come right through to the mini-market,’ says Sid. ‘He speaks their language. He is one of them. Not a manufactured product forced on them by their mums and dads.’
‘He’s a manufactured product forced on them by us.’
‘Exactly, Timmo. That’s the important difference. He’s a rallying standard in the battle against parental conformity. The leader of the mini-bopper rebellion.’
I look at Jason who has one finger wedged up his hooter and is stirring circles in the sugar bowl with another and ask myself: can Sid be right this time? It is obvious that he has been getting ideas from the magazines in Doctor Naipaul’s waiting room but that has never been a guarantee of success in the past.
‘I’m still sceptical, Sid,’ I say.
‘Well, you’d better go and see a doctor,’ says Sid, screwing up his eyes in distaste. ‘Don’t talk about it at the breakfast table. It puts me right off my kipper.’
‘No, Sid,’ I say wearily. ‘I meant that I’m not convinced you’re right.’
Sid stands up, ‘You don’t have to take my word for it. I’ve entered Jason for the vicar’s kiddies talent contest. You wait till you see what he does to them down there. It’ll be an ideal test run. After that it’s the big time. Eh, Show Stopper?’
Jason tries to nod but his finger is still up his hooter and he nearly does himself a nasty injury.
‘What are you going to call him, Sid?’
Sidney switches on his ‘I’m so clever I might kill myself’ expression.
‘Plain Jason,’ he says.
‘I don’t get it,’ I say. ‘I mean, he is plain but do you want to remind every–’
‘If you weren’t so stupid I would think you were taking the piss,’ says Sid.
‘Uncle Timmy, very stupid,’ says Jason.
‘What I meant–’ Sid hits every word like it is a nail. ‘What I meant is that we are going to call him Jason. Jason all by itself. Jason nothing. It’s his real name, see? Very natural, very genuine. It’s a wonderful gimmick.’
‘I prefer Jason Nothing,’ I say.
Sid controls himself with difficulty. ‘You keep your preferences to yourself and help Jason off with his suit. I’m going to see about a group that could be very big. If I’m not back by four you’ll have to take Jason down to the church hall. And check that the sockets fit the plug on his guitar. They’ve got some terrible old stuff down there.’
Marvellous, isn’t it? With all my looks and personality I end up as dresser to a six-year-old kid whose nose runs faster than a Derby winner. I would not mind so much if Jason was not such an uncooperative little basket. He refuses to change at the church hall and throws a paddy because two of his sequins fall off coming down the stairs. Rosie is out on business so I have to sew the bleeding things on. I have just finished doing this when Jason wants to do potty and I find out I have sewn his trousers to his pants. This piece of information costs me another five sequins and twenty minutes during which my lips are jammed together tighter than a novice nun’s knees at an Irish funeral party.
By the time I have finished it is a race against time to get to the church hall before the Vicar’s frolic starts.
‘Uncle Timmy catch it when my dadda gets back,’ says Jason happily.
‘Little Jason catch a bunch of fives up his bracket if he doesn’t button his lip,’ I hiss. ‘Now, get a move on or we’re going to miss the bus.’
You would not believe it, but the little basket has the gall to throw a tantrum because he is not travelling by chauffeur-driven Rolls. God knows what Sidney has been telling him. I feel a right berk standing in the bus queue with Jason in his ridiculous clobber. He makes a toreador look like one of those skinheads who wanders down Oxford Street chanting ‘Hairy Krisnan’.
The bus conductor is not over-thrilled to see him either.
‘You going to bring the organ on as well, mate?’ he says to me. ‘You can take him on top if you like. There’s an old girl up there with a bunch of bananas.’
I ignore these crude attempts at humour and try to avoid the other passengers’ eyes as I cradle Jason’s guitar on my lap. He may be the answer to every five-year-old’s prayers but he is not doing much for the senior citizens huddled around me. They watch him like snakes being offered a glass rat for dinner. The Vicar does not exactly cream his cassock either.
‘I’m afraid the fancy dress party was last week,’ he says, nervously.
‘Belt him, Uncle Timmy,’ says Jason in a loud whisper.
‘This talented little chap is taking part in your contest, Vicar,’ I say evenly. ‘I’m sorry we’re a few minutes late.’
‘Jason Noggett, is it?’ says the Vic, going down his list. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you or your wife since the wedding.’
‘I’m not married,’ I say.
The Fire Escape’s face clouds over. ‘Oh dear. I’m afraid that only those relationships that have been sanctified by the Holy Sacrament can offer up their fruit for inclusion in our talent contest.’
For a moment I think he is talking about a vegetable show and then I get his drift. ‘I’m the boy’s uncle,’ I say.
The Vicar looks much happier. ‘Of course. How silly of me. It’s so easy to jump to conclusions these days, isn’t it?’
‘How long before he goes on?’ I ask. I never feel comfortable talking to holy men. I think it goes back to when I was a kiddy and could not understand why they were dressed up as birds.
‘He’ll have to go on right at the end,’ says the Vic. ‘I’ve made out a list and I can’t change it now.’
‘Top of the bill,’ says Junior Monster, showing the first signs of pleasure he has evinced all afternoon.
‘It’s all harmless fun,’ says the man of God, realising that he has got ‘star or bust’ material on his hands. ‘Nothing too serious. I got the idea from one of those television programmes.’
I am getting ideas myself, but from a different quarter. One of the ladies present, presumably a mum, is definitely in the knock-out class. Slim, but with nice knockers and a wistful expression that makes me want to defend her against dragons and people like me. She has her arm resting on the shoulder of a kid wearing specs and long velvet shorts. The kid looks terrified, maybe because he is scared that his cello is going to fall on top of him. He holds his bow like a character in a fairy story defending himself against a giant spider. Poor little sod. He has obviously got no chance in the competition and is scared to wetsville about going on the stage.
I catch mum’s eye just as the Vic, hurries off to investigate a reported stabbing in the ladies – I noticed a geezer frisking the kids for weapons as I came through the door.
‘Have a shufti at the opposition, Jason boy,’ I say giving my tiny charge a gentle push in the direction of the stage, ‘– and don’t use language like that in the church hall!’ It may have been a silly place to leave a pile of hassocks but there was no need for him to say that. I don’t know where the little bastard gets it from.
‘Kids today!’ I say in my best ‘over the garden wall’ manner. ‘Little devils, aren’t they?’
‘There’s a lot of high spirits about,’ says Pablo Casals’s mother. She has one of those posh voices that suggests she lives in one of the houses facing Clapham Common. We live in a house that overlooks Clapham Common – completely.
‘When’s your boy going on?’ I ask.
‘Right at the end. It’s very nerveracking, isn’t it, William?’ William gulps