by Alan Clark
Big Frankie. I wanted a word with him. I’d not been taken with that wee bout of exhibitionism yesterday. His references were immaculate and he wasn’t a bad lad, but I sensed a cuckoo in our nest and his wings needed clipping now. I looked out into the East Court. The lilac scooter was there, shiny and vulgar in the setting sun. He answered his door breathless and flustered.
‘Good timing boss. I could use your help.’
I followed the huge arse up the narrow stairs to the studio on the first floor. The room was woozy with dozens of candles, punctured only by a harsh shaft of electricity from the half-open bathroom door. There was a pungent smell of sick. In the loo, propped on a stool with his head resting on the basin, was Vic. He seemed to be only semi-conscious and ponged like Sauchiehall Street on a Saturday night.
‘He’s ringin’ my friggin’ bell fifteen minutes now. Pissed as a fart, pants all muddy, he must’ve fallen in the garden. I got him upstairs but he wouldn’t stop moppin’ up the liquor, cryin’ too. That’s whisky for you’
Big Frankie insisted that Vic should be put to bed there; that he had to be watched in case he threw up again in his sleep. Somehow we got most of his clothes off and carried him onto the bed. Frankie wiped his face gently with a cold flannel and smoothed his hair.
‘Thanks boss, I’ll look after him now. Don’t you fret none.’
I headed for the door but Frankie pressed me to stay for coffee. I’d not been here since he’d moved in a few weeks back to supervise the installation of the new kitchens. The room was meticulously tidy, corseted even, such a contrast to its great wobbly occupant. In one corner, close to the bed with the snoring drunk, was a small table laid out as a shrine to The Virgin Mary; candles, incense, flowers, the statue with the halo, the works. At the window was a big fat telescope on a stand. While he made the coffee, I peeked through it, but you couldn’t see any sky from this angle, only the East Front of the house. Cheaply-framed photos took up every available space; Prince Philip, David Attenborough, Nelson Mandela, Michael Parkinson, Bill Oddie and the poet whose book had fallen from his bike that day. His heroes presumably. There were family pictures too. A teenage Frankie, an uninflated version of the way he looked now, but still towering over several other children, his arm round the shoulder of a younger boy, a tiny girl clinging to his hand. A lean, clenched middle-aged man stood beside Frankie. There didn’t seem to be a mother. Then I sort of sensed that Frankie was the mother.
‘She died givin’ birth to my little sister,’ he said. ‘I was twelve. It was hard, specially for my father.’
‘Are they all still in Trinidad?’
‘Only my father. He’s married again now. Rest of us scattered on the winds. We emailin’ now and again, but the family not really there no more.’
‘It’ll always be there,’ I said, ‘even if you sometimes can’t see it.’
‘You think so boss?’ asked Frankie. ‘I’d like to feel that.’
He went and dabbed Vic’s brow with the flannel.
‘I never see him sleepin’ before. Isn’t he lovely?’
‘He’s old, fat, pissed and smells of sick.’
Big Frankie spun round, anger flaring in his eyes like two gas rings.
‘How can you say that? Mr d’Orsay is the most beautiful person I know.’
The Tupperware bowl that Frankie had rested on Vic’s belly in case he puked again was rising and falling like Captain Pugwash’s ship on a stormy sea.
‘Look boss, his whole story there in that face,’ said Frankie. ‘It fills my eyes, it really does.’
‘Well that’s a nice feeling to express Frankie,’ I said. I guess there was a penny sticking in the slot on top of my skull and refusing to drop. Maybe because there were so many things whirling in my head today, there just wasn’t room for anything more.
‘And the first time I get him into my bed, he no damn good to me,’ said Frankie. ‘Ain’t life a bitch?
I stared up at him, then at Prince Philip, Michael Parkinson and the rest. All the pennies dropped with the noise of a jackpot in a one-armed bandit.
‘Shite kid, you’re a …’
‘A gerontophile,’ said Big Frankie with a wide grin. ‘Cool word, don’t you reckon? Like somethin’ you can study at university. Ger-on-to-phile.’
He blew out the syllables proudly, like bubbles from a wand.
‘Why don’t you like guys of your own age?’
‘Oh they’re like newborn puppy-dogs, smooth and wet, all lookin’ the same,’ said Big Frankie. ‘It’s only when men get older that you can tell them apart, only then is the real beauty appearin’. You never been to The Last Resort?’
‘The old guys’ bar? No I fucking haven’t.’
‘When I first arrived in London, it was like being let loose in a sweet-shop. I had a special T-shirt printed. It said Steradent Provided.’
He embraced his massive knees and rocked back in his chair.
‘Never fails to break the ice. Humour is the best aphrodisiac.’
He pulled his chair closer to mine. I caught a faint whiff of Vic’s puke off his shirt. The big face clouded over.
‘You know, back in Trinidad we respect the old folks. They still livin’ with their families, only in a home if they really sick. They sit at the head of the table. They wear nice clothes in happy colours. They stroll out in the evenin’ to meet their friends at the cafes. They still have joy. But here, they all seem so sad. Everybody makin’ jokes about them or just pretendin’ they ain’t there. They’re just fadin’ away into black and white, like turnin’ down the colour on your TV set, like they ashamed to still be here.’
Big Frankie shook his head sadly then smiled over at the bed.
‘But Mr d’Orsay’s not like that. He’s still in Technicolor, that one. I love him like a hog loves mud.’
I walked over to the window. I had no idea what to say or how to deal with this. I’d given a gerontophile a job in a home for old blokes. My hand rested on the telescope.
‘You can only see the house from here surely?’
Big Frankie gave a pantomine wink.
‘Yep, just settin’ it up for all these lovely old men movin’ in.’
‘Do you think there’s maybe something the matter with you Frankie?’ I said. ‘I know someone you could talk to …’
‘How come you’re sayin’ that Mr Blaine?’ he replied coolly. ‘There’s beauty in every season ain’t there? Beauty in the leaf that goin’ to open, but also in the leaf that goin’ to fall? More perhaps, because soon it’ll be gone forever. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to it and want to cherish it while it’s still here. So if that makes me sick, then that’s how God made me. I real surprised that you, of all people, should be talkin’ like that. A man who create this beautiful haven where the old leaves can float gently to the ground when the time comes.’
‘So you’re quite happy as you are then?’ I asked.
‘Sure, why not?’ he said.
‘What does The Virgin Mary say?’
‘Our Lady well understand that I’m filled with love and that’s all she needs to know,’ he said. ‘Okay, I’m livin’ my life to a different set of chimes from most, but they’re still the ones I hear in my soul, the ones that tell me right from wrong. And every time I put a great big smile on some baggy old face, I hear those chimes go ding-dong and I know that Jesus and his mum blessin’ me for it.’
‘And you don’t want to know why you’re like this? Or change it if you could?’
Big Frankie looked at me like I needed to be sectioned.
‘Change the way I find love? What the hell for boss?’
There was coughing and mumbling from the bed. Frankie hurried over. I followed. Vic was chattering in his sleep.
‘Stupid … old … stupid … stupid old man …’
Frankie went and soaked the cold flannel again.
‘I’ll do that,’ I said and wiped the forehead and pasty cheeks. I couldn’t have done it if his eyes had been open. I’d have
been too ashamed.
Big Frankie was unrolling a futon on the floor. I headed for the door.
‘Does Vic know how you feel about him?’ I asked.
‘Oh no boss, and promise me you’ll keep it secret,’ he said. ‘Mr d’Orsay thinks I’m just a star-struck queen. But I’d never even heard of him to be honest; though don’t you go tellin’ him that neither. You noticin’ I don’t even use his first name yet? I mustn’t push things. But the planets are workin’ on my behalf, I’m sure of that.’
‘Why?’
‘Today, I burned that T-shirt I wore in The Last Resort. I don’t be wantin’ it again. I’ve found my daddy and I’ll be faithful to him. And now here he is in my bed. Not in the way I imagined it, but tonight we’ll sleep under the same roof with me watchin’ over him. It’s a sign I’m not wrong to love this man.’
Big Frankie began blowing out the candles, except those on the shrine. The light flickered over Vic’s sleeping figure.
‘Goodnight boss,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, you’re going to be a really beautiful old man. I can see that even now.’
‘Even now? Thanks a bunch, Frankie.’
‘And don’t go worryin’ over all this publicity. It’ll be cool. I’ve already had a word with The Virgin and first thing tomorrow I callin’ the Poor Clares. I worked in the convent kitchen when I first came over from Trini. I’ll get them to pray for us.’
‘You expect nuns to pray for a houseful of gay men?’
‘They’ll pray for anyone, boss,’ said Big Frankie ‘They’re not proud. That’s why they’re friggin’ nuns.’
Out in the East Court, the only lights came from the flats; the house itself was in darkness, a great black shape crouched against the purple-pink glow of the city sky. So now it was to be Withering Heights. Oh well, better that than the reputation it gained in my grandmother’s time. Maybe there was something in its genes that predisposed it to notoriety. Ok then, so be it. Elspeth had said to tell the truth and shame the devil. I went into the office and emailed The Press Association. I said that we were proud to confirm recent reports that Mount Royal was shortly to open as a retirement home for gay men. The directors of the management company were Rory Blaine, descendant of the builder of the house, and Vic d’Orsay, the celebrated singer. I emphasized that we would have no further comment to make at any time.
I locked the office and turned towards the flat. It was nearly midnight. The moon had appeared out of nowhere and lit Mount Royal in a silvery-blue wash. Way up there in the cupola, on that first day back in Mount Royal, Vic had said that I belonged here. He’d been even more right than I’d realized then. Now it was inconceivable to be anywhere else. That was my excuse for today. I’d apologize to Vic in the morning. Of all people he would understand.
‘It’s going to be all right,’ I said. ‘The Poor Clares are praying for us. Whoever the fuck they are.’
I took a quick shower. The soil from Dolores’ flowerbed was still clogged beneath my fingernails but I left it there. I banged out a swift one and fell asleep like a baby. In the middle of the night, I sensed something furry resting against my chest. I thought it was Faisal, quietly returned, and felt a dozy surge of pleasure. Then there was a gentle purr followed by a fishy fart. I cupped my hand round Alma’s wee body and felt the beating of her heart. I synchronized my breathing with hers and we both slept through till Chris Evans clicked on, urging us to leap out of bed and embrace the day, whatever it might bring. So we did.
TEN
What do you give to the woman who doesn’t have everything? Who has absolutely nothing in fact and likes it that way? Today I found myself in the unusual position of wondering how to thank thirty-five nuns. Heathen as I am, I had to admit that within a few hours of Big Frankie ringing the Poor Clares, something in the universe shifted gear and nice things began to happen. At Frankie’s suggestion, I sent them a small donation for their chapel roof. He wasn’t sure if they had a problem with their roof but they could put it away for a rainy day.
There was nothing else in the morning papers, no more reporters in the oak trees. Bruce Willis cancelled his reinforcements and Elspeth resumed her outings without fear of being asked if she were a muff-diver. Above all, there were no more cancellations from prospective residents. Instead the post brought over two hundred enquiries from men who were keen, in some cases frantic, to take their places. Most of the letters were formal and businesslike, but a few were emotional and embarrassing to read. Later, Bruce Willis brought another batch that had been hand-delivered at the gates, some of them marked ‘urgent’. By the end of the day, we could have filled Mount Royal ten times over.
My email contained requests for interviews from The Guardian and The Sunday Times. Newsnight wanted us to appear with some African bishop who’d just told the Synod that homosexuals should be fed to the hippos. The Minister For Equality and Diversity messaged to praise our ‘thrilling social experiment’, reassuring us of the government’s ‘ongoing commitment to same-sex issues’. And somebody wants me to do a commercial for a shampoo-conditioner. They just totally love my look.
I’d not seen Vic all day, I’d not had time. Big Frankie said he’d been pretty rough this morning and stumbled off back to his own bed. It wasn’t till early evening that I climbed the staircase and knocked on the double satinwood doors to my grandmother’s old rooms. A voice called ‘come’. The old shiver ran through me.
I’d half expected to find him still in bed with the Tupperware bowl, but he was draped across a sofa, merry as a carnival float, in a long silk dressing-gown with the phone in one hand and a wine-glass in the other.
‘Hair of the dog, toots,’ he whispered. There was no hint of a chill in the air.
While he took his call, I wandered to the windows. Granny’s former suite had the best views in Mount Royal, directly south over the city. It had been slept in by William Gladstone and Oscar Wilde, though not of course together. The drawing-room, decorated by Wyattville in a spectrum of greens and golds, was dominated by a massive chimneypiece in white marble, the lintel held up by two caryatids strongly resembling a pair of lesbian truckers. It was a room to rattle round in, but Vic wasn’t a rattler; he expanded like a jelly to fill whatever space he was in.
He’d certainly erased all traces of Granny, banishing all her furniture to the attics, even the huge State Bed once used by Queen Charlotte. He’d not sleep in Sibyl’s bed he’d said, in one of his rare oblique references to his crime. His own stuff fitted perfectly. To look, or indeed listen, to Vic d’Orsay, you’d imagine his taste would be neo-Weybridge, but he had Chippendale tables, George II armchairs and some nice modern art including, centre-stage over the chimney-piece, a Lucian Freud of himself in which he looked startlingly like that old chorus-girl who’d been Speaker of the House of Commons. Books were packed into newly-built cases like commuters on a tube-train. There were dedicated shelves for classic literature and contemporary novels, fat tomes on art and architecture, volumes of history, philosophy and other spiritual stuff. He seemed pretty big on Buddha; perhaps some affinity based on shape. CDs and old vinyl albums were lined up in battalions; I flicked along all the usual suspects but hey, look here. I pulled out a faded sleeve of a burly man in Highland dress playing a guitar up to his knees in heather. And wow, it had been autographed. ‘To Vic. Thanks for a night to remember baby.’ Jesus. Rory McCulloch had been a kilt-lifter? The man I’d wanted to be had been as much of a fake as I was? Irony could go no further. I had to sit down. I wasn’t sure whether to be heartbroken or overjoyed. I think I was a bit of both.
Vic was still on the phone to some woman called Wendy, telling her that just because he was gay didn’t mean they couldn’t go on having their annual lunch at the Savoy. He assured her that the Savoy had an open-door policy towards gays these days. Yes, he hoped that all his fans in Shropshire would stay loyal despite the terrible shock they’d suffered. No, he’d never had sex with Graham Norton or Will Young, though he confessed to ha
ving goosed Russ Conway when they’d been on The Billy Cotton Band Show. He said he still loved her to bits, blew a few kisses down the phone and cut her off.
‘Wendy runs my fan-club and website,’ he explained. ‘From a council house in Ludlow, I think it is. She had no idea I was “like that”, she just thought I was theatrical. She was a bit weepy. Silly cow.’
I’d been so focused on Vic’s having outed the house, I’d forgotten he’d outed himself at the same time. But he was undaunted by the wobble in Wendy’s devotion because, between sobs, she’d provided him with some interesting facts. In the last forty-eight hours, the website (www.kingofcroon.com) had received over a thousand hits and nearly three hundred emails. Apart from some abusive ones from the usual nutters, they’d been overwhelmingly supportive of Vic’s ‘singing the song of sodomy’ as one of the nutters had put it.
‘I’ve even had offers of sexual congress apparently,’ said Vic. ‘Some of them suggesting things unheard of in Ludlow. I think poor Wendy’s reeling but very possibly aroused.’
His agent had been on the line constantly. On Amazon and in the big music stores, sales of Vic’s precious CDs had gone from a flaccid ten or twelve a month to a throbbing fifty-plus a day. There had been lots of interview requests including Saga magazine asking to re-do their original piece from a ‘more contemporary slant’. Gay Times wanted to pastiche its usual front-cover of chiselled chest and washboard abs with Vic’s big belly and hairy man-boobs. There were enquiries about cabaret spots in several gay venues. Vic’s agent, who specialized in representing artistes in the last act of their careers and who rarely got into his office before eleven, said he’d not been this excited since the rumours that Matt Monro wasn’t really dead.
When he paused to draw breath, I told him about the avalanche of interest from prospective punters.
‘Jeez, that’s terrific, toots,’ he said.