The Grin of the Dark

NINE - SOME SENSE

A voice is rising from beneath the sound of waves or forming out of them. 'Simon. Simon.'

It's my impression that the waves lulled me to sleep, and I resent the interruption until I wonder where the sound has been coming from. I wobble into a sitting position under the clammy quilt and see that the computer screen is as dark as the underside of a stone. I must have been listening to my own blood or dreaming the experience; what other kind of waves would have been inside me? The voice has driven them away now, helped by a knocking that keeps pace with its syllables. 'Simon. Simon Lester.'

'I know who I am,' I mutter and then shout 'What do you want, Joe?'

'Are you by yourself? I've got something here for you.'

I wrap the quilt around me as I stumble to open the door. The landing is even dimmer than my room, which is steeped in twilight that seems designed to obscure the time of day. Joe is wearing baggy denim overalls and puffy white trainers and a T-shirt that says STUFF THIS TSHIRT. He's holding a padded envelope, but steps forward to peer past me. 'Everything working all right? Doing whatever you want it to do?'

I'm just sufficiently awake to grasp that he's referring not to the bed but to the computer. 'It's a lot healthier, thanks. Is that mine?'

He appears to consider the question before handing me the package. 'It came for you before.'

'Why did they give it to you?'

His unmanageable blond hair is already bristling, and several reddish patches on his pallid oval face grow inflamed. 'I thought that's what chums are for.'

'I don't mean you particularly. I damn well near had to knock the postman down the other day to get my own parcel.'

'That's a bit violent, isn't it? Maybe you've been watching the wrong kind of films.'

'Instead of spending half the night zapping people on your computer, you mean.'

Joe looks wronged, which seems all the more unreasonable when he says 'I'd better get back to it.'

'Thanks for being the postman,' I feel bound to say as I close my door.

I slough the quilt onto the bed and take the package to my desk. As I search for the end of the parcel tape I notice that the tape is rucked up, exposing a crooked line of staples, all of which are loose. Has somebody opened the parcel? Perhaps Customs examined it on its way from Quebec. I wrench the envelope wide, and the padding begins to shed grey matter. I drag the sash up and shake the pulp out of the window rather than attempt to catch it with my bin. The envelope contains a small book wrapped in a French-language newspaper. ANARCHIE! a headline declares, approvingly or otherwise. I stuff paper and envelope into the bin on the way to taking my prize to bed.

It doesn't look like much, even for an old paperback. While the plain cover may once have been pink or brown, it's so scuffed that it's hardly coloured. I could imagine that someone has tried to erase the author's name, which I almost misread as Monster. The title page makes it clearer that I'm holding Surréalistes Malgré Eux by Estelle Montre, published by Éditions Nouvelle Année of Paris. I was hoping it might be illustrated, but it contains neither pictures nor an index. I'm leafing through it in search of Tubby Thackeray when I realise all the margins are blank.

Though it wasn't a selling point, the copy was supposed to have been annotated. When I tilt the book towards the window I can just distinguish traces of words pencilled on the first page of a chapter, in a script so tiny it suggests furtiveness. Who would have rubbed them out? The remains of a word are almost legible at the foot of the page: fate, perhaps, or fête. The rest of the column of erased words is indecipherable, which is all the more frustrating when the page mentions Thackeray – in fact, it may be all about him.

The chapter is entitled The Far Side of Comedy, but that's as much as I'm able to translate. I need help from the computer. I step into yesterday's underpants and grab a towel from the rickety wardrobe and dodge into the communal bathroom as a preamble to work. A misshapen whitish cake of soap, which bears an indentation like the mark of a large printless thumb, blocks the plughole of the bath. An elongated sock lies beside the piebald toilet, and a sodden towel that looks discoloured with some kind of makeup is huddled behind the door. The mirror above the sink is so variously grubby that I can't focus on my reflection. The unchained solitary plug is nesting in the sink, and I stop up the bath with it for the duration of a shower. I stay no longer than I absolutely have to, and hear Joe's computer chirruping like an electronic caged bird as I sprint back to my room. I lock the door and am still dressing when I switch on my computer.

The search engine brings me a free site called Frenglish. I type the opening of the chapter in the window, which is framed by a pair of frog's legs, and click on the translation button. In a very few seconds the paragraph appears transformed in a lower window.

If Mack Sennett were the father of film comedy, Tubby Thackeray was his/her son uncontrollable. In five years in Keystone Studios it made twenty films which threatened to turn over very that even Sennett judged crowned. Where Keystone Cops brought ring of circus in the streets, and Chaplin built a ring as a setting for its ego wounded, for Tubby the world whole was a tent to be pulled down on the heads of audience. He was the clown who showed us what meant the word before there was a word. If he had been a joker of court he would have been decapitated for his danger, only to reclaim his head and continue the performance. We never would invite it on our premises to amuse us, but when we went to the bed it would wait to direct our dreams. No wonder Surrealists assembled themselves to see its films during the short period before they were prohibited in Europe and Great Britain. Magritte borrowed the top hat which Feuillade kept in the glass case, but Dalí painted Tubby, because he could not forget it. These paintings can give the sense best of how Tubby almost released these most dangerous creatures of their cage of circus – the clowns. Its quiet laughter promised outrages beyond something we could imagine then or now. Perhaps us should breathe a sigh of relief that he stopped to be comedian just like master. If he had taught all that he knew, what would his pupils be making of the world? Rather we turn towards comforts of Lautréamont and Sade.

I submit the next few paragraphs for translation in case they contain more about Tubby than I think. The writer believes Tubby may have influenced Fritz Lang's master criminals, who are either clowns or madmen – Lang apparently described Tubby as 'the one true comic of our age or other', and I assume that 'any' ought to be the penultimate word, however excessive this seems. She invites us to note that the 'temple of silence' in which Fred Astaire is reduced to miming at the start of Top Hat is called the Thackeray Club. She finds the Marx Brothers and the Three Stooges decorous compared with Tubby, and then sets about arguing that horror films are the purest form of comedy in the cinema, which hardly helps my research. I'm not sure how much the first paragraph does. By comparing the translation with the original I manage to restore some of it to sense – for instance, 'very that even Sennett judged crowned' means 'everything even Sennett held sacred', and 'its quiet laughter' is 'his silent laughter' – but which master is Tubby supposed to have imitated, and did he do so by ceasing to be a comedian? I'm frustrated to feel that the text is addressed to readers more informed than I am. Still, there's one lead to check on the British Board of Film Classification site.

Many comedies lost footage to the Board when it called itself a censor. One of Keaton's films was cut, two of Harold Lloyd's were shortened, as well as three Chaplins, four with the Marx Brothers and five that starred Laurel and Hardy. Tubby beat them all, however. Not only were Tubby's Troublesome Trousers and Telescopic Thrill and Telepathic Tricks censored to an unrecorded extent, but every film with his name in the title from 1918 onwards was refused a certificate.

I'll add the information to the movie database once my book has been published, but I've another reason to visit the site. When I check Willie Hart's page, an agent is indeed listed in the sidebar. I email Hart via the agent to ask for help in reviving grandfather Orville's reputation, and then I'm drawn to Tubby's page. There's a reply from Smilemime on the message board.

I've no idea who Questionabble Attribution thinks he is if he's even a he. Funny that I've never seen a post from him before, at least not named Leslie Stone. Let's all wait while he reads the title at the top of the page. It's T.u.b.b.y.s. T.i.n.y. T.u.b.b.i.e.s. Tripplets means there's three alright, because it comes from tripple, but it means babies, and they aren't babies in the film. Hey, maybe that's why it isn't called Tripplets. Maybe Mr Questionabble has never seen the film as well. Maybe Mr Questionabble should leave posting on here to people that know about films.

I don't think this deserves more than a laugh in response. If Smilemime is spreading misinformation about Tubby, that will make my book more useful when it's published. I'm muffling a hearty chuckle for fear that Joe might want to know why I'm amused when my mobile strikes up its tune. As I lift it to my ear a man demands 'Is that the university?'

'It isn't, sorry.'

'You said it was.' Before I can deny this I'm more bewildered to be asked 'Who did you say you were again?'

'I didn't, but I'm Simon Lester.'

'That's who you said. The university man. What are you after?'

I recognise him now. I've heard his voice on tape – on Those Golden Years of Fun and his answering machine – but he sounds older. 'Mr Tracy? Thanks for calling back. I saw your compilation. I'd love to discuss Tubby Thackeray if you can spare the time.'

'Discuss.' His faint Lancashire accent grows stronger and flatter as he says 'You said an interview.'

'Whichever you prefer.'

'The one as pays most.'

'Do you have a figure in mind?'

'Don't go thinking I've got time to chuck away,' Tracy warns, though I'm not aware of suggesting that he has. 'We're booked for months, me and my projector. There's still folks that want to watch old films that way, not on telly where they were never meant to be watched.' Perhaps he realises this rather contradicts his involvement with Those Golden Years of Fun, because he adds more sharply 'You can have me for three hundred. That's my price for an afternoon.'

'It'll be fine,' I say, since my publishers will cover it.

'You'll need to come up here.'

From his tone I could almost think that he's trying to deter me. 'When would be convenient?'

'Tomorrow. Better catch me while I'm in the mood. I'll be putting on shows for the rest of the week.'

This is surely my cue to ask 'Do you show Tubby Thackeray films?'

'You reckon I should show kids and their parents and old folk.'

'I don't see why not on the basis of the one that's in your film. Have you managed to collect any others?'

'You're not recording me, are you? Is this some of your interview?'

'No, I was just – '

'You're not recording.' This isn't merely a statement, because he says 'Leave the grilling till tomorrow so I can see you're not. And I'll want cash.'

'Could I at least ask which film of Tubby's is on your tape?'

'I thought you saw it. It said.'

'The soundtrack's worn on my copy,' I say and grin without amusement at the rest of the truth.

'You ought to be able to figure it out if you know about him.'

'I'd have guessed I was watching the terrible triplets.'

'Don't know why you bothered asking, then.' He sounds suspicious, and more so as he says 'Where'd you find it?'

'On the Internet. I'd have bought it from you if I'd known I could. In fact, can I still?'

'Why would you want to do that?'

'I've managed to erase the part I need. Don't ask me how.'

'Don't look at me. You're the only man I know that's got it.'

I can't believe he hasn't kept a copy. 'Why is it so rare?'

'Ask the bunch that put my film out. They put out stuff that got them in trouble.'

'Yours wouldn't have, surely.'

'They never bothered getting a certificate, so they had to sign it away as well. Let the police take the lot and didn't even hire a lawyer because they were scared it would cost too much.' Tracy laughs with little humour as he says 'It's not the first time Tubby's stuff came up against the law.'

'Why, when – '

'I've said enough for nothing. I told you, keep it for tomorrow. I'll pick you up at the station if you tell me when. Watch out for the virus.'

'Sorry, how was that again?'

'Keep your eyes peeled for the mumps,' he says with a giggle only just distinguishable from static, and leaves me to my confusion.

I call up train timetables on the screen and see the joke. There's a station called Oldham Mumps. The journey from Egham takes nearly six hours and involves five changes of train. Perhaps I should give driving another try. Perhaps I would have persevered when I was a teenager if the task hadn't been so much more complicated and demanding than the games with cars I'd played on the computer. I ring Tracy to tell him that I should arrive shortly after one, but he's either elsewhere or not answering. Having informed his machine of my plans, I return to the movie database.

Sorry to bring facts into the argument, but the compiler of Those Golden Years of Fun confirms I was right. My name isn't what you said, by the way. Not even my screen name.

Is that too sarcastic? Not by comparison with Smilemime's gibes, and I've sent my answer now. I don't expect to hear from him again, but if I do my book can be the answer. He has been enough of a distraction from my work. At least he can't do it tomorrow, and I leave him with another laugh.