The Grin of the Dark (4 page)

Tubby Thackeray

Date of birth (location)

1880?

England

Date of death (details)

?

Mini biography

Thackeray Lane began his career in English music hall. After he
(show more)

Actor – filmography

1.
Leave 'Em Laughing
(1928) (uncredited) ... Driver in traffic jam

2.
Tubby Tells the Truth
(1920, unreleased)

3.
Tubby's Trick Tricycle
(1919)

At once I realise something is wrong, though not with the Internet
Movie Database. I scroll down the list and try to ignore my neighbour
at the adjacent terminal, who is humming under his breath a bunch of
notes with which a pianist might accompany a chase in a silent film.

4.
Tubby's Tremendous Teeth
(1919)

5.
Tubby's Tiny Tubbies
(1919)

6.
Tubby's Telephonic Travails
(1919)

7.
Tubby Turns Turtle
(1918)

8.
Tubby Takes the Train
(1918)

9.
Tubby's Terrible Triplets
(1918)

10.
Tubby Tackles Tennis
(1917)

11.
Tubby's Table Talk
(1917)

12.
Tubby Tattle-Tale
(1917)

13.
Tubby Tastes the Tart
(1916)

14.
Tubby's Telepathic Tricks
(1916)

15.
Tubby's Telescopic Thrill
(1916)

16.
Tubby's Tinseled Tree
(1915)

17.
Tubby's Trojan Task
(1915)

18.
Tubby's Troublesome Trousers
(1915)

19.
Tubby Turns the Tables
(1915)

20.
Tubby Tries It On
(1914)

21.
Tubby the Troll
(1914)

22.
Tubby's Twentieth-Century Tincture
(1914)

23.
Just for a Laugh
(1914) ... Avoirdupois the Apothecary

24.
The Best Medicine
(1914) ... Pholly the Pharmacist

Writer – filmography
Leave 'Em Laughing
(uncredited gag writer)

Archive footage
Those Golden Years of Fun
(1985)

The biography button on the sidebar brings me a reference to
Surréalistes Malgré Eux
(Éditions Nouvelle Année, 1971). That's all,
and in one sense it's more than enough, because the dates in the list
are wrong. Whatever ended Thackeray's career, it couldn't have been
the Arbuckle scandal. The party at which Fatty caused Virginia
Rappe's death began on Labor Day in 1921, the year after Tubby last
starred in a film.

Where did I get the idea that the events are connected? From
somewhere on the Internet or here in the harsh light of the British Film
Institute's reading room? It surely doesn't matter, though I'm irritated
that so recent a memory is stored beyond retrieval. I click on the
biography link to be shown more. Thackeray Lane began his career in
English music hall. After he put on so much weight that a stage collapsed
beneath him – after he was banned from theatres for making suggestive
jokes about telescopes and tarts – after he turned out to be incapable of
uttering a sentence that didn't contain at least a trio of Ts – For all I
know, any of these could be the case, because the link doesn't work. I
abandon it and search the web for Thackeray Lane.

It's at least two places in England. The name also belonged to a
professor of mediaeval history whose papers are archived at
Manchester University, but I can find no reference to a comedian. A
search for Tubby Thackeray brings me no results at all, and he isn't
listed in the library catalogue. The Institute's Summary of
Information on Film and Television database lists his films, but the
National Film and Television Archive has none of them, not even
Those Golden Years of Fun
.

I can't quite restrain a sigh, which apparently draws the man who
was humming an old tune. He keeps his breath and its burden to
himself as he leans over my shoulder. When I glance up, sunlight
through the blinds behind him sears my vision. I have the impression
that his face is very pale, at least in part, and unnecessarily large,
perhaps because he's looming so close. As I blink like an unearthed
mole he shuffles out of view beyond the only bookcase, and I head for
the counter, above which a screen announces that a copy of
Silent
Secrets
is awaiting a reader called Moore. 'Did you find what you
wanted?' the librarian says.

'I was hoping for more, to be honest.' When she tilts her long face
up as though her interrogative smile has lifted it I say 'You won't
have heard of Tubby Thackeray, by any chance?'

'He does seem to ring a bell.' She ponders and then shakes her
head, displacing her smile. 'I must have someone else in mind. I don't
think I've heard of him.'

'Some of us have.'

I turn but can't identify the speaker. None of the readers at the tables
is looking at me, nor at anyone else for having spoken. I'm not even sure
how close the man's voice was. 'What was that?' I ask the librarian.

'I said I haven't heard of him.'

'Not you, the other person.' When she looks perplexed I murmur
'The one who just spoke.'

'I'm afraid I'm not able to help you there.'

How could she have been unaware that someone was talking so
loud? I'm about to wonder when I realise that every time I've
addressed her she has gazed straight at my lips. 'Sorry, you're, I see,'
I babble and swing around to question our audience. 'Tubby
Thackeray, anybody?'

Do they think I'm inviting someone to reveal he's the comedian?
Nobody betrays the least hint of having spoken earlier. Was it the
man who craned over my shoulder? He isn't behind the shelves now.
He must have made the comment on his way out. I sprint past the
security gate, which holds its peace, into Stephen Street. He isn't
there, nor can I see him from the junction with Tottenham Court
Road. He should be easily identifiable; he was bulky enough, or his
clothes were. Once I tire of gazing at the lunchtime crowds I retrace
my frustrated steps. It's the quickest route to meeting Natalie for
lunch.

As I turn corner after narrow corner the wind blows away my
misty breath. An awning flaps beyond an alley, a sound like footsteps
keeping pace with me, except that they would be absurdly large. I
dodge across Oxford Street behind a bus full of children with painted
faces and sidle through the parade of early Christmas shoppers to
Soho Square. In the central garden, around which the railings look
darkened by rain that the pendulous sky has yet to release, a loosely
overcoated man is opening and closing his wide mouth in a silent
soliloquy or a tic.

The Choice Cuts restaurant is across the square, next door to the
film censor's offices. Three steps up lead directly into the bar, which
is decorated with photographs of people who have had problems with
the censor, a signed portrait of Ken Russell beside one of an equally
fat-faced Michael Winner. Natalie is at a table in a semicircular booth
halfway down the darkly panelled room, under a poster that repeats
IT'S ONLY A MOVIE
. As soon as she sees me she slides off the padded
bench. 'Simon, I tried to call you.'

I forgot to switch my mobile on when I left the library. The table
bears two drinks besides hers, and at once I know why she looks
apologetic. Her greeting might be the cue for the door marked
CENSORED
next to the bar to open, revealing her parents. 'Was this
place your idea?' Bebe says, perhaps before noticing me. 'Oh, hello,
Simon.'

'It was mine,' I say. 'What's wrong with it?'

'I could do without the pictures in the comfort station. Warren
says his was just as bad.'

'We were in the West End and we happened to call Natalie,'
Warren says, closing a hand around my elbow. 'We can leave if you
want to celebrate by yourselves.'

'Don't feel you have to leave when you've got drinks.'

'You'll have one for sure.' When I admit to it and identify it
Warren tells the barman 'White wine for our guest.'

'I'll join you in a minute.' I feel driven to discover what offences
the Gents may be concealing. The white-tiled room proves to feature
framed stills from old sex comedies, of performers whose nakedness
is obscured by their embraces. There's even the odd nipple, but
nothing to hinder my using the nearest urinal. I'm distracted only by
a flapping beyond the high window. Is it an injured bird? It sounds
more like someone with outsize flat feet repeatedly leaping to try and
peer through the grille of the window. I zip myself up as soon as I can
and am nearly at the door when something behind me lets out a harsh
rattling breath. Of course I strayed too close to the hand dryer.

Natalie's parents are next to her on the plump bench. Bebe pats the
space beside herself. 'We ordered for you,' Warren says. 'We have to
be out of here relatively fast. Natalie said what she thought you'd
like.'

Does he see any connection between his last two sentences? As I
take a mouthful of whatever the house wine is meant to be, his wife
says 'So do you think that magazine will give your publisher a
problem?'

'He's going to make sure it doesn't. He's my old film tutor.'

'He won't be working for the university any more, then.'

'He is, but now he's editing for them as well.'

'I guess relying on the state is safest.'

'We won't be doing that. An old boy has left them all his money
to publish art books that'll sell.'

'Let's hope they do. Here's to his memory.' Warren clinks his glass
against his family's and at last mine, at which point he asks 'What's
the series you're planning?'

'It isn't a series as such, but I've got quite a few books in my head.'

'We thought you'd been commissioned to write a whole series,
didn't we, Warren? Tell us what they're about, then, Simon.'

'I'm working on one about people in film who've fallen from
grace.'

'You'll know about that.' Bebe finishes her drink and brandishes a
finger and her glass for any waiter to respond, then lowers both in my
direction. 'Didn't you write about it for your degree?'

'I did, and now Rufus wants me to expand it for publication.'

'You'll need to change it as much as you're able, I suppose.'

'I don't know why you should say that,' Natalie intervenes. 'I
thought it was a good read, and Simon's tutor certainly did.'

'Your mother means he'll need to so the university don't think
they're getting stuff they already paid good money for.'

'They won't be,' I say and take advantage of the arrival of a waiter
to order another drink. 'I'm researching someone they'll never have
heard of.'

'Researching,' Warren says. 'What's that going to cost in time and
money?'

'As much as it has to, I should think. They'll be paying my expenses.'

'So long as your grant covers it,' Bebe quite unnecessarily says.

'It isn't a grant,' Natalie objects before I can.

'Grant, expenses, whichever. Money the university will be paying
to keep him afloat. Do you have a title, Simon?'

'It's
They Made Movies Too
.'

'That's what you called your thesis, is it?'

'That was
Forgotten Filmmakers
,' Natalie says. 'This sounds like
a real book.'

Though her parents are no more than silent, it feels discontented.
I've no idea what I might be provoked to say if I weren't inhibited by
the approach of waiters, one bearing glasses, the other with a tray of
lunch. I was expecting an appetiser. I know we would have to be
seated at the bar to share Canapé Apocalypse, but I thought the
Hallorans might have ordered the mixed starters, In the Realm of the
Senses. My kebab platter is called I Spitted Your Fave, while Natalie
has ordered Duck à la Clockwork Orange and her father has chosen
Last Grouse on the Left. Bebe inhales the aroma of her Mardi Gras
Casserole and lifts her face prettily towards the waiter. 'Smells good,
but why's it called that?'

'I couldn't say, madam. I'll have to ask.'

'Don't go anywhere,' Bebe says and turns to me. 'Here's the guy
who can tell us.'

'I don't know either, sorry.'

'Oh dear. Maybe you don't know as much about the movies as
you think.'

However irrational my reaction may be, the presence of the waiter
makes Bebe's comment almost physically unbearable. I blank out for
a moment as if my brain has crashed. At least when I regain my
awareness, nobody seems to have noticed. Natalie's expression
includes sympathy and a plea that I shouldn't lose my temper. I
unload a skewer with my fork and lay the pointed shaft along the
edge of the plate. I won't be responding to Bebe's challenge here or
now, but I'll remember it. I'm all the more determined to put myself
and Tubby Thackeray back where we should be on the map.

Mardi Gras Massacre
is a 1981 film set in New Orleans, though
reportedly you mightn't know until the final reel fills up with
carnival footage. Earlier a maniac removes the hearts from three
naked women, or rather from the same rubber body double thrice.
The film was banned in Britain the year it was made, otherwise even
fewer people would have heard of it. Perhaps the management at
Choice Cuts should explain the names of dishes to the staff.

While I'm consulting the Internet Movie Database I revisit Tubby
Thackeray's page. All the titles are dead and black, with no links to
further information, and he doesn't have a message board. I move to
abebooks, an assemblage of booksellers, and enter
Surréalistes
Malgré Eux
in the search box. Three shops have the book. The
cheapest copy, described as annotated in pencil, is at Le Maître des
Livres in Quebec. I send the details of my credit card and pay for
express delivery. Now I just need to be as lucky with
Those Golden
Years of Fun
.

A site called Silents Entire reveals that besides famous names, the
compilation includes less-remembered stars – Charley Chase, Tubby
Thackeray, Max Linder, Hector Mann, Max Davidson. The trouble
is that Amazon shows it's deleted, and nobody is offering it secondhand
on the site. There's always eBay, where a seller called
Moviemad has listed a copy. The auction ends in three days, and two
people are bidding. The top bid is £2.50, but I can buy the item now
for a penny under fifteen pounds. I click on the option, only to be told
I have to register and choose a screen name and password. The name
can be Restorer, the password Esteem. As soon as an email confirms
this I put in the winning bid, and my sigh of relief mists the screen. I
reach out to wipe it with my handkerchief, and it turns blank as slate.

My room and the view of squat twin houses weighed down by a
grey sky disappear in sympathy. I've gone as good as blind with
panic. Then I can see, though it restores nothing to the screen. I send
the mouse skating all over my desk and hit enough keys to spell at
least one nonsensical word, but the screen remains featureless. I
thumb the power button and hold it until I hear the computer shut
down, then I release it and switch on. The initial test appears and
vanishes, followed by the usual flurry of system details. They've never
meant much to me, but the word that terminates each line does. Lost,
it says they are. Lost. Lost.

I let out a sound too furious to contain syllables and bruise my
elbows on the desk while I blot out the sight of the relentless word so
that I can think. I've copied all my work onto discs, and I have a
printout of my thesis. The crash is surely no worse than inconvenient.
I'm trying to find the phone number of the computer shop among the
bills and invoices in my desk drawer when the door rattles with a
knock and then with several. 'Simon?' my neighbour Joe calls. 'Was
that you?'

'Nobody else here that I know of.'

'I'll come in then, shall I?'

I don't want to be distracted, but apparently I have no choice. I
kick myself away from the desk and snatch the drawer off my lap,
leaving two dusty Ls on my trousers. I slam the drawer into its niche
on my way to yanking the doorknob out of Joe's hand as he starts to
open the door. 'What do you want, Joe?'

He takes a step backwards, wriggling his fingers. I half expect to see
him trip over the cuffs of his extravagantly baggy jeans and tumble
downstairs. Apart from those he's wearing a T-shirt that says
LET'S BOTH LAUGH
over a chunky sweater. His blond hair looks as though he's
pulled the T-shirt off and on again. His doughy face is patched with red
and well on the way to growing oval. He blinks and holds out a bag of
humbugs striped like monochrome wasps. 'Care for one?' he says.

'Not just now, thanks.'

He more or less unwraps a mint before inserting it in his mouth,
then withdraws the cellophane wet with saliva. By now he's gazing
past me at the computer. 'Was that why you were crying?' he
wonders.

'I wasn't crying about anything. I don't.'

'Nothing wrong with letting yourself go now and then,' Joe says,
crumpling the cellophane in his fist. 'Get in touch with your other
self. Let me help.'

I gather that he means with the computer when he tries to sidle
past me into the room. 'Better leave it to the experts.'

'You're one, are you?'

'On cinema I believe I am.'

'Play it again, Sam, eh?' he says and narrows his pale eyes. 'What
film's that from?'

'No film at all. He never says that in
Casablanca
.'

'Good try but no prize. It's Woody Allen.'

'He doesn't say it either.'

'Good grief, they're only films. Chums don't fall out over silly
films.' Joe holds out his rustling fist as if he's handing me his litter to
bin. 'Anyway, there's an expert here. I'm your computer man.'

'I'm sure you'll understand if I let the shop that built the system
deal with it.'

His eyes grow moist, and he's parting his lips when the front door
begins to shake. A large dog is scrabbling at it, I gather once the
barking starts. 'Heel, girl. Heel,' Warren shouts outside.

He and Bebe are beginning to remind me of uninvited pop-ups,
liable to appear wherever I am. Joe drops the humbug wrapper and
leaps downstairs, landing with a thud on every other step. 'Hang on,
Mr Halloran,' he yells. 'I'll let you in.'

I haven't reached my desk when I hear a scuffle in the hall. 'Sit,
goddamn it,' Warren says. 'Hello, Joe. Whaddya know?'

'Hello, Mr Halloran. Would the dog like a sweet?'

'That's the way to make friends. Sure, I'll take one as well. What's
happening in my house?'

'I was just trying to help Simon, but he doesn't seem to want me.'

Warren's reply is blotted out by an outburst of barking. 'Hey,
Simon,' he calls once it subsides. 'Come meet Sniffer.'

Is the name a joke? If it isn't, have I any reason to panic? My pipe
is somewhere in the room, but it hasn't been used for weeks, since I
ran out of the last of the grass Colin gave me as some kind of consolation.
Staying in my room might suggest an admission of guilt, and
so I tramp to the stairs. I've taken one step down when an inordinately
large black dog on an apparently endless lead charges at me,
and I can't help retracting my step. 'Don't let her think you're
frightened,' Warren advises as he reels in the lead. 'No reason you
should be, right?'

'Not if you're in control.'

The dog's head and shoulders strain above the top stair, and
Warren appears behind her. Does he want to observe how she reacts
to me? As he pays out the lead, she lunges to thrust her glistening
black nose against my trouser pocket. My keys grind against my hip,
and I'm about to protest when I remember that the keys are on my
desk. 'Looks like you've got a new buddy,' Warren says.

How ironic is that meant to be? His default smile isn't telling, but
his eyes are watchful. 'You'll have to forgive me,' I say, which sounds
altogether too defensive, and try lying. 'I'm not too fond of dogs.'

'I thought you told Natalie you were. Did my hearing screw up, do
you think? Or my memory?'

'I couldn't say.' My trouser leg is growing wet as the dog's nose
tries to burrow through the fabric. 'If you could just –'

'You're allowed to move, Simon. Not too fast, though.'

As I back towards my room I wonder if he'll let the dog pursue me.
He holds it where it is, perhaps because he hears the jingling of the
contents of my pocket – only coins. As Joe's head pokes up behind
him, cellophane crackles under my foot. 'You haven't picked your
rubbish up,' I point out.

'Which is that?' says Warren.

I lift my foot to show him, but the wrapping adheres to the sole of
my shoe. I'm reduced to hopping about to display the evidence, a
routine that starts the dog barking so loud that the confined gloomy
space feels shrunken. Warren watches me scrape the cellophane off
my shoe with the other, and then he says 'Couldn't you have dealt
with it, Simon?'

I'm robbed of any words it would be advisable for me to utter even
before Joe says 'You could have while I was letting Mr Halloran in.'

'Right, I'll see to it now. Here it goes. Off to the bin with you. Get
in. Get in.' By the time I've shaken the sticky contents of Joe's mouth
off my fingertip I'm sounding as wild as I feel. 'Anything else anyone
needs me to do?'

'You could let me look at your computer.' Joe has followed me
into my room. 'I can fix this,' he says with barely a glance at the
onscreen messages. 'It's simps.'

'You still under guarantee, Simon?'

'No, but –'

'Quiet, girl. Simon doesn't want to sound hostile. What were you
planning to charge, Joe?'

'Chums don't charge.'

'Sounds like a good deal.'

If the computer fails after Joe has tinkered with it, won't Warren
have to take responsibility? He and Bebe replaced Mark's, and they
can do the same for me. 'Fair enough, if you say so,' I tell him.

Joe dumps his bag of humbugs next to the computer and plants his
baggy buttocks on my chair. 'Can I have your system discs?'

I'm hauling open the lower drawer of the desk when I remember
where my pipe is. I try to reveal just enough of the drawer to fumble
out the plastic wallet full of discs. Joe grimaces as he examines
them. 'No wonder you've lost it,' he says. 'I'll give you the latest
versions.'

Once Joe has fetched them from his room, Warren shuts the dog
on the landing and perches on the edge of my bed. 'So have we found
out anything today?' He's gazing straight at me and presumably
addressing me.

'Tell Bebe
Mardi Gras Massacre
,' I say.

'Lie down, girl. Lie.' Once the onslaught at the door trails off with
a piteous whine he says 'Why should my wife want to hear that?'

'It's where her dish came from yesterday. Where the name did, I
mean. I realise it's a rotten pun. Enough to put you off your lunch.'

The sound of clawing at the door has given way to the scurry of
the keyboard. I can't grasp any of the formulas Joe is entering on the
computer. 'How about your research?' Warren persists.

'I've tracked down some footage I don't think has ever been
written about. It's on its way.'

'I guess you can't work any faster than that. So long as you won't
be too slow for your publisher.'

'You never told me you were going to be published,' Joe complains
and springs a disc out of the computer. 'How do you find the time to
study as well?'

'Because I'm not a student any longer.'

'Lie. Lie.'

I didn't think the dog was making enough of a commotion to
deserve Warren's latest shout. More conversationally he says 'We
figure Simon will be moving on soon.'

The breath snags in my throat on the way to speech. 'You're
asking me to, you mean.'

'I have to agree with my wife, it isn't fair to the rest of our tenants.
We don't need them thinking anyone is getting special treatment
when he could afford to live someplace else.'

'I won't tell so long as we're chums,' says Joe.

'When are you looking to get rid of me?'

I thought Warren might at least deny this aim, but he says 'We can
give you till the end of the year.'

'It'll be a kind of birthday present, then.'

'Is it your birthday?' Joe cries as he feeds the computer yet another
disc. 'Many happy returns. Fixing this is my gift and I didn't even know.'

Does he really not recognise sarcasm? Warren's smile is claiming
that he didn't either. 'No, it's not my birthday,' I tell them. 'New
Year, me.'

'That should hold you,' Joe says as he gathers his discs, 'and if it
doesn't you know how close I am.'

'Thanks.'

'Lie,' Warren says. 'Time we were on our way if she's going to
hinder your work, Simon.'

Joe leaves the discs by the computer while he unwraps a humbug
and follows Warren onto the landing. The dog disposes of the sweet
in two splintering crunches as she lopes downstairs ahead of Warren.
As the front door shuts, Joe ambles back into my room, crumpling the
humbug wrapper. He lobs it into the bin and reclaims his discs. 'Now
you've got what you want,' he says from the doorway.

Does he mean his technical help or his attempt at tidiness? As I
peer at the new icons, his reflection on the window beyond the
monitor grins at me so widely it ought to be painful. Indeed, at the
upper edge of my vision his face is bobbing towards me on the glass,
tilting from side to side with such abandon that I wonder how he's
walking. I spin around in my chair. 'What – '

I'm alone in the room. The door is barely ajar, and I hear him
shutting his. I swivel my chair away from the bewildering sight and
come face to face with the window. Though I'm on the upper floor,
the roundish sagging pallid wide-mouthed head is bumping against
the glass.

Its substance quivers like a jellyfish as the head observes me with
its unblinking perfectly circular eyes. It blunders against the pane
with a faint rubbery squeal and then sails out of sight over the roof.
It was a less than wholly inflated balloon; I assume its face was
supposed to be a clown's. I'm reminded of the poster Joe has removed
from his door since I bought tickets for Clwons Unlimited online. I do
my best to dismiss the balloon from my mind as I slip the Frugonet
disc into the computer to regain my access. The spectacle was almost
enough to put me off taking Natalie and Mark to the circus.