22

The following weekend, Chris and I pulled up in front of a block of flats in Perth. They were three storeys high and looked like newbuilds, set alongside a canal and with the air of a retirement village: lots of flowering baskets, satellite dishes, and net curtains.

We located the entry for Jim Dick and knocked on his door. A tall, slim white-haired man, with what looked like a bowling ball under his light-blue cardigan and a face full of acne scars, opened the door and peered out at us from behind thick reading glasses.

‘Aye?’ he enquired.

‘Mr Dick,’ I said. ‘We’re researchers from the BBC and we’re making a documentary about Scotland’s travelling funfairs.’

‘You are, are you?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘We understand you worked for a Mr Marinello for a number of years, and we wondered if you might like to talk about that time?’

‘That whole thing would have ground to a halt without me,’ he said, with a great deal of self-satisfaction.

‘Mr Marinello himself suggested you would be worth speaking to,’ I said, thinking I could appeal to his evident ego.

‘Am I going to be on telly, like?’ He stood taller and sucked in his belly.

‘We’d need to talk to you first,’ Chris replied. ‘Lay the groundwork, so to speak, and then if we like what we hear we arrange to come back with a film crew.’

Jim Dick preened a little more at the thought. ‘You better come in then.’ He directed us into a small sitting room that had a view out onto the slim strip of water of the canal and the shopping centre beyond. ‘The missus is out with the girls. At a cancer coffee-morning thing,’ he said as he pointed towards the sofa. ‘She’ll be fair tickled that we’re going to be on the telly.’ He looked at me and then Chris. ‘The BBC you said?’

We sat where he indicated. ‘Yes,’ replied Chris. ‘What can you remember about your time with Marinello?’

Jim sat down, stretched his long legs out in front of him and started talking, telling us boring stories of his days with the Shows, from a seemingly endless supply. And it felt like he would never stop. Eventually he paused, smacked his lips as if they’d dried out and offered us a cup of tea.

‘No, thanks,’ I said, thinking I didn’t want to be in his company for any longer than I needed to. ‘What you’ve been telling us is fascinating and definitely worth using for the show. But it can’t all have been good,’ I added in what I hoped was a cajoling tone.

‘For sure,’ Chris interjected. ‘Were there any scandals in your time there? Any friction between Old Man Marinello and the rest of the team?’

‘He was a good man,’ said Jim, huffing to himself. ‘I won’t hear a word said against him. And if you’re going to speak to Stuart Gillon next, don’t believe a word you hear.’

‘We are indeed going to see a Mr Gillon next,’ I said. ‘Why shouldn’t we listen to him?’

‘Hmm.’ Jim Dick drummed on the arms of his chair with both hands. ‘I suppose I should trust you to see through the wee arsehole. You look like you’ve got your heads on the right way.’ Then he began to talk again about his halcyon days with the funfair.

Finally, sending a look to Chris, I got to my feet.

‘Wonderful stuff, Mr Dick. You’ve given us lots of stuff to chew over.’

‘Yeah, we’ll definitely be back in touch to work out when to send the film crew over,’ Chris said.

Dick bustled after us to the front door, and as we exited he thrust a small piece of paper into my hand.

‘My phone number, you know, for when you need to get back to me.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Wonderful. The wheels of the TV documentary world turn very slowly, Mr Dick, but you will hear back from us in a few months.’

We waited until we were back in the car before speaking.

‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ Chris said as he put the car key in the ignition.

‘I wonder what he has against the other guy, Gillon.’

‘Only one way to find out,’ Chris smiled over at me as he fixed his seatbelt and drove off.

Stuart Gillon lived in the neighbouring town of Crieff, in a small bungalow fronted by a large, well-maintained stretch of lawn and some tall fir trees. As we walked up the path, a small, bald man with a long white beard came round the side of the house, carrying a rake and a trowel.

‘Gents…’ he began, his eyes narrow with suspicion. ‘Whatever you’re selling I’m not buying.’

Chris gave him the same story we’d given his former colleague, playing on the fake BBC connection.

‘You are, are you?’ he asked, a copy of his old friend, but judging by his expression, Mr Gillon’s suspicions didn’t ease any. ‘The BBC, aye?’ he added as if his question was accompanied with a silent my arse.

‘The Marinello story is a fascinating one,’ I said. ‘And given the fondness the Scots have for the Shows, one that’s bound to have a big audience.’

‘If they have such a fondness, as you say, why was I out of a job?’ With that, he walked past me to a stretch of border and started pulling out some weeds.

Chris and I looked at each other wondering how to deal with this guy.

‘You have no interest in talking about your time with the Marinellos?’ I asked. ‘Sounds like they dumped you when you felt you had more work in you.’ The way he was attacking the weeds suggested he was still a fit man.

‘Something like that,’ he said as he wiped his brow with a sleeve. ‘Twenty-odd years I gave that mob, and they binned me without a second thought.’

‘I hear they went into retirement homes,’ Chris said.

Stuart Gillon paused in his actions and looked at us. ‘I suspect you went to see Jim Dick before you came to see me?’

‘Yeah. He couldn’t have been more helpful,’ I replied.

‘Of course he was. Nothing but an arse-licker.’ Then he cocked his head to the side and started to speak as if he was mimicking someone. A certain Mr Dick, I assumed. ‘You and me we’ll stick together, Stuart. You and me, we’ll show them Marinellos what’s what, so we will.’ He spat. ‘Arsehole. A few months after they closed up shop Jim calls me to say he’s been asked to do a few wee jobs round the nursing home in Stirling. Did they ask me? No. Did Jim even suggest me to them? No.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Chris commiserated with him. ‘Mr Gillon said Marinello was a good guy. Didn’t have a bad word to say about him.’

‘I’ll bet you he talked about him as if he had one foot in the Vatican.’

‘Something like that,’ I answered.

‘If you ask me, anyone who spends that much time trying to look good has a lot to hide,’ Stuart said in a quiet voice. Then, as if forcibly distracting himself, he examined the pile of weeds at his feet.

‘What do you know, Mr Gillon?’ I asked, feeling there was something important this man could tell us. His eyes shifted as if he was contemplating saying more. Then his expression clouded and closed down.

‘Listen,’ he straightened his back, reaching his full five feet five, his expression unreadable. ‘This is the first dry day we’ve had for ages, so if you don’t mind going back to the BBC,’ he looked pointedly back down the garden path, ‘I’ve got a lot of work to do.’