Wednesday 17 March

‘Do you know what I think?’ asked Porthole, as we sat surrounded by posters of great performances in the Exchange green room.

‘That you need a new conditioner?’ I asked, with tact, noticing tiny freshwater crabs side-winding between the famous detective’s well-known ear and greatly-respected forescalp.

Porthole flung a thick dreadlock – size of a baby’s arm – huffily over his shoulder, and in the process sent a miniature crustacean plopping neatly into each of our coffees. On first meeting him, I recall how Mr Drift-to-you would often use one of his famous natural dreads when mooring up for the night, clamping his feet into ‘barge stirrups’ to retain the status quo. But after particularly unsettled nights, when the black water was full of discord, and the second guitarist full of that chord, found he could often awake in Grappenhall with his fine, dry but extraordinarily strong hair stretched all the way back to his aquatic parking space in Latchford. At this point, as men of a certain age should, he decided to get shorn, or at least keep it in his trousers. But back it grew, and out it spilt – like his far from rock-solid family trees of information.

‘I think,’ he continued, ignoring me and the crabs, ‘that this was a job perpetrated by an outsider.’

‘Ye gad man,’ I smiled tightly, screening the room for fellow thesps or ungodly hacks, ‘I’ve warned you about the racism. It’s simply not done here. And if I’m to make myself a future in this...’

‘Bargreaves!’ and Porthole’s barnacle-enforced fist slammed down onto the naturally sourced wooden table, ‘you’re a bloody idiot. This world – it’s not for you. You’re a cotton trader and writer of blarney, and if we don’t track down this missing coal, you’re gonna be out on your ear without a farthing to your name.’

There was a polite knock on the green room door and we looked up to see a cigarette-thin figure danced nervously behind it.

‘Everything all right in here?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ I smiled sweetly, crunching on the remnants of my drink.

‘Okay Bargreaves, love, if you’re sure – on in five, okay?’ the assistant narrowed his eyes at my companion, then promptly disappeared.

Porthole harrumphed.

‘You want to know what I’ve found out, or not?’

‘Please – fire away,’ but my gaze had returned to the brave stocking and turtle-neck combos of those great players upon the walls.

‘You recall that the only clue we have so far is the silhouettes of two men fighting upon the towpath, as the barge driver lay unconscious nearby?’

‘Mmm-hmm.’

‘Well, if young Tom Fatbottom didn’t see two scatched and suffr’d men enter the Jawed Rabbit, night of the wobbery, and ask for brandy to cure their internal woundings.’

‘Fascinating,’ – Othello (1849)

‘Funny thing is – and you know Tom – ‘kens every face in the city thanks to what happened to him, and him sitting outside the pub on that trolley all day long.’

‘Yes,’ – The Taming of the Shrew (1826)

‘Said he never seen neither face before – newcomers.’

And I thought the thought; then bashfully swatted it away – for surely I had no chance of winning best newcomer (1865)? Yet if by some misguided fortune the prize was destined for my outstretched hand...then who would need coal, and Voluntary Early Death Allowance? Who could ask for more than the stage, the flowers; the applause resounding around a life equipped for all seasons – and with convincing reactions to stereotypical seasonal weather conditions to match?

‘THIS IS YOUR FINAL CALL – GENTLEMEN OF THE ENSEMBLE, PLEASE,’ came tinnily over the tannoy.