Martin Edwards - All the Lonely People

Cradling his pint in his arm, Harry pushed his way towards the front of the crowd. Had the city council’s entertainments sub-committee really licensed this performance for the Sabbath? Most likely Franco’s were just taking a chance with the law and raking in the profits. As he moved forward, a roar of approval greeted the emergence of the smaller girl’s pert, pink-tipped breasts from her bikini top as her assailant tightened her grip.

Harry fixed his gaze on Dame, who now had the blonde in a parody of a half-nelson, to the accompaniment of boos worthy of a televised wrestling contest. Looking up for a moment, she spotted Harry and winked saucily at him before being diverted as the other girl managed to wriggle free. In the ensuing melee, the blonde contrived to unfasten and then detach Dame’s bra, which she waved in triumph above her head. Dame grabbed it back from her, but with a magnificent gesture threw it at another goggling teenager, to the noisy acclamation of his fellow lookers-on.

“Will you look at that,” breathed a bespectacled youth standing by Harry’s side. His glasses were in danger of steaming up. The sight of Dame’s pendulous bosom, milky white but rapidly caking over with mud, became too much for him and he lapsed into silence.

The blonde beckoned at the boy who had caught the bra-trophy and a surge from behind pitched him headlong into the plastic pool. Alcohol had endowed him with bravado and, staggering to his feet, he bowed to his friends before turning with a start when Dame flopped towards him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Diverted, he was no match for the other girl’s nimble attentions to his belt and zip and within seconds his trousers were down at his ankles. As Dame started to unbutton his shirt, everyone bellowed with beery amusement. Soon enough, though, they had cause to groan as the man in the dapper get-up of a fight referee arrived from backstage to stop the bout and declare a dead heat. The two girls bowed to rapturous applause and exited arm in arm. Gathering his clothes and grinning inanely, the audience participant stumbled back to be swallowed up in the crowd.

The entertainment over, Harry and the others drifted in the direction of the bar. His second pint was nearly at an end when he heard a couple of ribald comments from the other men standing at the counter at the same time as a long arm snaked around his waist. At the same time, a husky voice in his ear said, “Mine’s a Bacardi and Coke, in case you’ve forgotten, and take no notice of this ignorant mob, I only have eyes for you.”

As he turned his head, Dame’s cheek pressed against his. He found her hand and, clasping it, ordered drinks for them both. Moving back, he surveyed her virginal white blouse and black leather skirt, newly combed shoulder-length hair and wicked smile.

“I hardly recognised you with your clothes on.”

“That’s what all my men friends say,” she said. “Cheers.”

He took a draught from his replenished pint pot and said, “Congratulations. An outstanding display in every way.”

She laughed. “I ought to try harder with the diet, be honest. Anyway, Franco’s made up. It brings the punters flocking in on what would otherwise be a dead day. Specially you repressed office types. The fellers tell their old ladies they’re just popping out to the local for a quiet Sunday jar and then they leg it down here for a bit of harmless fun.”

“Almost a public service.”

“You’re not wrong.” She emptied her glass. “Thirsty work, though.”

As he tried to catch up with the barmaid, he said, “Been here long?”

“A fortnight. The money’s good, but I’m just filling in. I’ve been promised an audition for the new Bleasdale at the Everyman. Besides, it’s only a question of time before the scuffers catch up with us here. At present, we get one or two off-duty constables who keep their mouths shut, but word’ll get round. I need to look to the future.”

Ever since he had first met her, Dame had been on the verge of a breakthrough in her acting career. A few years back, she had managed a bit part in a TV soap, only to be wiped out in a hotel fire on the whim of a scriptwriter under pressure to boost the ratings. Her appearances in regional rep had been confined to stripping off in unfunny farces. Otherwise she led a twilight existence, working mainly in pubs and clubs, transferring her affections from one unsatisfactory man to another, not allowing the knock-backs to diminish her faith that fame was just around the next corner.

The drinks arrived. She said, “Thanks, Harry,” and then, more sombrely, “Don’t feel you need to talk about Liz if it hurts too much.”

“Matter of fact, Dame, I didn’t simply come here for the pleasure of ogling at your boobs. Lovely as they are. I wanted to have a word with you about Liz. You were as close to her as any of us.”

“I feel as though a part of me was killed that night.” She uttered the phrase simply, without any false dramatics. She had grown up with Liz, lived in the next street to her, gone to school with her, shared early boyfriends with her. After a moment a harder note entered her voice as she said, “Where’s that shit Coghlan? There’s a story going round that he’s done a runner.”

After Harry had told her of his most recent conversation with Skinner, he said, “Why don’t we go somewhere quiet to talk?”

“Suits me.” An impish grin spread over her face. “I know a place where we won’t be bothered.”

“Lead me there.”

“You’ll have to put up with a few more topless ladies though.”

He studied her own conspicuous curves and in the same bantering tone said, “I’m intrigued. Let’s go.”

As they left Franco’s, Dame entwined her arm in his. “The Olivier it ain’t,” she said, “but at least it pays the rent.”

They chatted about inconsequential things as she led him through the labyrinth of city streets. Eighteen months or more had passed since their last meeting and she filled in the gaps with a panache that had him laughing every dozen yards. She told him of her ill-starred spell as a stand-up comic in Manchester cabaret and of how her last live-in lover, supposedly a company director with a fortune tied up in the futures trade, had done a flit with five hundred pounds from her building society account. The cash had supposedly been borrowed to tide him over a week-end until, he’d said, a hiccup with his bank due to a computer break-down had been sorted out. As ever she took her disappointments philosophically; hers was a life of easy-come, easy-go.

When they reached the city end of Dale Street, he asked “Where are you taking me?”

She squeezed his hand. “Losing your bottle? Trust me. I’ll make you believe I’m a highbrow yet.”

“Dame,” he said. “I’d willingly believe anything of you.”

Giggling, she said, “And you’d be right.”

“So what’s our destination?”

“You’re looking at it.” She stretched out a long arm and pointed up the incline that lay before them towards the stately buildings of William Brown Street, the Iron Duke’s monument and the Corinthian bulk of St. George’s Hall. “The art gallery,” she explained, as though to a slow-witted infant. “Remember what I said about the bare ladies? They’re two a penny in there.”

Following her past the two statues which guarded the approach to the Walker Gallery; Harry was unable to resist a grin, “Do you come here often?”

“All the time,” she said with a wave of the arm. She treated a young man at the bookstall to a seductive pout; he had been admiring her figure and now responded with a blush. “Take that disbelieving look off your face, Harry Devlin. I went to art college once, remember?”

He had forgotten that and assumed a contrite expression. She nodded vigorously and said, “I may only be a humble mud wrestler, but this place fascinates me. It has a magic I never found in any other gallery. Don’t ask why, I could never explain.”