The Show Goes on by Christian Deverille

Curmudgeonly Quentin tries to sabotage his young neighbor Lucy's backyard concerts.

Image generated with OpenAI

Quentin pushed open the back door to the garden and threw out his arms to welcome the year's sunniest day. For an April day in Sussex, the sun shone proud, though it would not have inspired any Mauritians to leap out of bed. Still, Quentin's Grand Bay days were long gone. And best forgotten. But this rare sunshine reminded him of the Mauritian sun; how, out on the Bay Bar's veranda, it pounded his mind into a soft putty of calm. The sound of waves would flap below the deck, a sweet, salt-infused prelude to the monstrous snores of his naps.

Quentin cursed the back door for being too narrow and carried outside a tray with coffee, croissants, apricot jam, and a Proust reader. He sat on his wicker chair, humming Porter's Anything Goes, put on his tortoiseshell sunglasses and, as he offered his face up to the sun, something resembling a smile reappeared on his face.

"Oh God!" Quentin said, sitting up, a few moments later.

"Testing, testing," said a girl's voice.

The microphone screeched. Keyboard synths cut further into the peace, like a scythe hacked into wedding cake. Then, the girl's voice. Sugary. But not sweet.

"It was the greatest day ever

When our eyes met across the room

You were just what I hoped you'd be

Your hair blonde, your eyes blue..."

Quentin's face crumpled up. The girl, who he guessed was about nine from seeing her trundle to school and back in high socks and pigtails, must have written the lyrics. The beat of the song was perky in the way a holiday rep accosting you at a resort reception might be. Quentin ran into his house. Silas, his tabby cat, raced past him, grabbing a croissant before disappearing into the hydrangeas, growling.

Upstairs, in the spare bedroom, through a gap in the curtains, Quentin spied a throng of guests in next door's garden. There was a table with sausage rolls, scotch eggs and pineapple and cheese on sticks. He was not sure what was worse - being subjected to the racket in his own garden or willfully attending the party. The music stopped and the crowd applauded. The girl bowed and held up her face to the crowd, all teeth and flashing eyes.

The music and the singing revved up again. Quentin paced about, and then an idea struck him. He just about survived crashing down the stairs as he ran out into the garden, not noticing that the croissants were gone and Silas' right side, succumbed to the sun, was covered in jam.

"Help! Help!" Quentin screamed. "There's an intruder in my house! Help!"

Before Quentin had even run back into the house, the next-door neighbors were knocking at the front door. He let them in. He sat on his sofa and they converged around him, the father, Brian, the mother, Claire, and the girl, Lucy.

"The bugger got away," Brian said, shaking his head and tutting.

"We'll call the police," said Claire.

Claire put her hand on Quentin's, like a mouse resting on the back of a guinea pig. Quentin grunted, slid his hand out from underneath and brushed his kimono across his knees. "No, it's fine," he said. "You all must have scared him off."

He noticed Lucy checking out his kimono which just about covered his knees. She had, he thought, a sly look on her face. On seeing she was noticed, she smiled at him, with enough teeth for the entire room.

"Well, look," said Brian, "if he comes back, just holler and we'll be over."

Quentin flung his head back on the sofa and sighed.

"I just need peace and quiet," he said.

"My concert won't last long," said Lucy. "Then you can have your 'peace and quiet'."

"Oh, if you don't mind," said Quentin, grabbing Claire's hand, "I so desperately need that peace and quiet. My nerves -"

"It's OK, love," said Claire to Lucy, "we can always have the concert next week."

"It's not fair," said Lucy, and she ran out of the house.

---

A short while later, when next door's garden was empty, Quentin pressed his back up against the wall and slunk along the fence and shed until he was at the part of the garden, behind the shed, that neighboring snoopers could not see. He lay down to enjoy the final sunshine of the day. What great lengths he had gone to for this peace and quiet. He felt a little proud. He was too tired to read so he thought about Mauritius and the bar, Toby, his ex-lover (dead lover, to be more precise), and the singalongs they used to have, and how, now and then, he'd had one cocktail too many and sung solos to the cries of encore, or just cries. He did not like thinking about all that; he would rather be living it. He took out the book and read with tired eyes.

When the sun went down, Quentin did not slink against bricks or panels of wood, but instead marched across the lawn. It was his garden, after all. As he did, he looked up at the neighbor's house. Lucy was looking out of a window, smiling at him. This time, that smile was free from teeth, and her eyes raged at him in the most sparkling way.

The next week, Quentin had been out for the day, visiting an old friend of his in a nearby seaside town. Unfortunately, the friend, who'd said he'd be in, was, apparently, out, and so Quentin had sat on the promenade on a rainy afternoon with his umbrella up staring out to sea. When the train arrived back in his hometown, and the sun was smothering the place like it was its most spoiled child, he pushed to the front of the taxi rank, gave the braying queue the middle finger and shouted at the taxi to get a move on.

Back home, the next-door neighbors were waving their guests goodbye.

"Quentin!" called out Claire when she saw him getting out of his taxi. "You missed out! Lucy sang and we've recorded it and it'll be up on the net in a day or two. I can message you the links if you like. What's your number?"

A glowing Lucy was kissing her fans goodbye. She did not look once at Quentin.

"I'll put it through your letterbox," said Quentin, and he entered into his house and slammed the door, wondering if Silas had pooped in the garden recently and if he had any envelopes spare.

---

Over the next few weeks, Quentin had a variety of unfortunate incidents which bought the concerts to a stop. A snake in the garden (they can be easily mistaken for a garden hose); his great aunt Minnie died (it might have been twenty years ago, but she was his favorite and it still hurt), and he had a funny turn from a mysterious illness (those sugary pop songs Lucy sang were enough to give you diabetes). His years of set designing in Theatreland meant he had studied some of the finest stage actors around and he prided himself on knowing when to crank it up and when to tone it down. Each scene bought him the audience of the neighbors and their guests. He even began to let Claire take his hand and he said sorry to Lucy whose eyes probed him for the truth like government surveillance. When they were gone, he scolded himself for being such a ham.

Quentin was running out of ideas. He decided to recycle them, adding a twist, and, this time, the intruder would be an ex out for revenge. The concert started a couple of hours earlier than usual. He was, nevertheless, prepared. He ran into the garden, screaming at Toby, who he could still imagine so well he wondered if it was his ghost, that this affair had been all in his head. As he ran away from his imaginary intruder, he tripped over Silas who was scrambling into the house, a bird hanging from his mouth, and he fell to the ground. He screamed - his ankle had snapped, and the concert ground to a halt. Brian and some of the other guests climbed over the fence and carried Quentin from his garden and into the house, in full view of the street, not that Quentin could tell you if anyone witnessed the scene or not - his eyes were shut tight the entire time.

Once in his neighbor's living room, Quentin, lying on the sofa, his leg bandaged and resting on a velvet pouf, wished he'd keep his eyes shut, too - he didn't know where to look. The room was a big gray splodge with shiny white leather furniture. Claire bought him tea and cheese and pineapple and Quentin asked Brian if he would go and get his lapsang souchong, tea strainer, and macaroons.

"Oh, we have that tea," said Claire. "Not the biccies though."

"Loose leaf lapsang?" he asked.

"Teabags," she said.

"You'll be a star and go get it, won't you Brian?" called out Quentin, seeing the man on the verge of doing a runner. "Don't forget the macaroons. In the tin with Monet's Lilies on the lid. Monet's Lilies! Brian!"

Brian was nowhere to be seen.

An elderly lady, answering to Granny, came out with some ice and pressed it to his ankle. She burped and Quentin thought he could get tipsy on whiffs of gin.

"Mum," said Lucy, "let's get on with the concert. It's been a month now and the fans will want to see something sometime, you know."

"I don't think so, love," said Claire. "Not today. We'll do it next week."

Lucy slumped on the sofa and put the TV on. Some reality TV show in which people cooked dinner, invariably inedible, for each other.

Quentin groaned.

"Lucy, can you watch that in your room, love," said Claire.

Lucy stomped upstairs.

"Quentin," said Claire, "we'll have to have the concert next week. Even if you're not better. We can't keep canceling them. You see, Lucy wants to be famous, well, she wants to please her fans, and we know you have your," she paused, "stuff going on, but we have stuff we need to do, too. I hope you understand."

"I'll go home, if you don't mind, get on with my stuff," said Quentin. Silas jumped on his lap.

"Quentin, why don't you stay here," said Claire. "We have a spare room."

"Oh, really, it's OK," said Quentin.

"I suppose you've got some family or friends to help you," said Claire.

Quentin had neither and just moved his head in a way which could have been a nod or a shake depending on what you wanted to hear.

"OK, well, you'd need to go now," Claire said. "While some of the men can carry you over. If one of your friends can't come and help you, just let me know and I'll come round and do your meals and feed this lovely cat," she said, stroking Silas. "And help you with the loo."

Silas was reveling in the fuss.

Quentin thought of the ordeal of being carried over. Of Claire coming back and forth and seeing him trapped on his couch, helping him to the toilet. At least here, Brian could help him to the bathroom in the morning, and he thanked God he was regular.

"I suppose I could stay for a night or two," he said. "While I sort out someone to help me."

"You can stay as long as you need to, Quentin," said Claire.

---

Quentin thought the spare room's pale yellow could have done with being several shades brighter, but it was still better than the gray mess downstairs. He had a TV, a DVD player, a radio. Brian was on call if he needed the loo, telling him how much he liked his kimonos and what a character he was and laughing when Quentin rolled his eyes. Silas slept on him for 18 hours a day and, the other six, he played with Lucy. The child ignored Quentin and every morning half-whispered and half-hissed she could not sleep because of the old gremlin's snoring. He watched Brideshead Revisited on repeat. Claire bought him his meals and sat with him. When he wanted to speak about Mauritius, she lent him an ear.

"Tell me about this bar, then," she would say and then she would listen, looking out the window, hunting down the sun behind the clouds, and smiling as Quentin rambled on.

On the Friday, Quentin tried getting out of bed, but the ankle, after even a few steps, twinged a little too much for comfort. He prayed he would be better by Sunday and back home, headphones on, Porter at full blast. He'd let her have her concerts, but he wouldn't be in the audience, not if he could help it. When Lucy, fresh home from school, began singing that song about the blonde hair and blue eyes, it became a matter of the utmost urgency that he escaped. He got up, put Silas in a tote bag, and gathered the rest of his belongings. He sat at the top of the staircase and went down on his buttocks. He pushed himself down the stairs, his sweaty hands leaving prints on the wallpaper, and Silas purred and sniffed at his nose.

At the door, he groaned. It was locked and there was no key. He opened a window and moved a chair nearby on which he put his belongings and Silas. He flopped onto the ledge and turned himself around so he was facing the chair.

"What are you doing?" asked Lucy. Her voice was softer than usual.

Quentin looked up. Silas had gotten out of the bag and Lucy was leaning down, speaking to him. On seeing Quentin, she shook her head and tutted.

"You can go for all I care. But how will you get food for this cutie," she said, picking up Silas. "My mum says you don't have anyone to do your shopping or cook for you or anything and that's why you're here. Plus, she says you could do with some company. I told her I didn't think you liked company, not really, and she told me not to be unkind."

Quentin was still in the window, his legs hanging out. Lucy came over and held out her hands which he took. She pulled him over the window and helped him to the floor. He wished it would open up its mouth and swallow him like he did fried macaroons on a hangover.

"Mum also says you're quite nice," she said, shoving him up the stairs. "Deep down. I told her you -"

Quentin pushed her away. Yes, he bet she told her mother all sorts of things about the snoring beast in the room next door. "Shut up," he snapped. "I have no interest in hearing about what you told anyone."

"So, I was right, you're not nice," she said, backing away. "Not a bit. I'm going to tell everyone all about it."

Quentin wanted to run away. What kind of monster told little girls to shut up. She pulled him up the stairs and into his room.

"Don't worry," she said, hand on hips, in the doorway, "I won't tell anyone about you trying to run away. Mum would cry. And I don't need to tell anyone you're not nice. Because everyone already knows. Even you," she screamed, slamming the door.

Even me, he thought. Especially me.

"Mum says I have to feed us," said Lucy, not long after. "She and dad are having Chinese around Granny's. They'll bring us back some spring rolls and sweet and sour chicken, but it'll be a while. We'll have Ravioli. From a can. Microwaved," she said, and marched off.

Five minutes later, Quentin had a tray with ravioli and a glass of milk in front of him.

"Thanks," he said.

"Mum says I have to sit with you, like she does," said Lucy, sitting down.

"You don't have to. Really," he said.

"I told you. Mum says. What's this you're watching?" she asked.

"Brideshead Revisited," he said.

"I like their outfits," she said. "And that house is amazing. Imagine living in a house like that."

Quentin cleared his throat. "I helped design that set," he said.

Lucy's bottom lip curled over. "Cool," she said.

Cool, he thought, is that all?

They ate and watched the show. A few times, Lucy said how pretty it all was.

"Can I sit on the bed and watch it with you?" she asked. "I don't like this chair."

"It's your house," said Quentin.

"But you're a guest," she said. "Mum says it's more important."

Quentin moved over to the side and she jumped on the bed. Silas curled up on Lucy's lap and she stroked him.

"He's a good cat," she said.

"He is," said Quentin.

"Quentin, why don't you like my singing?" she asked. She stopped stroking Silas.

"I don't not like it," said Quentin.

"Liar. You hate it. That's why you keep ruining my concerts. I'll never be famous if you keep doing that."

"It's more the songs that I object to."

"What does that mean? Object to?"

"It's the songs I don't like."

"What would you like me to sing, then?" she asked.

"You won't know any of the songs I like," he said.

"Teach me," she said. "When you first moved in, I came round to ask if you had any sugar. I heard you singing. Something about 'Anything could go on'. You have a nice voice. Not for pop songs, but that kind of song. In a show. I like some shows. Annie. Do you know it?"

"Thank you," he said, ignoring the Annie remark. "Do you think I can sing, then?"

"Yes. Anyway, you peeped behind the curtain and left me standing there," she said.

Quentin blushed.

"All I wanted was a bowl of sugar. Granny was round and she must have sugar. Bowls of it. Makes such a fuss. You two would get along. She'll be round on Sunday. You two can watch my concert together."

Lucy got up and Silas jumped off her.

"Because I'm having that concert," she said, "and if you try and stop it, I'll tell everyone you tried to run away and, worst of all, you told me to shut up. Me. A little girl."

Silas followed her out of the room. Quentin did not pay much more attention to Brideshead Revisited. He just heard her words that he could sing over and over. It was only drunks who praised his singing, and the odd sober customer who wanted free drinks, and now nine-year-old girls. Silas came running back in and jumped on him. Quentin sobbed very quietly; not that he needed to hide his sobbing - Lucy was downstairs singing.

---

The next day, the day before the concert, and with Lucy rehearsing most of the day, Quentin listened to his favorite musicals and audio books on his headphones. This meant he didn't hear Lucy telling her parents about her plan.

"And he made this TV show Brideshead Revisited," she said while Clare watched the news. "Do you know it? He did all the sets. It's amazing. Did you know he did that? He only told me because we were watching it. You know if he didn't snore like a Gremlin, I'd say he could come and live with us."

"It's good you're not in charge then," said Brian.

"Mum, what if Quentin tries to stop my concert again this Sunday?" asked Lucy. "It's a bit like Jimmy at school who's always messing up our café game. He just wants to play, too, really. But he can't because the other boys will laugh at him. Quentin's the same. He wants to sing and have all the fans but he doesn't think he can. The thing is, he's wrong. I know because I heard him singing. So, I had an idea. Listen... So? It's good, isn't it?"

---

On the morning of the Sunday concert, as Brian helped Quentin to the bathroom, Quentin could hear the sobs of a young child. He looked into Lucy's room where Claire was holding Lucy in her arms.

"Is she OK?" Quentin asked Brian.

"She's got a bug. Can't sing today. Shame. She's waited a while for this."

Claire stood in the doorway.

"Quentin, love, could you do us a massive favor?" she asked.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's just that everyone's arriving but Lucy can't sing, and it's been such a hassle canceling these things, and who knows if they'll come again and so we wondered, well, Lucy says you can sing, and we thought -"

"Me?"

"Yes. Why not? Lucy says you're good."

Quentin thought about the stage, about the audience and about the applause. And it was sunny out, too. He'd never have thought this day would come around again so soon.

"Not to those songs, though," said Quentin.

"You can have whatever song you like."

"Ok," he said, "get me a pen and pencil and I'll write you out a list."

Claire helped him sit up. "Thank you," she said.

"I'll need a drink," he said. "Several, in fact."

"We'll put granny on gin duty," Claire said.

Quentin sat in a chair on the stage. The crowd was silent and curious. He imagined them all in their swimming costumes, like so many of the Bay Bar customers had been. He imagined the sea and the sun as they were back then. He closed his eyes and thought he should have had that fourth gin. The backing track began, his favorite, Anything Goes. He began singing. The audience was clapping along in the sun. It was not the Mauritian sun, but it was sun. And he was singing.

---

As Quentin did his encore, he looked up to Lucy's bedroom window. He saw her face pull away. He thought he saw a glimpse of a smile. Silas sat on the windowsill, enjoying the sun, his fur well rubbed like he had just been soundly pet.

When the concert was finished, Quentin looked into Lucy's bedroom. She was lying down watching Brideshead Revisited. Her hair was laid out on the pillows like you saw in Victorian melodramas when young ladies were on their deathbeds. Next to her, was a hairbrush and her headphones.

"Should I sit by your side with a basin and flannel and wipe your brow?" Quentin whispered.

"What's a brow?" she asked.

"Your forehead."

"I'll be better tomorrow," she said, her voice so meek.

Quentin stepped back, "Thank you," he whispered as he closed the door.

He knelt down and spied through the keyhole. The moment the door shut, Lucy was dancing on the floor, headphones on, singing into her hairbrush. Silas dashed up the stairs and bumped into him. Quentin heard footsteps. He turned away from the keyhole and saw Granny coming up with two glasses of gin and tonic in her hands.

"Oh," she said. "She's a terrible actress, isn't she? And you are a great singer."

She put down the gin and tonics and sat beside him on the floor, peeping through the keyhole herself.

"She's a hell of a dancer," she said. "Now, come along, let's sing. 'In olden days, a glimpse of stocking was looked on...'"

"'As something shocking,'" sang Quentin. "'But now God knows, anything goes.'"