Catherine O'Flynn - News Where You Are

‘Erm … yeah, okay. Give me a ring and we can sort something out. What kind of business?’

Cyril looked blank for a moment. ‘Oh, just some new ideas I’ve had and want to discuss with you. New line in material. New opportunities, that kind of thing.’

Frank managed a smile. ‘Great. Look forward to it.’

Cyril gave Mo an exaggerated wink, picked up his briefcase and headed out the door walking like a penguin. After he’d gone, a beaming Mo turned to Frank. ‘Oh, Dad. That man’s funny!’

Frank watched Cyril disappear down the road. ‘Yes, isn’t he just.’

A sharp wind buffeted the Hilltop estate. Frank had to battle to stop the door whipping back when he tried to get out of the car. The day was bright and the estate looked different from his last rain-soaked visit. The streets had a raw, scoured look about them. Hilltop wasn’t by any means a bad estate. The houses and gardens were generally well kept and today with the blue sky and white fluffy clouds moving quickly overhead there was a children’s picture-book simplicity to the place.

The block of shops was built in the sixties, like the rest of the estate. A continuous concrete canopy supported by metal posts extended in front of the shops, providing cover for the shoppers. A chequered shopping trolley was bike-chained to one of the posts and a balding ginger dog to another. The local amenities consisted of a bookie’s, a baker’s, a general purpose convenience store, a boarded-up hairdresser’s and a fast-food outlet branding itself Dixieland Chick King.

Frank started with the bookie’s. As he passed the dog tethered outside, he reached down to pat its head. The dog sniffed his hand hoping for something to eat and then slumped back down, his head on his paws, an ashtray of drinking water in front of him. Inside was busier than Frank had expected with ten or more customers standing or seated, clutching plastic cups of tea and newspapers, looking up at the TV screens. He walked up to the woman in the cashier’s booth and showed her the photo of Michael Church. He hadn’t really rehearsed what he was going to say and only now realized how odd his question might sound. He asked anyway: ‘I wondered if you knew anything about this man. He lived around here.’

The woman was unfazed.

‘Owe you money, does he?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

She smiled. ‘They all say that.’ She looked closely at the photo. ‘No, love. I’ve seen him around, I think, but not in here.’

A middle-aged man in a baseball cap was standing behind Frank now and was angling his head to look at the photo.

The cashier held the photo up to him: ‘What do you reckon, Alan?’ Alan gave a firm shake of the head. ‘There you go, then. If Alan ain’t seen him, he ain’t been in here.’

Frank thanked them, took the photo and headed for the door. He saw an old man with sandy hair and a battered sheepskin jacket sitting in the corner, looking gloomy with his head in his hands. Frank identified him as the owner of the dog tied up outside. The resemblance was so striking Frank had to resist the temptation to give him a consolatory pat on the head.

Despite limited floor space the convenience shop next door was trying to offer the same range and level of stock as a major supermarket. It was also attempting to compete on customer promotions. Every display was festooned with fluorescent multicoloured cardboard stars covered in the same spiky black handwriting offering ever more strange and inventive discounts and multi-buy savings:

‘Free Bic disposable razor with every 4-pint of milk purchased!’

‘Buy 1 litre Teacher’s whiskey, get box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray half price!’

‘33 % off any packet of biscuits when three magazines or more are bought!’

Frank was momentarily hypnotized by the dazzling colours and the complex permutations they advertised. He even found himself wondering which three magazines he might buy to get the discount on a packet of Bourbons. He made his way to the counter where an elderly Asian woman sat on a stool. He pulled out the photo. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to learn more about a man who used to live around here. I wonder if you might recognize him?’ He pushed the photo towards her, but she carried on looking at Frank’s face and smiling. He repeated the question, but trailed off as he saw no flicker of comprehension on her face. He was about to give up when a young man carrying a box of crisps emerged from a doorway behind the counter.

‘Can I help you, mate?’

‘Oh, sorry. I was just asking if …’

The man shot a look at the old woman: ‘Have you switched your hearing-aid off again?’ He reached over and touched something behind her ear. He shook his head. ‘People think she doesn’t speak English. Her English is fine. She’s just lazy. She turns it off so she doesn’t have to serve anyone when I’m out in the stockroom. Isn’t that right, Gran?’

The old woman nodded her head in the direction of Frank. ‘He’s off the telly.’

The young man looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. She thinks all English men look the same. She used to think Frank Bough was the one married to the Queen.’

Frank smiled and showed the man the photo.

‘Oh yeah, I recognize him. Mr Church. On number three paper round. Daily Mirror and Evening Mail Monday to Friday, nothing at the weekend.’

‘Did he come in the shop much?’

‘He’d come in and settle his bill every month — that was about it.’ He remembered the box of crisps. ‘I need to get these out before the kids are out of school.’

Frank picked up the photo and the old lady spoke. ‘My grandson doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He doesn’t even recognize you. He spends so long trying to keep up with the offers at Asda he doesn’t know who comes in and out of the shop. That man used to come in a lot. His wife was sick and he looked after her. A very good man. He’d always ask about my husband and I’d ask about his wife. Good manners.’ She looked at Frank. ‘Is he dead?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry.’

She nodded. ‘After his wife died I don’t think he wanted to live. He stopped coming in, got the papers delivered instead.’

Frank had seen Elsie Church’s death certificate at Michael’s house. She had died two years ago. He thanked the old lady and took the photo from her.

As he was moving away from the counter, she said: ‘My husband is gone now too, but I’m still here.’ Her tone was combative, as if contradicting something Frank had said. He nodded, then left.

Dixieland Chick King was not due to open until 5 p.m. so Frank moved on to Greggs. Two women were behind the counter, one wiping all the surfaces while the other cleared out the few remaining lunchtime sandwiches. Frank bought a gingerbread man for Mo and an éclair for him to eat in the car. He thought the woman serving recognized him, but she said nothing. He showed her the photo.

‘Oh, that’s Michael. Poor man. Found dead on a bench! Can you believe that? People just walked by him. Terrible.’

‘You saw it in the paper? Did you see that the police were appealing for information about him?’

The woman pulled a face. ‘Yeah, but what could I tell them? I didn’t know him well. His wife used to be a regular, though, didn’t she, Maz?’

The other woman came over. She recognized Frank now as well and smiled shyly. ‘Are we going to be on telly?’

Frank laughed as if he hadn’t heard that before.

The second woman looked at the photo. ‘Oh, yeah — it’s Elsie’s husband. She was a lovely woman. She’d buy a loaf every other day and on Saturdays she’d get cakes for the weekend. Custard slices for him, éclairs for her, or maybe it was the other way round.’