mum has a very low opinion of sailors, especially those not blessed by the sight of the Red Ensign fluttering at the masthead. I imagine it stems from an unhappy incident in her youth.

‘It was a very coarsening experience, mother,’ I tell her. Little does she know.

Rosie is still sulking when we get to the pier. Maybe this has something to do with the fact that it has been raining since we left the hotel and I have been unable to find a cab.

‘This pair of shoes are ruined,’ she moans.

‘Oh, they’re shoes, are they?’ says Dad. ‘I thought you’d forgotten to take them out of their box.’

‘They’ve got cork soles, Dad, it’s fashionable.’

‘Bloody handy if it rains any more. You can float home.’

‘You sure we’ve got the right night?’ says Mum, ‘there don’t seem to be many people here.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ sniffs Rosie. ‘Terry Grimley. Oh my gawd.’

When we get onto the pier the planks are glistening with rain and the coloured bulbs–those that have not been broken–swinging in the gusty wind.

‘I think I’ll walk off the end of the pier and drown myself like Necrophilia,’ says Rosie.

‘You mean Ophelia, don’t you?’ I tell her. Rosie has a big thing for Richard Chamberlain and ever since seeing him as Hamlet on the telly, has liked to crash in with the odd Shakespearean reference. Very odd, some of them.

‘Alright, clever-shanks,’ she snaps, ‘have it your way.’

Boy, this is going to be a marvellous evening, I think to myself as I slap down the complimentary tickets. I have not stood such a good chance of enjoying myself since we ran out of candles during the power strike.

Inside the theatre there are less people than at a meeting of Jack the Ripper’s fan club and Rosie starts moaning again before I have bought the programmes.

‘I can’t stand it,’ she says. ‘I just can’t stand it.’

‘Oh, look,’ says Mum, ‘what a shame–Terry Grimley is “indisposed”.’

‘Thank God,’ says Rosie, nastily.

‘Still, there’s always Renato and his Little Squeaking Friends, Mum,’ I say cheerfully. How right I am!

The orchestra sound as if they were introduced to each other five minutes before they started playing the National Anthem and the opening number, ‘Hoverton, Hoverton, It’s not a Bovver-town!’–at least I think that is what they are singing–could be one of the most forgettable tunes written in the last twenty years. The chorus girls look like rotarians in drag and their make-up could have been put on by a bloke responsible for painting puppets. All in all, the production lives down to my worst fears and I dare not look at Rosie.

The opening number gives way–maybe surrenders would be a better word–to one of the lousiest ventriloquists I have ever seen. The patter is so bad that the dummy must have written it and the ventriloquist moves his lips more than a short-sighted lodger trying to spit out his landlady’s dentures. After that comes a Scottish comedian who does imitations of Andy Stewart doing imitations of Harry Lauder, and two child tap dancers who make up in clumsiness what they lack in skill.

‘How much longer to the interval?’ whispers Rosie. ‘I can’t take much more.’

‘After the bats,’ I tell her. ‘They’re on next.’ She shudders and I sit back as a decrepit looking geezer wearing a black cloak and false eye teeth–at least, I imagine they are false–comes out onto the stage and spreads his arms wide to receive the non-existent applause. He waits hopefully for a few seconds and then waves a hand towards the wings. From the other side of the stage one of the chorus girls teeters out holding a large cage at arm’s length. I can sympathise with her distaste because when Renato whips off the cover I can see what appears to be half a dozen broken black umbrellas hanging in an ugly cluster. My reaction is not an isolated one because a combined exclamation of disgust is the biggest noise produced by the audience the whole evening.

‘Ooh! I don’t fancy that!’ says Rosie.

‘Imagine one of those in your hair,’ says Mum. I remember her words later.

The chorus girl gingerly inserts her hand into the cage and then withdraws it sharply.

‘It bit her,’ gasps Mum.

‘I’m getting out,’ says Rosie.

‘Don’t be daft,’ says Dad. ‘They’re just trying to build up the suspense. I remember once, at the Finsbury Empire–’

‘Shut up, Dad.’

Renato moves forward swiftly and elbows his unfortunate assistant aside before plunging his mitt into the cage. More kerfuffle and one of the bats is drawn into the open. The audience sucks in its breath. Renato holds up the bat and produces what appears to be a lump of sugar from inside his robe. His miserable assistant is made to hold the bat by the tip of its wings and Renato advances to the footlights. Like a kid showing off the first tooth it loses, he flashes the sugar at the audience between finger and thumb and places it between his lips. The girl gratefully releases the bat which circles a couple of times and then swoops down to alight on the area of Renato’s mouth.

‘I’m going to be sick,’ says Rosie.

The sugar disappears and the bat takes off and zooms into the wings. I do not think it should do this unless Renato gets through an awful lot of bats in his act. Certainly, the Maestro’s face clouds over for a second as he gazes after his little squeaking friend.

‘He swallowed it,’ says Dad firmly.

‘Don’t be silly, dear. It flew off the stage.’

‘Not the bat, you stupid old bag. The piece of sugar.’

‘I’m going to be sick,’ says Rosie.

‘There it is,’ says Mum.

High above our heads the errant bat is circling the theatre, presumably looking for some means of getting out. I know just how it feels.

‘I hope it hasn’t been fed recently,’ says Mum.

‘Do you mind!’ says Dad. ‘That kind of talk isn’t nice.’

‘Having your hair messed up isn’t nice either,’ scolds Mum. ‘I had this done special.’ There is no doubt that Mum’s bonce does resemble petrified meringue.

‘Oh, no!’ breathes Rosie. ‘What’s he going to do now?’

Renato is filling his cake-hole with lumps of sugar and the beginnings of a drum roll tell us that the act is approaching its climax. The unwilling assistant takes the remaining bats across the stage in their cage and Renato advances to the footlights.

‘I don’t want to watch,’ Rosie buries her face in her hands. I glance at Mum whose eyes are wider than serving hatches. Dad is looking up at the ceiling. This kind of thing is probably very old hat after the Finsbury Empire. The drum roll reaches a crescendo and the girl on the stage gingerly releases the catch on the cage and withdraws her hand swiftly. Nothing happens. She waits for a moment and gives the cage a shake. Still nothing happens. Beginning to panic, she turns the cage on its side and shakes it viciously until, like sticky pastry, the bats begin to peel away.

After that things happen fast. A stream of bats make for Renato while one stays behind to menace his assistant. She screams, drops the cage and runs from the stage. Maybe this upsets the rest of the bats. They descend on Renato’s cake-hole like wasps on a squashed plum. There is an exclamation of pain that carries beyond the back row of the upper circle and Renato reels sideways, clapping his hand to his mouth and spraying the first three rows of the stalls with lumps of sugar. Obviously one of his little friends has taken the dead needle with him.

The bats swoop down into the audience like low flying aircraft and the next thing I know, Mum has one in her hair. I have heard some noises in my time but the sounds coming from Mum cap everything.

‘Ooooeeeooww!’ she shrieks. ‘Get it out! Get it out!’ The bat is squeaking and flapping away fit to burst and I see its evil little rat face and those teeth. Teeth! By the cringe, they are like something out of a horror comic. Around us the audience is in uproar and Renato is jumping off the edge of the stage. I tear my jacket off and throw it over Mum’s head. I have no intention of touching the bat with my bare hands. I close my hands around the disgusting quivering body–the bat’s I mean–and consider squeezing the life out of it. I don’t have to make the decision because Renato pushes me aside and whips off the jacket.

‘You are a madman!?’ he hisses. ‘You want to destroy me my little friend. See? She is frightened.’

‘What about my old woman?’ explodes Dad. ‘She’s just had her bleeding hair done. This lot is going to set you back a few bob.’

Renato ignores him.

‘Come, come Bettina,’ he soothes, ‘your pappa is here to look after you.’ Mum’s screams must now be jamming local radio stations. They are certainly not doing anything to calm down Bettina who sinks her treacherous fangs into Renato’s thumb as he extends a rescuing hand.

‘Aagh!!’ The Maestro staggers back and a row of seats collapses, taking Mum and Dad with it. In the confusion Bettina tears herself free and zooms off to join her little chums aloft. Dad belts Senor Renato up the bracket and Rosie disappears.

The last event is in many ways the most disturbing but I do not notice it until we have steered Mum into the manager’s office and started getting her outside a bottle of brandy. The show has been abandoned and Senor Renato is standing in the deserted auditorium trying to talk down his little friends who are sulking amongst the rafters. Dad is beside himself with ecstasy, having never actually connected with a blow before in his life.

‘He should never have tried it on with me,’ he says. ‘He was a fool to himself. He should never have done it. I showed him, didn’t I, love? I wasn’t going to have that Eyetie making you cry and getting away with it.’

‘You caught him in the mouth with your elbow when he turned round a bit sharpish,’ says Mum. ‘When he fell down you hit him again. Now do belt up about it. All I want to do is get away from here.’

It is then that I notice that Rosie has beaten her to it. Leaving Mum with her hand comfortably anchored to the neck of the brandy bottle and Dad trying to explain to the manager that free seats for the next performance are something short of adequate reparation for the mental and physical anguish caused, I race out into the still-rainy night just in time to reach the turnstile as Rosie is climbing into a taxi. I shout at her but she chooses not to hear and the taxi draws away. Knickers! Sidney is going to do his nut.

I waste valuable time hanging around for another taxi and then start running along the promenade. Every shelter is either full of tramps dossing down for the night or couples groping each other. These tableaux of fumbling lust sharpen my mind to thoughts of what is happening back at the Cromby. Will I get there in time to prevent Rosie tangling with Sam the Ram? Will Sidney be exposed in mid-grapple with some sexed-up swinger? New readers begin here.

I charge through the doors of the Cromby and run straight into Miss Primstone who is standing by the reception looking as enthusiastic as a bloodhound that has just received an estimate for a face lift.

‘Have you seen Mrs Noggett?’ I pant. Miss Primstone sighs.

‘I believe you will find her in the ballroom.’ It is the way that she shudders on the word ‘ballroom’ that terrifies me.

‘And Mr Noggett?’

‘I believe the little boy was having teething problems, Mr Noggett is tending him upstairs.’

‘Good!’ Miss Primstone’s eyebrows rise. ‘I mean I’m glad Sidney is looking after him.’

Maybe there is still time. I move with Elliot Ness swiftness to the ballroom expecting to hear orgy-type noises assaulting my ear drums. To my surprise there is only the subdued throb of music beating with a heart-like regularity. I open the door and it takes my eyes a few seconds to get used to the darkness. The whole of one wall is a gigantic screen onto which have been projected patterns and images which move slowly like drops of coloured water finding a path through packed ice. As I follow them down to floor level I become aware of shadowy shapes, glistening limbs, heaps of discarded clothing. Blimey! I am too late.

Or am I? About the only couple performing in a vertical plane are Sam and Rosie. He is holding her to him like she is a rolled-up carpet he is transporting down a steep flight of stairs but as far as I can make out they still have their clobber on. How long this very desirable state of affairs is going to last is another matter. Sam’s pelvic region is revolving like one of those attachments available with a Black and Decker kit and Rosie is one stage away from total knicker-loss. Alack, alas, what can I do? Any second now Sidney will return from providing succour to his fledgling Noggett and Rosie’s 36A cup is not going to be the only thing that is undone. If only she was not so impetuous! Still, I suppose it runs in the family.

‘Having a nice time, aren’t they?’ I turn round and craggy Petheridge is at my elbow. ‘I thought I was a bit of a raver but this lot leave me standing. You’d need to turn on the sprinkler system to separate them, wouldn’t you?’

‘What?!’ I say, a giant ‘thinks’ bubble bursting from my nut.

‘I said you’d need to turn on the sprinkler system to separate them.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ I try and sound dead casual. ‘You mean down the end of the corridor on the third floor?’

‘Yes. Hey, look at those two! They’re going at it aren’t they?’

Experienced readers will have no difficulty in knowing which two he is talking about, and my feet develop wings as I speed towards the third floor. I am belting down the long corridor when a door opens and–surprise, surprise–I am face to face with Sidney Noggett. His face is flushed and it does not look as if this is due to the strain of ministering to little Jason. I obtain this impression from the sight of the buxom red head who is patting her hair into place beside the crumpled bed.

‘Where’s Rosie?’ yelps Sidney, his voice combining both fear and menace.

‘She’s on her way,’ I shout over my shoulder, I reckon this being a fairly accurate statement of the situation. Sidney says something else but I don’t hear him because I am round the corner and flinging open the door marked ‘no admittance’.

The inside of the room resembles the control room of a Victorian Cape Kennedy. Brass switches and cobweb-covered circuits abound and I look desperately for some instructions. In my panic I press a large switch and realise that it is not the right one when the light in the room goes out. Ah! There we are! ‘Sprinkler System’. ‘Foyer’, ‘dining room’, ‘ballroom’. I take a deep breath and pull the lever as far as it will go. I hope to God that Sidney has not got to the ballroom yet. To add to my good fortune there is a key on the inside of the lock. I grab it, hop out into the corridor and lock the door behind me. That should keep everybody off their knees for a bit.

Not half it won’t. When I get to the top of the stairs the Pendulum Swingers are pouring out of the ballroom like there has been a thunderstorm at the nudist camp picnic. I have not seen so many wet, naked bodies since I peeped through the cracks in the back of the ladies’ changing rooms at Tooting Bec baths. I look into the ballroom and the scene resembles a tropical rain forest by night–not that I have ever seen one, but I reckon it must be something like that. One or two couples who are probably stoned are still grinding away in the middle of the floor and one naked joker is lying on his back with his arms outstretched, chanting, ‘Now grow, you bastard!’ as he gazes down at his acorn. Happy days!

Luckily there is no sign of Sam and Rosie and I am glad of this when I find Sid standing at my elbow sending glances into the darkness like cavalry scouts.

‘Has she come yet?’ says Sid nervously. ‘I wish I could get my hands on the bleeding basket who did this lot.’

‘Probably one of the residents,’ I say. ‘Oh–’ My exclamation is caused by the sight of Rosie coming through the front door. She is bedraggled but fully clothed and alone. She must have got out by one of the side exits.

‘Hello Sid, darling,’ she says, giving him a big hug, ‘what happened?’

‘Some bleeder turned on the sprinkler system. Where have you been?’

‘I’ve been struggling back from the theatre, love. My cheap-jack brother couldn’t afford a taxi. I might as well have stood under that lot, mightn’t I?’ She indicates the inside of the ballroom as the sprinklers are suddenly turned off. ‘Come on, Sid. Come and warm me up.’ She gives his arm a big squeeze and folds back her lips.

‘I ought to–Oh, well. We’ll do something about it in the morning.’ Sid shakes his head and is led away towards the stairs.