The Extra Ordinary Life of Frank Derrick, Age 81

by J. B. Morrison

  Frank couldn’t stop himself from talking now. Maybe it was the hair-brushing. He told Kelly how his wife would swim further and further away from the shore until he completely lost sight of her. Time would pass. He’d come out of the water, walk back up the stones, wrap himself in a towel and sit on the blanket by the breakwater until he stopped shivering. ‘Or groyne,’ he said to Kelly. ‘I think those wooden breakwaters are actually called groynes.’

  ‘Groyne.’ Kelly tried the new word out. ‘How do you spell that?’

  ‘I’m not really sure.’

  Frank said that after a while of not being able to see Sheila he’d start to panic. Even though she’d swum out of sight many times before he’d think about shouting for help or going to the phone box by the café to call the coastguard. He’d get up from the blanket and shield his eyes from the sun with his hand to try and see her rubber-hatted head bobbing up and down with the waves.

  ‘The tide would come back in sideways though. I always forgot that. I’d be looking out towards France when I should have been looking at the Isle of Wight. Sheila would turn up about a hundred yards along the beach. Waving as she came back over, taking her swimming hat off and shaking her hair. I’d hold her towel out to her and she’d wrap herself in it and sit and shiver for a while, her teeth chattering, letting the sun dry her off before taking her costume off and putting her clothes back on. She could do it all under the towel and appear fully clothed when she removed it. It was her party trick.’

  Kelly looked at the picture on the mantelpiece.

  ‘I used to love looking at old family photographs,’ she said. ‘My mum and dad would always get their photo albums out when people came to visit. Not all the ones of me are embarrassing. All my photos are in my phone now. I never get round to printing them or even putting them on the computer, and I can never find the little lead that connects the phone to the computer anyway.’

  Frank told Kelly how his wife’s illness eventually stopped her from swimming.

  ‘I watched her disappear a little more each day. Like when she swam out to sea.’

  He told Kelly how guilty he’d felt for sometimes wishing it would all be over. That that day would be the last day he’d have to watch his wife change.

  ‘Towards the end I realised that she wasn’t mine any more. She belonged to the hospital now. On the night she died I told her that it was all right, she could go now, as though I was giving her my permission. Not like God exactly. More like Alan Sugar or Anne Robinson. I felt so selfish.’

  Frank had never told anybody this before. Not his daughter, not Smelly John, not even Bill. He’d known Kelly for less than a total of six hours. He’d had longer relationships with some of the old women who worked in the charity shop.

  Kelly hadn’t spoken for a while. She was still holding Frank’s hair but she wasn’t brushing it. He turned his head. Her eyes were watering. He’d made her cry. She’d never come again after this. He’d have to brush his own hair, scratch his own itch. Go back to hoarding old food. He wished he could take it all back.

  ‘Is there a Mr Christmas?’ he said, hoping to lighten the mood.

  Kelly sniffed and wiped the corner of her eye with the end of the sleeve she’d dusted Sheila’s picture with.

  ‘Only my dad.’ she seemed to read Frank’s mind and said, ‘Yes, Father Christmas.’ She sniffed again and put her hand on the top of Frank’s head and turned it back round like she was screwing the lid shut on a jar. After she’d finished brushing his hair, Frank turned to face her, his hair was softer than ever and he was going to need to keep away from balloons for a while.

  ‘Something for the weekend, sir?’ Kelly said, revisiting her hairdresser impression.

  That would make a nice change, he thought.

  Kelly got her stuff together. She took her anorak off the back of the chair that Frank was still sitting on.

  ‘I could wash it for you next week,’ she said. She picked up her bag. ‘Perhaps I could help you have a bath too,’ she said. ‘See you next week. Bye.’

  And she walked out of the living room, down the stairs and out the front door. She put the key back in the key safe, walked down the path and out through the front gate. She got in her car, removed the Nurse on Call sign, wound the window down, started the engine and the stereo came on, playing what Frank thought was either Madonna or Kylie Minogue. She checked her wing mirrors, took the hand-brake off, and, watched by a dozen Jimmy Stewart impersonators, she drove away along Sea Lane.

  As Frank, now standing at the window with his hair all brushed and static, looking like Miss Havisham, watched her disappear into the distance, all he could think about was her helping him have a bath and what that might involve, and how it might change the dynamics of their relationship. Dynamics that he was just getting used to. He was too old and broken-armed to start moving goalposts around.

  Perhaps it would just be a bed bath, whatever a bed bath was. But Frank wasn’t bedridden, she obviously meant an actual bath. Him, naked in a tub full of water. When was the last time anyone had seen him naked? He didn’t even undress in front of Bill, and when Sheila was alive they were hardly ever a naturist couple. Sheila’s beach towel trick wasn’t just something she did for all the other strangers on the beach. They’d both always undressed for bed either in the dark or in separate rooms.

  He was overreacting. Kelly was probably just going to turn the taps on, check the temperature of the water with her elbow and leave Frank to it before reaching her arm around the bathroom door to pass him a towel when he was finished. That was what she meant by helping him have a bath.

  But he couldn’t stop thinking, what if she planned on being more hands on? Was she going to scrub his back and rinse his naked old body with a sponge or a loofah? It was probably on her list of jobs that she was expected to carry out – he hadn’t really read it. She’d probably seen hundreds of wrinkly old men in the nude before. She was a sort of nurse, wasn’t she? It said so on a sign in the windscreen of her car. She had a uniform. There was a logo on the side of her car.

  As Kelly’s car disappeared from view Frank was confused and panicky about the whole thing and then it just got worse as he started to feel like Michael Gambon in The Singing Detective – trying to think of boring things to stop himself getting an erection when Joanne Whalley puts grease on his flaky body – only there was a twist. Frank couldn’t stop thinking. Not: What if he got an erection? But: What if he didn’t?

  14

  The day after Kelly had dropped her bath bombshell Frank went to the library. He showed his library card to the librarian and took a seat in front of one of the computers next to two other pensioners.

  People who find it weird seeing their parents and grandparents using new technology and who think it’s just wrong when Granny makes a mobile phone call, should probably start getting used to it. The pensioners holding up the queue for the cashpoint because they can’t remember their pin numbers or because they can’t see the screen, the ones paying for their shopping by cheque – they’re on the way out. The OAPs on the library computers, the ones in trainers and jeans drinking skinny mocha lattes in the coffee shops, texting each other on their mobiles, playing Tetris and Snake while they listen to their iPods – they’re the future. This is your Planet of the Apes. Pull their earphones out: they’re listening to the Arctic Monkeys.

  Frank signed in to his library computer account and checked his email. There were seventy-six spam emails and one from his daughter:

  Hi Dad,

  How is everything? Is the cast off yet? I guess it must be itching like crazy now. Did I tell you Jimmy’s company got the contract he’s been working so hard for? It’s a huge deal for him and for us, and once Jimmy is settled in with it all we should be able to come over and see you. We all miss you (of course!!).

  Laura is doing so well at college. She misses you greatly. She’s so grown-up now you would hardly recognize her. Her hair seems to change color every week!

  I hope th
e care visitor is still working out Ok for you. I know you weren’t keen. I prayed they wouldn’t send round some dreadful matron to try and boss you about and tell you off. Thank the Lord those days are long gone (except on TV, I guess). Everybody here seems to adore the old Carry On movies. And Benny hill! Maybe you should think about moving here, you always loved Benny Hill.

  I will call soon. Hopefully when you are not asleep! I sometimes forget about the time difference.

  All our love

  Beth xx

  ‘Color’ instead of ‘colour’, ‘recognise’ spelled with a z, or possibly even a zee. America had taken another part of his daughter away. And he’d always hated Benny Hill.

  He stared at the computer screen thinking about his reply. What exciting things could he tell Beth about? A man had stood in his garden and told him his roof was dangerous. Two men had caught him unawares on the doorstep and he’d contemplated punching one of them. Some bollards had been knocked over in the village. Woodlice had been disturbed. Bored kids were once again the prime suspects. Smelly John had tried to start a fight with a man singing Vera Lynn songs. Perhaps he should begin by answering his daughter’s questions. He could answer them in red on the computer. He knew how to do that.

  Was the cast off ? No.

  I guess it must be itching like crazy now? Yes.

  Did I tell you Jimmy’s company got the contract? Yes, but I wasn’t really paying attention. Something to do with wine?

  Should he tell her ‘yes, the care visitor is working out for me. She isn’t a bossy matron at all, she’s actually very friendly and nice to talk to. In fact, I’ve found myself telling her things I haven’t told anyone else before. About how your mother died, for example. That sort of thing. Oh, and she’s very pretty, this care worker, she smells like rain on a hot pavement (sidewalk) after a drought. She has a geometrically perfect fringe, oh, and talking of hair, she brushed mine yesterday and next week she’s giving me a bath. Yes that’s right, a bath. And by the way, she’s not just young enough to be my daughter, she’s young enough to be your daughter, and PS: I’ve bought a loud shirt and some aftershave, probably because of her. PPS: She’s thrown your American biscuits away. Byee. Dad x.’

  Frank had always looked forward to spending his old age with his daughter. When he was in his sixties and she was in her twenties, he’d often tease her with horror stories of how she’d soon have to look after him, wheeling him about in a bath chair, feeding him and changing his underpants, apologising to people all the time because he’d become so politically incorrect and outspoken, which, he told her, were the last bits of your mind to go. He teased his daughter that she would have to deal with him constantly swearing at vicars and policemen, talking about ‘foreign people’ and coming on to the women in the library and the charity shop. Maybe that was why Beth had escaped to America. Before it was too late, just in case he wasn’t joking.

  To avoid replying to the email for a while Frank surfed the Internet. He looked on eBay for the china ornaments he’d found in the 50p box at the charity shop that were going to make him his fortune. He found a similar pair on the computer that had a current highest bid of 99p.

  He clicked on other eBay links. They sucked him into a modern form of paper chase – a paperless chase – that led him from one worthless ornament to another. Every time he clicked a new link his browsing history would update and become more elaborate as the Internet tried to predict what it was he might be interested in. He clicked on a link for an ornamental bell that led him to another link for a teapot and another for something described as a ‘pottery Italian donkey jam pot’. Frank then accidentally clicked on an ad for cheaper phone calls at the side of the page and a new web page opened. When he closed it and returned to his eBay page it was full of china and porcelain telephones and a painting of a donkey.

  He couldn’t concentrate on what he’d come into the library to do – sending an email to his daughter. His attention span seemed to be getting shorter the older he got. When was the last time he’d actually taken a book off the shelf of the library and taken it home with him, or bought and then actually read one of the second-hand books from the charity shop? He hardly read the newspaper properly any more. He just read the headlines, looked at the pictures and made the rest up based on what he got from that. It gave him a jumbled-up version of current events. Victims were murderers, murderers were victims, winners were losers, famous people celebrating birthdays had just died.

  He stared at the computer screen, moving the mouse around on the mat, trying to hypnotise himself with the cursor. It was incredible how there was apparently so much stuff on the Internet and yet he couldn’t think of a single website or thing to look at.

  He wondered if the home care company Kelly worked for had a website. He did a quick search for Lemons Care – which hadn’t seemed such a stupid name for a care company before Stuart and Linda Orange had pulled out of the business – and he found their website. All the old people in the photographs on the front page of the site looked so happy. Like the TV presenters or the crippled and dying in his junk mail. He clicked on ‘Frequently asked Questions’ and on ‘What Tasks Will My Care Worker Carry Out?’ Number three on the list was ‘Help With Washing’. Frank clicked on ‘Meet the Team’ and scrolled down the list of names.

  Kelly Christmas joined us in august 2012. She brought with her a wealth of experience having worked within domiciliary care for two years. Kelly has also undertaken a number of training courses to keep herself up to date with changes in home care. Kelly is a welcome and valuable asset to our growing business. Click for picture.

  Frank looked at the picture of Kelly. She was pretending to check the temperature on a thermometer. She was smiling for the camera. She was dressed in the same blue shiny uniform that she wore when she visited him. Her hair was in a side parting, it was amazing how such a simple reframing of her face could change it so much. But not in any kind of a negative or bad way. Just different. It answered the question that Frank had asked himself – her horizontal fringe wasn’t there to conceal a third eye, a BNP tattoo or a really ugly forehead.

  Frank looked at the profiles of some of the other care workers. In his head he did his impression of Michael Aspel presenting Miss World.

  ‘Angela has worked as a care supervisor for six years and has trained as a Registered General Nurse. She has a wealth of experience, speaks English and French and would like to see world peace and an end to poverty.’

  ‘Anne-Marie has vast experience in the care of the elderly and has worked within domiciliary care for more than ten years. Her vital statistics are 36-28-36.’

  Michael Aspel announced Kelly Christmas as the winner, he placed the crown on her head, draped the Miss Care Worker sash across her body, kissed her on both cheeks and gave her enough flowers for her to also be the winner of this year’s Villages in Bloom competition.

  Frank closed the Internet browser and went back to his emails. He wrote a simple reply to Beth. He told her how he was well and everything was fine and little more than that. He looked at the clock at the top of the screen. His computer time was up. The next pensioner was waiting to look at videos of skateboard tricks and update his Facebook status. Frank pressed send on the email and logged off.

  Frank left the library and went into the chemist and bought a fancy new razor, a can of expensive shaving gel, a bar of even more expensive soap, something he’d never realised existed before called dry shampoo, and, purely because he remembered singing the song from the TV advert to his daughter when she was young, he bought a bottle of Matey bubble bath.

  Walking past the charity shop on the way home he saw another shirt in the window. If anything it was louder than the previous shirt – the flowers and splashes of random colour shouted BUY ME! at him. He went in and bought it. He also bought a pair of tweezers and a Madonna Greatest Hits CD that was in the ‘everything £1’ basket on the counter.

  ‘Ooh. Is it for your granddaughter?’ the woman behind the coun
ter said.

  ‘Yes,’ Frank said, annoyed with himself for lying and with the world for making him feel that he needed to.

  15

  Frank was up before the planes again. If Kelly was going to give him a bath he was going to make sure he was clean first. Frank was going to make himself so clean that it would be like the Queen was coming to give him a bath.

  He turned on the taps and tipped some of his children’s bubble bath under the running water. The water turned green for a while. He laid out his tools. On the edge of the sink he placed the tweezers he’d bought from the charity shop. He wondered what the previous owner had used them for. Removing splinters and stamp collecting were the only things he could think of, but there were some pretty disgusting people in the world and so Frank had boiled the tweezers in a saucepan for five minutes just in case. On the sink next to the tweezers was Frank’s new razor. It had five blades – four more than he’d ever used before – and a lubricating strip. When he switched it on the razor lit up and vibrated in his hand. Frank was wary of running it under the tap because he thought he would be electrocuted. The shaving gel can claimed the gel would ‘prepare his beard for shaving and soothe, calm, hydrate, comfort and moisturise’ his skin afterwards. It was blue when it came out of the can and white when he put it on his face.

  All the smooth shave innovations would be cancelled out by Frank having to shave left-handed. He cut himself on his earlobe and again on the edge of his nostril and missed patches of beard, ending up with a face like Centre Court on the last day of Wimbledon.

  Frank unwrapped his bar of expensive soap and put it on the side of the bath. There were two carrier bags hooked over the cold tap of the sink and a roll of brown parcel tape on the windowsill above it.