Frank wasn’t sure if they were talking about the same man. He pulled the photo out of his pocket. ‘Is that the Mike you mean?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. I ain’t seen him for a few weeks, but …’ Something in Frank’s expression prompted him to ask, ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Well … Michael died three weeks ago. I’m just trying to trace any next of kin or close friends.’
Azad closed his eyes for a second and then let a long stream of air out between his teeth. ‘I fucking knew it, man. I knew there was something wrong. I said to the owner of the estate when he come round last week – I said, “Not seen Mike about. Maybe you should try and call him.” I was worried, you know.’
‘You knew him, then?’
‘Yeah, I knew Mike. That’s sad news.’
‘Could I talk to you about him?’
Azad looked over at the kid tinting the window. ‘You be all right if I go get a coffee, Sy?’
‘I’m a professional, Az, this is what I’m telling you.’
Azad shook his head and led Frank over to a couple of plastic chairs outside the sandwich shop.
‘You’re not chasing up debts or anything like that, are you?’
‘No, nothing like that. It’s just that Michael died alone. He was a friend of a friend and I’m just trying to help find out a little about his life.’ He decided to spare Azad the details of Michael’s death.
Azad lit a cigarette and took some time before he spoke. ‘I never used to talk to him at first. He was just another face you’d see around here, you know, like the Jesus people. We’d nod or whatever, but that was it. I know he was working here long before we came and set up below him. I’d see him going in each morning at eight thirty on the dot with his little lunchbox and then again at five going home, and that was all I knew about him.
‘Then one day I was here on my own, Sy was off sick and it meant I could turn off the radio for once. I mean don’t get me wrong, I love music, but Sy doesn’t listen to music – he just likes distorted bass rumbling around the boot of a car. To be honest, it gives me a bit of a migraine by the end of the day – getting old I guess. So I was sorting through invoices or some shit like that in the workshop and I heard this other music coming from upstairs. I didn’t notice too much at first, then I started listening and – I can’t explain it, but it was so beautiful. It was old music, I could tell that, but there was something about it, you know, kind of sad and happy at the same time. I don’t know … it got under my skin.
‘Anyway, in the end I had to know what it was so I walked up the stairs and knocked on the door. Mike opens it, wiping his hands on a rag. He looks at me and you know the first thing he says? He goes: “Is the music too loud?” I thought, Bloody hell, man, how loud is our music normally and he’s asking me if he’s disturbing us! That was the first time I spoke to him.’
Frank nodded. ‘And you got to know him after that?’
‘Yeah – we just got on and I started to go up there most days to eat my lunch. Mike’d have corned-beef sandwiches and I’d have Pot Noodle and he’d play his records and tell me a bit about them. It was weird, really. Sy thought it was well weird – I mean you’d think we wouldn’t have anything in common, but we just got along.’
‘Did he ever mention any family or people outside of work?’
‘A bit. Mike and Burkett worked together for years, but Burkett died some years back. I think really the business was winding down anyway and after he died Mike could have retired, but he felt some duty to Burkett to carry on the business – he didn’t want to let it all fade to nothing. He was very loyal, you know. He thought his mate had worked all his life to build up the business and it was up to him to carry it on. To be honest, I don’t think he had many customers, but he’d still come in every day.
‘He told me something amazing once – apparently back in the day, every Thursday night, he and Burkett would clear the workshop upstairs, push all the machines to the sides and throw covers over them. They’d light some candles, get it all looking nice and then at seven o’clock their wives would come down and they’d do an hour or two of ballroom dancing. Can you believe that? I love that story, man. I like to imagine the men in dickie bows and the women in those big, pink ball gowns they wear on telly with numbers on their backs sweeping up and down the unit. I’d have loved to have seen that.
‘Anyway those days were long gone by the time I set up here. Mike’d just come in every day, work on his own and go home. It went on like that for a few years, then Mike’s wife got ill and he started taking time off to go with her to the hospital and stuff. Then eventually he just left to nurse her full time.’
‘But he came back afterwards? He was still working here till recently?’
‘Yeah – he came back. I never expected him to. I thought if his wife died – well, when, really, it was obvious from what he said that she wasn’t getting any better – I thought he’d call it a day then. But he came back. He was really low, you know. He didn’t say anything, he was all business on the surface, but you could tell. He didn’t have any customers by then. They’d all gone elsewhere when he was off nursing his wife. He just used to come here because it was what he did when she was alive. I think he could pretend she was still at home waiting for him when he was in his workshop. He still made stuff. There’s boxes of little intricate things he made up there, but it was just a hobby, really.’
Azad chewed on a broken nail. ‘I’ve been worried about him these last few weeks. You can ask my wife – she knew all about Mike. I told her how I didn’t think he spoke to anyone else but me, up there in that empty unit all day long and then back to an empty house in the evening. It was hard. My wife was always saying I should invite him over for dinner one evening, cook him something proper but … I dunno, I thought it’d make him awkward, you know – it’d be crossing a line. I knew nothing about him, really. Not where he lived. Not even his surname.’
Frank thought for a moment. ‘What about Burkett’s wife – is she still around?’
‘She emigrated to Australia after the husband’s death. Mike had a postcard she’d sent stuck to his wall. I don’t know where in Australia.’
Frank nodded. ‘Did he ever mention anyone else?’
Azad paused to think. ‘Yeah, there was someone else I remember. He’d bumped into some old mate of his from the old days – this wasn’t that long ago, a year maybe, since his wife died anyway. Anyway this bloke – Phil – he knew him from when they were kids. They’d done National Service together. Mike thought a lot of him. He mentioned him quite often for a while – they were back in touch with each other. I suppose it was someone to focus on other than his wife.’
Frank had forgotten that Phil had done National Service. He very rarely spoke of it – probably because it allowed people to age him. He thought of the note that Michelle had shown him. ‘Did he ever mention a falling out with Phil? A quarrel over anything?’
‘No, man. I can’t imagine Mike arguing with anyone – he was a peaceful bloke – you know, very chilled. You can’t ask the Phil guy either, I’m afraid, cos I know he died some months back. Mike mentioned it. Can you believe that? I don’t ever want to get old, man, and just see everyone I know die around me. I don’t think Mike had any room left to feel grief.’
Frank started saying his thanks and goodbyes to Azad, but then asked him, ‘What was the music, by the way? The music you heard that first day.’
Azad grinned. ‘Nat King Cole, “Mona Lisa”. Mike had loads of his records. He’d play them on his little portable record player up there. I loved them all, man. His voice and those strings, they do something to my heart.’
Frank smiled. ‘Do you still listen to that stuff?’
‘Oh yeah. Mike gave me all the records. He couldn’t listen to them after his wife died, made him too sad – he made me take them all. I’ve got them at home. Sometimes when we’ve got the kids in bed, I put one on and my wife and me dance in the living room, just like Mike used to wi
th his wife.’ Azad smiled. ‘I’ll miss him.’
Michael Church would be missed. Frank shook Azad’s hand, and wondered if that’s all he’d wanted to hear.
33
It bothered Mo that her grandmother rarely left her room and often seemed so sad. Mo was sure that the problem could be resolved with enough thought and application. She was always on the lookout for ways to improve the quality of Maureen’s life. She kept an eye out for new products and innovations, she scoured the adverts in the TV listings magazines they had at home and picked up leaflets on hints for the elderly whenever she saw them in the chemist.
Through a process of trial and error she had come to the conclusion that perhaps there wasn’t one single solution to the problem, but she remained optimistic that a combination of small measures would gradually alleviate her grandmother’s sadness. Her ultimate aim was for Maureen to be like the old people in the posters and brochures for Evergreen: admiring a rose bush in the garden with a man in a cravat, clapping her hands in delight at something on the Scrabble board, standing with open arms and an expression of joy as a young child approached. Smiling always.
Today Mo had been a long time in Maureen’s en suite bathroom. Frank had gone to get them some tea and cake and Maureen began to worry that there was a problem.
‘Mo, dear. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘You’ve been rather a long time, is everything okay?’
‘Yes. Everything is okay. Finished now.’
At that the door swung open, making Maureen jump. Mo stood looking pleased with herself.
‘I’ve just been doing some work in your bathroom.’
‘You’re not ill?’
‘Ill? No. I’m not ill.’
‘Oh … good.’
Maureen started to return to her seat. Mo went after her.
‘Granny, don’t you want to see it?’
‘See what, dear?’
‘The improvement. I have made an improvement in your bathroom.’
‘Ah – an improvement, I see.’ Maureen looked at Mo. ‘I don’t know where you get all these ideas for improvements.’
Mo answered with great satisfaction. ‘Research.’
Maureen nodded. ‘Research. Yes. I rather thought so. I hope you don’t spend too much time researching on my behalf.’
‘I like doing it.’
‘Well, it’s jolly nice of you, dear, but really there are no improvements to be made. This,’ she said, gesturing vaguely at the room around her, ‘is all perfectly … adequate. I barely notice the place anyway.’
Mo was undeterred and led Maureen back into the bathroom.
‘Can you spot it?’
Maureen looked around vaguely. ‘I’m afraid not.’
Mo laughed. ‘Actually, it’s a bit difficult to see. Look.’ She pointed at the toilet roll hanging on its holder.
Maureen peered at it. ‘Oh, it’s a different colour, is it? Ooh pink. Lovely! My favourite colour. Much better than whatever was there before. Well done, Mo – that’s a great improvement. I shall be much happier each time I visit the bathroom now.’
Mo frowned. ‘No. I didn’t change the toilet roll. Look more closely.’
Maureen obliged by lowering her head and examining all aspects of the toilet roll and its holder. After a few moments she let out an uncertain: ‘Ah … I think I see.’ Mo was nodding and smiling. ‘You’ve … erm … stuffed toilet paper inside the toilet roll. That’s the improvement, is it?’
‘Exactly. Do you want to know why?’
‘Yes – that might be an idea.’
‘I read it in this leaflet.’ Mo pulled a folded pamphlet out of her back pocket. On the front were the words ‘Tips and hints for the elderly’.
‘It’s full of very good ideas.’ Mo opened up the leaflet and pointed out different parts. ‘They are all very practical! Look – a whole section for people in wheelchairs: “Win appreciation from welcoming hostesses by drying your wheels with a tissue before entering their house. This will avoid unsightly tyre marks and ensure a subsequent invitation.” ’
Maureen’s eyebrows were raised. ‘Goodness. I’d imagine it would be quite difficult for someone to clean their own wheels.’
Mo wasn’t listening. ‘And look – this is the one I’ve done today: “A fast-spinning toilet roll can be disconcerting for the elderly or the one-handed. By padding out the inner tube of the toilet roll with toilet paper, the speed of rotation will be reduced.” ’
Maureen stared at Mo and then at the toilet roll. ‘Well, Mo. I’m quite lost for words.’
Mo beamed. ‘That’s okay. Here’s Dad.’
Frank was standing in the doorway to the bathroom. Maureen looked at him.
‘Mo has been making improvements.’
‘Yes. She did mention something about that in the car on the way here.’ He was relieved to detect a trace of amusement in his mother’s face. ‘Did you find yourself often disconcerted by the fast-spinning roll?’
Maureen looked very serious. ‘Goodness, yes. Mo really has put my mind quite at rest. Visits to the bathroom shall hold no fear now.’
Mo skipped out of the room in the direction of the residents’ lounge, eager to spread the word about this simple but effective measure. Maureen’s face changed as Mo left the room.
‘I wish you wouldn’t make the poor child feel she has to cheer me up.’
Frank laughed. ‘It has nothing to do with me. Mo does what she wants.’
Maureen ignored him. ‘I sense you behind all her efforts – trying to jolly me along. All bright and breezy, like on television.’
Frank found himself getting annoyed. ‘Why would I encourage her to try and cheer you up? Why promote such a futile waste of time and effort?’
‘Yes, a waste of time and effort, that’s what I am. I tell you that all the time, but still you come, every bloody week.’
‘Why are you being like this? Why can’t you just enjoy her company? Enjoy anyone’s company? Why is everything a source of suffering?’
‘Well, I’m sorry I’m not like the other grinning fools. Clapping their hands in gratitude at the dawning of each new glorious day. I’m sorry I see things differently. I must be a terrible disappointment to you.’
Frank stood looking at his mother, furious at her and himself, completely baffled as to how the situation had soured so rapidly.
‘You really are,’ he said, before picking up Mo’s coat and leaving.
34
He had watched the clouds of the economic downturn roll in. The press and national news bulletins had reported on the global crisis with escalating frequency and alarm. Soon the gentle patter of stories started to fall in the local news and gradually built to a downpour. There were apparently signs of recovery in the wider economy, but not, it seemed, in Frank’s region. The recession did at least lend a certain cohesion to the programme. Instead of the usual succession of non sequiturs and oddments, the ripples of cause and effect were discernible across the evening bulletins.
On Monday he reported another downturn in the local housing market. House prices had fallen from the previous quarter. On Tuesday he told viewers that four hundred staff were being laid off by a manufacturer of building and digging machinery. Tonight the story was about one of the region’s leading property firms who was halting all building projects. The company had a large portfolio of sites around the region, most notably an old football ground and the former home of a car-manufacturing plant.
Frank remembered reporting on the plans for the empty car plant just a few months previously. He recalled the artist’s impressions: glass-fronted apartments, a central plaza with a water feature and young trees, the inevitable faceless human form walking a faceless dog. He was reminded of the childhood fear he had of those faceless figures. The local councillor had expressed her satisfaction at the new jobs the project would bring and the start of the regeneration process for the area.
As he read through the report,
Frank found something about the halt in development that snagged his attention. The constant flickering of change and renewal in the city was usually incremental, invisible. Here, though, the old and the new and the usually invisible transition between them was revealed, as if a projector had stopped abruptly, leaving the two frames frozen on the screen. He thought of the massive hulk of the car plant coexisting now for some undefined period of time with the artist’s impression of the new apartments and shops. The past had gone, the future had yet to come and what remained was a stalled present. The local residents were still weighed down with facial features and memories and broken cars and debts. Frank thought again of the embryonic faceless form on the artist’s impression. No others would come now; it was alone, a ghost of the future stranded in the present.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival in the newsroom of Donald Bucknall, greeted by ironic applause from Mustansar.
‘A cameo appearance from Bucknall! Are elections upon us already?’
Bucknall continued to his desk acknowledging Mustansar only with an arm-stretched V-sign. Over the course of his thirty years in the job, the Heart of England Reports political correspondent had succeeded in whittling down the time he spent in the news room to the bare bones. He worked chiefly from the corner table in the Old Albion, venturing out occasionally for a round of golf at the Belfry with a councillor, which he considered to be news-gathering.
After a few minutes at his computer he put his jacket back on and wandered over to Frank’s desk. ‘Come on, then, Allcroft. I’m buying. Let’s mark the occasion.’
‘What occasion?’
‘What do you mean what occasion? I hope you’re joking.’
‘It’s not your fiftieth birthday again, is it?’
‘Ah yes – a spontaneous Allcroft one-liner. Very good – soon you can stop paying for them. Come on, you insufferable tit, let’s go.’
Frank looked in amazement at Donald. ‘You don’t see them at all, do you?’
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