The Lonely Heart Attack Club - Project VIP

by J. C. Williams

  “Hiya, John!” replied Jack.

  “Er… what?” said Pete, this clearly not being the sort of response he was expecting. And then, realising there was another member of the paying public stood in line behind him, he quickly apologised to the fellow and then stepped to one side so he could continue on with his conversation with Emma.

  “A minibus, you were saying?” asked Emma, leaning over the counter and giving Pete her full attention.

  “Yes. Now bear with me on this,” Pete advised guardedly, fully expecting some resistance to the proposition, though it really wasn’t necessary as Emma was perfectly willing to hear him out. “Right. Well. The number of people we have coming along to the clubs presently is brilliant, of course,” he carried on, encouraged by Emma’s receptiveness. Between her and Jack, she was always the more sensible of the two, he always felt. “But I asked a few of our Late Bloomers how we might increase that number, how we might make the club grow, and thrive, and really blossom,” he said, grinning at his wordplay, because, truly, a good pun was everything.

  Emma grinned right back, appreciatively.

  Yes, definitely the more sensible of the two, Pete thought to himself, as Emma nodded for him to continue.

  “Many of our Late Bloomers are able-bodied, and/or with access to transport,” Pete told her. “But what about those people who can’t get around quite so easily, or who don’t have easy access to transportation? If they’re stuck inside all day every day, can you imagine what that must be like? And so I’m thinking it would be absolutely lovely to be able to include them into the club somehow, and so—”

  “And so we can pick them up if we have a minibus,” Emma happily entered in, finishing Pete’s thought for him, adding, “And I’m sure we can find volunteers to drive?”

  “I expect so,” offered Pete, taking a sip of his latte lest it get cold.

  “Pete, I think it’s a perfectly brilliant idea,” Emma told him, and then looking over to Jack — who was finishing up with his customer — for Jack’s own reaction on the matter.

  “Cheers. See you tomorrow, John,” said Jack, sending another satisfied punter, now armed with coffee, on his merry way, after which Jack turned his attention back to Pete and Emma. “I like it. Yes,” he agreed, without need for further consideration.

  In fact, Jack loved it when Emma was super enthused about something. She always jumped on the spot as if she were skipping rope, with her button nose twitching as she resisted (not always successfully) the urge to squeal with excitement. And, indeed, this was how Emma was acting right now. And so Jack would have agreed to the idea of a minibus for no other reason than to witness her like this, as seeing Emma smile made him smile.

  “Think how many more people we can get involved in the clubs!” raved Emma. “Can we afford it, though, Jack?” she asked, putting her finger to her lips.

  “Oh, we may have a few spare quid in the coffers, I think,” Jack answered with a shrug, offering his own inimitable analysis and expert insight into the state of their club-allocated finances. “Plus, it’s not like we need anything too fancy, right? Hmm, one thing, though…” he said.

  “Oh? What is it?” Emma asked.

  “Well, I reckon we’ll need a name for this bus of ours,” Jack put forth. “What about, I dunno… Coffin Dodger? I mean, as we’re helping them get out and enjoy life, and so helping them to avoid—”

  “No, that’s rubbish, luv,” said Emma, cutting Jack off and nipping that horrid suggestion in the bud before it should have any opportunity to germinate and take root, yet stroking Jack’s arm for encouragement lest his ego get bruised. “Oh! Here! What about… about…” she began, right on the cusp of something truly brilliant. But then, “Actually, no. No, sorry, it’s gone,” she said, the idea flittering away, like a butterfly, just out of reach now.

  “Old Farts Express, instead of Hogwarts?” suggested Jack anew, bravely sallying forth, but receiving only silence in response. “Blue Rinse Bus? … Pensioners’ Pick-Up? Ehm, maybe… how about… Seniors Transport Division?”

  The gentle shaking of Emma’s head, plus the not-quite-so-subtle eye-rolling of Pete, were telling Jack that these particular suggestions of his were also, sadly, rubbish. With Jack having rather unfortunately run out of steam as far as generating any additional ideas was concerned, however, he came up with an alternative solution. “We could perhaps just do a competition to name it?” he offered. “And that might have the added benefit of generating some publicity for the clubs at the same time…?”

  “Brilliant!” said Pete.

  “I like it,” agreed Emma.

  “It’s settled, then,” replied Jack, grinning like a madman and immensely grateful that not all his ideas were rubbish.

  “We should all meet later on to have a drink to celebrate!” declared Pete merrily, but then immediately narrowed his eyes and looked mock disapprovingly at Jack, adding, “Then again, our Jack here would probably only give his drink over to some yummy mummy in order to try and cop a quick feel. Isn’t that right, Jack?”

  Jack scowled at Emma, who in return mouthed a somewhat insincere apology for her indiscretion. And in fact the reason her apology was somewhat insincere was that she really wasn’t all that sorry at all, actually, as sharing the info with Pete had been jolly good fun.

  “You’ll keep that to yourself, won’t you, Pete?” Jack implored helplessly. “I don’t want to be known around town as some sort of… well, you know… some sort of deviant or something, yeah?”

  “Who, me?” Pete replied, eyes wide, and batting his eyelashes in a comedic exaggerated proclamation of innocence. “As if I would ever do such a thing!”

  “You doing such a thing is precisely what I’m afraid of,” Jack answered, sighing resignedly knowing that Pete, being Pete, would most surely do exactly this.

  “Speaking of gossip,” said Pete, reaching out and taking hold of Emma’s hand. “How about you join me at the table by the window and we can watch the world go by and have a good old chin-wag and a gossip?”

  Emma moved around to Pete’s side of the counter, joining him without hesitation. “But I thought you’d lost your ability to gather gossip?” she asked him, as they made their way over to a table.

  “Yes, but not my appetite for gossip,” Pete gently corrected her.

  “I’ll, em… so I’ll look after things here, then, shall I?” said Jack, talking to precisely no one at all as he watched the other two sloping off. “Right, then. Looks like it’s just me and you, kid,” he said to the milk container in his hand, his new and only current companion.

  Jack took care of a few customers that came in, and then, during a lull, glanced over at Pete and Emma chatting away merrily. Jack just shrugged, content enough to be left to his own devices. Emma was smiling and happy, and if Emma was happy, Jack was happy. Seeing as how there were no customers to attend to at the present moment, he picked up one of the ballroom dancing magazines he’d nicked from Grandad and Ray earlier when they weren’t looking. He flipped through the pages. “Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly,” he said to himself, smiling fondly. “I cannot wait to see those couple of old plonkers in their… Victoria Blitz Men’s Rhinestone Lace Latin Combo,” he said, in reference to one of the outfits that either Ray or Grandad had circled with their pen, possibly shortlisting that particular selection for future consideration or purchase. “Bloody hell, that’s going to be a treat,” said Jack, chuckling.

  .

  Chapter Three

  T wo young children, brother and sister, hurtled through the supermarket aisle at breakneck speed, in a race to see who would reach their agreed-upon destination first. Squeals of delight soon emanated from the tow-headed girl, who raised her arms aloft in triumph as she made it just past the fruit & veg to the invisible finish line, her elation further evidenced by her feet stomping on the floor like she was crushing grapes into wine, and taking immense delight as well in extending her tongue to her brother, who hadn’t even made it past the cereal secti
on by the time of her glorious victory.

  “You cheated!” the boy protested, dropping out of warp speed to travel at a rather less accelerated pace. “You snuck up the wrong lane!” he accused her falsely, unable as he was to accept defeat graciously. The sight of his sister’s tongue pointed in his direction of course only served to compound his displeasure, and was for him simply the final straw. Once he made it to the edge of the fruit & veg section, he picked up a lovely Braeburn apple from a basket on display, and what he lacked in fleetness of foot he certainly made up for in precision aim. The apple was dispatched toward his sister very smartly, marking a rapid, direct course to its intended target and with contact imminent in a matter of less than a tick. Quite satisfied with his efforts, the boy’s tongue extended at the same rate as his sister’s tongue retracted.

  These two were showing the form of future Olympians in multiple disciplines, with the girl leaping to one side with quick cat-like reflexes, evading the fruity projectile with both grace and ease. Before she had opportunity to celebrate this additional victory over her brother, however, she watched on with alarm as the apple continued its trajectory, heading straight towards an elderly lady foraging amongst the bananas and striking the unfortunate shopper at the base of her skull. The elderly woman yelped in pain and clutched the back of her head, turning around to try and work out what the blue bloody blazes had just happened.

  The only other people in the fruit & veg aisle at present were the two young athletes, who both stood open-mouthed, with their brains telling them to run but with their legs working to cross-purposes and not cooperating. “It was him! He threw an apple at you!” declared the girl, having absolutely no intention of taking the blame for this one.

  The woman set down her shopping basket as she attempted to recover from the unexpected offensive and assess the situation before her. As there was a lone, random apple currently sat in the middle of the floor not far from where the woman stood, and with the young boy stood some distance away — throwing distance, as it should happen — the little girl’s story appeared to check out. With the woman still rubbing her head with one hand, she used the other to beckon, indicating for the boy to come forth, which, to his credit, he did immediately.

  The boy’s eyes were welled up, for he likely, at least initially, thought he’d finished the old dear off. Either that or he was just very much used to getting in trouble, and fully expectant of a good dressing-down, with this particular dressing-down being only the latest in a long line of many.

  “It wasn’t me! I mean it was me, but it wasn’t me!” the boy cried. “I mean I threw it, but I didn’t throw it at you, I threw it at her!” he insisted, pointing an accusatory finger at his sister, who now stood beside the woman in solidarity against their shared oppressor. “Only she moved out of the way at the last second! So it’s not my fault!” the boy pleaded. “I didn’t mean it! It was supposed to be her!” he wailed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands and tears now flowing freely.

  “Hey, hey,” said the woman, reaching down for the apple and picking it up off the floor. “I’m the one who should be crying, right? After all, I’m the one that’s just been hit on the noggin with this, aren’t I?” she told him, smiling. “Now there’s no need for tears,” she said, adopting a gentle tone to ease the boy’s anxiety. “I’m fine, see?” she said, holding the apple in her hand and bouncing it off her head a few times. “You see? None the worse for wear,” she assured him. “It’ll take more than a silly apple to do me in!”

  The woman’s comedically self-inflicted fruit-based assault evoked a titter from the girl and served to produce the desired effect on the boy, transforming his sobbing into a fit of giggling, and with snot bubbles forming from his nose as an extra added bonus.

  “That’s better,” she told the boy. “And no harm done. Well, apart from this apple,” she considered, dusting it off, though it was beyond salvation. “Hmm, a little bruised, perhaps. Here,” she said, handing it over to the boy. “Maybe go and give that to someone who works here?” she offered, and then, suggesting further, “Perhaps just tell them it was found on the floor, and leave out the rest?” She gave the lad a reassuring ruffle of his hair. “My name is Florence, by the way,” she said. “What’s yours, dear?”

  “My name…” the boy replied… “My name is—”

  “THE FUCK?” screamed a voice, emanating from a figure appearing from around the corner. It was the children’s mother. Or, more accurately, she could be described as the woman who had birthed them, as mother, in this case, would perhaps be too generous a word. She was a diminutive woman, with unkempt just-slept-on blonde hair fighting a losing battle against its black roots, and despite having only a slight build, the woman appeared somehow or other to simultaneously be overweight and unhealthy. It was a matter of her curves being in all the wrong places. “Boy!” she shouted. “What is that… that thing in your hand, boy??”

  The boy, as evidenced by the look on his face, seemed sadly accustomed to this form of address, as if he was rarely called by his given name and more often than not simply referred to as boy. He held the apple aloft for his mother’s inspection, but she maintained a look on her face like she hadn’t had a bowel movement in days. It was a look of consternation, confusion, and anger, as apples — and indeed fruit in general — were not something to be found in their flat, ever, and so the boy being in possession of one was a complete mystery to her. She hitched up her tracksuit bottoms, marched over to the boy, and smacked the apple out of his hand, sending it tumbling to the floor yet again.

  “S-sorry. I’m sorry,” was all the boy could say in reply, his sobs returning.

  “And you,” said the boy’s mother, addressing Florence now. “What’s the idea, giving my son apples, you evil old hag! What sort of wicked designs do you have on him? I know your type!”

  “I don’t understand. My… my type?” said Florence, thoroughly baffled at the rantings of this madwoman. It was as if this woman was making some kind of bizarre association between children, apples, and old women. Was this, thought Florence, was this lady seriously calling her… a witch?

  “Best get out of here right now before I call security!” the madwoman shouted to Florence.

  “But I haven’t even… I haven’t done anything…?” protested Florence, still unclear as to what infraction she was even being accused of.

  The little girl went to speak, to try and explain the situation, but was shouted down by her mum before she could even begin. “I can’t bloody leave you kids alone for two minutes!” her mum railed on. “And what’ve I’ve told you about going near weirdos!”

  By this time, a small crowd was forming, and all the shouting had attracted the attention of a security guard. “What’s all this, then?” said the burly security guard, arriving on scene and eager to calm the situation.

  The children’s mother stood with her arms folded against her chest, very cross, staring indignantly at Florence. “You can’t take your bloody eyes off your kids for even a moment!” she said, still glaring, though saying this more for the benefit of those watching on than for Florence. “Before you even know what’s happening, you’ll have someone trying to poison them!”

  There were audible gasps from the crowd, and the security guard took up a position between the two women, worried at the threat of possible physical violence. “Here, is this true?” he asked of Florence.

  “Of course not!” replied Florence.

  “Come to the office and we’ll sort all of this out,” said the guard in answer, eager to usher them both away.

  But Florence was exhausted by this whole encounter, the wind having been taken out of her sails completely, and just wanted to be on her way. “I don’t want any trouble,” she replied meekly. “I just came to pick up some flowers and a few other things. I just need my flowers,” she said, pointing desperately to her basket on the floor.

  “Just be on your way, then,” said the security guard, not really paying attention, and
just wanting the matter settled before things got even uglier.

  “I’m sorry, Florence!” said the little girl, calling after her as Florence walked away empty-handed. The girl was going to say something else as well, but her mother cut whatever it was short with a sharp smack to the side of the head.

  Florence took a handkerchief from her handbag and, leaning over, used it to wipe off the hardened bird droppings from the black marble surface.

  “I-I’m sorry I’m late,” she began, stuttering as she tried to think of a way to explain the events earlier in the day. “I was just out shopping, and the day got away from me,” she went on. “You know how I like to meet people and, typical me, I just got talking to some new friends, and then before you know it here I am, later than I usually… Well, anyway, listen to me prattling away like you’re interested in the nonsense I’m wittering on about,” she said. “How are you?” she enquired, changing subject, but it was a question asked in the sort of offhand manner one does when no answer is really expected or required.

  Florence paused for a moment, gathering herself together before she spoke further. “I know I promised I’d bring you some nice flowers, didn’t I?” she continued on. “It’s just that I had a bit of an issue at the supermarket and, well, you know what I’m like,” she offered, trying her best to remain cheerful. But then her shoulders dropped, as did her resilient smile. She placed a hand to her forehead. “I’m so sorry, Tom,” she said, looking away. “I’m so sorry,” she said again. “I promised you I wouldn’t cry, but…”

  Florence dabbed at her eyes, stemming the flow of tears, though not entirely successfully, and then looked back to her Thomas. She slowly lowered herself down to one knee, setting her handbag onto the grass beside Tom’s headstone, and taking the previous week’s flowers from the brass vase into her hand for inspection. “These look nice, Tom,” she said, rearranging the stems and picking out a couple of petals that were appearing a little tired. “Tell you what, Tom. I think I’ll come back soon with another bunch for you, okay?” she told him. “That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” she added, forcing a smile.