All the Fun of the Fair

  All the fun of the Fair

  By

  Jamie Sinclair

  Copyright 2012 By Jamie Sinclair

  http://the24hourjazzcafe.blogspot.com/

  Number Seventy-Three

  1 The Disillusioned Parkie

  2 The Affairs of Tania Streatham

  3 Ice Cream War

  4 Sharada runs into her first Relationship

  5 Life on the Spectrum

  6 Sharada is forced to share

  7 Tv Dinner

  8 Mrs Hird considers her worth and Gerald hears from a friend

  9 Secret meetings and a secret language

  10 The hopes and dreams of Mr Bhumbra

  11 Night life

  12 Nights at the Narracott

  Things Fall Apart

  13 A Festive pregnancy changes everything

  14 Two contrasting Christmases

  15 The fall of the house of Etchman

  16 Camping in Bluebell woods

  17 Etchman hits rock bottom and Alfie decides to leave

  18 Alfie gets everything he wants, and is found out

  19 The fall and rise of Lee Etchman

  20 A shift in the balance of power

  21 A tale of two sisters

  22 Back to square one

  To Love is to Suffer

  23 Loriana pines for Alfie and meets an old love

  24 Mauro and Sharada visit the funfair

  25 Mrs Hird’s final curtain

  26 Chiara refuses to give up

  27 In search of happiness

  28 Last minute preparations and a last minute reprieve

  29 In the end everyone gets what they deserve

  Everything Revealed

  30 A muted farewell and Alfie tells the truth

  31 A fitting tribute

  32 A family reunited

  Number Seventy-Three

  Gerald Grimman didn’t consider himself to be different from anybody else. He’d realised in his early teens that he wasn’t the type of boy to whom girls were generally attracted. He wasn’t tall, athletic, particularly clever, witty or good looking. In fact he was quite short and, in his teens, was enveloped by a generous layer of puppy fat.

  Throughout his school years Gerald had been fairly anonymous, leaving aged sixteen to manoeuvre from one college course to the next until all options for further study were exhausted. It was then, in his early twenties, that Gerald was unable to further avoid gainful employment and found work of a mundane nature doing something nonspecific in an office. He proved himself adept at both filing and boiling a kettle and over a period of years worked his way up from Trainee, to Assistant, to Senior, despite his having no real clue as to the worth of the tasks he completed each day. That, Gerald assumed, would be that. He would work until he retired and then live out his days in a Care Home until his death. Then, as Gerald entered his forties, his grandparents died suddenly.

  This in itself was not unduly upsetting. Gerald’s grandparents were both approaching their 90th year and had enjoyed full lives with barely a day of illness between them. For years they’d maintained the use of a car, adamant in the face of suggestions that they were too old to be safe behind the wheel, citing their need for independence.

  They regularly drove the length and breadth of the country on spur of the moment excursions and weekends away, preferring even to drive to a local supermarket for a pint of milk rather than walk to the nearest corner shop.

  It was, then, considered ironic yet somehow fitting that Gerald’s grandmother be killed by her husband driving over her as he reversed the car from the garage. Feeling a thud but not hearing her scream, he exited the car to find his wife’s dead body trapped beneath the vehicle. He promptly collapsed from a heart attack and the couple were found by a neighbour, side by side, the car engine purring gently next to them, as if the vehicle was somehow watching over them.

  This unfortunate episode proved timely for Gerald and the benefits were twofold. Being their only grandchild Gerald could do no wrong in the eyes of his grandparents and, what with relations being strained between them and Gerald’s parents owing to a comment made two decades earlier about Gerald’s father not being first choice for their daughter, Gerald suddenly found he had inherited two adjoining houses in Morecambe.

  This immediately solved Gerald’s accommodation problem and he was finally able to move out of his parent’s house – his meagre salary proving prohibitive to buying a pad of his own – and into number seventy-three Westminster Road (much to the relief of his long suffering father and to the disappointment of his mother who loved having her only son under the same roof).

  The second benefit took a little longer to realise and was brought about by Gerald’s eagerness to avoid getting any job which might possibly be classed as a career rather than simply a means to an end. With money he’d saved by living at home for so long, Gerald was able to procure the services of a solitary tradesman to help convert the two houses (number seventy-three in which Gerald planned to live and number seventy-five next door) into a number of flats and, over further months, gradually let them. To say this conversion was to a minimal standard was something of an understatement but it provided a steady, if unremarkable, source of income. It also allowed Gerald all the free time he needed to indulge his other passions, one of which was snooping into the lives of others, the other being transvestisism.

  Gerald’s story, so far as he knew from speaking to other transvestites, was unremarkable and this is why he didn’t consider himself to be any different from anyone else, aside from the fact that he liked to dress as a woman.

  His first memory of feeling out of place was aged eleven. Gerald, along with his small group of friends, had begun to notice and discuss girls; how pretty, or not, they were and so on. As far as he knew, his feelings were the same as any other boy approaching puberty. Over the following months Gerald began to think increasingly about girls and it was soon the case that, regardless of which topic he and his classmates began to discuss, girls became the focus of all conversations.

  It was around this time that Gerald first became aware of a difference between himself and his friends. While their talk was growing increasingly explicit, even animal in its content, Gerald found his feelings were of respect and a level of admiration for his female classmates and women in general. There was one female teacher in particular – Miss White the maths teacher – whose short yet trim body shape, subtle make-up and bold coloured, very feminine clothes were especially attractive to Gerald. He also took a keen interest in the way she wore her hair and privately marvelled at the volume she achieved.

  Gerald was an only child and as such his only access to women’s clothing was via his mother. Although far from ideal Gerald tried on various pairs of his mother’s knickers and stockings, even wearing them to school on days when there wasn’t any PE or swimming classes. In the evenings, or more usually at weekends, Gerald also experimented with his mother’s make-up, comparing and contrasting the rather limited colour selection to suit his own skin tone.

  Throughout secondary school this secret dressing was Gerald’s sole outlet for his feelings as he could not possibly share the secret with his parents and was certain that he’d be ostracised, ridiculed, even bullied, if his secret was exposed at school.

  As this addiction to wearing women’s clothes developed so too did Gerald’s desire to dress as a female from head to toe. One weekend, using a wig purchased from a charity shop and by stuffing toilet paper down his mother’s bra to form breasts, Geraldine was born.

  Unfortunately for young Gerald, owing to the constraints of living at home with his parents, the chances to dress were limited to whenever he was alone in the house. As such, when he inherited
and subsequently moved into number seventy-three Westminster road, Gerald was quick to indulge himself.

  Already adept at shaving and trimming his body hair, Gerald was now free to buy more fashionable clothes and make-up; he even treated himself to a few wigs in more flattering styles than the one from the charity shop.

  The first time Gerald dressed and saw himself in the new full length mirror he’d bought as a treat he was stunned. Instead of a slightly pudgy, pale faced young man he saw a woman looking back. He felt vibrant and completely alive but, more than this, he felt utterly comfortable.

  Such was the novelty and thrill of his new sense of freedom that Geraldine remained in full dress for a month after moving into his new home, only returning to being Gerald to shop and when he needed to meet the workman regarding the conversion of the houses.

  On the face of it, after almost a decade of wandering through life, directionless and his desires kept secret, Gerald’s life was now close to perfect. Owing to the death of both grandparents – killed by that which they loved the most, their car – Gerald now had his own house and a source of income from the flats. He was also free to dress as Geraldine anytime he pleased. But it did not alter the fact that he was lonely.

  Now in his fifties, Gerald was all but resigned to his life. He was a member of a number of transvestite clubs and societies and enjoyed an active, often hectic, social life. His feminine style had matured with age but he still experienced the same thrill from dressing as he had that very first time as a teenager.

  But he’d never had a proper girlfriend, had never moved in circles where he might expect to meet a suitable woman. His friends were almost exclusively other transvestites, his only other interaction being the occasional exchanges with his tenants, although Gerald was largely indifferent towards them. The only exception to this being old Mrs Hird, his longest serving tenant and the only one for whom he felt any genuine affection.

  Gerald had just finished trying on his new outfit, a floor length Venetian lace gown slashed to the thigh, which he planned to wear to the forthcoming ‘Tv Dinner’ being held at a luxury hotel in Harrogate when he would become Geraldine for two whole days of drinking, dancing and who knew what. The dress had cost nearly one hundred pounds from a shop in town and, although he wasn’t convinced the assistant believed it to be for his girlfriend, Gerald didn’t care because the gown looked spectacular, especially with the matching shoes.

  He was just hanging the gown at the back of the wardrobe and contemplating relaxing in a bath plenteous in various oils, when his peace was fractured by someone pounding on the front door. It was Mrs Hird, the Bag Lady, in her youth a singer, dancer and all round show girl now a lonely old lady who lived by the seaside. Gerald had often thought it was a shame how life panned out for people. Certainly he felt sorry for Mrs Hird. Fearful that she would either break the glass with her walking stick, or have a stroke in the hall, Gerald dashed to the door.

  ‘Ah, there you are Grim-man.’ The old lady’s genuine cockney accent still in evidence although she hadn’t lived in London for nearly fifty years.

  ‘It’s Grimman.’

  ‘There’s water in me bathroom.’ Mrs Hird said, though she pronounced the word as barfroom.

  ‘Well, Mrs Hird, there would be, surely.’ Gerald replied patiently.

  ‘Coming from the ceiling though ain’t it, bloody great load of it.’

  ‘Oh right. Bugger.’

  ‘It’s ‘im upstairs, there’s music an’ all.’

  ‘Christ. Okay Mrs Hird, I’ll have a word with him.’

  Gerald didn’t particularly like Alfie, the resident of the flat above Mrs Hird. He appeared taciturn and unobtrusive, as if hiding something, which aroused suspicion in the landlord. But then, Gerald didn’t particularly care for any of his tenants and, even though he was fond of Mrs Hird, the images from the origination of her Bag Lady nickname still regularly filled his nightmares.

  Gerald, as Landlord, had keys for all the flats in the pair of adjoining Victorian terraces he owned. This afforded him ample opportunity to rummage freely among his tenants possessions on the pretence of checking the flats for damage or abuse.

  On the day in question, after knocking loudly and receiving no reply, Gerald opened the door to Mrs Hird’s flat and checked the living room. Next, he’d pushed open the bathroom door and was faced with Mrs Hird in a grotesquely compromising position, a full colostomy bag in hand one, a cleaning kit laid out on the toilet cistern. She’d screamed in shock and dropped the bag to the floor. Mr Grimman recoiled in horror as the contents of the bag splashed across the floor, the side of the bath and his own feet. He very nearly fainted from the smell before stumbling, gagging and retching, out into the hallway. She’d been the Bag Lady ever since.

  It was a pity, Gerald thought in his fairer moments, usually when he was in costume as Geraldine, how life had panned out for Mrs Hird. Her flat still bore testament to her past life in the music halls. Her vast, blue, indecorous eyes now turned a milky white with age, were still framed by large fake eyelashes that had once enhanced her beauty but now looked ridiculous. She often wore her favourite fur collared blue satin dressing gown too, perhaps to make her feel like the showgirl she had once been.

  This evening when Gerald entered Mrs Hird’s flat he was immediately struck, as always, by the musty ‘old person’ smell and by the walls plastered with faded posters from decades old theatre productions. There was indeed a fair amount of water flooding through the bathroom ceiling and he could hear Simon and Garfunkel’s Sound of Silence coming from the flat above. Gerald stomped upstairs, thoroughly irritated, and banged on the door.

  * * * *

  Alfie Peter Gorman, supine and naked in the bath, lowered himself deeper until the water began to overflow; landing with a slap on the cracked turquoise linoleum. It wasn’t especially late, perhaps ten thirty, maybe eleven. Alfie’s gaunt face was framed by the water, his olive-tinged arms rested on his flat but not muscular abdomen. He looked up from his prone position to the shelf above the bath. On the shelf he had balanced a two bar electric heater, plugged in via an extension cable in the living room. Attached to the right foot of the heater was a length of cord, nylon twine of the washing line variety. The other end Alfie clutched steadfastly in his right hand. He closed his green eyes and began to draw in the slack.

  As he waited for the splash, then the shock, then nothing, Alfie already knew his death would barely register with anybody; he hadn’t made an impression on the world, had done nothing of significance with his life. His passing would warrant a small box of text in a corner of a middle page in the local newspaper, he’d be lucky if they even mentioned his name.

  Body found in bath

  Verdict: Suicide

  No questions asked, no fuss caused, no difference made. It seemed to be a summation of Alfie’s life to press.

  Alfie’s mother would unquestionably be apprized and she’d learn that her son died in Morecambe, a decrepit former seaside resort, now merely a seaside town, and it wasn’t inconceivable that she may remember taking Alfie and his brother Frank there as children. Mrs Gorman might wonder why Alfie hadn’t bothered to contact her or leave a note. She may even speculate how her youngest son, now in his fifth decade, had come to this; living alone with only a cat for company. But any family Alfie had was hundreds of miles away. Here and now, that was what mattered. His charred body would be wheeled away, his cat would be turfed out onto the street, the landlord would re-let the flat and the world wouldn’t even know Alfie Gorman had been in it.

  Of course Alfie had not become suicidal overnight. He did not consider himself unhinged in any way. No, Alfie was miserable. But this was not the type of unhappiness which can be shrugged off, drunk away, talked around or masked by a tan from two weeks in the sun. Alfie felt defeated and had, quite simply, had enough of trying. The trouble, for want of a more appropriate term to accurately describe Alfie’s mental state, had begun some forty years earlier with the death of his ol
der brother, Frank.

  Alfie became vaguely aware of a dull thudding noise, from inside the bath it sounded like the beating of a drum in a vast hall. Alfie listened to the thump-thump-thump, like his heart beat, becoming imperative as the moment of reckoning approached. Except, typically, Alfie’s timing, his preparation, even his surroundings, were against him and it seemed now was not a very good time to die.

  ‘Gorman. Mr Gorman.’ Gerald Grimman bellowed.

  With no immediate answer, the landlord used his keys to let himself in, marched straight over to the stereo and turned off the music, by now Billy Joel’s Piano Man. He pushed open the bathroom door without bothering to knock and was confronted with Alfie Gorman ascending from an overflowing bath. In a desperate bid to reach a towel Alfie slipped and fell, crying out desperately before yanking the electric heater off the shelf and into the water. There was a sizable splash followed, virtually preceded, by a hiss of steam and a short popping sound as the fuse blew. A second later they were submerged into darkness.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Gorman! I don’t know what the hell’s going on in here but I want you out. I knew you were trouble the minute I laid eyes on you. What is it with my tenants and bathrooms? You’re all nuts!’

  Gerald pulled Alfie forcibly to his feet and watched as his sopping tenant squelched through the gloom to the shabby chest of drawers in the living room and produced a torch which he directed at the landlord.

  ‘Not in my eyes you pillock!’ Gerald howled, throwing his hands to his face. ‘What on earth are you gawping at?’

  ‘What’s that on your face?’ Alfie asked, genuinely curious and perplexed. ‘Is it…is it make-up?’

  The landlord stepped back as Alfie advanced, still shining the torch in Gerald’s eyes.