All the Fun of the Fair Page 2

  ‘I told you, not in my eyes.’

  ‘Why are you wearing make-up Mr Grimman?’

  ‘None of your fucking business, Gorman. Now, shift and let me fix the fuses.’

  Without waiting for a reply, the embarrassed landlord bulldozed past Alfie and departed with celerity down the stairs.

  The following morning it was a more reasoned and equanimous Alfie who was stopped on the stairs by his landlord.

  ‘Morning, Mr Grimman. Erm, sorry about last night, the fuses, the water…’

  Gerald dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. ‘Never mind that. Look, about what you saw, you know…my face.’

  ‘You mean the make-up you were wearing?’

  ‘Shush!’ Gerald hissed. ‘Look, tell you what. Perhaps I overreacted last night, about wanting you out of here. I was stressed and what a man chooses to do in his bath is no concern of mine.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Just as what I may do in private is of no concern to anyone else.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So, how about we say no more about last night, keep it to ourselves and get back to our lives?’

  ‘Fine with me, Mr Grimman, totally fine.’

  Alfie opened the front door to leave for work, pleased with the landlord’s suggestion as he too was eager to put the nights events behind him, not that he’d anyone to tell, aside from Kenny, his cat.

  ‘Oh, and Mr Gorman…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If I do find out you’ve said anything, don’t forget I know where you live, and I have a key.’

  1 The Disillusioned Parkie

  The lamp post was rooted approximately twelve feet to the left of the Barbershop on the opposite side of the narrow street, creating a perfect angle for Alfie to peer unnoticed into the shop.

  It was mid afternoon and the intense, infrequent summer sun had manoeuvred its way across the sky until its rays filtered down from the heavens and through the large solitary shop window upon which had been scribed ‘Rodney’s Gentlemans Barbers’; the letters gilded in formerly splendid, now peeling, gold leaf.

  From his vantage point concealed behind the lamp post, Alfie was able to see three empty red vinyl seats and in the fourth a man wearing a high visibility vest and dusty work boots waited his turn. In the centre of the shop stood Rodney, the Barber, snipping away at the back of someone’s head, periodically retreating a step to admire his work before moving back in like a boxer studying an opponent.

  Deciding that this was quite acceptable – any more than three waiting customers meant a frustrating period of quiescence, often in excess of an hour – Alfie broke cover and strode confidently across the street and through the open doorway into the shop.

  Rodney glanced up into the sizeable mirror on the wall to address his new customer. ‘Afternoon Alfie, you keeping alright?’

  ‘Aye, not so bad thanks Rod. Yourself?’ Alfie spoke to the barber’s reflection as he moved to the centre chair of the three empty ones on the far side of the shop.

  The shop was unpretentious, intimate, busy with four customers, crowded with six. On the white wall opposite Alfie hung three sepia photographs in black frames, the subject of each a suited rhythm and blues trio featuring a youthful Rodney on drums.

  Next to Alfie, in the left hand corner, was a small black and white television, itself old enough to sport a dial on the front to twist from station to station, much like tuning a radio. The programme on screen was a recording of the 100 Greatest Something or Other from Channel Four. Underneath the counter supporting the television, concealed by a red curtain on a rail, was a video recorder which had been, so far as Alfie could gather from previous visits, Rodney’s only innovation. ‘An attempt to attract a younger element, liven the place up a bit.’ Except Rodney only seemed to have this one cassette which he played continuously so that regular patrons knew the 100 Greatest verbatim.

  Alfie leaned across to the counter and picked up a copy of The Daily Express from an assortment of the days newspapers. Further along the shelf lay an amassment of outdated magazines and leaflets which served as a history of local events over the past few years since Rodney never seemed to throw any of them away.

  Five minutes later Alfie glanced up when he recognised the signs of a completed haircut. The barber brushed cuttings from the customer’s neck, showed him the rear view with a mirror and asked if he’d like anything on, ‘a bit of gel or wax’, which the man declined. Alfie watched as the man stood, rolled his head around to see various angles in the mirror then, satisfied, paid Rodney and told him to keep the change – Rodney rather shrewdly charged £6.80 for a haircut, but everybody seemed to hand over seven pounds and reject the twenty pence change.

  While the next customer took his place in the elevated vinyl covered chair, Rodney quickly and efficiently swept clumps of hair from the floor with a dustpan and brush, deposited them in the swing bin behind the door and turned to repeat the process for the umpteenth time that day.

  Soon, after shifting his attention variously between the back page sport stories, numbers 26-19 on the much viewed video countdown and the intermittent passers by on the street outside, Alfie’s turn came. He had waited barely twenty minutes – most acceptable - since the preceding customer had requested a number two all over, one of Rodney’s specialities which involved a lot of clipping and very little actual cutting.

  ‘Just a tidy up?’ Rodney asked, wrapping the brown bib around the top of Alfie’s pale blue shirt, fastening it at the back with Velcro.

  ‘Yeah, thanks. Bit shorter all over.’

  ‘You don’t have a number do you?’

  ‘Nope, just a cut please.’ Alfie preferred this as the clippers allowed Rodney carte blanche to take far too much off which made Alfie overtly conscious of his slightly protuberant ears and voluminous head.

  Rodney stirred a comb vigorously in a jar of cloudy disinfectant which, to Alfie, smelled very similar to that used in the public toilets on the promenade. ‘Finished for the day?’ The barber quizzed.

  ‘Aye, couldn’t come soon enough today.’ Alfie rolled his eyes theatrically and sighed heavily.

  ‘Oh, really. Something happened?’ The barbers need to be au courant on local events was manifest in his suddenly intense expression, his reflection looking fixedly at Alfie from the mirror.

  ‘Well, in a nutshell, we were damn lucky not to be retrieving the reactor lid from the beach.’ Alfie said, referring to his entirely fictional engineering post at the local nuclear power station.

  ‘Goodness!’ Rodney exclaimed, combing and snipping around the back of Alfie’s head. Lumps of black hair flecked with grey fell silently to the floor.

  ‘Hmm, thing was the bloke on the desk had cleared off to make some toast, but we were only out of bread so off he goes to find some, next thing you know an alarm goes off. Needless to say, he didn’t hear it.’ The fact that none of this had happened mattered not to Alfie. It was a good story and his audience was intrigued.

  ‘So what happened?’ Rodney had worked his way to one side of Alfie’s head. ‘Just above the ears?’

  Alfie nodded and continued his tale. ‘Well, I just happened to have gone up to the control room to ask about the maintenance plan for the upcoming refuelling outage.’

  ‘So you sorted it all out did you?’

  ‘I had to Rod, had to. I take one look at the desk, realise the whole place is set to go off. Anyway, my training takes over, into autopilot, straight out the manual. Relieved the pressure, job done.’

  ‘And what about the chap who was supposed to be there?’

  ‘Well, let’s just say there’ll be an advert for a job at the power station in the paper this time next week.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a good job you were there then.’

  ‘It bloody is Rod. But that’s why they pay me the big money, to keep cool in an emergency.’

  ‘That alright for you?’ Rodney angled a hand mirror behind Alfie’s head while Alfie nodded his approval
.

  ‘Anything on, bit of gel or wax?’ Rodney asked, although he had developed a habit of pronouncing anything as anythink, something as somethink and so on, much to the bemusement of some of his more aware customers.

  ‘No thanks, I’ll give it a wash when I get in; get the bits off.’

  ‘Rightyo. That’s just six eighty then.’

  Alfie plucked a five pound note and two pound coins from his pocket and turned for the door.

  ‘Your change?’

  ‘No, it’s fine, keep it.’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ Rodney smiled. ‘See you again.’

  It was a little after half past four when Alfie strode out of the barbers shop into the late afternoon sunshine, pleased with the story he’d fabricated. He was hungry and decided to call at the chip shop for an early take-away tea. He didn’t have much in now he thought about it; a tin of chicken soup he’d been evading, a loaf and a tin of spaghetti Bolognese that his poor mother would be mortified to know he’d bought – ‘Why pay more for inferior artificial rubbish when I can make you fresh sauce?’ she would ask. Yes, he’d treat himself to some fish and chips; it saved heating anything up, meant no washing up and the chippy was, in a very roundabout way, on his way home.

  He stepped into the shop to find it deserted and leaned on the counter, casting a desultory glance at a glass case with ‘Hot and Spicy Fresh Chicken’ stamped on the side in red bubble letters. On a revolving stand inside the case a couple of withered pieces of meat circled each other warily like two dehydrated gladiators, their best days behind them.

  ‘Alright, Alfie. What’ll it be?’ Asked Derek, the owner, who’d just appeared from the back of the shop.

  ‘Fish and chips please.’ Alfie yawned and stretched in an obvious manner, much as he had in the barbers.

  ‘Busy day?’

  ‘Crazy. Thought it’d never stop.’

  ‘High pressure job yours though. See that outside?’

  Alfie turned to look at the brand new Renault Clio parked in front of the shop. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s the wife’s. Just got it today, she’s delighted. Mind, she’s not the one who’s got to find money for the payment every month for the next three years.’

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘Course, it’s not in your league, but it’s a nice run around.’

  ‘Aye, they’re a good little car.’ Alfie stated, though he knew nothing about cars, good or bad, and had never owned a vehicle.

  ‘So, how’s the Jag then?’ Derek asked, the invidiousness and malcontent obvious in his tone as he lifted a fish from the oil, pinched it and dropped it back in before wiping sweat from his brow with a towel draped over his shoulder.

  ‘Oh, magic. Best car I’ve ever had,’ Alfie lied enthusiastically. ‘I mean, I was toying with a Beamer, but there’s nothing says class like a Jag.’

  ‘Bet it shifts a bit if you ask it to.’

  ‘Well, you don’t fork out thirty grand for a bloody lawnmower do you? It flies when you put your foot down. Bit heavy on petrol but it’s worth it for the drive.’

  ‘You’re a lucky sod Alfie, having a car like that.’

  ‘Hard work mate, hard work.’

  ‘Didn’t see you pull up in it. I wouldn’t mind a look.’ Derek lifted the floating fish from the oil, allowed it to drain for a few seconds, then dropped it on some paper with a generous scoop of chips. ‘Salt and vinegar?’

  ‘Plenty please Derek. It’s parked round the corner; been to have the old Barnet chopped.’ Alfie ran a hand through his newly trimmed hair. ‘Next time I’m in I’ll park outside; you can have a sit in it if the shop’s quiet.’ Alfie promised, taking the warm parcel from Derek and exiting the shop.

  That’s the advantage of moving around so often, Alfie thought as he ambled home. You can tell people anything you like, fabricate a life, and they believe you because they’ve no reason to doubt you. Alfie smiled as he remembered how, a few years ago, while he’d been living in Cromer, he’d told people he was an out of work actor and someone actually claimed to recognise him from the television.

  A few minutes later he arrived at number seventy-three Westminster road. Home. Reality. It was a three storey terraced house and utterly dilapidated. The last remnants of burgundy paint still clung in flakes to the wooden – and in several cases, rotting – window frames, the glass of which rattled noisily in the slightest breeze and allowed rain to enter unfettered when subjected to anything stronger than a light shower; testament to the lack of investment by the landlord, Gerald Grimman.

  Alfie lived in an insipid two bedroom flat on the second floor. He trudged upstairs, the timeworn strip of carpet shifting under his feet, to the tangerine door, turned the key and went inside.

  ‘Kenny,’ he called buoyantly. ‘Come on, Kenny. I’ve some fish you can share.’

  Alfie took a couple of steps along the incapacious corridor and turned left into the kitchen to unwrap his tea. He dumped the carrier bag in the pedal bin underneath the counter – essentially a piece of Formica supported by a steel pole - and deposited a generous dollop of tomato ketchup next to the chips. Then, he picked up the meal by the corners of the paper and walked through the connecting door into the living room and plonked himself with a jaded sigh in the chair opposite the television.

  ‘Ah, there you are.’ Alfie said, as Kenny, his black, white and orange cat, sidled into view from the window ledge behind the curtain. ‘Here, try this.’

  Alfie broke off a small piece of fish and tossed it towards the cat who jumped down onto the carpet, eyed the morsel suspiciously, sniffed it tentatively and devoured it in a couple of hungry bites before looking up at Alfie expectantly.

  Ignoring his pet, Alfie aimed the remote control at the small colour portable television and pressed a button; the set remained lifeless. Sighing querulously, he shook the device and tried again, to no effect. Finally, perturbed, he whacked the remote against the arm of the chair and jabbed it pertinaciously towards the television, prodding the power button repeatedly with a greasy thumb until the screen flickered into life.

  The fish and chips finished, he crumpled the wrapping paper then dropped it on the floor at the side of the chair before licking the grease and salt from his fingers and wiping them off on his trousers. He let out a satisfied belch and settled back in the chair.

  ‘Well Kenny,’ Alfie said, tickling the cat’s head while it pawed the fish and chip paper, ‘another day done. There can’t have been more than thirty people in all day today. What about you, anything interesting happen?’

  The cat ignored him and continued to forage in the papers below.

  ‘There was an old advert for a fairground in Rodney’s,’ Alfie said as much to himself as to the cat. ‘One of them travelling jobs. I like a decent fairground, Frank did too. It’s a shame we missed it, there won’t be any now ‘til the start of next season.’ Alfie looked at his cat and sighed. ‘I do miss him,’ Alfie said quietly, referring to his brother.

  The cat tore a strip from the wrapper and rolled onto its back with the paper gripped firmly between its front paws.

  ‘When I was a small boy,’ Alfie began, smiling at the memory which now played in his head, ‘I went on holiday to the seaside. My mum and dad would pack everything into our car and drive to a little guest house on the coast. Of course, this was before Frank died, like, before all the fuss.’

  Alfie paused, reflecting. His grip on the arms of the chair tightened, just for a moment, before he released the breath he’d been holding, relaxed and continued.

  ‘I remember,’ and now Alfie chuckled. ‘We were in this fairground once, me and our Frank, Skegness I think it was. I’d been on the Helter Skelter, red hot day it was, cracking the flags. I wanted to go on the bumpy slide and ran all the way up to the top of the stairs. A hundred and fifteen steps there were. I still remember that, a hundred and fifteen. I can’t have been more than six or seven then.’

  Kenny had a scrap of paper hanging from his mouth and was furi
ously shaking his head in an attempt to dislodge it, utterly disinterested in Alfie’s story.

  ‘I remember we raced each other down the slide two or three times. Big multi-coloured affair it was with six narrow lanes and if you hit the bumps just right, you could fly. We sat on those horsehair mats, the ones with the pocket at the end for your feet and rope handles either side. This particular day we’d arranged to meet mum and dad in a café on the prom but I knew Frank wanted to go on the big dipper, I did too. They had one of those boards shaped like a cowboy what with it being a western themed fairground, only it was a dog, a cowboy dog. You had to be taller that the board to go on the roller coaster.’

  Kenny had managed to get hold of the offending piece of chip wrapper and had tugged it from his mouth. But the fish odour of the paper was too much for a greedy cat to resist and so he began to lick his way around the various shreds, pausing intermittently to look up at his owner who was still droning on about something Kenny did not understand or care to know about.

  ‘Frank was teasing me, saying he wasn’t sure I was tall enough but he didn’t want to go on without me so he said I could on with him in the end. I was so excited, Kenny, my first ride on a proper roller coaster. He made me promise not to tell mum and dad, il nostro segreto, our secret.’

  Alfie, like his brother, was essentially bilingual; fluent in Italian owing to the efforts of his Italian mother. She had given up a lot to be with Mr Gorman, Alfie’s father. They had met while Mr Gorman was travelling through Italy, fallen in love and eventually, following a long distance, protracted courtship, she had moved to England and they had married. But that short Italian phrase – il nostro segreto – had become one of Alfie’s favourites and was the most used between the brothers.

  ‘I could see the whole fairground from the top of the roller coaster, the slide, the Noah’s Ark, the dodgems, even folk on the promenade and then…’ Alfie gestured with his hand causing Kenny to bounce to his feet in case his owner had some sort of game in mind. ‘Whoosh! Down the hill. Brilliant.’ Alfie’s face was alight with joy, fond memories of a childhood not yet tainted by loss, hurt and anger.