Flamin' Fernando and his flamin' Glamorous Assistant.

 

When I was 16 I was living a double life. During term-time I was a convent Boarder in a rather posh school in Australia. I was 'too young' for most things; I wore my hair in two skinny plaits; clumped about in sensible school-shoes; and and was condescended to by everyone in the world who was over 17.

But during the long Summer Holidays and the shorter ones in between, I flew home to my tropical island in the sun and lived my real life.

In this world I rarely wore shoes; my hair - which had never in my life been cut - flowed freely down my back and over my bum and I wore a frangipani or hibiscus behind one ear.

In this world I had been driving for the past two years; smoked cigarettes socially, was rather knowledgeable about wines and whiskey, and was treated no differently to anyone else.

It was in this world that my father, asked to do a spot in the annual Xmas Concert down at the Army barracks, airily informed all and sundry that he would be accompanied by his Glamorous Assistant. It was two weeks later before the penny dropped that I would be said glamorous assistant. 

While the Convent Schoolgirl may have thrown up her hands in horror at appearing semi-clad (well, 'glamorous' bikini-clad); in front of the rough soldiery; the Island Belle didn't turn a hair.  Because she actually lived not in a convent, but with Phyl and George; and her life was full of experiences most 16 year olds don't get to share in.

My mother was away in England which, in retrospect, was probably why the suave, cravat-wearing, blazer-jacketed George accepted with such alacrity. It was also probably why it was the day of the concert before either George or I realised we hadn't thought of costumes.

I was ok.  I had a drawer full of bikinis. I wasn't vain at all, so the idea was I'd just yank one out and don it, give my hair a brush, grab a hibiscus out of the garden and be ready to go.  I didn't possess any fuck-me high-heeled stilettos - and would probably fall off the stage if I attempted borrowing a pair; so it was bare feet as usual and bikini.

But in an island in the Pacific there were no such places as costume-hire, or Fancy-Dress outlets; Fernando could hardly appear fully clothed. What to do?

Then I remembered that a couple of Xmases ago I'd bought him a pair of leopard-print Jocks. We pored through his underwear drawer without any joy - until I thought of Phyl's 'cleaning cloths.'

 My mother, like many who had lived through WW2 restrictions, was one of the world's best recyclers - long before it had ever even become a 'thing.'  And old soft cotton undies and vests made the best-ever cleaning cloths. We wandered down into the laundry and found the bag of cloths- and there - a wee bit faded and slightly stressed - they were! Taking the opportunity to re-possess a couple of favourite t.shirts at the same time, we carted them upstairs. A bit of Vaseline to turn his handlebar moustache into wickedly villainous-looking points ...and we were ready. And had a couple of drinks to celebrate.

We were met at the Barracks by George's mate, the C.O. , who whisked us away to the well-stocked Green Room (a re-purposed Stationary Cupboard) where we had a couple of drinks until one of the NCOs put their head around the door to tell us we were on in 10 minutes. 

Meeting up as the act was being presented we both stepped out onto the stage full of confidence and bravado straight after a rather dreary choral presentation - and the crowd went wild. We warmed to them, they had obviously warmed to us...we were away! They cheered, they yelled, they greeted every flourish with foot stamping enthusiasm. And George, carried away by the reception, indulged in flourishes and tricks I'd never seen before.

Which was why I didn't worry when my bare feet encountered a couple of burning embers - though I had enough presence of mind to turn my leap of pain into a pirouette which landed me next to the Flaming Fernando who, I now realised, was actually on fire. 

The finer hairs on his stomach had begun to smoulder and then erupted up to the strong plantation of black chest-hair in a fiery blaze.

The rude soldiery clapped, they cheered, they stood up in admiration, they yelled his name, while I, realising his confident leer was actually a rictus of pain, leapt straight off the stage, in terror that his life-long trade-mark - The Tache - was in mortal danger.

The evening had been a kind of cabaret event with the audience seated round tables holding jugs of beer. With what I hoped was an engaging grin, I reached over and grabbed a beer jug; then scrambled back up to my blazing father, and  with a few comedic shows of worry and eagerness to help, threw the entire contents over his chest - which brought the house down.

Out of the corner of my eye, as the still-smouldering Fernando took a deep bow centre-stage, I saw the CO's wife, uncommonly po-faced, pick up her handbag and leave. Over to the right, three more of the Officers wives - only officer's wives at the event - also gathered their things and stalked out as well. 

Tacitly deciding that nothing more could top our impromptu Fiery Furnace part of the act. Fernando and I, hand-clasped, moved centre-stage to make our adieux, the remaining female contingent, stone-faced, left the room while the yells and cat-calls and applause rose to a crescendo.

Once cleaned up, with soot removed and fiery patches of skin (and my foot!) decently tucked away, we all met up in the Officers Mess into which we walked to a rousing ovation, much laughter and bonhomie.

It was about ten minutes later that the CO came in, beaming, and slapped us both on the back saying we had been the hit of the evening and that it had been an act that would never be rivalled.

"Decent of you to say so." George replied but then: "Not so with the Ladies, it seemed?" He - and I - were puzzled by the contrast between the shouts and cheers;  and the outraged dignity shown by the female contingent.

There was an instant, though short, silence and a certain amount of foot shuffling.

"Ah yes. That." said the CO with a twinge of discomfort. No-one else in the group would make eye contact and the silence fell once more. We continued looking at him.

"Look, old man, the act was marvellous - the lads will be talking about it for a long time to come. Jolly good indeed! But.."he paused once more and a couple of snorts were heard from those in the company.  "Frightfully unfortunate and all that - but, couldn't be helped, I'm sure."

George and I looked at each other in complete but still silent puzzlement.

"Bit of a costume malfunction, I expect?" We didn't respond.

The hush deepened, the CO was seen to look around wildly, take a deep breath to compose himself; and then he suddenly blurted out:

"Well you see,  old boy, beastly shame...but your left testicle took a tumble out of your pants leg and stayed on display for the entire time!"

And, once more, the crowd (this time including me) went wild.