‘Yes, that’s right. These are for Esther Rantzen.’
‘You tell that Julie, if she’s getting lonely, to come down here and ask for J and I’ll show her a sexy time. Tell her I know what she likes.’
‘Well, I’ll certainly pass that on J. She’s a busy woman, but you never know.’
As he walked away, Frank heard the assistant say to his colleague: ‘She could do a lot better than him, man.’ Frank smiled, knowing how much that would amuse Andrea when he told her.
He drove out of the city on the Expressway and was surprised to find he remembered the way, despite the passing of time. The street was lined with parked cars on both sides, but he managed to find a space within sight of the house. It had changed since the first time he’d seen it. Then paint had peeled from the woodwork and the privet hedge in the front garden had expanded in all directions, covering the bay window and half the pavement. He didn’t know how many people had come and gone in the intervening years. The windows were UPVC now, the front garden gone altogether and replaced by some slabs providing not quite enough space for a 4x4, which was wedged in at an angle, jutting out onto the pavement.
Frank was sure that whoever lived there now would know nothing about William Grendon. No one had noticed him when he lived and no one had noticed him when he died. The single thing that had brought his existence to the notice of the wider world was the smell of his decomposing body. He was discovered sitting upright in a high-backed chair with a twenty-six-day-old newspaper on his lap. Frank remembered there was no photo of William to show on the bulletin, so instead he had delivered the story in front of an image of the outside of the house.
He pulled the flowers from the cellophane and then carried them loose in his hand to the front of the house. He looked at the houses on either side, the blue light of a television flickered through the gaps in the curtain of one. He dropped the flowers on the slabs.
Frank stood and thought of William Grendon. Something invisible had disappeared, but it left a mark. There was always a mark.
3
On Saturday he drove out to Evergreen. His mother sat in her room, a book on her lap, the same one she’d been reading for a year. She looked at Frank with a pained expression. ‘Is it still sweltering out there?’
‘No, Mom, it’s October; it’s cold.’
‘I can’t bear it. It suffocates me. I can’t breathe. How do people live in those places like Spain? Why do people go to those places? Sweating on the beaches, roasting like chickens in an oven. I’d die. I’d die.’
‘Do you want me to open the window?’
‘We need some rain. God, anything to freshen the air. What I’d give for a downpour now.’
‘Mom, it is raining. Look out of the window.’
Maureen moved her head slowly and looked out. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Thank God.’ Then after a pause: ‘It makes my joints ache so.’
‘What does?’
‘The rain.’
Frank pulled up a chair beside her. ‘So what have you been up to this week?’
‘Sitting here, dying slowly. Too slowly.’ Frank exhaled and his mother looked at him. ‘Oh, I know it must be very boring for you to have to come and visit me, endlessly clinging on. I’ve told you before, forget about me, leave me here, live your life. I’m dead already.’
Frank ignored this and looked over towards the window. ‘They could do with someone clearing up the leaves out in the grounds. It all looks a bit grotty out there at the moment. Do the gardener and his mate not come out so much now?’
She shrugged. ‘Maybe they leave them there deliberately. Maybe they think that dead leaves are exactly what we should be contemplating as we sit in here waiting to fall off the branch.’
‘Mom …’
‘You see how you fare. You’ll be old one day. You see how you cope when all your friends are dead, and your senses are gone.’
‘Your senses aren’t gone, Mom. You’re in excellent health …’
‘Ha. That’s a joke.’
‘… You’re in much better shape – physically and mentally – than most of the other people here, but you lock yourself away in your room. You’re seventy-two, Mom – that’s nothing. They sit and talk in the lounge, they listen to music, they walk in the garden.’
‘ “Why aren’t they screaming?” Frank, “Why aren’t they screaming?” Do you know who wrote that?’
‘Larkin. You quote it every time.’
‘Well, I’m an old fool too,’ she snapped, ‘and I forget.’
They fell silent for a while.
‘Have you read this one?’ said Maureen, indicating the book on her lap.
‘No, no, I haven’t.’
‘Oh, it’s terribly involved and clever. I can’t wait to get to the end. It’s about a man who discovers that he had an older brother that his parents never told him about and he tries to find this brother and it turns out that he’s a … a … oh, blast … What do you call it?’
‘A palaeontologist.’
‘Exactly! I thought you said you hadn’t read it.’
Frank smiled at her. ‘I haven’t. It was just a lucky guess.’
‘Remarkable, of all the things he could have been.’
They fell silent again.
‘Andrea sends her love. She’s had to go on a course today.’
‘Oh, Andrea, she was always one for the books, wasn’t she. Is she still a great reader? I remember some marvellous conversations we’ve had about books. She’d love this one.’
‘Well, you can tell her about it on Wednesday when she comes,’ said Frank, knowing that Andrea had not only read the book, but had given her copy to his mother and listened to the same description of the first chapter each time she visited. The flowered bookmark she had given along with the book remained stranded at the same page in the book week on week.
Maureen looked towards the window. ‘The rain should cool things down. It’s good for the gardens.’
‘It’s October, Mom.’
‘I know. I’m not a fool,’ Maureen snapped. ‘It’s still needed, isn’t it? We can’t go all through the winter without rain, can we? We’d shrivel and die. Become withered husks.’
Frank didn’t respond. His mother looked at him. ‘I saw you on the television the other day. Something very sad. A terribly sad story about a child waiting for an operation.’
He thought for a moment: ‘Oh, Leanne Newman. Yes.’
‘Will she get the operation in time?’
‘I don’t know, Mom.’
‘I can’t watch your programme – it’s too sad. Always sick children, or horrible people hurting each other and dogs eating babies and young people losing their homes. It’s a very upsetting programme. And that woman!’
‘Which woman?’
‘That wretched woman who sits next to you.’
‘Julia?’
‘I don’t know how you bear to work with her. She smirks. She listens to those awful stories and then she smirks. She enjoys it. Pure evil.’
‘Mom, she doesn’t smirk. That’s just her face. She’s very professional.’
‘Oh, she’s a devil. I liked that other one.’
‘Which one?’
‘Oh, you know. The coloured lady. She was nice and cheerful. The programme never used to be sad when she was there. But that’s just West Indians, isn’t it? They’re just lovely cheerful people. Beautiful singers as well.’
Frank drew in a deep breath and steadily exhaled.
‘Your father had a lovely voice too.’
‘I don’t think I ever heard him sing.’
‘He used to sing to me before we married. A lovely baritone. He’d sing “On the Street Where You Live”. Poor Douglas. A beautiful voice. He used to sing for you too when you were very tiny. On long car journeys. Don’t you remember? You’d cry out, “Monkey, Daddy, monkey,” and he’d sing “Little Red Monkey”. You loved it. You’d laugh and clap your hands like the monkey in the song. You made us so happy. We were all
so happy then.’
She was crying now. Frank held her hand. They looked out of the window together at the rain rolling down the glass.
4
Corny jokes had been one of the trademarks of Frank’s predecessor, Phil Smethway. Each programme would contain at least one baffling pun or tortuous play on words. Smethway got away with it somehow – he’d look rueful and his co-presenters would groan and it was a nice bit of shtick. Phil had had some kind of televisual gold dust – viewers loved him; there had been something in his DNA that seemed to make him affable to everyone. He’d long ago moved on from regional to national television and from news to entertainment. He had been hosting a primetime blockbuster show every Saturday night when he was killed in a hit and run accident six months previously. Frank missed him. He had lost a friend and a mentor.
Frank often thought back to the days they worked together, with Frank as reporter and Phil as presenter. Every day around the same time Phil received a phone call from someone called Cyril. Phil never mentioned the calls, and always conducted them in a low voice. Frank asked him about it once.
‘Who’s Cyril?’
Phil tapped the side of his nose.
‘It’s very mysterious. Are you having an affair?’
‘With a bloke?’
‘You wouldn’t be the first married man to do that.’
‘With a bloke called Cyril?’
Frank shrugged and Phil said nothing more about it.
Phil had made his move from Heart of England Reports in 1993 and the phone calls stopped. One morning a few months after he’d taken over from Phil as main anchor, Frank received a call at his desk from Lorraine at reception.
‘Hello, Frank, sorry to disturb you.’
‘Lorraine? Can you speak up a bit?’
‘Not really, love. Can you hear me?’
‘Just about. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. Listen. We’ve had a few phone calls for you over the last few weeks.’
‘Oh right. Sorry, I didn’t get the message.’
‘No, no – there wasn’t a message. It’s the same man that kept calling, but he never wanted to leave his name and number – always just said he’d call back – which was quite annoying, to be honest. But you know it was probably just a little power thing with him, maybe wanted to feel like he was in control.’
‘Maybe he just liked speaking to you, Lorraine. You know you have a very attractive telephone manner – particularly this new husky whisper – most affecting.’
‘Yeah – funny – well laugh away, because he’s here now, waiting to see you.’
Frank stopped eating the Frazzles he’d been enjoying.
‘I can tell him you’re busy if you like.’
‘But he’ll be back, won’t he?’
‘Oh yes, he’ll be back.’
‘I suppose I should get it over with, then.’
‘Might be for the best.’
‘Where would you place him on the scale?’
There was a pause. ‘It’s hard to say.’
‘Is he wearing a baseball cap?’
‘No – no hat at all.’
‘Okay – that’s not too bad. How many carrier bags?’
‘Er … none. He has a briefcase.’
‘Oh – a briefcase – that could be worse. What do you reckon’s in the briefcase?’
‘I don’t know.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you remember the one with all the coat hangers?’
Frank sighed. ‘I remember. Okay. I’m coming out.’
Lorraine was right. On first impressions the man was hard to place on any scale of eccentricity. He was maybe in his mid-sixties, wearing a leather blouson jacket and Reactolite glasses that had yet to react to the light. Frank walked over to him and held out his hand.
‘Hello there, I believe you’re here to see me.’
‘Oh, hello, Frank. Good of you to see me. I was a business associate of your predecessor Phil Smethway. Cyril’s the name. Cyril Wilks.’
Frank hid his surprise. ‘Hello, Cyril. Pleased to meet you. How can I help you?’
‘Well, as you know, Frank, Phil’s moved on to bigger and better things now. I always thought he would. No offence to you, but regional telly was too small for him.’
Frank agreed. ‘No, I understand. Phil has star quality – always had.’
‘He certainly does. Phil Smethway’s A-list now and of course he has a whole team of people surrounding him. I’ve had to face up to facts: he doesn’t really need me any more. I won’t lie, it hurts a little, but I understand.’
Cyril looked as if it hurt more than a little. He looked like a dog left locked in a car. ‘Phil and I go back a long way – back to the Jurassic era – or pirate radio as it was known in those days. Phil had his morning show and I was a glorified tea boy, but that’s how it started.’ Cyril stopped. ‘I’m sorry, Frank, I’m wittering. I’ll cut to the chase. The point is, I’m sure Phil told you all about the kind of service I provide and, well, not to beat about the bush, I was rather hoping you might pick up where he appears to have left off.’
Frank wasn’t sure how to handle this. He didn’t want to hurt Cyril’s feelings. ‘I’m afraid Phil was always very private about his business affairs.’
Cyril sighed. ‘I should have guessed it. Course he wouldn’t say anything. That’s the curse of our profession, always the dirty secret hidden in the corner. No one wants to confess to hiring us.’
Frank tried to suppress the alarming notion that Cyril was some kind of senior rent boy. ‘I’m afraid I still don’t understand. What was it that Phil hired you for?’
Cyril seemed to experience a small flush of pride as he answered: ‘Gags.’
Frank took a moment to let this sink in. ‘Gags? As in jokes? The kind of jokes he used to tell on air? He paid for those?’
‘Well, Frank, if you want quality, you have to pay.’
Frank’s mind was reeling. It was overstating it to even call them jokes. Half-puns and leaden one-liners. To have planned them in advance. To have paid for them.
Cyril appeared oblivious to Frank’s incredulity. ‘It was a very reasonable rate; he’d pay a pound for each joke, three if he used it. I’m willing to maintain those prices for you.’
Frank had to think fast. ‘Look, Cyril. Thanks for the offer, but it’s not really my thing. I can’t tell jokes; I’m terrible at it. They just die on me – turn to dust on my tongue.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Cyril, ‘no such thing as a bad comedian, just bad material!’
Frank resisted pointing out the obvious.
Cyril continued. ‘Name a great comedian. Go on, name one. I’ve written for them all. Name one British comedian of the last forty years and he’ll have hired me as a gagsmith.’
Frank thought for a moment. ‘Okay, Ronnie Barker.’
‘No, not Barker. Someone else. Go on. Name one.’
‘Tommy Cooper?’
‘Keep going.’
‘Eric Morecambe …?’
‘No. Try again. Name one.’
‘I’ve named three!’
‘Yes, but you managed to pick the three I never wrote for. Uncanny.’
‘Cyril, look, it doesn’t matter, the point is …’
‘Bryce Spackford – do you know him?’
‘Erm … no, sorry.’
‘What about Big Johnny Jason, “the lad with all the lines”?’
‘No.’
‘Paddy “Sure, I’m only having you on!” O’Malley?’
‘I don’t think so, sorry.’
‘Do you watch any comedy, Frank? These are big names. Look at this.’ Cyril started rooting in his briefcase, pulling out a blurred photograph of what appeared to be a TV screen. ‘Do you see that there?’
‘I can’t see anything; it’s just a blur.’
‘With respect, Frank, it’s not easy; the titles were flying past pretty fast. Here.’ He held the photo a foot in front of Frank’s face. ‘Now let your eyes unfocus, like a 3D picture. Do yo
u see it yet?’
‘I don’t really know what I’m looking for.’
Cyril grinned and shook the photo for emphasis. ‘Those, Frank, are the credits for You Gotta Laugh 1988 Grampian TV. And that, my friend,’ said Cyril, pointing to a particular patch of pixels, ‘is my name.’
Frank looked at Cyril and then spoke slowly. ‘Cyril. It’s good of you to come in, but the truth of it is that I’m not going to buy any jokes from you. I don’t need a gag writer. I don’t want a gag writer. I’m not Phil Smethway. I’m a local news presenter, not Paddy O’ …’ His mind had gone blank.
‘Malley! Paddy “Sure I’m only having you –” ’
Frank cut him off. ‘I’m not him. So I’m afraid I’ll have to say no.’
Cyril stared at a point above Frank’s head, his lips pressed together tight and then his eyes started to leak. Frank looked over at Lorraine in panic, but she shook her head and ducked behind her monitor.
Frank found a handkerchief in his pocket and handed it to Cyril. He got him to sit down and tried to calm him. ‘Come on, Cyril. Come on now. It’s not that bad.’
Cyril continued to cry and it was some time before he could control his voice enough to speak.
‘I’m so sorry, Frank. I’ll go. What a ridiculous spectacle. I’m just … sorry.’
Frank put his hand on Cyril’s arm. ‘It’s okay. You don’t have to go. Get your breath back. It’s all right.’
Cyril tried to breathe deeply. ‘I’m so embarrassed. I don’t know what’s come over me.’ His voice went high again. ‘I don’t go around crying like this, you know. Please don’t let Phil know. I couldn’t bear for him to think of me like this.’
‘Just take it easy for a few minutes. It’ll pass.’
Cyril sat with his head down taking deep breaths. Frank went and got him a plastic cup of water. When he returned, Cyril seemed to have collected himself.
‘Are you feeling all right now?’
‘Yes, thanks. Again, I’m so sorry. I was just taken unawares.’
‘I wasn’t expecting you to take it so badly. I mean it’s only a few quid a week. It can’t be that big a blow.’
Cyril shook his head. ‘It’s not the money – I can get by on my pension. Phil and I went back a long way – he was all I had left. Since he’s moved on I’ve tried some of the old clients, but they’ve all got new writers or packed it in. Paddy O’Malley’s training to be a geography teacher. Can you believe that? Phil kept me going. I could meet with the other writers once a year and hold my head up knowing my material was still out there.’ He paused for a moment to take a long drink of water. Afterwards he looked into the empty plastic cup. ‘Writing jokes is what I do. What have I got aside from that?’
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