Jog On Fat Barry by Kevin Cotter Page A

Raindrops were beating against the windows.
    “Doesn’t like his hearing aid,” Mum said.
    “What’s the point of him having one then?” Frank asked.
    “Come on, Dad.”
    Mum prodded Granddad up out of his chair.
    “What’s for tea?” he asked.
    “It’s Thursday: egg ‘n’ chips,” Mum answered.
    “I’m not having egg ‘n’ chips,” Granddad grumbled as he shuffled out of the room after Mum.
    “Don’t be silly, Dad,” she said gently prodding him along. “You always have egg ‘n’ chips on Thursdays.”
    “I didn’t do my bit in the war so I could eat egg ‘n’ blooming chips every blooming Thursday!”
    “Oh, here we go again,” Frank mumbled. “Guns of Navarone.”
    Granddad spun around and took a wobbly step back into the room.
    “You what,” he said, glaring at Frank.
    “You’re lucky to be getting a fucking egg,” Frank said back.
    “I heard that,” Granddad snapped.
    “Don’t need a fucking hearing aid then,” Frank grinned.
    “Look at him,” Granddad barked. “Take a look at all them forms. Fish game’s not bloody good enough for him!”
    “Come on,” Mum said, turning Granddad about and leading him back toward the kitchen. “You know Frank can’t stomach the stink.”
    “Stinking or not stinking, if it was good enough for me, and it’s good enough for George and Freddie, it ought to be good enough for him too.”
    Frank mumbled a few fuck-offs under his breath and shuffled the pages he’d been struggling to complete since his application form arrived in the post two weeks ago. Granddad continued to grumble as he shuffled down the hall toward the kitchen.
    “Stinking or not stinking,” Granddad continued, “the world is a blooming oyster in the fish game.”
    I sniffed the fingers on my right hand: moments later I sniffed the fingers on my left hand. Frank pursed his lips, blew out a sigh and put his pen on the table. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the ashtray. I listened to his jaw click as he blew smoke rings up toward the ceiling. The seconds ticked away on the clock that took pride of place on the mantle above the bar fire. Mum had Radio on 1 in the kitchen with Tom Browne counting down the Top Twenty, and “I Love to Dance” by Tina Charles was number 1 for the third week running.
    With the cigarette dangling between his lips, and ignoring the smoke that stung his squinting eyes, Frank ever so slowly folded his application form in half, and then in half again before slipping it into a white envelope.
    “That’s me sorted then.”
    I glanced up from my book. Frank gestured toward the envelope and sucked on his cigarette.
    “No turning back now,” he said.
    I could hear Granddad’s knife and fork clink-clanking against his plate in the kitchen. Frank switched on the telly. He checked the channels, but nothing was worth watching so he switched it off again.
    “Here, Frank, you ever heard of this bloke called Beethoven?”
    Frank flicked ash into the ashtray.
    “Nah.”
    He picked up the envelope; stared thoughtfully at it for a moment or two. The front door opened and then slammed shut. Frank shot a glance across the room at me and then turned toward the hallway. I heard Mum say, “Be nice, love.”
    My dad walked up the hall and stood in the doorway. He glared at Frank. The smell of prawns and smoked mackerel began to fill the room. I went to sniff the fingers on my right hand.
    “Don’t do that!” Dad snapped.
    He glanced at the envelope Frank was holding. Disappointment and anger lined his face. Frank and my dad stared at each other. Dad looked fierce. Frank was nervous and unsure of himself. He started to turn away but then stopped. A second later the uncertainty in his face vanished. He puffed up his chest and faced Dad head on. The tables had turned. Frank was no longer a boy. He stubbed out his cigarette. My dad shook his head. Then he turned and walked away.

    Mum bought Frank a new suit for his interview out of the money