Читать книгу Mr Lonely - Gary Morecambe, Eric Morecambe - Страница 8

February, 1976

It was Tuesday morning. Sid came into the kitchen for his breakfast. He looked at the electric clock on the wall—nine-fifteen. Carrie, his wife, had already taken their daughter, Elspeth, to school and was now back in her kitchen making her baggy-eyed, unshaven husband his breakfast. Sid sat down with the ease of a still-tired man in that part of the kitchen that was known as the breakfast area. He picked up half a dozen lumps of sugar, picked out two special ones, put the others down and, like a Mississippi gambler, threw the two lumps of sugar towards the packet of Shredded Wheat. As they hit the box and stopped rolling he shouted in a loud voice: ‘Craps!’

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Carrie adroitly avoiding hot bacon fat and, at the same time, breaking two eggs to fry. In competition with the bacon and eggs was a male radio DJ of the older school, who was allowing an actor to tell all of this particular DJ’s audience how good the play he was appearing in was, and how good all the other actors and actresses in it were, and that the producer, although still quite young (a breathless twenty-two) was nevertheless, ‘my dear’, only quite brilliant, and the director, ‘my lambs’, a genius, and younger than Noel was. The music? Well—all of the best the West End has heard since Cole and, of course, Ivor. The show, ‘my loves’, was the best thing to hit town in Zeons and why people weren’t coming to see it in droves baffled him.

The older-type DJ was doing all his ‘of courses’ and ‘good Lords’ in all the right places, finishing up with, ‘Well, I just find that too hard to believe, Randy.’

‘Don’t we all, darling,’ purred the actor.

‘But after what you’ve just told me, I shall go and see Cosmo, The Faceless Goon myself.’

‘Moon,’ whispered Randy.

‘Moon,’ shouted the older-type DJ, who then announced the wrong theatre followed by the wrong performance time.

Sid thought, Older-type DJ, in this last ten years you have become an institution, and now that’s where you belong.

Carrie thought, Randy. I wonder if that’s short for Randal? She said, ‘How many eggs?’

‘One,’ said Sid.

‘One?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I’ve done you two.’

‘So I’ll have two.’

‘You’ve no need to have two, if you don’t want to have two. You can have one if you only want one.’

‘I’ll have two.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Look, if I only have one, what will happen to the other one?’

‘I’ll have it.’

‘Do you want it?’

‘Well, I’m not bothered, but I’ll have it if you don’t want it.’

‘Give them both to me before I go off the idea of either bacon or eggs. Have you grilled any tomatoes?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s a relief. That means to say that if you had and I didn’t want them, you won’t have to have them now.’

‘Are you ready for them?’

‘Yes, if they’re ready for me and incidentally …’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t want the tomatoes.’

Carrie gave him his bacon and eggs. ‘What time did you come in last night?’ she asked.

‘About three. If you’re going to do any tomatoes, I’ll have them.’

‘I didn’t hear you. I didn’t hear the car.’

‘I turned the engine off before coming down the drive. These eggs are great. I’ll take bets they were brown eggs.’

‘One of each.’

‘Oh, I would say the one on the left was the brown one.’

‘I didn’t feel you get in the bed.’

‘You should have done. I made love to you twice.’

‘I don’t think that’s at all funny. You’re getting crude in your old age. Pass me the plate when you’ve finished.’

‘It was like a joke,’ he said, passing the now-empty plate.

‘Coffee?’

‘Yes please, but without tomatoes.’

‘You probably see all the tomatoes you want at the club,’ Carrie said, putting the plates in the sink. ‘Do you mind instant coffee this morning as I’m in a bit of a hurry?’

‘Instant coffee’s fine,’ Sid said, undoing his dressing-gown cord. ‘But what’s that about the tomatoes at the club business?’

‘Do you want cold milk or half and half?’

‘I’m easy.’

‘We’ll have the cold milk, then.’ Carrie got the cups ready and started to pour the coffees. ‘Three o’clock’s late. You’re usually home by two.’

‘Lard asked me back to his room for a drink after he’d finished.’

‘Who?’

‘Lard. Lard Jackson. He’s the star this week.’

‘That black man, who was on Nationwide the other night?’

‘Most likely.’ Sid picked up his two special sugars and dropped them into his coffee. ‘He’s a nice fella.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He’s got a number in the Top Ten. He finished his act with it.’

‘What’s it called?’

‘Let me do it to you again, baby.’

‘Good Lord.’

‘It’s a song.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘No, it is.’

‘Is he married?’

‘I don’t know. I never asked him. How can I say, “Hello, Mr Jackson, are you married? I’m asking for my wife”?’

‘Is his first name really Lard?’

‘As far as I know—yes.’

‘How does anybody call themself Lard?’

‘Well, he says, “What’s cooking?” a lot.’ Sid looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup. After fifteen years of marriage he knew when she was on edge. She wasn’t happy about him coming home late.

‘I suppose his dressing-room was full of women.’

‘Packed,’ Sid smiled to himself. ‘We counted them. Seven black and seven white. All the black women were dressed in white and all the white women were dressed in black, otherwise we couldn’t have told them apart.’

‘Very funny.’

‘I thought so.’

‘Do you want another cup?’

‘Nope.’

‘Elspeth saw something this morning,’ said Carrie.

‘Pardon.’

‘Elspeth. She saw something.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

‘What do you mean—good?’

‘Well, I’m glad for her sake.’ Sid was at a loss. ‘I will have some more coffee if there’s any left.’

‘She’s twelve.’

‘I know.’

‘Well—she saw something.’ Carrie whispered, ‘You know, she saw something.’

Sid looked blankly at his wife.

‘Her periods have started,’ Carrie said.

‘Good God. She’s only twelve.’ Sid was embarrassed. ‘I mean—she’s twelve years old.’

Carrie smiled to herself for the first time that morning. Now she felt in charge. ‘I was thirteen.’

‘Yes—but you are older than her.’ Sid wanted to get off the subject as soon as possible. ‘Er. Is she all right?’

‘Fine.’

‘Good.’ That was final as far as Sid was concerned. ‘What was that you meant about the tomatoes? You said, “You see all the tomatoes you want at the club.” Do you mean tomatoes as in women or as in thrown?’

‘Nothing.’

‘If it’s women, I’m flattered. If it’s thrown, I’m hurt. But if it’s women, which women? The waitresses, or the bar ladies, or the disco dancers? And what about all those young women who work in Boots or Marks and Spencers? If I’d had as many women as you seem to think I’ve had, I should have died a long time ago from a rare disease called ecstasy.’ Sid stood up from the small breakfast table and put the chair back under it, picked up his cup and walked towards the sink. ‘And if the term is thrown, I’d like you to know I’m good enough not to get anything thrown at me, and if you would come to the club and see me work sometimes you would find that out. I’ve been working there for the last two years and you haven’t been once. Half the staff think I’m a widower.’ He was rinsing his cup under the tap.

‘I don’t like nightclubs.’ She picked up the drying cloth and took the cup from him.

‘Sweetheart, there are times when I hate the sodding place.’

‘Don’t swear!’

‘But I work theatres, clubs, TV and kiddie shows. I sometimes work seven days a week.’ Carrie gave him back the cup. ‘And I do it for two reasons. One is that I enjoy working and the other is that I do it to earn money so I can give you and Elspeth a nice home. There’s not many other comics who work as regularly as I do.’ Sid washed the cup again. ‘But I still get the impression that you want me to have a nine-to-five job.’

Carrie said, ‘That’s twice you’ve washed that cup.’ Sid put it down. ‘I’m going to Sainsbury’s.’ Carrie didn’t want to get caught up in a quarrel because she never did win a verbal argument with Sid anyway. He was much too devious. It was all the practice at the club. She put her coat on. Sid wiped the cup dry. There was a little bit of silence now, except for Glenn Miller belting out ‘Little Brown Jug’ for a senior citizen of ninety-seven. ‘Mrs Gerry will be here about ten. She’s having her hair done. I said it would be all right. Don’t stop her from working by telling her how hard you work. Could you pass me the plastic carrier off the doorknob?’ Sid did. ‘I’ll be back about one o’clock to get you a bit of lunch.’

Carrie left by the back door to get to the garage. Sid watched her go. She’s still an attractive woman, he thought. He had to smile to himself. She was going to Sainsbury’s with a plastic bag that told the whole world how good Macfisheries were. Maybe she had a sense of humour after all.

The elder DJ obviously had a sense of humour. He was now talking to some idiot who had written a new book on diet and health called Fry Your Way to Fitness. The DJ got in a good ad lib. He said, ‘I’m a stone overweight. Fry me.’