“Research? That’s what you call it these days, is it?” asked Jack, shaking his head sadly.
Ray cleared his throat, shifting uneasily in his seat. “It’s our new hobby, son. Your grandad and I have been watching it on the telly on Saturday nights. It’s good exercise,” he said. “And the women are bloody lovely,” he added, lowering his gravelly voice, and eliciting an enthusiastic nod from Grandad as he said this.
Jack slid the magazine back over to Ray, wishing to place as much distance between it and himself as possible. Jack gave a little shudder, and then turned to address his grandfather. “I thought you were spoken for, Grandad? Or is the romance of the century on the rocks again?” he asked, in reference to Grandad’s on-again-off-again relationship with Stella, grandmother of Hayley the florist next door.
“She doesn’t like the things I’m into,” Grandad answered him.
Jack wasn’t sure what ‘things’ were being referred to, exactly, that Grandad might be ‘into’ that Stella wasn’t. Deciding this was information he didn’t need to be privy to, and territory he wasn’t necessarily prepared to explore, Jack wisely chose to simply let it slide on by instead.
“So we’re going to start going to ballroom dancing classes, Ray and me…” Grandad explained.
To which came an audible sigh of relief from Jack that this, thank goodness, was all that was being discussed.
“… And we were just trying to figure out what sort of outfits we’re going to get,” Grandad further clarified.
Jack was certainly no expert about ballroom dancing, but he felt fairly confident the fancy outfits that were being looked at were only meant for those actually entering and competing in competitions as opposed to, say, those simply going to a lesson or two as Ray and Grandad apparently had in mind. Jack considered pointing out this salient bit of information to them, but in the end resisted the urge, figuring he’d just wait and see how this all played out as there was the potential for a few good laughs involved. “Good idea,” Jack said finally, encouraging the both of them on. “I would suggest, however, that being sat in full view in a coffee shop window wearing tight shorts and poring over a magazine of scantily clad women might not be the best of ideas?”
“Your dirty mind, Jack,” said Grandad.
“Shameful,” agreed Ray, shaking his head and tut-tutting. “Minds always wallowing in the gutter, the young ones these days.”
“What can you do?” said Grandad in mock despair.
“Sadly, not much you can do,” sighed Ray.
Not long after, the Dynamic Duo had finished their tea and buggered off to their game of squash.
“Well?” asked Emma, once Jack had reported back to the kitchen area. “What are they up to?”
Jack laughed, but it wasn’t an unkind one. “Well,” said Jack, “Turns out Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly, just there a moment ago, are keen on taking up ballroom dancing lessons, apparently, and were looking through magazines for costume suggestions.”
“Ballroom dancing?” asked Emma, a faraway look in her eye at the very thought, and a wistful smile creeping over her face.
Jack opened his mouth to respond, but then stopped before any sound had escaped his throat, as seeing Emma’s expression meant he knew precisely what was coming next.
“You promised to take me dancing,” said Emma, right on cue. “Why’ve you not taken me dancing, Jack?”
“I will, Emma, I promise,” Jack told her. And then he winced in anticipation because, again, he had a sneaking suspicion as to what Emma might say next.
“We could go with your grandad and Ray sometime,” she offered, pleased with herself at the idea and now performing a novice waltz with her tea towel as her temporary partner. “We could scope out a costume for you also?” she suggested playfully.
“You know,” offered Jack, raising his finger, “Now I think on it, it’s not a bad idea, actually.”
“What? You want me to sort you a costume out?” Emma quipped.
“No, no, I’m just thinking out loud. About the idea of dancing, in general, I mean,” Jack answered. “Ray said it himself about dancing being great exercise, and the fact that the women are… ehm, that is, he said it was a very social pursuit.”
“I bet he did,” said Emma, returning her dance partner back onto the worktop. “Anyway, so are you thinking about dancing as an activity for the club? Is that what you have in mind?”
“Exactly!” Jack answered, getting ever more animated as he knocked the idea around his cranium, the notion growing in prominence and appeal, at least in his own mind, in time with each enthusiastic bob of his head. “The Lonely Heart Attack Club has got the Late Bloomers up at Pete and Kelvin’s garden centre for the green-fingered amongst the club, right?” Jack went on, explaining to Emma his line of reasoning. “And then we’ve got the Silver Sprinters for those wanting a bit of exercise, yes? Well, I think ballroom dancing could be a great addition, and a great initiative for perhaps those wanting a bit of exercise, like the Silver Sprinters, but something maybe not quite as strenuous. Plus, since it’s indoors, it’ll always be safe from the threat of pissing rain. And, plus, it’s also—”
“It’s also a wonderful social activity, and with great-looking women,” agreed Emma with a wink.
“Totally!” replied Jack. “And we could… Hang on, I wouldn’t know about the women…” he said, backtracking a pace. “As you are of course the only woman I’m interested in anyway,” he quickly added, with a nervous cough. “But, yeah, a good activity for the oldies, a good social activity,” he said, agreeing to her agreement. “Seriously, you see on that BBC programme how friendly they become, these dancing partners,” Jack remarked. “Some a little too friendly, apparently! But, ehm, anyway, yeah. Dancing could be a good addition to the club, yes?”
“Then you wouldn’t have any excuses for not taking me dancing, isn’t that right?” considered Emma. “So, I like it. Hmm, we could get an instructor in and have lessons upstairs, maybe? Perhaps you could get Grandad and Ray on the case to organise it, even?”
Jack’s expression conveyed that he wasn’t entirely convinced by this last suggestion. “Those two?” he said. “They couldn’t bloody organise a fire at a match factory. No, what we need…” continued Jack, watching a certain particular figure walking past the front window and heading towards their entrance door, and taking sudden inspiration from said figure. “What we need,” Jack went on, increasing his volume for the benefit of the new arrival just come in, “Is someone with a flair for the dramatic, a desire for sparkles, and above all, someone who was born to perform.”
“You rang, m’ lord?” said Pete, with an expectant smile as he edged up to the counter, though not entirely sure what he was signing himself up for.
Emma began to outline their current thinking whilst preparing Pete his usual latte, telling him, “We’re thinking of arranging ballroom dancing classes in the—”
“I’m in,” declared Pete the (former) Postman immediately, without the slightest hint of indecision or a moment’s hesitation, and before Emma could even finish what she was going to say. “And you can include Kelvin in as well,” he added.
Emma’s face lit up. Kelvin, by virtue of his status as one of the Island’s biggest celebrities on TV, would bring much-needed publicity to any venture they undertook.
“You know…” whispered Pete, with that I’m-about-to-give-you-some-juicy-gossip look — and, to be fair, Pete was the master scandalmonger on the Isle of Man.
“Yes?” said Emma, leaning in, all ears.
“You know that Strictly Come Dancing programme on the Beeb?” he asked with a knowing look.
Emma’s jaw dropped ever so slowly. “You mean the show where all the celebrities go on?” she asked, picking her lower mandible up off the countertop.
“That’s the one,” confirmed Pete. “And guess what?” he asked her, as if leading up to something big.
Emma was all but chewing her own fist at this point. “No way!” she s
aid, looking over to a rather disinterested Jack, who sadly did not appear to be as appreciative of good gossip as she was. “Is Kelvin going to be on the show…?” Emma asked excitedly, anxiously imagining herself in the studio audience as an invited guest, mixing with the celebrity dancers, with the potential to have her mush on the telebox.
Pete’s enthusiastic grin faltered somewhat. “Well, no. Nothing like that,” he admitted. “I was just going to say that it’s one of his favourite programmes,” he offered with a shrug. “So he’d be totally on board with helping.”
“Wow, that’s pretty shit, Pete,” said Emma, pushing his drink across the counter. “I mean, the way you built that up, I was already buying myself a new frock and booking passage to Blackpool. I’ll be honest, Pete, I expected better from you. As far as gossip goes, that’s pretty rubbish.”
Pete bowed his head like a dog scolded for doing something naughty. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just that since I hung up my postman’s bag, I seem to have lost my ability to dig up proper gossip. It’s my morning off work at the garden centre and I’ve been up and down the street three times to my old crowd, but nothing,” he related sadly. “Anyway, speaking of my old route, what’s, ehm… what’s the new postman like?” he asked.
Pete had asked this question like he didn’t really want to know the answer, or was afraid of the answer, but Emma didn’t notice. Her smoky eyes twinkled at the very mention of their town’s new postman. “Sam? Ahhh, Sam,” she sighed dreamily. “Sammy, Sammy, Sam.”
Jack shook his head just out of Pete’s line of sight, pulling his thumb across his neck in indication that Emma might wish to shut the hell up, for in Pete’s eyes, of course, Pete was completely and utterly irreplaceable as postman.
“Yeah, what I meant to say was that he’s alright, I suppose,” continued Emma, changing course at Jack’s direction. “We don’t really see too much of him, truth be told, and when we do, well, he’s completely shit as a postman, actually, and can’t hold a candle to you, Pete,” she added, changing course even further and this time sailing straight off the map.
Jack closed one eye, wincing, indicating that Emma saying “completely shit” was perhaps a touch harsh and maybe overdoing things a bit, and with Jack at this point choosing to clear tables rather than continue to listen in to the current conversation.
“It’s all right, I know you’re just saying that to spare my feelings,” Pete replied to Emma. “All the other people on my old round say he’s completely amazing, this new fella.”
“I can’t lie,” said Emma, excited again and happy to drop any pretence. “Sam is a star! He even helped me change a flat tyre on the van last week, if you can believe that. He’s utterly amazing!” she told Pete. “Oh, and try this,” she added, handing him a piece of sponge cake after she’d liberated it from a Tupperware box placed under her side of the counter. “He’s been away for the last three weeks on holiday, and I’m starting to get withdrawal symptoms from his being away!”
“It’s as if the batter’s been whipped by angel’s wings…” Pete had no choice but to admit, going weak at the knees as soon as the cake crossed his lips. “Bloody hell!” he said, on the verge of orgasm.
“And as if being a baking god and having the face of an Adonis wasn’t enough, the bastard also happens to be built like a bloody brick shithouse!” Jack grumbled unhappily from his current position wiping tables.
“Oh? I hadn’t noticed,” remarked Emma, with a wry smile for Pete’s benefit. “Anyway, ask Jack how his debut at the mother and toddler group went,” she whispered to Pete, eager to change the subject as she finally realised that extolling the virtues of the new postman was making poor Pete rather miserable. “He didn’t believe me when I told him what they’re like.”
“Den of vipers,” replied Pete, folding his arms. “I’ve heard my fair share of horror stories over the years. Some of those types of engagements are fine, of course, but…”
“I don’t think he’s going back,” Emma told Pete. “They threw him out for getting the women drunk and trying to touch them up in the kitchen.”
It was remarkable that such revelations generally came as no surprise to folks where Jack was concerned, and with Pete barely reacting to this one in particular. Jack, as it happened, had this unusual ability to find himself in sticky situations — at frequent, regular intervals — that most would manage to reach old age without having encountered or achieved.
“I know you’re talking about me,” said Jack, returning from his cleaning duties. But he wasn’t overly bothered. “So how’s the garden centre?” asked Jack by way of conversation, eager to know how trade was from a fellow businessman.
Pete clapped his hands in delight. “It’s marvellous!” he said. “It’s going so well that we’ve had to employ four new members of staff, even!”
Setting up the garden centre had been something of a calculated gamble on a small island with several similar outlets already operating, but Kelvin and Pete had every confidence in their new enterprise, Growing Places. Kelvin was one of the most recognisable faces on TV and host of a series of hugely popular gardening-related programmes, so starting this venture was, for him, a logical enough decision. And Pete was a natural people person who, being their former postman, folks were well familiar with and just adored. So, if anyone could make a success of the new business it’d be the two of them.
“And we’re in the process of building two new greenhouses, and an aquarium to sell fish as well!” Pete went on.
“Ooh, I must bring Lucas up once that’s finished,” said Jack, sticking his bottom lip out and making blub-blub-blub noises like some strange sort of bipedal grouper or halibut. “He loves fish,” he added, at the conclusion of his performance.
“Ah! We can show him our collection of clownfish, like the one in Finding Nemo. He’ll love that, I expect. The kids always love those. Anyway, I’m glad you brought up the subject of the garden centre, because I actually wanted to talk about that. Or, rather, the Late Bloomers club at the garden centre, that is.”
Emma’s face dropped. “They’re not in the way, are they?” she asked, with genuine concern. “They haven’t become a nuisance, I hope? Only we have so many people coming in here to tell us it’s the highlight of their week and they’re learning so much from your gardening team,” she told Pete. “Don’t they, Jack?” asked Emma, eager for confirmatory backup in this regard.
Sensing Emma’s apparent panic, Pete flapped his hands to calm her down, generating a small breeze in the process. “No, no, nothing like that, Emma, don’t worry,” he assured her. “They’re not in the way at all, and in fact I love the Late Bloomers, they’re all completely mad and such a lovely bunch. In fact, one of the old girls keeps trying to find me a ‘nice girlfriend,’ and tells me she’s going to bring her granddaughter along to meet me! So I’m not sure how that’s going to pan out, exactly, but I suspect there’ll be disappointment all around, in any event.”
“That’ll end in tears, I imagine,” Jack said with a chuckle.
“Anyway,” Pete continued, “do you know how many people we had turn up for yesterday’s Late Bloomer’s club?”
“Fourteen thousand?” said Jack. He often did that, throwing out this particular figure as his stock response, whenever people would ask any sort of question of this similar type.
“Stop doing that!” said Pete, who’d already been on the receiving end of this a number of times too many. “It was forty-six. Forty-six people,” Pete declared, citing the true number, and opening his phone to show them a picture he’d taken from their potting class the day previous.
Emma gripped Pete’s phone in disbelief. This was indeed an impressive number. For the first month of the initiative, they’d been lucky to attract five people or so. The group, technically speaking, was open to all. But being called the Late Bloomers Club, and gathering on Tuesday and Thursday mornings as it did, the intention was to attract those people of a certain age who were looking to learn new ski
lls and make new friends, and most importantly, to get them out of the house in order to prevent social isolation. The older folk were also susceptible to unwanted attention from sophisticated scammers, parasites who preyed on those most vulnerable in the community. Indeed, Grandad’s friend Ray had nearly lost everything to these deplorable shysters. And so with this in mind, another goal and benefit of these clubs Emma and Jack had started was to raise awareness of, and hence inoculate against, this pernicious threat. By expanding the numbers of these clubs, then, both on the Island and beyond, Emma and Jack could more effectively get the word out. And once the membership of the clubs were educated and informed, the members would as a result only go on to educate their own friends and family about the issue as well. So, between the dual goals of arming the oldies with useful information and giving them a reason to leave the house in the morning by providing fun activities for them to engage in, more people participating in the clubs could definitely be considered a good thing and was good news indeed.
“So you’re not closing the club down, then?” asked Emma, her worry fading away.
“Not on your nelly,” said Pete, taking his phone back. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I love having them in the garden centre! They make the place buzz, do you know what I mean? Plus, our customers always stop to look and see what the club members are up to, what they’re doing and learning.”
“Like a zoo stocked with old people!” observed Jack. “Hmm, maybe you could start charging folks a fee to watch them? It could be a good way to generate some extra income, I imagine,” he suggested facetiously. “What do you reckon?”
Pete merely raised his left eyebrow by two millimetres in response. “Anyway…” said Pete, ploughing ahead, and allowing the jetsam that was Jack’s idea to be rightly cast aside and left to drift off into the distance. “Anyway, what I was going to say was, how about we look at buying a minibus?”
The Lonely Heart Attack Club - Project VIP Page 3