The Grin of the Dark (28 page)

We should never think history is fixed. That's as untrue of the
cinema as it is of any other area of study, especially now that so
much we thought was lost is being rediscovered. Sometimes we might
feel as if the collective unconscious has repressed a memory. We can see
why Stepin Fetchit became an embarrassment, though not in the French
sense, but how long will anyone even remember him? By now the world
has forgotten both how hilarious audiences once found Max Davidson
and how his brand of Jewish humour was declared unacceptable. Of
course some groups might prefer to pretend that Jewish comics never
parodied their race, but the awkward truth is that he did for one. Now
that he's safely embalmed in the form of extras on Laurel and Hardy
DVDs, perhaps history can come to terms with him. Some resurrections
may be harder to keep quiet, however. The films of Tubby Thackeray
caused ructions during the First World War, and they're still difficult to
contain within their genre. Comedies they may be, but his uniquely
anarchic brand of slapstick seems to have tempted contemporary
viewers to throw off too many conventions. Some resisted, some gave
in, but nobody was comfortable with him. It's time to find out whether
today's audiences will be more in sympathy with the films he made with
director Orville Hart...

It reads as if I'm trying to delay discussing Tubby. I'm attempting
to place him in a context, even if it's reluctant to accept him. The rest
of the chapter sketches his and Hart's careers and speculates about
Tubby's influence on the director's later work. It's as much as I can
manage until I'm free of jet lag and able to do justice to the notes I
made in California. I change several phrases and several details before
emailing it to Colin. For a moment I have a sense of achievement, and
then it's crowded out of my head.

By the time I went to bed last night, Natalie was asleep. When I
awoke, having very eventually managed to doze, she and Mark had
gone. I keep feeling prompted to ring her about Smilemime's latest, but
for any number of reasons this seems inadvisable. At least my bank
balance has been restored, though I've yet to receive an explanation.
Just now I'm more anxious to understand how Smilemime could have
made the allegation.

I want to believe it's just another deranged fantasy. Is it a coincidence
too outrageous for any fiction to risk, or could there be a
reference somewhere online to my stay at Limestones? I've emailed
Willie Hart a link to Smilemime's message and asked whether she has
any idea where he might have gained the notion, but she has yet to
respond. I find references to several Simon Lesters like alternative
versions of me on the net, but none of them owns up to any mischief.
Even when I expand my search to include adults-only links, my name
brings up no sex sites, and so how can Smilemime have tracked me
down to one? I won't let him go unchallenged any longer.

Don't bother trying to threaten me with nonsense. And stop
making allegations everyone can see are lies. I hereby invite you
to post a link to the site. In fact I insist. If it isn't in your reply,
be aware what that tells everyone about you, that's if anyone is
even reading this.

Of course I mean if anyone is reading Smilemime's messages. The
instant mine is sent I realise my mistake. I sit up so abruptly that the
chair backs away from the desk. I'm not just frustrated. As the
message was set loose on the Internet, someone burst out laughing
beyond the apartment door.

It's my chance to learn who lives opposite. I leave the chair
twisting like a dervish as I sprint along the hall. I'm not sure how
derisive the receding laughter sounds. I grab the latch and fling the
door open. At once there's silence in the empty corridor. The stairs
are deserted too. I dodge to the door that faces Natalie's. As I peer
through the spyhole, an eye swells to meet mine.

It's my reflection, which is why it seems closer than the far side of
the door. I'm raising my fist to knock when I hear a voice inside the
apartment. 'He's a silly, isn't he?' it exults. 'What a goose. A
Christmas goose.'

I can't judge how near it is. I'm not even certain of its gender. Its
words sound like an extension or translation of its laughter, especially
when it adds 'Did he see himself on the screen? Was he doing all those
funny things? What a funny face.'

I mustn't fancy that any of this refers to me. I simply want to know
who's speaking. I'm brandishing my fist only because I'm about to
knock, but the monologue beyond the door arrests it. 'Who had
nothing on, then? Were they laughing at his dangly bits? He can laugh
as well. They had nothing on and no danglies.'

What disturbs me most is the lack of any audible response. Is
anybody there except the speaker? When the voice enquires 'He
didn't mind everyone seeing him, did he?' I've had enough. I knock
so hard my knuckles feel skinned raw.

For the second time there's instant silence. It might be pretending
that I never heard a voice. I give it a few moments, more than I think
it deserves. 'Hello?' I call and make to knock again. The door is
snatched open, and as I lose my balance I almost punch a woman on
her pointed chin.

She's inches taller than me. She's wearing a chunky white robe that
barely covers the tops of her stiltish pallid shins. She thrusts a mobile
phone into her pocket before I can determine whether she was
speaking to it or about to do so. Her long face ducks towards me as
if it's gaining too much weight to hold upright. 'He was nearly off,'
she mutters.

Am I hearing the same voice? At least I may be seeing the explanation
of the monologue. In the room at the end of the hall decorated
with framed posters, a kind of sling hangs from the ceiling. The sling
is stuffed with a large toddler in a white towelling one-piece suit that
covers its hands and feet and most of its head. Beyond the doorway
to the room the edge of a television screen is displaying some activity.
'You were talking to him,' I blurt.

I'm not sure this explains much, especially if she wanted the child
to sleep. Perhaps my tone betrays my doubts, because she jerks her
head high and sweeps her long black hair away from her face. 'Why
shouldn't I? What's he got to do with you? What did you hear?'

I won't be overwhelmed by the choice of questions. 'Enough,' I
murmur.

Why is she speaking so quietly when she wasn't before? Except for
the sight of her I could imagine that a man is whispering. 'I expect it's
how people talk to their children when they think nobody else is
around,' I concede.

Her stare grows keener. Her eyes are very black and white. 'Have
you got any?' she says low.

'Why, are you after some more?' I keep that to myself and say 'A
little boy.'

'You don't look the type. Still, you can never tell.'

'Tell what?' I'm provoked to demand.

'I'd have said you were on your own.'

'I'm nothing of the kind.'

I attempt not to be distracted by the toddler as it bounces up and
down in the sling as if to demonstrate how much it's entertained. The
scrap I can distinguish of the image on the screen suggests a web site
rather than a television show. 'So how old is your son?' says the woman.

'He's not my son. That is, I didn't have him.' To judge by her
expression, I might as well not have added that. 'No good as a
playmate, I'm afraid,' I say. 'Too old.'

Her lips part unevenly, revealing large teeth. 'Who for?'

'For whatever his name is.' When pointing at the toddler, whose
bouncing seems unusually silent, gains me no information I say 'I'm
surprised you haven't met Mark or his mother.'

'Why should we have?'

'Maybe it's me, but where I come from we like to know our neighbours.'

'We're enough,' she says more toothily still. 'You seem to want to
know a lot when you haven't said who you are.'

'You can see,' I tell her, but she only widens her eyes. 'I mean you
can see where I came from.' Her gaze doesn't waver, and I turn to
indicate. As I wobble to a halt I feel as if my head or my surroundings
are continuing to spin, because while I've been in conversation, if it
can be called that, the door to Natalie's apartment has shut without
a sound.

I have to glance down to confirm I'm dressed, which might make
this less of a nightmare if I had keys in my pockets. I tramp across the
corridor to give the door a manful shove. It resists as if some rubbery
obstruction has lodged against the far side, and then it yields. I could
imagine it has flattened the impediment, but there's nothing on the
floor. I reach around the door to latch it open, only to find I already
have. It seems easier to confront the neighbour than my own
bemusement. 'There you are,' I say. 'I'm here.'

Her voice scarcely carries across the corridor, but I can't be
imagining the sounds her mouth forms, having concealed the widest
grin at my predicament – I'm almost sure it did. 'I'm still no nearer
knowing what you want,' she at least mouths.

'Just to say hello as neighbours do. I heard you in the corridor.'

'What did you hear?'

I feel as if the conversation has reverted to its opening. I'm
distracted by the toddler, which is bouncing so vigorously I can't
focus on it to disprove that its gleeful face is swelling out of the white
hood like a balloon. Of course the hood is simply being shaken off,
and the screen isn't really displaying naked babies crawling over one
another. I veer across the corridor, but I'd have to go all the way into
the apartment to identify the greyish images. 'You were laughing at
something,' I tell the woman. 'Can I ask what?'

'When?'

The question is little more than a baring of her teeth. 'Just before
we met,' I say.

'I wasn't there. Whatever you heard, it wasn't me.'

I'm tempted to retort that she isn't audible now, but the view
behind her has grown even more distracting. How can the toddler's
antics be reflected in the glass within the frames of all the posters?
Certainly there's pallid movement inside every frame, and I'm even
less able to distinguish the posters themselves. As for the toddler, he
has twirled like the contents of a spider's web to face me. With the
distance or the movement of the sling or both, I'm unable to
determine how widely he has begun to grin. The hood has fallen back,
which lends it an unpleasant resemblance to a ruff of whitish fat. The
toddler's plump unhealthily pale face quivers at each bounce, and I
can do without the notion that it looks ready to slither off his bald
head. I'm trying to find some element of normality as well as showing
concern as I say 'Is that safe?'

'That has a name.'

Her lips haven't finished moving when she turns away. Perhaps
she has decided that the toddler is indeed in peril, since she slams the
door. I didn't notice her footwear, but she must be wearing strapless
sandals for her tread to sound so large and floppy. 'Did he want to
talk, then? Is that why he did such a dance?' she asks louder than
seems to makes sense, and if I let myself I could imagine she's talking
to me. I shut my door harder than she closed hers. I haven't time for
any more meaningless diversions. I need to see what Thackeray left
behind.

'Hi, Mark. What have you been up to?'

'I've been watching your DVD with Tubby on. Mummy said you
wouldn't mind if I was careful.'

'Did she? Maybe you should be careful you don't wear it out.'

'That's silly. DVDs don't wear out. We've got him for always
now.'

'Calm down, Mark. No need to panic. Maybe you shouldn't
watch it too much in case you wear your brain out.'

'I won't. It makes my brain feel lots more awake. You wanted me
to watch so I could tell you what I thought.'

'You did, so there's no need – '

'I've thought some more.'

'Ah. Well, as long as you have, what's the conclusion?'

'It isn't like Laurel and Hardy or any of them. It's like seeing a very
old play, like the one we did at school last week.'

'I can't say I see the resemblance.'

'Maybe they've both got old things in. You know, faithy things. It
still makes me laugh.'

'I won't ask which. Seriously, I hope you're finding other diversions
as well.'

'What are those?'

'Activities. Fun. I'm impressed by how grown-up you are, Mark,
but don't miss out on things you may not have time for when you're
older.'

'I've been looking for Tubby for you.'

'That's very thoughtful of you. Where?'

'Sorry. It sounded like you thought he was round here.'

'All right, Mark, have a laugh and then tell me where.'

'Where would you look for anything? On the Internet, of course.'

'I should warn you, you may find a lot that isn't true and never
was. Stuff people imagine or make up for reasons that don't make any
sense.'

'I'll show you what I've found when we see you.'

'I'll be waiting. Is Natalie there?'

'Here I am. I thought you'd never finish discussing someone we
needn't name. How's your hotel?'

'Lives up to its name and doesn't let you forget it. Shouts it everywhere
you look.'

'Lots of style, you mean.'

'Don't know about the substance, though.'

'I expect you can survive until we pick you up.'

'I honestly don't mind if we all make our ways to my parents.'

'We'll come for you. Mark's very proud of his route off the
Internet.'

'See you tomorrow, then. Love to both.'

'Ours to you,' says Natalie and leaves me alone in a room where
everything appears to be about to effloresce or to twist into another
shape: the unfurling head and foot of the double bed, the almost
angelically winged chair, the tips of the curves of the rest of the
bedroom furniture, the glass fans that crown the mirrors. I'm not sure
if this is art deco or nouveau, and I don't think the hotel is any surer.
My damaged suitcase looks misplaced in the midst of so much extravagance,
and so does the television, especially since it can receive the
Internet. I wander to the window, which has silenced what I take to
be a Mancunian tradition – a fair that fills Piccadilly Gardens with
enough coloured lights for a thicket of Christmas trees. The soundless
riot of activity makes me feel even more detached from my
surroundings. Before I decide how to spend my evening I ought at
least to check my email. I log on to find a message from Colin, and
not just a message.

Salutations to our foremost name! We both think you've made
an excellent start on our book, not that we'd expect less. I've
made just the odd tweak. For instance, maybe it should address
the subject faster – we don't want anyone to think you wish you
were writing about something else. Film is the art of the last
century just like the Internet is the medium of the future, so
don't give people any chance to get away from it. I've attached
the changes to you. Let me know how they look.

Am I reluctant to open the attachment? My fingers are recalling
how crippled they were by lugging the suitcase. I have to press them
together to regain enough control to click the mouse.

Some resurrections can't be suppressed, and Tubby Thackeray's won't
be. Never heard of him? You won't be saying that for long. His
comedies caused controversy when they went much further than his
rival Charlie Chaplin, and they're set to cause it now. Genre can't
contain them. Whatever rules you think slapstick has, he breaks them.
They must have looked like anarchist propaganda, but they're too
anarchic for propaganda. Perhaps by the end of this book we'll be on our
way to understanding what they are...

Most of the chapter isn't so spectacularly recast. Some of the ideas in
the first paragraph are versions of points I made later on. I feel oddly
distanced from the material and unable to work up much anger. If
anything, I'm glad we have a final draft that the publisher can use to
help promote the book. Jet lag must be why, whenever I attempt to
ponder Tubby's films or my notes about them just now, my mind
swarms with undefined connections and feels close to overload. At least
Christmas will give me a break, after which I'm sure I'll be able to write.

There are at least a dozen other emails, but none from Willie Hart or
from the bank. I delete the mass mailings unread and check the
newsgroups. Smilemime hasn't responded to my challenge. I ought to
take that as an admission of defeat – I hope everyone else does – but,
entirely ridiculously, I feel neglected, ignored, hardly even present. It
must be another symptom of jet lag, but I wish I could phone someone
for company – and then I remember that I may have unfinished business.

'Films for fun...' I wait for Charley Tracy to finish inviting me to
call the mobile if there's a panic. My nerves do feel electrified by the
time it gives me a chance to say 'Anybody there? I was wondering – '

'It's never Professor Lester.'

'It isn't, no. Just plain Simon.'

'Plain and simple, eh? How do then, just plain Simon. How's your
book coming?'

'I've seen almost all of Tubby's films. I'm in Manchester to do one
more piece of research.'

'What a coincidence. More like a miracle. Must be the time of
year.'

'I was going to ask you if there were any other leads I should
follow up. Last time we spoke you said you'd meant to take me
somewhere else.'

'Do us a favour and I'll do you one, how's that?'

'May I know what they are?'

'Can you talk to some folk about Tubby Thackeray?'

'That's the one you're asking.'

'Could be either.'

The conversation is starting to seem like a joke, not least because
the mirrors are displaying my unamused grin. 'So tell me about them,'
I urge.

'Just a bunch that like a laugh. They're expecting me to give them
a talk, but I bet they'd rather hear from a real book writer that can
tell them about Tubby. I know I would.'

'When would you need me?'

'Soon as I can get you. Want to tell me where you are?'

'The Style Hotel.'

'That's not like the thing you have to climb over.'

'Style with a y,' I say, suspecting that he knows perfectly well.

'Sounds like your kind of place.'

I won't take that as a sly gibe. 'Do you know where – '

'By the fair. See you outside,' Tracy says, and I'm alone with my
ruefully grinning self.