Eric Morecambe - Mr Lonely

‘That’s okay,’ said the ventriloquist. ‘Just greathe in and we’ll all ge agle to get kassed,’ said the ventriloquist’s dummy.

‘You’d better come in,’ Serina smiled. He did. ‘And close the door. I’m sorry. The room isn’t really big enough for two people. If you sit here, Sid, I’ll be able to take my make-up off.’

‘Thanks.’ He sat down.

‘You put a few different ones in tonight,’ she said. ‘What was that one about “together at last”?’

‘Oh, that’s the prostitute one. You know, about the scrubber who dies, and on her gravestone she had written “Together at last”, and someone asks if she has been buried with her husband, and the scrubber’s friend says, “No, dearie, she means her legs!” ‘

Serina laughed out loud. It was one of the dirtiest laughs Sid could remember. It sounded like the last quarter of an inch of a squirting soda-siphon bottle. ‘That’s funny. Oh, yes, I like that one,’ she coughed. ‘I thought you worked well tonight.’

‘That’s very kind, Serina,’ he said, slightly embarrassed.

‘Could you pass those tissues?’ He did as asked. ‘Thank you. Do you like my work?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, a shade too quickly.

‘I’ve never seen you watching me.’

‘You wouldn’t. I always go out front to watch you,’ he lied.

‘Drink?’

‘What have you got?’

‘I’ve got half a bottle of whiskey, or a full bottle of Scotch.’

‘And you?’ Sid asked.

‘Maybe.’ A slight pause. ‘Later.’

Nudge, nudge, hint, hint went through Sid’s mind.

‘I have to change. Please help yourself.’

‘To what?’ Sid smiled.

‘You’ll find all you want under my slip, the one on the table,’ she said slowly. ‘You have to hide the drinks in this place.’

‘Don’t I know. Mine’s under the sink in a locked suitcase and the suitcase is chained to the wall.’

Serina made her way to the corner of the room. ‘Turn round while I change. No, darling, not towards me, the other way, and don’t look in the mirror. It could steam up.’

Sid poured his drink, turned his back and relaxed. No way was he going to look in the mirror, when, if he played his cards right, he’d be able to see the real thing. After a few audible tugs and pulls, sounds of opening and closing zips, followed by clicking of wire hangers, Serina said, ‘Pour me a small one, Sid angel. I’m almost dressed.’ Sid did as he was asked, never once looking in the mirror.

‘Okay to turn round?’

‘Didn’t you even peek?’

‘You told me not to.’

‘Do you always do as you’re told?’

‘It depends how big the bed is.’ He gave her the drink.

‘There isn’t room for one here. That’s for sure.’ She sipped the drink. ‘Well, I’m through for the night. How about you?’

‘Yes, if I want to, or I could go on and thank them after Frank’s finished but I don’t have to. Al and Manny like me to do it. They say it’s good policy.’

‘They’re not here tonight,’ Serina said. ‘They’re in Stoke. They’ve gone to Jollees and they’re staying overnight.’

‘Oh.’ A slight pause. ‘How do you know?’

‘You’ll have to take my word for it,’ she smiled.

‘You going home now?’

‘Yes. You?’

‘Er … yes,’ answered Sid.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Not far—Friern Barnet. You?’ He stood up.

‘Ballards Lane,’ she said.

‘Ballards Lane. I go past there every night—near the Gaumont, North Finchley.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Good God.’

‘Pass me that umbrella, sweetheart.’

Come on, Sid, think quicker, she’s almost leaving, he thought. Aloud he said, ‘You live there with your folks?’

‘No.’

‘Husband?’

‘No. I’m not married.’

‘I am.’ Might as well get that part straight.

‘I know,’ she said.

‘Oh.’

‘So?’

‘Fella? You live with your fella, then?’ He tried to be casual, as if he asked all women that question every day, even his mother.

‘I like too much freedom for anything like that.’

‘Right!’

‘I have a flat in Ballards Lane and it’s mine.’

‘Maybe I could drop you off?’

‘I have a car, Sid.’

‘Oh.’ He was losing ground rapidly and she knew it. ‘Oh, well. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow and I’ll supply the booze.’

‘What time do you normally get home?’ She was fastening her coat. ‘If you stay and do your bit at the end?’

‘Any time. Two, three, three-thirty. Any time,’ he said.

‘What’s the time now?’

Sid looked at his watch. It said eleven-forty-five. ‘Eleven-thirty.’

‘Do you fancy a drink?’

‘At your place?’

‘Where else? Unless you think your wife wouldn’t mind you bringing me home to have a drink at your place and, of course, we could keep very quiet and only have a soft drink.’ She laughed again. This time the laugh was like a set of poker dice being shaken in a pewter tankard.

‘Your place it is, then,’ Sid grinned. ‘I’ll get my coat and follow your car.’

‘Don’t make it too obvious, chérie. I’ll leave now and see you back at my place. Number 447. It’s on the ground floor. Bottom button.’

Fine.

‘At about twelvish. Now off you go back to your room and, incidentally, your watch has stopped.’ They both looked at each other and grinned.

Sid left her room with an extra loud, ‘Goodnight, Serina,’ that Lord Olivier would have had trouble following. He went to his own dressing-room, had a quick electric shave, splashed some ‘Henry Cooper’ all over his body, ‘Mummed’ under both arms and talcumed everywhere else. He knelt down below the sink, opened the suitcase with his key and poured himself a good glass of Scotch.

Sid stopped his car in Ballards Lane, got out and looked at the house numbers. 459. I’ll leave the car here and walk back, he decided. He looked down Ballards Lane and about six houses back saw a house with the front curtains drawn but not tightly closed. It was the only house with the front room lit. That’s got to be it, he thought. If that light goes out before I get there, I’ll break the window. He quickened his pace, looked at his watch—one minute to the bewitching hour. He found the bottom button of three, checked the number again and, with a thundering heart, pressed the button. The bell made no sound at all, not that he could hear. After maybe twenty seconds the curtains to his right in the bay window slowly opened, ever so slightly, and bright red, well-manicured fingernails tapped on the glass. The curtain closed before he caught a glimpse of the face. He stood there, knowing how the Boston Strangler must have felt. At the back of the door bolts and locks were heard to be working. The door opened and Serina pulled Sid in.

She closed and rebolted the door, looked up at him and smiled. ‘You must have had your watch repaired. Give me your coat and go in there,’ pointing to the door leading to the front room. She left him with an, ‘I’ve only just come in myself.’

Sid heard voices coming from the front room. Oh, hell, he thought. That’s ruined the evening. He gently pushed the door open and in the far corner Ginger Rogers was telling Fred Astaire that she didn’t love him in the least. Except for Sid, Fred and Ginger, no one else was there. The room itself was very nice, tasteful and comfortable. He sat down on the settee in front of a coffee table with a coffee percolator in competition with Fred and Ginger singing ‘Change Partners’. There were a few photos in frames on a sideboard. One in particular took Sid’s eye: Al and Manny Keppleman with Serina, taken at a party.

Serina came into the room carrying a tray with two coffee cups, two glasses and a bottle of champagne on it. Style, thought Sid. She had also changed into the inevitable ‘something comfortable’. Hell fire, he thought, she either really fancies me or she thinks I know where the bodies are buried.