Remembering a clown

Once you’ve been a cop for a few years you’ve seen pretty much everything, nothing surprises you. The other day, for example, I was out on patrol with Reg when we took a call from the Centre. “There’s a traffic pile-up in Rhoads Street, in a westerly direction” they said, “can you take a look.”

I don’t like this type of call. More often or not it’s just a traffic jam you can do nothing about and you can end up getting caught in traffic yourself. If you’re unlucky it’s a crash and you end up spending the rest of the day scraping corpses from the car, tangled up like a grotesque game of Twister.

We came into Rhoads Street from the east, so as to avoid the traffic. It was soon obvious what the cause of the problem was. There was a line of a dozen clown cars, the type you see in the circus with the sides and roof falling off of each of them. They were all stationary, with nobody in the drivers’ seats, meaning that no car could overtake them against the flow of oncoming traffic, and there were thirty or forty clowns milling around, seemingly without reason.

“This is new,” said Reg, dryly. After 45 years’ in the service it takes a lot to shock Reg. He is famed in the service for staying cool during the invasion of the piglets.

“I’ll deal with this,” I said, “you go and park up in front of Budgens.”

“Right, which of you clowns is in charge here,” I bellowed, which certainly got their attention. Two clowns walked towards me, a really ancient clown in a red wig and a middle aged bloke in an ill-fitting purple outfit.

“You can’t leave these cars here, you’re causing a traffic jam from here to Farnborough. If you get them all moving within 35 seconds we’ll hear no more about it, otherwise every single one of those cars is going to be thoroughly tested for roadworthiness. You’ll spend the next three years filling in the paperwork”

“We’re looking for my father,” the middle aged clown said.”

“What all of you? When did he go missing?”

“Sometime in the last 3 miles, no more than ten, fifteen minutes.”

“I laughed. I’m sorry sir, we can’t call out a search party just yet, he’s probably just popped to the shops. You get back in your cars and get moving and if he’s not back this time tomorrow ring the station.”

“You don’t understand officer, my father’s dead.”

“Dead? If you don’t know where he is how can you possibly know he’s dead?”

“We were carrying his coffin. This is his funeral procession officer.”

I was genuinely shocked. “You were carrying his coffin in that?” I pointed to the clown mobile at the front of the procession, with two gaping holes where the sides of the car had literally fallen apart.

“He was a clown officer, it’s how he wanted to be buried.”

At this point the elderly clown interjected. “It must have fallen out the side,” he said, “these cars are built to fall apart you see.”

“I see,” yes, “I can see the bloody great hole where the coffin fell out. What I don’t see is why you would drive a car like that in the first place.”

“Well, you see, it’s very funny, watching a car fall apart, has them in stitches every time. Mind you, it can cause problems on a busy road.”

“Yes, such as a completely unnecessary traffic jam. Okay, I believe you, we’ve got a dead clown gone awol. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, you all,” and I said this loudly, so that all the clowns who were still hanging around would hear me clearly, “you get in your cars and drive to the church, I’ll call some help, search the roads and bring you dad’s coffin. You are going to a church I take it, not the circus?”

“Yes officer,” the purple clown said, “St Luke’s.”

“Right, well Reg and I will go on a coffin hunt. Where did you lose the deceased, what route did you take?”

He told me the roads and I shooed him and the rest of the clowns back into their cars. “We’ll be at St Luke’s church in 20 minutes. Now get moving, you clowns will be the death of me.”

“I’m not a clown officer,” the guy in the purple clown suit said as he departed, “dad made me wear this.”

I quickly joined Reg in Budgen’s car park. “You see that guy in the purple clown suit, Reg,” I said, “the one with the big curly purple wig, the red nose, the facepaint, outsize shoes.”

Reg peered carefully in the direction I was pointing. “Yeah, I clocked him.”

“Well apparently he’s not a clown.”

Reg remained unmoved. “Must be a fashion thing then. The things people wear these days. So what’s happening?”

“We’re looking for a dead man Reg. He’s already in his coffin, seems the clowns thought they’d take him out for a ride. He’s fallen out somewhere en route, drive down Stephen Street and keep your eyes peeled.”

Reg drove slowly onwards. “I always wondered what they did when they weren’t clowning. After all, the circus stuff can only take up a few hours ever week, they must have loads of spare time, ever since I was a kid I wondered what clowns did when they weren’t clowning. Now I wish I’d never found out. Driving corpses around in a clown car, there should be a law against it.”

It took us just a few minutes to find the missing coffin, complete with clown corpse. It fitted unconvincingly into the back of the squad car, but I wasn’t going to call for back up on this one. Just one overtime claim featuring the word ‘clowns’ and we’d have the national papers laughing at us.

I was pleased to see that the traffic had mostly cleared and by the time we got to the church the clowns were already gathered by the graveside. Six of them approached to carry the coffin from the squad car to the grave.

“It’s quite impressive really,” Reg said, “the ability to walk in a sober, dignified procession wearing boots like that.”

We followed the clowns to graveside, to keep an eye on them. There were nearly forty clowns there altogether, clowns of all shapes and sizes, a family of clowns, even a baby clown in a pushchair. Mostly though, they were elderly, old enough to know better Reg said afterwards, clowns in their 60s and 70s.

With the coffin finally settled by the side of the grave the vicar stepped forward to conduct a service.

“Jonathan Westpool, known to all who knew him as Tumbles, was a man who took clowning seriously, which is why we are gathered here today not just to mark his death, but to celebrate his lifetime. Many of you, in fact all of you, have come here in costume. Tumbles achieved national fame, appearing regularly on TV in Bobo’s Clown Circus, a show I remember was on immediately after Songs of Praise, which was the main reason I watched it.”

He was interrupted by a shout from one of the clowns. “It was the only reason why anyone watched it.” This was followed by laughter from the rest of the ensemble. I gave Reg a glance – heckling at a funeral service, but he seemed unconcerned.

The vicar continued. “In his way Tumbles’ and my professions are the same” (more laughter). “We both try to give solace to the community. To cheer people up, to take a metaphorical pie in the face for the greater good. I also have it on good authority that, like the church, people don’t enter the clowning profession for the money.”

The vicar allowed time for the laughter this comment generated to die down before continuing in sombre tone.

“We give thanks to a God who gave mankind alone the ability to laugh and trust that Tumbles, who was a true master of humour, will get an appreciative audience in heaven.”

With those words, and a short prayer, the coffin was lowered. Despite the heckling and laughter during the service, there was a dignified silence as the coffin was lowered. The facepaint and makeup of nearly every clown there was smudged.

As the crowd departed I noticed that there was one man who wasn’t dressed in clowns’ attire, rather a sombre formal suit and tie. He walked up to me.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you a real policeman?”

“Yes indeed,” I said, “Officer Wesley Beeching, we rescued the coffin following a motor vehicle incident.”

“Sorry,” he said, “it’s just I felt I was at a fancy dress party, thirty-six clowns, two policemen and a vicar. I didn’t half feel the odd one out.”

“Did you know him well?” I asked, struggling to find an appropriate question.

“The clown? Oh no, I only met him once, he gatecrashed my wife’s funeral. They all did. They said would I like to return the favour.”

“I see.” I signalled for Reg to get the car.

Later that night I watched a clip of Bobo’s Clown Circus on Youtube. The vicar was right, Tumbles really did have the gift of comedy. The next day I visited the town’s joke shop, purchased a cheap, plastic, water-squirty-buttonhole flower and left it on Mr Tumbles’ grave.