House of Penitents: And Other Stories

By Brian Crane

Deja Vu........................focuses on someone in the entertainment business who is confronted by the
ghosts of his past.

Digging The Dirt...........sees one woman facing those who choose to be the self appointed moral
vigilantes in the community.

A Moment Of Grace....a fiftieth wedding anniversary that has sad undertones.

Just A Passing Fancy....is a man’s self analysis of his own conscience when temptation is laid before
him.

House Of Penitents.....through an extraordinary experience, this is one man’s question of what lies
beyond?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Mar 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781984589279

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by Brian Crane.

ISBN:                Softcover                  978-1-9845-8928-6

                          eBook                        978-1-9845-8927-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 03/30/2019

Xlibris

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www.Xlibrispublishing.co.uk

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CONTENTS

Lemmings

Deja Vu

Digging The Dirt

A Moment Of Grace

Just A Passing Fancy

House Of Penitents

LEMMINGS

                  Time moves on without stopping,

                  And we sit and watch it go by.

                  But every minute should have a meaning,

                  Before the well at last runs dry.

                  For there’s a path that we are following,

                  More like lemmings towards the edge.

                  But if we can see where we are going to,

                  It’s not too late to turn away.

For Sue my wife.

And for our true friend Lily, you are sorely missed.

DEJA VU

Ronnie Littlewood sat in the driver’s seat of his rather well run in Ford Escort Estate with the window down and the smoke from his cigarette curling up gently into the still, muggy night air. He was parked in the small front car park to the Longborough Miners Welfare and Football Club, steeling himself before walking across to the brightly lit foyer of this broad, flat roofed, bunker like structure of a club house.

But the humidity made it oppressive and he was now grateful to be able to just lean back wearily on the head rest and breathe in deeply. He allowed his eyes to close for a moment as he recalled the weather forecast he had watched on the early evening news before leaving his flat, for it had reported heavy rain, thunderstorms and a hell of a lot of it. Although, so far neither the rain or the thunder had made itself known, just this sultry, uncomfortable sweatiness that was merely aggravating the hammers in his head. Years of misusing his body with drink, an inadequate, always on the road diet and of being very sparing on physical exercise had left him susceptible to this kind of heavy atmospherics.

He had woken that morning with the pressure headache like a tight band of pain around his skull, but which had now maliciously left him with a pulsating throb behind his eyes. All day long he had been dosing himself with Asperin, but like some bad dream the wretchedness he had been feeling was still haunting him. But it did come as something of a sense of pride to Ronnie, when he considered that for once this pounding could not be attributed to his previous, only sometimes controlled, dependence on alcohol.

It had been nearly twelve months ago and just before the millennium that Ronnie had found it necessary to try to turn his life around. Even so, a huge input of determination had been required to revitalize his wilting will power and to lift him from where he was, to at least a level plain of survival. And with it had come a sense of purpose that had been so sadly missing from his life, a feeling of being shown a direction and of at last making headway against the harsh tide of existence.

In his more pensive moods he had managed to remind himself of the old analogy of coming to a major juncture in his life, a T junction with only one of two choices of direction to make. The one way was to continue down the road to oblivion or the other was to make something of the opportunity that had been offered to him.

For it had been agent and entrepreneur Charlie Baxter who had walked into the dressing room of a club, very similar to the one that Ronnie now found himself parked outside and had calmly stated that his days as a working comedian were over. Apparently Ronnie was out of date, out of touch with his audience and instead of telling jokes, he had become one. But this had not come as a total shock to the middle aged, worn out comic. In fact Ronnie had been trying to cover up all his failings and misgivings in himself, as well as his fears for the future for quite a time before that defining point in his life.

However, that same night Charlie Baxter had also seen the potential of using Ronnie’s vast experience and contacts in the pub, club and social club circuit and had given him the job as his agencies representative. In effect Ronnie had been given full scope to seek out new acts and venues, promote and organise audition showcases, whilst being the mediator between all the venues and the acts that already existed on the books of CB International Entertainments. For this was his world with all its faults and frailties, with all its cynicism and intrigues and in truth, he knew no other.

Ronnie looked across to the well lit entrance of the Longborough Miners Welfare and Football Club and the billboard displaying…..

Saturday Entertainment

DENNY LOWE

Top Comedian

with

Support and Bingo

There was a silent moment of reflection as Ronnie stared at the billboard, for he found it was refreshing his mind of when his own name used to be displayed, just as Denny Lowe’s name was doing now.

For Ronnie Littlewood had been one of those youngsters struck with stars in their eyes, with so many telling him that the top was easily in his reach. As an up and coming comedian, winning the plaudits of his contemporaries and the management promoting him, he had ridden that dizzy stratosphere of the eternally hopeful. But like so many before him and without doubt the so many to follow, the rocket motors of his space shot to fame had sadly run out of fuel. And yet, he had almost touched gold on a number of occasions, supporting big names on the summer season shows and holiday camps and even briefly on TV.

He had tried so hard in pursuit of that elusive dream, even when he had realised it was slipping totally beyond his reach. So, from the ladder to the top of the tree, it had been a forlorn and painful slide back down to the bottom and that T junction in his life. But from somewhere common sense had for once prevailed and at least now he could again hold his head up in the world that he loved.

And it was in that world that he now had his job to do.

Ronnie had already visited the first club on this night’s list, the Morevale Community Social Club and a wry smile slid across his face at the thought. The club was in the high street of the town centre and did not boast of any parking facilities, so he had parked in the street outside the main door to the club.

However, just as he was about to get out of his car, a battered, white Sherpa van had stumbled into the space in front of him, emitting clouds of black smoke from its exhaust and a cringing medley of crashing gears from under the bonnet. Ronnie had leant back in his seat, smiling to himself in quiet anticipation of the next development. After a few moments, the van driver’s door had swung open and out stepped Elvis Presley, resplendent in all his full Las Vegas finery and yet the image was slightly flawed by the cigarette dangling from between his lips.

Whatcha Clarence! Ronnie had called through his open window.

In every respect Clarence Dobbs was the perfect tribute act to the King of Rock and Roll, right down to the pure white Aloha jump suit, authentic to the very last rhinestone, gold lame detail and centimetre accuracy of the width of the flare bottom trousers. And the hair, jet black and perfectly coiffured, with symmetrically cultured sideboards, which Ronnie knew was all Clarence’s own, down to the very last follicle.

Clarence, understandably never performed under his own name, instead he had chosen the stage name of ‘The Sun King’. This being an oblique allusion to the ‘Sun’ Recording Studios in Memphis, where Elvis had been discovered and also a quite blatant salute to the icon being universally recognised as the ‘King’ of Rock and Roll.

It had been Ronnie’s privilege to have seen his friend in action and he was certain that any true aficionado could do nothing but fully appreciate the precision of Clarence’s homage to his hero. For the keenly observed moves, wiggles, strutting poses, facial expressions and gestures and even the voice was that of Elvis Presley, accompanied by backing tapes that had been studio produced and not bought off the shelf. And with the use of his superior sound system it all went to conjure up a truly memorable performance of a string of hits from ‘That’s Alright Mama’ right through to ‘Suspicious Minds’ and ‘The American Trilogy’.

However, it was a sad fact that the one thing that Clarence lacked was ambition. Ronnie actually knew of several firm offers Clarence had received which would have had the potential to propel him well beyond the level he was now working, but by his own admission he was quite happy to perform his act strictly on a semi pro basis. For being married to the gorgeous Tina and with three lovely kids and a daytime job as a post man, Clarence had no other ambition he was interested in. And Ronnie, in his own way admired this self discipline and had come to appreciate the importance of keeping your feet firmly on the ground. Although it was also a fact that he felt deep regret over when he found time to consider his one and only fleeting relapse into matrimony.

Hey!!!….. Ronnie!…Ronnie Littlewood, Elvis had replied in as broad a Brummy accent as you can get, while flicking the stub of his cigarette to the far side of the road.

Dodging the oncoming traffic, he had approached Ronnie’s car with a mock salute and that toothy, effervescent smile that in some ways had become his trade mark. And as he did, a speeding Min had skimmed past with the horn at full blast and a selection of ribald, shouted remarks from the occupants. But the Sun King was used to this kind of snide reaction and merely acknowledged it with a rather ungracious two fingered gesture and a flourishing, exaggerated bow.

Pillocks! he had muttered as he finally got to Ronnie’s car. And leaning through the window his hand had shot out to be shaken.

Well I’m beggared…Long time no see, my friend! he had finally announced. How are you?

Oh I’m fine Clarence…..But why the full rig out? Ronnie had questioned.

Have you seen what they call a dressing room in here Ronnie, Clarence had replied with a lift of his head in the direction of the Morevale Social Club. And now they’ve got a leaking sink… water seeping all over the floor…. and it stinks!…….I don’t like turning up dressed as the King…..but I have two other changes before I get to this one…. and I wasn’t taking any chances tonight if it meant using the gent’s bog to change in!

How’d you find out about all this? Ronnie had asked.

Billy Whistle was here last night and he phoned me, was Clarence’s reply. It’s been like it for the last two weeks or so….. Somethin’ needs doin’ about it mate!

This had now fallen into Ronnie’s job description, for it was his responsibility to make sure the venues were happy with the artist’s that the agency provided, and equally that the artists were happy with the treatment they received at the venues.

He had seen it all, from rats in the dressing rooms to faulty wiring, that in one instance he knew of had actually resulted in a fatality when a Sinatra singalike called Francis Albert had grabbed a live microphone stand. And then there were the inevitable drunks to contend with, collapsing stages, inebriated backing musicians and the corrupt entertainment secretaries trying to deduct money from the artist’s wages on some drummed up pretext or other, merely to pocket the difference. The list was endless Ronnie thought to himself and would make entertaining reading for anyone who might put it all into a book.

And this ‘old mates’ encounter had continued while the Sun King, with Ronnie’s help had unloaded his PA equipment from the Sherpa van and into the club. Ronnie had then completed this first stop by delivering his list of artists, posters and handouts for the next two months, followed by a ten minute discussion regarding the leaking sink problem with the club secretary. He had even managed to catch the first fifteen minutes of Clarence’s opening spot.

That had been the first part of Ronnie’s night, it being the more pleasant, run of the mill side to his job, but now he found himself once again, staring across at the billboard advertisement for Denny Lowe and he was brought sharply back to the present with the thought that this was the part that he was not looking forward to. It being the part that Charlie Baxter had made very plain was Ronnie’s responsibility and his alone.

Ronnie straightened himself in his seat and adjusting the rear view mirror, discarded the butt of his cigarette out of the open car window. He then dragged his comb through his thinning hair and tweaked his collar and tie into shape in preparation for the next and more depressing part of the evening. For tonight, performing in the Longborough was another friend, a fellow comedian and a contemporary of his of long standing and it was now Ronnie’s job to confront him with the fact that his life as a comedian was over, just as he had been confronted by Charlie Baxter twelve months ago.

But Ronnie had been given a chance and he had grabbed at it with both hands and had survived. Now he was playing the part of judge, jury and executioner and he was unsure that his friend would be able to accept the inevitability of what he was about to be told.

As it had been for Ronnie, Denny Lowe’s return bookings had been dropping off and it was now Charlie Baxter’s decision, as the area’s leading agent, not to offer anymore work. This could only be construed as having no confidence in the comedian and tantamount to saying to other agents that it would be very risky to take Denny onto their books. For a while he might be able to rely on a few private bookings but the word would soon spread and he would certainly not be able to maintain a viable living standard like that.

Denny, or by his real name Dennis, had started out at the same time as Ronnie, often appearing on the same bill. In those early days Dennis had worked with his lifelong friend Barry Olde as a double act, which involved two rather effeminate vicars called Lo and Behold. This was at the time of the growing popularity of top camp comedians such as Larry Grayson, John Inman and later Julian Clary. But Lo and Behold had been totally original with their irreverent and slightly risqué clergymen and over the years had built up a very healthy respect in the business and were certainly tipped for the top, if and when the right break came.

And yet the tragedy of it all was when that break came in the late eighties.

Lo and Behold had been booked for three appearances on the Michael Barrymore Saturday Night Out TV Show, which could have meant a step up into the big time for the duo. However, during a pause in rehearsals at the TV studios the pair had gone to their dressing room, full of the excitement of the moment. Dennis had then left his partner to fetch some coffee but on his return had found Barry dead from a heart attack, just staring at his own reflection in the dressing room mirror.

That had devastated Dennis and for almost four years he had relied on friends in the business like Ronnie to gather round and to help one of their own, that and a growing dependence on the inevitable bottle. But when his widowed mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer it had been her dying wish that her son should pull himself out of the gutter and be the son she was proud of.

And so, by what many regarded as something of a miracle, Dennis was reborn