-Track Two-
Within picturesque grounds in the northeast coastal town of Cleethorpes, Fossdyke, converted from a guesthouse into a residential home by the current owners, had a two-story building with twenty-three spacious ensuite, furnished studio apartments. The ground floor apartments had large bay windows at the front overlooking landscaped grounds, making it an idyllic and tranquil location.
A short distance away from the resident's block, another building housed a kitchen, communal dining area, with meals provided three times a day, and another larger room served as a recreation room, where the residents could congregate, organise activities, and watch a large TV. This communal room also contained several smaller rooms where residents kept belongings locked away, and it now had a Steinway piano in a corner of the room.
With little happening at the home during the summer months, the old folks would either stroll along the boating lake and nearby beach or relax in the gardens. It was a serene existence and the residents varied. There were several married couples, but it was mainly elderly widowed men and women.
After Charles and Steve sat, the dining room was again full of chatter and clatter. Kitchen staff continued to serve the residents’ BBQ ribs and drinks. Even though some struggled to gnaw through the pork with their false gnashers, it didn’t stop them from giving the meat a damn good sucking. Charles looked around the room at his new neighbours.
“Charlie, meet Wayne,” said Steve as he sat back, and a man leant over and shook Charles’s hand.
Wayne looked Latino, with black curly hair and a boyish demeanour.
“Hi Charlie, I’m Wayne Logan,” he said, shaking Charles’s hand.
“It’s Charles, not Charlie,” said Charles.
“What?” Wayne asked.
“I said, it’s Charles, not Charlie,” repeated Charles... louder.
Wayne looked confused and then said. “Yes, I have all my teeth.”
Steve chuckled and said, “Sometimes he is as deaf as a post, and he dyes his hair black.”
“What?” Wayne repeated as he turned up the volume on his hearing aid. “That’s better,” he said.
“Hello Wayne, what part of America are you from?” asked Charles on hearing Wayne’s accent.
Wayne frowned and said, “I am not a yank, I’m Canadian.”
“Oh, my apologies,” said Charles.
“Allo Charles,” said the man to his right in a chirpy cockney accent, “I’m Elvin Stanley, but they call me, Chippers.”
“Charles Clark,” said Charles, and shook Elvin’s hand. He noticed that Elvin had several fingers missing and felt uneasy trying not to stare.
“Right,” said Steve, “now you’ve met the band.”
Wayne and Elvin looked puzzled as Steve announced, “After we’ve finished eating, we can go along to the recreation room and see what you can do on your old piano.”
Charles tried to imagine what instruments their band could play, with one as deaf as a dildo and another whose hands looked like a lobster’s pincers. Elvin and Wayne looked nervously at each other as Steve pointed out several other residents and relayed some of their weird foibles. Andrex Ethel, who walked around with toilet paper sticking out of her knickers and boring Bill, who people avoided, as all he ever talked about was pigeons.
Charles felt eager to see his piano, so after they had finished eating, the four went to the recreation room and over to his Steinway. He sat on his piano stool, lifted the lid, looked at the ivory keyboard, and stroked the keys. The other three stood around the piano.
“So, what kind of music do you play?” asked Steve.
Charles smiled at the three and played Sergei Taneyev concerto in E flat.
Several other residents made their way over to the recreation room, which was usually noisy as they chatted, played games, or watched TV. There was silence as they listened to soothing music as Charles became engrossed in the concerto.
Word quickly spread and a dozen residents came in.
Charles finished fifteen minutes later. He stared at the keys, reminiscing about how the tune was one of his and Mary’s favourites. He languished in his thoughts while the recreation room remained silent for a few moments and then the other residents applauded. However, Charles noticed his three new friends did not appear impressed.
Mabel, a sprightly eighty-two-year-old, started singing ‘Lily of the Lamplight.’
Steve, looking disappointed, then asked. “Do you know any rock ‘n’ roll?”
Charles looked at the three. “No, sorry, I know some older tunes, but mainly classical music and opera.”
Steve frowned and he, Wayne, and Elvin stood back and talked amongst themselves.
Charles again tinkled on the piano keys and played a short Mozart piece. He stopped when Mabel came over and interrupted him. She barraged him with requests, so he played, ‘White Cliffs of Dover’ with Mabel shrieking along.
Steve then put his hand on Charles’s shoulder and with a mischievous grin, and through Mabel’s toneless warbles, said, “Don’t worry Charlie boy, me and the lads still have high hopes for you.”
Charles watched as Steve, Elvin, and Wayne went over to a room, unlocked the door, and went inside.
With Charles trying to match chords with Mabel’s screeching, the three emerged from the room several minutes later.
Steve carried a beaten-up guitar, a small Marshall speaker/amp, and a microphone stand. Elvin had a large double bass, and Wayne carried over two round drum cases.
Mabel stopped screeching and gasped.
Charles saw a look of horror on the faces of the residents in the recreation room as the three came over to him. Steve plugged in his microphone and set up the stand. Wayne set up his drums, while Elvin tuned his old double bass.
The room plunged into panic as Steve adjusted the microphone stand. He tapped the microphone, and after a dull thump came from the speaker, he stood with the devil’s glint in his eye and snarled. “Right you old fogeys,” he paused for effect as the crowd trembled and he growled. “Strat’s back!”
Mabel shrieked and Ethel ran around trailing toilet tissue, while boring Bill headed for the door. Wally, another resident, made a desperate plea,
“Somebody get Chewy... and hurry!”
Steve plugged in his guitar and took a plectrum from his wallet. “Here’s my old faithful,” he said, showing Charles the old plastic plectrum with an ‘S’ hand-painted both sides.
Elvin stood to the side of his large bass and Wayne sat behind his drums, all smiling as the panicking residents rushed out of the room.
Charles sat at his piano looking confused as Mrs Chew rushed in and hurried over to the four.
She glared at Steve and shouted, “I told you not to set up again after the last incident. Don’t you remember our previous conversation?”
Steve smiled and said, “Just making our new friend feel at home, besides, the rec room’s empty, so we aren’t disturbing anybody.”
Mrs Chew became exasperated and yelled, “It’s empty because you scared everybody away, the same as before.”
Steve chuckled and told her. “This time it will be different. We are playing along with Charlie’s classical shit.” He turned to Charles and said. “Play her some of your music, Charlie boy.”
Charles, looking dumbfounded, played Debussy’s, ‘Clair de lune.’
Mrs Chew stood with her hands on her hips and listened to Charles play the melodic tune. She knew Steve was manipulating her yet again, but he was the boss’s father, so she couldn’t say anything.
Glowering at the smiling Steve, she snapped, “You have one hour and then be out of here.” She glared at the four and stormed out of the recreation room.
“Good, now Chewy’s pissed off, now we can start,” said Steve and grinned at Charles, “Okay Charlie boy, you can stop playing that crap and we can get down to playing serious music… Rock ‘n’ Roll.”
Steve sang and pouted like a bald teenager as he played, ‘Johnny ‘B’ good; and rocked away like a space-hopper on steroids.
Elvin struggled to pluck his double bass because he hadn't put on his ‘little falsies.’ Wayne rocked back and forth, thumping out a beat on his drums, but unfortunately not for the same song.
Charles sat at his piano while they banged out their rendition of the rock ‘n’ roll classic. He grimaced as he listened and thought he could feel his eardrums bleed. This wasn’t music to his ears; it sounded more like cats being murdered. He understood why the others had panicked in the desperate need to escape.
Fortunately, Charles’s torture only lasted several minutes, and the three finished and looked at him.
“Well, what do you think Charlie, could you add something to make any improvements?” asked Steve, looking pleased.
A shotgun came into Charles’s mind as he looked at the smiling faces of the proud wrinkled rockers. He recalled what Mary always told him about not being good or bad music, only music that people either liked or disliked.
“Hmm, perhaps you need to all come together with a little more harmony. You need a little structure.” He replied.
The three nodded and smiled at each other.
“Can you ‘elp us with that?” Elvin asked.
Steve interrupted, “Yeah Charlie boy, you can help us and join our band. We will give yer a cool stage name.”
Charles knew this would be a challenge but relished having something to keep him interested with this motley band of geriatrics and thought it could be fun. He smiled and said, “Maybe I can help, but please don’t call me Charlie.”
“What do you want us to call you?” Steve asked.
“My name is Charles, so how about you call me, Charles.”
Steve laughed. “I’m known as ‘Strat’, Elvin's ‘Chippers’ and deaf boy over there,” he said pointing to Wayne, “Sticks, so we can’t just call you boring old Charles,” said Steve.
“‘Ow about Nobby?” interrupted Elvin.
The three looked at Elvin and asked, “What?”
“Nobby,” repeated Elvin, and explained, “In the military, anyone with the surname, ‘Clark,’ was always called ‘*Nobby’ Clark.”
Charles remembered from his childhood how he had heard people refer to his father as, Major ‘Nobby’ Clark, although unsure why.
Charles pondered, looked into the faces of the excited old rockers, scratched his chin, smiled, and said, “Okay, Nobby it is then.”
The three cheered and patted Charles on the back. “Welcome aboard Nobby,” said Elvin, and walked back to the small room.
“He’s gone to get his falsies,” said Wayne as Elvin returned carrying an old holdall.
Charles watched Elvin fitting homemade prosthetics to his digitally challenged hands.
“I will sound better playing with these on,” said Elvin, waving his small Edward Scissorhands-Esque attachments. One had an index finger and a thumb-shaped object set at various angles, which Charles noticed was the perfect shape and design for plucking the strings of the double bass. His left-hand prosthetic was just one small tube, which looked ideal for covering the fret strings at the neck of the instrument. 'Ingenious,' thought Charles.
Elvin, noticing Charles’s interest, said. “These are me little falsies. I made a few of these for different occasions. These are my ‘bass falsies’. I also have me 'eating falsies,' 'card-playing falsies,' 'lady pleasing falsies,’ and many more, which I will show you in the fullness of time,” said Elvin in his cheery cockney twang.
Charles looked at Elvin’s tatty old instrument and asked. “That’s a Flores, isn't it?”
Elvin, impressed by Charles’s knowledge, told him, “Yeah, a Flores Midnight double bass, which I bought many years ago when I saw it advertised for sale. Although dilapidated and 'eld together by woodworm holding hands, I fell in love with the tatty old instrument, so I got it restored. I always loved playing the double bass and learned to play years ago before I lost me fingers.” He again held up his hands displaying his falsies and proudly announced. “And fanks to these, I still can.”
Charles winced and hoped Elvin would not play again.
The four old musicians stood by the side of Charles’s piano and Steve said, “Well lads, we still have thirty- minutes before Chewy finished ironing her wrinkles and chases us out, so what shall we play?”
The others chuckled and Elvin replied. “Perhaps Nobby could suggest somefin.”
Charles cringed. He looked at the eager trio and suggested. “I suppose our first step would be to find something that we can all play together. I don’t know any rock music and I don’t imagine you have sheet music for me to follow, so maybe we start with the basics.”
“Sheet music,” said Steve. “I don’t reckon that any of us can even read sheet music,” he laughed.
“I can,” said Elvin sounding wistful.
“Me too,” said Wayne. “I have also written a few songs.”
Steve looked shocked; he had known Wayne for almost two years and never suspected that this old Canadian had any musical education.
“You’re a dark horse, Wayne Logan,” said Steve and grinned.
“Perhaps I could look at your songs, Wayne. We may as well learn them,” said Charles.
“What?” asked Wayne.
Charles repeated his request but spoke louder.
“Okay,” said Wayne “They are in my room, so maybe tomorrow.”
Charles wanted to find out more about his new friends, partly because he was interested, but more importantly, because he wanted to fill the remaining time to stop them playing more awful, eardrum-bleeding noise.
“Are any of you married?” Charles asked.
“No,” said Elvin, and sighed. “My wife passed away four years ago.”
“I'm single. I got divorced years ago and played the field,” Steve interrupted and chuckled.
Charles looked at Wayne fiddling with his hearing-aid, and asked, “How about you Wayne, are you married?”
“Wayne lost his wife twenty- years ago,” Steve said and shouted at Wayne. “Didn’t you mate?”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear that Wayne,” said Charles.
“What?” Asked Wayne.
“I’m sorry to hear that your wife died,” Charles shouted.
Wayne looked confused and said, “My wife didn’t die.” His hearing-aid screeched, so he tapped it.
Elvin and Steve chortled.
“She didn’t die,” said Elvin. “He just lost ‘er.”
“That’s better,” said Wayne, now able to hear. He looked at Charles, smiled, and related his story.
Wayne, popular among the female residents of Fossdyke with his Latino appearance and, when he first moved in, the old women hung around him like a Liverpool postman on giro day. Even Mrs Chew had a crush on old Wayne, even though married and 20 years his junior.
Wayne had lived at Fossdyke now for two years. Originally from Ontario, Canada, he settled in Cleethorpes years ago, after trying to trace his long lost love, Julie.
His family originated from Sicily and owned an Italian restaurant chain in Canada. With his sights set on becoming a musician, he left the family home on his 16th birthday and joined The Alex Gilroy Band, a seven-piece swing band. He studied music at school, and although he could play keyboard instruments, he loved playing the drums. Given the nickname, Sticks, by the band, because he always carried around drumsticks tapping anything that could offer a beat. He toured as the band’s drummer throughout Canada. When the rock ‘n’ roll revolution hit America in the late fifties, Wayne moved to the U.S. where he joined 'Johnny and the Jeepsters,' a rock ‘n’ roll, skiffle band. Throughout the sixties and seventies, he moved around with various bands.
During the 1980s, as other forms of music pushed out rock ’n’ roll, he tried his hand at rock music. Although ageing, he joined a rock band called, ‘Smoking Heads’ and dropped his nickname, Sticks, as he felt it was no longer cool, and didn’t belong in the rock, pop era. The band never became famous but had a small fan base. They performed many gigs around the world, touring several countries. With the loud music taking its toll on his hearing, it became increasingly more difficult to hear the music as each tour went on. The group did a tour of the UK in the mid-1980s. They decided to get rid of Wayne, who, due to his age, no longer fitted in with their rocker image. They played his farewell gig at the Sheffield Arena, where he met Julie, an attractive twenty-five-year-old woman from Cleethorpes. Wayne prided himself on having no emotional attachment towards women but became besotted with Julie. He invited her to the United States, and she accepted.
Their life was great at first. Wayne found work as a session musician and wrote several songs.
As his deafness became worse, his work sessions got shorter. He became miserable and angry, taking his anger out on Julie. He turned into a violent drunk and Julie felt dejected. One night he came home *spannered, and Julie and her belongings were gone.
Over the next few days, he stayed sober while trying to figure out what happened to Julie. He'd phoned friends and acquaintances but to no avail. Julie had vanished without a trace, taking a chunk of money from their joint account and used their credit card to buy a flight to Manchester, England.
He had inherited 25% of his family's business and received an annual dividend. With money being of no concern, he decided to search for Julie in the UK. Wayne knew little about her, he never bothered with that side of their relationship. All he knew that her name was Julie Croft- something, and she was from Cleethorpes.
Wayne arrived in Cleethorpes in the winter of 1991 and spent the next few months trying to track down the Croft family. He came across many people with the same surname, but nobody knew or had ever heard of, Julie Croft. Now in his 50’s, his hearing had become impaired and he could only hear on sporadic occasions. Wayne, having spent many years in the UK, hadn’t given up hope, and did not want to go back to the USA. He knew his blemished record and age would prevent him from ever being hired, so he lived in a flat in Cleethorpes. He worked as a taxi driver and had an active social life.
In 2002, he read an obituary in the Grimsby Evening Telegraph, of a Mr Ronald Croft-Baker who had passed away. ‘Croft-Baker, that’s it,’ thought Wayne, ‘Julie Croft-Baker.’
Excited, he read the list of those who attended the funeral. Wayne noticed the daughter’s name, Mrs Julie Braithwaite, nee Croft-Baker. Wayne knew that it was his Julie. He tracked down the only relative who remained in Cleethorpes from the Croft-Baker family, Ronald’s elderly sister. She confirmed Julie Croft-Baker was her niece who had spent time in America. The old woman told him that she had seen Julie at the funeral along with her husband, but that was the first time in many years she’d had any contact with her. She told him that Julie only came, paid her respects, and then left. She had no other information. When Wayne heard that Julie had re-married, he gave up his search.
Wayne lived alone until the latter part of 2008. He bought a set of drums and a small Yamaha keyboard to entertain himself. He composed a few songs, although he had trouble performing them. Even though he wore a hearing aid, some days he couldn’t hear the lyrics. His deafness became a burden and he was robbed several times, as word spread that a deaf old man lived alone. He became afraid to stay at home and felt too old to return to Canada or the States. Cleethorpes was now his home, so he sold his house and moved into the residential home.
“And that’s how I ended up here,” said Wayne and smiled.
“We only found out by accident that he played in a band a few years ago. He said he was a taxi driver who played the drums and keyboard for pleasure after coming ‘ere to look for his missus,” said Elvin.
Wayne smirked and said, “Well, I did only play for pleasure… then.”
“You are a dark horse, Logan,” said Steve and chuckled.
Charles looked puzzled and asked, “I thought you dropped the name Sticks. So how come they call you Sticks now?”
Wayne looked at Steve and frowned. “It’s that slap-heads fault,” he said. “That’s how they found out I was in a band. I kept a few mementoes from my younger days and one was an old framed poster from my time with 'Johnny and the Jeepsters,' hung in my room.”
Steve giggled as the story unfolded.
“One day, I was getting ready to go to the recreation room. Steve knocked and just walked into my room.” He scowled at Steve still smirking, and continued, “He went over, looked at the picture, and asked about the band. He said he had never heard of the Jeepsters, which was great, as I didn’t want them to know about my past. I told him I played with them for a short while in the ’60s, but he wouldn’t let it be and kept asking more questions. He then read the band’s line up, and saw Wayne ‘Sticks’ Logan.”
“And Sticks was reborn,” said Steve smirking.
Wayne mumbled and sighed.
Much to Charles’s relief, the three did not play anymore after hearing Wayne’s tale, and Wayne, Steve, and Elvin packed away their instruments.
“It’s early,” said Steve. “How about we go for a couple of pints in the Pavilion?”
“Yeah, good idea,” said Elvin. “It ain't far Nobby, only a ten-minute walk.”
Charles wasn’t in the mood, but after the three persisted, and wanting to hear more about them, he agreed.
The Pavilion, a public house near a large shallow boating lake with two small islands at its centre, was a sanctuary for the colourful bird populations inhabiting the area. Surrounded by trees and hedgerows, the Pavilion was a popular watering hole during the warm summer months, with the daylight sun lasting well into the evening. With the lake in view and the flora and fauna in full bloom, the outside seating area looked picturesque.
The four sat outside on a bench enjoying a cold beer, watching ducks idling along the glistening lake, and listening to wood-pigeons repetitive, coo-coo-coo-cu-cu. Familiar fragrances of flowering hawthorn bushes drifted on the light breeze
Steve took out a packet of cigarettes, lit one, and with a satisfying grin, blew out a cloud of smoke and said. “I like sitting here, and I can smoke,” he leaned over to Charles. “But don’t tell Chewy.”
Charles nodded and asked. “So Steven, how come you ended up at Fossdyke?”
Wayne and Elvin groaned. They knew Steve’s life story because he had told them many times.
“I’m from Scunthorpe, thirty miles away,” said Steve, “When I left school, I worked in the steelworks alongside my old dad,” said Steve and smirked, “I got caught up in the swinging sixties and wanted to be a rock star, so I bought an acoustic guitar and learned to play.”
Steve did a quick air guitar demo, smiled and continued, “I saved my wages and upgraded to an electric Fender Stratocaster, adopting the stage name, Strat… because it sounded cool,” he smirked, giving another air guitar demo, before continuing. “Me and two mates from the steelworks formed, ‘Strat and the Steelers.’ We performed in several pubs and clubs in Scunny,” he sighed. “We could have been famous if we weren’t crap… and I wasn’t married to Jane. After we disbanded, I settled down and worked long hours at the steelworks to support my family.”
He coughed, took a swig of beer, and said, “We had a beautiful daughter, Lucy.” Steve looked proud and told Charles. “Lucy’s smart, unlike her dumb old Dad. She was always an intelligent and independent young woman. She’s now a successful Doctor and she and her husband Bernard own Fossdyke,” said Steve, took a photograph from his wallet, and showed Charles his middle-aged daughter. Charles felt relieved that she wasn’t bald like her father, as Steve said. “That’s my little girl, Doctor Lucy Fossdyke.”
“Oh, so that’s why it is called Fossdyke?” asked Charles.
Steve nodded and took another swig of beer. “Anyway, after Lucy went to University, Jane and I drifted apart. I worked long hours to pay for the university medical school, and Jane got a job in a bike shop.”
He chuckled and said. “The manager wasn’t only riding pushbikes, the bastard. I should have realised when she trowelled on her makeup to go to work. When I found out, I went to the shop and punched his lights out, and later divorced Jane,” Steve sighed. “I felt gutted and spent the next few years skipping work and spannered.” He looked at Charles and said. “In my forties, I realised my life was going nowhere and my dad, even though retired, gave me grief because he heard rumours that the steelworks were about to sack me. One morning I woke up and thought, Fuck it! So I booked a flight to Australia. Lucy was then a qualified Doctor with a well-paying job, so I took my savings, a bag of clothes, my old Stratocaster, and flew to Oz.”
“Oh,” said Charles, impressed by Steve’s audacity.
“Yeah, it was great. The years flew by, moving from town to town, city to city, and job to job. I played rock ‘n’ roll in local bars for drinks and food and lived the carefree life I always wanted, with no ties. I severed all links in England.”
“What about Lucy?” asked Charles, “Didn’t you at least stay in contact with her?”
Steve shook his head, “No, nobody.” He smirked, “But don’t worry Charlie my story has a happy ending… sort of. I was almost sixty and alone. I wanted a female companion to take care of me in my old age. I knew that if I stayed in Australia or returned to the UK, I would stay alone. A short, fat, bald, sixty-year-old musician, who smoked three packs of cigarettes a day, would be as appealing to a western woman as Deep Heat on a dildo. Besides, I didn’t fancy being lumbered with an old troll with loads of kids or grandkids, so I tried the Philippines.”
Wayne and Elvin juddered, they knew what was about to come next. They had heard this many times before as a prelude to one of Steve’s repeated tales.
Wayne turned off his hearing-aid as Steve said. “When I was in the Philippines,” Elvin’s groan went ignored as Steve went on, “I had my biggest regret,” he nudged Charles, laughed, and said, “I wished that I had gone sooner, the place made my head spin. This fabulous new culture and lifestyle drew me into a magical existence.”
Charles noticed Steve demeanour change as he talked passionately about the Philippines.
“I settled in Angeles City, a raucous, sex-filled place. I worked in live music venues around sin city. Although I wasn’t paid much, I reaped the other benefits of being a western musician and lived a carefree life with benefits,” he chuckled, rubbed his crotch and continued. “I no longer wanted to settle down, with too many eager young women to choose from.” Steve laughed, rubbed his hands together, and said. “They all wanted to please this sex god, although they cost me a lot of money.”
Elvin tutted, and he and Wayne went to the bar for more beer while Steve continued. “I spent years living a blissful existence, until one day I woke up in agony. It felt like an alien eating its way through my stomach.” Steve put his hand on the left side of his abdomen, winced, and said. “I’d never felt so much pain, and having no money, the girl I was with at the time, took me to the local quack, who operated on a strangulated hernia.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Charles. “That sounds serious.”
“Nah,” said Steve, “It wasn’t too bad, but it made me realise that if something serious were to happen, who could I turn to, and who would look after me with having little money? I tried to contact Lucy, who I’d had no contact with for over 20 years and with no idea where she was, I contacted the British embassy in Manila.”
Elvin and Wayne brought beers outside. Elvin heard the part of Steve’s conversation when they approached and sighed. He looked at Wayne in his silent bliss, nudged him, nodded to his pubic region, and shrugged. Wayne, realising Steve must be on the J-cloth story, smiled, while Elvin groaned. They had heard the hernia story many times. They put the drinks down and Steve and Charles took a drink, as Steve continued. “A few weeks later the embassy contacted me and told me they had traced my daughter,” Steve looked proud as he announced. “Doctor Lucy Fossdyke M.D., a general practitioner with a practice in Cleethorpes. Lucy and her accountant husband, Bernard, came to visit me in Angeles. It was great to see them, especially my little girl. Bernard’s a bonehead, but a nice bloke.”
“I bet you were overjoyed,” said Charles. “Did you come home with them?”
“Nah,” said Steve, “they kept trying to persuade me, but I was too happy in the Philippines, so they went home without me.”
Steve took another slurp of beer. “About a month after they’d left, I got the same excruciating pain in my gut and they rushed me to the local hospital where a quack opened me up. They found a large mass that they thought was a malignant tumour… I shit myself when they told me.”
Charles looked concerned, Elvin yawned, and Wayne smiled, unable to hear Steve’s tale, as he went on, “The embassy contacted Lucy, who became distraught. She arranged for me to be medivaced to England. I got flown back and rushed into surgery when I arrived in Manchester.”
Steve unbuttoned his shirt, showed Charles a large scar down the centre of his abdomen, and pointed to a smaller hernia scar on his right-hand side. “The operation was a success and the surgeon removed a filthy old J-cloth from my abdominal cavity, festering there from my back-street hernia operation.” He laughed and said, “I made a full recovery, but now