The Big Frog Theory - 7
The weekly serialisation of my Magic Realism novel.
THIRTEEN
The weather broke after a few minutes’ driving, the clouds Neville had seen indeed anticipated the brief deluge that was to follow. For a while, as they made their way towards Birmingham, visibility was seriously reduced. Samuel, concentrating hard, adopted a resolute silence which seemed to carry with it a warning that, should he be forced to break it, some kind of penalty would be incurred. He had switched the headlights on, and the windscreen wipers moaned across the surface of the glass.
Occasionally, another vehicle would approach them from the opposite direction, lights blazing, and generate a cloud of spray for them to drive through. Silhouettes seemed to pass by at random moments: he detected a small wood, the odd building. It was not until a little later that he realised they were travelling through a built-up area. He heard Samuel sigh, and sensed a degree of relaxation which signified it was now permissible to open communications.
‘Where are we, Samuel?’
‘Birmingham, Sir.’
Neville peered through the window again. The rain, now held back by buildings on all sides, appeared to be lighter, and Neville was able to see more of their present environment. He had lived in Birmingham for a while and assumed he knew much of the city, but evidently this was not so.
‘You may not recognise this,’ Samuel offered prior to the question being asked, ‘but this area houses some of the best tailors in the city.’
‘Indeed.’
Instead of being in a commercial district, Neville found they were making leisurely progress through what appeared to be little more than residential streets. Samuel’s use of the word “houses” appeared to be doubly precise, as the buildings were indeed domestic — row upon row of terraced dwellings — and the only signs of entrepreneurial activity Neville could see was the occasional plaque above a door or window.
All the houses fronted directly onto the pavement, their small square windows adorned with net curtains of various persuasions and backed by multifarious draperies. Neville felt as if the dwellings were somehow leftovers from a previous generation; as if they should have been condemned years before and replaced by more modern constructions.
The bus swung from one identical street into another, then Samuel pulled the vehicle to a halt.
‘Here we are, Sir.’
They had come to rest outside a dark blue door whose paint had begun to submit to the ravages of time and was retreating in flakes to the paving stones below. Above it, a sign in a slightly different shade of blue, proclaimed “A. Bossiman — Tailor”.
Samuel opened the door and led Neville down the steps. As he knocked at Mister Bossiman’s establishment, Neville tried to peer through the front window, only to find his gaze blocked by a heavy net curtain which, judging by its off-white colour, had also seen better days. He wondered about Samuel’s assertion regarding “some of the best tailors in the city” and was going to challenge this when the door opened. Samuel stepped to one side to reveal a small man in a blue and white striped apron. He nodded to Samuel, then offered Neville a slight bow. Neville nodded back, then followed the man into the building.
‘Mister Bossiman,’ Samuel whispered, as Neville passed him on the threshold.
‘Are you coming in?’
‘I’ll wait on the bus, Sir; if you don’t mind.’
Mister Bossiman was, to put it bluntly, incredibly small. Neville followed him down the long hallway to where, at its end, Mister Bossiman turned through a door on the left and led Neville into a large and surprisingly bright room. At the far end was the net-bound window which opened onto the street, in front of which two small settees were placed facing inwards. Either side of the room, hanging on rack after rack, were suits, jackets and trousers, and near where he now stood, an evidently well-used tailor’s cutting table. It was difficult to make out where the light that illuminated the room was coming from. The front window admitted next to nothing, and the bulbs hanging from the ceiling seemed so dim as to be extracting light rather than contributing to it.
Mister Bossiman turned, and smiled up at Neville.
‘Pliss, your yacket.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your yacket?’
‘Yes, sorry.’
Neville pulled off his jacket and placed it across the back of a nearby chair. Mister Bossiman smiled professionally, and pulled a tape measure from his apron pocket. As he was only about three foot tall, Neville wondered how he would be able to measure him effectively. He looked towards a second door at the back of the room, expecting an assistant to emerge and assist with the task.
‘Pliss, turn about,’ smiled Mister Bossiman.
Neville did so. Instantly he felt an expert hand at the nape of his neck, and a second tracing the tape measure down to the small of his back. He glanced sideways and caught a glimpse of Mister Bossiman in a mirror on the wall. It was indeed the small tailor doing the measuring but with arms Neville could only describe as telescopic.
‘Goud. Pliss, turn about’, said the small tailor.
Neville turned, and Mister Bossiman extended his small arms to measure his shoulders, his chest, and then his waist in turn.
‘Do you come from far away — originally, I mean?’ said Neville, for some reason having the impression that a tailor was like a hairdresser and that small talk was de rigueur during a consultation.
‘Yiss,’ Mister Bossiman smiled, evidently pleased to make such intimate contact with his customer, ‘I from Walsall.’
Neville’s natural desire to laugh at the response — joke or not — was tempered by Mister Bossiman’s manner, one which indicated that his reply had been given in all seriousness and with some personal import behind it.
‘I see,’ was Neville’s only possible option.
After a few more extensions of his arms, the tailor had completed the measuring exercise and — though he had committed nothing to paper — appeared ready to continue with the next stage of the process.
‘Pliss, you chooce fabric?’ and with a wave of his arm (now back to its normal proportions) indicated a large rack of cloth near the cutting table. The rolls of cloth showed, not unnaturally, a predominance of greys, blacks and blues. There were narrow stripes and wide stripes, but nothing as adventurous as Neville would expect to find in his local high street “man’s shop”. Somehow this seemed in keeping with the general tenor of the place.
‘Pliss, for what you wish suit?’
‘Actually, I was looking to buy a tuxedo.’
‘”Torpedo”? Pliss, what is “torpedo”?’
‘Tuxedo’, Neville corrected. ‘Well, it’s actually a very smart jacket; often velvety, I guess. Some kind of smooth fabric. A bit like a dinner jacket. You know; you can wear it with a bow tie and cummerbund. That kind of thing.’
‘”Come-undone”? Pliss, what is this?’
Neville, amazed at Mister Bossiman’s sartorial ignorance, was nonetheless disarmed by the naiveté of his smile. Under more conventional circumstances, he might have been inclined to storm off, but — considering Samuel had given Mister Bossiman his personal recommendation — felt such action would not only be churlish, but potentially unwise. He decided to compromise.
‘A tuxedo is a very, very smart suit; and a cummerbund is a kind of wide belt made out of bright fabric. Is that OK?’
‘OK, pliss,’ smiled Mister Bossiman. ‘Smart belt, I got.’
And with another wave of his arm, once again invited Neville to choose his material. Neville had decided against any of the plain greys or blues, and had — he was surprised to discover — something of an aversion to stripes. His ex-Boss had always worn suits with a stripe in them, and this had now invested such unpleasant connotations in the style that he could not countenance wearing it himself. Towards the bottom of the rack, he noticed some material that appeared to be vaguely green, yet, on closer inspection, seemed to even possess a degree of redness about it. He heard Mister Bossiman murmur to himself as Neville bent to consider it further.
‘I like this,’ he said, on straightening up, ‘may I see it, please?’
‘Pliss, remarkable fabric,’ said Mister Bossiman who then, without bending, simply extended his arms downwards, and pulled the entire roll effortlessly from the rack.
In an instant it was on the table, a metre or so unwound for Neville’s closer inspection. His first impressions — of a material that suggested both green and red — were not inaccurate. Neville struggled to identify exact what its base colour might be — grey? blue? something else? — but gave up almost immediately. Whatever it might be, it was certainly different enough to meet his requirements and taste.
‘That’s fine, thank you,’ and with that offered to shake the tailor’s hand and leave.
‘Pliss,’ suggested Mister Bossiman, and gestured to the settees by the far window, ‘I make for you, suit.’
‘Now?!’ Neville was stunned.
‘Pliss. You like tea, yes?’
‘Thank you, yes.’ And Neville walked to the settee where he discovered a cup of tea and small plate of biscuits awaiting him.
Mister Bossiman seemed intent on undertaking the construction there and then. Indeed, as Neville settled to his tea, he could see the tailor’s arms already flying about the table, flashing scissors and tape measure amidst the folds of the material. Satisfied that his wait would not, after all, be an impossibly long one, Neville turned to look out of the window. Through the net, he could just make out the outline of the bus which was still parked outside. He felt a small flush of relief at this; knowing Samuel was on-hand gave him a feeling of security, especially after his recent escapade.
His attention was, however, almost immediately drawn back into the room by the sound of an unnatural cough. He assumed that it was Mister Bossiman endeavouring to get his attention — presumably for further measurements — but when he turned, he found, facing the settee, a dark pin-stripe suit standing to attention in front of him. The suit thrust out an arm towards its right when three other suits were now sitting, each in possession of a musical instrument. The trio, thus invited, began the introduction to a slow, drawling jazz number led by a saxophone, and backed up by a base and — of all things — a harp. Neville looked to the centre of the room to find the dark suit had vanished and the stage was now held by a pale yellow suit and a flamingo pink ball gown — though where this latter had come from, Neville had no idea.
The trio picked up the sleazy beat of their tune and the yellow suit slid over to the ball gown and began to dance around it. For a few bars the gown feigned indifference to these advances, but then, drawn on by the hypnotic nature of the music, soon gave way, and the two of them embraced. For the next few minutes (with Mister Bossiman’s arms flying about in the background) Neville watched the yellow suit and the flamingo pink gown engaged in a remarkably stunning dance which reminded him of the Astaire and Rodgers routines he had occasionally seen in old movies. Gradually the trio — who were also remarkably accomplished — picked up the tempo of the piece to a thumping crescendo which climaxed in the yellow suit flinging the ball gown to the ground, then collapsing in a heap alongside it. Neville’s applause was automatic and unreserved. The yellow suit and pink gown rose to take their bow, and the trio stood briefly in acceptance of their guest’s appreciation.
Suddenly, from the far end of the room, there came a brief crash as Mister Bossiman’s scissors hit the table, and in an instant all the entertainers disappeared. Mister Bossiman now stood, hidden by the new suit his arms were proudly holding way above his head. Neville rose and walked towards him.
‘Pliss, is goud?’ came the disembodied voice from behind the waist of the trousers.
Neville felt the material and examined the seams. The workmanship was, without question, of the very highest quality, and the suit seemed more a work of art than artefact.
‘Very impressive.’
‘Pliss, you try.’
Slipping off his shoes and trousers, Neville donned the suit. It fitted everywhere to perfection, and felt instantly comfortable. He turned to look in one of the mirrors. In this light the green in the material was emphasised, and shone lustrously. He turned to look over his other shoulder at another mirror, and discovered that the redness in the cloth now appeared dominant, and gave the suit a warmth that was remarkably attractive. Remembering that he had wanted a tuxedo — and backing a hunch — Neville closed his eyes then turned to the mirror directly in front of him. When he opened them, he found he was indeed wearing a quite remarkable tuxedo. He smiled to himself.
‘Pliss, is goud?’ said Mister Bossiman.
‘Mister Bossiman, it is truly excellent!’ And the small tailor blushed at Neville’s praise.
‘My fist “torpedo” I make. So pliss, you like him.’
After a further glance in each mirror, Neville slipped out of the suit which then, of its own accord, folded itself and climbed into a waiting bag. Once he had restored his old trousers and jacket, Mister Bossiman offered both the bag and his hand to Neville who took the former with gratitude and shook the latter with warmth.
‘Thank you very much.’
‘Pliss, the honner is all mine, Sur,’ and the small tailor bowed low.
Samuel was waiting for Neville on the bus.
‘Was your visit a successful one, Sir?’
Neville held the bag aloft.
‘Yes, Samuel, it was. Thank you. Mister Bossiman is a remarkable tailor — and he has an interesting establishment.’
Samuel started the bus and began to roll it forwards.
‘Indeed, Sir; as you say, a remarkable establishment. Strange how, from the outside, you would not image that such a talent could exist there.’
‘But it does.’
‘And has for years, as Mister Bossiman might have told you himself.’
Neville regretted he did not engage the tailor in any further discussion beyond his place of origin.
‘These other houses, Samuel.’
‘Sir?’
‘Do they hide similar talents?’
‘”Talents”? Not necessarily. But they each have something about them I suspect.’
It was one of Samuel’s phrases which demanded nothing but silence and contemplation in reply, and, as usual, Neville respected it.
They drove on through one or two more similar streets — the terraced frontages, the fading signs — and then out onto open road.
‘I have taken the liberty of booking a table for you at a restaurant this evening, Sir’, Samuel informed him.
‘What sort of restaurant, Samuel?’
‘I think you had something exclusive in mind Sir, did you not? This particular establishment offers nothing but the highest quality in terms of food, service, and atmosphere. I am sure you will not be disappointed.’
‘Given your most recent recommendation, I am sure I won’t be.’
‘You will need, of course, to wear your new suit. It is important to create the right impression.’
‘Indeed.’
‘And to that end, I have taken the liberty of selecting a number of bow ties for you to choose from. They are on the seat behind you.’
Neville turned and lifted a small tray containing seven ties to his lap. They varied in colour and style, but also appeared of the highest quality.
‘Compliments of Mister Bossiman, Sir.’
‘Ah.’ Neville glanced up. ‘Will we be there soon?’
‘In a while, Sir. I suggest you relax; perhaps sleep a little.’
FOURTEEN
It was dark when Neville awoke; the bus was stationery. In the silence he could hear starlings about their early evening social activity, chaotic cries accompanying their manic business. From somewhere at the back of the bus, he could hear Samuel whistling gently to himself. He checked his watch: it was a little before eight.
‘Ah, so you’re awake, Sir! Good; I was worried that I might have to disturb you.’
Neville turned to discover that there had been something of a transformation to the interior of the bus since he had fallen asleep. All the remaining seats had been removed and the vehicle now appeared to be compartmentalised, with a narrow passageway running down one side. Curtains separated the various areas, but these were currently drawn back, so Neville had a full front-to-back view. The first two sections contained beds, each with a small cupboard by the headboard and a lamp on a tiny shelf set into the structure of the bus. Beyond the second of these arrangements, there appeared to be what could only be described as a small galley, and it was here Samuel was currently occupied. Beyond the galley was a door — not a curtain — and Neville assumed this could only be the bathroom. Samuel looked up from the small stove where he was tending his supper.
‘I took the liberty of making a few minor adjustments while you were asleep, Sir. I thought it best to allow for any future circumstance, you see.’
‘I’m impressed, Samuel; you have been busy.’
Neville left his seat and made his way towards the back of the bus. Passing the first compartment — ‘That one is yours, Sir’ — he felt the bed (it seemed remarkably soft) and opened the cupboard door. Inside hung his new suit, along with the remainder of his clothes. Samuel had evidently unpacked his bags too. Passing Samuel’s quarters, he reached the galley which, despite its size, seemed rather well equipped. The driver was in the process of making some kind of vegetable stew for his dinner.
‘Don’t worry Sir, this isn’t yours!’
Neville returned Samuel’s smile.
‘When will we get to the restaurant?’
‘We are there already, Sir. I took the liberty of parking in their car park a little early; your table is booked for eight thirty.’
‘I should be thinking about getting ready then.’
Samuel motioned to the door beyond the galley.
‘The bathroom is through there, Sir. Everything should be ready for you.’
Neville opened the door. The bathroom, though compact, still boasted a full sized bath and toilet. The bath was full, steam rising gently from the surface of the water. Above the toilet, a small mirrored cabinet stood half-open, revealing appropriate shaving and washing products.
‘I’ll lay out your suit, Sir; you go ahead.’
Neville closed the door behind him. Two towels waited on a rail beside the bath, and a small chair was provided to take his discarded clothes. He checked his face in the mirror. He would need a shave too, and was pleased to find an electric razor in the cabinet. Samuel appeared to have considered everything. He undressed quickly, then felt the bath water with his hand. The temperature seemed fine. Within seconds he was immersed. The bath was surprisingly deep, and reclining in it, Neville found his body completely covered. At the foot of the bath — where, to his surprise, there were no taps — a yellow plastic duck bobbed in the water. On a small rack to the side, a flannel, a sachet of shampoo, and some soap awaited his attention.
‘Comfy, ain’t it?’
The duck bobbed a little closer towards him.
‘Very, yes.’
‘Can’t stand those bloody shallow baths.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Can’t get enough water in ‘em. Sit down, but don’t get your arse wet; know what I mean?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Neville leant forward for the shampoo. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Sure; no worries. Don’t splash about too much though mate; can’t stand it when I gets soap in me eyes. Odd, ain’t it? A duck what don’t like water that much. Well, it ain’t the water so much as the soap, see? Makes me eyes smart. Ain’t natural, is it ; a duck and soap, I mean?’
Neville, having doused his hair, began to wash it. The duck, evidently to avoid as much discomfort as possible, bobbed away from him a little.
‘What you up to then?’
‘Sorry?’ Neville looked at the duck through the one eye that was not covered in soap suds.
‘I mean, here. In this bath. Like, I ain’t seen you before, have I? You ain’t like the last guy.’
‘Last guy?’ Neville stopped rinsing.
‘Yeah. Big feller; fat, know what I mean? Come to think of it, there was hardly room enough for me in here with him. Miserable sod too. Only saw him the once.’
‘You’ve seen lots of people have you?’
The duck gave a quacky laugh.
‘Course I ‘ave. Well, what do you expect; it’s a bleeding ‘otel, ain’t it?’ — and the duck quacked again.
From outside, Samuel shouted through a reminder about the time. Neville’s mind flashed back to the bathroom in Paris.
‘OK, Samuel. Won’t be long.’
‘Sam. That’s his name is it? The geezer who looks after the room. Sounds like an obnoxious git to me; always bossing blokes about. Can’t stand that, being bossed about. Know what I mean?’
‘Yes. Excuse me.’ Neville stretched for the soap and began to wash.
The duck bobbed around in a circle for a few moments, attempting to whistle as he did so; something that, thanks to his physiognomy, proved impossible and resulted in nothing more than a largely silent dribble.
‘’Ere; ain’t got any bread, ‘ave you? Shit, I could murder a nice crust! Bloody hotel keeps you on tight rations, know what I mean? My dad used to talk to me about rations in the war, poor bustard. But it weren’t like this though; eh?’
‘I expect not.’
Again Samuel shouted a reminder, and this time Neville rose and stretched for a towel.
‘’Ere, you’re quite a big bloke aren’t you? Tall, I mean. Fit are you; I mean, play football or something? Some blokes look like shit; know what I mean?’
‘I’m just skinny; that’s all,’ replied Neville through the folds of the towel as he dried himself.
After a minute or so, he turned his attention to his chin. The razor was fully charged and remarkably efficient. It seemed to take no time at all to remove the small amount of stubble that he had manage to accrue since Paris, and rubbing his hand across a now smooth face made him feel much more comfortable.
‘Nice talking to you,’ he said, turning back to the bath. But although the duck still bobbed, it did so lifelessly.
The door opened, and Samuel popped his head round.
‘Everything OK, Sir?’
‘Fine Samuel, thank you.’
‘I’ve laid out your suit Sir, and a white shirt. The ties are there too, if you would like to choose one.’
‘Thank you.’
And with a towel wrapped around his waist, Neville made his way back to his compartment through the now closed curtains. As Samuel had said, his clothes were ready for him, including a new pair of shoes and a selection of socks. Neville chose a rather flashy green patterned tie and green socks, hoping that the combination would bring out the best in Mister Bossiman’s handiwork. There was a mirror on the door of the cupboard, and within a few minutes Neville was able to consider his overall appearance.
He was, without doubt, pleased with the final composition. He had not looked as smart as this for a considerable period of time. Indeed, he found it impossible to recall the last occasion when he had needed to “dress up”, but felt certain that it would have had something to do with Mirelle wanting to impress someone. He checked his watch. It was nearly eight thirty. Pulling back the curtains, he found Samuel waiting for him.
‘I say, Sir!’ he said, warmly, ‘you do look just the part. Very dapper.’
‘Thank you, Samuel. You think I’ll do?’
‘I think you will do very nicely, Sir.’ And with a slight bow, Samuel opened the bus door and stood aside.
At the foot of the steps, Neville was greeted by a rather distinguished edifice gently illuminated by low-level exterior lights. The building was detached, and there appeared to be no other nearby. The faint breeze Neville felt on his cheek suggested they were out of the city and somewhere in the country. He looked for a nameplate to identify the building, but found none. Indeed, without knowing it to be a restaurant, one might be forgiven for assuming it was a small stately home and not open to the public. He made his way across the gravel car park to the front of the building where a large well-lit porch invited him on. In the hallway, an elegant man in evening dress moved forward to greet him.
‘I have a reservation for eight thirty.’
‘Ah, yes Sir. Very pleased to see you this evening. I trust you will enjoy your meal with us.’
‘Thank you; I’m sure I shall.’
The elegant man clicked his fingers, and another dark-suited man appeared.
‘Gustav; show this gentleman to table eight.’
‘Eight?’ said Gustav, ‘certainly.’
Gustav leant forward and whispered something in the Maîtres’ ear. The latter stiffened slightly.
‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ he said addressing Neville, ‘but it appears that the last diner is just finishing her coffee at your table — which, apart from that, is of course ready for you. Would you like to follow Gustav, please.’
Neville was about to suggest that he take a different table or that he might wait for the previous diner to finish, but there seemed some insistence that he follow Gustav, and this he did. The hallway opened out into a small dining area which was lit with a subtlety and elegance that matched the Maîtres’ own. It was not large — perhaps containing no more than ten tables — but furnished impeccably. Around half the tables were occupied, the remainder boasted “Reserved” notices. The diners already there looked remarkably smart. He followed Gustav to a table in the far corner of the room. Its current occupant, looked up from her coffee at their arrival.
‘Pardon, Madame; but this gentleman has arrived for his booking. I wonder if you would mind if he sat with you for an aperitif while you finish your coffee?’
She shot Gustav a strange look which seemed to display some kind of disquiet, though this was quickly superseded by a return to a more relaxed demeanour and even the beginnings of a smile. She glanced at Neville.
‘Of course not. I won’t be very long. That is, if the gentleman doesn’t mind?’
Neville returned her smile. ‘My pleasure,’ he said, and took the seat offered him by Gustav.
‘Drink, Sir?’
‘Gin and Tonic.’
Gustav nodded, and left.
As he scanned the room, Neville noticed a mural adorning the wall. From the back of his chair, it rose about two feet, and circumnavigated the whole of the room. Its theme appeared, appropriately enough, to be food. Neville was taking this in, when the woman spoke.
‘I’m awfully sorry about this. Perhaps I eat slowly. They came and started relaying the table, but I didn’t realise...’
‘Please, there’s no problem, really.’
The woman was, Neville supposed, a little younger than himself. She was on the interesting side of plainness, with an open smile which suggested a positive outlook on life and a bright eye confirming as much. He was surprised she was alone. Gustav returned with Neville’s drink, and placed a menu on the table in front of him. He was inclined to begin his selection immediately, but the woman seemed keen to make a little conversation.
‘You’ll like it here; the food is excellent.’
‘Good, I hope so. I have a very reliable recommendation.’
She nodded, still smiling slightly.
‘I would tell you what I had to eat and recommend that, but I don’t wish to influence your choice. In any event, I’m sure it is all wonderful.’
Neville smiled, raising the cold gin to his lips. The woman sipped her coffee then, after looking away, turned back to him.
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but that’s a rather fine suit.’
‘Why thank you. It’s new, actually; the result of another recommendation.’
‘Your tailor has done you proud, I must say.’
The woman’s dress — a vibrant pink, Neville now noticed — was also quite exceptional; and when she stood (having now finished her coffee) he could see the cut of it. The skirt was quite full, and the bodice — which was strapless — decidedly flattering. He rose to allow her to move past him. She offered her hand.
‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you.’
‘The pleasure is all mine,’ he replied, a little taken aback.
And then, after a brief handshake and a further smile as she reached the door, he was left alone at his table. In a moment, Gustav was back at the table clearing away the coffee cup.
‘Perhaps Sir would like to take the seat vacated by Madame. I think you will find it more comfortable. I will return for your order in a few minutes.’ As Neville thanked him, Gustav turned on his heel, and moved away.