The Extra Ordinary Life of Frank Derrick, Age 81

by J. B. Morrison

  ‘I know it’s a washing-up bowl,’ Kelly said. ‘But you should probably take the rubber gloves off first.’

  ‘Yes,’ Frank said. He felt like he was part of the least erotic striptease act in history. He struggled to find the strength to get the rubber gloves off. The determined energy he’d started emptying the shed with had deserted him. He was suddenly very tired. Kelly took hold of his hand and pulled the first rubber glove until it popped off. It made a thwap sound, the sound of Batman punching the joker. She took the other glove off, rolled them both into a ball, and, in no mood for basketball, she put them on the table next to the washing-up bowl.

  ‘Put your arm in the water,’ she said.

  Frank lowered his arm into the washing-up bowl. The scratches from the ivy stung. He kept it to himself as Kelly didn’t seem to be in a sympathetic mood.

  ‘Now move your arm around.’

  He swept his arm across the surface, causing a washing-up bowl tsunami, spilling water onto the table.

  ‘Gently,’ Kelly said.

  Frank moved his arm back and forth more slowly.

  ‘How does that feel?’

  ‘It hurts a bit. Throbbing.’

  ‘I think you’ll live. Keep it in the water for about five minutes. And keep it moving. You should be doing this three times a day. Didn’t they tell you that at the hospital?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘I can’t remember. They gave me a leaflet but I must have thrown it away. I thought it was another copy of their religious magazine.’ He told her about the nurse coming to his door. He wasn’t sure that she believed him. She went out to the kitchen and washed Frank’s breakfast things. Her washing-up was noisier than usual. More Janicey. The lack of a plastic bowl between the cutlery, the crockery and the metal sink didn’t help. It wasn’t a deafening noise. Just loud enough to let Frank know she wasn’t happy.

  After five minutes with his arm in warm water Kelly came in, took the washing-up bowl away and refilled it with cold water. She put the bowl on the table and told Frank to put his arm back in the bowl. She brought a tea towel in from the kitchen, folded it in half and put it on the table to soak up the puddle of spilled water.

  ‘You seem annoyed with me,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not annoyed.’ She went out into the kitchen and put the kettle on and came straight back in. She stood in front of Frank. Let’s say her hands were on her hips.

  ‘You have to look after yourself,’ she said. ‘Taking a garden shed apart after you’ve just had a plaster cast removed from a broken arm is not taking care of yourself. And look at the state of your arms. I’ll have to clean those. I’m not really supposed to do that.’

  Frank looked at his scratched arms.

  ‘It was the ivy,’ he said.

  Frank hated being told off. He hated it. No one of his age should be told off. There should be a cut-off point for it. It should come with the free bus travel and the TV licence.

  ‘I’m not annoyed with you,’ Kelly said. ‘I care about you.’ She sat down. She dried his arm with the tea towel, took out some cotton wool and a tube of ointment and cleaned the deeper scratches.

  ‘What exactly were you doing out there?’ she said. And Frank told her all about his dream, as though he was on The X Factor.

  He told her how he’d always wanted his own home cinema and he’d planned how it would look and what it might be called and what films he’d show. He told her about soundproofing and the pattern on the red seats he was going to buy, the make and speed of the projector he wanted and how Sheila was going to be the cinema’s usherette and tear tickets and show people to their seats with a torch. He went into his bedroom and pulled a box out from under the bed and he found the drawings he’d made of his cinema. He showed them to Kelly.

  ‘Without Sheila, I seemed to lose enthusiasm. Time passed by and the shed got filled up with rubbish.’

  They talked for a while longer about films and how much the cinema had changed since Frank was Kelly’s age.

  ‘I hardly ever go to the cinema any more,’ Kelly said.

  ‘You could come to mine.’

  ‘What’s showing?’

  ‘I could put on something you like. What’s your favourite film?’

  Kelly didn’t need time to think about it.

  ‘Dirty Dancing.’

  ‘Oh right, the one with . . .’ Frank wanted to say Patrick Swayze. He knew that was the right name, but he was wary of making a fool of himself when it was actually Bernard Swayze or Patrick Snazeby.

  ‘Patrick Swayze,’ Kelly said.

  ‘. . . ayze,’ Frank said, joining her mid-way through the actor’s surname. ‘Is it good?’

  ‘You haven’t seen Dirty Dancing?’ Kelly said. As though he’d said he’d never seen snow or a rainbow. After talking for ten minutes about how brilliant the film was and all the different times she’d seen it, she looked at her watch. ‘Oh my God. I haven’t done any of the things I’m supposed to be doing. I’m sorry. I’m going to have to go. Wasting your time, talking all day.’ She stood up and started collecting her things together in her bag.

  ‘It’s nice to have somebody to talk to,’ Frank said. He got up and followed her into the hall.

  ‘You go and sit back down,’ she said. ‘Rest.’

  ‘I just need to shut the shed door.’

  ‘I can do it.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Frank said. He followed her down the stairs and out to the front gate. Kelly looked at the scooter that was leaning against the hedge.

  ‘Did that belong to your granddaughter?’ she said.

  Frank looked at the scooter, its pink handlebar tassels were gently blowing in the breeze.

  ‘It’s mine. I just bought it.’

  ‘Mr Derrick,’ she said, ‘what am I going to do with you?’ She walked through the gate and crossed the road to her car, opened the door, and, before climbing inside, she said, ‘If I see you on it before your arm is properly healed, I’ll run you over again myself.’

  She got in the car and started the engine. The stereo came on. She opened the car window.

  ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I like your glasses.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Frank said.

  ‘They’ve taken five years off you.’

  ‘I should have got contact lenses. They might have taken off ten years.’

  ‘I see you’ve broken them already.’

  Frank felt the side of his glasses. ‘It was the postman.’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘The postman!’

  Kelly revved the engine as though she were about to leave, then thought of something else to say.

  ‘We should go to the big supermarket next week,’ she said. ‘Get something other than tinned spaghetti.’

  ‘The big supermarket? I’ve never been,’ Frank said.

  They were both shouting now, to be heard above the sound of the engine and the music inside Kelly’s car, just like they did when the kettle was boiling.

  ‘You’ve never been to a supermarket?’

  ‘Well, yes. But not the big one. I’ve been on the bus but I’ve just never reached its final destination. I’m like Jim Lovell.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jim Lovell. The only man to have flown to the Moon twice without landing on it.’

  ‘Do you know a lot about space travel?’

  ‘I’ve seen Apollo 13 three times.’

  Kelly revved the engine. ‘I’m late,’ she shouted. She revved the engine one more time, bumped the car off the grass verge onto the road, and Frank – and surely all the neighbours, because Frank and Kelly really had been shouting quite loudly – watched the little blue car move backwards and then forwards, the gears crunching until Kelly found the one she was searching for and then she tooted the horn and Frank watched her drive away. With his new glasses he could see her right to the end of the road until she turned right and disappeared.

  He thought if he l
ooked hard enough he’d still be able to see her once she had turned the corner. Like he had superpowers. Frank Derrick. Superman. Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive and the only thing preventing him from being able to jump tall buildings in a single bound were all the bungalows.

  22

  Albert Flowers was behind the campaign to get Fullwind-on-Sea etched onto the Villages in Bloom trophy. His name hadn’t been made up for him by Frank because he liked flowers, although the editor of the Fullwind-on-Sea village newsletter did like flowers. He owned a florist, always wore flowery-patterned bow ties and a carnation or a tulip in the buttonhole of his jacket, and he was married to a woman named Rose. But his name was just coincidence, or serendipity.

  It was Flowers who had written to Frank about all the fridges in his garden before last year’s competition. Fullwind had come fourth then. Albert Flowers wasn’t going to let that happen again. As the final of the competition approached he spent most of his day walking around the village inspecting gardens, taking photographs and talking into his Dictaphone, before going home to write polite letters to residents about the length of their grass or the height of their Leylandii.

  He was standing on the verge outside Frank’s flat. And just by the way the blades of the grass covered the scuff-marks on his shoes he could tell that the grass was too long. He would ask Frank about that in a moment. First there was the matter of all the junk in his front garden.

  ‘It would be helpful if you could get it moved as soon as possible,’ Flowers said and he smiled falsely.

  Frank looked up and tried to register his acknowledgement via the smallest of facial expressions. Every little bit of him was currently trying to lift a heavy stone bollard and he felt that if he raised an eyebrow too high he’d drop the heavy lump of concrete and break another toe. He had, of course, considered doing just that. If he let the bollard fall onto his foot, breaking a new toe or another metatarsal, Beth would somehow have to find the money for a few more months of home care visits. Frank had also thought about walking out in front of a milk float again, or falling down the stairs on his way to pick up the newspaper. He could tell Beth he was getting the newspaper to read the date on the front page out loud, like Ron had told him to do on the leaflet she’d sent him. It would sort of be Beth’s fault then and she’d feel so awful that she’d find the money somehow.

  After Kelly had driven away the day before, Frank had thought of little else – how to make her keep driving back. Her visits had made him feel like there was a reason to get up in the morning. His glass wasn’t half full but it was definitely less empty. He wasn’t just cruising any more. There were more gears after all. He felt like he might run again or punch someone or he might jump up and down on a bouncy castle eating corn on the cob – or build a cinema. He might even get to chew gum or eat a Twix – or, who knew, even a Yorkie or a Toblerone. He wasn’t ready to go back to talking to his own reflection, cutting the mould off his sandwiches and weeing by torchlight yet.

  The woman on the Lemons Care hotline had told him what it would cost: £300 for another twelve home visits, £600 for twenty-four home visits, or £1,200 for a full year’s worth of visits. There was also a subscription fee of £125.

  ‘Then, of course,’ the woman had said, ‘there’s our Lemons Live-in service. That would be £5,500 for six months. Plus the usual subscription fee and expenses.’ Once he’d heard the words ‘live-in’, Frank couldn’t stop thinking that he needed to find £5,625. The amount didn’t really matter. Frank didn’t have it.

  Since ringing Lemons Care, more than ever, Frank’s television seemed to be addressing him directly in between programmes. ‘Are you in debt?’ his television said. ‘Do you need cash in a hurry?’

  ‘Yes!’ Frank shouted. ‘Yes!’

  ‘Have you got money problems?’

  ‘Yes, I have!’ he screamed at the TV. When he picked up his newspaper in the morning, leaflets advertising ways to make money would fall out. They offered him cash for his gold, cash for his clothes, cash for his mobile phones and his CDs and so on.

  To take his mind off it he decided to use some of the paint he’d found in the shed to paint the three concrete bollards on the grass verge outside his flat. First he needed to replace the bollard that had been lying on its side since Fullwind’s mini crime wave. A few weeks ago, even without his arm in plaster, he wouldn’t have had the strength or hubris to even attempt it.

  He was only Clark Kent then.

  Thinking about everything he’d heard at different points throughout his life concerning lifting heavy objects, he placed his feet on either side of the bollard and bent at the knees, making sure to keep his back straight and looking straight ahead like he’d seen the weightlifters do on the Olympics. He wrapped his arms around the bollard and took a deep breath, which was when Albert Flowers turned up.

  ‘Only, the competition is very soon. The judges will be walking through the village.’

  Frank looked up at him, still holding on to the bollard. Perhaps he could ask Flowers for a loan. A small payment in return for tidying his garden. A bribe. Blackmail. How much was the Villages in Bloom trophy worth to Albert Flowers? Frank wondered how much the florist himself was worth. He priced his clothes up like the old women in the charity shop did with the dead men’s suits. His suit was made to measure. Tweed. His shirt came from Savile Row. His shoes were scuffed but expensive. Frank wanted to mug Albert Flowers.

  He let go of the bollard and stood up. ‘Do you want to buy any of it?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Flowers said.

  Frank waved his open palm over the collection of shed shit on his lawn.

  ‘An old bicycle wheel, perhaps? The tyre is flat and the rubber has perished and there is a certain amount of rust to the surface of the chrome, but how about ten pounds? Come on. What will you give for this leftover wallpaper or a piece of carpet? Some garden hose? A Wellington boot? Tell you what, seeing as it’s you, take the whole lot for just five thousand, six hundred and twenty-five pounds.’

  ‘Oh. Is it a sale?’ Flowers said. ‘I don’t believe that under the byelaws you would actually be authorised to—’

  ‘It’s not a sale. I was joking. Now, I’m a bit busy. Once I pick this up I can clear the garden.’

  Flowers looked at the heavy bollard, contemplated offering his help, but decided not to. ‘Right. I’ll leave you to it,’ he said.

  Frank said goodbye. He was already taking his place astride the bollard, preparing for his lift. He hugged it and lifted it towards him and stood the bollard upright with less effort than he was expecting. He rocked it from side to side until it was back in its rightful place. The woodlice were settled in beneath the bollard before Frank was back inside his front gate.

  After lunch he opened the tins of paint he’d found in the shed. The white paint was completely dried up, so he painted the bollards Sunflower Yellow. It was the same colour as the furniture in Beth’s bedroom. Gloss paint. Frank now had the only shiny Sunflower-yellow bollards on Sea Lane. Sunflower. Albert Flowers would be pleased.

  23

  Indiana Jones and the Search for Coins Under the Cushions of the Sofa and the Armchair was the weakest of the movie franchise, and financially the least successful. Frank had found eight pence under his living-room cushions. After he’d been through the pockets of all his trousers and jackets and shaken all his hollow porcelain figurines and lifted the lids on teapots and peered into vases, he had amassed a grand total of £1.07. If he put some batteries in the calculator in the kitchen drawer he could have worked out that he had enough for two minutes and fifty-six point eight seconds of Kelly’s time. Barely long enough for her to get the key out of the safe and make it up the stairs.

  Frank looked through the cupboards and drawers for anything that might be made of gold or silver, holding stuff up to the light to see if it was hallmarked. If Frank’s flat were to have a name, it wouldn’t be El Dorado. He lifted the lids on the pair of matching trinke
t boxes on the mantelpiece but they contained no trinkets, just two shirt buttons and a coin that was too old to still be legal tender but not yet old enough to be collectable. Frank bit the coin, like they did in the films, to see if it was gold. It told him nothing other than that he needed a stronger denture fixative.

  He sat down at the desk in the living room and opened the drawer. He took out Sheila’s old purse and popped it open. There was a £5 note inside that would have paid for enough time for a hair brushing if it hadn’t been an old fiver and long since withdrawn from circulation but still not old enough to be collectable. Frank put the fiver back in the purse and put the purse back in the drawer; in a way, he was relieved that he wouldn’t be able to use his wife’s money.

  He looked at the balled-up strands of hair that Kelly had removed from the bristles of her brush. They were like a worm cast on the sandy brown wood at the bottom of the desk drawer. He picked up the hair and placed it on his open palm. He stared at it as though it might curl or flip over one way or the other like a cellophane fortune-telling fish, telling him he was jealous, fickle, romantic or daft.

  He put the hair back in the desk drawer.

  He took a leaflet for ‘Instant Spondulicks, payday loans in ten minutes’ out of his pocket. There was a picture of a young couple on the leaflet. The man was talking on the phone to Instant Spondulicks. His wife watched him. They were both smiling. The man was actually laughing. The people with money problems seemed even happier about it than the infirm and dying were about stair lifts and funerals. Frank dialled the phone number on the leaflet. A man answered the phone. Frank told him he needed a loan.

  ‘How much?’ the man asked.

  ‘What’s the most I can borrow?’