All the Fun of the Fair Read online

  ‘I notice you said found out instead of that he told you himself. What happened?’

  ‘I swapped shifts at work because someone was sick, came home unexpected and found him upstairs covered in make-up and wearing my underwear. I had two choices – blazing row and end the relationship or calm discussion and acceptance.’

  The woman sighed and finished her drink.

  ‘I’m Trish by the way,’ she offered.

  ‘Geraldine.’

  They shook hands and then turned to the bar, Trish’s hand still resting on Geraldine’s.

  ‘Do you fancy a drink somewhere a bit quieter?’ Trish asked suddenly.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Your room?’

  ‘Fine.’

  It was after all, very loud in the function room and there couldn’t possibly be any harm in sharing a nightcap in the privacy of one’s hotel room.

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

  Mrs Hird was sitting in the comfy chair next to the window, staring out at the street through the gap between the window frame and the net curtains. The nets needed a good wash, they were yellowing quite noticeably now but it was too much for her to take them down and she would find it impossible to get them back up without assistance.

  It was the smoke that caused it. She still liked the occasional cigarette, although she’d been advised to stop, and it was this which stained the curtains. Mrs Hird couldn’t recall when they’d last been washed, but it was a long time ago, she knew that much.

  It was a little before ten in the morning and Mrs Hird had been awake since five-thirty although this morning the bed had been dry. At first she’d been a little confused, had thought she was in her old bed in her parents house. She’d opened her eyes and been in the bed with the purple duvet. The pillows were goose down and she had not wanted to get up.

  Except when Mrs Hird actually opened her pale blue eyes and awoke fully from her dream she was, of course, in her single bed with its polyester duvet and pillows that did not quite match, in her small flat on the second floor of number seventy-three Westminster Road. She wasn’t a child, snuggled in a warm bed in the safety and security of her familial home. She was in her eighties, in a lumpy bed with nothing to look forward to which was why she spent such a good deal of time looking back.

  The large pendulum clock on the wall began to chime. Mrs Hird wore a pastel blue dress today which, unlike the masses of glamorous gowns and outfits she possessed, was rather plain and functional. In her previous life as a showgirl, appearance had been everything. Now, just getting out of bed was an effort and it was all she could do to put on her false eyelashes and a dash of lipstick in the morning.

  Mrs Hird glanced up and down the street as far as her field of vision allowed. The carer was late. This wasn’t unusual; they were often late, on one occasion they hadn’t turned up at all. Mrs Hird wouldn’t make a fuss; she wasn’t that type of lady.

  She’d lived in this flat for nearly ten years and had seen many comings and goings. The new man upstairs was interesting she thought. Since he’d moved in a few months earlier he had kept himself to himself. Whenever they’d had cause to speak, in the hall for example, he had been polite, friendly even, yet Mrs Hird knew nothing about him save from his routine. He would leave on his bicycle each morning before nine and return a little after half past four in the afternoon. He worked at the local park, he had told her that much, and his name was Alfie Gorman.

  A car pulled up outside, a small black sporty looking hatchback. Mrs Hird sighed; she recognised the car as that of her carer, a young girl named Alice. She was a well meaning individual, but sadly not very bright. Mrs Hird preferred Joan, slightly older, approaching middle age and seemingly quite lonely herself. Joan took time to have a brew and a chat which was always nice. The young carers, like Alice, all had too much going on in their own lives. There was no time for idle gossip and, such was the gap in years, the languages they spoke were practically foreign to each other.

  ‘Morning Edith,’ called Alice when she burst in through the front door – there was a keysafe fixed to the outside wall which meant Mrs Hird didn’t have to get up to let her carers in. She was perfectly capable but the keysafe had been provided free of charge by Social Services and Mrs Hird didn’t like to say no. A friend of hers had asked if she could have her tri-walker changed because the colour didn’t match her bag and had been told she’d have to wait six months to be seen by someone. Mrs Hird had decided it was better to accept help when it was offered in case she became somehow blacklisted by the Social.

  ‘Hello dearie,’ Mrs Hird replied from her chair next to the window, altering her position to better view Alice.

  ‘Fancy a brew?’ Alice called over her shoulder, already in the small kitchen along the narrow corridor adjacent to the sitting room.

  ‘Please dear. Two sugars, splash of milk.’

  Alice did not reply and returned minutes later with the drinks. Mrs Hird tasted the tea and then placed the mug on the table next to her chair. She then stood and went to the kitchen herself and fetched the sugar bowl before very deliberately spooning a generous heap of sugar into her cup with a slightly trembling hand. Alice affected not to notice.

  ‘Bit dark in here this morning,’ Alice commented. ‘Shall I open the curtains a bit for you? Let some light in?’

  Alice moved to the window unanswered and swept the net curtains aside. Outside was grey and overcast and the sitting room was not rendered noticeably brighter for Alice’s actions.

  ‘There,’ she said certainly. ‘Now we can see what’s what.’

  Mrs Hird joined Alice in glancing around the cluttered, dusty room filled with a lifetime of memories and bric-a-brac.

  ‘Needs a good tidy round,’ Alice decided without making any move to do so. ‘Now, what’s been happening since I was last here Edith?’

  Mrs Hird didn’t particularly like to be called by her first name, or at least the full version of it, especially by someone whom she did not know particularly well. Her friends called her Edie; to everyone else she was Mrs Hird. It’s a generational thing she supposed; they have less respect these days. When I was a girl, she thought, I referred to everyone as Miss or Mr. Indeed, throughout their courtship; she had even referred to her betrothed as Mr Hird.

  ‘Sorry dear?’ Mrs Hird had missed Alice’s last utterance.

  Alice smiled, her expression saying, ‘Bless. She’s old and therefore slow-witted. I’m younger and know all there is to know so I’ll just have to humour her.’

  ‘I was wondering if you’d like anything preparing for lunch.’ Alice asked, raising her voice.

  I’m not deaf, thought Mrs Hird, though she did not say this aloud.

  ‘Are you drinking plenty of liquids Edith? You don’t want a repeat of that trouble with your waterworks.’ Alice again wandered into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water which she placed on the table next to Mrs Hird.

  Since when did you become a District Nurse? Mrs Hird thought. Asking about my personal business like that.

  ‘The young have no respect.’ She said.

  ‘Eh?’ Alice asked.

  ‘I used to be someone,’ thought Mrs Hird. ‘I used to matter, just a little, but I made a difference just the same.’

  Mrs Hird watched Alice march into the kitchen where she would no doubt empty the contents of a couple of tins into two bowls to be heated in the microwave later. Mrs Hird managed a small smile. She had plenty of help, most of it well meaning if a little ignorant, like Alice, and Mrs Hird knew she should be grateful because there were plenty of folk in need, old folk, friends of hers, who somehow didn’t get the help they required.

  But despite being well into her eighties, the glamorous looks of her youth now replaced by thinning, white hair and wrinkled, parchment skin, Mrs Hird still felt perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She’d been doing exactly that since she was fifteen, back when London had been a hard place, living on her wits and ha
uling herself from obscurity. If it hadn’t been for that one little fall in the Arndale Centre she might well have lived out her days without an army of do-gooders and well-wishers letting themselves into her home whenever they saw fit because the number to her keysafe was on some database.

  Mrs Hird enjoyed the Arndale Centre because it was entirely possible to spend the day there regardless of what the weather was like outside. The Centre housed three cafes, a Tesco Metro, an Argos, a branch of Boots, a number of clothes outlets, a slot machine arcade and the obligatory charity shop. There were also plenty of seats – some fixed orange moulded plastic benches and some red vinyl covered chairs – for groups of like minded old folk to sit and have a natter while they watched the world go by.

  There were usually a variety of sales people with small stands promoting everything from mobile phones to digital television to double glazing to family portraits. It was an emotional roller coaster watching the highs and all too frequent lows as a sales pitch was made and usually ignored by passing shoppers.

  ‘I’d like my picture taking,’ Mrs Hird often felt like saying. ‘I’d like that.’ But she never said a word because, these days, she lacked the courage.

  The day of the fall had been typical. She’d arrived in the Arndale a little after ten, planning to have a quick look in Argos at the jewellery before having a pot of tea in the café next to Gregg’s pie shop.

  ‘Morning Edith,’ called one of her usual crowd as Mrs Hird wandered across to join her friend at a table.

  ‘Hello Connie,’ Mrs Hird replied. ‘You keeping okay dear?’

  A pot of tea was brought to their table which the ladies ignored for several minutes, allowing it to stew a little for flavour. Mrs Hird poured two cups and her friend, Connie, added a little milk.

  ‘Bit weak this,’ Connie decided, screwing up her face.

  Mrs Hird lifted the lid of the teapot with her long, spindly fingers and peered inside.

  ‘Only two teabags,’ she confirmed, raising a judgemental eyebrow in the direction of the counter behind which stood a disinterested girl in her early twenties, engaged in texting her boyfriend’s best friend on her mobile.

  ‘Mmm,’ Connie agreed, making her displeasure clear without the need for fully formed words.

  ‘I know,’ said Mrs Hird.

  It was a little while later that Mrs Hird decided to walk to the library which, although not in the Arndale Centre itself, was directly outside. Mrs Hird liked the library, it was warm and bright, there was always a selection of daily newspapers to peruse and it was quite acceptable to sit and read a book all day long if one wished. Mrs Hird, although a keen borrower, had enjoyed many a thriller in the library, often completed over a period of days. She would mark the page with a scrap of paper torn from a bag of mint imperials kept in her coat pocket before returning the book to the shelf.

  On the day of the fall Mrs Hird exited the shopping centre and began to descend the flight of concrete steps. The library was quite visible being no more than fifty steps in front of her. This was a journey she’d completed dozens, if not hundreds, of times yet today and, perhaps because of this familiarity, her attention was momentarily absorbed by a seagull swooping down just in front of her.

  Surprised, Mrs Hird cried out and swung her arm in a defensive reaction. This was enough to cause loss of balance and she tumbled down the final four of five steps, landing with a dull thud on the concrete below. Her ankle was broken, that much was evident because there had been an audible crack and her sturdy brown lace-up shoes pointed in opposite directions. But otherwise Mrs Hird felt okay; shaken, a little sick, but alright.

  As Mrs Hird lay on the ground in the first seconds following her trip, the tartan shopping bag she took everywhere laying on its side next to her, a foot appeared in Mrs Hird’s field of vision. It wasn’t the top, or even the side, but the sole of a shoe rising over Mrs Hird’s face and then vanishing out of her line of sight only to be replaced instantly by a second foot.

  ‘Somebody is stepping over me,’ Mrs Hird realised. ‘They must have seen me fall down the stairs right in front of them and they have not even broken stride to check I am alive or dead.’

  Mrs Hird listened as the footsteps faded behind her and was able to tell that the despicable individual had entered the library. By this point Mrs Hird had managed to sit up and a second passer-by dashed to her aid. An ambulance was called, her ankle set and she was discharged home a day or two later. Once home, a Physiotherapist came round to help with rehabilitation, two Occupational Therapists assessed her for various living aids and Carers began to turn up most days to open tins and comment on the build up of dust in her sitting room.

  All of this was fine, thought Mrs Hird, well meaning, but not really necessary. The thing which had knocked Mrs Hird’s confidence was not the fall, the broken bone which would take longer to heal owing to her age, or the fuss of going to hospital. It was being walked over.

  ‘I used to be someone.’ Mrs Hird said aloud, just to hear the words; her cockney accent, though fading like her memories of life on the stage, still evident.

  ‘Sorry, Edith,’ Alice called from the kitchen. ‘I can’t hear you, one minute.’

  ‘I used to matter, a little.’

  Though now it seemed Mrs Hird was not even important enough for a person to take a detour around on their way to the public library.

  She glanced around the sitting room. Literally hundreds of programmes and fly posters, tickets and newspaper clippings adorned the walls, testament to Mrs Hird’s youth when she had been in the shows. She had begun as a dancer but it had been discovered that she could sing too and before long she was on the circuit, touring the clubs and theatres with all the well known names of the day. She met everyone and anyone in show business; her walls were proof enough of that. She’d been invited to all the parties, been seen on the arm of many men (some married but then it was all a very long time ago). She’d been famous, at least for a while, and she’d mattered, a little.

  * * * *

  While Mrs Hird was with her carer, Gerald Grimman was in his own flat staring at a card which he’d just removed from an envelope delivered in the morning post. He read the card again; the third time since he’d opened it.

  Thank you Gerald. It meant a great deal. Kisses, Trish…

  ‘Blimey,’ Gerald said. ‘What’s that all about?’

  He was standing in the living room of his flat at number 73 Westminster Road, one of a pair of houses he’d inherited from his grandparents following their joint demise involving one backing over the other in their car.

  It had been two weeks since the transvestite ball in Harrogate when Gerald had shared a couple of drinks with a lonely woman in his hotel room while her husband danced with friends in the function room below.

  For a fleeting moment as they stood in the lift up to his floor, Gerald had allowed himself to entertain the notion that perhaps something physical might take place. They were both drunk, at a party, away from home, it happened all the time. But, of course, it hadn’t. Trish and Gerald talked and found they had a good deal in common.

  Gerald longed for female company, to have a friend with whom to share aspects of his life. If he were honest, he wanted a girlfriend, a physical relationship, but his new friendship with Trish was adequate and welcome.

  All his life Gerald felt he had to keep secret the fact that he enjoyed dressing as a woman. He told neither his family nor friends and, aside from other transvestites he’d met socially, Gerald’s life had become very solitary and very lonely.

  His evening with Trish had been a delight because he was able to be himself. Trish understood, even embraced, who he was because she was married to a transvestite. Trish, for her part, so often a square peg in a round hole, one of few females involved in the Hoover Transvestite Society, had now found someone interested in her. Two lonely people had found a friend, brought together by the very thing which rendered them so lonely in the first place.

  The rest
of the Harrogate weekend had passed quickly in a haze of Sunday morning hangovers, buffet breakfast, shouted goodbyes and vague promises to catch up soon before the drive back to Morecambe. Gerald slipped reluctantly back into his daily life of running the flats and generally milling around doing very little until today when the card dropped through his letterbox.

  Gerald closed the card to place it back in the envelope and it was then that he saw a telephone number written on the back accompanied by two simple words – call me. By nature cantankerous and captious, it was with a trace of a smile that Gerald placed the card on the mantle above the fireplace with a view to calling Trish sooner rather than later.

  9 Secret meetings and a secret language

  Alfie was reminiscing about his childhood.

  ‘They were special days,’ he said to his cat, Kenny. ‘The best days.’

  Kenny, for his part, offered nothing by way of reply. He was quite content to sprawl on his owners lap, purring in return for being tickled gently behind one ear. Being a cat he didn’t understand much that came from Alfie’s mouth aside from the obvious phrases such as ‘milk’ or ‘fish’. And being a cat, an essentially independent creature that used Alfie as a provider of food and shelter, Kenny didn’t care that he was the only creature on the planet with whom Alfie was entirely honest.

  ‘I remember being on the Ferris wheel,’ Alfie continued. ‘We went right to the top and when it stopped I was hanging in my seat. I could see the whole town. I told Frank as much although he was sitting right next to me and could see perfectly well for himself. He pointed out our parents below. They were waving so we waved back.’

  Kenny rolled lazily onto his side, a subtle hint to Alfie that he should now begin to rub Kenny’s well-rounded tummy if he expected the cat to continue lying here, listening; taking part in what had become something of a therapy session. Alfie obliged and continued to recount his memories.