Crowned Heads (29 page)

There was one thing about him: he would tell his tale, but always he would stop just at the best part; he would peer as though to check the time from the White Rabbit’s watch, and then he would utter some foolishness like “Ohmigoo’ness, it’s late—” and he would stop, as if he had to hurry away right then and there; the children would jump up and shout and plead with him to stay and finish the story, and cry More! More! but no, that was all for today. Tomorrow, he would say, come back tomorrow for the end. But would
he
come tomorrow? they would clamor. And oh, yes, he would come tomorrow, or if not, the day after. Then he would pass his funny hat around to the grownups, who would put money in it, and off would go Mr. Thingamabob, tootling his whistle and rattling his tambourine with the colored ribbons, his pack on his back, the children tumbling along behind him, skipping and running and shouting and laughing.

But nobody ever knew where he came from, nobody ever knew where he went, nobody knew who he was.

Now, one afternoon late in May, two elderly ladies came walking in the park. It was one of those perfect days New Yorkers see all too rarely, when everybody seemed to be out in the park watching everybody else out in the park, when everything seems clear and clean and lovely, as if a giant broom had suddenly swept out all the corners of the city, swept all the ugliness under the rug, so that the eye could view the world as it should be seen, a lovely place to live in.

At least this was what Nellie Bannister was thinking as she and her best friend, Hilda, came into the park on that fine fair afternoon. They often liked to take a stroll together, or to sit on a bench, chatting and feeding the pigeons, and though they seldom ventured farther than the south end of the park, around the Sheep Meadow or along the Mall as far as the band shell, today they walked longer and farther, all the way to the boat basin. It was a gay scene, with the white-sailed toy boats cutting across the water in the breeze, with dogs running free of leashes, and people playing their radios as they sat sunning on the benches. Nellie gave Hilda’s hand a little squeeze; it was just so good to be alive, wasn’t it? They walked on until they arrived at the Alice in Wonderland park, where they found places on a bench, sharing it with three nursemaids in a row, their shiny blue perambulators close by so they could keep an eye on their charges. Then, faintly in the distance, above the sounds of traffic from Fifth Avenue, were heard the sounds of a tootling whistle and the rattle of brass bangles on a tambourine, and down from the crest of the hill came the strangest sight.

“My stars,” said Nellie, “look at that.”

“Mr. Thingamabob,” one of the nursemaids was heard to say, and along the fellow came, around the boat basin, collecting children every step of the way. He was dressed outlandishly in a long embroidered robe of red, like a wizard’s gown, and a blue Arabian turban with a feather curling up at the front and held with a jeweled pin. More and more children came trooping after him, as with comic pomp he proceeded to the bronze mushroom. On one earlobe was hung a gold hoop, and he wore a long hooked nose with a wart on the end and bristly mustaches that swept out left and right like two shoe brushes, a pair of bushy black eyebrows that moved up and down, and large round tinted glasses, the color changing as he moved his head, sometimes pink, sometimes blue, sometimes yellow. He put his whistle and tambourine inside his nonsense pack, and after some shenanigans which kept the children giddy with laughter, he clapped his hands until they were settled quietly all around him, then took up the thread of his story.

“Now,” he began, “you remember yesterday there was a fearful battle at the very gates of Ferdival Castle, and no one knew how many lay dead on the field. The brave knight, Sir Forticoeur, had waited till he saw that all was lost, and after rescuing the fair Princess Gwinnathred from unthought-of horrors, they retreated to the Grimly Wood. There, against a hummock, weary after so many hours of wielding his mighty sword, he slept, with his golden helmet with the scarlet plume hung on the branch of the tree where Olduff, the owl, roosted, and beside the knight sat the Princess Gwinnathred, careworn but watchful. Evening was nigh and the gloomy wood was fearful quiet, and yonder some four hundred leagues lay the castle, and who knew when the king would arrive with help?”

Until now (though the nursemaids all were lending an ear to the tale) the two ladies on the bench had gone on talking to each other, but as Mr. Thingamabob continued, Nellie turned her head and listened more carefully.

“Now, as everyone knows, there was no stronger, no nobler, no more wise nor valiant knight in the whole kingdom than Sir Forticoeur, but on this day, after such evil tidings and fell deeds, his strong heart was near to breaking, and who was there to mend it, since the king himself had not come? Who was to help him from this worst of predicaments? Surely not the sad and mournful maid, the Princess Gwinnathred.”

“Princess Gwinnathred?” echoed Nellie aloud to her friend. “Why, I believe he’s telling one of the Bobbitt stories.” Matters became clearer with Mr. Thingamabob’s next sentence.

“Then, having mistaken their way, who should come into the gloomy wood but Bobbitt and Missy Priss—”

“Why, that’s you,” said Nellie’s companion, Hilda.

“Hush,” said Nellie.

“And who should Bobbitt and Missy Priss come across but Sir Forticoeur and the Princess, who cried softly, ‘Whatever shall we do?’ while the gallant knight slept. ‘Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish, I’m sure,’ said Missy Priss in her starchy fashion, eying the sleeping knight and the mournful maid, who, glad to see her friends again, repeated, ‘Whatever shall we do?’ ‘Yes, Missy Priss,’ asked Bobbitt, ‘what indeed shall we do?’ ‘Why,’ returned Missy Priss without a moment’s hesitation, ‘we must put pluck in our hearts and mind our manners; that is what we must do!’ Here she took up Sir Forticoeur’s sword, which was not easy for her, since it was very heavy, and used it to make a fearful bang on his buckler, so that Olduff the owl flew away as the sound rang throughout the wood. When Sir Forticoeur awoke with a start, Missy Priss gave him a good shake. ‘No nonsense, sir. On your feet; this is no time for sleeping. Dark things are afoot and it is for us to trip them up.’ So saying, she handed him the golden helmet with the scarlet plume, and telling the Princess to take heart, and with Bobbitt safely by the hand—for who knew where he might run off to next?—she led them farther into the wood until they came to the cave of the Evening Witch, and here they prepared their strategy….”

Meanwhile a baby in one of the prams had become fretful, and Nellie nodded to the nursemaid to quiet it down so that she might hear the rest of the story. It was all so familiar to her, and yet how strange, hearing it thus, in Central Park, from this very odd-looking creature in his weird raiment atop the bronze mushroom. He told it, she thought, very well, and there was not a murmur from the children. The next part, of course, was the retaking of Ferdival Castle after the meeting with the king, then the famous tourney between Sir Forticoeur, the Golden Knight, and Sir Mordant, the Dark Knight, on the field of valor.

Happily, in short order Mordant was toppled from his horse by Sir Forticoeur, who stood above him, ready to part his head from his shoulders, and then mercifully offered him his life. Mordant is sternly ordered to leave the kingdom under pain of death, and afterward there is a great celebration, the fair Princess Gwinnathred is given in troth to her knight, Sir Forticoeur. Alfie, late as usual, arrives on the scene in time to toast the betrothed lovers, Bobbitt and Missy Priss receive the thanks of the king and court, and then the three are magically whisked away from Ferdival Castle and back to the Wickham house for a jubilant retelling of their adventures.

“More! More!” the children clamored, but as usual, Mr. Thingamabob shook his head, clapped his hands, and sprang down from the mushroom. “Tomorrow,” he told them, “or perhaps the day after—who can say?” And he began an antic little dance, tootling his whistle and shaking his tambourine. Then suddenly he stopped, shielding his eyes against the sun, and looked over at the nursemaids and the two ladies seated on the bench. He took up his pack, put away his whistle and tambourine, and walked over to them.

“Hello, Nellie,” he said. She gave him a puzzled but proper nod. “Hello,” she replied as Mr. Thingamabob removed his turban, then the nose, glasses, mustaches, and eyebrows, all of which came off in one piece, and stood before her with his real face.

“Don’t you recognize me?” he asked, laughing. “’Tis me. Bobbitt.”

Nellie stared at him, unable to believe her eyes. “Bobbitt?” she said, while
BobbittBobbittBobbitt,
the nursemaids repeated down the line on the bench. Then Nellie was laughing and crying all at once, and she got up, throwing her arms about him and kissing him, and saying to her friend, “Hilda—this is
Bobbitt!
My
Bobbitt!
”

Hilda had been hearing about Nellie’s Bobbitt for years. Bobby Ransome had been the most famous child actor of the fifties; his star had shone for less than a decade, a bright comet blazing across the Hollywood heavens, and many people had held their hands up, trying to catch some of the falling Stardust. Nellie said it was a miracle, finding him this way. She held him off at arms’ length and exclaimed, as if this were a very strange fact of life, “Why, Bobbitt, you grew up!”

As it had been fifteen years since they’d last seen one another, this was a perfectly natural thing, and when he sat down beside her, holding her hand, all she could do was drink him in, still unable to believe it all. Fifteen years had wrought their changes in that adored face. Gone was the little pug nose, the cherubic mouth, gone were the peach-blown cheeks, the golden curls of “the Gainsborough Boy.” His face was lean and tanned. But the eyes were as bright as Nellie remembered, and he had lost neither his ingratiating smile (“Bobbitt’s smile is a yard wide,” people used to say) nor that winning way of cocking his head when making a point: “See what I mean?” His hair was neatly trimmed and made attractive ringlets over the back of his collar, and was only slightly darker than it had been when he was a child. His voice was low and pleasant, with an eager, humorous timbre, and that trace of bantering Irish brogue that had endeared him to millions.

“Bobbitt,” she repeated, pressing his hand against her cheek, while he discreetly mentioned the fact that perhaps she might call him Robin, which was the name he was known by now.

“Robin,” she repeated, and
RobinRobinRobin
was passed along the line.

Don’t tell her, Nellie said, that he was living here in New York and she hadn’t known it! He laughed and gave a droll wag to his handsome head. No, he’d only recently arrived from Europe; but he was here for an indefinite stay. Mr. Thingamabob, he explained, was merely a diversion, something to keep him occupied and to amuse the children while he was waiting for an important piece of news, which was to say that he was having discussions with some Broadway producers about a show.

A show! Bobbitt was going to do a Broadway show? No, no, he put in quickly, he wasn’t going to be in it; he had written the music and lyrics. They were hoping Gwen Verdon would do it, and Joel Grey. Robert Preston was also interested.
GwenVerdonJoelGreyRobertPreston,
went the names down the line of nursemaids. They sat in subdued astonishment as the famous names reached their ears. Robin had seen Deborah Kerr only the other night—
DeborahKerrDeborahKerrDeborahKerr
—and he had recently bumped into Van Johnson on the street—
VanJohnsonVanJohnsonVanJohnson.
He’d dined in Paris with Olivia—One of the babies had begun to cry and the nursemaid gave the pram a shake to quiet it; she wanted to hear. Olivia who? Oh, de Havilland, yes—and?—and Olivia had asked Robin to call her sister—
JoanFontaineJoanFontaineJoanFontaine
—and this weekend he was going to Southampton to visit Carol Channing and audition his songs.

The conclusion of this brief, pleasant, and unlooked-for reunion was that Bobby (she must remember to call him Robin) wrote Nellie’s number down, saying that when he got back to town he would call so they would get together for a longer visit, “For old times’ sake,” they said, exchanging a secret, private smile.

They parted, he going along one side of the boat basin, Nellie and Hilda along the other, still waving until they lost sight of Robin as he went over the rise, and then they continued on to Central Park West and down to Sixtieth Street, where they lived. Two other friends of theirs, Naomi and Phyllis, also had apartments in the building. They had known each other for years, and back in the days of vaudeville they were known as “The Four Belles.” They still called themselves the Belles, they were all widowed, wealthily or otherwise, and though they were no longer in show business they spent a large part of their time together. Every day they gathered to exchange their news at what they referred to as “The Belle Telephone Hour,” which was cocktail time, getting together at each other’s apartments on a rotation basis. They lunched, or dined, watched the soap operas, occasionally took in an early movie or theater matinee, and held poker sessions on an informal but more or less regular basis.

Though the Belles had, as people will, grown a good deal alike in their attitudes and behavior, they were easily distinguishable one from another. Hilda had become fat; she was big and horsy, with a long face, and because her step was heavy you always knew when she was about to arrive; Nellie said it was heavy because she had a heart of gold, and you know how much gold weighs. Phyllis was a “petite seven,” if people went by dress sizes, pert and pretty, and fun to be with, though no one in the world was more naïve. She often joked that after having buried two husbands, she still had never learned about the birds and the bees. Naomi was the one to watch or listen to: she had a dry, acerbic wit. “Did you hear what Naomi said?” was the common phrase among them, and usually she found plenty to say. She had a sharp eye and a sharp nose, and a tongue sharper than either. The most that Nellie’s gentle nature would allow was that Naomi was satiric, and perhaps this word fitted her as well as any other. Still, they were warm friends, accustomed to one another’s foibles and idiosyncrasies; and at their ages, with no males about, it gave them a feeling of safety and comfort to have each other so handy.