The Insect Farm (14 page)

This was the first TV personality I had ever seen in real life and, to my own surprise, I could feel a growing sense of excitement and anticipation. Eventually he arrived next to us, and I was irritated to see Brendan take charge of the introductions, almost as though he was in some way the leader of the quartet. Up close David Frost seemed smaller than he did on TV, but he had one of those smiles which, when he flashed it at you, made you think you were the only interesting person in the world.

I stood to one side as Brendan introduced Harriet, and Frost took her hand and kissed it. Harriet’s face reflected her delight. I think she even blushed.

“This is Jonathan, who is Harriet’s partner and is also helping with the catering this evening,” Brendan said, turning to me.

“Lucky man,” said Frost. He shook my hand vigorously as though he had just been introduced to the new President of the United States. “And I don’t mean lucky to be serving vol-au-vents at my humble gathering, obviously…” We all laughed and he laughed loudest of all of us. Just behind me stood Roger, and Frost’s eyes and attention naturally went to him. “And this is?”

“This is Roger.” I took over and for a moment considered lying. “Roger is my older brother. He helps us to carry the instruments and music stands, and he also helps us to collect money when we are busking.”

Frost saw the opening and was quick to fill it. “Well, I don’t suppose you’ll get much tonight,” he said, shaking Roger’s hand and lowering his voice as if in conspiracy, “all my guests are a lot of miserly old bastards.” I watched Roger’s face carefully as the rest of us broke up in uproarious laughter, and I think his uncomprehending smile went unnoticed in the general hilarity. Seconds later, Frost was off to the next group of people, making their day and passing along.

Now I was late and had to report quickly to the catering tent.

“Now, Roger,” I said, “remember what I told you. Stick close to Harriet, but don’t get in anyone’s way. Don’t open up a conversation with anyone, but if anyone speaks to you, just say you are working and walk away.” I figured that if anyone did speak to Roger, they would soon work out what was going on, and would be likely to move on quickly anyway. That was what usually happened. Roger nodded to indicate that he understood, and if anything he seemed excited and keen for me to leave him.

The invitations said that the party would last from six until eight, but we were told that we would need to go on serving until 9.30 at least. The first guests began to arrive very promptly, and I went into action with trays of champagne.

I think the cliché for describing these occasions is “glittering”, and as the mêlée of guests gathered, I began to see why. There were famous actors and actresses. Anthony Andrews and Sarah Miles. Claire Bloom and Bob Hoskins. Also among
the early guests whom I knew instantly were Ronnie Corbett and Ronnie Barker, both dressed in candy-striped blazers and obviously having fun. I reckon that there must have been a lot of people there whom everyone else recognized apart from me.

The main challenge for me was to manoeuvre my way through the crowd, preferably without spilling champagne on any passing royalty. The best way to avoid accidents seemed to be simply to follow natural instincts, heading for any opening in the crowd and meandering at will. One tray of drinks lasted just a few minutes as people exchanged their empty glasses for full ones. There was Willie Whitelaw talking to Neil Kinnock. Over there Jimmy Tarbuck was entertaining Uri Geller.

As things turned out, for most of the evening my wanderings kept me on the other side of the garden from where the quartet was playing. Of course I could hear their music, and once or twice I heard someone saying how delightful they sounded.

A busy hour had passed by when it occurred to me that I hadn’t thought or heard about Roger. I felt a twinge of concern as the consideration dawned. A moment later I realized that, if anything had been amiss, I would have heard or seen something. The gathering was not so large that any significant incident could go unnoticed.

I began to move more purposefully among the crowd, still holding my tray, but perhaps giving people less time to think
about whether they wanted to swap an empty glass for a full one. I skirted the edges of the gathering, glancing outwards into the trees that marked the boundaries of the garden. There was Bruce Forsyth accompanied by a fabulous-looking blonde woman with the shape and proportions of a Barbie doll. Maybe she was the hostess from some game show he was presenting at the time. There was Edward Heath, wearing a white dinner jacket with a red carnation in his buttonhole, surrounded by a group of what looked like equally chinless wonders.

But there was no sign of Roger.

Eventually, and now with a rising sense of concern, I abandoned the drinks tray behind a bush and headed towards the area where Harriet and the quartet were playing. People were standing in tight groups, entirely absorbed in their conversations, and oblivious to any need for passage between them. Almost all of the men wore suits, and most of the women looked attractive in their summer evening gowns. I struggled in the general direction of the music, and when I reached the corner of the garden where they were playing, the quartet was in the middle of performing that lovely piece by Pachelbel and all in all it made for a perfect English scene.

I guess my fast approach must have caught their attention, because I saw Harriet’s eyes glance towards me. She was producing magical sounds from her flute, but still she must instantly have seen the look of anxiety on my face because, scarcely moving her head and with her lips still pursed in
that tight pucker which I always found irresistible, her eyes indicated for me to look behind her, towards the trees. I kept on walking past her and quickly saw a little clearing, and in it there was a group of ten or twelve people, all apparently standing around and listening to a single person whose shape I could just make out, perched on the low-hanging branch of a tree. I could hardly sort out my amazement from my concern when I realized that the person at the centre of the group was Roger.

I was on the brink of walking straight into the group, taking Roger by the arm, and marching him away. The word “surreal” is entirely overused, but that’s exactly what this felt like. My concern was no doubt heightened by the fact that Roger did not even have an invitation to the party, let alone to provide his own little entertainment. Yet there he was, in the middle of a group of celebrities, holding forth about heaven knew what. What was even more amazing was that this was obviously a party where people were keen to see and to be seen, but this group has chosen to hide themselves away under the trees to listen to my older brother. Yes, and I admit that I thought it then as I think it now: my “idiot” older brother.

The quartet was only a few yards behind me, so I struggled to make out what it was that Roger was talking about. I edged up behind the group, anxious not to be seen by him before deciding what to do, and eventually could hear a little of what he was saying. His words followed one upon the other
slowly and very deliberately, and there was an odd calmness in his tone which seemed to invite attention.

“You have to imagine that you have caught a beautiful but fragile butterfly in the cup of your hands.” In the gaps between the arms and shoulders of his audience I could see that Roger was holding his cupped hands together, as though keeping safe a tiny creature. “If you hold it too loosely, the butterfly may fly away or fall to the ground and immediately come to harm.” He moved his hands apart as though to allow the butterfly to fall. He spoke softly and looked at the ground, as if in mock dismay at the damaged creature. “On the other hand, if you hold it too tightly,” and now he cupped his hands back together again, but closer than before, “you risk crushing the life and the beauty out of it.”

One of the men had only just joined the group, obviously to see what everyone was listening to. He asked the woman next to him what was going on.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s this bloke. As far as I can make out, he’s talking about looking after little creatures.”

“Is he supposed to be a comedian or something?”

“No, I don’t think so,” the girl said. “If he is, he’s not very funny. But there is something…” Her voice trailed away because Roger was speaking again, and the odd thing was that he didn’t sound quite like Roger. His words were enunciated individually, as though one word had no relationship with the one before it or with the one that followed it. Like
the speaking clock, where individual elements are inserted electronically to make up a coherent sentence.

“So you have to look after them closely and tightly enough to keep them from doing too much harm to themselves or to others, but loosely enough so that you don’t stop them from being creative, and able to follow their natural instincts.” Roger seemed to address each member of his audience individually, momentarily catching the eye of every one of them before addressing the next in line. “You could control everything that they do, and everything about their lives if you wanted to,” he was saying, “but where would be the fun or the interest in that? If you let them do what comes naturally to them, sometimes they will harm or even kill each other, but that’s just a part of their nature. Most of the time they will lead wonderful and inspirational lives.”

I looked around and saw heads nodding and heard the soft murmur of people agreeing. For all the world it was as though these people had found some mystical guru dispensing wisdom. Except that this wasn’t some mystical guru: it was my mentally challenged brother Roger, who went to a school for people with special needs and giggled incessantly at kids’ cartoons.

“Who is this guy?” I heard a man in a white dinner jacket say to his girlfriend. And for the first time in my life, I really wondered.

* * *

“So what the fuck was all that about?”

Two hours later, I was driving the Transit, Roger was in the passenger seat beside me and the other four were in the back. Harriet was immediately behind me, with Martin next to her and Brendan in the seat by the sliding door. Jed crouched among the gear in the row at the back. By the time we had packed up, had been profusely thanked by our very elegant host and were on our way, it was ten o’clock.

It was, of course, Brendan who had spoken. I had not had either time or opportunity to talk to Harriet about what had happened, and I could sense that she was waiting to know what to say. Obviously she wanted to be supportive, but I think she genuinely had no idea what had taken place. Her curiosity was probably as intense as everyone else’s.

I could easily have been conciliatory and, had it been anyone other than Brendan who had asked the question, I probably would have been. But it had been a long day and I myself was a bit discombobulated by the turn of events.

“Actually, Brendan,” I said, “whatever happened is nothing whatever to do with you, so why don’t you keep the fuck out of it and mind your own fucking business?”

“Actually, I think it is my business,” he was saying. “This was a very important booking for us, and if it isn’t enough that we have to take your brother with us for some reason that the rest of us can only guess at, he then starts to act like he’s the bloody Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.”

I hated it when people talked about Roger as though he wasn’t there, and this was made worse by the fact that Roger was also behaving as though he wasn’t there. During all this he was just gazing out of the window, apparently entirely unperturbed, and watching the crowded streets of Chelsea turn into the less crowded streets of the suburbs.

“First of all, Brendan” – the temperature was rising and the others were keeping quiet – “you wouldn’t know a wise man if he came up and dropped an ice cube down your neck. And second of all, Roger did no harm to you, to the quartet or to anyone else.”

“But what on earth was he talking about?” The bastard was making things even worse by remaining calm as I was beginning to lose control.

“Like I said, Brendan” – now I was shouting, every word just a little louder than the one preceding it – “what happened here with Roger is none of your fucking business. And if I knew myself, I probably wouldn’t tell you. So why don’t you just keep quiet?”

Harriet put her hand gently on my shoulder, and I knew I had to try to calm down, but in spite of my best efforts, I could feel my pulse racing. Brendan remained silent for a few moments, and I thought it might be the end of the matter, but then he muttered a few words which he may have thought were under his breath.

“The bloke’s a fucking nutter. Shouldn’t be allowed out.”

I felt an immediate and involuntary surge of blood rush to my face, and I knew I was teetering on the very edge of control. I tried taking a deep breath, but then suddenly any opportunity to go back had passed. I swung the steering wheel hard to the left and the van swerved sharply as I jammed on the brakes. There was the sound of a blast on a horn from the car behind, but I did not wait to check passing traffic as I threw open the driver’s door and ran around the front of the vehicle onto the pavement. I had a momentary impression of the look of alarm on Brendan’s face as I grabbed the handle and yanked it backwards. Rusty bearings squealed against the slide, and the door came to an abrupt halt as it crashed against its own buffers. No rational thoughts were going through my head as I leant into the van and grabbed Brendan by the lapels, unclear even in my own mind whether I was pushing him backwards or dragging him outside, the effect of which was to rattle him back and forth like a marionette. I was using all my strength to shake him, and then I let go with my right hand and drew it back in a fist.

“Jonathan!” The sound came not from Brendan but from Harriet, who was jammed behind the driver’s seat on the other side of the vehicle, with Martin between her and the fight. “Stop it. Stop it. For heaven’s sake!” I looked across at her, expecting to see surprise or shock on her face, but what I saw was instantly recognizable as fear. It was an expression I had never seen before and it stopped me a split second before my punch would have crashed into Brendan’s face.