2

  It was, well and truly, one of those ‘days’ and Humphrey was slap-bang in the middle of it. It wasn’t quite in the same ballpark as the sort of ‘days’ Anthea regularly suffered from; nobody was likely to end up being threatened with violence, simply because they’d dared to look at him the wrong way or anything like that. No, it was simply that the standard of potential client that had already audaciously auditioned for him that day had been, to cut a long story mercifully short, abysmal.

  He sincerely hoped that his own career might have hit its own rock bottom that day. A solid, concrete rock bottom too: not one of those false ones, opening up to reveal even greater depths of human, fame-hungry, desperation.

  Monty Price had been the first upon the scene that morning. He’d brought with him no discernible talent but he had thought to come equipped with his own placard, upon which he’d at least managed to scrawl the legend ‘Ask for the Price’: albeit, rather disturbingly, in scarlet red crayon.

  The merest of inquisitions had established that this amazing ability to know his own name was, in fact, the bedrock of the man’s entire audition.

  As far as it went there was probably an act there. As the central component of a coconut shy, perhaps. Or maybe as some sort of still-life display whose sole purpose was to to direct shoppers to the bargain bin at the nearest supermarket.

  But show business?

  He had a great face for radio, that was the kindest thing that could be said for him. Although, in which case, there seemed very little point in him having the placard. Unless, of course, he was planning on using it as a form of self-defence against life’s more discriminating and pugnacious entertainment critics.

  During the course of their brief interview, it had become glaringly obvious – certainly to one of them – that they were both simply wasting each other’s time. Although indeed, the potential for the act had plunged to new levels with every passing moment.

  It had transpired that Monty’s mate, a man with no name but an obviously over-enthusiastic sense of humour, had been the one with the bright idea to have his friend pop by. This, after having apparently noticed a remarkable similarity between a conservatively estimated twenty-two stone Monty and that noted female beauty, Jennifer Aniston.

  The man was certainly on something although, sadly, not in any way on to it. In fairness, had there been a Jennifer Aniston lookalike anywhere in the immediate vicinity of that office, Humphrey would have been more than capable of finding that person a great deal of varied and gainful employment. However, no matter how many degrees he had inclined his head by and no matter how much he’d narrowed his eyes, he was buggered if he could see any similarity between that bloke and her whatsoever.

  Still, he’d been in the mood to be generous.

  They were – presumably – both human, that was a good start.

  And, should the Hollywood star ever fancy growing a full beard and moustache, gaining about two hundred pounds in flab and shaving every hair on her head… no, it was no use; she would still have looked nothing at all like that ruddy charlatan!

  Monty’s mysterious mate had interested Humphrey a good deal more though. He felt sure he’d be able to find him highly paid employment as a professional comedian. He and Monty might even be able to cobble together some sort of double act.

  Or a double bill.

  Yes, that might be a better way of phrasing it.

  Monty could always open things, although God only knew how. It would, almost certainly, have to incorporate a fifty metre head start on his pursuers.

  Of course, the bigger question was why Humphrey himself, very quickly and rather ruthlessly, hadn’t just told Monty to take a hike.

  After all, any sensible person would have done.

  They would’ve slammed their door in his face, any sensible person.

  Except that, well, that sort of thing was a bit too predictable for Humphrey. He believed in giving everyone a fair hearing. Even if, most of the time, it was fair to say he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

  For Pete’s sake, ‘Jennifer Aniston’?

  Pull the other one.

  After a mug of strong tea and a few biscuits, it had been the turn of one Jeremiah Rudge. Humphrey had been reluctant to even write an approximate age on Mr Rudge’s audition form, as the man seemed to pre-date time itself. Doubtless he had been a fine figure of a fella in his time. However, it would probably have been necessary to make contact with King Ethelred on some kind of long-distance Ouija board to independently verify that fact.

  Humphrey had been shocked to realise that he’d already formed an opinion on the chap pretty much before he’d even opened his mouth, which was most unlike him. He liked to think he could look beyond appearances; most of the time, anyway. His own appearance in the past had practically invited enthusiastic criticism from complete strangers and he was sure he was better than that.

  Before the diet, that was.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Before Anthea.

  Yet there was no denying that he’d been able to hear the theme tune to ‘Catweazle’ playing in his head, as loudly as if the band had been right there beside them in that office. Not that Jeremiah would have heard it, of course, even given that sort of close proximity.

  As for an act, was there any call whatsoever, in this day and age, for a Catweazle impersonator?

  ‘Catweazle’.

  They didn’t make programmes like that any more. Everything was so fast-paced these days, wasn’t it? Whatever happened to a nice, gentle evening’s entertainment? A return to basics, that’s what was needed.

  Goodness, he sounded like he was advocating for some kind of austerity measure. Anthea would have had an absolute field day with his hankering for a ‘nice, gentle evening’s entertainment’ too.

  On the subject of fields, perhaps Jeremiah could diversify into other forms of retro while he was about it, like ‘The Crowman’ for instance?

  Humphrey thought that whole scenario deserved a good deal more thought. He could take the role of Worzel Gummidge himself, since Anthea had always insinuated that he used that character as some sort of style guru in any case.

  The cheeky cow.

  That was the sort of one-liner she had the ability to just come out with, almost completely out of nowhere. Acidic, crafted to wound and tailored, specifically, to each individual victim.

  Especially him.

  Yet, even when she was being a right bitch, she still had the ability to make him feel important to her.

  God, he missed her.

  But what about Catweazle?

  Humphrey had been seeing more and more retired people through his door of late. In fact, he’d recruited an entire replica cast of ‘Dad’s Army’ just the previous week. They would, undoubtedly, come into their own at village fêtes, commemorative gigs of all descriptions and as something of a doddery last line of defence in the event that the Germans ever decided to have another bash.

  The State Pension obviously just wasn’t enough to live on. Jeremiah must have seen it all, done it all and paid three ducats for the doublet and hose to prove it. But he had still been reduced to this… auditioning for Humphrey.

  He had plenty of oomph about him though, and he didn’t look as if he was going to be intimidated by the presence of an audience. He probably wouldn’t be able to see them and he almost certainly wouldn’t be able to hear them. On top of which, his act had not been all that bad. Mind you, on any other day it might have seemed quite bad indeed. But Humphrey’s internal ‘good-bad’ calibration had found it almost impossible to suitably quantify Monty Price’s performance, thereby virtually guaranteeing a positive score for young Catweazle.

  At least he had actually managed to make himself look like someone vaguely useful.

  His audition had appeared to be some sort of ventriloquism, which was fine: there would always be a market for that. And he’d looked to be enjoying himself too, which was another positive. The only thing was, his lips were quite clearly moving: although, oddly, they didn’t appear to be in sync with anything that was being said by anyone, anywhere, in the room.

  Of course, that was just the sort of quirky genius that Humphrey could appreciate. Although, even he had to admit, there appeared to be dark forces at work and no mistake. Proof of that could be found in the shape of Jeremiah’s grinning associate, which was surely one of the most terrifying curiosities ever to be presented for potential public scrutiny. It could’ve served, quite comfortably, as the doorman to the individual Room 101 of most of the world’s population. Its eyes didn’t just follow you around the room: they seemed to silently curse every move you made.

  Actually, the more Humphrey had forced himself to look at it, the more it had reminded him of Barney. Not the expression, of course – no, that was pure Anthea – but that oak and plywood combo. Except that Barney was an immense amount more wooden. And, if push came to shove, that doll could, probably, just about carry a tune.

  Something out of Satan’s private collection, no doubt, but still.

  And, if all else failed, at least that horror could be chucked on a fire for warmth.

  What use was Barney ever going to prove to be?

  Barney.

  Why the hell was he thinking about him?

  Never mind him.

  The more immediate issue was the signing up of young Jeremiah because, one way or another, he could be a gold mine.

  ‘Eighties Retro’, that was the market.

  He was, perhaps, more ‘Eighteen Eighties Retro’, admittedly, but that wouldn’t necessarily matter.

  Not if he was packaged right.

  He could already see that dummy having a long show business career.

  Was he thinking about Barney again, there?

  No.

  Heavens to goodness, no.

  Oh, good grief: he was due in the office to see him later on, wasn’t he?

  Unless Humphrey’s luck was in, that day, and the world mercifully happened to end sometime before then.

  No, it was Jeremiah’s wooden friend he’d been thinking about. That thing had the sort of face that could comfortably warn an entire population off drink, drugs and smoking all in one fell swoop and with no arguments.

  Yes.

  Perhaps some sort of ‘Public Information’ role beckoned for him then?

  Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs ought to be extremely interested in having that thing working the crowd for them for a start. The coffers would be overflowing in no time at all with him rattling the tin.

  He was more intimidating than The Kray Twins he was.

  Humphrey checked his watch: half past one.

  Barney would be here soon.

  He had to hand it to the boy, he was nothing if not resilient. He seemed, in fact, to be made of mental rubber. No doubt, that was something for which Humphrey ought to have been taking some of the credit: if not, more specifically, the blame. He protected his client far too much, a protection that extended far, far beyond simply providing a cupboard for Barney to hide in after every, horribly misguided, singing attempt.

  As an entertainer, Barney – almost literally – defied words.

  Proof, if it were needed, could be found in that very morning’s local newspaper, where even that description of him had been taken to a whole new level.

  Quite touchingly, it had initially been proud to call itself an ‘entertainment review’. There was a, rather lovely, photograph of the reviewer too, no doubt taken long before his trip to witness Barney the previous evening.

  Pound to a penny, he wouldn’t be looking quite so chipper today.

  He’d be looking like someone broken on the rack today.

  The review itself had obviously been posthumously dictated, following Barney’s latest ignominious entertainment death:

  “Words cannot even begin to describe what I witnessed here last night”.

  And that was it. Short and, unfortunately, to the point.

  Barney had obviously attempted to sing.

  Again.

  Barney was a man for whom the phrase ‘one trick pony’ was simply insufficient as an adequate description. He was so devoid of talent that he could hardly do such a much-maligned nag any kind of adequate justice.

  And on the subject of much-maligned nags, Humphrey really was missing Anthea.