The Lonely Heart Attack Club - Project VIP

by J. C. Williams

  “It is now,” Jack answered with a shrug.

  Grandad coughed a purposeful cough, meant to catch Jack and Emma’s attention, which it did. With that accomplished, he beamed at the both of them, glancing down at himself, and then meaningfully over to Ray as well.

  “You two? Drive the bus?” asked Jack. “You’re being serious?” he pressed, and when it was apparent that Grandad was indeed serious, what with him now operating an imaginary steering wheel to demonstrate his resolve, “Ehm… no,” said Jack flatly, having already made up his mind on the matter. But then he softened his response a bit, offering further clarification. “Look, I do appreciate the offer, Grandad, and don’t think I don’t,” he said. “But, one…” he went on, raising his fork like a wand, “One, you don’t have the required licence to drive a minibus, either of you. And, two…”

  “I used to drive a bus when I was in the Army!” Ray entered in, offering a proud nod to his housemate as he did so.

  “There you go, then,” said Grandad to Jack, a look of sunny satisfaction on his face. “And as for myself, I can learn, can’t I?”

  Jack could sense this was important to the pair of them. But, still, there was the issue of, well… “Ray,” he said to Ray, who was now at the opposite end of the dining room busying himself liberating the wine glasses from the wooden drinks’ cabinet. “Ray, what colour hat am I wearing?” he asked.

  Ray twisted his neck around, peering over at Jack, eyes wide, blinking, moving his head this way and that, and very much resembling an inquisitive barn owl. Grandad, in an attempt to help his clearly struggling friend, began mouthing words to Ray. When that produced no results, however, Grandad then started gesturing wildly like he was playing Charades, which in essence he was. Such was his excitement that his bum was bobbing up and down on his seat like a cork on stormy ocean waves. Lucas didn’t really understand the purpose of his great-grandad’s animated gesticulations, but quite liked the bobbing up and down bit, assuming this to be a splendid game in and of itself, and happily imitating this roiling motion accompanied by squeals and giggles.

  “Ehm…” said Ray, darting his eyes between Jack and Geoffrey. “It’s, ah, gree-errr… brow-ehm… beige-ish… no, hang on, make that orange-y… ah, slightly orange… no, not slightly orange… orange-like, rather? … or, no, em, that is… what I meant to say is…” he went on, stumbling along pathetically. “No, wait! Blue!” he said eventually, offering a less-than-discreet wink to his wingman. “Blue!” he again declared. “That’s it, isn’t it? It’s blue!” he asked, well-chuffed, and now confident of his answer.

  Grandad shook his head, scowling at Ray, which was rather pointless, actually, as he wouldn’t have seen it anyway.

  “I’m not wearing a hat, Ray,” announced Jack. “Which is why you’re not driving the bus. Also, in regard to your atrocious eyesight, I did say I’d take you to the opticians as soon as you’d made an appointment. Have you made one?”

  “No, son,” Ray conceded. “No, I haven’t.”

  Ray’s shoulders dropped, and he turned around, pretending to continue gathering up the wine glasses, even though he’d already gathered them up.

  “Forget him,” said Grandad in reference to Ray, apparently willing to split up their fledgling driving alliance before it had even properly begun. “We don’t need him when we’ve still got me. I’d be perfect as a driver, and—”

  “Leave it, Grandad,” Jack answered him. “You don’t have the correct driving licence, and your eyesight isn’t much better than J Quincy Magoo over there.”

  “Hey! I may be blind but I’m not deaf. I heard that!” protested Ray, returning to the table with the glasses.

  “Plus…” continued Jack, now gathering steam. He was about to carry on explaining why Grandad would never make it as a minibus driver, and why such a thing could not possibly be possible, in any possible way, when Emma kicked his shin under the table. Emma was able to tell by now when Jack was on a roll and in danger of hurtling down the tracks towards disaster. She knew when a good kick in the caboose — or, in this case, shin — was in order so that his progress got derailed before it could do any real damage.

  Jack abruptly changed course, thanks to Emma’s less-than-gentle nudging, his steam engine having been shunted off to a separate track just now, effectively redirected, and slowing down as it headed in a much more amiable direction. “Grandad, at your time in life…” said Jack in an exaggeratedly benevolent tone… “At your time in your life, Grandad, you should be the one in the back of the bus, being chauffeured, rather than being up front and having a load of wrinkly people barking directions at you, yeah? Plus, look at it this way, if you’re not driving, then you can have yourself a drink back there, and there might even be a few good-looking ladies for you back there as well.”

  “For me to consort with?” asked Grandad, his disappointed frown turning upside down on consideration of this particular prospect. “Maybe I could be the tour guide! You know, on days out!” he said giddily, quickly warming to this idea, jettisoning his driving-related designs and leaving them behind without so much as a second thought. He pressed his shoulders back and offered a smart salute, evidently practising his greeting for future guided tours. “Yes, I could definitely be the tour guide. Definitely. Right. It’s decided, then,” he confirmed happily, even though he was the only one doing the deciding. “Although I’d need a hat!” he added. “I can’t be a tour guide without a proper hat!”

  “Don’t worry, we can get you a proper hat, Grandad,” Emma agreed accommodatingly.

  “Here, if he’s getting a special hat, I’ll need one as well!” Ray felt the need to point out. “It’s only fair!”

  “Gah!” said baby Lucas enthusiastically.

  “And there’s your answer, Ray,” Jack replied, yielding to Lucas’s wisdom.

  “Thank you for the support, young man,” said Ray, tipping his wine glass in Lucas’s direction. “Much appreciated.”

  “Now how about we tuck in?” suggested Jack with some urgency. “This beef wellington isn’t going to eat itself!”

  “I second that motion!” Emma happily agreed.

  “Gah!” said Lucas again, with ‘gah’ being one of those handy all-purpose words that had multiple meanings depending upon the situation. A moment ago, when directed at Ray, it had meant, “I wholeheartedly concur!” or something very much like it. Here, in this instance, it had a meaning much closer to, say, “Yes, and cut mine into tiny pieces, please, because I’ve got a very small mouth!”

  The beef wellington, brussels sprouts, and accompanying roasted potatoes, along with the delectable bread rolls, were soon a distant memory and Jack gave the impression he might well lick the pattern off his plate. “Jesus H Christ, boys,” said Jack, easing back in his chair and releasing a notch on his belt. “That beef was like something I’ve never eaten before. I’m not even sure that was beef. It was like some newly discovered animal made the ultimate sacrifice to appear in that pastry. Unicorn, perhaps? Wow!”

  “And the liver pâté it was coated with under the pastry? What mythical animal was that made from, do you reckon?” replied a smiling Grandad.

  “Cockatrice!” came Jack’s immediate reply, blurted out a little too enthusiastically for Emma’s liking, perhaps, but receiving an appreciative snort from Ray nevertheless.

  “That was indeed a lovely meal,” added Emma, rubbing her belly appreciatively. “And to think you two couldn’t really cook a few weeks ago!”

  “Grandad used to burn a pan of water,” suggested Jack wryly, running his finger over the surface of his plate in case he’d missed even the slightest morsel. “It truly is amazing what the internet has done for you two,” he remarked to Grandad and Ray, whilst peering over to Emma’s plate to see if she had possibly left any scraps he might nick, though sadly she had not. “You see, Grandad?” he said, looking up. “I told you the internet was more than just naked women!”

  Emma leaned over, pressing her elbows into the tabl
e. “Oh? What’s this? You seem to know quite a bit about naked women on the internet, Jack Tate.” She narrowed her eyes as she said this, looking somewhat like a female version of Clint Eastwood’s High Plains Drifter character.

  “Ray told me!” replied Jack, pointing an accusing finger at an oblivious Ray, who was now busying himself with clearing the plates away. “Anyway,” continued Jack, eager to move on, and throwing an unjustified look of disgust in Ray’s direction as he did so, “I think we should do it.”

  “What, now?” asked Grandad.

  “Project VIP,” replied Jack. “The Lonely Heart Attack Club’s Project VIP. We can use some of the club funds to get people internet access who don’t have it, and distribute tablets to those who’d most benefit from them, like the vulnerable and infirm. Seeing what it’s done for you and Ray, well, it seems like a bit of a no-brainer.”

  Emma thumped her fingertips on the tabletop in quick succession as she considered this. “Hmm, that won’t be cheap, though,” she offered, already accepting the idea and working out in her head how they might go about it. “Maybe we could do a fundraiser?”

  “What about another world record attempt, luv?” suggested Ray, returning from the kitchen to clear more of the used dishes away. “Maybe we could try and get the flower wall record back from those schoolkids who took it off us the following year?”

  “Snot-nosed little bastards!” said Jack, punching his fist into the palm of his other hand, and instantly working himself up into a lather. He still clearly hadn’t recovered from the pain of having their glory snatched away from them.

  “Jack! Language!” Emma scolded him, throwing her napkin across the table. “Anyway, it’s a great idea, another world record attempt,” she went on, addressing the group in general now. “But what about something different this time? Something different than the Bloomin’ Wall, as wonderful as that was?”

  With that, the four adults in the room drifted off to a quiet place, staring vacantly into the ether, searching for inspiration.

  “What about…” began Grandad, certain he’d come up with something, before then shaking his head. “No, sorry. It’s gone.”

  “Maybe…” offered Ray, but then went nowhere with it.

  “Yes…?” said Emma, eager to hear what Ray might have in mind.

  “Hmm?” replied Ray.

  “You’d had an idea?” asked Emma, ever hopeful.

  “Oh, no. I was just thinking about the new hats, is all,” Ray answered. “What were we talking about again?”

  “What about…” added Jack, taking up the reins. He chewed his lip, waggling his index finger in the air, a grin emerging as the germ of an idea developed in his head. “Here, what about… something related to ballroom dancing…? After all, we’re doing lessons across the clubs, in all our locations, right? And if we can get all of the chapters in the UK involved as well…”

  “We could get loads and loads of people involved!” Emma joined in, jumping on board, and now waggling her own finger in the air.

  And with the idea out there, Jack pounced on his phone, opening up his internet browser. “See? Technology!” he declared triumphantly, to no one in particular, nodding at his phone. “Wonderful thing, that,” he continued, talking to himself. “And… not a naked woman to be found on this phone, I might add,” he added, for the benefit of anyone who might find this bit of information relevant.

  “Mmm-hmm? Is that so?” replied Emma sceptically, as this last comment was clearly meant for her.

  Jack didn’t answer, choosing instead to remain on task. “Ah! Here!” said Jack after a moment, staring down at the screen on his phone. “This could be what we’re looking for…” he added, building the tension and not revealing what he’d found right away.

  “Yeeesss?” replied Emma. “Out with it, then.”

  “The largest waltz consists of one thousand five hundred and ninety-eight pairs, and was achieved by Comune di Trieste in Trieste, Italy, on the fifteenth of December, twenty-eighteen,” he said, reciting the entry from the Guinness World Records website. “If we get all the clubs on board, all of them participating together, I think we just may be able to beat that record,” he mused aloud. “What do you reckon?”

  “I’m up for a bit of dancing,” Ray entered in.

  “Me as well,” agreed Grandad.

  “Hmm, the only thing that could make this idea better would be special hats,” considered Ray, trying to work out how special hats might somehow be added into the equation.

  “We can get sponsorship forms out, and we can thus raise a fortune, which will help fund our Project VIP initiative. People gaining access to the internet could be life-changing for them,” Jack concluded, placing his phone down on the table in assured fashion, mission complete.

  “And this means, also, that we can dance together, yes?” asked Emma, putting that out there. “No excuses now?”

  “Absolutely,” confirmed Jack.

  “Gah!” said Lucas, not wishing to be left out. However, this time ‘gah’ had no special meaning. Sometimes, in fact, a gah was just a gah and nothing more.

  .

  Chapter Five

  T he Seniorsville Trolley was resplendent, a shimmering silver sixteen-seater chariot, and this magnificent beast would soon be put to work ferrying the old folk of the Isle of Man. The logo of The Lonely Heart Attack Club was emblazoned on either side of the bus, along with an image of a person in a wheelchair surrounded by people eager to greet them — a symbol of what the club was all about, namely, including those that weren’t included. The new arrival wasn’t cheap by any means, but the charity was going from strength to strength, both in terms of attendance numbers and also the contents of its bank account which subsidised such extravagant purchases. The new transport option would also hopefully swell attendance figures and, in turn, provide further exposure for the charitable work by driving around the streets of the Isle of Man and, in the process, acting as a mobile advertising hoarding. Whilst there were over forty chapters of the club across the UK, the Isle of Man was currently home to four, and Jack hoped the demand for their new service would be such that they’d soon have to consider expanding their vehicle fleet. Also, the fortunate by-product of their charitable endeavours was that folk were eager to come along to Jack and Emma’s fine establishments in order to purchase something to eat, have a coffee, and meet new friends… which was a prospect wholeheartedly welcomed, of course, by Emma and Jack.

  A small section of the shopping thoroughfare outside the Douglas coffee shop had been secured for the official unveiling of their new grand chariot later that day, where the mayor of Douglas was scheduled to cut the ribbon at the occasion. And while Grandad and Ray had been rather unsuccessful in their respective job interview requests to drive this fine chariot, Jack was eager, nevertheless, to avail himself of their offered general services, and so the two of them were put to work buffing up the bodywork to a particularly brilliant shine ahead of the vehicle’s official unveiling to the press and public.

  “I can see the crack of your arse, Raymond!” observed Grandad, lowering his sponge in gentle disgust, temporarily suspending his washing duties. “Pull your bloody trousers up!”

  Ray was stooped over the passenger-side wheel arch, giving it a damn fine scrubbing, and such was his gusto that with each circular motion of his wrist action his hips moved ’round in direct correlation. The result of this set of movements presented itself in an inexplicably hypnotic jiggling of Ray’s bum cheeks — which, as an outcome of his bending over, were at present half-uncovered — and with those milky-white, jiggling bum cheeks rather unfortunately offered up in Grandad’s direction like a set of blancmanges freshly unleashed from a pair of moulds onto a serving dish.

  “Ray, pull your bloody trousers up!” Grandad repeated, only louder this time, and with such volume that most of those citizens out enjoying a day’s shopping turned to see the source of the racket and only to be met with an unfortunate vision that their eyes could
never unsee. “I could park my bike between those arse cheeks!” Grandad added with a chuckle.

  “Stop looking, then, you old pervert!” shouted Ray, glancing over his shoulder. “And this bus isn’t going to clean itself!” he then added, the implication being that Grandad should perhaps spend a bit less time looking at Ray’s derrière and a little more time with some sponge action on the minivan’s bodywork as opposed to concerning himself with Ray’s bodywork.

  Grandad closed his eyes for a moment. “I can’t help it. It’s like a car crash. I don’t want to look, but every time you shake your arse my eyes are drawn to it like moths to a flame, and the image is now burned onto my retinas!” Grandad opened his eyes back up, blinking, trying to rid himself of the image, but to no avail. “Remind me to buy you a belt for your birthday, as I can nearly see what you had for tea last night!” he added, pointing with his sponge to the unwarranted amount of flesh currently on display.

  “Here,” said Ray, holding up his empty bucket. “Do something useful, will you, and fill this up with that hosepipe beside you. I’m out of water, and you’re closer to it than I am.”

  Grandad rose to his full height, standing with hosepipe in hand with the relaxed confidence of a seasoned gardener out watering his geraniums. “Roger that,” he said, casually twisting the yellow plastic valve at the end of the hose, fully expecting water to flow out as one might reasonably anticipate. He stared down, expectantly expecting his expectations to be met… but there was bugger-all. In fact it was drier than the Serengeti on an especially hot day.

  “Geoffrey!” shouted Ray. “My bloody knee is starting to seize up over here! What are you waiting for? Fill my bucket for me!”

  “Well I’m trying, aren’t I! But the crevice of your arse is putting me off, isn’t it!” Grandad shouted back.

  “Bloody hell, will you stop worrying about my crevasse and just get on with it!” replied an ever-increasingly impatient Ray.

  “Who said anything about a crevasse? I said crevice, not crevasse,” Grandad mumbled to himself unhappily, returning his attention to the end of the hose.