Dear Lupin Page 4
ROGER reverses the sign on the desktop so it now reads ‘Closed for Lunch’, and hurries off to place his bet.
Sound of the commentary of the final moments of the 1977 Derby.
(Putting on a natty trilby and a sports jacket.) In the summer of 1977 Lester Piggott wins his eighth Epsom Derby, and I land the first job I can honestly say I enjoy – at an antiques dealership called The Furniture Cave in the King’s Road. The business is run by Johnny Hobbs, a larger-than-life bohemian who employs a small army of dealers, ex-housebreakers and pimps, many of them Old Etonians, and for whom buying and selling antiques takes second place to the serious business of booze, poker and backgammon.
John’s personal mantra is –
ROGER (appearing in a leather coat and Fedora). ‘YOU CAN’T FUCKIN’ BUY CHARISMA!’
He addresses LUPIN, who by now is reading a newspaper.
Oi, Chas you dozy fucker. Put that fuckin’ paper down and pin back your lugholes. There’s a sale of fuckin’ musical automata down at fuckin’ Sotheby’s tomorrow. Make sure you go down there and get stuck in. Take whoever you need to. I want some fuckin’ bargains.
LUPIN. Yes, boss, leave it to me, boss.
ROGER. What you lookin’ so down in the fuckin’ dumps for?
LUPIN (showing him the headline). Elvis has died, boss.
ROGER. Fuck me. No wonder you look all shook up. (Disappears.)
LUPIN. It’s true. Elvis has been discovered dead at his mansion, Gracelands, from a suspected heart attack. After work I mark his passing with a few work colleagues in the only way I know how – five hours in a pub in the Fulham Road.
Murmur of elegant chatter. Image of priceless antique on revolving base.
ROGER enters dressed as an auctioneer. He produces an elegant stool and stands on it. The chatter stills.
ROGER (with quiet sobriety). So to lot sixty-two. A George III paste-set ormolu musical automaton clock circa 1780 in the form of an Asian elephant supporting a canopied howdah enclosing a figure of Atlas supporting an armillary sphere supporting a bejewelled counter-rotating Catherine wheel topped with a pineapple.
LUPIN (arranging his hair into an Elvis quiff). I’ve always been a big fan of The King.
ROGER (pointing to the item). The elephant stands on a finely worked rockwork base mounted with flowers.
LUPIN. And some time between my fourth and fifth large Irish whiskey, one of my mates bets me one thousand pounds to jump up on the display table at Sotheby’s during the sale the following day and do my Elvis impression; an offer I immediately accept as it happens to be the price being asked at a car dealers in South Kensington for a fourth-hand Aston Martin DB4 which I’ve had my eye on for several weeks.
Screen splits to show both the antique and the Aston Martin.
ROGER. The elephant demonstrates four mechanical movements –
LUPIN. The car is powered by a three-point-seven-litre double-overhead cam straight-six engine –
ROGER. With a carillon of ten bells –
LUPIN. With a lightweight Superleggera body –
ROGER. Mounted on ormolu rockwork –
LUPIN. Made from hand-crafted aluminium –
ROGER. Connected to the mechanism –
LUPIN. Connected to the gearbox –
ROGER. By a woven cord –
LUPIN. By a gearstick with a maple-wood knob.
ROGER. The selection of available tunes includes ‘Minuet, Gavotte and Jig’.
BOTH. There will now follow a brief demonstration.
LUPIN jumps up on the table with a microphone and commences singing along to a full-blown Elvis-type solo of ‘Blue Suede Shoes’.
The accompaniment swells to a final chorus, during which LUPIN does a frenetic impression of The King in wild abandon. After a frenzied finale, involving copious air-guitar and a final lunatic flourish, the song judders to a halt. Hopefully there will be a round of applause.
Camera flashlights.
LUPIN (climbs down). By the next day I’ve become not only the proud owner of a classic car, but an overnight celebrity.
ROGER (throwing down the gloves and removing the apron in disgust). Dear Lupin. In the lavatories at Eton I recall someone had written on the wall the time-honoured couplet: ‘How eager for fame a man must be / To write up his name in a WC.’ How eager for fame (or something) a man of twenty-five must be to give, unasked presumably, an imitation of a defunct pop singer during an important auction of musical automata. The headline in the Daily Mirror particularly caught my eye – (Brandishes a newspaper.) ‘Cheeky Charlie Goes for a Song’. Fortunately for you, few of our relations read the Mirror.
He leaves.
Sound of commentary (accompanied by video) of the final furlong of the 1978 Derby.
LUPIN. By the time Shirley Heights wins the 1978 Derby, I’ve decanted to the beautiful island of Lamu, off the coast of Kenya, where I blag a job at a small hotel on the beach, doing odd jobs and driving the hotel motor launch ferrying guests to and from the local airstrip.
LUPIN unfurls a sun lounger, sits in it, puts a straw hat on his head, and begins drinking from a coconut with a straw in it.
Dad, meanwhile, travels rather less further afield…
VOICE-OVER. We are sorry for the delay to British Caledonian Flight 522 to Heraklion, this is caused by industrial action by air traffic control.
ROGER appears from behind the screen, again in his panama and lugging two huge suitcases. He looks thoroughly cheesed off.
LUPIN. July 30th –
ROGER. August 18th –
LUPIN. Dear Dad –
ROGER. Dear Lupin –
LUPIN. I’m writing this on the beautiful island of Lamu.
ROGER. We’ve just returned from a package holiday in Crete.
LUPIN. The weather on Lamu is fabulous –
ROGER. The weather on Crete was a fiasco –
LUPIN. The hotel, which is next to a white sandy beach, is the nearest thing to paradise –
ROGER. The hotel, which was advertised as a luxury development, was the nearest thing to Colditz –
LUPIN. The food is fresh, tasty and plentiful, and is served by beautiful young black waiters who all look like something out of a modelling agency.
ROGER. The food was ghastly, looked like dog turds and was served by dark, hairy women who looked like Welsh rugby forwards.
LUPIN. The local drink is called called Changga, which roughly translated means ‘Kill Me Quick’.
ROGER. The local drink was called Tsikoudia, which if applied in liberal quantities could have eaten through the armour of a Chieftain tank.
LUPIN. Everyone is laid back and the best of all, there’s barely a European in sight.
ROGER. Everything was in a process of being built and worst of all, the pool was inundated by topless German bathers with boobs like overfilled sandbags, along with Italian grandmothers who appear have a cultural aversion to shaving under their arms.
LUPIN. I can honestly say I’ve never felt fitter.
ROGER. Nidnod had flu and I weighed in with piles.
LUPIN. I’m also learning some of the local lingo – ‘Jambo’: ‘Hello’ – ‘Mimi nina vizuri sana’: ‘I’m very well thank you’ – and ‘Mimi choka kapisa’: ‘I’m absolutely knackered’.
ROGER. On the third day your mother encountered a couple from Bordeaux who spoke faultless English. She insisted in addressing them in a series of weird sounds that she imagined had some connection with the French language.
LUPIN. I’ve made friends here that will last me the rest of my life.
ROGER. We’ve also made friends that will last us the rest of our lives, mainly because Nidnod has invited the entire hotel staff to stay with us at Christmas. Maybe see you then? Love, Dad.
ROGER leaves.
LUPIN (reaching into his holdall and bring out a bottle of beer). Christmas of that year coincides with the notorious winter of discontent, when Britain is paralysed by industrial action along with the c
oldest winter for sixteen years. But wherever you are in the world it’s the one time when any right-minded son wants to be back home in the bosom of his family – particularly my family…
Sound of a choir singing ‘The Holly and the Ivy’.
ROGER comes on wearing a faded cardigan and a paper hat and carrying a drink.
ROGER. Dear Lupin. I’m sorry you’ve missed the festivities. It really has been one to remember, even by our family’s exacting standards. We had twelve to lunch, and your mother insisted on cooking a goose, which ended up tasting like a moist flannel shirt. The meal was further marred when your mother, who’d spent most of the morning with her noggin in the Martini bucket, got into an argument about flat racing and ended up punching your brother-in-law Henry across the table, before pulling him by the hair and putting his head through a plate-glass window; an exertion that also caused her new wig to go seriously skew-whiff. When he tried to escape by driving off at high speed she snapped the radio aerial off his Austin Allegro as he sped past the front door. By the end of the day I was on the verge of crowning her with what police call a blunt instrument.
Anyway, I must dash – things are approaching a fever pitch of excitement here – somebody has mentioned a game of Charades.
He wanders off, before turning to speak again.
Oh, and what’s the difference between Fanny Craddock and a cross-country run?
LUPIN (from beneath the hat). No idea, Dad.
ROGER. One’s a pant in the country…
He departs.
Sound of the commentary of the final furlong of the 1982 Grand National.
LUPIN (pouring himself a large brandy). I can’t recall much about the next couple of years, as my main source of nourishment consists of Dexedrine washed down with large quantities of booze. Eventually the penny drops that my life isn’t perhaps going in the right direction.
(Knocks it back and pours another.) The truth is, after twenty years of unrepentant hedonism, I’m what is officially known as a ‘garbage head’, a loose title to describe someone who’s addicted to speed, Valium, heroin, alcohol, and anything else they can lay their hands on.
As soon as I can steady my fingers sufficiently to dial their number, I arrange to check into Broadway Lodge, a drug rehabilitation centre for recovering addicts in Weston-super-Mare. My final memory is of chucking my brandy glass out of the sunroof of my car as I turn in through the main gates…
He downs the brandy in one and plonks the upturned glass on the desk, as we hear in the distance waves lapping, seagulls.
During this, ROGER approaches. The two men sit on the front of the desk.
ROGER. Well, it certainly seems a very pleasant place. Settled in okay?
LUPIN. I’m doing well, Dad. I’ve even been put in charge of running the video library.
ROGER. Really? Amazing what a public-school education can do for a man…
Pause.
I must say I was most impressed with the dormitories…
LUPIN. They’re fine.
ROGER. No dirty talk after lights out I trust?
LUPIN doesn’t answer.
Only I received a letter from your sister the other week. (Gets out a crumpled letter and scrutinises it.) ‘I saw Lupin recently, who stayed the night, got through two bottles of Scotch and took off most of my front gatepost on his way out.’
LUPIN. I’ll have to take her word for it I’m afraid.
ROGER (putting letter away, hesitantly). Just tell me this. Are you, A: on the verge of a becoming a millionaire? B: on the brink of insolvency? Or C: the subject of an investigation by the fraud squad?
LUPIN (considers for a moment). Probably a mixture of B and C.
ROGER. Much as I’d imagined.
Seagulls. Waves lapping.
LUPIN. Mum said you’re moving.
ROGER. Yes, a few miles down the road. Frankly I’m dreading it.
LUPIN. Where have you bought?
ROGER. I’ve put an offer in on quite a nice house in Kintbury.
Pause.
Your mother keeps calling it Cuntbury.
LUPIN. Have you got a buyer for the farm?
ROGER. I think so. We have a Peruvian merchant banker making a second inspection tomorrow. The first time he came Nidnod showed him round while wearing her old blue bathing dress which was bulging dangerously at inconvenient places. It may have been that which excited his interest.
LUPIN. How is she?
ROGER. She’s in a ferocious temper most of the time. I think gin is in fairly abundant supply and has the customary effect of making her act like Queen Boudicca.
LUPIN. And how are you?
ROGER (after a moment’s reflection). How long do you think you’ll be here?
LUPIN. Six weeks. Maybe seven.
ROGER. Would you like me to stay down here for a few days? I could put up in a hotel.
LUPIN. I’m fine, Dad. Really. Thanks anyway.
Silence.
ROGER. Oh, I’ve bought you a present.
He fishes in his jacket and brings out an item wrapped in a paper bag.
LUPIN. The Diary of Adrian Mole?
ROGER. Yes, I think you’ll enjoy it. Well, I must be off. I’ll let you know if the move goes ahead.
LUPIN. I’ll walk back to the car with you.
ROGER. No need. Just tell me one thing. What exactly are you in for?
LUPIN (looking out to sea). To be honest, Dad, I’ve got a bit of a drink and drugs problem.
ROGER. I see.
Pause. Both men look out to sea.
Any chance of getting your mother in?
He leaves.
LUPIN. Broadway Lodge does the trick. Within a year or two I’ve cleaned up my liver, and have started a company called Raffateer Boxer Shorts. Our slogan is: ‘Are the boxer shorts in your life as exciting as the life in your boxer shorts?’ I’m even able to take a holiday in Morocco. My mother, who’d been there before, gives me some advice. ‘When you get to Marrakesh,’ she says, ‘make sure you ask for a local guide we used when we were there. Everybody knows him. Just ask for Mohammed…’
But a few weeks into my stay I begin to develop what looks suspiciously like a nasty rash, followed by shingles and a chest infection. These are classic signs of a new and barely understood condition which is sweeping through the gay community, yet whose provenance is barely understood, and which is taking out many of my closest friends. With some trepidation I take an AIDS test at my local hospital, but I’m so scared of the results that I fail to call back for them. My first indication that the news might be bad is when I return for the results of a follow-up test and the receptionist at the surgery bursts into tears. I’ve tested positive. There’s no treatment and no cure. I’ve got at best three years.
And you know the oddest thing? It’s curiously liberating. I suppose if you end up in your thirties and you’ve got depression and you’ve fucked everything up and are hopelessly addicted and you’re not getting any younger, there’s a certain relief in being told that it might all end.
Nonetheless I decide not to tell Dad – after all I’ve put him through over the last thirty-five years, I reckon telling him I’m HIV positive as well might be taking the piss. I do, however, decide to learn by heart the King James funeral service. I have an inkling it’s going to come in increasingly handy…
ROGER enters with a rifle.
ROGER (beginning to clean the barrel). Dear Lupin, I’m writing this having just come in from the annual farm shoot, during which three pheasants in varying stages of mobility were slaughtered between the rubbish heap and the top of the croquet lawn. So sorry to hear you are poorly, though if it is indeed a rash, fear not – our family is addicted to them; Nidnod came out with one the day before we were married. I’m sure you’ll be all right.
He exits.
LUPIN. The first thing I do is to buy a pump-action shotgun. With launderettes refusing to wash the clothes of gay men and intravenous drug users in case the machines become infecte
d, an article in The People reveals that ninety per cent of their readers want anyone who’s infected to be rounded up and put into quarantine on the Isle of Man. If so, I don’t intend to go without a fight.
I do, however, tell one of my closest female friends that I’m gay. ‘You know that girl I’ve been going on about for the last few months,’ I tell her, ‘It’s actually a bloke.’ She replies, ‘My God. How awful! How did you find out?’ I also confess to my mother. Some weeks later she takes me out for lunch with her cousin, Robin Denison-Pender, at The Savoy Grill. After the meal she says to him, ‘Robin, you do know Lupin has got HIV, don’t you?’ There’s a brief pause before Robin enthusiastically slaps his thigh. ‘Oh, well done, you,’ he exclaims. ‘Well done, you.’ He thinks it’s some sort of civil award like a CBE. We haven’t the heart to tell him otherwise. But Dad remains blissfully unaware of my condition.
ROGER enters, now in pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers.
ROGER. Congratulations on reaching thirty-six. You have now got to contend with receding hairlines, deteriorating eyesight, diminishing ability to attract the opposite sex and a stomach that causes your tailor to make sarcastic comments. If it’s any consolation I had a bad day yesterday. I slipped on the ice while letting the dog out for a pee and fell heavily. The ground was so slippery that, with Nidnod being away, and me only wearing dressing gown and pyjamas, it looked as if the Demon Hypothermia was going to get me. I eventually got back to base despite two more falls but felt very old and shaken afterwards. I ended up being inoculated against flu by a district nurse who might have been Crippen’s sister.
LUPIN. Dad’s contribution to the local parish magazine that winter is entitled ‘Six Easy Ways to Die Whilst Gardening’.
ROGER. I seem to be falling to bits like a 1929 Morris-Cowley. My favourite reading nowadays are catalogues from cremation companies. I heard a story recently. A bookmaker’s family was returning home from the old man’s funeral. En route his young son said to the sorrowing widow, ‘Mummy, Daddy did die of diarrhoea, didn’t he?’ ‘No dear,’ the widow replied, ‘Not diarrhoea, gonorrhoea. Daddy was a sportsman, not a shit…’
Sound of Julian Wilson’s commentary on the 1989 National.