by J C Williams
“You’re looking well, Ray. How’re you feeling?” asked Jack, moving alongside.
His eyes were not as set back, and his huge nose was now almost skin tone rather than an unhealthy red glow. “I’ve not touched a drop for two weeks, son. I’m feeling good. A few more of these walks and I’ll get rid of this gut,” he said, placing his hands on his stomach like an expectant mother.
Jack took the opportunity to recruit the Silver Sprinters to his world record and they were all delighted to get involved. He wasn’t convinced that a couple of them knew what he was on about, but they seemed eager enough.
The promenade was curved like a half-moon, and as they progressed to the one-mile mark the slight change in direction saw them move out of the direct wind and into welcome shelter. Their ears and cheeks were tingling and as the wind subsided Jack could hear a faint shouting. He ignored it at first, but it became louder. He turned and performed a quick roll call, in case someone had fallen. No man left behind, he thought.
All were present and accounted for, but as he turned completely out of the wind his hearing became more attuned. The promenade was virtually empty, so it wasn’t difficult to isolate where the shouting was emanating from. Jack walked backwards, keeping pace with the group. A frail man in a wheelchair was turning his wheels at pace. He was clearly not dressed for the weather in a thin white short-sleeved shirt that offered no protection from the elements. Jack slowed as the man was clearly distressed and as he closed in, Jack could see he only had one leg. His thinning white hair moved erratically, and Jack was impressed at the pace he was able to extract from the chair.
“Are you okay there?” asked Jack, but it was clear from the expression that the man was furious.
He had a wooden curved walking stick attached to the rear of the chair and when he was three or four meters from Jack, he released one hand and took the stick firmly in his right hand. He held the stick aloft and continued to turn the wheel at a rapid pace with his left hand; he looked like a valiant knight preparing to slay a formidable dragon. Jack didn’t know which direction to move and fearing a collision he took a step back, but as he did the rubber grip at the bottom of the walking stick caught him directly on the left testicle. He barked in pain as the wind flew out of his lungs and the agony struck him like a sledgehammer. He fell to the floor and took up a foetal position, gently covering his groin.
“You bloody pervert!” shouted the wheeled aggressor, who continued to wave his stick menacingly.
Jack whimpered until the pain subsided and as he looked up, the Silver Sprinters had formed a circle and were looking down on him. Despite the pain, he was intrigued at how different they all looked as their loose skin dangled in the wind.
“What have you done now?” asked Grandad.
Jack pushed himself to a seated position. “Nothing, I don’t think? Professor Xavier just attacked me for no reason, and why do people keep calling me a pervert lately? It hurts!”
The man held the stick close to Jack’s face. “Done nothing? You call kidnap nothing? What is this, anyway?” he asked, looking at the congregated group. “Are you the leader of some cult for old people?”
Dorothy stepped forward and piloted the stick away from Jack’s face. “Okay, Thomas, put the stick down.”
“I’ve been chasing you bloody idiots for the last mile!” he shouted. “Give me my Dorothy back, or I’ll push this stick so far up your arse it’ll knock your teeth out!”
“Dorothy, anytime you want to step in would be appreciated,” said Jack, with a nervous laugh.
“I did try to tell you,” she said, taking refuge behind the wheelchair. “We were going for a coffee and forgot his coat. As I walked back to the car, you grabbed me.”
“You’re a pervert!” shouted Thomas.
Jack began to protest and as he looked for allies, his grandad folded his arms and shook his head. “Should be locked up for grabbing women off the street!” he said.
“Grandad… Jesus! There are a time and a place for your humour, and this isn’t it. Dorothy, why did you follow us for the last twenty-five minutes?” asked Jack, in disbelief.
She was becoming rather overwhelmed. “Well, you all seemed to know me, and I didn’t have chance to protest. The lady next to me hasn’t stopped talking about her varicose veins and weak bladder since we set off.”
Jack raised his hands like he was preaching to his disciples. “Look, there has clearly been an innocent mistake. Let’s move on. You’re both welcome to join us for the return leg, but to be clear, it’s not a cult and I’m not a pervert. We’re the Silver Sprinters.”
Their new guests needed to follow the route back, so cautiously agreed to the invitation. Thomas kept a gentle grip of his stick, ready to unleash it at a moment’s notice — a point that hadn’t gone unnoticed by Jack, who walked like he’d just dismounted a horse. As they commenced on the return leg, their numbers began to swell — much like Jack’s left testicle. Other mature walkers joined the group and by the time they approached the final stretch, there were fifteen people enjoying an evening walk. Jack stood proudly at the head of the group and as he turned to look at the determined faces, he felt like Rocky Balboa on a training run through the Philadelphia streets.
He was unsure how the idea would be taken, but all things considered, the night had been a huge success. Not only was it getting people to exercise, but he was giving people of a certain age the opportunity to socialise with people from the same generation. He’d always taken companionship for granted, but he now understood how important it truly was, and how destructive not having it could be. Grandad, Derek, and the others chatted like old friends and were busy making arrangements for the next meeting and Jack had recruited further numbers for his record attempt. He listened in on Ray who repeated his experiences with Candy and Charity, and if people were not too embarrassed to share their experiences then, hopefully, it would prevent others from falling victim to the same scam.
Jack collapsed into bed; tired, but with a genuine sense of contentment. He was enjoying being selfless. As he reflected on it, he realised how he’d often been selfish. Bizarrely he was getting more fulfilment being selfless than selfish, which he thought a strange irony.
He picked up his phone and eagerly texted Emma:
As he drifted off to sleep he felt good, better than he’d done for a long time. There were aspects of his life he’d been unclear on, and as he thought about where he was taking Emma for a meal, he sat bolt upright. She’d been great lately, and he didn’t like it if he was apart from her for too long. Until now he’d passed it off as them being good friends. He didn’t know whether it was the exercise or the fresh sea air, but he had an overwhelming moment of clarity.
Blimey! he thought. I’m in love with Emma?
.
Chapter Nine
T he Northern Line Tube was stifling and overcrowded. The peak of the rush hour was in full flow, with hordes of people scurrying like ants through the network of tunnels. The motion of the train caused a suave thirty-something man to deviate momentarily from his constricted territory. He composed himself, and as he reclaimed his position he turned to apologise for imposing himself. He had an impressive head of styled, jet-black hair and his suit exuded class; he was clearly a man of influence. He pinched the knot of his tie and feigned an apologetic grin as he leaned towards the demure woman he’d just jarred. “Forgive me, young lady,” he said to the woman, using his most charming, educated accent. She was far from young, but it was difficult to place an age, as her hair was tied back in a bun so tightly, it served to provide a temporary facelift. She stood a little below his shoulder line and stared intently with her gaze unwavering. Her immaculate black pencil skirt and jacket were the perfect accompaniment to her elegant white blouse. She was far from impressed by the insincere flattery and slowly moved her head with disdain. He was affronted; he wasn’t used to women resisting his charisma, a point his companion was eager to point out to his great amusement. He shuffled
uncomfortably; clearly the alpha male in the boardroom, but now uneasy and in an unfamiliar place. She had an aura about her, and as the man struggled to think of a further quip to satisfy his ego, he thought better of it. He bowed his head in submission, like a scolded schoolboy, as the air of bravado quickly deserted him. The train eased to her stop, and she leaned forward to retrieve her exclusive handbag, securely positioned between her designer shoes. She gave the man one final glance before leaving the train to a welcome burst of cooler air.
She left the station and took a short walk to a tedious row of terraced houses, which stretched into the distance. She was unimpressed, and took a moment to check the address stored on her phone. The houses were uniform in appearance, but they differed in their cosmetic upkeep; some were neat, while others had all manner of debris stockpiled in the compact, concrete yard at the front. One property stood out like a cat at Crufts, and even without checking the number on the door, she knew this would be her destination. It was an oasis of luscious green shrubs and a staggeringly beautiful array of flowers. It was difficult to accept that the courtyard was the same size as the neighbouring houses; the floral magnificence made the space appear considerably more generous — much like the inside versus the outside of a Tardis. It was hard to not be impressed, and as she pushed open the substantial iron gate, the scent of the blooms brought the indication of a smile to her face.
She rattled the polished brass knocker impatiently and became frustrated when a response was not immediate. She moved forward for a further barrage when the door creaked slowly open. An unshaven face appeared from behind the door and the daylight that hit his face caused him to strain his eyes. He stared for a moment and without a word, he slammed the door shut. An awkward silence ensued before the door slowly opened again, revealing a man who’d clearly just woken. His shoulder-length brown hair was unkempt, and flattened on one side with the imprint of his pillow. He wore a repellent green dressing gown which he fidgeted with to avoid exposing himself. He casually leaned on the door frame and looked up and down the street, as if looking for people stalking in the bushes.
“Una Jacob. What the bloody hell do you want?” he said, in a manner that was somewhat less than inviting.
She shook her head as she absorbed the sight before her. “Jesus, look at the state of you. I mean, have you looked in a mirror lately? You’d make Jeremy Clarkson look polished.”
“Have you just come to insult me?” he asked.
“You think I’d come all this way to this garbage heap to insult you? If I wanted to insult you, I’d have picked the phone up.”
“That’d make a change,” he said, interrupting her. “You’ve not phoned me for months. So if you’re not here to insult me, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Are we going to do this on the doorway?” she asked. He stepped aside and motioned her into the living room. Una was relieved that the cleanliness of the house did not mirror that of its occupier. It was basic and sparse, but neat and orderly.
“I’d make you a cup of tea,” he said. “But I’m not going to.”
Una sat in the single armchair, pulling out a notebook from her handbag as he sat on the sofa opposite. He sank into the cushion and his robe flapped open, to the disgust of Una, revealing the absence of any underwear.
“You used to be the housewives’ favourite, and look at you now! You’re unshaven, unclean, and overweight. Kelvin Reed, the darling of BBC Two, to this… this. You look like you should be sat outside a train station with a begging tin, eating a kipper.”
“As you know, Una, the phone hasn’t exactly been ringing off the hook lately!” he said sarcastically.
“And that’s my fault?” asked Una.
“You’re my bloody agent, aren’t you? Of course it’s your fault!” he ranted.
She leaned closer, which caused him to instantly retreat. “After your deviant indiscretions, you’re about as employable as a Jimmy Saville impersonator. Don’t blame me, you’re the one who got caught digging.”
Kelvin looked confused. “It’s dogging, not digging!”
“What?” asked Una. “I thought it was digging, and that’s why there were so many innuendos, what with you being a gardener and all. What’s the difference?”
“One is using a shovel to extract earth and the other is… oh, it doesn’t bloody matter. If you haven’t got any work for me, what are you doing here?”
“Well,” she said, skimming through her notebook. “You owe me… twenty-seven thousand, five hundred and forty-two pounds.”
He looked shocked as he processed the figure. “How the hell do I owe you that?” he protested. “You haven’t gotten me work for months, so how do I owe you that?”
She handed him an invoice, which he carefully scrutinised before collapsing back in the sofa. “Aww, shit, Una. I haven’t got a pot to piss in. I mean, look at where I’m living. That bitch of an ex-wife took everything, the house and the savings!”
“Don’t forget your dignity,” interrupted Una. “Mind you, I think that dignity disappeared when you were caught dig-dogging. Anyway, I know you’re skint, as your statements still come to the office. Look, I’d happily never clap eyes on you again, but you owe me money, so I need you to make money. So you can understand my distress, then, when I hear you’re turning work down?”
“What work?” he asked.
“The girls in the office tell me you were offered work in the Isle of Man?”
“That’s not a bloody job. Five hundred pounds to gawp at a load of yokels breaking a world record? Christ, Una, I used to get paid ten thousand just for cutting a ribbon at a shopping centre. I’m not flying over there for five hundred pounds.”
Una was clearly frustrated. “Look, I know you’re not the sharpest pair of secateurs in the tool shed, but look at the bigger picture. You’re not a complete and utter write-off. Hell, you used to be one of the biggest earners at the BBC. People loved you. We just need to get you completing some selfless task at a charity event where the press might just have a tip-off that you’ll be appearing. Smile and wave your shovel… but, not that one,” she said, gesturing to his crotch. “I think we’ve all read enough about that one.”
“But how would the press know I’ll be there, and why on earth would they turn out to see me?” he asked.
Una groaned. “Kelvin, I’ll make sure the press are there, and trust me, this will be your first public appearance since your evening adventures hit the tabloids. And they’re parasites, the lot of them, so you best believe they’ll all want to get a good look at Kelvin Reed, right? So, then, you need to get something done with that mop on your head and smarten yourself up, and before long you’ll be the darling of the middle classes once again and your calendars will be adorning the walls of horny housewives all over the country, yes? You can pay me back, and then I continue to take fifteen percent when the offers of work come flooding back in. I just need you to keep that firmly in your trousers, understood?”
Kelvin rubbed the untended stubble on his chin. “You know, for a repugnant, heartless bitch you’re actually pretty smart. That’s a great idea. I can see it now,” he said, as he stood, filled with ambition. “Kelvin Reed will be back on the BBC, and back at the Chelsea Flower Show before you can say—”
“Close your bloody robe!” shouted Una. “The lion has fallen out of the cage, again. Oh, and just to make sure you don’t mess things up, I’m coming with you!”
Emma bounced around the coffee shop like a schoolgirl at Christmas. “He’s coming,” she said several times, clapping her hands with excitement.
“Is that what you say in the bedroom?” chuckled Jack. “Who is?”
“Kelvin Reed is. His agent just phoned to confirm the details and the date. She also said that she would be able to get the press in attendance so more people will know why we’re doing it, Yay!”
Jack looked a little underwhelmed. “Are you not excited?” asked Emma.
“Yes, of course. I thought he was already com
ing, I mean, he’s on the posters we had printed and I’ve been telling people for weeks that he was coming, so it’s not that I’m not excited, it’s just my excitement peaked weeks ago, when I first thought he was coming.”
The shop was busy, not just in the lunch hours but for most of the morning and early afternoon. The Silver Sprinters and the social club were getting busier and as Emma had predicted, this resulted in more people coming in for food and drink. They were rushed off their feet, but they loved it. They worked well under pressure and the chemistry between them was evident. Such was the increase in footfall that they’d been forced to employ some help collecting and washing dishes over the lunch hour.
“I saw you chatting those old girls up in the window!” said Jack. “There’s life in the old dog yet!”
Derek chuckled as he placed a pile of empty dishes on the countertop. “I think I’m too young for them,” he teased. He looked smart in his grey flannel trousers and specially commissioned polo shirt, which Jack had made for him. Jack had a special enamel badge with ‘Derek – Trainee’ written on it. He was like a different man; he would still come in for his 8:20 a.m. cup of tea, but as soon as it got busy he’d spring into action. He was a man of advancing years, but his work ethic was exemplary; he could put a shift in that a man half his age would struggle with. He also knew how to speak to people and had a rare ability to make people of all ages warm to him.
Derek took the small ring binder from behind the counter and diligently wrote the details of the ladies in the window in it. “That’s officially our forty-ninth and fiftieth members of The Lonely Heart Attack Club,” he announced proudly. “And, I’ve signed them up for the Silver Sprinters.”
“Shit, seriously?” asked Jack, looking through the binder. “He’s right. That’s amazing, I thought we’d be lucky to get half a dozen.”
Emma smiled. “We may need to get a bigger place. We nearly didn’t have enough seats for our speed dating event last night.”