‘Mom has told me she had some terrible boyfriends when she was growing up,’ Laura said.
‘Oh yes,’ Frank said. ‘She certainly did.’ Beth watched, virtually open-mouthed, as Frank told Laura about some of the self-centred and boorish boys and the rude, slovenly and thoughtless boys that Beth had dated.
‘Treble word. Seventy-one,’ Beth said. ‘Now give me the letters bag, Laura, and you, dear Father, can stop critiquing my love life.’
Beth won the game and Frank came last, although he protested that he would have beaten Laura if he wasn’t all of a sudden suffering from jetlag after all and if she’d spelled ‘agonise’ the proper way with an ‘s’ instead of a ‘z’, and if he’d been allowed ‘flavour’ rather than ‘flavor’.
‘This is America, Frank,’ Laura said. ‘Them’s the rules.’
After the game they watched The Truman Show on a movie channel and Frank wondered what significance the film played in Beth’s and Jimmy’s relationship. In a really long ad break Beth tried to explain to Frank for the fourth or fifth time exactly what her job involved but no matter how she described it and what it entailed – abstractor, facilitator, functional activator, micro management, credential-ling coordination, expeditor, pagination system operator – it still didn’t sound like a real job to him. He accused her of making up words to use in their next game of Scrabble.
When Frank was in the bathroom, taking his dentures out before bed, he kept breaking into involuntary bursts of laughter. He didn’t know at what. They’d all laughed so much tonight that he just couldn’t seem to stop. It was as though the air-conditioning unit might be pumping nitrous oxide into the house. If he’d died in his sleep that night and somebody had stood in a church and said that it was what he would have wanted, it wouldn’t have been entirely nonsense. It was the sort of thing that was often said about entertainers after they’d finished the punch line to their greatest ever joke or literally sung their heart out before dropping down dead on stage mid-curtain call, with the sound of the audience’s laughter and applause ringing in their dying eardrums. Frank had always thought it was a corny show business cliché, but, after just a few days with his family, it wouldn’t have been the worst time to triumphantly leave the stage in a box. He didn’t want to go back to Fullwind. There was nothing waiting for him there other than money problems and inclement weather. He had no great attachment to anything that he’d left behind. All that he loved in the world was here with him now.
15
There was a new updated itinerary printed and left out on the living-room table for Frank when he got up the next morning:
Batman & Robin (Revised): Drive back to Hollywood to Greystone Mansion. Gasp at the Tudor-style mansion and stroll around the landscaped gardens.
Movies filmed at Greystone Mansion include: The Big Lebowski, The Bodyguard, Batman & Robin, Death Becomes Her, Spider-Man(s), X-Men.
Today’s Fact: Built by Edward L. Doheny (the inspiration for Daniel Day-Lewis’s character in There Will Be Blood) as a gift for his son (Ed L. Doheny’s, not Dan D-Lewis’s)
On the drive to Greystone Mansion, Frank and Laura shared traffic accident anecdotes like scars. Laura told Frank about how she’d cycled into a tree branch three years ago, resulting in her almost losing her sight and ending up with two different-coloured eyes. Frank knew about the tree and the bicycle but he didn’t know about the boy.
‘I was dating this guy who turned out to be an idiot, but a romantic one,’ Laura said. ‘He rented a tandem for us and because he was the guy, he had to go at the front, even though my legs were probably stronger. Anyhow, we ended up on some side street on this dumb bicycle made for two and he steered us under a tree and instead of shouting “duck” or doing the chivalrous thing and protecting me from the branch by taking it full in his face, he ducked. What a hero. It’s called heterochromia,’ Laura said, referring to her eye condition. ‘Kiefer Sutherland and Robert Downey Junior have it too and David Bowie and Alexander the Great. It’s mostly dogs who get it, though. Tell me about your accident. It was a milkman, right?’
‘Yes. I was walking and he was driving a milk float. I was probably going faster than him. He drove into me and I ended up underneath the milk float. I broke my arm and a bone in my foot. Isn’t it pronounced Bowie?’ Frank said. ‘Like Joey.’
‘Bowie,’ Laura repeated, in a transatlantic cockney accent that was not dissimilar to that of David Bowie himself. ‘What exactly is a milk float? I thought it was something to do with parades?’
‘That’s just a float,’ Frank said. ‘A milk float is a van for delivering milk. They’re electric and they’re very slow. It’s probably the most embarrassing thing you can be run over by. You have milkmen in Los Angeles, don’t you?’
Laura nodded.
‘I expect your milkmen are a lot different to ours,’ Frank said. ‘They probably look like film stars. More glamorous than Benny Hill.’
‘He’s that guy who gets chased around by women all the time, right?’ Laura asked.
Frank was as surprised that a twenty-year-old American girl would have heard of Benny Hill as Laura had been that an eighty-two-year-old English man would know what a goth or an emo was, or that he would be the one to teach her the correct way to pronounce the names of rock stars.
They drove in through the gates of Greystone Mansion and up the steep hill to the car park. They walked slowly around the vast public park, through courtyards and gardens, stopping to sit on benches by fountains and ponds and to look through the windows of the gothic neoclassical Tudor-style concrete seven-chimneyed folly of a building at the black-and-white marble floor inside. Bette Davis had once walked down the stairs holding that hand-carved oak banister. Batman lived here. They talked about the other films that had been shot on location there, competing with each other for who had seen the most. Laura asked whether Frank had ever seen a TV movie that Bette Davis was in with James Stewart. He hadn’t heard of the film and he was sure that Laura had only mentioned it so that she could ask him again to do his James Stewart impression. Frank still refused. He said that it would probably come out sounding more like Sean Connery. She asked him to do Sean Connery instead and see what happened. Frank looked up at the faux Tudor mansion that they were sitting in front of and something dawned on him.
‘Do you remember my friend John?’
‘I haven’t forgotten about Jimmy Stewart yet,’ Laura said.
‘My friend Smelly John . . .’
‘Smelly John?’ Laura said, thinking she’d misheard him.
‘Yes. Smelly John lived in sheltered housing. Do you have sheltered housing in America?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Laura was still eager to find out what made John smelly.
‘It’s a sort of warden-assisted home. For retired people mainly,’ Frank said.
‘Like a retirement community?’
‘A retirement community. That makes it sound more romantic. John’s retirement community was a place called Greyflick House. The coincidence has only just occurred to me. Greyflick House and Greystone Mansion. It wasn’t quite as posh as this, I’m afraid,’ he said. He thought about the communal lounge and the armchairs, the broken lights, the noisy plumbing and the sticky carpeted corridors of the plain rectangular brick building that was Greyflick House. ‘It was really just a box for old people and I don’t think many films were made there. I won’t include it in my bus tour.’
Frank lifted the zip-up travel document pouch out from inside his trousers, where it was attached to his belt so that nobody could steal it. He unzipped the pouch and took out his wallet. He opened the wallet and found an old postcard of Smelly John that he kept in the wallet like a picture of a war bride or a lovechild. When he removed the postcard the cheque from the landlord came out with it. The cheque still wasn’t torn up; that was the extent of Frank’s escape plan. That he might somehow still be able to cash the worthless piece of paper or give it back to the landlord in exchange for his home. He poked the cheque
back into the wallet and unfolded the postcard and gave it to Laura. The postcard picture of Smelly John was taken in the 1970s when he was a young punk rocker. His hair was green and shaped into spikes and there was a Coke-can ring pull hanging from his left earlobe. On the postcard, Smelly John was standing next to a red telephone box and a London policeman. It was like a still from a Hollywood film that was set in London. Smelly John, the policeman and the phone box were the equivalent of the joggers and the gymnasts and the other LA props on Santa Monica Beach.
‘He’s a punk?’ Laura said.
‘Labels,’ Frank said and he shook his head. ‘But yes. That’s why he’s called Smelly John.’
‘Cool. How old is he now?’
‘He was sixty-four. He died about a year and a half ago.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Laura said. She gave Frank the postcard.
‘He left me this in his will,’ Frank said. ‘Not just the postcard. He left me some other things too. Some old records, but I’ve got nothing to play them on. He left me his hats. He had quite a small head, it turns out. There were a few other things as well. No great fortune, sadly.’
‘No treasure map?’
‘No treasure map.’ Frank put the postcard back in his wallet. ‘I could send you the records, if you like. I saw you have an old record player in your room. You’d probably like the music more than I would. Do you like the Sex Pistols?’
Even after goth, emo and David Bowie, Laura could still be surprised by her grandfather. She was intrigued and perhaps a little fearful of what he might say next.
Frank told Laura how Smelly John had been to the first ever Sex Pistols concert and how he’d always said that he was going to have their music played at his funeral. When he died Frank hadn’t made it to the funeral and didn’t know whether anybody would know what music John had wanted played or if they would have been true to his wishes.
‘A few weeks after the funeral I went to the cemetery. Even though John wasn’t buried there, because he’d been cremated. But still, I found the most neglected-looking gravestone right over the far side of the cemetery. The name on the gravestone was illegible and it was broken and overgrown by weeds. I pretended that was where John’s body was. It was the most punk rock-looking gravestone there. This all sounds silly when I say it out loud.’ He looked like he was going to abandon the story.
‘Go on,’ Laura said.
‘I took a cassette recorder with me. I’d originally bought it to play a Spanish language tape on. I never got round to that, but anyway, I had to record John’s music from a CD onto the tape.’
He told Laura how he’d put the cassette recorder on the ground by the gravestone and waited until he was sure that there was nobody else around and then he’d played ‘Pretty Vacant’ by the Sex Pistols for Smelly John. The song had been accompanied on the cassette tape by the distant barking of a neighbour’s dog and halfway through there was the sound of a backwards doorbell. When the music was finished a man’s voice said, ‘¿Puede darme algo contra el mareo una piscina?’ Which, if Frank had ever played the tape before, he might have learned meant, ‘Can you give me something for sea-sickness?’
‘That’s a nice story,’ Laura said. ‘Funny/sad. I could do your hair like that for you, if you like? Spike it up and dye it green. We could get a pretty spectacular Mohawk out of your hair.’
Frank said that he would think about it. He said that he hadn’t been in a hairdresser’s for a very, very long time and Laura said that, as a trained hairstylist, she had already managed to work that out. She said that he had the longest hair of anyone she knew, male or female. Frank asked if they did old-fashioned shaves at her salon. He said that it was one of the things that he’d regretted never having experienced.
‘That and water skiing,’ he said.
‘We should write a list.’
On the walk back to the car, Laura said, ‘You know how you said Grandma was your first and last love?’ Frank nodded. ‘Mom’s never gonna meet her Mr Right because she already has – and he’s in Pasadena staying with his brother. Sooner or later she’s going to start dating again and I don’t want her to end up with another one of those bad boyfriends you talked about. I don’t want a racist or a car thief for a stepfather, Frank. Most men are idiots. No offence.’
‘None taken.’
‘Mom is not going to be able to pick and choose any more. She’s an old woman. No offence.’
‘None taken. Perhaps we should presume I won’t be offended by anything you say,’ Frank said.
‘Deal. Now do your Jimmy Stewart.’
When they got back to the house Frank was tired. Considering he was in a city where nobody ever walked, he’d done a hell of a lot of walking. Beth wasn’t back from work yet and he went for a lie-down in Laura’s room. He closed his eyes and he must have fallen asleep because when he opened them again he could hear Beth talking to Laura, their voices coming from different rooms in the house.
‘Did you tidy the kitchen cupboard?’ Beth said.
‘No. Why?’
‘I don’t remember all the cans being in such neat rows.’
‘You’d better check the bathroom towels,’ Laura said.
Frank presumed that Jimmy had tidied the cupboard when he’d last been there or that he’d been to the house today while they were all out. He tried to remember what film Laura was making reference to. He was sure that Julia Roberts was in it. It was probably another of Beth’s and Jimmy’s date movies. Maybe Laura had tidied the cupboard to remind her of it. He closed his eyes and fell asleep again. The next time he woke the house was quiet, it was dark and everyone had gone to bed.
16
Rebel Without a Cause: Visit the Griffith Observatory to watch the planetarium show. Pose like tourists in front of the Hollywood sign and next to James Dean’s head. American astronomy joke for Frank: How can you tell when the moon is broke? When it is down to its last quarter.
Movies filmed at these locations include: Rebel Without a Cause, The Terminator, Dragnet, Jurassic Park, Yes Man, The Spy With My Face, Flesh Gordon.
Frank woke up, unsure for a moment again where or when he was. Instinctively, he felt around with his feet at the end of the bed for his hot water bottle. When he was at home, besides listening for the first aeroplane to fly over his flat in the morning, in the winter he’d also learned to tell the time by the temperature of his hot water bottle – the cooler the rubber, the later it was.
There was no hot water bottle. He wasn’t at home. He looked around the room. Bette Davis was there, still smoking and advertising whiskey. There were photographs of Laura and her friends, arranged in a circle on one wall. Concert and cinema ticket stubs were pinned to a cork noticeboard on another wall beside a large yellow foam hand with a pointing finger and the words ‘Number 1’ on it. The room was tidy. Perhaps too tidy for a busy twenty-year-old. Frank thought it had been tidied for his benefit. The only mess in the room was his; a shirt thrown on top of his open suitcase and a pair of his trousers with one leg in the case and the other out, as though they were attempting to escape. One of Frank’s socks was on the floor next to his upturned shoes, he’d spilled coffee on the bed sheet and there was a circular cup stain on the dressing table, the same as the one that he’d pictured on his non-existent Premium Bonds envelope.
He thought about the far greater mess that he’d left behind at home. Not just the drawers that he’d tipped out in the living room when he’d forgotten where he’d put his passport at the last minute or the clothes that he’d thrown on the bed during one final suitcase repack. And not even the smells from the open carton of milk he’d left in the fridge or the rubbish that he’d forgotten to empty from the kitchen bin, but the life mess that he’d left behind: his unpaid bills and impending homelessness.
Frank had told a lot of people that he was going on holiday. He’d told Eyes Facing South-West in the charity shop, he’d told the librarian, the woman in the post office, the man cleaning the photo booth and the child pe
eking through the curtain, he’d told the travel agent in the big Sainsbury’s and customs officers and airport security staff on both sides of the Atlantic. But he hadn’t informed any of his neighbours, he hadn’t told the postman, or even his landlord. He wondered how long it would be before somebody – Hilary, the head of the Neighbourhood Watch, perhaps – noticed he was missing and called the police, who would get no answer when they rang Frank’s questioning doorbell and they would have to kick the front door in.
He tried to put all thoughts of home out of his mind. He wondered how late it was. Even though he was still incredibly tired, he felt as though he’d slept for a long time. He was worried that he might even have slept through an entire day. The thought of losing that much of his time here made him feel sick. He thought he could feel the heat of the sun shining through the window but he wasn’t yet familiar enough with that for it to be a reliable means of telling the time.
He got up. His joints were certainly creaking and protesting like they did in the morning. He went into the living room. Beth had already left for her follow-up appointment and Laura was sitting on the sofa watching TV. Bill was asleep next to her.
‘Morning,’ Laura said. She got up from the sofa.
As if to prove how she could not be pigeonholed and perhaps as a result of Frank thinking that she might be a goth or an emo, she was wearing a sand-coloured suede skirt and a bright blue T-shirt. If she’d been standing on the beach, Frank might have lost sight of her.
She asked if he wanted some breakfast and he said would it be all right for him to have a shower and a shave first? Laura gave him fresh towels and lined up bottles of shower gel, shampoo and conditioner along the side of the bath. She gave him some expensive-looking aftershave balm and left him alone while she went to start breakfast.
The shower and the shave woke Frank up but by the end of breakfast he was full and tired again. He would have loved a lazy day on the sofa watching television and catching up on what Bill had been up to but Laura had drawn up an itinerary and taken the time off work to be with him. He could chat with Bill anytime. And what had television done for him since the 1970s?
Frank Derrick's Holiday of a Lifetime Page 12
