Catherine O'Flynn - News Where You Are

Francis doesn’t hear a word of his father’s presentation. He gazes at the toy town and imagines the lives of the people that live there.

He laid the dominos out on the table in preparation. Walter arrived after a few minutes, gripping the local newspaper and looking red in the face.

‘Have you seen this?’

Frank looked at the paper where Walter pointed. There was an advert for a local cabaret club. ‘What is it?’

Walter shook the paper with fury. ‘Third act down! Look at it.’

Frank read aloud. ‘ “An evening of The Whisperers. Come and enjoy the easy melodies and barbershop harmonies of Tamworth’s answer to The Drifters in this family-friendly tribute night to the late great Whisperers as performed by Blackjack.” ’ He looked up at Walter. ‘Did you not like The Whisperers?’

‘Like them? I’m bloody in them! Founder member. Me, Reg Stevens, Vince Capello and Ray Peck. How dare they! How bloody dare they! I’ve just come off the phone to Ray — he’s spitting feathers.’

‘The Whisperers? Really? I never knew you were one of them.’

‘Not “were”, Frank. Not “were”, if you don’t mind. Am. I am in The Whisperers. We are not “the late Whisperers”. Bloody slander that is. Absolute slander. They think they can just come along and steal our gigs? Is that what they think?’

Frank wasn’t sure what to say. ‘So you’re still together as a band?’

‘Of course we are.’

‘That’s amazing, Walter. You still rehearse?’

‘We don’t need to rehearse. It’s all up here.’ Walter tapped the side of his head vigorously. ‘Last gig we played was the Northgate Theatre, Hanley, as part of a Christmas cabaret night.’

‘When was that?’

‘December third, 1977.’

Frank looked at Walter. ‘That’s more than thirty years ago.’

‘Well? What difference does that make?’

‘Nothing. It’s just I suppose that people might have assumed you’d retired.’

‘Well, they’d assume wrong. We were just biding our time, laying low for a little while.’

‘Why?’

Walter sighed with exasperation. ‘Heard of Johnny Rotten, have you, Frank? A thing called punk rock?’

The conversation was growing too strange for Frank. He was only able to nod.

‘Oh, we’d weathered storms in the past. Always managed to incorporate the latest sounds in our shows. That was down to Vince — genius arranger he is, pure genius. He’d take the old tunes and make them sound fresh. A touch of Merseybeat in the sixties. Even a spot of disco syncopation in the seventies. But that punk-rock noise. It was too much.’

‘But surely that wasn’t your audience, Walter. I mean you must have been in your fifties — your fans wouldn’t have wanted you to sound like Johnny Rotten.’

‘Well, no one likes to be irrelevant, Frank. We decided the more dignified thing was to sit it out.’

‘That was over thirty years ago.’

‘Yes. I know.’

‘But, Walter, punk didn’t last very long.’

Walter stared at Frank, eyes gleaming. ‘Well, that’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

They sat in silence for a while. Frank was the first to speak. ‘Where are the other Whisperers now?’

‘Vince lives on the Isle of Man. Ray’s down in Farnborough. Reg isn’t too well these days — he’s in a place out Lichfield way but I get a Christmas card each year from his wife.’ He paused. ‘Apparently he doesn’t recognize her any more.’ He turned away from Frank for a moment. He spoke in the direction of the window. ‘I know if we got him on stage it’d all come back to him. It doesn’t go away.’

Frank nodded. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Oh, Ray’s already onto it. He’s finding the manager of these Blackjack jokers and getting onto the venue. If they want an evening with The Whisperers, they can bloody well book The Whisperers.’

Frank reached over for his pile of dominos, but Walter stopped him. ‘Do you mind if we leave it today, Frank? I’m not in the mood.’

Frank shook his head. ‘Course. I’ll shove off and see you next week.’ He picked up his jacket and stood for a moment. Walter was staring at the advert in the paper again. Frank couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

He left the residents’ lounge and headed towards the exit. By the front door was a conservatory extension where a few people dozed in chairs. As he walked past, a frail-looking old woman called out, ‘Excuse me.’

She was a tiny shrunken figure, but her voice was surprisingly clear. Frank smiled and approached her.

‘It’s Frank, isn’t it?’

Frank held out his hand to her. Her hand as he shook it was cold and papery. ‘Hello, yes, I’m Frank.’

‘Hello, Frank. I’m Irene.’

‘Nice to meet you, Irene.’

‘I’ve seen you on the telly.’

Frank mock-grimaced. ‘Oh dear. Sorry about that.’ He sat down on the next chair. He guessed that Irene was older than his mother — possibly in her eighties. ‘I’ve not seen you here before, Irene. Have you been at Evergreen long?’ He realized he was raising his voice for no apparent reason; Irene’s hearing seemed perfectly good.

‘Well, the answer to that, dear, is yes and no. I’ve been at Evergreen now for many years, but not this branch. That’s not the right word, is it? Not this centre — what’s it called? Forest of Arden. They have them all over the country, you know. I was out in Northampton — Althorp they called that one. I moved here about nine months ago.’

‘What made you move over here?’

Irene tried to smile. ‘Oh, silly, I suppose. My good friend, Amy, she passed away and I found it difficult there without her — you know, sad. I thought a change might do me good.’ She looked around. ‘Though, to be honest, this place is exactly the same. I hardly know that I’ve moved. I wake up in the morning and I still expect to see her at breakfast.’

Frank nodded. ‘I’m sorry about your friend. There are some nice people here. Even some of the staff.’

Irene smiled. ‘I’d heard that your mother was here so I was hoping I might bump into you one day.’

‘Well, I’m glad we met. It’s always nice to meet a viewer.’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, I’m not really … to be honest. Not wishing to give offence, but I don’t really watch your programme. Sometimes it’s on in the background, but I find the news depressing.’

Frank realized he’d walked straight into that.

‘No, I wanted to talk to you because you used to work with Phil, didn’t you?’

Now he understood. People always wanted to ask him about Phil. ‘Phil. Yes. He was a great man. Sad loss to the industry. Did you watch his show on Saturday nights?’

Irene shook her head. ‘Good gracious, no.’

Frank felt the conversation was getting away from him.

‘I stopped watching Phil a long time ago.’

Frank looked at Irene. ‘Did you know Phil, then?’

Irene smiled and looked straight back at Frank. ‘I should say so. I was married to him for seven years.’

Frank laughed. ‘Oh my goodness. Sorry, Irene. We’ve been talking at cross-purposes. I’m talking about Phil Smethway. The TV celebrity.’

Irene carried on looking at Frank. ‘So am I.’

Frank frowned. ‘But Phil was …’ he trailed off.

Irene put her hand on Frank’s. ‘It’s all right, dear. I’m not mad. I was Phil’s first wife. We were married when we were young. July first, 1950 — rained cats and dogs all day. I was what they call a cradle snatcher: twenty-five years old to Phil’s twenty.’

Frank stared at Irene. He heard what she said, he knew Phil had been married before Michelle, and he knew what Irene said made sense, but he couldn’t take it in. He had a vivid image in his mind of Phil’s life and the contrast between that and the woman sitting in front of him now was impossible to process.