‘Well, er,’ the skinny woman says, glancing at the other mothers anxiously, ‘maybe that’s enough for today? What does everyone think?’ There are a few nods from the adults, and an air of relief fills the room.
With difficulty, Harvey unstraps his one-man-band and places it carefully on the scuffed parquet floor. The skinny woman appears beside him, addressing the audience with a rictus grin. ‘That was great, wasn’t it, boys and girls? Now let’s all put our hands together for Charlie Chuckles!’
‘Harvey,’ he corrects her, but she fails to hear. He checks his watch. He was booked till four, and it’s only twenty past three.
*
Of course, his name isn’t really Harvey Chuckles. He is Harvey Galbraith, an actor who grew up in Cumbria before heading south, and who has spent the past decade feeling ridiculously grateful for whatever crumb of work has fluttered his way. For a few years, he nabbed parts in enough TV dramas and plays to convince him that this was a career worth pursuing. Yet things dwindled away and, during especially barren periods, he resorted to doing a little modelling. There was the odd catalogue, or women’s magazine at the less glamorous end of the spectrum, in which he’d invariably be cast as the ‘husband’ in fashion shoots, kitted out in Aran sweaters and chinos, often accessorised with a Labrador on a lead. But even that has dried up now. ‘Sorry, Harv,’ Lisa, his old modelling agent told him. ‘You’re still a good-looking guy but you’re not striking enough to make it as the Mature Hunk.’
So here he is, packing his clowning gear into the boot of his five-year-old Punto in Shorling community centre’s car park. On this blustery Friday afternoon, he hasn’t even bothered to change out of his costume or take off his face-paint. This isn’t like him at all; when he started this six months ago, he vowed that no one would find out what he was doing. No one who mattered, anyway. Harvey has been single for a criminally lengthy period, and he suspects that, if any woman finds out what he does, he’ll have no chance of meeting anyone. What kind of adult female wants to go out with a clown, for God’s sake? Oh, maybe once – just for a laugh – but there’d be no possibility of anything serious, anything real. A sharp wind whips through the springy yellow curls of his acrylic wig as he closes the car boot. Scraps of litter twist and dance across the car park, and there are bursts of laughter from the children inside the hall. Now they’re having fun, charging up and down like a pack of raucous hounds which is all, frankly, children really want to do. They don’t want to watch a small metal bird disappear into a dove pan.
Spots of rain are starting to fall. Harvey climbs into his car and turns on the windscreen wipers, watching their back-and-forth motion for a few moments. A scrap of white paper is trapped under one of them and doesn’t appear to be dislodging. Clicking the wipers off, he steps back out into the rain and pulls it out from beneath the wiper.
‘Look, Mummy, a clown!’ a little girl yelps from the pavement. Harvey turns and gives her a half-hearted wave; she waves back, beaming delightedly. Still clutching the damp piece of paper, he realises he can’t just chuck it on the ground – not in front of the only non-hostile child he’s encountered all day. ‘I like your wig,’ she calls out, giggling.
‘Thank you.’ He bows graciously as she and her mother wave again and make their way down the street. Harvey glances down at the soggy fragment in his hand. Although it’s smudged and barely legible, he can just make out a single word: ‘piano’. Carefully avoiding tearing the paper, he unfolds it and reads: PIANO TUITION KERRY, plus a mobile number.
Piano lessons. It’s raining harder now, causing Harvey’s diamond-patterned satin trousers to cling to his legs. But he’s stopped noticing the cold and imagines himself sitting in an elderly lady’s front room, perhaps being offered tea from a china cup. The room would be warm, with a sleeping cat on the rug, and the piano teacher would teach him to play something beautiful. It doesn’t matter that Harvey doesn’t know anything about classical music, or that the nearest he’s come to playing the piano is tinkering about on his ancient Casio keyboard at home. Because right now, the music that fills his head is making this wet October day feel a little less bleak.
Imagine … not playing the wrong Cuckoo Clock song on his one-man-band but something lovely, like rippling water. What would it be – Handel, Chopin or another of those dead guys? Harvey has no idea. But he knows that being able to play would be an escape from all of this – something of his own. The clowning has to stop, he decides, climbing back into his car and pulling out his phone from the pocket of his baggy red jacket. He places the tiny, sodden piece of paper on the passenger seat. Then, with a swirl of excitement in his stomach, and making a mental note to switch back to his normal voice – not his Harvey Chuckles voice – he taps out the piano teacher’s number.
Chapter Twenty-Two
As soon as Kerry takes the call, Buddy zips across her path, pulling urgently on his lead. Until now, he’d been walking obediently at her side but, like a small child taking exception to his mother making a phone call, he seems to resent not having her full attention.
‘That’s great,’ she tells the well-spoken man, keeping a firm grip on the lead as Buddy strains ahead. ‘Yes, I still have some spaces, I’m sure I can fit you in …’
Mothers – plus the odd dad – are converging on the school gates. Despite the light rain, hair is neat and outfits look thought about rather than flung together in haste. Kerry feels suddenly self-conscious in her scruffy brown jacket.
‘I’m an absolute beginner,’ the man adds.
‘Well, that’s fine because I work with all abilities—’ Her words are drowned out by an outburst of barking. Buddy appears to have spied another dog – a small, fluffy black thing, like a Mongolian cushion, with no discernible features that Kerry can make out. It glides along beside its owner, as if on casters, paying no heed to the cacophony of barking several metres to its left. Apart from a quick frown in their direction, the owner hasn’t acknowledged them either. She strides on in her blue linen dress and camel trenchcoat, heels clicking as Buddy scrambles to get towards them.
‘Buddy, stop it,’ Kerry hisses as he continues to bark and lunge, nails scraping frantically on the pavement.
Now the cushion’s owner has stopped. ‘I’m not sure he should be going to school,’ she remarks over the racket.
‘Buddy, stop. He’s just … new,’ she explains. ‘I only picked him up half an hour ago. He’s probably a bit unsettled …’
‘Huh. Is that what you call it?’ the woman scoffs, dark bob swinging around her pointed chin. ‘I’d say he’s completely out of control. Is he aggressive?’
‘No, of course not,’ Kerry exclaims, realising that, actually, she has no idea. That man – James – said he wasn’t, but then, if he was desperate to rehome him, he was hardly likely to say, ‘There is a small chance he might savage your children.’
She realises she’s still gripping her phone. ‘Sorry, call you back,’ she shouts over the barking, not sure if the caller is still there or not. Quickly shoving her mobile into her jacket pocket, she grips Buddy’s lead with both hands.
‘That dog shouldn’t be around children,’ the woman says sharply, trotting off with her docile hound and merging with the other parents at the gate.
Kerry exhales fiercely. Great. First day as a dog owner and already she’s failed. Should she have primed herself to spot other dogs before Buddy did, and made a point of avoiding them? She’d always assumed dogs enjoyed mingling with others of their kind, with all the butt-sniffing that goes on. Relief floods through her as, with the other dog out of sight now, Buddy’s barks gradually subside. Now he’s just panting, which still doesn’t look especially friendly, but at least it’s unlikely to alarm small children when they come out of school.
Now Lara and Emily have appeared at her side. It’s spooky, the