News Where You Are

by Catherine O'Flynn

  And love in her heart for me

  Mrs Bumbles clearly disapproves of the song. She makes repeated attempts to leave the makeshift stage, but is prevented by the other hand holding the album cover showing Mitchell’s cheeky face as he prevents her departure and serenades her against her will. Francis crouches behind the sofa performing the puppet show, listening to his mother laugh as she always does at Mrs Bumbles’s mounting indignation. When the song is finished, he and Mrs Bumbles take a bow. His mother claps enthusiastically.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Bumbles. Thank you, Mr Mitchell. And thank you most of all to the puppet master.’ She smiles widely at Francis. ‘You do make me laugh, darling.’ Francis smiles back and tries to believe that it’s always like this.

  26

  They sat at a corner table next to the window looking out on the street. Frank always forgot how bad the coffee was and found himself once more trying to get through a cup of the greasy brown liquid that the café served. It never seemed to cool down.

  ‘Do you think they pipe this directly from the earth’s core?’ he asked.

  Andrea was sniffing her cup of tea. ‘This really smells of peas. I mean really strongly.’ Frank looked unsurprised.

  Andrea took a sip. ‘You’ve got to take your hat off to him. I suspect what he’s doing with flavours here is quite cutting edge. He really confounds your expectations.’

  Frank nodded. ‘He certainly does that.’

  They both looked now at Mo, who was diligently transferring a towering Knickerbocker Glory from a tall glass into her mouth a spoonful at a time, legs swinging, her face a mask of contentment. Mo loved JD’s Diner. Frank cursed the day they had happened to pass by and she had seen the gaudy photos of desserts in the window. She had begged to try the Knickerbocker Glory and Frank had relented. Now every time they went into the city centre they had to go to JD’s. Frank and Andrea perhaps could say no occasionally, but it seemed churlish to deny Mo the immense happiness that every visit unfailingly delivered. JD’s was not the kind of place Frank or Andrea would choose to frequent. It was essentially a glorified kebab hut. The plastic tables and chairs were bolted to each other and to the floor, the radio played loudly and everything smelled of bleach. There seemed to be only one member of staff, a lugubrious Iranian man who carried with him an air of deep melancholy. They were unsure if he was in fact JD, but they referred to him as that in the absence of anything else. Sometimes Frank and Andrea speculated as to what the initials might stand for. Frank thought ‘Johnny Doom’ but Andrea had suggested the more exotic ‘Je-suis Desolé’. He reminded Frank of a character in a comic he used to read, who went everywhere underneath his own personal rain cloud.

  Mo was always concerned about his sadness. If ever her parents expressed reluctance about going to the café, she’d say: ‘But what about JD? Think how sad he would be.’ And it was true that they rarely saw other customers in there. When they placed their order, JD would always react in the same way, as if each item requested was a blow he had been expecting. He would nod his head glumly as if to say: ‘Of course. What else but a cup of coffee?’ Even the Knickerbocker Glory was just another slight. Frank and Andrea had a theory that somewhere on the menu was one item that if ordered would make JD smile. The one thing that he had been waiting all these years to serve. They always intended to try to work through the menu until they hit the jackpot, but each time they visited they lost their nerve in the face of JD’s doleful gaze and ordered the same strange non-tea and coffee.

  The one thing about the café that Frank liked was its location. It was on a once busy street in town fallen on quiet times as the ever shifting centre of retail energy in the city had moved a few blocks away, like a slow-moving tornado, leaving pound shops and cheap cafés like JD’s in its wake. Frank remembered when the street was the heart of the city.

  ‘Hey, Mo. Do you see that Subway over there? That used to be a really good record shop.’

  Mo looked and nodded. ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘And you see at the end where it opens up into a square? Well, that never used to be there; that used to be a busy road and if you wanted to get across you had to go down some steps and through an underpass, but it wasn’t really like an underpass – it was enormous with shops, and phone boxes and thousands of pigeons.’

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ said Mo as she attempted to spear a piece of fruit from the bottom of the glass. Frank realized that she wasn’t interested, and in the same instant he realized that the reason she wasn’t interested was because what he was saying was not interesting. No more interesting to Mo than it was to Andrea when he tried to tell her about shops that had once stood or forgotten news stories he had once covered.

  He swore under his breath as he burned his tongue on the coffee for the third time. He wondered why he couldn’t just focus on the here and now. It was perhaps Andrea and Mo’s misfortune that he felt compelled to share these glimpses of the past with them, assuming that they too would feel his fascination, his responsibility to remember. He decided not to tell Mo about the particular type of cakes you used to be able to eat on the top floor of the department store that had been across the road. Or about the shoe-shop assistant who had won the pools. Perhaps he’d tell her another time.

  The door opened and Frank quickly turned his face away. ‘Oh bloody hell.’

  Andrea looked at the man who had just entered and now stood at the counter.

  Frank hissed, ‘Will he see me?’

  Andrea looked at him as if he was mad. ‘Course he’ll see you; there’s no one else in here. Who is he?’

  At that they heard a high-pitched, ‘I don’t belieeeeeeve it!’

  Frank looked up and feigned surprise. ‘Oh, Cyril. Hello there. I didn’t see you come in.’

  Cyril walked over, carrying a cup of brown liquid. Frank hadn’t actually seen Cyril in person since their first encounter at the studio years before. Since then all communication had been conducted by phone or email. Frank watched him as he approached and had to conclude that the intervening years hadn’t been so kind to Cyril. He looked markedly more haggard than Frank remembered and he had allowed his grey hair to grow long and lank over his collar. He had, though, remained faithful to the Reactolite glasses and leather blouson jacket, but the current one was so stiff and new that it looked as if it was wearing him.

  ‘As I live and breathe! Frank Allcroft in the flesh. This is a rare privilege indeed.’

  Frank smiled weakly. ‘Good to see you, Cyril.’

  ‘The pleasure’s all mine, sir, all mine. I’d come to think of you only as a voice at the end of the phone, or a face upon the flickering screen, but here you are, well and truly alive.’

  ‘Just about, yes.’

  Cyril laughed. ‘Just about! Just about! I like that. Oh yes. It’s the best any of us can say.’ He turned now to Andrea. ‘Aha – and this would be the old trouble and strife, then, would it? The ball and chain? Eh?’

  Andrea gave Cyril an icy stare. ‘My name’s Andrea. You must be the man who makes Frank pay for bad jokes.’

  Cyril hooted at that. ‘Oh my goodness, Frank. You’ve got a live one there! Bad jokes? Is that what he tells you?’ Then a look of concern crossed his face. ‘Frank, is that what you tell her?’

  Frank shook his head vigorously.

  Cyril continued to look at him. ‘You’ve told her about Big Johnny Jason? Paddy “Sure I’m only having you on!” O’Malley?’

  Frank pretended to try to remember. ‘I’m sure I did, Cyril.’

  ‘You have at least told her about You Gotta Laugh.’

  Frank nodded. ‘Yes, I definitely told her about that.’

  Cyril grinned and turned back to Andrea. ‘That’s all right, then. I wouldn’t want you to think I had no credentials. Worked with some of the best, I have, and I’d put your husband here amongst them.’

  Cyril looked at the fourth empty chair bolted to the table. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Be our guest,’ said Frank. ‘We have to get of
f in a minute anyway.’

  As Cyril sat down, Frank thought he detected a whiff of whiskey.

  ‘And is this one of your fellow TV presenters, Frank?’ asked Cyril, looking at Mo. Mo grinned broadly. ‘Yes, I think I’ve seen her saying very important things about the economic downturn.’

  Frank said, ‘This is my daughter, Mo.’

  Cyril held out his hand and shook Mo’s hand very formally.

  ‘It’s an honour to meet you.’

  Mo smiled. ‘Hello.’

  He carried on shaking her hand: ‘Mo. Mo. That’s an interesting name. I used to know a fella called Mo. He had an unusual surname, though. What was it now? Oh, that’s right: Thelawn! Mo Thelawn – great chap he was – very green fingered.’

  Mo was delighted by this and chuckled into her glass of pop.

  Frank watched with disbelief as Cyril gulped down the blisteringly hot coffee without the least sign of discomfort.

  ‘So what are you doing in town today anyway, Cyril?’

  ‘Oh, you know, this and that. A trip to the library to catch up with the papers. I get a lot of material that way. I like to have a few gags on current affairs always on the boil should I need them – sometimes these TV shows call you up last minute needing a few one-liners and it’s boom! We need ’em now! So you’ve gotta be prepared. It’s a tricky job, though, doing it in the library – sometimes I get a bit too tickled by the gags and start laughing away and the librarians don’t like that at all.’ He turned to Mo and said. ‘Talking of libraries, do you know what my favourite book is, Mo?’

  Mo shook her head.

  ‘Ooh, I’d sincerely recommend it. It’s called the The Dangerous Rocky Cliffs by Eileen Dover.’

  Mo nodded and Cyril stared at her intently.

  ‘Cliffs. Dangerous Rocky Cliffs. Eileen Dover. Do you get it? Eileen Dover and I leaned too far – aaaaaah, splat!’

  Mo was perfectly still for a moment and then burst into uncontrollable laughter.

  Cyril turned to Andrea. ‘I hope I didn’t offend you with my joshing earlier. I’m afraid my mouth gets me into trouble sometimes – the brain’s firing off so quick that I don’t get time to run it past the censors before it comes out of my big trap. I didn’t mean anything by it. Frank always speaks very highly of you.’

  As far as Frank was aware, he’d never once mentioned Andrea to Cyril.

  Andrea smiled. ‘It’s all right, Cyril, no offence taken.’

  ‘It’s just I’d hate for us to get off on the wrong foot. Frank keeps my stuff alive out there and I’m very appreciative to him for that. Just as I was with Phil. Did you know I worked with Phil Smethway?’

  Andrea nodded. ‘Yeah, I think Frank mentioned it.’

  ‘Yes, Phil and I went back a way. I was just a spotty kid helping out at the radio station when I first met him. He saw something in me – heard me making a few cracks to the receptionist there one day and told me if I had any more like that I should take them to him. I’d always had lots of jokes – they’d just pop into my head when I was supposed to be doing something else. So I started giving Phil a few gags each week and he’d give me a few bob for them. It all started from there.

  ‘Course Phil moved on, but he never forgot an old mate. In latter years he couldn’t use my material, you see. He had no choice. They had the top writers in the game working on his lines and he couldn’t use other sources, even though I know he wanted to. I’d still mail him the odd gag now and again – you know, just for old time’s sake, and he’d always take the time to send a thanks, but they were never used. I’d watch his show every week and sometimes I’d be sure one of mine was coming up, but it never did. To be honest, I couldn’t see that the gags he was using were any better.’

  Frank could definitely smell whiskey now.

  ‘Did I tell you, Frank, that I had the privilege of bumping into Phil in London just before his tragic end? A city like that and we just bumped into each other. You know – of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world. Unbelievable, isn’t it?’

  Mo now turned to Frank. ‘What’s a tragic end?’

  Frank didn’t want Mo upset. ‘We’re just talking about Phil. “Tragic end” is just an expression – it just means we’re sad that he died.’

  Frank wanted to change the conversation but Cyril continued before he had a chance.

  ‘Sad indeed. He was one of the greats and look at the way he ended up. You can never tell what’s going on in here.’ He tapped his head.

  Frank frowned. ‘What do you mean? What was going on in there?’

  ‘I don’t know – that’s my point – you can never tell.’ He looked at Mo and grinned. ‘I do beg your pardon, Mo – talking about such gloomy things. This is the problem when you get old. Happens to the best of us. Just like my good mate Gerry. Gerry Atric – ooh you should see him trying to cross the road now.’ Cyril mimed a palsied old man and Mo once again was reduced to helpless giggles. He stood up suddenly. ‘Well, anyway, I shall love you and leave you. It’s been a great pleasure to meet you, Andrea and Mo. Mo I shall be looking out for you on the television – and, Frank, I’ll speak to you later in the week.’ He paused for a moment and his face was serious again. ‘Actually, Frank, I was wondering if you might have time to meet up one day – just the two of us. I don’t want to bore the ladies here with business.’

  ‘Erm … yeah, okay. Give me a ring and we can sort something out. What kind of business?’

  Cyril looked blank for a moment. ‘Oh, just some new ideas I’ve had and want to discuss with you. New line in material. New opportunities, that kind of thing.’

  Frank managed a smile. ‘Great. Look forward to it.’

  Cyril gave Mo an exaggerated wink, picked up his briefcase and headed out the door walking like a penguin. After he’d gone, a beaming Mo turned to Frank. ‘Oh, Dad. That man’s funny!’

  Frank watched Cyril disappear down the road. ‘Yes, isn’t he just.’

  27

  A sharp wind buffeted the Hilltop estate. Frank had to battle to stop the door whipping back when he tried to get out of the car. The day was bright and the estate looked different from his last rain-soaked visit. The streets had a raw, scoured look about them. Hilltop wasn’t by any means a bad estate. The houses and gardens were generally well kept and today with the blue sky and white fluffy clouds moving quickly overhead there was a children’s picture-book simplicity to the place.

  The block of shops was built in the sixties, like the rest of the estate. A continuous concrete canopy supported by metal posts extended in front of the shops, providing cover for the shoppers. A chequered shopping trolley was bike-chained to one of the posts and a balding ginger dog to another. The local amenities consisted of a bookie’s, a baker’s, a general purpose convenience store, a boarded-up hairdresser’s and a fast-food outlet branding itself Dixieland Chick King.

  Frank started with the bookie’s. As he passed the dog tethered outside, he reached down to pat its head. The dog sniffed his hand hoping for something to eat and then slumped back down, his head on his paws, an ashtray of drinking water in front of him. Inside was busier than Frank had expected with ten or more customers standing or seated, clutching plastic cups of tea and newspapers, looking up at the TV screens. He walked up to the woman in the cashier’s booth and showed her the photo of Michael Church. He hadn’t really rehearsed what he was going to say and only now realized how odd his question might sound. He asked anyway: ‘I wondered if you knew anything about this man. He lived around here.’

  The woman was unfazed.

  ‘Owe you money, does he?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  She smiled. ‘They all say that.’ She looked closely at the photo. ‘No, love. I’ve seen him around, I think, but not in here.’

  A middle-aged man in a baseball cap was standing behind Frank now and was angling his head to look at the photo.

  The cashier held the photo up to him: ‘What do you reckon, Alan?’ Alan gave a fi
rm shake of the head. ‘There you go, then. If Alan ain’t seen him, he ain’t been in here.’

  Frank thanked them, took the photo and headed for the door. He saw an old man with sandy hair and a battered sheepskin jacket sitting in the corner, looking gloomy with his head in his hands. Frank identified him as the owner of the dog tied up outside. The resemblance was so striking Frank had to resist the temptation to give him a consolatory pat on the head.

  Despite limited floor space the convenience shop next door was trying to offer the same range and level of stock as a major supermarket. It was also attempting to compete on customer promotions. Every display was festooned with fluorescent multicoloured cardboard stars covered in the same spiky black handwriting offering ever more strange and inventive discounts and multi-buy savings:

  ‘Free Bic disposable razor with every 4-pint of milk purchased!’

  ‘Buy 1 litre Teacher’s whiskey, get box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray half price!’

  ‘33% off any packet of biscuits when three magazines or more are bought!’

  Frank was momentarily hypnotized by the dazzling colours and the complex permutations they advertised. He even found himself wondering which three magazines he might buy to get the discount on a packet of Bourbons. He made his way to the counter where an elderly Asian woman sat on a stool. He pulled out the photo. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to learn more about a man who used to live around here. I wonder if you might recognize him?’ He pushed the photo towards her, but she carried on looking at Frank’s face and smiling. He repeated the question, but trailed off as he saw no flicker of comprehension on her face. He was about to give up when a young man carrying a box of crisps emerged from a doorway behind the counter.

  ‘Can I help you, mate?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. I was just asking if …’

  The man shot a look at the old woman: ‘Have you switched your hearing-aid off again?’ He reached over and touched something behind her ear. He shook his head. ‘People think she doesn’t speak English. Her English is fine. She’s just lazy. She turns it off so she doesn’t have to serve anyone when I’m out in the stockroom. Isn’t that right, Gran?’