by J C Williams
“I hope you like a drop of port?” asked Derek, taking Jack out of his trance.
“Derek, I’m glad you came back. Pull up a deckchair! I’m not sure about port, but it’s a day of firsts, so I’ll give it a go! Thank you for all of your help today, Derek.”
Derek nodded and absorbed the sight of the flower wall with what remained of the failing sunlight.
“You, Emma, and Hayley, you’re all kind people. Whatever happens in your life, you should know you’ve enriched the lives of a lot of people,” he said, in a thoughtful manner.
Jack was humbled, and in that moment, he knew he’d be talking about the characters — such as Derek — to his grandchildren in years to come. It was funny how people on a completely different trajectory in life can sometimes be pulled together, and in doing so enhance other people’s lives.
Half a bottle of port later and Derek had dozed off in the deckchair — even though he was only staying for an hour — and how was a mystery to Jack, as those chairs were uncomfortable as hell. The promenade was full of Saturday night revellers, but all in good nature with the majority stopping to admire the wall, and most throwing a few coins in the collection bucket.
During a brief lull in traffic, Jack took the opportunity to use the facilities in the pub opposite. Derek was flat out, so he took the remaining charity bucket with him for safekeeping and whilst the port was palatable, the thought of a cold pint was more alluring.
A huge moon cast a haunting reflection on the still water and created a perfect silhouette of the Tower of Refuge, in Douglas Bay. The air was still, but the smell of the flowers still hung in the air. Derek fidgeted in the flimsy deck chair as the wooden frame dug into his back; he couldn’t get comfortable, and his shallow sleep was interrupted by the smash of glass. He opened his eyes and saw four boys and two girls stood in front of him, about six feet from the wall. They were drinking from bottles and listening to music from a mobile phone. He was still half asleep, but he quickly pushed himself into a standing position.
“What are you doing?” he said, raising his voice, pointing towards a pile of glass.
“Nothing!” was the collective response from the youths, who walked closer to Derek. In the blink of an eye, glass bottles smashed against the floor like a volley of gunshot. Derek moved back a pace or two, but the teenagers closed the gap. The calm of the evening was destroyed in a moment, as a noise like thunder echoed through the sunken garden. In desperation, Derek protected his head with his hands and tried to turn his back on the shower of glass. The noise was deafening, and such was the speed and veracity of the carnage, it was difficult for him to know which way to retreat.
“What the hell are you doing?” shouted Jack, throwing his pint of lager to one side. He grabbed the youth closest to him and pushed him to the floor. He tried to protest, but the chaos ensued. Jack soon succumbed and had no option but to collapse onto one knee and also protect his head. He reached out to Derek, who by now had fallen on the grass patch beneath the wall. As soon as the noise ended, Jack leapt to his feet and again moved towards the youths. Jack was bewildered; they were in the same situation as he was, also struggling to take cover.
“We didn’t do anything!” shouted one of the girls. “I was showing my friends the wall that I put a flower on today. We didn’t want to wake him up so we crept in.”
“What was the noise?” asked Jack, who was now completely confused.
“It’s that idiot,” said one of the group. “He threw a bin at the wall.”
Jack took a step back to compose and assess the situation. What he thought were glasses hitting him like a revolving door, were in fact seagulls making a play for the contents of the bin. Chips and all manner of discarded food formed a carpet around the wall. A constant salvo of birds dive-bombed like the German Luftwaffe, taking advantage of an easy meal.
Jack helped the youth he’d gripped and apologised immediately. The youths were only there to admire their handiwork during the day, and show their friends what they’d been involved in. Jack felt awful, but they understood the confusion and that he was only jumping to the defence of his Derek.
“Shit!” said Jack, moving towards the wall. The metal bin had struck it with precision and pulled great swathes away from the supporting frame. It lay on the reverse side, leaving what looked like a tunnel of flowers and twisted metal mesh in its wake. The heads of the flowers had exploded, leaving a layer of petals on the ground that mixed in with the unwanted food. Roughly a third of the wall was destroyed or hanging on by a thread, with the birds continuing to cause additional damage.
Jack’s anger turned towards the person who threw the bin. He ran up the stairs and looked further up the promenade. A man — clearly the worse for wear — progressed slowly and erratically, and it only took Jack a moment to catch up with him.
“Oi!” he shouted, but with no reaction from the man. Jack cautiously grabbed him by the shoulder, and, as he did so, the man swung ’round with a misguided punch. Any coordination he had was well and truly drowned by alcohol, and he collapsed in a heap. Jack turned him over to check that there were no injuries, but he was just clearly very drunk.
Jack stared down at him, struggling to place the face. “Terry Trimble! You piece of shit!” He gripped him by the collar and held a shaking fist close to his face. “You’re not worth it,” said Jack. Rather than throw him back to the floor, Jack helped him to his feet and checked him over once again for injury, before he carried on his wayward journey.
The youths remained and used the lid of the bin to collect the broken glass. There were feathers everywhere, and with the ketchup from the chips it looked like a bird had fallen in a food blender.
“It was that bloody journalist, Derek,” said Jack, slightly out of breath. “Are you okay?”
Derek stood with one arm extended against the perimeter wall of the sunken garden, and his back towards Jack.
“Derek, can I get you a seat?”
He didn’t speak, and with a gasp of air, Derek dropped to his knees.
“Call an ambulance!” screamed Jack to the youths. “Now!”
Emma reached sleepily for her phone. As soon as she heard Jack’s voice, she could hear the panic. “Is everything okay?” she asked, before pausing for a moment. “Okay, I’ll meet you there.”
The hospital was only a short drive, but it felt like every traffic light was conspiring against her. She drove straight past the car park and abandoned the car at the entrance. She was still in her pyjamas and her hair was a mess from not drying it completely after her bath. Jack stood at the end of a long, abandoned corridor and walked towards her.
She took him in her arms. “How is he?”
“I don’t know,” said Jack, desperately. “They took him away as soon as we arrived. He was clutching his chest.”
Emma tried to remain strong, but the tears fell freely down her cheeks. “Oh, Derek!” she said.
A nurse furnished them with a cup of tea and Jack held Emma tenderly for what seemed like hours. It was late, and the hospital was quiet; they could hear every door open and close. They didn’t speak much, but they were there for each other.
An older male doctor with a warm expression and kind face took them into a room. Emma was listening, but not absorbing the words. He escorted them into a room where Derek was wired up to a multitude of machines.
Jack sat on one side of the bed and Emma the other; they each gently took one of his hands. Emma leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on the side of his cheek and squeezed his hand a little tighter.
Derek died in the early hours, surrounded by those who cared about him, surrounded by his friends. The nurse was wonderful with them and gave Jack and Emma all the time they needed. She gave them a bag with some of his possessions, but one item she kept separate. “I wanted to give you this personally. I didn’t want it to get damaged.”
Emma’s tears were now flowing uncontrollably, and she sobbed so much her chest hurt. Derek had kept the picture fr
om the top of Snaefell — dressed in his tuxedo — in his wallet. She gazed at the photo with great fondness and took great comfort from the huge smile he had on his face.
They didn’t sleep much that night. Jack took it upon himself to phone Derek’s family; he felt it would be more personal than someone from the hospital that didn’t know him. They were devastated, but insisted on hearing all about the record attempt that Derek had been talking to them about for weeks.
Jack must have drifted off for a moment when his phone buzzing in his pocket woke him. It was the people from the Guinness World Records, who’d arrived on the Island and were on their way into Douglas. Part of him was tempted to tell them to stay at the airport as, after all, their record hope was destroyed. But they’d come all this way, the Guinness people, so he wanted to afford them proper courtesy. Emma and Jack made the solemn journey to the promenade, dreading the sight of the wall in the cold light of day.
“We’ll do it next year,” said Emma, as she placed a reassuring arm around his waist.
By the time they arrived, Kelvin, Hayley, and the rest of the Silver Sprinters were stood near the wall. There were tears and people consoled themselves, sharing memories of happier times.
Hayley walked towards them, and they shared a tender embrace. “I’m really sorry,” she said. “Kelvin insisted on coming down to help us fix the wall, but, we couldn’t. There is just too much damage to do anything with it.”
Jack and Emma stood in front of the wall and the considerable hole that’d been cleaned up as much as possible. He apologised to the Guinness people for their wasted journey, but as he’d hoped, they were fine and offered to come over the following year if they wanted to do it again.
They all lined up in front of the wall, using it as a focal point for their collective grief.
Kelvin moved in from the rear of the garden, where he’d been diligently working on trying to resurrect the wall, but it was an impossible task. Instead, he’d used the discarded flowers to form one huge bouquet. He walked behind the wall and lifted it into place, positioning it in the centre of the existing hole, where he fixed it in place.
The tears from the group, which had not abated, fell in floods once again. Kelvin had taken the flowers, which were virtually destroyed, and created a stunning wreath with the words: “Derek – Our Friend.”
The funeral was a touching but lively affair, culminating in a party above the coffee shop. Jack was touched when Derek’s family went out of their way to speak to them about Derek’s career and his early life, of which he never really spoke about. He was a character and now hopefully reunited with his beloved wife.
Jack was determined to make the day special and once again had used his meagre savings — destined for the bike dealership — to instead fix the missing letter on the sign, outside the shop. Derek had only worked there for a short time, but he’d have wanted the shop looking its best.
There were more than eighty people at the wake, a testament to the affection and friendship he’d formed over the years; he’d touched a lot of people. Jack cleared his throat and tapped the side of his wine glass to bring the room to attention.
“I just wanted to take a moment to raise our glasses to remember a special, wonderful man. We only knew him for a short time, and if I had the opportunity I’d have made it my mission to know him longer. He was a wonderful and kind man and I’d love it if you’d all raise your glasses in a toast.”
“Derek!”
“Before I go, I’d like to say one more thing,” said Jack. Emma was getting a little nervous as he’d had a glass or two of wine, and despite his best intentions, she worried in case he’d say something inappropriate.
“Derek was one of the founding members of The Lonely Heart Attack Club. There is an irony that he died of a heart attack.” There was a collective groan.
“The thing I’m most pleased about is that he wasn’t lonely. He was surrounded by wonderful people. We’ll continue with the club and make it bigger and better and most importantly, we’ll look out for each other. We’ll make sure our friends aren’t lonely!”
Emma walked towards him, and then nearly squeezed the life out of him. “That was wonderful!” she said. “You really are a big old softy. Derek would have been proud of you!”
“Terry Trimble – Jailed for 3 Years” was the headline that got the biggest cheer in Fleet Street for a generation. The loathsome man had truly had his comeuppance when the phone tapping scandal finally caught up with him. There was a relief in the media and the hope that he was the last of the old guard and they’d be in a position to move forward. On the same front page — but a separate report — ran the story about Kelvin Reed securing a new contract with the BBC; perhaps the editor’s ironic swipe to include both stories collectively.
Jack had the front page of the paper framed and it sat resplendent behind the till. He’d also had a small brass plaque made which sat above a chair in the corner of the shop: Derek – a gentleman, sat here at 8:20 most mornings. He was gone, but certainly far from forgotten and Emma fondly recalled her time with him when she polished the plaque each morning at 8:20 a.m.
Jack poured a glass of wine and joined Emma on the sofa. “Are you glad you stayed in this flat, then?” she asked, nestling into him.
He looked around the modest flat which now had an impressive overhaul, driven mainly by the small but effective feminine touches. “I am now you’re living here,” he said. “But you need to stop peeing on the toilet seat, and would it kill you to take the hair out of the plughole! Are you glad you didn’t go to Singapore?”
She pinched his side. “You love me being here. I’m going nowhere. Now, shush, Kelvin is on.”
Kelvin Reed had finally returned to mainstream television, a little over eighteen months since he fell victim to shambolic, insincere reporting. He’d been the king of Sunday night television for a decade and now he’d returned to this throne.
To their complete shock and delight, Kelvin spent the first two minutes of his new show talking about the previous eighteen months and how he’d nearly given up. He spoke about one of the catalysts being “the selfless and admirable efforts put in by unpaid volunteers to make the community a safer place, and one where the vulnerable felt less alone.” He summed up the intro thusly: “To my good friends in the Isle of Man, and to Derek, who, sadly, recently left us… to my friends there, I’ll hopefully see you next year!”
“We’re famous!” shrieked Emma, with delight.
Jack picked up his glass of wine and gave a toast to the TV. “We’ll get that bloody world record. Here’s to next year!”
THE END
Also by Author J C Williams
If you’ve enjoyed this book, the author would be very grateful if you would be so kind as to leave feedback on Amazon. You can subscribe for author updates and news on new releases at:
www.authorjcwilliams.com
And if you’ve enjoyed this book, be sure to check out the second in the series: The Lonely Heart Attack Club: Wrinkly Olympics, as well as the third, The Lonely Heart Attack Club: Project VIP.
www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B075WCX7BD
www.amazon.co.uk/Lonely-Heart-Attack-Club-Project/dp/B0858TTJMF
And also…
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www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B07H9WZ3MC
www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B07PZXVZ2F
www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B082DP7SJ8
www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B07DJYJWLD
www.amazon.co.uk/Seaside-Detective-Agency-Brazen-Burglar/dp/B08N1K796D
www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00RO4PX3E
www.amazon.co.uk/Bookshop-Beach-J-C-Williams/dp/B08HGPPRYK
You may also wish to check out my other books aimed at a younger audience…
www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B01HWTNHAG
www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B01MDKS0KM
www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1076693202
www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B07XX5K3GG
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br /> All jolly good fun! And also…
For the very adventurous among you, you may wish to give my hardworking editor’s most peculiar book a butcher’s. Lavishly illustrated by award-winning artist Tony Millionaire of Maakies and Sock Monkey fame.
Recommended for readers age 14 and up.
www.amazon.co.uk/Get-Some-Sleep-Dave-Scott/dp/1976262496
