The Remains of Mr Pootles

“He was a good clown,” said Grimshire, raising a beer bottle. He swigged from it even though it was empty.

“Not sure that’s much of a comfort to him now,” said Truffles. He opened the caravan door. The lights from the big top only penetrated a short way.

Grimshire barged forward, shoving Truffles and Mango aside. He flicked on the light to reveal the van’s interior.

Everyone had always wanted to know what was in the caravan; but clowns respect one another’s privacy. All men have dark shadows, but the depths of a clown’s soul are yet darker – you don’t spend all day in oversized shoes dodging custard pies without learning something about horror and tragedy. Clowns never enquire too deeply into how another clown spends his spare time. As long as he turns up sober at show time, it doesn’t matter if he keeps his curtains closed all day or won’t open the door if someone is stood nearby.

“Well, I never,” said Truffles. Mango had stepped out of the way, looking in the other direction. And Grimshire had laughed, stifling the sound when he realised the others weren’t amused, that his response was wrong.

Dozens of furled umbrellas hung from the ceiling. Grimshire’s weight had caused the van to shift, and the brollies swayed, as if moved by a breeze. They were all colours, some dour and business-like, others vivid like flowers. There was no space to add more umbrellas, as if the collection had been completed some time before.

“How many d’ya reckon there are?” asked Grimshire.

“Too many,” said Truffles. “I always suspected he was a strange sod, but I never expected this.”

“Oh god, oh god,” muttered Mango. “Maybe we should have been more friendly with him. Maybe it’s our fault.”

“We should burn the van,” said Grimshire, decisive. “It’s traditional.”

Even though they’d never heard of such a tradition, Truffles and Mango agreed. But even the ashes mocked them with the blackened, rusty skeletons of all those unexplained umbrellas.

Background

The Remains of Mr Pootles is the first clown story I had published, in a little magazine called Succour back in 2006. I wrote the story in an MA writing workshop where we were given ten minutes to write a story - possibly with the prompt of ‘umbrellas’. It’s barely been edited from that first session.

(Looking back, all my best stories are written quickly – I only run into trouble when I overthink them. But knowing that is a very different thing from acting on it).

The first clown story I tried writing was in Umi Sinha’s workshop, at Sussex University’s Centre for Continuing Education in Spring 2004. We were set the exercise of writing a sex scene. I came up with the title Two Clowns ____ing, and once I’d thought of that, I couldn’t write anything else, but I also couldn’t bring myself to share what I’d produced.

(I still have a draft of the story. It begins, “Felix always felt strange when civilian women undressed him. He wondered if they expected the makeup to continue beyond the neckline and the wrists, as if his entire skin was covered in the greasepaint.” It’s not a bad story and maybe I should revisit it for my upcoming clowns book).

Almost twenty years later, I still think The Remains of Mr Pootles is a good story. I should perhaps have made it obvious earlier on that Mr Pootles was stealing the umbrellas, but it’s short and reads well enough that I think it still feels strange.

I wrote enough clown stories that I had enough for a small book. I’d originally planned to release that back in 2013 or so, but it looks like it will finally emerge in 2024 from Peakrill Press. It’s going to be a much grander and much more interesting book than it would have been if I’d released it ten years ago. But I’m amazed at how long I’ve taken over this.

Recommendations

I listen to a lot of podcasts while I grind out my daily steps. Most of them are disposable, and I should probably be firmer about abandoning them halfway. Obviously, I love Blindboy’s podcast, but liking that is a cliche, although anyone who listens to podcasts should at least give him a try. Blindboy describes his podcast as an epic auto-fiction, and looks on it as a work of literature, and I’m very much here for that.

My favourite podcast is Ross Sutherland’s Imaginary Advice. Ross is one of the best poets I’ve ever seen, on a short list along with Rosy, Chris P and Hannah Silva. Ross works with impressive formal constraints, but produces compelling and emotional work from them.

The Imaginary Advice podcast has been on hiatus for a few months, but it is due to return in the new year. Which means that you have time to catch up on some of the best episodes. It’s featured an ARG, a heist movie based on random wikipedia entries, and more, but my favourite episodes were the two part Sex and the City: The Return, an incredible story about speed-running an immersive theatre production of the TV show.