Читать книгу The Confessions Collection - Rosie Dixon, Timothy Lea - Страница 78

‘Of course, you were done, weren’t you?’

‘Look at that one. She’s a bit of all right, isn’t she?’

‘I looked up Guttman in Who’s Who of the Screen and he doesn’t have a daughter.’

‘Fantastic legs.’

‘He couldn’t even get her name right.’

‘Blimey. I’d give her a part any day of the week.’

‘You’re not listening to me, are you, Sid? I’m telling you that you were conned. That scene in the projection booth was a put-up job to pressure you into signing the contract.’

‘I put up as well, didn’t I? I’m not grumbling. Don’t worry, Timmo. We can’t lose money on a film that has got chicks like that in it.’

It is a few days after our lunch with Justin and we are attending a casting session for Oliver Twist, this being the vehicle into which Sid has sunk a considerable amount of moola. Just how much, he did not realise until he got his copy of the contract. Certainly my memory of the conversation at the lunch table revolved around a figure approximately half of that which Sidney has now contracted to lash out.

At least Sidney is not the only backer of the movie and I am amazed at how many blokes there do seem to be in on the deal. About a dozen people have a slice of the action and most of them are attending the casting session.

‘Sidney, I’d like you to meet Alma Mater. I think she’d make a wonderful Nancy.’ Justin is introducing a tall, slim dark girl with straight shoulder-length hair and eyes that blaze like truck headlights. She is wearing a black leotard with a white apron – at least, that is the effect achieved.

‘You’ve got enough Nancies around here already, haven’t you?’ says Sidney, never slow to impress with his salty wit. ‘Pleased to meet you, Nancy.’

‘I hear you’re one of the backers,’ says Nancy. ‘That’s fantastic, that really is. I think people who put money into art are just unbelievable. I’m a dancer really, you know. I’m very lucky because I’m double-jointed and I can do things with my body that most other people can’t begin to attempt. It really is a pleasure meeting you, Mr Noggett, because I’ve heard so much about you. I hope you don’t mind me going on like this but I feel I can talk to you. You have a sort of warm quality. You really come over, if you know what I mean?’

I am practically reaching for my vomit bag but Sidney, being the kind of stupid twit that he is, laps it all up like it is the flavour of the month. It is funny but Sidney can be quite effective when he is dishing out the chat. Give him some tongue-tied little bird and the words break over her in waves. When he is on the receiving end his mind seems to put on diving boots. I think it is because he reckons that all birds are stupid he never takes anything they say at anything other than face value. That is why my sister Rosie can put it across him so easily. Rosie used to be dumb but she has changed. Sidney has not. Funny how smart I used to think he was when I first met him.

‘It’s very nice of you to say so, Miss Mater,’ says Sid awkwardly. ‘I suppose one always tries to look for the best in people. Look – er, let’s have a cup of coffee. I’d like to hear more about your dancing.’

He leads her away – or thinks he does – and I am left with Justin who has a satisfied expression on his mug.

‘Going well, is it?’ I ask, allowing a trace of sarcasm to creep into my voice.

‘Splendidly, Timothy. Quite splendidly. It may sound a trifle cynical but one does try to marry the action on the screen to real life. Those who invest money in our productions are often frustrated thespians and if we can transplant them into a relationship with some of the protagonists on the filmic level, then their reward is twofold. Do I make myself clear?’

‘You mean if you put up some ackers you can get your end away with the cast?’

‘Precisely. Or, at least, you stand a better chance of doing so.’ Justin pats me on the back. ‘Very good, Timothy. What a pity I’ve already cast the Artful Dodger.’

‘Justin. There’s one thing I don’t understand. Why are we doing Oliver Twist? I mean, it’s been flogged to death, hasn’t it? There’s the stage version and a couple of films –’

‘Exactly, Timothy! You put your finger on it. It’s become a classic, you see. All great works are being revived, the whole time. Look at the Bible. People are always making films and plays about it. It becomes a question of interpretation, searching for new meanings, revealing hidden truths. The creative process is a mirror capable of infinite representations of the same object.’

He is a lovely talker, Justin, there is no doubt about it. When I listen to him rabbiting on it makes me realise how ignorant I am. Also, how difficult it must be in the film industry if a person of his obvious genius has to make films like Up the Ladder, Jack in order to scrape together a few bob. I suppose people like me should blame ourselves for not having superior tastes so that people like Justin can do things worthy of their talents.

‘Another thing I don’t understand, Justin,’ I say apologetically, ‘is why you seem to be casting so many birds. It’s not a musical, is it?’

‘No, no. Good gracious me, no. No, I’m getting the women out of the way today, and casting the male characters tomorrow. Also’ – he looks round to see that no one is listening – ‘I might as well be completely honest with you. Some of the backers, as you already surmised, do demand slightly more than their pound of flesh. Many of the girls here today have no chance of a part in the film – and know it.’

‘Like Alma?’ I venture.

‘Precisely. Alma would have difficulty walking across the set without someone chalking out footsteps for her to follow. She has other talents.’

I get an inkling of what these talents might be the next day when Sidney limps into view with his earhole practically on his shoulder.

‘That bird wasn’t kidding when she said she was double jointed,’ he croaks. ‘Blimey, I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. It quite put me off sometimes. I reckon she could have done me a serious injury.’

‘You mean you took advantage of that poor star-struck child,’ I scold him. ‘Shame on you, Sid. How could you have done it?’

‘Come off it, Timmo. She was crazy for it. It was the old Noggett magnetism driving her out of her mind into a hailstorm of torrid ecstasy.’

‘You mean maelstrom, Sidney,’ I tell him. ‘Although I reckon it probably was more like a hailstorm. Little icy balls banging away –’

‘Hey, wait a minute. Just because you’re jealous, there’s no need to be like that.’

Sidney is right. I am jealous. He is so blooming lucky that it makes me sick sometimes. I would not mind if he accepted it as good fortune and was grateful, but all this magnetism muck gets right up my bracket.

I am also feeling narky because Justin has told me that he will not be able to give me a credited part for fear that the union might cut up nasty. Blooming marvellous, isn’t it? If it was not for me there probably would not be a film in the first place.

‘Plenty of extra work, Timmo,’ says Justin. ‘Once everyone gets used to your face I can start exploiting your potential.’

‘Don’t get upset about it, ducky,’ chips in Crispin. ‘I started at the bottom.’

I have about half a dozen answers to that one but luckily the arrival of Mac, looking like the bearer of important news, prevents me from using them.

‘He’s here,’ says Justin.

For the first time that I can remember, Justin looks less than totally at ease and I wonder who the new arrival can be. There is one dead simple way to find out.

‘Who is?’ I ask.

‘Ken Loser,’ breathes Justin.

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Never heard of him?! The most famous British director of the decade? Surely you’ve seen some of his tellyvision work? His series on the New Testament?’

‘You mean when he had Jesus dressed up in a wet suit and flippers diving off the top of the Eiffel Tower? Yes, now you come to mention it, I do remember something about it. There were a lot of complaints, weren’t there?’

‘Only about the brothel scene. People are incredibly reactionary, you know. I thought it was very meaningful myself.’

‘Very meaningful,’ echoes Mac. ‘It makes the point that Jesus is the Devil is Man more clearly than anything else I have ever found sexually stimulating.’

‘He’s going to direct the film, is he?’ I ask.

‘Yes. It’s a fantastic coup,’ breathes Justin. ‘His presence alone ensures that we get our money back at the box office.’

We all look towards the door expectantly and through it come two enormous tawny hounds pulling a geezer in white chauffeur’s uniform with jackboots and Nazi-style peaked cap. He is wearing dark glasses and has a long gold cigarette holder drooping from his lips.

‘Is that him?’ I gasp.

‘No!’ Justin’s tone is almost contemptuous. ‘That’s Otto, his, his –’

‘Personal assistant,’ says Mac helpfully.

Stupid of me, really, but you do get these funny ideas about film people, don’t you? Of course there is no reason why they should be any different to you or – ‘Blimey!’ My exclamation is sparked off by the next bloke to come through the door. He is wearing a shaggy sheepskin coat that drags along the floor behind him, and from the niff that sprints across the room you would reckon the sheep was still in there with him. He has matted shoulder length hair that makes Justin’s coiffure look like that of a Sandhurst cadet, a wooden cross round his neck and open-toed sandals revealing ten of the dirtiest little piggies that ever went ‘wiggy, wiggy, wiggy, all the way home’. In his hand is a riding crop which he twirls impatiently.

‘Ken!’ says Justin expansively. ‘Marvellous to see you.’ He steps over one of the hounds which is pissing against his desk, and grabbing Loser’s upper arm with one hand, pumps his mitt up and down with the other.

‘I see this thing as totally nihilistic,’ says Loser, shrugging him aside as if he did not exist. ‘I want everything – the orgies, the rapes, the desecration, the infanticide, the underwater lesbianism, to bring every man, woman and child in the audience face to face with the fundamental question.’

There is a long pause in which Justin smiles and then nods briskly, as if, having considered every aspect of what has just been said, he is in total agreement with it.

‘What fundamental question?’ I ask.

‘Exactly!’ Loser’s whip crashes down on Justin’s desk and the dogs bolt across the room pulling the geezer in the chauffeur’s uniform over an armchair. ‘That’s the question, isn’t it? The question is: What is the question? I am the only genius making films today who has got the guts to ask it!’ He takes another swing at the desk, and throws his whip out of the window, before sinking into a chair and covering his face with his hands. ‘I want a cast of nonentities. I want them unspoilt, untainted. I want to pillage their experiences, to plunge my arm down their throats and eviscerate them! There must be no preconceptions to come between them and the truth. No text, no words, no script, nothing! Nothing! Nothing!’ He is practically sobbing as he snaps his fingers at his assistant. ‘Cigarette!’

Otto nods and lights a cigarette which he inserts in the gold holder and passes to his master. Loser removes the fag and grinds it out on the back of his hand. ‘Only my third today,’ he says triumphantly, ‘I’m cutting down.’

Blimey, but there are some funny people about aren’t there? Justin gets rid of me saying that he has some business matters to discuss with Loser and as I go through the door I see the great man tucking into a bacon sandwich he has produced from somewhere inside his sheepskin. I know the British Film Industry is going through a bad time but this is ridiculous!

The next exciting star of stage, screen and labour exchange that I meet is Glint Thrust. He is undoubtedly one of the best looking blokes that I have ever seen and also, I reckon, one of the best looking blokes that he has ever seen. His nostrils are permanently flared and his piercing eyes filled to the brim with a kind of distant loathing as if he has just trodden in something too unspeakable to think about in the middle of the duchess’s sitting room. He is very big on suede and moves around stiffly as if his underpants are made of it. All the birds on the set think the MGM lion roars through his backside and he is not slow to capitalise on the fact. He has his own special caravan and is disposed to retire to it between takes, with a different dolly on each occasion. It is fantastic the number of birds he goes through and they say that he has ‘comfort breaks’ as he calls them, written into his contract.

‘I’ve got to keep in shape,’ he keeps Mumbling, flinging his arm about. ‘Booze and broads, that’s what does it. They don’t call me Glint Thrust because of the way I stick stamps on envelopes.’

As he himself says, booze is another of Glint Thrust’s consuming interests and he gets through so much that you feel he must have parked his corpuscles in a blood bank to make room for it. How he remembers his lines is beyond me, but luckily, under Ken Loser’s direction he does not need many of them. At first I am surprised to see Glint Thrust in the film after what Loser has said in Justin’s office but after watching a few takes I can understand why Loser maintains that he is the biggest nonentity in the business. He is always scratching himself or the nearest chick and keeps nodding with his eyes closed and Mumbling ‘yep, yep yep,’ every time Loser says anything to him.

The other key ‘property’ as Justin persists in calling her, is Dawn Lovelost, who I remember seeing on telly about the time you had it facing the street so all the neighbours knew you had one. Her face is a watercolour of a once beautiful woman painted in something a lot stronger than water. Like Glint she fancies a drop of the hard stuff and, it is rumoured, is also quite fond of a drop of the hard. Certainly four marriages suggest that she has more than a passing acquaintance with the old spam ram.

I am surprised to find that Sandra does not have a part in the movie but Justin explains that big tits are anticulture and down market.

‘Show me one classical actress with big tits,’ he says. ‘Dame Sybil Thorndike, Edith Evans, Dulcie Gray; not a spare ounce of flesh on any of them.’

Sid is still chuffed to bollocks because he is now an impresario or ‘Empress aerial’ as he prefers to call it.

‘What I like about it, Timmo,’ he explains, ‘is that it’s culture, isn’t it? I mean, I wasn’t too keen on all that nudie-pics nonsense when you started telling me about it, but this is different. I mean, I don’t mind watching films like that, but I don’t want to get mixed up in making them, do I?’

‘How’s your neck, Sidney?’

‘Better, Timmo. But, like I was saying. One of the greatest classics in the English language. Can’t be bad, can it? My name up there. Patron of the arts. It might be the first step toward a knighthood or a life peerage. Lord Noggett of Clapham. How does that grab you?’

That’s what I like about Sidney. For a medium-sized, pot-bellied geezer bearing a faint resemblance to Paul Newman in a bad light, he does think big.

‘Very nice,’ I tell him. ‘Rosie is going to like that, isn’t she?’

For a second Sid’s face clouds over and I see him looking warily at Glint Thrust who is padding off towards his caravan with an evil flicker in his eye and an eager extra in his grasp.

‘Yeah. We’ll have to watch her with old Lightning Tonk, won’t we? You know how she can be sometimes.’ I do indeed. As already mentioned, she has broadened her horizons a lot since she first snagged her tights in the back of Sid’s mini-van and her attitude to men of the opposite sex has veered between the friendly and the ‘come and pet it!’ Not, of course, that Sidney has the word ‘restraint’ tattooed across his scrotum but, as we all know, it is different for men.

Sidney’s fears are well founded as I see when the Lady Rosie visits the set. She takes one look at Glint and freezes like a gundog scenting a victim. He rolls his eyeballs over her and you could draw dotted lines between their two sets of peepers. If they were both dogs I would push off and start filling a bucket of water. Luckily Glint has to react in front of the cameras so an immediate confrontation is avoided.

‘Right, Glint. Listen,’ says Loser, whose sheepskin coat does not smell any better under the arc lights, ‘let me feel this one with you.’ Glint is still looking at Rosie and he nods as if he likes the idea. ‘Let’s re-establish your motivation. You are a committed socialist who has been crushed into poverty and insignificance by the jackboot of reactionary capitalism. You steal, murder and rape because this is your way of crying for help, of focusing public attention on your predicament and the wrongs that a grossly lop-sided, misguided society has perpetrated upon you.’

‘Dig.’ says Glint, nodding. ‘I bash her about a bit and then ram it up her.’

‘And we dissolve into the lyrical scene with you as a little boy playing with your dog on the hills above the Welsh mining village. Exactly. Are you ready, Dawn?’

Dawn Lovelost is fiddling with something in the area of her ample bristols.

‘This isn’t real blood, is it?’ she says distastefully.

‘Of course it’s real blood,’ snaps Loser. ‘Not real human blood –’ a slight note of disappointment creeps into his voice, ‘but real sheep’s blood. Try and turn towards the camera so that we can come right in on it spurting from your chest. OK, Mac?’

‘OK, K.L.’

Loser turns back to Dawn. ‘And get your mouth really wide open when you scream. I want the camera to disappear down your throat.’

‘Ooh! Sounds horrible!’ says Rosie. Unfortunately, she says it out loud.

‘Of course it’s horrible, you stupid bitch!’ howls Loser. ‘Life is horrible. What do you think I’m trying to say? What good is art if it doesn’t make you feel? To vomit is to feel. After one of my movies I want people to come out into the street puking! Physically and mentally different. Their minds expanded, reorientated. Any artistic endeavour that does not challenge basic conceptions about life is fart, not art!’

Many women might be distressed into silence by such an attack, but not our Rosie. Fortunately she has no idea what Loser is on about, but she does understand words like ‘fart’ and ‘bitch’.

‘Don’t you talk to me like that,’ she snorts. ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘I know what you are,’ yells Loser. ‘You’re a soft-brained, overdressed, underwitted pawn of creeping bourgeois mediocrity who has the snivelling impertinence to interrupt a genius in the execution of his duty to posterity. Otto! Set the dogs on her!’

Quick on the uptake readers will sense that things are on the verge of getting out of hand and it is as well that Justin calls a ten-minute break and walks Loser round the stage a couple of times to cool down.

I am about to perform a similar service for Rosie when Glint Thrust appears with the unwanted inevitability of a noisy fart at the vicar’s tea party.

‘I felt I just had to come and say how awful I felt about you being talked to like that,’ he gushes. ‘That man may be a genius but he can be a real pig most of the time.’

‘He had no call to go on like that,’ sniffs Rosie. ‘Look, he’s made me cry. My make-up will be all over the place.’

‘Fix yourself up in my dressing room,’ husks Glint, extending a hand. ‘We might even have a little drink to soothe your nerves.’

It is not half-past ten yet and I do not think it is in anyone’s interest to get Glint and Rosie curled up alongside a bottle of booze at this hour in the morning.

‘Mind your own business,’ she snaps when I make a few respectful observations on the subject. ‘I didn’t hear you standing up for me when that terrible man insulted me. Wait ’til Sidney hears about this.’

That thought is occurring to me, though in a slightly different context. Few ladies emerge from Glint’s caravan without their knickers making a quick trip down to ankle level and Rosie is not one of the least sociable birds in the world when you get a couple of vodkas and orange inside her. Should things get out of hand and Sidney stumble across a big feature starring his lady wife, then my career in pictures could be right up the spout. I must take steps to ensure that no opportunity for sexual congress arises.

All the curtains in Glint’s caravan are drawn so I wait a couple of minutes and then knock on the door. Glint has his jacket off and is not pleased to see me.

‘Are we rolling again?’ he asks.

‘No, Mr Thrust, but I wondered if I could have your autograph for my kid sister.’

‘Listen, boy. You know the rules. Don’t interrupt me when I’m recovering. I give a lot out there, you know.’ I peer over his shoulder to see if Rosie has started giving anything yet. Luckily she still appears to be fully clothed. She sticks her tongue out at me.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Thrust. It’s just that she’s such a big fan and I know that –’

‘OK, OK! Give me the book.’

It suddenly occurs to me that I don’t have a book.

‘If you write it backwards onto my hand I’ll press it on a piece of blotting paper,’ I bleat helplessly.

‘Get out!’

The door slams in my face and I am left to plan my next move. Five minutes later I have found a hammer and go round the caravan tapping the wheels and anything else that looks as if it joins on to something.

‘Now what?!’ Thrust is standing at the top of the steps and looking less inviting than an invitation to your mother-in-law’s for Christmas.

‘Just checking that everything is in shape for the road,’ I say cheerfully, noticing that Glint’s shirt is now unbuttoned to the waist and his face flushed.

‘It never goes on the road,’ snarls Thrust. ‘But you will in a minute unless you make yourself scarcer than horseshit on the M1.’ He slams the door shut and the whole caravan shudders.

Oh dear! Unless Loser comes back sharpish things could get very sticky. Fortunately, as always seems to happen at such moments, I have an idea. Loser’s hounds are lashed to a prop at the end of the studio and showing every sign of wanting to go for walkies. Otto is having a very earnest chat with Crispin.

‘Just love the feel of it against my skin,’ he is saying as I approach. ‘If I had my way I’d never wear anything else.’

‘Can I take the dogs for a walk?’ I ask.

‘Careful they don’t take you for a walk, dear,’ says Otto. ‘Really. My arms are just a mass of muscles from being dragged about by those brutes.’

‘Go on!’ says Crispin, ‘you’re not the muscly type. You must weigh under a hundred and fifty pounds.’

‘Spot on! You are clever.’

‘I used to be a masseur once. Worked in a Turkish bath. I bet if I ran my hands over you I would be able to tell within a couple of pounds how much you weighed.’

‘What, with my clothes on?’

‘You’d have to give me a little latitude with your clothes on.’

‘Ooh, cheeky!’

I leave them to it and untie the dogs. By the cringe, but they are powerful brutes. I can see what Otto was on about. I can practically tuck my hands in the top of my socks by the time the dogs have pulled me through the door. They point a hind leg skywards and make a brave attempt to drill a hole in the side of the building and I drag them back on the set again. Still no sign of Ken Loser or Sidney. God knows what is happening in that caravan. I am certain I can hear panting as I approach it, but maybe it is the dogs. There are a couple of chocks under the wheels and I tap these aside before tying the frisky pooches to the coupling mechanism of the caravan. Coupling mechanism. Oh, my gawd! I steal down the side of the caravan and raise my head to peep through a chink in the tightly drawn curtains. No! I am almost too late. Thrust and Rosie are assaulting each other’s mouths as if trying to spread their lips over a wider area of face. At least they are still upright but – oh no! Even as I look Rosie is being pushed back on to a folding table and Thrust’s hands are opening up new territory. I tear my eyes away from this disgusting sight and hiss at the dogs to perform a swift giddy-up. But, not a sausage. Having cocked Charlie at the corrugated iron they are now content to slump down and let their ridiculous tongues loll out of their mouths like tired tonks. There is a vague tremor coming from the caravan but this is more likely to be the work of Thrust and Rosie than anything sparked off by the pooches. The thought makes me move even faster and I hare out of the studio in search of something capable of making the dogs get their paws out. If only – ah! There padding majestically across the asphalt in front of me is a large, long-haired moggy.

‘Oo’s a luvly pussy, den?’ I yodel. ‘Come to nunky Timmy for strokums. ’Oo’s a booful boy?’

Sheer, naked nausea, but the old cat arches its back and wanders over all ready for the big touch up. Just shows how careful you should be about talking to strangers. I sweep it into my arms and am legging it back to the set before you can say ‘cheap fur coats’. My new friend does not like this very much but I keep it bundled up underneath my jacket and few of the scratches I receive are more than a quarter of an inch deep.

The caravan is definitely rocking when I return and I fear the worst. Fortunately the camera crew are all reading their Beanos or playing cards so I am not under anyone’s eagle eye. Pausing only to take a quick shufti round the set, I remove my long-haired help-mate and drop her a few yards in front of the dogs. Boy! If I was expecting something to happen I am not disappointed. The hair on the moggy’s back goes straight up in the air and her back arches like an inverted U. One of the pooches nearly breaks its neck hurling itself against its lead and they both set up a furious barking. The cat moves like shit off a shovel and the dogs practically make grooves in the concrete scrabbling to get after it. For a second the caravan trembles and then lurches forward as a shout of surprise and laughter goes up from the crew.

‘Wagons Roll!’ There are yells and a terrified scream that seems to come from inside the caravan. This coincides with that object entering the Cock Tavern or rather attempting to enter it. The flimsy set collapses under the impact, and plywood and scaffolding rain down upon those playing gin rummy beneath. The caravan is now building up a healthy momentum of its own and has almost overtaken the dogs when it crunches into the side wall of the studio. The dogs leap and bay but there is no budging it.

‘My gawd! Those bloody dogs!’

‘It was a bleeding cat what set them off.’

‘Blooming heck!’ The last words come from Sidney who appears striding past me towards the lop-sided caravan.

‘Sidney,’ I pipe. ‘Oh, Sidney.’

Sidney turns on me. ‘Yes?’

Desperately, I search for something to say. ‘Er, um. Do you want me to go first?’

‘Don’t be soft.’ Sidney shakes his head and throws open the door of the caravan. I suck in my breath. What hideous scene of noo (interrupted nooky) is going to bombard my mince pies? Will Sidney’s incensed eyes feed upon the form of his loved one still stretched out on the serving hatch? Is service being maintained, even in these trying conditions?

As anticipated, Glint is in the process of zipping up his action man kit while trying to keep his feet amongst the shambles.

‘Are you OK, Glint?’

‘I’ll tell you when my lawyer gets here,’ snaps our lovable leading man. ‘What the hell’s been going on? Did this simpering idiot have anything to do with it?’

He means me, but I am not listening. Where the hell has Rosie got to? While Sidney makes with the Mumbles my eyes are combing the room for a sight of her lovely form. There is no space for her to hide and she can’t have – wait a moment! Poking out from a closed cupboard door is a scrap of material I recognise. Rosie’s dress. And it is not a cupboard door. It is the home of a foldaway bed. Poor Rosie! What a way to go. A big girl like her could suffocate in there. I must get Sidney out double-quick. I turn to him and see to my horror that he has also registered the bit of Rosie’s dress. I can practically hear the cogs in his mind knitting together as he tries to place it.

‘Better get outside, Mr Thrust,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘You must be pretty shaken up.’

‘Yeah,’ says Mr Loathsome. ‘I’ll just fix myself a shot of tranquilliser and I’ll be right out. You fellows needn’t hang around.’ He advances purposefully to the door and closes it behind us.

‘Could have been very nasty, that,’ says Sid seriously. ‘We were dead lucky there, really.’

‘Too true, Sidney,’ I agree with him. ‘Too true.’