FREDDIE THE CROSS-DRESSER

THE DEATH OF FREDDIE KNIGHT

Another excerpt from ME, DINGO AND SIBELIUS - this concerns the death of Freddie, one of the residents at Russets Retirement Home.  If you enjoy it buy the book - all the royalties are donated to our local Radiotherapy Unit Appeal and the Prospect Hospice.

In the afternoon I visit the funeral parlour where Freddie's body has been taken. Over the years this has been the temporary resting place for several of our residents. Most recently, of course, Dingo.

I come to a halt in the doorway, overcome by memories and regrets.

'Miss Churchill? May I help you?' It's Mr Harris, who runs things here with his younger brother and his twenty year old son, Simon. I often wonder if Simon really wanted to be here, surrounded by dead bodies, or if he chose the easiest path and might one day rebel and run off to join the Army or run a bar in Thailand or even to drive coaches for Saga Holidays.

'I've brought clothes for Mr Knight,' I tell Mr Harris. I open the small suitcase and lift out one of Freddie's silky floral dresses. The turquoise and cream, his favourite, has been burnt. None of us at Russets could bear to see it again.

Mr Harris's eyes widen but he makes no comment.

'And these are the shoes he liked. Underwear, of course. Silk stockings, he preferred them to tights.' Last, I unwrapped Freddie's best wig, long, curly and blonde.

'Er - you don't think a nice suit would be more appropriate? Perhaps a white shirt? Striped tie?'

'This is what Freddie was, and his instructions, before he died, were very specific. I hope you don't have any objections, Mr Harris.'

'Of course not, Miss Churchill, we're always happy to follow our clients' wishes.'

'In that case - do you have anyone who's skilled with make-up - or would I have to arrange that myself?'

'No, no, we can do it. My brother deals with that aspect.'

I have a sudden mental picture of Edgar Harris, a heavy balding man in his fifties, bending over Freddie's corpse and daubing his face with thick white foundation, over bright rouge and lipstick, making him look like a clown.

'Freddie had excellent taste, Mr Harris. His make-up was always low key, discreet. Perhaps I should find someone -'

'It's entirely up to you, Miss Churchill, but I think you'll find most people would find the task a little - disturbing.'

I'd been thinking of Georgie, with a restraining hand from myself, but perhaps that might not be a good idea.

'Leave it with me for today, Mr Harris. I'll come back to you tomorrow.'

Back at Russets, Georgie was taking a break before starting the evening meal. Four large balls of pastry, wrapped in clingfilm, stood on one of the worktops, dusted with flour.

She got up and poured me a coffee.

'How did it go?'

'All right. Mr Harris was a bit startled when I showed him Freddie's clothes.'

She laughed. 'He would be - especially if he knew Freddie used to be a bank manager!'

'The thing is - I'm not happy to let them do his make-up. I - well, I was wondering if you'd be willing to - to -'

Georgie choked, spraying coffee over the table. 'Me! You're joking, of course. Freddie's dead, Charlie. He's a corpse!'

'I know,' I said unhappily. 'But he wanted to look just as he did in life. I can't bear to have him buried looking like the guy from the Rocky Horror Picture Show!'

'Who's going to see? I suppose the odd maggot might consider it a bit OTT, but really, Charlie -'

'Stop it!'

The stress of this day, Freddie's solicitor, his ex-wife, the funeral parlour - and now Georgie talking about maggots - it's all too much. I'm blubbing like a baby, letting out a long howl, and then Georgie's up and clasping me to her apron.

'All right, all right! I'll do it. But I warn you, I'll probably have nightmares afterwards!'

I rush to the phone and make the appointment before she can change her mind.

CREATING REAL, FLAWED CHARACTERS

Heroines Don't Have To Be Beautiful, Blonde and Boring

The journey of a plain girl through your novel can be far more interesting. In my latest novel, ME, DINGO AND SIBELIUS,  my heroine Charlie has become more lovable and more alive with each chapter. I'm really very fond of her and felt sad when I finally put her to bed! Perhaps I'll write a sequel one day.

Here's the first chapter. I hope you like it. 

It's Monday. And it starts like any other Monday.

Mum downstairs cremating breakfast. My sister Georgie and my niece Rosie screaming at each other in Rosie's bedroom. My other niece, Daisy, screaming for her morning bottle. The kitchen radio blasting out the Chris Evans Show. And me, grumpy because my hair drier, the only one in the house that still works, is missing.

Looking into the mirror I see my Dad. As usual. With the hair drier I might at least move up a notch or two on the charm scale.

'OK, who's got it?' I yell.

Of course, I already know. Rosie, who spends hours each morning creating elaborate hairstyles to impress her schoolmates. Is it worth marching into her bedroom and trying to claim it? I've tried that before and it's come down to a physical fight for possession which Rosie usually wins. It's surprising how strong a skinny twelve year old can be.

Right now her quarrel with Georgie is escalating. I can hear them through the thin wall.

'I don't care what the others wear, Rosie, you're NOT going to school in six inch heels! Apart from the fact that you'll probably break an ankle, you look ridiculous.'

'Everybody's wearing them, I'll be the odd one out.'

'I'm sure they're not. And you can take off those false eyelashes, too. They're mine, aren't they? For heaven's sake, you're twelve, Rosie.'

'And ten months. Practically a teenager!' Rosie's sobbing increases in volume, but it's not going to soften Georgie's heart.

Who'd be a Mum? Me, I admit. But fat chance now. Thirty two already and only one proposal to chalk up. Jason Fishlock, former handyman at the Sundowners Retirement Home. Clammy hands and a noticeable squint. He must have thought he was in with a chance, being that I wasn't likely to attract anyone else.

Pausing only to give my bird's nest curls one last despairing comb through, I grab my rucksack and run downstairs.

In the kitchen Mum, a vision of cool elegant efficiency, is stirring something vigorously in a large pan. A stranger watching her might assume she knew what she was doing, despite the scatter of eggshells on the floor, leaving slimy trails of albumen across the tiles. Once upon a time Georgie reigned in the kitchen, but that was in the days when she still had dreams of owning her own restaurant. Nowadays, leaving out Mum's occasional urge to cook breakfast, our family's diet consists primarily of tins, packets, takeaways and pizzas, unless I have a day off and I'm prepared to cook a meal from scratch. The irony is that the others appear to thrive on it. I'm the only one who ever gets zits or stomach ache or lank hair.

'I'm making scrambled egg,' says Mum.

'I guessed.'

She turns the pan upside down. 'Hmm. Seems to have set solid. Still, shame to waste it. Want some?'

'Just toast for me, Mum. I'm having lunch out.'

Her eyes turn bright with hope. 'Anywhere nice? Who are you going with?'

'British Home Stores, and Alice Howell. We're taking the residents on a shopping trip.'

'Still. You never know who you might see while you're out. You should wear that nice green jacket I got you from the charity shop.'

Yeah. The one that makes me look like a leprechaun's kid sister.

'Give up, Mum. I'm not likely to meet Mr Right in BHS or anywhere else. I'm past my sell by date and I look like – like - '

'You look very nice, love.'

Nice. Not beautiful. Not even pretty. Just – nice.

'If you'd do something with your hair, and maybe a bit of make-up?'

'It's no use. I'm never going to look like you or Georgie. I look like my Dad.'

'Your Dad was a very handsome man, God bless him.'

But handsome in a man equals plain, or at most, passable, in a woman.

No one else in the family has inherited Dad's genes. The hair, uncontrollable without half a pot of gel and half an hour of blow drying. The snub nose and wide mouth. The golden brown eyes that practically disappear when I smile. The lack of height.

Georgie and Rosie have blue eyes and slender figures like Mum. They also have Mum's long golden locks, like Rapunzel in the fairy stories. It's too soon to tell with Daisy, only ten weeks old and still bald as a coot. At the moment she looks like Harry Hill without the spectacles but no doubt she'll metamorphose into something blonde, slim and elegant like the rest of the Churchill clan.

I walk past the hall mirror without bothering to look. What's the use? I'm stuck with what I am. The ugly duckling. The runt of the litter. The one that's nearly but not quite.

And if I don't set off now, I'm going to be late for work.