Authors: Kate Saunders

Bachelor Boys (33 page)

BOOK: Bachelor Boys

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Ruth continued to smile. Aging suited her, softening her angles. “George loves having Fritz around. And I must say, so do I. It's rather like standing in a high windâtiring yet exhilarating. I never imagined he'd mature so well. He was one of the most ghastly teenagers I've ever met.”

“You know him better now,” I said.

“Hmm, I'm not sure about that.” Unconsciously, Ruth echoed the words I'd heard from Peason. “I don't understand him at all.”

“How do you mean?”

“The man's an imposter,” Ruth said. “I'd like to know why he's masquerading as an actor, when he evidently belongs somewhere else.”

“What do you think he should be doing?”

“Good heavens, I don't know. Growing up would be a good start.” Before I could open my mouth to protest that Fritz was immensely mature, Ruth said firmly, “There's a perfectly decent, respectable, middle-class man hiding somewhere inside Fritz. He ought to admit it, and let the bugger out before it's too late.”

Quite unexpectedly, we managed a decent Christmas. Fritz had the day off. I cooked a spectacular lunch, which kept me busy enough to take the sharpest edge off my longing for Phoebe. Afterward, the four of us ate and yawned and watched the Marx Brothers (
Duck Soup
) on television. Ruth cracked nuts and told fearsome anecdotes about her work.

Fritz was lively and hilarious, but I sensed restlessness in his energy. He
wasn't himself, and it was about more than missing Phoebe. Anger gnawed at him, like a piece of grit trapped under his skin. Though he was charming to me, he wouldn't give me the chance to reach himâhe used Ruth and George as shields, so we wouldn't be alone together.

Eventually, toward the end of the short afternoon, I cornered him in the kitchen. He was standing beside the open fridge, morosely eating cold turkey straight off the plate.

I said, “Let me make you a sandwich.”

“No thanks.”

“Or have a piece of Stollen. It came out really well.”

“I don't doubt it, but no thanks.”

“Fritz, are you okay?”

“Of course not. You've seen where I work.”

“The panto? It's not that bad, is it?”

He looked away from me to shut the fridge. “Ten shows a week, for a month.”

“Yes, but that's not forever.”

“Afterward is even worse,” Fritz said gloomily. “I have nothing to look forward to except auditioning for more commercials, and occasionally fucking the plainer casting directors, who might be grateful.”

“Maria,” I said, “I don't think you were cut out to be a nun.”

He laughed. “I knew you'd tell me to give up acting. I wondered how long it would take you.”

“Well, if you hate it all so much, aren't you in the wrong career?”

“I wouldn't be here if I had the slightest idea what I wanted to do instead. I envy you and Ben sometimes.”

“No, you don't. You think we're wet and prissy, because we like posher books and music than you do.”

Fritz said, “You both work at the thing you're very good at.”

I considered this. Sometimes I needed to be reminded that I was fortunate. I earned a living doing a job I loved, as part of a career that was my life. Ben was the same. Neither of us minded our meager wages, because that wasn't the point. If nobody had paid us, we would have done it for nothing.

“Look at me,” Fritz said. “When I was a student, all I cared about was
qualifying. The goal was everything. But when I'd reached it, I found I didn't want the life that went with it.”

“It's not too late to change direction,” I offered, knowing how lame it sounded. “Keats was a doctor before he became a poet.”

Fritz laughed. “That's a crap example. Keats was incredibly unsuccessful as a poet, and by the time he was my age he was dead.”

“Well, maybe you should become one of those sexy media doctors, with a nice newspaper column, or a television show â¦ .”

“Face it, Grimble,” Fritz said. “I'm nearly thirty-two, and I'm making my living in red satin. I might as well be a pole dancer. I can't move on, or be fulfilled, or anything. Whatever my big chance was, I blew it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I
n the evening of Boxing Day, George, Ruth and I went to the theater for the opening night of
Aladdin.
George, like me, was a devotee of pantomime. Together we tried to explain the various traditions to Ruth. She was immune to fun, and kept looking for logic.

“You've lost me again. Who is Abanazer, and why do I have to boo and hiss him?”

George was patient. “Because he's the villain. He's trying to steal Aladdin's wonderful lamp. Just copy me and Cassie. You'll soon get the hang of it. I must say,” he added to me, “I'm looking forward to Batty's Widow Twankey. It's bound to be an interesting interpretation.”

“Good grief,” Ruth said. “You make it sound like King Lear.”

“The role is every bit as demanding,” George said. “I saw Stanley Baxter's Twankey at the Edinburgh Lyceum. It was one of the high spots of my theater-going career.”

The Theatre Royal had sprung to gaudy, swarming life. Crowds of people pushed up the steps and jostled for souvenirs and bags of sweets. There were toddlers shrieking like train whistles, and teenagers trying to look cynical. There were parties of old people, some Sea Scouts and the B&Q staff outing.

George steered Ruth and me through the crowd in the foyer, pausing to buy three glossy programs and a large bag of wine gums. I should mention here that I was getting fonder of George by the hourâhe would not let Ruth spoil this blissful experience, for herself
or anyone else. And even Ruth couldn't resist his murmurs of delight as we took our seats.

If you've never been to a pantomime, I hardly know how to describe the atmosphere. It is the purest essence of theater. The audience never sits in silence, but constantly stirs and seethes. There is a sense of excitement, not only among the children. A pantomime audience expects broad comedy and noisy glitter. It is supposed to be tawdryâattempts at good taste are always awful. A real pantomime means vulgarity, crass topical references and television stars as familiar as your furniture.

Our seats were in the front row of the dress circle. (Len Batty would address us as “you on the mantelpiece.”) It was a fine old auditorium, all red plush and gilt cherubs, just like the little cardboard theater I had glued together as a child.

Wine gums circulated. We studied our programs. I always love the potted biographies of the cast, and these were little gems of understated tragedy. Each artiste's photograph was attached to a list of dreadful jobs they had done in the pastâdancing engagements on cruise ships, small parts in obscure television soaps, stints of understudying on post-post-West End tours. Abanazer had been in some films
(Ding-Dong-Dangler, She Likes Them Lusty
) that sounded distinctly dodgy. There could have been no better illustration of the hardships of the professional stage. They should have handed copies of this program to all first-year drama students.

Fritz's photograph was saturnine and brooding. His professional credits were short and to the pointâa list of fringe productions no one had ever heard of, a couple of television commercials and
Rookery Nook
. I thought I could see why he had been so depressed the night before. Boiled down to a single paragraph, his career did not look illustrious.

The house lights dimmed. Down in the orchestra pit, a drum rolled (boom-tish!). The Spirit of the Lamp appeared in front of the tabs. The chatter of the audience died down to a murmur. The Spirit wore a long gold robe and carried a wand. She addressed us through a radio mike in deafening rhyming couplets.

Nostalgia pierced me. I started to cry. I wasn't sad, but remembered happiness hurts.

The curtains opened on a village street in old China, dominated by the Widow Twankey's Laundry. Wishee-Washee and Aladdin appeared, in the persons of Fritz and a girl from a minor sitcom.

I have permission from Fritz to reproduce his first speech:

“Hello, boys and girls! Did you have a good Christmas?”

It was huge fun. I realized that I hadn't been in a theater since going out with Matthew. The last time had been a couple of weeks before the oral sex incident. We'd sat through a highly fashionable foreign thing at the Almeida, which I'd pretended to love. It had been very worthy, but this was far more enjoyable.

Len Batty's portrayal of the Widow Twankey was caustic and mournful, full of ironic asides, and in its way as many-sided as a good King Lear. He was so funny that even Ruth chuckled. Hideous red ringlets framed his baggy face. He swirled up his skirts to show his bloomers. He attempted to milk the dancing horse and made satirical remarks about the local council.

I threw myself into it, loving every minute. I booed Abanazer. I yelled “Behind you!” I did a dance that involved standing up and mooing like a cow. I went to war with the stalls over who could make the loudest chicken noises. George was just as enthusiastic. Ruth watched us both with (I suspected) professional interest.

About half an hour before the intermission, the flat of the village street was removed and we were inside old Mrs. Twankey's laundry. Two large tubs of foam were placed center stage. George and I grew more excited, for this was the famous “Slosh” scene, in which Fritz and Len Batty were to soak each other with water, spray each other with foam and bounce huge padded bras into the orchestra. They had been rehearsing it minutely for weeks.

The “Slosh” scene was fast and furious, and immensely wet. Both men were soaked to the skin within minutes. Widow Twankey ordered her useless son to count a row of comedy bloomers on a washing line. He got it wrong and accidentally dunked his old mother in the tub (I'm slightly ashamed to report that I was helpless with laughter; you'd never get Q. D. Leavis laughing at such basic slapstick).

“Look what you've done,” Len Batty said. “I'd better take off this wet frockâall you men turn your backs.”

Fritz said, “You're in no danger, Mum!”

“Why, you cheeky littleâ” Batty chased Fritz round the stage. He grabbed a bucket of water and upended it on Fritz's head.

I'm not sure how long it took for the audience to realize something was wrong. It seemed ages, but was probably only a couple of minutes. Len Batty suddenly halted, made an unearthly moaning noise no one could mistake for comedy, and crashed to the floor.

Fritz pulled the bucket off his dripping head. People were still laughing, but also beginning to be anxious. Len Batty lay on the wet stage, his flesh livid under the paint.

And then, for a moment, it looked as if Fritz was attacking him. He dived at Len Batty's chest, tugging at the material of his costume until it ripped apart.

He shouted, “Shut the curtainsâget an ambulance!”

As the curtains closed, we saw Fritz pumping violently at Len Batty's chest.

Before we could all disintegrate into chaos, a man in a bow tie came out with a microphone. He told us to leave our details at the box office and go home. Everyone was very sorry, but Len Batty had been taken ill. Nobody laughed when he asked, several times, if there was a doctor in the house.

“I'd better go down, I suppose,” Ruth said. She stood up. “But it looks as if Wishee-Washee's doing fine by himself.”

I asked, “Do you think he's going to be all right?”

Ruth said, “I don't know. He might have been dead when he hit the floor.”

“Let's look on the bright side,” begged George. “I'm sure Fritz knows what to do.”

“I hope so,” Ruth said. “I haven't done this sort of doctoring for decades.”

We hurried round to the stage door. Ruth, totally impervious to her surroundings, strode into the chaos and announced herself to a frantic man with a clipboard. He shouted something into a radio. Ruth was led away toward the stage.

“No ambulance yet,” George said, his optimism wavering for the first time. “Oh dear.”

We were on our second hot toddy by the time Ruth came home.

“Well?” I demanded. George and I had been on tenterhooks. At several points George had been on the verge of tears. We had agreed that there was something especially heartrending in the thought of the poor old comedian being struck down in a corset and full makeup.

Ruth, never in a hurry, warmed herself at the fire. “The last I heard, they think he'll be all right.”

George asked, “How long did you have to wait for the ambulance?”

“Ages. Please remind me not to have a heart attack in this town. And don't you dare do it either. The nearest decent hospital is miles away.”

“I'd say you need a stiff drink. I'll make another round of hot toddies.” George stood up and went to the kitchen.

Ruth took his chair. She smiled at me. “Thank God Fritz was there. He saved that man's life.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. He knew exactly what to do, and the great thing is to do it quickly. I helped a bit until the ambulance came, but if it had just been me, I'd have been too late.”

“Oh my God.” I was deeply impressed. “He's a hero!”

“He was pouring sweat and utterly exhaustedâbut he wouldn't give up. He was ferocious. He refused to stop until he saw the paramedics and the equipment.”

“Where is he? Is he with you?”

“No, he went in the ambulance. Still dressed in that idiotic costume.” She lowered herself into the armchair opposite. “It struck me that he's a very fine man these days.”

“Phoebe would be so proud,” I said.

“Oh yes, but Phoebe was always proud of him, whatever he did. I was thinking that Jimmy would be pleased at the way he'd turned out.”

I was touched that she had thought of Jimmy, to whom she had never been close. “I wish you'd tell Fritz. He was always dying for his father's approval.”

Ruth sighed. “Father's approval and mother's love. I sometimes think
they're the only essential ingredients for happiness in this life. If everyone in the world had those two things, I'd be out of a job.”

“I wanted Derek's approval,” I said, remembering.

“You had mine, anyway,” Ruth said. “I hope you know it. And you had my loveâthough I couldn't show it in the way that Phoebe did. But I did love you.”

“I know,” I said. “Really”

“This is why I got so worried about you sliding into depressionâbecause my life was so blighted by it. And yours. I think I owe you an apology for what I went through when you were a child.”

Her voice was calm, but there was a longing in it, a fear that what she offered so hesitantly would be thrown back at her, and my eyes filled.

“You mustn't apologize,” I said. “I can see now that you were ill.”

“Thank you.” She settled against the cushions more comfortably. “It went on for ages. But it's fair to say that I'm better these days.”

As if to illustrate this, George came in with a glass of hot toddy. Ruth and I exchanged smiles.

“I wonder what will happen now?” George wondered. “I mean, to the pantomime. They can hardly do it without the star.”

“Poor Fritz,” Ruth said. “Out of a job again.”

The emergency had made the three of us very companionable. We sat by the fire, going over every moment. Ruth said she certainly hadn't anticipated giving mouth-to-mouth to Len Batty. She told us that her face had been covered with his makeup afterward, and she hadn't known until one of the dancers gave her a tissue to wipe it off.

We were still waiting for Fritz at eleven. George and Ruth went to bed. I stayed beside the fire. I couldn't possibly go to bed until I had seen him. I made myself a cup of tea and picked up a book, but I could not read. I stared into the flames, thinking about Fritz. I was ashamed of the way I had underestimated him. How could I ever have believed Matthew was a better man?

I'd been blind and snobbish, and though I fancied myself for my insight, I had managed to overlook Fritz's braveryâhis strength, his sheer goodness. I had been too far up myself to look beyond the louche north
London layabout. I couldn't trust this layabout with my best friend, but I would trust him with my life.

Just after midnight I heard the drunken scraping of a key in the lock, and a muffled voice at the doorâ“Oh fuck.”

I jumped up to let him in. Fritz was wearing his street clothes. His face was striped with paint. He smelled of spirits, and had that fiery glow of triumphant energy I hadn't seen for months. His dejection had gone. He swept me into his arms and kissed me hard on the mouth.

“Cassie, Cassie my darlingâat last I'm fit to look you in the eye.”

I begged him to put me down, and to keep quiet. “You'll wake Ruth and George!”

He dropped his voice to an exaggerated whisper. “Whoops, sorry. Can't have that.”

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