Read Online The Year of the Ladybird by Graham Joyce - Free Book Online
Authors: Graham Joyce
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never did; and that at college I had met a lot of posh types who didn’t deserve the chance at all; and that the awful British class system was at the root of a
lot of injustice in our society. While I banged on Tony stared at me with shining eyes, as if no one had ever said this before, even though he must have heard it a million times.
He waited until I finished and looked at me seriously. ‘You see, David, the people in this country don’t know what’s coming. There’s a recession deepening and things are
going to get ugly. But they don’t see it. They’re like the drunk who doesn’t want to leave a party. Well, it’s time they sobered up and realised that we’ve had the
party and it’s time to pay the cabbie and go home.’
I didn’t know which cabbie he meant, exactly, but I nodded anyway. ‘What we want,’ he continued, ‘is more ordinary boys like you going to college. This is the future. Not
a gang of toffs quaffing champagne from a lady’s slipper while they formulate government policy.’ He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. ‘They’re rearranging the
deckchairs on the
Titanic
, you understand that, don’t you, son?’
I said I did.
‘I knew you were a good ’un as soon as I clapped eyes on you. You can tell. Only you have to be careful who you’re talking to. They don’t want to talk politics, most of
this lot. They’d rather suck on the titty and leave it all to others. I knew you were different.’ He got to his feet and picked up our empty coffee cups, even though there was a
waitress to collect them. ‘I’ll pay for these.’ He went over to the counter and made a joke with the girl working the till. I didn’t see any money change hands.
When he came back he said, ‘You’re not doing anything tomorrow, are you?’
The next day was Saturday, changeover day. It was my day off and I had no one with whom to spend it. I shrugged.
‘There’s some interesting people we want you to meet.’
‘We?’
‘Midday, outside the main gates. We’ll pick you up in the car.’
‘To do what?’
‘Midday. Tomorrow.’ Then he turned and walked away from me, breaking into some old crooning song. There was a very old white-haired lady at a table near the door. He dropped into a
crouch, grasped her hand and gazed soulfully into her eyes as he sang. Then he released her and was gone.
The Friday farewell show came and went. It was led expertly by Abdul-Shazam in his red fez. He was good. He had the audience feeding from his hand. He expertly set up his gags
(jokes were called gags by showbiz people) with terrific timing. He improvised around the names of the prize-winners and nothing fell flat. I got to help with some of his magic act, around which
the prize-giving was structured. It was exciting to see the simple mechanisms at large, the false bottoms, the fake linings of the magic act. Rather than stealing away the enchantment, this insight
only made it more fascinating. With light and shadow everything worked. Kids and adults alike were drawn up on stage and induced to stick their hand in a velvet bag or under a steel blade. Their
trust was uncanny. They abdicated all responsibility. They let the authority of the stage take over them.
The power wielded under the arc lamps by Tony-Abdul-Shazam was a little bit disturbing. Only I and his other stage assistants were close enough to see the perspiration that went into his act.
Everyone who came on stage was given a baton of candy rock they could carry away with them, a multi-coloured magic wand. Yes, when they got back to their seats it would be nothing more than a stick
of sugar in a cellophane wrapper, but by then it was someone else’s turn to be up on stage, blinking, dazzled by the limelight.
The farewell show was eventually followed by the Friday Revue and I noticed that Luca’s attitude had changed. He breezed in before the show and he was polite, he greeted everyone; but he
was professional and distant, flinty
lot of injustice in our society. While I banged on Tony stared at me with shining eyes, as if no one had ever said this before, even though he must have heard it a million times.
He waited until I finished and looked at me seriously. ‘You see, David, the people in this country don’t know what’s coming. There’s a recession deepening and things are
going to get ugly. But they don’t see it. They’re like the drunk who doesn’t want to leave a party. Well, it’s time they sobered up and realised that we’ve had the
party and it’s time to pay the cabbie and go home.’
I didn’t know which cabbie he meant, exactly, but I nodded anyway. ‘What we want,’ he continued, ‘is more ordinary boys like you going to college. This is the future. Not
a gang of toffs quaffing champagne from a lady’s slipper while they formulate government policy.’ He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. ‘They’re rearranging the
deckchairs on the
Titanic
, you understand that, don’t you, son?’
I said I did.
‘I knew you were a good ’un as soon as I clapped eyes on you. You can tell. Only you have to be careful who you’re talking to. They don’t want to talk politics, most of
this lot. They’d rather suck on the titty and leave it all to others. I knew you were different.’ He got to his feet and picked up our empty coffee cups, even though there was a
waitress to collect them. ‘I’ll pay for these.’ He went over to the counter and made a joke with the girl working the till. I didn’t see any money change hands.
When he came back he said, ‘You’re not doing anything tomorrow, are you?’
The next day was Saturday, changeover day. It was my day off and I had no one with whom to spend it. I shrugged.
‘There’s some interesting people we want you to meet.’
‘We?’
‘Midday, outside the main gates. We’ll pick you up in the car.’
‘To do what?’
‘Midday. Tomorrow.’ Then he turned and walked away from me, breaking into some old crooning song. There was a very old white-haired lady at a table near the door. He dropped into a
crouch, grasped her hand and gazed soulfully into her eyes as he sang. Then he released her and was gone.
The Friday farewell show came and went. It was led expertly by Abdul-Shazam in his red fez. He was good. He had the audience feeding from his hand. He expertly set up his gags
(jokes were called gags by showbiz people) with terrific timing. He improvised around the names of the prize-winners and nothing fell flat. I got to help with some of his magic act, around which
the prize-giving was structured. It was exciting to see the simple mechanisms at large, the false bottoms, the fake linings of the magic act. Rather than stealing away the enchantment, this insight
only made it more fascinating. With light and shadow everything worked. Kids and adults alike were drawn up on stage and induced to stick their hand in a velvet bag or under a steel blade. Their
trust was uncanny. They abdicated all responsibility. They let the authority of the stage take over them.
The power wielded under the arc lamps by Tony-Abdul-Shazam was a little bit disturbing. Only I and his other stage assistants were close enough to see the perspiration that went into his act.
Everyone who came on stage was given a baton of candy rock they could carry away with them, a multi-coloured magic wand. Yes, when they got back to their seats it would be nothing more than a stick
of sugar in a cellophane wrapper, but by then it was someone else’s turn to be up on stage, blinking, dazzled by the limelight.
The farewell show was eventually followed by the Friday Revue and I noticed that Luca’s attitude had changed. He breezed in before the show and he was polite, he greeted everyone; but he
was professional and distant, flinty