INSIDE OW
27 AUGUST
‘Oh, go on. Please.’
‘No.’
‘Please.’
‘I said no.’
‘Pleeeeeeeeeeease.’
‘Eliza . . . no. I’m not doing it.’
‘But the children will love it.’
‘I’m sure they will, but I don’t do children’s parties.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because the place will be filled with children.’
‘Ugh! You’re being unreasonable.’
‘And you’ve taken leave of your senses.’
‘You should do it for me, Nate. I’m your cousin. I’m family.’
‘Oh, that’s cold, Elsie.’
‘Callum would love it. You know how much he loves The Foodies. I’m sure it’d make him very happy to have you play at his birthday.’
‘You think?’
‘Yes, Nate! He’d love you to play a few songs, I’m sure. And they’ve told me the party will be good for his socialisation with other children, so I could do with your help.’
‘Eh, I don’t know, Eliza, I’m really not sure—’
‘You owe me.’
‘What the hell do I owe you for?’
‘That time you forgot your mum’s birthday because you were stoned in Amsterdam and I bought all those presents for her!’
‘That was twelve years ago!’
‘Yes. And now I’m calling in the favour, Nathan.’
‘Damn it.’
So, I’m doing a children’s party.
Callum’s sixth birthday party, to be exact. It promises to be a heaving mass of small, intensely annoying children full of party food and fizzy drink.
It will now also be featuring the vocal and musical stylings of Nathan James – because I was stupid enough to get off my tits on the Continent when I was a young man and forgot to buy my mother a birthday present.
Also – and it pains me to admit this – I could probably do more to help my cousin with Callum, rather than just trying to throw cash at her. This party will give me the chance to redress the balance a little, even if it’s something I could personally do without, given that the timing could honestly be better.
The headaches are getting worse – much worse, if I’m being truthful about it. At the same time, the nightmares have faded away, but in all honesty I’d much rather have sleepless nights than thumping headaches nearly every day. I’m going through co-codamol like they’re going out of fashion. This means I’m constipated half the time and am therefore also suffering from haemorrhoids.
Oh, happy day.
Visits to Mr Chakraborty haven’t helped at all. He just ended up prescribing me even more powerful painkillers – which I probably could have got from my regular GP anyway.
Given that my tumour isn’t the kind that will respond to treatment, I get the distinct impression that the surgeon is doing no more than paying me lip service by giving me the occasional scrip for hard drugs. He makes an effort in the conversations we have and certainly isn’t shy about sticking me through the MRI machine to check the tumour’s progress, but other than that, I think he’s highly embarrassed to have me anywhere near him – as if my untreatableness is somehow an affront to both his profession and his personal skill.
I’m clutching the latest MRI results in one hand as I have the conversation with Eliza about the bloody children’s party.
They show that the tumour has increased in size slightly over the past few weeks, which probably explains the increased headaches. Chakraborty expressed surprise that my speech centre hasn’t been more affected by the continued growth. I couldn’t quite tell whether it was happy surprise at the apparent slower pace of my deterioration or irritation that his diagnosis hasn’t been as accurate as he would have liked. It’s been over four months since he told me about the tumour taking up residence in the darkest recesses of my brain and I’m sure he thinks that I should have shuffled off to join the choir invisible by now.
Fortunately, the headaches tend to come and go within a period of a few hours, so they’re not crippling me all of the time, but for that period, I just want the world to end.
I’m able to keep my health problems a secret from Allie for the time being. I’ve only been struck down with a tumour migraine once when I’ve been with her. I put that one down to staring at my iPad for too long in the dark the night before. A lame excuse, but it appeared to do the trick. Each and every time I have to lie to her, I feel a little bit worse inside, but I’m still completely unable to be truthful, knowing that it’ll kill our relationship off if I am. I’m a selfish, stupid man, but I’m also a man who is quite clearly in love, and men in love do very stupid things sometimes.
I crumple the MRI results in one hand and return my attention to the information about the party that Eliza is trying to impart to me.
‘. . . and we’ve probably got a clown coming as well. I’m not so sure about it, but Bryan thinks it’ll be fun for Callum. The catering’s being done by that company I told you about last year. And your mum said she’d come along to help me set everything up, before she goes off to her hair appointment, which I’m very grateful for.’
‘Great,’ I reply with a smile.
‘We’re hoping that the weather’s going to be good enough to not have to use the gazebo,’ Eliza continues, ‘but we’ll put it up anyway, just in case. You should be able to set your stuff up under it if you need to, Nate.’
‘Mnmnm.’
‘Nate? Are you listening to a thing I’m saying?’
‘What? Yes, of course I am. I’ve just got a bit of a headache.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Eliza doesn’t mean for her voice to suddenly be filled with cold fear, but it is anyway.
‘It’s okay, Elsie,’ I reply. ‘It’s not too bad at all.’
‘Okay, good. Has it been bad recently, though?’
My hand tightens on the phone a little. ‘Oh . . . could be better, could be worse. Having Allie around has been good for me. She definitely takes my mind off it.’
‘Have you told her yet?’ The chilliness in Eliza’s voice is still there, but for very different reasons now.
I roll my eyes. ‘No. Not yet. And please don’t have another go at me about it. You know why I haven’t said anything yet, and you know I’ll tell her sooner or later.’
‘You’d better. It’s not fair on her, Nate. She deserves to know.’
‘And she will, I promise. Very, very soon. Just let me do it at the right time and in the right place.’
‘Okay. Well, I’m going to invite her along to the party as well. God knows I’ll need someone to drink wine in the kitchen with when it all gets too much for me, and she’s so bloody good with Callum it makes me feel like an inadequate mother.’
I chuckle at this. Ever since Allie’s first meeting with Callum, he’s absolutely adored her.
The prospect of my new girlfriend being at the party makes me feel better about performing at it. Let’s just hope she’s actually happy to come along.
‘Can I not spend the entire time doing Foodies songs, though?’ I ask plaintively. ‘Maybe a couple here and there – but otherwise, can I play something else?’
‘Good grief, man, you’d think those songs hadn’t made you a small fortune over the years.’
‘The bloke who invented urinal cakes has made a fortune over the years, too, but it doesn’t mean he wants to be anywhere near one.’ It’s a very poor analogy, but the headache has started to get worse, and I’d really like to get off the phone so I can go and down four co-codamol.
‘All right! Play what you like!’ Eliza snaps. ‘As long as it’s suitable for small children.’
‘No Slayer or Public Enemy, gotcha,’ I reply. ‘I guess I’ll see you at about 2 p.m. on Sunday, then?’
‘You will.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘And think about telling Alison the truth, Nate,’ Eliza says, her voice soft. ‘It’s the right thing to do now and you know it.’
My eyes close. ‘I will, Elsie. I promise.’
I put the phone down on Eliza with that familiar ball of guilt in my stomach and go to find the aforementioned painkillers.
The right time to tell Allie will come – but I’m pretty sure it won’t be in the middle of a hectic children’s party. Revealing a dark and terrible truth to someone you love probably shouldn’t be done to the accompaniment of loud screaming and vast amounts of ice cream consumption.
It’s a good job the gazebo is up, as the day of the party is overcast and a little drizzly.
Unfortunately, it means I have to set my equipment up underneath the bloody thing, which isn’t easy, given that I have to trail wires from the small Marshall amplifier across the garden and situate the stool on the grass in such a way that it doesn’t instantly bury itself halfway up the second I sit down on it. I haven’t brought my Les Paul with me today, given that I don’t want it within a thousand miles of these sticky children. Instead I have brought the lightweight Telecaster Alison played back on Chipmunk Day. It’s probably the cheapest guitar I own – if it gets half a chocolate eclair wedged between its strings, then so be it.
As I’m playing with the amp’s dials to tune out the feedback, I notice the clown arriving. He comes in a small van bearing the name ‘Mr Chippy’ down one side, which he parks on Eliza’s driveway in a decidedly haphazard fashion. Emerging from the van is the grumpiest man I’ve ever seen in my life. The sour expression on his face is thrown into sharp relief by the bright white-and-red-striped onesie he’s wearing. I hope the make-up he’s carrying in that box will do a good job of covering up his scowl.
Eliza has requested that we do a small routine together, with me on the guitar and him doing whatever clowny things she’s paying him for. I’ve chosen to play the song ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’, as it’s the only one I know that sounds even vaguely appropriate to accompany a clown act. Although from looking at Mr Chippy as he disappears inside the house, ‘Tears of a Clown’ by Smokey Robinson might be a more appropriate choice.
I turn my attention back to the task of setting up my amp, playing once more with the dials on the front – one of which of course goes up to eleven.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Aaargh!’ I wail in shock. I thought I was completely alone in the garden.
I turn around to see Callum staring up at me. The usual look of miniature derision is on his face, but it’s mixed with a fair degree of curiosity, which makes a nice change, I suppose. He’s wearing the Foodies T-shirt I gave him for Christmas.
‘Oh, hi, Callum,’ I say in a cheery voice.
‘My mummy’s inside. With your mummy and Allie,’ the boy informs me. He walks over to my amp, where he starts to twiddle the volume knob.
‘Er . . . could you not do that, please?’ I ask.
Callum ignores me and continues to twiddle. There’s an air of absolute concentration about him now. I appear to have been completely forgotten about.
I feel exquisitely awkward. I have no idea what to say or do. Callum can be a miniature time bomb, and I’ve never taken the time to work out what the disarm code is.
‘Seriously, could you not do that, Callum? It’ll break off in your hand eventually and then I’ll – oh look, it’s broken off in your hand.’
He holds the volume knob up to me, daring me to take it from him. I feel that this is yet another downturn in what is already a rather strained relationship.
‘Callum! Callum!’ I hear Eliza cry from inside the house. The boy drops the volume knob into my hand and immediately starts to closely examine my thumb for no adequately explored reason.
Eliza pops her head out from the patio doors leading to her kitchen, sees Callum and me, rolls her eyes and comes over.
‘Sorry, Nate,’ she says as she reaches us. ‘Callum is like a small ninja. One minute he’s there, the next he’s gone. He loves to fiddle with things he probably shouldn’t.’
She bends down and takes the boy by his hand. Callum immediately starts to scream. His attention was still firmly fixed on my thumb, and he quite clearly does not appreciate having that examination ended prematurely.
Eliza winces. ‘Sorry. I’ll take him away. He’s having trouble today. What with Bryan being in the house and everything with the party, it’s been a bit much for him. I’m not sure this whole thing was such a good idea to be honest . . .’
‘Don’t worry, Elsie. It’s perfectly okay,’ I tell her, hiding the volume control knob in my hand. ‘He wasn’t doing anything wrong.’
I can see the strain etched across Eliza’s face. It can’t be nice to have her shithead ex-husband here today, and if Callum’s having a bad time as well, it must make things even harder for her.
Callum is now looking back towards the house, pointing and screaming as he does so. It’s quite ear-shattering, so I have to confess I breathe a sigh of relief when his mother takes him away. For a moment, I’m afraid the screaming is going to spark off another one of my headaches, but the sensation passes. I turn back to the amplifier, hoping that the volume control knob is just a push-on affair, otherwise I’ll be taking a trip to Tesco to buy some superglue.
Happily, it pops back on with no apparent long-term damage done. I start to retune the guitar, hoping to achieve a nice, clear, crisp sound for the party.
When that’s done after about ten minutes, I pop the guitar down on its stand and saunter over to the house, looking for a drink.
‘All set up?’ Mum says as she sees me walk in. She bustles past me with a massive plate of small, child-friendly sandwiches, placing it on a table just inside the house that is fairly heaving with all sorts of disgusting children’s food.
‘Yep,’ I tell her. ‘Ready to slightly rock and roll. Where’s Allie?’
‘She’s up in Callum’s room with Eliza, helping him calm down a bit.’
‘Okay, that’s cool.’
Mum gives me a long look. ‘How are you doing today, son? You look a little peaky.’
I open my mouth to tell my mother the truth – that I feel like five pounds of shit in a ten-pound bag – but then swiftly think again. ‘I’m fine, Mum. A little tired, but otherwise doing okay.’
Mum smiles. ‘Good! You see? Maybe things aren’t as bad as you thought they were! I’m sure you’re on the road to recovery.’
I groan inwardly. Mum still won’t come to terms with what’s happening to me.
She gives me a meaningful look. ‘Your cousin tells me you still haven’t let Allie know about your condition. Even if it isn’t as bad as you think it is, you probably should let her know about it.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Yes, Mum. Don’t worry. I will. I just need to do it at the right time.’
‘Okay, son. Fair enough,’ she replies with a smile. Mum doesn’t seem as concerned as Eliza is about my reluctance to be honest with Allie about the tumour, but then she doesn’t really accept how bad my diagnosis is, so why would she?
‘Did you have a chance to look at the draft will I sent you?’ I ask her. I could really do without getting into this right now, but it’s vital I get the damn thing sorted out before I die. Mum will be the main recipient, so she needs to see it. I’m also hoping that reading it will convince her of the seriousness of the situation.
She waves a dismissive hand. ‘Not yet, Nathan.’
I rub my hand over my face. ‘Could you, please? It’s important.’
‘All right, I will!’ she says, sounding a little cross. ‘I think you’re being overdramatic about the whole thing, though.’
‘Overdramatic? ’
‘Yes.’
I’m so stunned by this pronouncement, I don’t know how to respond. My mother’s denial is starting to become a big problem, one I need to solve before I’m in a box and it’s too late to do anything about it.
I’m about to say as much to her, but we’re then interrupted by the arrival of Eliza, Allie and Callum coming down from upstairs. The boy looks a lot more chilled out than he did earlier, I’m pleased to say. Talking to Mum about the realities of my condition will just have to wait.
‘Hiya,’ I say to Allie as she comes over, letting Callum stay with Eliza and Mum.
‘Hello, stranger. You all done out there?’ she asks me.
‘Pretty much. The acoustics in the garden are a little flat, but it should sound okay once – Jesus Christ!’
It’s a completely involuntary bit of blaspheming, but totally unavoidable given what’s just walked into the room.
I’ve never been particularly scared of clowns. That might change after today.
Whether he realises it or not, Mr Chippy is a pure distillation of every horror movie clown you’ve ever hidden behind a cushion to avoid. The big red hobnail boots are clunky and worn, the white-and-red-striped onesie is crumpled, the multicoloured rainbow ruff around his neck is eye-watering and the two enormous puffs of ginger hair on each side of his head look wiry and coarse.
And then we come to the make-up. You may remember that Mr Chippy looked to be a grumpy fellow before putting his make-up on. Imagine that same grumpiness, only it’s now covered in a thick layer of greasy white paint; a blood-red smile that extends almost from ear to ear; a pair of thick black arching eyebrows that look like two slugs have been nailed to his forehead; and a bulbous red nose that looks like – and yes, I’m going to use the word as an analogy here because it’s so fucking perfect – a tumour.
‘Urgh,’ Allie says quietly from beside me.
‘Oh my . . .’ Mum mumbles, unable to say much else. I doubt even she would want to craft a statue that resembled this nightmare in clown shoes.
Eliza tries to affect a happy demeanour. Somebody should give her a bloody Oscar, because I couldn’t look happy with that thing coming towards me if you held a water pistol full of acid to my head.
‘Hello, Toby! Everything okay, is it?’ she asks him.
‘It will be when you show me where I’m supposed to be doing this show,’ he says to her curtly. I’ve never heard such a snippy, uptight voice in all my life.
Eliza swallows down a suitable response and indicates towards the garden through the double doors. ‘It’s right out there, Toby. The gazebo is to your left. Nathan’s set up his guitar in there already. You got the email with our plan for the show, didn’t you?’
I step forward, expecting to be introduced so we can go over how we’re going to work together today, but Chippy gives me a look of thin disgust and stomps off through the door before I get so much as a chance to say hello.
Eliza gives me an apologetic look. ‘Sorry about that. Toby isn’t . . . isn’t having a good time of it at the moment. Something to do with his tax returns.’
‘Where did you find him?’ I ask.
‘He’s Bryan’s uncle,’ Eliza says, trying to keep the disdain out of her voice.
‘Aaaah,’ I respond. Now things become a little clearer.
‘He’s a chartered surveyor,’ Eliza continues. ‘Just does the clown thing for parties at the weekends. He’s doing this one for free – which suits Bryan just fine, as you might imagine.’
‘Why is he so angry?’ Mum asks.
Eliza shrugs. ‘I think he’s lost a lot of money in the last couple of days. And also, I guess it’s because he’s a chartered surveyor that dresses up as a clown at weekends?’
‘Well, let’s just hope he cheers up a bit once the kids get here,’ I remark. ‘I doubt they’ll have much sympathy for his problems with HMRC.’
Our discussion about Mr Chippy and his outlook on the world is interrupted by his nephew, Bryan, as he comes into the room from the hallway. ‘They’re here!’ he cries, as if he’s just seen the zombie horde turn up on the doorstep. ‘The kids are here!’
Eliza instantly goes stiff. ‘Okay, then.’ As you’d imagine, the atmosphere between the two of them is roughly sub-zero these days.
I clench my jaw and try as hard as I can not to make fists. I want to punch Bryan in his stupid face until it’s turned into raw, red hamburger. But this is Callum’s birthday, so I’ll do what Eliza is no doubt doing herself – I’ll swallow down the disgust and put on a happy face for the poor kid.
Eliza takes Callum’s hand. ‘Why don’t we go and say hello to all of your friends?’ she says to him, trying not to look at her ex-husband. Callum doesn’t look too sure about all of this, but allows his mother to lead him out towards the front door, closely followed by his shitbag of a father.
My mother watches Bryan go with a look of thinly veiled loathing. ‘I think this is a good time for me to make a move,’ she says. ‘Isobel at A Cut Above is expecting me.’ This is probably just as well, to be honest. I could punch Bryan about a bit, but Mum probably has some sort of metal implement stashed about her person thanks to the statue making and could do some real damage to him if she worked up enough of a head of steam.
‘Okay, Mum,’ I say to her, giving her a kiss. ‘I’ll call you later in the week.’
‘That’s great, son.’ She turns to Allie. ‘Nice to see you again, Alison,’ she says.
‘You too, Mrs James,’ Allie replies.
Mum looks down the hallway at the hordes coming our way. ‘I think I’ll leave through the back.’
‘Good idea,’ I reply, grabbing a couple of cans of Coke from the heaving party table. ‘Allie and I’ll go outside, too. We can see what Mr Chippy is up to.’
The clown may look terrifying, but he is quite easily the preferable choice to twenty screaming, snotty children.
When I say as much to Allie as we’re walking across the lawn having watched Mum leave, she rolls her eyes. ‘You know, for someone who’s earned a living writing music for small children, you don’t have much of an affinity with them.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s such a shame. They love The Foodies so much.’
My turn to roll my eyes. ‘They like whatever’s bright and shiny and popular this week.’
She chooses not to respond, but her eyes narrow. Best to let this conversation topic drop now, I feel. ‘You want to play a few chords while we wait?’ I ask, pointing at the guitar.
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. Mr Chippy is grumpy enough without having to hear me murdering an open C.’
I turn to look at where the clown is arranging his own equipment on the other side of the enormous green gazebo. He’s trying to set up a small golden box on a tripod and is swearing sulphurously under his breath as it fails to cooperate.
‘Need a hand?’ I ask.
He looks at me in a way that’s guaranteed to spark off my nightmares again. ‘No. I can do it,’ he snaps.
‘Fair enough.’ I look back at Allie. ‘This promises to be a fun afternoon.’
She punches me playfully on the arm. ‘You’re doing something nice for your cousin.’
‘Yes.’ I throw Mr Chippy a doubtful look, then turn an ear to the screaming tumult now erupting from the house. ‘A cousin with an unwholesomely good memory, it transpires. I should never have gone to bloody Amsterdam,’ I say regretfully, as I plonk myself down on my stool – which immediately sinks a good six inches into the grass.
It takes Eliza and the few other parents who have stuck around for the party a good hour to get the children under some semblance of control, giving them food and drink whenever it’s asked for and corralling them around the garden like sheepdogs with an unruly, screaming flock.
Allie and I attempt to hide behind my amplifier while all of this goes on. This proves to be a little difficult, as it’s only three feet high.
Mr Chippy has buggered off – and who can blame him? As a small boy dressed as Yoda runs into the side of my amplifier, I’m starting to better appreciate why he was being such a touchy bugger earlier. He knew what was coming.
I check the amp for damage while Allie tends to the small, crying Yoda impersonator. Bruises heal. Dents in amplifier cabinets do not.
Eliza comes over about five minutes later. Her hair is now a mess and she has a look on her face that suggests much wine will be imbibed before this day is out.
‘You about ready to go?’ she asks. ‘We need to get these fuckers sat down and looking at something.’
I laugh. ‘Starting to regret this whole thing, are you?’
‘You mean marriage and childbirth? Just pick up the bloody guitar, Nate, before I have to insert it in you somewhere.’
I elect to keep quiet and do as I’m told. This is probably the wisest thing I’ve done all week.
Eliza goes over to the other harassed parents. They all have a quick conversation and then start to gather the bouncing, E-number-filled children under the gazebo for a little light afternoon entertainment. I have to confess I’m feeling quite nervous as they congregate on the grass in front of me. It’s one thing to perform in front of a theatre audience where you can’t see them thanks to all the lighting – it’s quite another to stare into their eyes as you perform. Children are the fiercest critics in the world. They have no self-control, no filter and no consideration for the artist’s ego. They will let you know their completely unvarnished opinion of your talents without a second thought.
Gulp.
The running order for today’s performance is simple. I will accompany Mr Chippy while he does his thing for a while. Then after he’s left to go and call the HMRC helpline, I will do a few Foodies songs, interspersed with some other children’s favourites. The whole thing should only take about half an hour at the absolute most, thanks to the tiny attention spans that children around the ages of five and six suffer from.
Looking at the crowd, I’m a bit dismayed to see Callum sat slightly in front of, and apart from, all the other children. This is his party, but it seems like the other kids are giving him a bit of a wide berth. Being different may sound like a great thing when you’re a fully grown adult who wants to be interesting at dinner parties, but it’s an awful thing when you’re small. I look up to see that Eliza has noticed this as well. The sad look on her face makes me want to cry.
Bryan is right at the back of the garden, drinking a can of beer, and apparently couldn’t give a shit. I want to go over there and ram that beer down his throat.
I count to ten under my breath and strum my guitar a couple of times, going straight into the introductory few notes of ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’ once everyone is paying attention. This is supposed to be the cue for Mr Chippy to arrive on the scene.
When he doesn’t at the allotted moment, I start to wonder if he hasn’t just left the party completely to go and petrol bomb the nearest Inland Revenue office.
I play the notes again. Still no Chippy. Eliza throws me a panicked look. I throw it straight back at her, as I have no idea what to do. I then look over at Allie, as if she might have any answers. ‘Too much to hope you’ve got your Libby costume in the boot of the car, eh?’ I say, which earns me a set of very pursed lips and a magnificently irritated frown.
Third time’s a charm, I think to myself, and play the introduction again.
This time, Mr Chippy comes cartwheeling and jumping out of the house, displaying the kind of gymnastic prowess you’d normally find buried in the BBC sporting schedule at 3 a.m. Toby might be a miserable bugger when he’s not doing a show, but it looks like he turns it on one hundred per cent when he’s performing.
His aforementioned grumpy demeanour only shows itself as he comes tumbling past me. I have to step backwards to let him past. As I do, he throws me a look of deep-seated contempt.
Mr Chippy stops tumbling around and stands just off to my right, next to his box of tricks with his legs splayed, a decidedly idiotic expression on his face. ‘Hello!’ he cries in a happy voice, waving his hands at the crowd. Most of the children respond with much screaming and hand-waving back in his direction. A couple look a bit shell-shocked, but for the most part they seem quite comfortable with the idea of a fully grown man dressed as walking nightmare fuel. Only Callum seems deeply unimpressed by Mr Chippy. He’s staring directly at the clown’s box on its tripod and is ignoring everything else.
Mr Chippy then goes into an energetic slapstick routine to the accompaniment of my guitar. For the most part, he continues to sound bright, cheerful and happy. The mask only slips when he has difficulty pulling out an enormous comedy handkerchief from his sleeve. The material gets caught for the briefest of moments inside the cloth. When Mr Chippy turns away from the children to sort it out, I clearly hear him say, ‘Come on, you cunt,’ under his breath. The handkerchief does eventually come free with a tug, and he’s instantly back to the happy, jolly, singing clown again. The kids may not notice the seething anger bubbling just under the surface, but I bloody well can, and it’s deeply disconcerting, to say the least.
Mr Chippy moves on to the props he has in his big box, which include balloons for making animals, a large clown horn that makes a satisfying awwwooooggaaaahhh noise every time he squeezes the end, a rubber chicken and a big, squeaky hammer. The last one gives me unpleasant flashbacks to hitting Cleethorpes over the head in front of Primark.
As Chippy is getting on with his routine – which mainly seems to involve falling over a lot and making stupid faces as he does so – I notice Callum slowly get up from where he’s sat apart from the rest of the group. His mother and Allie are both rapt with attention, watching the clown hit himself repeatedly with the hammer, so neither of them see him rise. I’m still playing the guitar, so there’s not much I can do to stop the little boy walking quickly up to Mr Chippy’s box of tricks.
Chippy sees him and bends over to speak to the little boy. ‘Ho ho! Now what are you up to, then, birthday boy?’ he says to Callum in a sing-song voice, his head wobbling about like it’s on a spring.
Callum sensibly ignores him completely and stands up on tiptoe next to the box. ‘Do you like my magic box?’ Mr Chippy asks, doing his best to incorporate this unexpected interloper into the act. ‘You mustn’t look in it, though!’ he continues. There’s now a very, very slight edge to his voice. ‘It’s full of lots of magic and wonder!’
Callum continues to ignore the clown and instead starts poking at the box with one exploratory finger.
‘Ho ho! Maybe your mummy should come and get you, my little friend!’ Mr Chippy says, looking into the crowd. Eliza is now walking carefully towards her son, as if he’s likely to explode at any moment. ‘That box is all part of my big, big finale, so make sure not to touch it!’
The edge in Chippy’s voice is now sharp enough for me to shave with. Quite clearly there’s something in the box he intends to wow the crowd with as the show comes to an end, and he doesn’t want the surprise ruined.
Callum couldn’t give a shit about that, of course. This is a kid who knows what he wants, and what he apparently wants right now is to get into that box – exciting climax be damned. My hastily repaired volume knob is testament to the boy’s curiosity, and I don’t think anything the clown says is going to stop him.
Mr Chippy is reaching forward to grab Callum in his arms when the boy evidently finds exactly what he was looking for and gives the box another hard poke. I hear a clicking noise from somewhere deep within, and the box instantly blows open, sending a cloud of glitter and brightly coloured plastic balls into the air.
‘Oh, you little bastard!’ Chippy snarls, this time barely under his breath. He grabs Callum and picks him up. ‘I told you not to do that!’ he snaps at the boy in a gruff voice.
This would probably be quite terrifying to the average child, but Callum is not average in the slightest. He looks at Mr Chippy with an expression of unholy rage and smartly pokes him in the eye with his index finger. Callum likes a good poke, as Mr Chippy has just discovered to his detriment.
The clown bellows in pain and starts to shake the boy roughly. This instantly makes me see red. I can put up with some prick being rude to me because he’s screwed up his tax return, but manhandling Callum like that?
I throw the guitar round on its strap so it’s sitting on my back and step forward. ‘Put him down!’ I order Mr Chippy. The clown’s eyes snap round to look at me. One of them is now red and streaming. This makes Mr Chippy look even more terrifying, if such a thing were possible. ‘Put Callum down!’ I repeat, grabbing Chippy’s sleeve.
‘Get off!’ he shouts, dropping Callum to the grass. The boy immediately starts to scream. Mr Chippy then turns his full attention to me, giving me the stink eye. ‘Don’t you touch me, you prick!’ Audible gasps from the adults. High-pitched giggles from the children.
‘What the hell is wrong with you?’
‘What the hell is wrong with me?’ Chippy screeches. ‘What the hell is wrong with me??!!’
The watching children are now more invested in this show than at any point previously. This says a lot about the mindset of your average six-year-old.
‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me!’ Chippy hollers. ‘Seventy-five thousand quid down the drain because I have a shitty accountant! That’s what’s . . . that’s what’s wrong with me!’
Oh God, now he’s crying. I’m standing in front of a crying, enraged clown before a crowd of apparently sociopathic children. There’s every chance Stephen King is about to jump over the garden wall and kick me up the arse.
‘I’m sorry about all of that, but it’s no reason to take it out on Callum!’
Chippy’s face distorts into a hateful sneer. ‘No. You’re right,’ he says with a growl. ‘Much better to take it out on you.’
And with that, Chippy punches me square in the middle of the forehead.
This knocks me to the ground in a daze, snapping the neck off my poor old Telecaster as I fall on to it.
I figure the clown was probably aiming for lower down on my face, but that puffy onesie he’s wearing isn’t designed for close-quarters combat – which saves me from a broken jaw.
Instead, I get a nice relaxing nap on top of a broken guitar for my troubles.
As I fade out of consciousness, I can hear the children cheering excitedly. I guess seeing an adult knocked out beats a few plastic balls and a bit of glitter any day of the week. Eliza should have just stuck them all in front of a DVD of Rocky IV and saved herself a whole lot of trouble.
To be fair, I think the tumour is as much at fault for the blackout as the punch. Mr Chippy didn’t hit me all that hard, but when your brain is already being scrambled by a big, grumpy tumour called Herman, it’s not going to withstand even a weak punch from a big, angry clown called Mr Chippy.
I awake to find myself on the single bed in Eliza’s spare room. This isn’t the first time I’ve woken up bleary-eyed in this room, but it’s the first time it hasn’t followed a heavy night of drinking.
‘Oh dear,’ I mumble, as my hand goes to my head.
‘You’re awake!’ I hear Allie say with some relief from where she’s sat on the bed next to me.
‘Apparently,’ I agree, sitting up.
‘Be careful, you idiot,’ I hear Eliza remark as she comes into the room carrying a wet towel, which she plonks on my head without much ceremony.
‘We were just about to call an ambulance,’ Allie tells me. ‘Do you remember us bringing you up here? You managed to walk, but you looked completely out of it.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t remember any of that. Just him punching me. How long ago was that?’
‘About half an hour,’ Eliza says.
That’s quite scary, actually. Half an hour is a long period of time to lose like that.
‘How’s your head?’ Eliza’s eyes flick meaningfully over at Allie as she says this.
Oh God, woman, there’s no way I can tell her now!
‘It’s fine, thanks,’ I reply, lying through my teeth yet again.
‘Oh, well, that’s okay, then,’ my cousin says in a flat voice. ‘But if it hurts for any reason, you will tell one of us, won’t you? That would be the right thing to do.’
Subtle, Elsie – very subtle.
‘I will,’ I respond, in an even flatter voice.
Eliza’s lip curls in disgust. ‘I’m going back downstairs before the kids destroy my house. You come down when you’re ready.’ She then storms out of the room, leaving me alone with Allie.
‘Why is she so mad all of a sudden?’ Allie ponders.
‘No idea. Must be all the stress of the party, I guess.’
A sudden, sharp pain courses its way through my head. I can’t help but gasp.
‘Are you okay?’ Allie asks, leaning forward to hold my head.
‘Yeah . . . I’m fine, honestly! Just a little . . . a little woozy still. I think I might lie here for a while on my own . . . in the quiet.’ I force a smile. ‘I don’t think I can quite handle the children again yet, and Mr Punchy might still be downstairs.’
‘Oh . . . okay.’ Allie looks a little sad that I’m apparently dismissing her. ‘Well, I’ll come back to check on you a bit later.’
‘Yeah, that would be great.’
She gives me a swift kiss on the lips. My stomach turns. Not because of the kiss, you understand, but because of my towering cowardice.
When Allie has left the room, I gasp in pain and lie back down, closing my eyes tight shut and willing the headache to pass.
As I take slow, deep breaths for several minutes, I can feel the pain ebbing away somewhat. I relax a little back into the bed, continuing to breathe deeply and not think about what Herman might be doing inside my brain as a reaction to the clown’s punch.
Then, I feel something touch my index finger. My eyes fly open and I see Callum looking at me, his hand closed around my finger.
‘Hello,’ he says in a small voice.
‘Hello, Callum,’ I reply, sitting up again. ‘Er, how are you?’
‘Are you hurted?’ he asks, ignoring my question.
‘Um . . . maybe. Just a little, though.’
His head cocks to one side, a frown on his little face. ‘No. Don’t lie to me. You hurted really bad.’
I let out an involuntary gasp. How the hell? What the hell? What does he mean by that? Kids are supposed to take you at face value, not question your honesty.
‘I . . . er . . . um . . .’ Oh great. I’ve been rendered mute by my six-year-old second cousin.
Callum, without asking permission, because that’s just for losers, jumps up on to the bed next to me, forcing me to move my legs and swing them round to sit next to him. He grabs my finger again.
‘Mummy says not to lie when I’m hurted,’ Callum informs me, instantly sending me on the kind of guilt trip that requires a heavy luggage allowance and a stern look from the girl at the check-in counter.
‘Do you . . . do you get hurt a lot?’ I ask, actually trying to change the subject away from me, because I am a prick of the highest order.
Callum cocks his head again. ‘Not ows on me,’ he says.
‘Not ows on you?’ I trust he means bruises, scrapes and the like. They are part and parcel of being a six-year-old.
‘No.’ His little brow furrows. ‘But they don’t like me, so I have inside ows.’
Oh good Lord, I could cry.
‘Who doesn’t like you?’
Callum squeezes my finger. I think it’s involuntary, but I can’t be sure. ‘Other kids. They don’t like me. Because I’m not a normal boy.’
Christ almighty.
The kid looks at me with his usual critical expression. ‘Mummy says I shouldn’t lie when I feel hurted.’ His face clouds even further. ‘You shouldn’t, either.’
‘I’m sure . . . I’m sure they do like you, Callum . . . the other boys and girls, I mean,’ I tell him, doing that thing that all adults do when they think they can convince a child the truth of something just by sounding like an adult. He doesn’t reply. The boy has the evidence of his own eyes and experience.
I think back to the gap the other kids placed between themselves and Callum out in the garden. Other children can be massive shits to those who are different. The lack of consideration they have for the talents of guitar-playing idiots like me pales against the way they treat their own kind sometimes.
I feel as if I should say something to make the poor little blighter feel better. ‘I am hurted really bad, Callum.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Hurt really bad. My ow is inside, too.’
‘Do the boys and girls not like you, either?’ he says.
‘It’s a bit different than that. There’s . . . there’s an ow inside my head. A really horrible one.’
The little boy looks at me and lets go of my finger. He stands up awkwardly on the bed beside me, wraps his little arms around my head and gives me the softest, most gentle kiss on my forehead.
‘Bad ow,’ he says. This is the closest Callum and I have ever been, both literally and figuratively, and it fair takes my breath away.
‘Yeah, bad ow,’ I repeat. My voice is thick with about a thousand different emotions. ‘And thank you for the kiss,’ I say, and force out a smile.
The smile fades as I look into his eyes. What must it be like to be six years old, have a shithead for a father and know that the kids around you don’t like you, just because you’re a little different from them? To have people avoid you all the time, just so they don’t have to worry about what you—
Oh Jesus Christ.
That’s me.
I’ve been doing exactly that.
Tears form at the corners of my eyes, and I look at the little boy with a grave and guilty expression on my face. ‘I love you, Callum,’ I say. This is shamefully the first time I have ever said this to him. It will not be the last. In fact, I’m pretty sure the little bastard is going to get thoroughly sick of hearing me say it from now on.
An epiphany then strikes me so hard that it makes my head swim – it took being diagnosed with a fucking brain tumour for me to make a proper connection with this boy.
I lean forward and give Callum a hug. I will never avoid being close to this boy ever again.
‘Awww. Well, isn’t that lovely?’ I hear a voice say from the doorway. Eliza is standing there, a broad smile on her face. She notices that I have tears in my eyes. ‘Are you all right, Nate?’
‘He has an inside ow,’ Callum tells her in a very serious voice.
His mother gives me a meaningful look before returning her gaze to her son’s face again. ‘Yes. He does, Callum. And I’m glad he’s at least told somebody he loves about it.’
I can’t think of anything to say in response to that.
Eliza sighs. ‘Well, I’d better be getting this one back downstairs. They’re about to cut the cake.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll come down in a minute. Just want to compose myself a bit,’ I tell her.
She nods, regards me gravely for a moment and then exits the room with her son in tow, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I’ve had countless meetings with Mr Chakraborty. I’ve tried Cleethorpes’ strange therapy methods. I’ve attempted off-grid living and herbalism. I’ve even tried giving money away. But nothing has had a more profound impact on me in this whole bloody mess than a small child, who believes he has no friends, giving me a kiss to help take away my pain. Who knew such a small thing could have such a dramatic impact?
Maybe I need to take a leaf out of Callum’s book. If I want to leave this world having done something worthwhile, then maybe I need to start being a bit more honest with my affections as well . . .
Mummy says I shouldn’t lie when I feel hurted.
You. Shouldn’t. Either.