Frank had plucked his eyebrows this morning. That was something he never thought he’d do. Something he couldn’t even remember Sheila or Beth doing. It had made him sneeze more than when he’d pulled the hairs out of his nostrils. The woman in the chair in Sainsbury’s didn’t sneeze at all. There was obviously more of a skill to it than simply grabbing hold of a hair and hoping for the best.
They walked into the store, past the magazines, cigarettes and flowers and onto the first of three fruit and vegetables aisles.
‘Fruit?’ Kelly said. ‘Apples? Oranges?’
‘Ahm . . .’
There was so much to choose from. Frank didn’t even know what some of the fruit and vegetables were. They were like props made for a science fiction film set on another planet. He put a bag of oranges in the trolley. Kelly took them straight back out again and replaced them with oranges from the back and bottom of the pile. She showed Frank the label.
‘Two days fresher,’ she said.
In the tinned beans and peas aisle Frank reached up and took a tin of spaghetti from the shelf.
‘Tinned spaghetti?’ Kelly said. Disappointed that he was making the same food choices as he would in the small shop in Fullwind. ‘Do you eat fish and chips on your Spanish holidays too?’
‘I’ve never been to Spain.’
She took the spaghetti out of the trolley and put it back on the shelf. ‘At least save yourself some money,’ she said, and took a multipack of four tins off the shelf and showed Frank the price. She put them in the trolley and took another four-pack from the shelf.
‘I don’t like spaghetti that much,’ Frank said.
‘Buy one get one free,’ Kelly said.
They walked around the huge store and Kelly showed Frank the special offers and money-saving deals. He didn’t normally look at the price of food. He just took it off the shelf and put it in his basket. It was one of the reasons he had no money.
Kelly made him look at the labels on the back of packaging before putting them in the trolley. She showed him the nutritional information, the fat content, the traffic-light rating system and all the artificial ingredients and vitamins he’d never even heard of.
Frank filled his trolley with ready meals from Italy, India, China and wherever couscous came from – Frank didn’t know – he didn’t know what couscous was. Kelly said he should try it. As the trolley filled he became more confident. He chose a cereal because it reminded him of the jingle from an old TV advert he used to sing to Beth and he picked the larger box because it worked out cheaper. He put three boxes of Oreos in the trolley, even though he didn’t particularly like them, but he only had to pay for two of them. He was going to buy jam and tomato ketchup too, and keep it all in the fridge and tell Beth about it when he next spoke to her.
Frank bought a large pizza that was too wide for his fridge. He bought cakes and enough teabags to see him through to the other side of the fall-out from the nuclear war somebody on TV the night before had told him was imminent. He hoped that Fullwind would be nuked on a Monday so that he didn’t have to wait out the Nuclear Winter alone.
In the DVD section Dirty Dancing was only £2.99. Frank put it in his trolley.
‘If you like it,’ Kelly said, ‘you can watch Footloose next.’
A man walked past. He saw Frank and they nodded hello to each other.
‘Who was that?’ Kelly said.
‘Fat Pat.’
‘Fat Pat?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he a friend?’
‘I’ve only met him once before.’
‘Long enough to give him an affectionately horrible name. At least I hope it’s affectionate.’
‘I’ve got a friend called Smelly John too.’
‘You’re joking now.’
‘No.’
‘Who am I? Smelly Kelly?’
‘No. At least, not in a bad way.’
Frank reached up to take a Laurel and Hardy DVD down from the shelf. He felt the stiffness in his arm from his week of activity. He wanted to catch up with Pat, roll his sleeves up and say, ‘Look. Tight skin. Now draw me a butterfly, fatso.’
A woman was standing behind a small high table offering samples of cheese. Frank took one and then asked whether he could take a second piece.
‘Are you hungry?’ Kelly said. ‘There’s a restaurant.’
‘Won’t you be late for your next . . .’ Client? Customer? Patient? What was he, exactly?
‘I can take my lunch hour now,’ she said.
They joined the shortest-looking queue at the checkouts. They unpacked the trolley, put the shopping in bags and put the full bags back into the trolley. When Frank looked at the price on the till display he thought he was going to faint. The woman on the checkout asked if he had a loyalty card.
‘Er, no.’
‘Would you like one?’
‘Ahhm.’
‘I’ll give you a leaflet and you can decide later.’
She gave Frank a leaflet and he folded it up and stuffed it into his pocket. He planned on being unbelievably loyal. They were going to be sick of the sight of him. He paid for the shopping with his debit card. When the card wasn’t rejected, he presumed his pension had gone into – and now out of again – his account.
In the supermarket restaurant Frank sat down with the trolley full of carrier bags while Kelly went to the counter. There were none of the doubts in the minds of the customers in this café that there had been in the minds of the customers in the one at the beach. Kelly’s uniform told them she was Frank’s carer and he was her client, her customer or patient, and she was there to look after him. They probably felt a bit sorry for him. The mugs.
Frank had a cheese sandwich and a fizzy orange and Kelly asked him about Fat Pat and Smelly John. He explained how John didn’t smell, or, at least, if he did, like her, he didn’t smell in a bad way. He told her about John’s love of board games and for winding people up. When he told her how he’d met Smelly John, she didn’t seem to believe him.
‘Have you seen Battleship Potemkin?’ Frank said.
‘No. Is it a film?’
‘An old silent one. There’s a famous scene on some steps. The bit everyone remembers is a pram rolling down the steps out of control. There’s a homage to it in The Untouchables. Have you seen that?’
‘I don’t think so. Who’s in it?’
‘Everyone. Kevin Costner, Sean Connery, Robert De Niro.’
‘I probably have. I can never remember films.’
‘There’s a bit in a Laurel and Hardy film as well. When a piano they’re delivering rolls down some steep steps.’
‘I don’t really like Laurel and Hardy,’ Kelly said. ‘My dad watched their films all the time. I find it infuriating when everything keeps going wrong and you know it’s coming. I want to shout at the screen to stop them making the same mistakes over and over. But how does all this relate to Smelly John?’
‘Do you know the steep hill that leads down to the sea up past the hospital?’
‘Yes. I think so.’
‘That’s where I saved his life.’
‘You saved his life? How?’
‘He was asleep in his wheelchair and it was rolling down the hill, picking up speed. I was passing by and I stopped it.’
Kelly didn’t say anything. She just looked at him in a way that said she didn’t believe him.
‘It’s true. He’d passed out or something. I stopped his chair, pushed him back up the hill. It wasn’t easy. I took him home.’
‘Really?’
‘To his sheltered-housing flat.’
‘Are you sure this isn’t actually the Laurel and Hardy film you’re describing?’
‘It’s true. You could come and meet him, if you like. You’d have to go to his place. He doesn’t go outside.’
‘I thought you met him outside?’
‘Any more. He doesn’t go outside any more. He has MS. He’s in a wheelchair. Did I say? He lives on the first floor of a shelter
ed housing place where the lift never works, which he seems to actually enjoy. He gets the warden to carry him up and down stairs. He seems to think he’s doing it out of revenge.’
‘What for?’
‘He says the warden’s been picking on him. Because he’s a racist.’
‘Who? Smelly John is a racist?’
‘Not John, the warden. The warden is a racist.’
‘Has he reported him?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘He should report it,’ Kelly said.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘There’s no reason for him to tolerate that. Do you want me to say something?’
‘What if it isn’t true, though?’
‘But your friend thinks the warden is being racist?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then he should report him.’
‘I’m not sure that he is a racist,’ Frank said.
‘But you aren’t sure he isn’t, though, either?’
‘No, but it’s more complicated.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure Smelly John is black.’
‘What?’ Kelly said, almost spitting her coffee out. ‘You aren’t sure?’
‘Yes. No. Yes. Well, he doesn’t look particularly black.’
Kelly was dumbfounded.
‘Particularly?’
‘Not at all really.’
‘Have you asked him?’ she said.
‘Ask John? If he’s black?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve never said anything before. It might seem strange if I suddenly bring it up now. He might think I’m a racist too, like the warden.’
‘Who probably isn’t a racist?’ Kelly said.
‘Yes.’
‘Because John’s not black?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t really know what to say,’ Kelly said. ‘And how about Fat Pat? What’s his secret?’
‘He’s just fat.’
Kelly drove Frank home and helped him carry his shopping upstairs and then put it away. When she left, Frank looked at the clock. She’d spent over two hours with him. One hour a week was definitely not going to be enough from now on.
25
Frank didn’t enjoy Dirty Dancing. All the interruptions while he was trying to watch it didn’t help. He hadn’t even made it to the end of the opening titles when the phone rang. He paused the DVD and answered it.
‘Hello. Could I speak to Mr Watson?’
‘I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number.’
The person on the phone read Frank’s phone number out to him.
‘That is my number,’ Frank said. ‘But not my name.’
‘That is strange. It’s the number we have.’
‘Can I ask who’s calling please?’
‘My name is Angela. I’m calling from Lemons Care.’
Mr Watson was the name Frank had given when he pretended he was an American calling Lemons Care about their prices for his imaginary father. He hadn’t considered that they might call him back.
‘There’s nobody by that name here. You must have a wrong number.’
‘I am sorry,’ Angela said. ‘Sorry to have bothered you.’
Frank said goodbye and hung the phone up. He knew that at some point, possibly immediately, Angela would dial his number again, expecting to hear an American voice on the other end of the line. He contemplated answering the phone as Mr Watson and saying he was no longer interested or he couldn’t afford it, or that his ill father, Mr Watson Senior, had taken a sudden turn for the worse and had sadly passed away.
He pressed the pause button on the DVD player and started watching the film again, but he was distracted. He kept looking over at the telephone, waiting for it to ring. ‘Hello,’ he said out loud to nobody, practising his American accent. ‘Hi there. This is Mr Watson. How may I help you?’ he said. He’d forgotten what American accent Mr Watson had. He was missing the plot of the film thinking about it.
About half an hour later the phone rang again. Frank left the DVD running this time and just muted the sound.
‘Hi there,’ he said.
‘Is that Mrs Sharpes?’ a man’s voice said.
‘No. I think you have the wrong number.’
‘Are you the homeowner?’
‘No. Who is this?’
‘I’m calling from Finance and Debt Finance Finance.’
‘No thank you. I’m not interested.’
‘Have you been mis-sold insurance?’
‘No. Thank you.’
The man carried on talking as though Frank’s part in the conversation was irrelevant.
‘Is your name Janice?’ Frank said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You have been negligently sold expensive insurance cover.’
‘No I haven’t.’
‘When you applied for your mortgage—’
‘I don’t have a mortgage.’
Frank looked at the TV, trying to keep up with the story so that he didn’t have to start watching the film again from the beginning.
‘Could I speak to the homeowner?’
‘The homeowner isn’t here.’
The man on the phone carried on talking. He mentioned numbers and percentages and started talking in capitals TO STRESS HOW IMPORTANT WHAT HE WAS SAYING WAS AND THEN HE THREW IN SOME ITALICS ABOUT HOW FRANK HAD TO DO THIS AND HAD TO DO THAT. When there was a pause Frank tried to fill it.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Are you the homeowner?’
‘No.’
‘Could I speak to the homeowner?’
‘Not here you can’t.’
‘When will the homeowner be available?’
‘I don’t know. They don’t live here.’
‘Could I take your name?’
‘No.’
The man started talking about insurance again. It was raining heavily on Dirty Dancing and Patrick Swayze seemed animated about something. With the sound off Frank didn’t know what he was animated about. Swayze started kicking at a white wooden bollard. He’s lucky that’s only made of wood, Frank thought. Swayze pulled the bollard out of the ground and smashed a car window with it. Frank expected Albert Flowers would be turning up in the next scene to talk to Swayze about it.
‘No. Thank you,’ Frank said to the man on the phone. ‘I’m really not interested. Goodbye.’ He hung up the phone while the man was still talking. The man would make a note of Frank’s phone number and one day he’d come round with all the other call-centre employees and door steppers who Frank had hung up on, made funny comments to or slammed the door on. They’d beat Frank with clubs, then sign him up for a no-win, no-fee injury claim.
Frank paused the DVD and went to make a cup of tea. He wasn’t sure what was going on in the film but didn’t want to start watching it from the beginning again. It had taken ten minutes just to get through the copyright notices and piracy warnings in seven different languages. He’d watch the film from here to the end and hopefully pick up enough information to form an opinion that he could share with Kelly.
He was almost at the end of the film when he heard a squeaking sound. He thought it was the DVD. He tried to ignore it. But the squeaking continued. It wasn’t coming from the DVD. The squeaking was behind him. He turned around. At his window there was a man. He had Art Garfunkel hair. That was the first thing Frank noticed. The second thing was that the man was cleaning Frank’s window. Frank didn’t have a window cleaner. He couldn’t afford it. He let his windows get dirty and every once in a while he would lean as far out of them as he could and clean as much of the glass as he could reach. His windows were never completely clean. But neither were they completely dirty. Optimists and pessimists had differing views on Frank’s windows.
But he definitely didn’t have a window cleaner.
He looked at the curly haired man who nodded hello and carried on wiping the glass. Frank thought about opening th
e window and knocking him off his ladder like in a sitcom.
‘What do you want?’ Frank said.
‘What?’ the man said.
‘What do you want?’
Art Garfunkel stopped wiping the window, lifted a clump of curls to cup his hand to his ear and instead of speaking any louder he mouthed the words, ‘I can’t hear you.’
To avoid yet another boiling-kettle conversation Frank got up from his armchair and went over to the window. It was locked and he didn’t know where the key was.
‘Just a minute,’ Frank said.
The window cleaner cupped his ear again and mouthed, ‘What?’
‘I have to find a key,’ Frank said. He mimed unlocking the window. He went to the bathroom and took a window key from there. He came back and opened the window next to the one the man was cleaning.
‘I thought you might want your windows doing,’ the man said. ‘I do all of them in this street. Nice to get to use my ladder for a change.’
‘I don’t remember asking,’ Frank said.
‘There was no answer. At the door,’ the man said. He looked past Frank at the TV. ‘My wife loves this film.’
Frank turned around. Patrick Swayze had just lifted Jennifer Grey over his head and she was now back down on the ground. Frank had missed the most famous scene in the film.
If he ever watched Dirty Dancing again, this moment right now would be a big part of the film for him – not Patrick Swayze putting Jennifer Grey back down on the ground – Art Garfunkel washing his windows. There were other films that always reminded him of something unconnected to the plot whenever he watched them. It would either be the time or place he saw the film or, more often, something that had happened the first time he’d seen the film that he couldn’t help but remember every time he saw it again. An extra dimension to the story the director had no control over.
Years ago Frank had been watching Blazing Saddles. During the farting cowboys scene the hospital had rung and told him he should probably get back there as soon as possible. Frank couldn’t watch Blazing Saddles now. He would be waiting for the phone to ring with news his wife was dying. He could watch far sadder films more obviously related to Sheila dying – Philadelphia or Love Story – but he never found them as sad as watching cowboys sitting around a campfire breaking wind.
The Extra Ordinary Life of Frank Derrick, Age 81 Page 16