Widow Twanky's Revenge

Christmas wasn’t the best time of year for me. I don’t mean I’d be on the phone to the Samaritans, but after what happened I always approached the season with a sense of unease. Perhaps that’s why I’d started with Meals on Wheels, to face my fears in a round about sort of way. I'd been delivering for around five years, ever since my Gran became ill and I had to look after her. People didn't realise the importance of Meals on Wheels, especially at this time of year its the lifeline to those who otherwise wouldn't be able to cook a decent meal for themselves. To be honest, I didn't ever think I would stop delivering until I was the one who needed food delivering to me. Last Christmas changed all that. Really stopped me in my tracks. For good this time.

You may say I'm callous, heartless, uncaring, believe me I've heard it all before. I couldn't tell anyone about it for months but you can't keep it inside forever so I might as well tell you the whole sordid story from beginning to end. I’m not saying you’ll sympathise, you probably won’t but at least it might go some way to help you understand. I don’t know.

It all began in early November, I had my usual round on the Palace Estate but one of my colleagues, George, had broken his leg and wouldn’t be back until after Christmas. As he was a good friend I offered to do his round for him. At the time it seemed easy, so very easy, just an extra quarter of an hour a day to help those less fortunate than myself.

Mr and Mrs Moon were always first on my round, closest to the depot and some of the nicest people it has ever been my privilege to meet. Then Mrs Jones followed by Mr Balofski, onwards and northwards until the end of my route at Mrs Hughes house. This time, however, I continued on through Mount Grove to take on four more deliveries culminating in a drop in Battlefield Road at Mr Grimwald's house.

I remember there was a cold but deliberate breeze throwing the remnants of the autumn leaves around the front garden of the house. It stood around twenty metres back from the road, a respectable, detached, Victorian-looking house, seeming much too big for a solitary old man in the twilight of his life. The windows all glittered with condensation and somewhere high above me I thought I saw the twitching of curtains.

The house must have see more generations pass through it that I cared to imagine. Although from a distance the appearance was semi-Victorian, the closer you came to the house, the older the brickwork seemed to be. As I opened the gate to the garden goose bumps rose on my arms and neck despite the thick layers I was wearing. The house itself was symmetrical with a single door in the centre flanked on each side by a bay window. This in turn was mirrored by two more floors of windows and skylights glinting just out of sight.

As I climbed the three stone steps to the huge door the gate slammed at the end of the path, making me jump. I turned back to the door and looked for where a bell-push might be but there was none, no knocker, no bell, just a plain black door. Realising that I would have to attract the attention of the curtain-twitcher I raised my clenched fist and brought my hand forward to make sharp contact with the wood...

"Hello. You must be the new boy," said Mr Grimwald as he creaked open the door.

"Erm, yes, that's right. I'm with meals on wheels, I've brought your dinner for you," I replied, slightly wrong-footed by being referred to as a boy at forty-two.

"Excellent, why don't you come inside."

Mr Grimwald walked into the hallway beckoning me to follow. He wasn't at all as strange as I had pictured him as I crept up his garden path. A house with such gothic sensibilities meant you really expected someone with a long, pointy nose, whispy grey hair and a faintly menacing demeanour. Mr Grimwald was the antithesis of this; a stocky man dressed in a tweed suit with a lilac cravat, who carried a perpetually empty pipe. His rosy red cheeks gave him something of a Santa Claus persona and a gap between his two front teeth that showed on the regular occasions when he grinned made him an odd but endearing old man.

After I had served up his dinner, I excused myself and returned to my van to make my way home. The inside of the house appeared to be extremely hotchpotch with items strewn seemingly haphazard on every available surface. As I closed the door of my van a chill once more swept over my body and I stared down the garden path towards the house looking back menacingly at me. I started the engine, feeling idiotic and childlike to be deriving any fear from an old house and a jolly old man.

Our meetings in the weeks that followed were brief, polite and sincere. He had lost his wife five years ago and had no family left. He amused himself with his collection of vintage posters from around the world, all framed and adorning any spare vertical surface. Here was an original Houdini, there a 1960's pantomime, all very interesting and all in immaculate condition no matter how old and odd. However, I felt the chill again as I cast my gaze over them.

The first week of December yielded the first snow of the season lying around an inch deep but instead of putting a spring in my step it left me with an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach because I knew that this was the beginning of the Christmas season for real. People had begun to decorate their houses and I liked helping in my own little ways with the people on my round; putting up a streamer here and there, occasionally decorating a tree. It gave me a real sense of warmth to help people rather than simply feeding them which was unusual because before Meals on Wheels I always dreaded the season to be jolly. I have a theory that a person's Christmas decorations say a lot about their personality and I was intrigued as to how Mr Grimwald would manage to fit any decorations into his already over-populated house.

On this particular round I had decided to take my dog, Sally, with me. Not so much for the company but because I knew she loved the attention of the diners and equally they loved tempting her with titbits and morsels. After a fairly uneventful round, I finally reached the corner of Battlefield Road and Mr Grimwald's residence. Sally had become excitable, barking, whining and fretting in the back of the van so I gathered up the trays and left her in there to clam down.

"Hello again Gary," said Mr Grimwald as he opened the door. "First snow of winter eh?"

"Evening Mr Grimwald," I stepped over the threshold of his house just as a gust of wind punched a cloud of powdery snow into his hallway but apart from this impromptu decoration I found the house unchanged. After I had set Mr Grimwald’s dinner down I made to leave but as I reached the hallway I noticed a new frame, clean and dustless against the sun-bleached wallpaper. Upon closer examination it proved to be an advertisement for this year's pantomime at the local Palladium but for some reason the picture of 'Neil Smart as Widow Twanky' had been neatly trimmed out leaving the reddy-brown background of the picture frame clearly visible from behind. I stared at it for a moment but was jolted out of my fascinated trance but what sounded like a shout from way above me in the house. I stopped dead but as I tried to listen closer no more sounds were forthcoming. When I arrived back at my van Sally had vanished and even after a brief scout around the vicinity she was nowhere to be seen. I jogged lightly back up to the house to see if Mr Grimwald had seen her and as I reached the steps, the door sharply swung open.

"Did you forget something?" Mr Grimwald asked, grinning.

"No, no, its just my dog, Sally, she was in the van and she seems to have run off."

"Ah, she's behind you."

I spun around but there was no sign of Sally. "No, no she isn't."

"Oh yes she is." He flicked his wrist, gesturing towards the garden behind me.

I looked over into the garden once more but she was nowhere to be seen.

"No she isn't. I..."

"Oh yes she is." Mr Grimwald's voice had risen ever so slightly and had a vague hint of hysteria as if he was about to burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter but before I could challenge him on it Sally ran out from inside the house and jumped into my arms.

"There she is, you see - behind you all the while," he smiled and waved. "See you next week."

As I drove away Sally sat bolt upright in the back of the van watching the house tail into the distance and growling almost inaudibly under her breath. I resolved not to bring her on my rounds again this Christmas season in case she made a habit of this disappearing act of hers.

That evening I went to visit George to see how he was holding up with his broken leg. It wasn't long before the conversation turned towards Mr Grimwald.

"So," said George with a wry smile. "What do you make of the old fruit?"

"I don't know," I replied. "Sometimes he seems perfectly normal and other times..."

"Other times he makes you skin crawl, right?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"I don't know, most of the time he's just this old tweed guy with an empty pipe," he paused for a moment as if he was going to stop there but after mulling it over continued. "There was this one time there was a note on the front door. Said he was ill, just to come in and set the food down."

"What did you do?"

"Just that. But after I had laid it out I got a bit paranoid that he might be... Well you know..."

"Incapacitated."

"Or worse. So I started upstairs - calling out for him, asking if he was alright."

"And was he?"

"Well, I got as far as the second floor before he came trundling out of one of the rooms and whisked me downstairs but..."

"What?"

"Well, I know it sounds stupid but I thought I caught a glimpse, around the attic door..."

"Yes?"

"Well it looked like there were lightbulbs all the way around."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, like a mirror in a theatre."

I didn't know quite what to make of this new information so I began to relate to George exactly what had been happening, my suspicions, everything.

"I mean I didn't mind that the poster had been defaced," I added. "To tell the truth I was happy about it."

"What? I don't understand. Why?"

"Well the whole pantomime dame thing. It bring back too many unhappy memories."

George laughed for a second before realising I was serious.

"What do you mean mate?" he asked.

"Well," I was nervous, not sure how far to go. "We've been friends for a while now haven't we?"

"Yes, must be knocking on for fifteen years."

"Well, when I was a kid..." I hesitated.

"Its okay, honestly," George looked worried.

"You see, when I was a child there was an incident at the local theatre."

"What sort of incident?"

"I had won a competition to go backstage and meet the cast after the performance. My teacher Mr Collins had taken me after the show, I must have been six or seven years old at the time. I remember walking down the narrow corridors backstage, the damp, peeling paint looking quite the opposite of the showbiz glitz I expected. We had gone to the dressing room door and Mr Collins knocked. There was no reply but I was excited and burst in to find Widow Twanky hanging from his stockings from the rafters. Dead."

"Bloody hell."

"The image of a suicidal cross dresser swinging right in front of me has hampered my enjoyment of Christmas ever since. "

"I'm not surprised."

*

The next week I arrived at Mr Grimwald’s I noticed a change to the house, the usual steamed and dark windows had red velvet curtains drawn over them, something I had never noticed on either the inside or from the outside of the house. I knocked loudly on the door and after a few moments, Mr Grimwald appeared, inviting me inside. I could see there was something different about him but it wasn't until I had finished my duties and was back outside that I realised what it was.

His complexion was usually very rosy, from his bald head to his collar line but there was a difference this time, his cheeks were unnaturally coloured. As I stumbled towards the van I became irrationally afraid of what might become of him, the same sick scenario from my childhood ringing around my mind. It couldn’t be, I told myself but made a mental note to speak to one of the health workers about possible causes for bright red circles on his cheeks. Perhaps he was simply unwell and after all I had a responsibility to look after our customers.

By my next visit, the Christmas season was in full swing with the streets daubed with coloured light bulbs and Christmas trees in every window and on every corner. It was with a real sense of unease that I mounted the steps to his house, unsure of what I would find inside. Whatever I expected couldn't have prepared me for what I saw; a man in his seventies with rouged cheeks, a big ginger wig full of ringlets, a pair of frilly bloomers and to cap it all, completely bare-chested.

"Evening Gary," he smiled. One of his front teeth had been blacked-out. "Do come inside."

In a kind of shocked-daze I went about my business of unwrapping and heating, serving and vending before making hasty excuses and leaving. At least he was alive, I reasoned. As I reached the garden gate I turned to the house, unsure of whether I had seen what I believed I had seen and as I surveyed the house in the all too early darkness my attention was drawn to one of the windows on the second floor. Although there were no lights on in the window I could have sworn I saw a pair of hands clawing down the window, smearing the condensation. Just as quickly as this half-imagined scene had happened the streetlight illuminating the front of the house blinked out, shrouding me and the house in darkness leaving me with nothing but doubt and paranoia. I stood for a second, my skin crawling when, on the wind I seemed to here Mr Grimwald's voice.

"Ooh, saucy!" he seemed to say.

I got in my van and drove away.

The next day, the morning papers were filled with the breaking news that actor 'Neil Smart' had gone missing, wife and kids were frantic, police were flummoxed for motive or whereabouts. Pantomimes around the region were placed on a state of high alert, bodyguards had been drafted in to protect these precious men in tights because Neil Smart was the seventh Widow Twanky to go missing this pantomime season. The press were having a field day, up until this point the police had managed to keep the whole thing under wraps, reasoning that no-one would really miss a few D-list celebrities but Neil Smart was too famous, they had to go public. Children’s hearts up and down the country were breaking as Dames fled from theatres without tight security, performances were cancelled, every man woman and child became a suspect and were frisked before performances. Even the matinees.

I was in shock. Could it be a curse? Or worse, was it possible that Mr Grimwald had something to do with this. To suspect him would be truly insane but to dismiss what I thought I had seen might be equally as dangerous. Was such a kind natured old man really capable of such a feat or was it just my over-active imagination all too eager to make a fool of me. I knew I must investigate, to find out if it really was the old man or some consortium of disgruntled understudies so jumped straight in the van and drove over to Mr Grimwald's house.

Arriving at the front door I knocked tentatively at first and then with real vigour but no answer was forthcoming. After a couple of minutes I knew he must be out but something inside of me was willing me onward, I tried the handle. It was locked. Slowly and quietly I made my way around the side of the house so as not to attract any unwanted attention from nosey neighbours until I reached the dilapidated conservatory I had seen from the dining room window so many times before. I tried the handle and to my astonishment it opened and I stepped inside.

Technically this was breaking and entering but I felt driven by some unstoppable force to go onward. I moved through the utility room at the back, the house cold and my breath hanging in the air as if I was still outside. I slid slowly into the kitchen and the hallway. There were no lights on in the house but I found my way quite easily as I was now familiar with this part of the house.

I stood very still in the hallway, listening for the slightest sound, any signs of life within this massive house but after a minute all I could hear was my heart thumping in my chest. I grabbed the banister and move steadily up the creaking stairs, just one piercing step after another. On the first landing I paused again, waiting for Mr Grimwald to potter out of a room, dressed in his usual tweed suit and cravat but there was no sign of him.

Just as downstairs, there were pantomime posters everywhere but even in the half light provided by the outside streetlight which flickered in and out of existence as it leaked into the room I could see that all of them were missing a pantomime dame. Each one had been neatly removed.

The higher in the house I climbed, the more Christmassy the whole place became. The colour scheme was jolly enough, if a little garish and all of the available surfaces were littered with stage props and pieces of make-up. When I eventually reached the highest landing there was still no sign of life but at the top of the attic stairs was a door.

My eyes flicked left and right, expecting at any moment to be confronted by the apparition of Mr Grimwald chastising me for being in his house without permission. I tried to think of excuses for my behaviour but my thoughts were interrupted when I took a single step towards the door and it struck me. The door really was surrounded by light bulbs, in the same way a mirror in a theatre would be, just as George had described it. I was back to when I was a kid.

I took another step and they blinked into life.

I froze. Waiting. Waiting and watching.

I galloped up the remainder of the stairs, unable to contain myself any longer, the adrenaline pounding around my body making me shaky until I reached the top, flung open the door and saw…

Mr Grimwald. In full drag this time, replete with bloomers, make-up, wig, crinoline skirt and high-heeled boots. I was taken aback, but nothing, nothing could have prepared me for what came next

"Young man," screeched Mr Grimwald, falsetto voice wavering under the strain. “I don’t know, coming up me back passage like that unannounced. Its enough to give the old girl the hump!”

He turned and winked at an invisible audience.

“I’m sorry, I can see you’re busy. I’ll just…”

“No. Sit. Enjoy. Here, you want a feel of my melons?” He reached into his brassiere and handed me a melon. I didn’t know what to do. I took it and sat down.

As I gazed, open mouthed he sashayed around me in some dance of the mad, waving a fairy wand as he minced around the room.

“It’s time for Widow Twanky to cast her spell,” he squealed before bringing the wand into contact with the back of my head. It was only the sudden onset of unconsciousness that gave away the fact that the wand was made of metal instead of the traditional wood.

*

Three weeks later the police had tracked us down, myself and seven Widow Twankys from around the region, all bound and gagged and subject to the cruellest of tortures: the double entedre.

Night and day, day and night, he continued – screeching in his half-rant of high-pitched puns, slowly wearing us down, driving us mad…

It turned out that Mr Grimwald hadn’t been the normal Meal on Wheels customer, he had been humiliated and broken hearted by a cross dresser as a young man. After being tempted by sexual dirty talk and the promise of body whoring he was exposed in the crudest possible way in front of his friends and family. After years of being taunted by those closest to him, the jibes always being worse at Christmas with the Widow Twanky snaps plaguing him and since his wife died he had spent every day reliving the night when he realised he’d fallen for a man. He wanted to destroy the world of men and only by dressing in this way could he rid himself of the nightmare. The press declared him a nutcase.

I made it. Eventually after long and patient hours of counselling, the undoing of what had been done. I’m alright now. I couldn’t tell anyone, the embarrassment and all. But it was eating me alive. To this day I can’t watch a Carry On film without breaking down and even the sight of a man in drag makes me wince. Nothing can prepare you for a time like that, there’s no recovery, it’s the call of the crinoline, the beckoning of the bloomers, there is no escape – it just keeps coming around. Every year, like clockwork…