Untouchable Things (20 page)

Authors: Tara Guha

“For the gorgeous Ophelia. Or should I say, oh feel ya!” General groans. Rebecca didn’t seem to mind as Jake squeezed her waist.

“You’ve been rehearsing that one.”

“Maybe.” Jake winked and looked around. “Who’s for more champers? We’re on Bolly for our jolly. Rather an upmarket jolly, of course, in our exclusive W2 surroundings.”

Seth offered his cigarette box around. “I think edgy is the word you’re looking for. If I wanted exclusive I’d be living in stuffy old South Ken like Charlie boy.” He raised his eyebrows at the sniggers of dissent. “What? It’s true. I’m much happier amongst the riff-raff of Notting Hill.”

Anna roared with laughter as Michael shook his head. “Was there ever someone more cushioned from reality?”

“
Au contraire
, my dear Anna, I seek to embrace as much reality as life will allow me. You should know that.”

Was Anna blushing? She recovered herself quickly. “It’s just a different reality from those of us who have to work for a living.”

Seth blew smoke upwards. “You’re like a stuck record, darling. Like every working woman.”

“Time, you two.” José stepped in, before Anna’s inevitable explosion. “Let’s remember it’s Christmas.”

* * * * *

Rebecca could hear singing. Surely it was singing? The stereo was off. Seth watched her, smiling, as the room stilled. This must be the start of things. The singing was getting closer and she recognised the tune from school carol concerts and heard the words as they arrived at Seth’s open door, “Here we come a-wassailing.” Catherine, Michael and Charles entered the room, dressed in black surplices and singing in beautiful harmonies. She hadn’t even realised they’d gone. Charles was carrying a large pot with some sort of liquid in. She backed towards the window to let them pass, wanting to giggle. At the fireplace they halted, looked at each other, then broke into another song about wassailing. She didn’t know this one – it sounded like a folk song, darker, otherwordly. Jake leaned over and whispered something that sounded like “Steal I Spam” in her ear; she frowned slightly but he was already walking out of the room. They all clapped and whistled as Seth called out, “Now for the wassail!” and Jake returned with pint glasses into which he ladled the liquid from Charles’ bowl, dark and murky with mysterious chunks floating on its surface. Rebecca sniffed cloves and hops and other flavours she couldn’t immediately place.

“Is this
mould
?” Anna was looking down at her glass, unconvinced.

Seth winked. “Toast, actually. As in, let’s make a toast.” He raised his glass and the others followed.

“To a night of surprises.” They drank, tentatively. It was some sort of mulled cider, dense and heavily spiced, and the topping did seem to be toast. Rebecca’s gullet glowed after two mouthfuls.

“What is wassailing anyway?” asked Anna, who had overcome her initial reservations and was already making impressive progress on her grog.

Charles, still in a surplice, answered. “Isn’t it just the old word for carol singing?” Everyone looked at Seth.

“Yes, but the wassail also referred to this splendid drink which the wassailers would bring in as they sang. Seemed like a good way to begin the festivities.”

Rebecca remembered what Jake had said to her and turned to him. “Why were you whispering about stealing Spam? Don’t tell me that’s the secret ingredient.”

Jake frowned before booming with laughter, creating more amusement as he repeated her comment loudly to the rest of the group.

“Steeleye Span, not stealing Spam,” he expanded eventually, wiping his eyes. “As in the folk band.”

“Strange 1970s bunch, period instruments, funny accents, hardcore fan base,” said Seth, more gently. “And funny name too.”

José touched her arm. “Don’t worry, Rebecca, I haven’t got a clue what they’re on about either.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please.” Seth was brandishing sheets of white paper. Weren’t they going to eat yet? The table was fully set and sumptuous in purple linen, and although tantalising cooking smells surrounded her, there was no sign of actual food. She should have snacked before leaving the house.

“Continuing the wassailing theme, we will shortly enjoy a mummers’ Christmas pageant to keep us mindful of the important things at this time of year.”

“
Mummers
? I presume this is some more weird English shit?” Anna pinched an olive from a bowl Rebecca hadn’t noticed.

“People shouldn’t be allowed to live on islands. Except the Irish, of course,” José added quickly, dodging a blow from Anna.

“Mummers, my dear ignorami, were a group of players, or actors, who would travel around from house to house at Christmas performing plays to entertain the household, usually about the trials of King George.”

“As in the dragon?”

“Exactly.”

José shook his head. “God, you British and your dragons. So we’re going to watch a play about some king fighting dragons?”

“In a nutshell, yes. Mumming pageants were used at significant times of the year to draw out the populace’s fears, give them some sort of voice and then dispel them. Keep the dark side under control and everyone on the moral straight and narrow. A sort of group therapy.”

Charles raised his eyebrows. “I must say with all these knights and dragons it sounds more Monty Python to me.”

“You’re on the right lines, Charlie boy. I thought we could initiate our dear brethren José and Anna into the shadowy world of English panto.”

Rebecca chuckled. “A word to strike fear into the heart of any actor. Mine starts in – shit, ten days.” She had joined Anna at the olive bowl.

“Treat this as a warm-up, darling.”

José leaned over to Anna. “What’s panto?”

Anna winked. “Meester Fawlty, I know nothing. Where have you been for the last four years, Josie?” He shrugged. “God – where do I start? We do have them in Ireland, you know, Seth. Fairy tales, stupid catch phrases, men in drag.” She paused. “Actually, come to think of it, José, you’d love it.”

Everyone laughed. Then Jake gasped and pointed at José. “Watch out – he’s behind you!”

José whipped his head round to more guffaws. “What the…?”

Anna was spit-laughing a mouthful of grog and only half caught it in her glass.

Jake put an arm round José’s shoulders. “One of the catch phrases, mate. He’s behind you!”

Charles coughed. “Oh, no he isn’t!”

“Oh yes he is!”

José’s eyes widened at the group chorus. “That’s it, you’re all complete nutters. Let’s get this panto mummy shit over with then we can get down to proper Christmas activities like eating. Where are the actors?”

Seth took a cloth from the sideboard and wiped away the grog spatters at Anna’s feet. He replaced the cloth as Anna giggled an apology. “Well, here of course. I’m looking at them.”

“No. No way.”

Seth folded his arms. “Way. You’ve been invited to my house and now you need to earn your supper. I have parts, costumes, props. Here, take one each.” He started handing out copies of the play.

“You want us to act out this play?”

“I can’t even read this, let alone act it.”

Seth shrugged. “Blame Anna if you must. This is entirely for her benefit.”

“Mine?”

“Well, what does panto mean, in a nutshell?”

A grin broke over Anna’s face. “Dressing up!”

Seth winked and turned to the others. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve got a part too.”

Rebecca scanned the list of characters. “What as?”

“Father Christmas, of course. He always introduced the pageant.”

Anna snorted. The idea of Seth as Father Christmas was about as incongruous as it got. But, of course, that was the whole point of panto.

“Who’s who then?”

“Well, I thought you could all read the play first before we sort that out. Maybe a certain part will jump out at you.”

Not straightforward slapstick, then. This was Seth, of course. Amidst the mutterings. Rebecca took herself off to a corner armchair and tried to focus on the words in front of her.

Let’s get this straight, Seth Gardner wrote a pantomime for you all to perform?

He did. I still have a copy, actually. Do you want to see it?

If you have it to hand.

Just a second… Sorry, that took longer than expected. Here it is.

Thank you. Please go on for now.

Well, I read it over and it did look as if certain parts matched certain people.

For example?

Well, King George sounded like Michael – a bit serious, you know. Moralistic and humourless. And Cinderella I assumed was Catherine.

Because?

Um – apparently she used to do Seth’s ironing and stuff. According to Anna.

I see.

And there was an elf, who had to be José…Because he’s gay?

Er, yes. And Jake and the Beanstalk – Jake, of course – and the Princess in the land of theatre – well, me.

It says here, ‘Dressed in sexy Santa suit.’

Um, yes. So I thought.

And Beauty and, let’s see, Gretel?

I wasn’t sure. Though Gretel bingeing on gingerbread sounded a bit like Anna.

Oh?

Well, I don’t mean literally… well, she has food fads. And she loves sweet things. Right. So once you’d worked out your parts…No, that’s just it. We weren’t who we thought we would be.

Seth stubbed out his cigarette. “All finished reading it through? Now, these are your parts. Based on her superior experience, Rebecca will take the part of King George.”

Rebecca swallowed.

“Cinderella will be played by Michael,” a small ripple, “Charles will be my elf,” a louder ripple, “Jake will make an exquisite Beauty,” a wink from the big man, “Anna can do her bawdy best as Jake and the Beanstalk, José can blow his weekly calorie count as Gretel and Catherine can be Princess for a day.” Catherine’s eyes grew wide.

A moment’s silence and then Seth repeated the parts.

“Are these parts supposed to represent us? You’ve lost me.” José’s confusion was mirrored in the faces around him.

“Let’s say you’re not necessarily playing yourselves. Trust me, this will add to the fun. And in the true tradition of Christmas, I hope there’ll be something for everyone to take home with them.”

Scene 6

So he was deliberately confusing you. One could say playing with you.

Yes, but there was usually a point with Seth.

Rebecca wished there was more food and less grog in her stomach. She was used to experimenting with roles in a theatre, but this multi-layering was messing with her mind. And she was the main part. Playing King George, aka Michael.

Seth stood up. “Now come and get your costumes.”

She was covered head to toe in faux chainmail, hot and hard to move in, with a visored helmet over her head. What made it worse was that Catherine, in the sexy Santa suit that should have been hers, was exposing surprisingly good legs. She even got a wolf whistle from Jake. Catherine was one of those women who didn’t know how to make the most of herself. Her hair hung around her shoulders, of nondescript colour and style. A few highlights, a haircut, and a new wardrobe would probably make her quite pretty.

Dressing the boys as girls was fun and recovered a bit of the jollity. Michael looked comically uncomfortable in his raggedy dress with thin hairy legs poking out the bottom. Jake was enjoying himself with her lipstick and José looked rather stunning with his eyes made up. Funniest of all was Charles in tights, lederhosen and a pointy hat.

Anna was pleased with her beanstalk, a giant phallic appendage, some sort of balloon. A hirsute, well-cushioned Seth summoned them back to the drawing room, which now had a cleared stage area with screens running down the sides. Miraculously, the space had been turned into a small theatre.

“Now, you should all sit in the audience until your character is about to enter, then slip behind the screen and come on. All the props you need should be tucked away back there. Shall we start?”

Everyone sat on the chairs in front of the ‘stage’ apart from Rebecca and Seth. Three booming knocks were heard from the wings and then Seth stepped forwards.

“In comes I, old Father Christmas,

Compere of the evening’s games.

You may know my many faces,

But you may not know my name.

Some folk call me old Saint Nick,

Kris Kringle, sometimes Père Nöel;

Santa Claus across the water,

See Old Winter, hear his bell.”

Only Seth could transform Father Christmas from a jolly old benefactor to a mysterious, even sinister enigma. Rebecca stepped forward to the sound of a bell.

“In comes I, your good King George

In search of monsters to be slain;

Fierce and green with tongue obscene

And preferably exhaling flames.”

She looked around, waving her sword.

“None such here; a disappointment,

No fair maiden to be saved.

On I go with sword erect

To find the wicked dragon’s cave.”

She hammed up the
sword erect
gags: this was familiar panto territory. Father Christmas stepped forward again to three knocks.

“But who comes here? A ragamuffin!

Dirty hair and faded bloom.