Clown story

The room smelt of stale cream. The smell lingered everywhere, so thick you almost had to push the air aside to walk through it.

 

On the sofa the elderly clown slomped, head resting on a cushion, outsize shoes sitting on a footstall, managing to block his view of the TV with his own feet.

 

The doorbell rang and the clown got up, switched off the TV and answered the door, where stood a young mother and two unhappy looking children, one of each, an unhappy looking boy and an unhappy looking girl.

 

The woman forced a smile. “Bradley and Charlotte are here for their lesson.”
 
“Is it that time already? Well you’d better come in then,” he said, without so much as looking down at the children, who trudged forlornly to the sofa where they sat down.

 

The woman waved an unconvincingly cheery wave at the children, handed an envelope of money to the clown and turned and left.

 

“Right,” said the clown gruffly, “You, the boy …”

 

“I’m called Bradley,” said the boy.

 

“Bradley. Where did we get to last time?”

 

“We’ve been here five times and you still don’t know our names.”

 

“Ah well, I’m a busy man. I have lots of clients.” Realising he wasn’t going to get an answer from the boy, he turned to the girl.

 

“What did we do last time?”

 

“Charlotte,” he added, as if he’d only just remembered, though it was probably delivered that way for comic effect. After all, he is a clown.

 

“We watched some old movies,” said the girl. This is the first time she had spoken and she was clearly not keen to appear too friendly. Though she had avoided joining in the argument, her face gave away her side. A classic ‘bored girl’ face.

 

“Ah, yes, the classical learning archive. If you want to learn how to take a pie, you need to watch Chaplin, the master, or the Stooges, or Laurel and Hardy.”

 

“I don’t want to learn how to take a pie,” Bradley interrupted.”

 

“Throw a pie then.”

 

“I don’t want to throw a pie. It’s not funny. It might have been funny a hundred years ago, but it’s not funny now.”

 

“Ah you’re wrong there,” the clown replied. “It’s an old gag, the oldest gag in the world, but it’s still funny now. It’s timeless you see, slapstick humour, one person pushing a pie in the face of another person. It’s the ultimate sight gag. You, the girl, what’s funny about a pie in the face.”

 

The girl stared back, unhappily, unable to escape attention in this small a group, in spite of all her efforts to appear uninterested.

 

“It looks funny,” she said reluctantly.

 

“That’s right, it’s messy. There’s a term for it, a splurch in the kisser. Do you know what those words are?”

 

The children shook their heads.

 

“A splurch is the act of receiving a pie. It comes from the noise it makes, see. All squelchy and sticky. And your kisser is,” he says nothing but mimes kissing.

 

“Your lips,” said the girl.

 

“Well, not just your lips, your whole face. You see, this class is educational, you’ll both be professors by the end of this. What’s the other reason a pie in the face is funny? I told yer in last week’s lesson.”

 

The children stared back at him, not responding.

 

“Dignity. That’s what’s funny about a pie in the face, it shatters all dignity. That’s why Chaplin was the great pie-taker, if you’ll pardon the pun, he was dignified, a dignified tramp. Well, we’ve clearly done enough theory, we’ll start on the practice.”

 

The clown left the room and returned shortly carrying a tray of paper plates covered in cream.

 

“Today, my little clownettes, you take your first steps in clowning. You get to throw cream pies in my kisser. Of course, you’ll need to wear protection, the cream gets everywhere.”

 

So saying he passed them purple shower caps, pink plastic ponchos and plastic goggles, which the children donned reluctantly.

 

“I hate this class,” said Bradley. “All the other boys at school are doing interesting circus skills: trampolining, acrobatics, horse riding, knife throwing, one of them’s even teaching an elephant to dance.”

 

“Ah but this is the finest circus skill of all, the ultimate clown tool. Now, help me with this pie, shove it in my face.”

 

“No,” squealed Bradley, “I’m not going to help you. You’re a silly old clown. You’re not funny, this class is a waste of time and you smell of old milk.”

 

The clown said nothing at this abuse, but the pain of hurt the words have caused was clearly visible in his face, even through the thick layer of clown make-up. Saying not a word, he raised the pie high in the air, then thrust it down into the boy’s face, which it hit with a big messy, squelching splurch.

 

Unable to help herself, Charlotte burst into uncontained laughter at the sight of her brother getting plastered.

 

“See,” the old clown said to the boy. “I told yer it was funny.”