In his shiny old Italian-cut suit, winkle-pickers, trademark
gold lateral incisor and thinning quiff, Frankie ‘Hoots’ Venuti lent the
appearance of a particularly hungry gypsy’s whippet. He looked more like a
wartime spiv than the almost-faded cabaret singer he was. Once described as the
‘Joe Longthorne of West Lothian’, for all the resonance that description now
held, he may as well have been known as West Lothian’s Joe Stalin. If the term
‘has-been’ hadn’t been invented it would have been freshly applied to Hoots
Venuti: quite some time ago. He had battled against being fashionable so
successfully that it had almost become a positive image, as if a compere could
legitimately introduce him as ‘still unfashionable and jaded after all these
years. Ladies and gentlemen – Hoots Venuti..’
This dreich September morning found the ageing Hoots
glugging noisily upon a bottle of Irn Bru. He had made himself soaking drunk on
Scotland’s ‘first national drink’ (probably owned by the French or Japanese
but, who cares?) and was trying to remedy the situation with the second. Last
evening was a blur of half-remembered conversations and fully drained glasses.
He thought that being a ‘whisky man’ gave him a sort of showbiz grandeur; like
what Danny La Rue might drink, but, instead, it made him very drunk, very loud
and very ill.
Some shuffling behind him reminded him that he’d woken up
beside his long-time partner, Mags. He heard her auld lungs rattle and wheeze;
like an old broken-down squeeze box. Her C.O.P.D. must be kicking in again he
thought. Folk around here wore those letters after their names like they
signified a qualification. ‘Mags Myres (C.O.P.D: First Class)’.
Mags would be surprised when she finally awoke that she’d
been sharing a bed with Hoots. It could have been any one of half a dozen men.
She’d broken his heart enough times to make a hundred omelettes. Yes, that was
it, thought Hoots, coughing now himself from the exertion of retrieving his
underwear from the strewn floor; she’d made an omelette of his broken heart.
Might be a lyric there. This creative impulse so late in the proverbial day
from a man who’s only offering to the world of song-writing had been a radio
jingle some thirty years ago for a chain of butcher’s shops in Dundee..
“McGinley’s Mince, McGinley’s Mince
You won’t taste better, before or since..”
He’d sung it ‘Buddy Grecco-style’ with a wee touch Bobby
Darin thrown in.
Among the debris in the room was Mags prosthetic leg propped
up against the tall-boy. Ironic that thought Hoots sadly. She’d been propped up
against many a tall boy since. The sight of the false leg still provoked a
number of emotions in Venuti. Principle still, even after maybe five years, was
a sort of numb rage. Megs had lost her leg due to a still-mysterious ‘sexual
accident’. All she would tell him was that some ‘electrical equipment had gone
wrong’ and the resultant burns had necessitated the amputation of her left leg.
What had happened to ‘the other man’ is something she would never discuss, but
he noticed his best friend and manager, Fishy Lieberman, walked very gingerly
for some while after the event.
Far from this leading to greater fidelity on Mags’ part, she
now seemed to have become some sort of ‘novelty ride’ and more in demand than
ever. He had a kick at the leg as he hobbled his way towards the bathroom.
Too often these days Fishy Leiberman had cause to look back
on more successful days when his ‘books’ were filled with better quality acts.
He’d once managed Jimmy Logan’s career, admittedly the last years of it but
still: big name. Kelly Marie, Neil Reid, Dorothy Paul. He’d known and worked
with them all. Now, his main act was Hoots Venuti and a lassie, Rena Horn, that
played the clarinet by utelising a very unexpected part of her anatomy. He’d
muse sardonically sometimes that he should mould the two of them into a double
act and then retire. ‘Hoots and Horn’ had quite a ring to it actually. Maybe
he’d have ‘Mags Myres, the One-Legged Tap-Dancer’ supporting them. Fishy had a
cruel laugh to himself then poured himself another Famous Grouse. He couldn’t
really afford such expensive whisky but appearances had to be kept. Couldn’t be
offering Grants to business acquaintances even though he knew very few of them
could afford the good stuff either. ‘Show business’ was all about ‘show’, after
all.
Fishy Leiberman found he was gazing at the signed portrait
of Johnny Beattie on his office wall and once again found himself puzzled over
what exactly it was, as an entertainer, that had made that man popular.
Nettie Duncan had been hanging her washing in the back green
when the terrible pain had started just below her heart and spread down her
arms causing her to collapse in a heap. The next she knew she’d awoken in the
Southern General hospital to find her daughter gazing down at her concernedly.
“Oh Donna” she said and raised her hand to stroke her
daughters face “I’m sorry to have worried you. You have your own troubles”
Donna smiled sadly. Her mother looked resigned and old
although she was at least ten years younger than her appearance suggested.
She’d been a very fine looking woman in her prime but precious little of her
beauty had survived. Bad health and a bad man had seen to that. Her father’s
idea of family life was to get drunk and terrorise them all on a regular basis.
Well no, she thought, regular they
maybe could have handled. It was the irregularity
that really kept them on their toes. Memories of a childhood in bed of a night dreading the warning signs. They’d hear
him singing on the street ‘Billy Boys’ or something equally foreboding and
unfriendly. Then he’d start.
The accumulated effects were now being expressed all too eloquently
by her mother’s ailing body.
This woman who never had a sour word for anyone.
Not even for a son in prison, or a younger daughter who lived not twenty miles
away yet never paid a visit. This had irked Donna for more years than she cared
to remember. Her, the dutiful, loving daughter offered the same amount of love
and respect as the other two, but, that was her mother’s way. Equal shares for
all and less for herself. A loving mother, no matter what.
Maybe this was because Nettie Duncan, Henrietta Drummond as
was, herself had a past? She hadn’t
always been the fearful wife of a tyrant and a mother of three. There was a
time when she was a young, leggy, toothsome beauty. Donna had seen the photographs
but her mother would never fill in the narrative.
Maybe this would be her last chance to find out.
Margaret ‘Mags’ Myers had been born behind some bins in
Barlanark. This alliterative beginning had been the closest thing to symmetry in
her existence to date. Her subsequent life had been devoted to the temporary
oblivion offered by alcohol and sex. Abused by a series of step-fathers as a child she’d come to view sex as a combination of
love and war. The love she sought so desperately and the war was her domination
of men in general. There were times that she made her sex a most aggressive
act. It sought to hurt and punish. Which is what she did on a daily basis to
the only man who ever really loved her. She derided Hoots, she belittled him,
she criticised him constantly, she laughed at
him not with him. She mocked him and
insulted him. And all because he loved her.
She pitied him for that.
She couldn’t quite understand why he kept her around. Surely
no man should put up with what she’d done to him? Such a man couldn’t really be
a man. Not a real man. She hadn’t
even supported his career or what was left of it. He had become pathetic, and
she thought him pretty ropey to start with. What, to him, was glitter and
shabbazz, to her was cheap tinsel. He had become like a sad impersonator of
what wasn’t very special to start with. Oh maybe back in the day, there had
been some sort of kitsch-y attraction, she’d have to give him that. Maybe, with
effort, she could just about remember what she had found attractive about him.
She’d have to really try though.
She rummelled her hand beneath the duvet for her false teeth
and farted wetly, following-through only very slightly.
