Not Gonna Happen Read online

  “I take it this means you’re still keeping me on as your agent?

  “Just because I’m quitting comedy, it doesn’t mean I’m not going to work somewhere.”

  “Where, then?”

  “I ... I don’t know. Just somewhere other than these grubby places.”

  Crotcher sighed as he tried to think of something, although by this time Corsac was already halfway through the door. “I’ll call ya?” he shouted after him.

  “Do that,” Corsac said. “Just do me a favour and leave it a couple a days, all right?”

  “A couple of days might well be a bit too optimistic,” Crotcher muttered to himself. He did not believe Corsac had heard him, but heard him he had; perhaps because his own mind was running through the same train of thought.

  Corsac left the club and the chill of the winter air struck him immediately. He hugged his coat tighter to his body as he hurried down the street. It was late, although London always seemed to be crowded, no matter the hour, and he knew his way to the train station as well as he knew the time of the last train home. Corsac had been catching the last train home for too many years now. He was getting old and he needed a break. Old. The word stuck in his brain throughout his entire journey. Old was not a state of the body, but of the mind. One was only old when one considered oneself to actually be old. There were people in their twenties who considered themselves old and people in their eighties who thought themselves young. Even in his own field of expertise he could think of many who were as funny now as they ever had been, and who showed no signs of slowing down. They would be making people laugh until their funerals.

  Then his thoughts turned to Tommy Cooper, who had collapsed on stage and died, and suddenly he feared that such a thing might one day have happened to him. But now it could not, for he would never return to comedy. He was through with that life, now all he had to look forward to was ... well, something else. He wasn’t sure just what as yet, but something else would come along, and then soon enough he could retire. State pension may not have been much, but it would do him nicely if it meant he would never again have to stand upon another stage.

  As he boarded his train for what he considered would be the final time, he wondered upon whether he had been right in doing what he had done. Perhaps he had been, he couldn’t say. Not at the moment anyway. All he was certain of currently was that he was relieved, and that he would live in the moment and accept that what he had done had been the right thing for him; and just pray that he hadn’t just made the worst mistake of both his career and his entire life.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Marie Corsac awoke to the smell of bacon. It was a very strange smell considering she did not recall actually getting up and putting any under the grill, but the smell was there nevertheless. Marie wrinkled her nose and turned back over under the duvet, thinking she must have been dreaming about bacon, because any alternative was simply too ludicrous to contemplate. However, the smell persisted, and the more she thought about it, the more she began to question it, and the more she began to question it, the more awake she became; until finally she opened her eyes and realised that she wasn’t asleep and that there really was the wonderful aroma of bacon drifting through her bedroom door. Her open bedroom door.

  Marie turned her head to one side and saw that the rest of the bed was empty. This was the second strange thing which had confronted her senses in as many moments, and it was still only nine in the morning. Her husband Jack never rose before her, due to his late-night performances. He always slept in until late, and she would finally rouse him in the early hours of the afternoon.

  Her olfactory and visual senses had each received a shock; she only wondered what would happen next.

  Her unspoken question was answered as she heard the unmistakable sounds of the grill moving in and out of the oven, and of plates being removed from the cupboard. She also fancied she could hear someone softly humming Morning Has Broken from downstairs, which was of course the most ridiculous thing she could ever conceive.

  Marie rose slowly, reaching for her dressing gown and hunting around for her slippers, before she headed cautiously down the stairs. The smell of cooking grew stronger, and as she entered the kitchen it was to find her husband just turning off the gas and piling food onto plates.

  “What’s this in aid of?” she asked, entirely unable to mask her surprise.

  “Just go into the front room and breakfast will be there in a minute.”

  “Yes, but I ...”

  “Marie, just go?”

  Marie did not argue. She may have been tired, although any semblance of lethargy within her had been purged by this rather strange turn of events. She waited in the front room for only a few moments before her husband entered, bearing two trays. He handed one to her, setting the other down before heading back to the kitchen to fetch the coffee and orange juice. Marie studied her plate thoughtfully. The toast was crisp and golden brown, the scrambled eggs sitting atop it a perfect honeyed hue. The bacon laid over the top of the eggs was real enough now she could see it, and as the coffee came in she decided that smelled grand also.

  Marie knew there was something the matter, although it had been so long since she had been cooked a breakfast she did not want to spoil the moment by asking, and so instead the two sat there eating and passing the time with as small a talk as possible. It was only when they were done with their food that Marie leaned back in her chair with her coffee and said, “Now, suppose you might try telling me what all that was about, Jack.”

  “Maybe I just thought I’d make you breakfast today, Marie.”

  “Maybe you did, but I’ve never known you to be up in the morning, let alone be happy about it. Something’s either very right or very wrong, and I’m just wondering which it is. Either we’ve won the lottery or you have some terrible news for me.”

  “Well, we haven’t won the lottery.”

  “That was what I was afraid of.”

  Corsac stared into his orange juice, tried to smile, although found the reflection in the glass really didn’t want to. Finally he decided he would just say it aloud and see how it sounded. “You know, I think I’m going to go for a change in my job prospects.”

  “You’re leaving those awful clubs at last?” Marie said. “Thank heaven for that, I thought you were going to be stuck in that rut ‘til you died.”

  “You don’t mind me leaving them, then?” Corsac asked, surprised.

  “God, no. I’ve been wanting you to leave them for ages now. You’re not as young as you used to be, and working those long hours makes you cranky.”

  “Well that certainly went a lot better than I’d expected.”

  “Maybe the bacon helped a little.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “So where are you going?”

  “Going?”

  Marie took a sip of her coffee. “What’s Harry got lined up for you?”

  “He’s going to call in a couple of days, I think.”

  “Something big?”

  “Something ... well, whatever it is, it’ll be better than the comedy clubs anyway.”

  Marie took another wordless sip of coffee, then said slowly, “You haven’t got anywhere to go, have you, Jack?”

  “He’ll think of something, Marie. He always does.”

  “You mean you left your job without having another one to go straight into?” There was no anger within her voice, indeed she surprised even herself at how calm she was. She was relieved that he was out of the clubs at long last, and there was a part of her which didn’t care what he did so long as he began to work decent hours for a change.

  “H will think of something,” he repeated, trying to force himself to actually believe it. “I may be out of work for a few weeks, that’s all. It’ll pass, and when it does, I’ll get into something big, you’ll see.”

  “Anything come to mind yet?”

  “Well I know he has a lot of television contacts. With any luck he should have me set up with something.�
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  “You mean you’ll become the next Des and Mel?”

  “I was as big as Des O’Connor at one point.”

  “But not now, Jack. I’m sorry, people forget.”

  “Well I’ll just have to make them remember, won’t I?” His words were part mirth, part determination, and Marie could see within his eyes that which she had known for a long time; that her husband was a man who had never got over the fact that his career had ended a long time ago. He was still a funny man, he would always be able to make her laugh whenever he needed to, although his career was over, and that was something he had never been able to accept. Perhaps now, she thought with some relief, he might just have to.

  “Let’s just see what Harry manages to turn up, shall we?”

  There was little hope to her tone, although to have expected anything more would have been foolish.

  Jack Corsac finished his breakfast and decided he could not stand to spend the entire forthcoming day in the house. He had told Crotcher not to contact him for a while, and as such there was no sense in waiting by the phone. After a brief stint in the bathroom, he set out without any real destination in mind. A walk was all he was really after, so he took himself down the high street to window-shop. He had never much been one for shopping, so soon lost interest in this endeavour. Then he heard a terrible drawl being coaxed out of a violin and looked up to see a man standing off to one side, an open violin case resting beside him, his dog curled up and apparently asleep close by. Corsac stared at the man playing the violin and could not help but feel that if he did not find work soon, this might well be his own fate. Up until but a short while ago, he had himself a job. It had not been well-paid, but it had brought him some money, and it was enough. At one time he had gambling debts to pay off and he was immediately thankful he had left all that behind him. Still, he could not help but envision himself standing upon a similar street corner, telling jokes for loose change and taking shelter upon the stairs of the London Underground whenever it rained.

  This was not going to be his fate. He decided in that single instant that he would not become a busker, that he would find some form of work before it came to that. He still had a house, still had a wife, still had some semblance of a life. Marie made money through her painting, and while she had not been selling anywhere near as much these days as she once did, it was still enough that they would be kept in good finances for the foreseeable future.

  No, he would not be forced onto the street for quite some time to come, and before that happened he would have fixed his problems. Crotcher would come up with something, he always did. He just had to be patient.

  Corsac headed directly for his local pub. It may have only just turned the afternoon, but he had not touched alcohol in many years and did not intend to do so now. For another thing, he could not afford it. He just needed to speak with someone to whom he was not married, and he had known the barman of The Rose and Crown for more years than he could count.

  The Rose and Crown was a traditionally small public house, with wooden girders and pictures hanging from the walls which lent it an air of superior character. He recalled Marie had even sold them one or two of her own, a long, long time ago. The people who frequented the pub were almost always regulars, and never would they have rowdy youths walk through the door. There were young men and women who used the place, certainly, although in the main were they relatives of those who had been going to the pub for decades, and as such they tended to be more respectful of the place than would complete strangers.

  “Frank,” Corsac asked as he sat at the bar. “The usual, yeah?”

  Frank Davis was a large man with a frizzy beard but no moustache. His disposition was almost as friendly as his face, and he smiled as the other man took a seat. “You look rough, Jack.”

  “Just what I wanted to hear, Frank.”

  Thankfully lemonade was still inexpensive, and the one good thing Corsac had always taken from being a controlled alcoholic was that he didn’t have to spend money he did not have upon drink which was far too expensive for what it was. Not that he had any money these days, particularly now in fact, but it was still a fine principle by which to live.

  “What’s up?” the barman asked, leaning upon the wood of the counter. “You’re supposed to be able to tell your barman everything you can’t tell your wife.”

  “Then it looks like I made the mistake of telling my wife first.”

  “She take it badly?”

  “Took it better than I thought she would, Frank. All things considered.”

  “So you’re finally out of the comedy racket,” Frank said with a sad shake of his head. “Shame on so many levels, that one.”

  “How’d you know that was my news?”

  Frank sighed. “Jack, it’s been written all over your face for the past two or three months.” Frank’s Irish accent was almost completely gone from having lived in England so many years, although it was when he was sighing and lecturing that it returned, and at that moment he was doing both. “To be honest with you, I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to come to the decision.”

  “I just need to find work now.”

  “Why don’t you try playing the pubs? We don’t need anyone here bringing in more people, but some of the larger pubs in London surely need stand-up comedians?”

  “I should think they’re more into upcoming pop bands, Frank. Besides, I started with all that sort of stuff, and doing pubs is pretty much the same as doing the comedy clubs, and that’s just what I’m through with.”

  Frank shrugged. “Well that’s all fair and good, but what’ll you do in the meantime? I mean between the two posts of this great moral standing of yours?”

  “That seems to be the question everybody’s been asking me of late.”

  “Well maybe that’s because you haven’t yet stopped to ask it of yourself, Jack.”

  “Got time enough for that now, I think.” Corsac’s eyes drifted across the bar to where a pillar of flashing lights and sounds greeted him.

  “No,” Frank said. “Jack, you go over to that thing and I swear I’m going to go unplug it.”

  “Oh come on, Frank. The fruit machines are about all I ever do win on.”

  “No one wins on those things, Jack, except for the professionals. You know that.”

  “It’s all to do with knowing when to take the risks, Frank.”

  “You want to know how many times I hear that every day?”

  “No, look, really. The way I play them is I put in three pounds, right? I’ll play that money and if the machine’s not doing anything for me in that time I’ve lost my three pounds but no more. However, if at any time during those turns I get onto the board where the money comes into play I’ll gamble only so far. If I ever get the opportunity to get my three quid back, I take it, because that means I’ve broken even and anything I get from thereon in will be a bonus. You see, most people’s problem is that they always play for the big money. They see ‘£100 Jackpot’ written at the top of the machine in big blazing numbers and they think they stand a chance of getting it one day, which of course they don’t. They’re designed that way, because people will always gamble on, and not be content with what they have. Like in poker, the highest hand may well be the royal flush, but damned if you’re ever gonna see one at the table. The way I see it, if you put in three quid and you have the chance of getting back seven, you’d be a fool to gamble on.”

  “You quite finished?”

  “I haven’t even got over there yet.”

  “Nor are you going to. I’m serious, Jack. It’s for your own good.”

  “But I always walk away with a profit, or at least as much back as I’ve put in.”

  “Always?”

  “Statistically. I used to keep a chart of my outgoings and incomings from fruit machines.”

  “That’s either the sign of a very cautious individual or a man who’s really too obsessed with those things.”

  “Probably one or the othe
r.” Corsac moved to rise, although the barman clamped his eyes down upon him.

  “I mean it, Jack. Don’t make me bar you.”

  “Frank, I’m not one of those people who keeps feeding the machine his winnings until they’re all gone.”

  “I’ve seen you do that more than enough times to know that you are. And quite frankly, you can’t afford to lose today, Jack.”

  Corsac sighed. “I guess maybe you’re right.” He turned his head to the television screen at the far end of the bar. Upon the screen was a dog race which two men close to the television were watching with rapt anticipation.

  “Now there’s an idea,” Corsac muttered to himself.

  “You really can’t help yourself, can you?” Frank asked.

  “Can’t help myself what?”

  “No wonder you used to have gambling debts. You really want them back? On top of all your other problems right now?”

  “My only gambling problem, Frank, was that I didn’t win as often as I lost, or that I always lost more than I won.” He frowned, wondering whether that made any sense even to him, then shook his head and said, “Anyway, they were just a few debts, but they didn’t really amount to anything. More loans than debts, I should think. And they’re all paid off now, have been for years in fact.”

  “And you’re still looking to put your money into it, even though you’ve been on one long losing streak these past thirty years?”

  “Well I think maybe I ... Actually, you’re probably right.” Corsac had never before considered that he might have a problem with gambling. He knew he had a problem with alcohol, although he had always taken gambling to be his calming activity; the thing upon which he fell back so he didn’t have to think about where his problems lay. And there was a time when he had even been good at it. Just, unfortunately, not so much any more. To think that he also had some form of compulsive gambling disorder was suddenly far too much for him to consider, and he rose from the barstool with an expression of detached disillusionment written across his face.