Starburst (40 page)

T
he battered white van was sitting so low on its tired suspension, due to the weighty human load it was carrying, that Terry Crosland could hear the new exhaust he had had fitted before leaving Hartlepool scrape the ground at every bump as he drove into Edinburgh via London Road. The journey had taken a good hour longer than he had envisaged, due to the heavy volume of weekend traffic on the A1 and the half-hourly pit stops requested by the committee members of Andersons Westbourne Social Club, who proved incapable of synchronizing their interminable needs to relieve themselves. Much against Terry’s expectations, it was the two youngest members of the rear-seated party, Robbie and Karen Brownlow, who had endured the six-hours of bum-numbing discomfort the best, hardly opening their mouths as they sat on the makeshift seats, passing the time by listening to music on their MP3 players.

“Where do we go from ’ere?” Terry asked as he approached the roundabout on Leith Walk.

Gary Brownlow studied the Edinburgh Streetfinder they had bought at a filling station near Berwick-upon-Tweed. “Left and then straight on at the next roundabout.”

Terry did as he was instructed and was immediately confronted by a long line of stationary traffic. He glanced at his wristwatch. “We’re cutting it fine, you know,” he murmured to Gary.

A head appeared between their seats. “I told you we’d ’ave been better staying on the City Bypass and coming in on the Dalkeith Road,” Stan Morris said.

Gary turned and looked aggravatedly at the man’s ruddy face. “Oh, aye, and ’ave ye got some built-in bloody radar that tells ye traffic was running smoothly there or summat?”

“I’ll ’ave ye know that when I served in the Royal Signals—”

Terry pressed his foot down on the accelerator, seeing an opening on the inside lane. The sudden forward motion made Stan disappear into the back and a gonglike sound resonated round the van as he hit his head on the roof before being returned to his seat with a forceful thump.

“’Ave a care, Terry!” his voice moaned from the rear of the vehicle.

Terry caught Gary’s eye and gave him a wink and both men bit on their bottom lips to stop themselves from laughing out loud.

“How far now?” Terry asked as he turned the van left at the traffic lights onto North Bridge.

Gary turned the map round and counted off the roads with his finger. “West Richmond Street is about fifth on the left.”

“Bloody marvellous!” He glanced round at the seven other occupants of the van. “Panic over. I reckon we’ll make it by a good ten minutes.”

Stan Morris walked quickly to the front of the party as they hurried down the pavement towards the Corinthian Bar, eager that he should resume his role as spokesman once more. He pushed open the heavy glass door, letting it swing back in Terry’s face, and approached the tall blond girl in the black T-shirt who stood behind the ticket-office desk.

“Good evening, lass,” he said importantly, leaning an elbow on the desk. “Would ye be so kind as to supply us with eight tickets for tonight’s performance, please?”

Without even a welcoming smile, the girl began to rip off the tickets out of a book.

“And I don’t suppose,” Stan continued, giving her the benefit of his most persuasive smile, “that ye might see fit to give a reduction for juniors?”

The girl glared at him, a deep frown on her face. “Juniors? What age are they?”

Stan turned and pointed at Gary’s children in turn. “That there is Robbie and he’s ten and his sister, Karen is…how old are ye, lass?”

“Eight,” Karen breathed out, embarrassed.

Stan turned back to the girl, who was staring concernedly at the two children. “There y’are. Ten and eight.”

The girl cleared her throat. “Are you sure you want to take them to this show?”

Stan laughed. “Of course we do, lass! It’s their mother who’s performing. They especially want to see her!”

The girl looked even more bemused, her mouth dropping open as she glanced back and forth between Stan and the children. Eventually, she shook her head. “Well, if you insist,” she said, continuing to tear the tickets out of the book, “and seeing it’s the last night of the show, I’ll let them in for free.”

Stan turned and smiled smugly at the group, feeling justly proud of his negotiating skills.

“There you are,” the girl said, handing him the tickets. “Just go down the stairs behind you and the theatre’s on the right.”

There were only seven other people in the dark little basement theatre, all occupying tables that were grouped around the small curtain-shrouded stage. Stan Morris stood with his hands on his hips, contemplating which of the remaining tables would offer the best view, but the rest of the party pushed past him and proceeded to group themselves around the three nearest the back of the theatre.

Stan let out a resigned sigh as he went over to join them. “I wouldn’t have chosen these meself. I think…”

“Aye, and we’re getting tired of what you think,” replied sombre Derek Marsham, who had sat himself next to the diminutive Skittle. “The place is no bigger than a public convenience, any road, so what the ’ell does it matter where we sit?”

“Aye, just take that chair there,” added Skittle, as he polished his thick-lensed spectacles on a grubby handkerchief, readying himself for the show.

“Well, I ’ave to say—”

“Just sit down!” the five voices of the senior party commanded him.

As Stan moodily rested his cavalry-twilled bottom on the hard wooden seat, the lights dimmed and a voice boomed out from the loudspeakers set up in opposite corners of the confined space. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight’s performance of the Fruit Sundaes. We all know that an apple a day keeps the doctor away, but on this occasion, a word of warning:
DON’T EAT THE FRUIT
!”

“What’s all this about?” Gary whispered to Terry, a look of incomprehension lining his face.

“No idea, lad. Maybe she’s changed her act.”

Loud music now blared from the speakers and the curtains drew back to reveal a pair of identical female twins, quite obviously past their prime, standing centre-stage, the lumpy contours of their bodies swathed in voluminous aquamarine silk dressing gowns. Their arms were outstretched, and in each hand they bore a small wicker basket laden with a variety of fruit—tangerines and bananas and plums and grapes. As the party from Hartlepool cast querying glances at one another, a camp little dwarf of a man, dressed in a minute tuxedo, pranced onto the stage, and with a muselike flourish took the baskets from the women. And then, stretching their deep-red-lipsticked mouths into wide teasing smiles, they undid the ties on their dressing gowns and simultaneously allowed them to drop to the ground.

“What the
’ell…?
” Gary exclaimed, desperately trying to put his hands in front of his children’s eyes.

“You’ve got me,” Terry replied, a look of revulsion on his face. “What’s she going to do with that banan——oh, God, no!”

“I’m getting the kids out of ’ere,” Gary said, grabbing the hands of both his children and heaving them to their feet, causing a chair to crash backwards to the floor.

As he hurried them off towards the door, with Terry in close pursuit, the committee members of Andersons Westbourne Social Club rose slowly to their feet and began shuffling their way between the tables, never diverting their eyes from the act. All, that is, except Skittle, who had not witnessed his associates move away from him. He got up from his chair and walked a couple of paces towards the front of the theatre, holding up a hand to cut out the blinding light that shone out from the stage, and squinting through his spectacles. “Is that you, Rene? My, ye lost a lot of weight, lass.”

A hand reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his raincoat, giving him a heave that nearly took him off his feet.

“What the bloody ’ell’s going on down there?” Gary angrily asked the girl behind the ticket desk.

“I’m sorry?”

“That act. That wasn’t what we came to see.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, displaying total disinterest in his complaint as she continued to tidy up the desk. “That’s the spirit of the Fringe, I’m afraid. Anything goes.”

Gary felt the rest of the committee pressing up behind him, eager to hear her explanation. “But what ’appened to Rene Brownlow?” he asked. “She was meant to be on ’ere.”

The girl slapped her hand to her mouth. “But the gentleman didn’t say,” she exclaimed, looking directly at Stan Morris, whose face coloured red when he felt the blaming eyes of the party upon him. “Rene Brownlow isn’t on here anymore. She moved venues.”

“Where’s she on, then?” Gary demanded.

“At the Underbelly.” She bent down and rummaged behind her desk, coming up with a bulky programme. “Hang on a minute,” she said, flicking through it. “She swapped venues with the Fruit Sundaes, so I should be able to find it.” She drew a red-nailed finger down a page. “Here we are. She’s on at the Belly Laugh, and there’s a show at eight o’clock.”

Terry looked at his watch. They had twenty minutes before it began.

“I don’t know if you’ll get in, though,” the girl continued. “Her new show’s been a sell-out for the last week.”

“Is that right?” Gary asked with astonishment.

For the first time, the girl’s face creased into a smile. “She’s been the talk of the town.”

Gary looked down at his children and gave them a proud wink. “D’ye ’ear that, kids? Yer mam’s the talk of the town.”

“Come on, lads, we’d better get going,” Terry said, pulling open the entrance door and ushering the party out into the street.

“Hang on a minute!” the girl cried out after them, pulling open the cash drawer and quickly counting out some money. She handed Terry a wad of notes. “I think you deserve a refund. I’m sorry about the mix-up. If the gentleman had just said…”

“Don’t worry,” Terry said, giving her friendly flick of the head. He held up the money in his hand. “And thanks for this, love. Much appreciated.”

He went out of the door and then immediately opened it again. “No idea where this place is, do you?” he asked the girl.

“Turn right out of this road, head back into town for about four hundred metres and then take a left on Chambers Street. Go to the end and turn right and you’ll find the Underbelly about a hundred metres on the left.” She glanced up at the clock on the wall behind her. “Have you got transport?”

“Aye, I ’ave.”

“Then I’d suggest you drive it, if you want to get there in time.”

Terry gave her the thumbs-up and ran out into the street.

The numbed silence in the van as they drove back towards town was broken by the quiet voice of timid Norman Brown, who had hardly opened his mouth since they departed from Hartlepool. “They were very entertaining, those girls.”

Every head, including Terry’s, turned to look at the mouse of a man.

“I think we’ll draw a veil over that memory, thank you, Norman,” Stan Morris said prudishly.

“I reckon two large paper sacks would be more fitting,” Gary murmured in the front of the van, without lifting his eyes from the map.

A damned sheepdog, that’s what we need ’ere, Terry thought to himself as he stood outside the ticket office in the cobbled courtyard of the Underbelly. Gary Brownlow and his two kids were the only members of the party in sight, standing at a fast food stall where they were consuming hot dogs and Coca-Cola. Stan Morris and Derek Marsham had inevitably headed off to find a gents’, and he had no idea where Norman Brown and Skittle had got to. Probably trampled underfoot in the crowd that was trying to get down the spiral staircase. With a shake of his head he turned and walked into the ticket office, digging into the pockets of his jeans for the wad of money.

“Can you give me eight tickets for Rene Brownlow’s show?” he asked the red-T-shirted boy behind the counter.

“I’m sorry. That show’s a sell-out. Has been for the past week.”

“Oh, ’ell, no!” Terry exclaimed, running an exasperated hand over his quiff of hair. “Are ye saying there’s no chance at all of seeing it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“But it’s ’er last show.”

“I realize that, sir.”

“But we’ve come all the way up from ’Artlepool to see ’er. We’ve got ’er ’usband and kids with us an’ all!”

The boy did not reply for a moment. “Hang on a minute,” he said, getting to his feet and grabbing the arm of a woman who was hurrying past him. They talked together in low voices before the woman nodded and then approached Terry.

“We can let you all in, but I’m afraid you’ll just have to stand at the back of the auditorium.”

“Aye, that’ll do us fine,” Terry said as he began to count out the money.

“Don’t worry about that, sir,” the woman said with a smile. “Seeing you’re all from Rene’s home town, I think we can let you in for free.”

“Thanks, lass,” Terry replied, pocketing the money. “That’s really good of ye.”

“You’d better hurry, though. It’s just about to start.”

Terry ran back out into the courtyard where he found, to his relief, that the committee members had reunited and Gary and the kids had finished satisfying their appetites.

“’Ave ye got the tickets?” Gary asked.

“None available,” Terry replied as he hurriedly led the way to the entrance of the Belly Laugh venue. “The show’s been a sell-out, so we’re standing at the back.”

Arriving at the door, Terry gave it a push, but felt a pressure holding it closed.

“Come on, Terry,” Stan Morris called out impatiently from the back of the group. “What are ye waiting for?”

“’Old yer ’orses.”

The door was opened by a girl who pressed a finger to her lips. “Are you the party from Hartlepool?” she whispered.

Terry nodded.

“Right, follow me, but be very quiet. The show’s started.”

The auditorium was already echoing with laughter as the girl led them along the back aisle, the committee members of Andersons Westbourne Social Club jostling and bumping into one another in the dark, their eyes fixed on the stage. Rene stood close to one of the side wings with a white rose fixed behind her left ear, while on the opposite side a woman with a ruddy freckled complexion was passing comment on the red rose she wore in her wild entanglement of carrot-coloured hair.