Short Story: With A Little Help From…

Short Story: With A Little Help From My Friends

It was a mess of her own making; midnight, reeking of Talisker and very, very annoyed, she stumbled from The Lamb and Pit Bull pursued by a letch with a bulge in his pants and a screw undeniably loose.

‘Drive!’ she said as she leapt into the nearest empty cab. ‘Go! Go! Go!’ Tomorrow she would look back and cringe at the memory of this melodramatic outburst, but, for now, as the taxi pulled into the flow of late night traffic and she watched her pursuer’s face peel away from the window, it seemed like the most appropriate thing to say. She dropped her head into her hands and groaned.

‘Everything all right?’ The driver caught her eye in the rear view mirror. ‘That man giving you hassle?’

‘You could say that.’ The taxi was warm and she was aware that the window of sobriety which had opened up to allow her to escape from stone-age-man, was now, once again, misting over with the fumes of a few good malts.

‘There are a lot of creeps out there at this time of night,’ the driver said. ‘You can’t be too careful,’ his voice was etched with concern and she felt the urge to fling her arms around his neck and sob against his shoulder.

‘Can you take me to Church Street?’ she asked in a small, repentant voice, adding, as if the head rest that divided them provided the anonymity of a confessional, ‘It was my fault really, I told him my name.’

The driver swung a smooth arc across the traffic and headed south. After a moment of respectful silence he ventured, ‘So, how bad is it?’

In truth, she’d got off lightly. As a teacher in one of Edinburgh’s more schemie schools she’d become something of an expert in the unfortunate naming of children. Her current class contained a Lunar-Blu and an allergy-prone skiver called Summer-Skye, whilst previous years had provided a Ziggy, a Honey-child and Honey-Boy (twins collectively known as the Honey Monsters in the staff room), a Bonneville (boy) and a Harley-Dee (girl) and over the years she had seen her fair share of Britneys, Whitneys, Kylies and Beyonces. Her friend Meryl, who was a supply teacher, swore blind she had encountered a Chlamydia in one school, named the mother had explained to a bewildered head teacher, after a Greek goddess (the goddess of unlucky sexual encounters, presumably) but she suspected this was an urban myth.

‘Eleanor,’ she said.

‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with that.’

She could hear the relief in his voice.

‘Rigby.’

‘Ah.’

‘ Hey! Don’t you start!’ They both laughed.

As the taxi weaved its way around the back road diversions enforced by the laying of tram lines, Eleanor gazed out at the city’s nocturnal creatures moving with purpose as if through an African landscape. Small groups of girls teetered like gazelles on spindly legs, their doe eyes fanned by extravagant lashes. Behind them a loose pack of slope-shouldered boys, unkempt and as snickery as hyenas, kept within sniffing distance. A policewoman yawned, lion-like, as she and her mate moved slowly towards a mound that might have been carrion or an unconscious smack-head. Smooth, silver-suited jackals observed the scene from neon lit doorways.

‘So, let me guess,’ the driver continued, ‘your man back there wanted to know if you kept your face in a jar by the door?’

‘Not a bad guess, but sadly, on this occasion, no. Actually, he seemed ok at first; it was when I turned down his offer of a trip back to his place that he turned a bit nasty. He whispered something about dying in a church and being buried etc. That’s when I realised it was time for a sharp exit.’

‘You’re not kidding. Jeez.’ The driver cracked open the window, letting in some welcome air. ‘So, were you born a Beatles track or did you become one by marriage?’

‘Born, I’m afraid. It was a bit of a rushed naming I was premature and it was touch and go with my mum for a while. My dad named me after her mother. He thought it was what she would want. The whole Beatles thing never crossed his mind.’

‘Unlucky.’

‘Och, you know, most of the time it really isn’t a big deal. I change it to Elly if I want to avoid any smart-ass comments - if I’ve not been on the whiskey of course - and, to be honest, it can be a bit of a conversation starter. Just here, number twenty two, across from the church.’

The cab pulled in and as Eleanor handed the driver the money, he said, ‘You know, I’ve got a friend who I’m sure would like to meet you.’

‘Really? Go on; tell me, his name’s Mackenzie and he’s a priest!’

He laughed. ‘Not quite.’

Along with her change he handed her a business card - Tom’s Taxi’s in bold black ink. ‘Stick it on your fridge for next time,’ he said.

‘Not necessary,’ she replied, ‘this is definitely a one off. I was out with a friend, keeping her company, but she buggered off and left me with that bloke. I’m a home bird usually, but thanks anyway.

‘Not a lonely bird though?’

Eleanor laughed and rapped her knuckles on the cab’s black roof. ‘Away you go before I go off you,’ she said, waving as he pulled away.

***

The invitation arrived three days later, pushed through the letter box as she was scraping the fur from a slice of vegetarian lasagne she’d found at the back of the fridge.

‘You are not going to eat that,’ said Meryl, wandering into the kitchen with the envelope. ‘I thought you didn’t eat things with hair, I’ve known dogs with less.’

‘It’s things with a face, actually. Don’t you have a home to go to?’

‘You’re still cross, aren’t you?’ Meryl fingered the envelope covetously. ‘I can tell. It’s a curse really, this sensitivity to the feelings of others. It’s like a sixth sense.’

‘Sensitivity!’ Eleanor took the envelope, turning it backwards and forwards in her hands, looking for clues to the sender's identity.

‘Look, I thought I was doing you a favour. The guy seemed like a decent sort. How was I to know he’d turn out to be the missing link?’

‘You should have waited.’ Eleanor was surprised to feel a spark of anger flare. Since Brad left (Brad, now there was a limp name) she’d found that anger could surprise her in this way, rising up from some mysterious part of her body then just as quickly dissipating.

‘The town was crawling with weirdoes at that time of night,’ she continued, ‘anything could’ve happened to me. Thank God for taxi drivers.’ She slid her fingers along the envelope’s scalloped edge and pulled out a piece of cream coloured paper inscribed in elaborately detailed handwriting. Her face furrowed.

‘What is it?’ asked Meryl, scissoring an Italian breadstick, rabbit like, through her front teeth.

‘I don’t know. It looks like some sort of invitation.’

‘Let me see.’ Meryl snatched the paper from between her friend’s fingers and began to read.

Dear Miss Eleanor Rigby,

I have pleasure in inviting you to the bi-annual gathering of the Not the… Society which is to be held at the Bilious Seagull, Ben Affric street, Leith on the 28th May from 8pm. Casual dress. Please feel free to bring a friend.

Meryl’s eyes took on an accusatory slant. ‘What’s this then? What have you been getting yourself involved with?’

‘I have no idea.’ Eleanor held up her hands defensively. ‘I don’t even know who it’s from.’

‘A. Cooper,’ said Meryl. ‘It says here, with kindest regards, A. Cooper. Who’s that?’

‘Nope, still no idea. Maybe it’s one of those weird circulars. You should probably just bin it.’

‘I don’t think so; it’s too elaborate, too personal. I think we should go. It could be just the tonic you need,’ she became thoughtful. ‘A. Cooper? Who do you think that is, then, Alan? Alex? Alistair? What was the name of that creep the other night; you didn’t give him your address, did you?’

‘No, of course not.’ Eleanor began to fork a large potato vigorously. ‘I gave him yours.’

‘Fair dos. Actually, I know this pub, its ok.’ She pulled out a Blackberry from her pocket. ‘And you’re in luck; I’m free on the twenty eighth. That’s agreed then.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so!’

‘Look, how bad can it be? It’s a nice pub, we go along, we look in the door. If it’s full of alien life forms or guys in frocks we turn around and go three doors down to Guido’s for a couple of cocktails instead. Who knows, you might find yourself a man.’

‘No.’

‘How long since Brad left? Must be nearly a year. I think it’s time to get back on that horse.’

‘No.’

’You know I’m right, Eleanor. And, by the way, you really should treat that potato with more respect; it’s got eyes, you know.’

***

Alice Cooper was surprisingly staid in the flesh, lacking any signs of snake or fake blood or even golfing attire. She was greeting people at the entrance to the upstairs function room, shaking hands warmly with each person or double cheek kissing in a theatrical way. As Eleanor stepped forward she said, ‘Hello, you’re new. We’re expecting a few new people tonight but, I think, only one female. You must be Eleanor.’

Eleanor took the proffered hand. ‘That’s right.’

‘Eleanor Rigby; isn’t that lovely. You know, I don’t think we have any other fictional characters in the group.’ She turned to a younger woman standing beside her who was handing out sticky labels. ‘Fictional characters, Liz, do we have any?’

‘Well, there’s Harry.’

‘Harry, of course! Where is Harry tonight? I must ask him how he got on at the film,’ she turned back to Eleanor, ‘Jo Rowling got wind of his presence in Edinburgh and invited him along to the Premiere of Half Blood Prince. Nice girl and it just goes to show there can be perks in a name - for some of us, anyway. Now…’ she looked behind Eleanor, ‘have you come alone?’

‘I’m afraid so, my friend cried off at the last minute.’ The very last minute, she’d kill Meryl when she saw her.

‘Well, don’t be shy. Let’s see who we can introduce you to, but, if you don’t mind, could we give you a name sticker to start with, it just makes things easier, saves us all wondering.’

Alice took Eleanor’s hand and led her into the room. There were around forty people gathered male, female, young and old, some propping up the bar, some playing cards or snooker. In the far corner a sparse- haired old rocker in a leather waistcoat was picking out a tune on his guitar, a girl with silver nose ring posed expectantly beside him, a fiddle at her shoulder. ‘That’s Gordon Brown,’ said Alice, catching the direction of Eleanor’s gaze. He’s having it hard, just now, and over there is David Cameron,’ she pointed to a youngish man with glasses, ‘We’ve two of those but the other one can’t make it tonight. Now, here we are.’ They stopped by a small group of men holding pint glasses and laughing at some shared joke. ‘Paul,’ she said, laying her hand firmly on the shoulder of the dark-haired man standing with his back to them, ‘can I ask you to take care of Eleanor, this evening. It’s her first time here and she’s come alone. If you don’t mind, and I’ll get back to the meeting and greeting. Nice to meet you, Eleanor, I hope we’ll see you again.’

As the man held out his hand and smiled, Eleanor checked out the name label stuck to his shirt. Meryl’s voice came through to her as loud as if she was sitting on her shoulder, Oh my God! You couldn’t make this up! Her cheeks flush red and she touched her face, embarrassed. It was as if she had just stumbled across her parents in flagrante, as if she had been offered a window into the means of her own creation.

‘Now, there’s a turn up for the books,’ said a young, blonde lad, whose name tag declared him to be Gordon Ramsay, ‘Paul McCartney meets Eleanor Rigby. What were the chances of that happening?’

‘Let me get you a drink, Eleanor,’ said Paul, steering her towards the bar. ‘What will you have?’

She opted for a white wine spritzer and, when they were settled at a table, she confessed, ‘I’ve no idea what I’m doing here. This is really quite bizarre.’

‘It is a little strange, I suppose,’ said Paul. ‘An unusual sort of gathering. It was Alice’s idea, originally, along with her friend Liz Taylor. They’d been talking about the hassles of having a famous namesake - I think Alice suffers more than most - and they decided to try and get people together who were in a similar situation. It started small but has spread by word of mouth. There are about eighty of us now, I think, although the number’s pretty fluid, some women marry out of a name, of course, and some names can be famous one year and forgotten the next. It’s just a social get together really, not a support group or anything like that it’s not as if we’re charity cases. It’s more of a clan gathering of the un-clanned.’

‘So, how did they find me?’

‘Ah,’ said Paul, ‘that was Tom.’ He pointed to a vaguely familiar man who was sitting at the bar building beer mats into a shuddering triangle with the help of a teenage girl. ‘He gave you a lift home in his taxi, the other night. Do you remember? I think he mentioned me to you.’

‘Oh, so you’re the friend he thought I should meet. Now I get it,’ she paused before asking, ‘So why is he here?’

‘Tom Jones,’ said Paul McCartney, ‘and that’s his daughter, Grace.’

‘He didn’t say anything at the time.’

‘I think, like most of us, he doesn’t want to make a big thing of it. Gets a lot of knicker-throwing jokes.’

‘I guess that’s not unusual.’

‘I’d keep that one to your self,’ Paul said, ‘at least around Tom.’

As the evening progressed the atmosphere loosened to that of a good- humoured party. Gordon Brown and his fiddling side kick Delia struck up a number of jigs, and, later, Alasdair Cook and his wife, Beryl, gave a warbling rendition of The Lakes of Pontchartrain. There was a minor hiccup when Ali Smith, a rather striking looking young man in a kilt, disgraced himself by being sick in a wine bucket, but things picked up again later when Robert Redford won the raffle.

At one o’clock the evening reached its end and Paul offered to share a taxi home. ‘We can drop you off first,’ he suggested, ‘it’s just a short diversion on the way to my place.’

Feeling slightly spritzed – like pissed only fizzier– Eleanor was quick to take up his offer.

Sometimes, thought Eleanor as she gazed sadly from her living room window, things don’t always work out in the lyrical way that song writers would have you believe. Sometimes Terry and Julie do not fall in love beneath the dusty aurora of a waterloo sunset; Suzanne’s tea turns out to be bitter, her oranges full of pips; and sometimes, even though you’ve heard that rumour about Maggie May, in reality it transpires that, on balance, she’d really rather not.

Now, three months after their initial meeting Paul McCartney and his lonely muse have gone their separate ways. It had ended sadly but amicably following a suggestion by Paul that they attempt to ‘re-write’ the lyrics of her song in the church yard. It was a crass and fumbled affair. Eleanor had been horrified to find that she still had, ‘In Loving Memory’ faintly imprinted upon her buttocks the following morning. And, true to the lyric, nobody came.

‘Aaagh,’ said Meryl, wistfully. ‘Love, still no known cure. How did you finish it then? Did you both agree to just let it be?’

‘Something like that.’

Meryl joined her friend at the window, resting her head on her shoulder like an old, faithful dog. ‘I always thought John Lennon was the talent in the Beatles anyway,’ she said. ‘It’s probably for the best.’

Outside, Eleanor could see the uniformed figure of a traffic warden making her way along the line of cars parked illegally on the street. She lifted Meryl’s car keys from the sideboard and jingled them momentarily in her palm, then, with a sudden rush of tenderness, passed them to her friend. ‘Sod the Beatles,’ she said.