All the Fun of the Fair Page 3

  ‘Still,’ said Alfie with resignation. ‘That’s all a long time ago and Frank’s gone. Best not to dwell on it, put on a happy face and all that.’

  He reached down and seized the bundle of paper and went to throw it in the bin before switching on the kettle. It would be a good time to move on, he thought, before the following season. It would allow him the chance to find a summer job in a new town. Besides, Morecambe was deserted, not like when he’d been here as a child.

  Before he went to bed that evening Alfie, who was feeling particularly atrabilious, crouched on his hands and knees and peered underneath the bed. He pulled out his photo album, a reminder of happier times which now seemed almost evanescent; ephemeral childhood memories when he’d been part of a family, before everything had changed so suddenly.

  As Alfie lay back on his creaking double bed and leafed through the photos, a part of him admitted for perhaps the hundredth time that he was wasting his time. Traipsing around any number of seaside towns in an attempt to recapture the magic of his childhood was, at best, folly, at worst, an unhealthy unwillingness to accept that his brother was gone.

  But Alfie had long since learned to ignore that voice, the sensible voice, bogged down in fact and reality. No, Alfie knew what had happened and adulthood had brought with it the perspicacity that his parents had always known the truth about Frank, and they had opted to lie to Alfie because, presumably, it seemed like the only thing to do, to protect him. He abhorred them for it, hated his brother for causing so much hurt to them all and felt embittered and resentful that they didn’t love or trust him enough to share the truth with him.

  Therapy and counselling had, for a time, managed to convince him that there was no blame to be apportioned, but he knew better now, each passing year the belief had grown stronger within him. After leaving home Alfie had sent a postcard disclosing his intentions to his parents; that he was going to look for work, be independent. He’d sent that postcard almost thirty years ago and Morecambe was the latest seaside town on a list of more than twenty since he’d begun this transient, impermanent odyssey.

  Alfie placed the album beside him on the bed and closed his eyes, his heart heavy with sorrow and regret, the hope shrinking a little more as it tended to when he felt this way. He’d been aware for a long time that he was merely existing, not living, and had almost wholly resigned himself to his fate; almost. One of the last sounds he heard as he strayed into a discomposed sleep was that of Kenny, his singular consort for seven of the last thirty years, jumping up onto the window ledge to keep watch over the darkened street below.

  After a night choked with dreams about his childhood, holidays to the seaside and visits to the funfair, Alfie was awakened by Kenny meowing at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Breakfast time is it Kenny?’ Alfie asked, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘Fair enough then, I’ll stick the kettle on.’

  Alfie stood and stretched. Despite his troubled sleep he was in a good mood this morning. He almost always was first thing because he took pleasure in his work at the park and the people he met there. It was the memory of his ruptured childhood that haunted him like a spectre and, occasionally, as it had six days earlier when he’d come close to suicide in the bath, it got the better of Alfie, sending him to a dark place where giving up seemed like the expedient option.

  When he arrived in the small kitchen, the rapacious cat was waiting impatiently by his bowl, eyeing Alfie demandingly. He retrieved an already open tin of cat food from the inconsiderable yellowing fridge and scooped the remaining contents into Kenny’s bowl with a fork that protruded from the tin. Kenny sniffed the offering guardedly, circled it a few times, looked up at Alfie with an expression that said, ‘Well, it’ll just have to do I suppose’ and began to eat.

  After flicking on the kettle, Alfie shuffled to the bathroom for a quick wash and was back in the kitchen before the water had boiled. He took the milk from the fridge, dropped a tea bag into his mug and was waiting with teaspoon held aloft when the kettle switched itself off. Kenny, who had lost interest in his breakfast, sauntered into the living room to spy out of the window.

  Twenty minutes later Alfie put out the cat and left for another day as Park Keeper at Happy Mount Park. This was the latest in a long list of impermanent, often seasonal and humdrum jobs he’d held since choosing the life of a nomad. Wandering from town to town, subsisting on an exiguous budget, dipping a toe beneath the surface of a town and invariably finding nothing to make it worth wading in any deeper before packing up his suitcase and trying somewhere else.

  Even after so many years, Alfie was still able to muster a certain degree of incredulity when he considered how his once promising life had panned out. He’d begun auspiciously enough, a bright, gregarious child, inquisitive, with an ebullient enthusiasm to learn and to have fun. But then the wheels had come off, the change had come. Frank had gone and that had seen the beginning of the distortion, altered what was important.

  Of course, for a small boy who loses all interest in education and his existence, his place in the world comes into question. For boys like this an English school is a great place to disappear – only the especially advanced or dangerously unruly warrant attention, anything in between is gratefully ignored. Don’t encourage, don’t chastise, just let them be, forgotten.

  As a child Alfie dreamed of working in a funfair. Either that or becoming a doctor, as far as Alfie was concerned both professions provided a service, filled a need, helped people feel better. He would’ve mattered, made a difference to people, accomplished something. As it was, Alfie felt he was like the loose change down the side of the sofa cushion, a mantle of dust on top of the picture frame. Alfie didn’t matter; he went unconsidered and was entirely insignificant.

  His only abiding interests, his sole remaining passions, were for the seaside and the fairground – the only places he could remember happiness. So, after passing through school like a droplet of water in a river – a part of the mass, indistinguishable from the rest – Alfie simply couldn’t see any point in remaining at home and left; finding summer work as a hot dog vendor in front of the fairground at Filey.

  2 The Affairs of Tania Streatham

  Tania Streatham, aged 16 ¾, walked through the gates of Happy Mount Park and meandered towards the Cipriani’s ice cream van parked on the main pathway. She wore an immodest denim micro skirt, a denim jacket over a bandeau top and a pair of Reebok Classics, an outfit indecent and ridiculous in equal measure,

  She couldn’t be bothered this morning, really could not be arsed, standing all day in the back of a cramped van. It was September and despite today being pleasantly warm, the only people in the park would be the usual procession of old folk, a couple of imbecilic unemployed locals walking their dogs and chatting her up, and a scattering of mothers with pushchairs in the afternoon if it stayed fine.

  Still, it was better than being at school. Tania was being paid the princely minimum wage of £3.68 an hour and her shifts in the van left ample time for the Aromatherapy and Massage course she was taking at the college. The thing was, this morning; Tania was enervated and, given the option, would have stayed in bed until she felt ready to face the world.

  The previous evening Tania had split up with her boyfriend, Kuldeep, whose family owned Modhubon, the foremost curry house in town. Tania felt that she was putting all the effort into their relationship and that Kuldeep wasn’t overly bothered about her one way or the other. Her friends disliked him, labelled him weird, and this made her life difficult.

  Tania had become aware of Kuldeep simply because they attended the same school, although Kuldeep hadn’t joined until the third year. But she moved in a completely different social circle to his. Always popular and well liked, Tania’s appeal to the opposite sex had developed almost as swiftly as her spectacular chest at the age of fourteen. From then on, amidst a whirlpool of hormones and excitement, Tania had flitted from one boy to the next, each a carbon copy of the last; bold, athleti
c, a member of either the football or rugby team. She was aware of, but opted to ignore, the reputation that accompanied her looks and popularity.

  The beginning of a change to this pattern occurred one afternoon in the school library. Far from being a brainless tart with nothing on her mind but fitting in, Tania was keen to work and earn money as early as possible and was astute enough to realise that some academic exertion was required. As she pulled a book from the shelf and turned to leave she quite literally found herself face to face with Kuldeep Bhumbra.

  And what a face it was; framed by a shaggy mass of thick black hair, his brown skin was spotlessly smooth and his large piercing black eyes shone with what Tania initially mistook for confidence, the surety of someone who does not care in the slightest what anybody may say or think about him. Kuldeep also appeared to be completely disinterested in Tania.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘didn’t see you there.’

  Kuldeep merely shrugged and moved past her, unflustered, not embarrassed, not bothered at all.

  From then on, despite frequent doubts voiced by her friends, Tania made it her mission to gain Kuldeep’s interest and claim him for herself. Finally, after much pursuing and cajoling, he agreed to go out with her and she’d been happy, very happy. Except now, in a fit of temper and tiredness, she split up with him.

  The previous evening Kuldeep had fetched up at Tania’s house with a bag of take-away from the family restaurant and she’d broken the bad news to him. Unfortunately Kuldeep hadn’t taken it at all well, emptying the contents of the silver trays all over her dad’s car before beating his fists on the front door until Tania’s mother threatened to call the police. Kuldeep had then bombarded Tania’s mobile phone with calls and text messages until she switched it off in desperation. Kuldeep then began assaulting the land line with calls until Mrs Streatham again threatened to summon the police. Finally, at half past two in the morning, a tormented Tania had been awakened by Kuldeep tapping on her second floor bedroom window. The desperate teenager had broken into the garage, taken Mr Streatham’s ladders and demanded Tania explain why she no longer wanted to see him, that she gave him one more chance.

  Unfortunately, Tania’s father heard the racket and charged into his daughter’s room. Fearing for the safety of his daughter Mr Streatham jettisoned Kuldeep from the window, causing the ladder to tip backwards, depositing the boy, unconscious, in the middle of the Spotted Laurel by the fence. An ambulance was called, and finally the much threatened police. Kuldeep was taken away; the whole family were questioned at length and, when Tania finally managed to slump, drained as much mentally as physically, into bed, she’d only an hour until her alarm clock went off. So, the very last thing she felt like doing this morning was standing in a van selling ice cream cones and lollies to the elderly and the unemployed.

  If nothing else the events of the previous evening had answered Tania’s doubts over Kuldeep’s feelings toward her. Now, in the cold light of day, she was left wondering just how wise she’d been to end her relationship with Kuldeep, especially given her current alternative who just happened to be her employer.

  * * * *

  Lee Etchman, joint owner of Cipriani’s ice creams, was sitting in the driver’s seat of the van and felt a shift in his groin as he watched the tall, lithe, teenage temptress that was Tania Streatham gliding towards him. He gawked as her protracted, smooth legs, displayed almost in their entirety in a mini skirt, carried her slight, yet flourishing body towards him, the blonde highlights in her lengthy russet hair resplendent in the morning sunshine.

  ‘Alright darlin’?’ Etchman asked when she stepped into the van, his south coast accent a distinct contrast to Tania’s sharper north-west inflection.

  ‘Hiya Lee.’ Tania replied, trying to be affable despite the confined conditions and her weariness.

  ‘You’re lookin’ very nice this morning.’

  ‘Yeah? Well I’m knackered, been up half the night.’

  Mr Etchman’s heart and erection fell at the thought of his Happy Mount Park Van Assistant being occupied in the twilight hours. ‘Oh yeah, boyfriend keeping you up was he?’

  ‘Just a bit. I chucked him last night and he went mental. Lobbed curry all over dad’s new Avensis, then robbed some ladders from the garage and tried to get in my room in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Mad bastard! You poor little thing. Are you okay?’ Etchman slid over on his seat to rest a compassionate hand on Tania’s shoulder.

  ‘Yeah, just shattered.’

  ‘So then, why’d you finish with him?’

  Tania swivelled around to face her employer and smiled as seductively as a 16-year-old knows how. ‘You know why, you dirty old sod.’ She leaned forward and kissed Etchman on the lips, her hand delving between his legs to confirm she had his full attention.

  ‘Oh, Tania.’ He moaned.

  She withdrew, apparently disinterested, and laughed at her boss’s undisguised disappointment. ‘Morning, Alfie.’ Tania called over Etchman’s shoulder.

  Etchman spun round to look out of his window and saw Alfie wandering towards them, wheeling his bicycle beside him.

  ‘Oh, err, morning Alfie. Lovely day for it.’ Etchman waved compunctiously, causing Tania to giggle again.

  Alfie waved back uncertainly. He wasn’t comfortable with Lee Etchman and Tania Streatham cooped up together in a van. She was young, almost too young, although she blatantly acted like the world had nothing left to teach her, and Lee, well he was married. Alfie knew that because the first time they met and shook hands he had noticed a ring on Etchman’s finger. It had been the week Alfie started his job as Park Keeper shortly after arriving in Morecambe.

  Alfie continued walking, bicycle beside him. He always cycled to work but it was prohibited on park grounds and it wouldn’t do for the Park Keeper to be seen flouting the rules. He unlocked the hut; a diminutive red brick building with a wide window that slid open to allow him to serve customers, and a pallid wooden door that, while still maintaining some of its original vermilion hue, badly needed painting.

  Inside, other than the stool which he rarely used, was a comfortable chair, a Calor gas fire for winter, a kettle, toaster and a small television. Alfie parked his bike behind the chair and left the hut, locking it again and setting off around the park perimeter to unlock and open all the various gates. As cafe owner Mr Etchman had a key to the main gate for access to set up prior to the Park opening. But only the Park Keeper held keys for all the other gates and doors.

  Alfie had just opened the gates that adjoined the golf course and was strolling towards the final set beside the toilets, themselves situated in a particularly well shaded spot with plenty of tree cover, rendering it a fitting location for those people with singularly sordid interests who frequented the park after dark, when he thought he saw someone duck behind the hedgerow.

  Pausing for a moment Alfie peered at the hedge and, observing no further movement, dismissed it as a startled squirrel. He held the padlock in one hand, inserted and turned the key with the other and pulled the chain through the gate, wrapped the whole lot around the fixed post and bent down to pull the drop peg from the concrete. As he did so, someone emerged from behind the hedge, barged into the gate causing it to rebound off Alfie’s head with a clang, and sprinted past his spread-eagled form into the park.

  3 Ice Cream War

  Sharada Bhumbra, uncommonly short with vast unwieldy feet, bistered skin and an untameable mass of black curls that were usually restrained with braids or clips, lied to her father when she told him she was going to school early this morning. He waved her away; she doubted if he even registered what his second child had said to him, so distraught was he that his beloved only son, Kuldeep, might be brain damaged in some way – some might say more brain damaged - following his plummet from a ladder into a bush.

  Only part of Mr Bhumbra’s concern was paternal, however. An equal, if not larger, area of anxiety was that Kuldeep may lose his gift for numeracy or, worse, be
unable to help in the restaurant, forcing Mr Bhumbra to hire more staff, which meant paying wages and tax and could only lead to unnecessary beleaguerment.

  ‘It’s murder, that’s what it amounts to.’ Mr Bhumbra bellowed as he paced up and down the hospital corridor in the early hours, waiting for news.

  ‘Dad, he fell off a ladder.’ Sharada corrected every time her father began to rant and gesture at passing nurses.

  ‘Attempted murder then. Bastard swine! My poor boy…’

  ‘Dad, he broke into their garage and took the ladders and was round the back of their house banging on the windows.’ Except Mr Bhumbra seemed unable to hear that part of the argument, and why should he? Sharada knew who was to blame and she intended due retribution.

  As a second generation Asian, a British Asian, Sharada felt no real, tangible connection to Sylhet, the land of her father and only knew a smattering of the language because her parents still sometimes lapsed at home. She knew the history, had been told the story of her father’s migration, the family sacrifice, but her life had been so different. She lived in an expansive house, her father drove an expensive car and her slightest whim had never been denied. She’d been born here, educated here, all her friends – what few there were – lived right here in Morecambe.

  That said, Sharada was a curious and intelligent girl, keen to learn new things and certainly she was interested in her roots so that, despite her father having lapsed years before her birth, she took an active interest in her religion in an attempt to create some kind of link with her heritage. Her older brother Kuldeep had no interest in such things, was not able to make sense of the idea that a person could be from one place, yet be in another. All he knew was that he lived in Morecambe which is in a country called Britain and that is in Europe which he knew is a continent. The notion of roots and background meant nothing at all to him.