Bald, Frederick Goodge flung his wok and cursed every other cook on the planet. "I'm not even hungry; I've just had a jam sandwich," he beamed voraciously extrapolating himself from his glorified souped-up mindset and propelling himself into the nearby future for imminent future reference. "Now what?" he mused, rustic and forlorn but with a modicum of hope for what could have been. "Now the legacy may commence".
Frederick Goodge was a promising writer with the sporadic gift of sometimes being able to read people's minds. He didn't know too many people and in any case preferred books. He was an honest man of reasonable posture but erratic and intemperate like a pent-up bee trapped in winter. Indeed, he considered himself an unworthy successor to the memory of his erstwhile personage and this caused all manner of problems in his inevitable daily life. "Life is daily," he had once postulated to himself. How could it be otherwise?
Frederick Goodge was neither a little known Walt Disney production featuring the voice of the late Sir John Mills nor a overripe distant cousin of the King Edward potato but he was idiosyncratic, suspicious of treacle and mildly confused about his sexuality.
Confused that is until he met Dana Drawl, the only femme fatale in history who exuded the raw loin power to make gay men straight and straight men forget to take their hats off. Frederick Goodge first met Dana Drawl on the day after Boxing Day. He bumped into her doing lanes at the swimming pool in Orpington.
"You should watch where you're going, buddy" Dana Drawl blew the words salubriously out of her mouth and swam on like a salmon on ketamine.
"Sorry about that" mumbled Frederick Goodge, nervous as a homemade flapjack. "I was doing back crawl and it's difficult to see where I'm going when I'm doing back crawl."
"Save your breath," said Dana. "You're going to need it, and sooner than you think". Dana Drawl climbed out of the pool like a squirrel up a tree.
Frederick Goodge was nonplussed, but looked up nonetheless to absorb the beatific vision of Dana's pulchritudinous posterior sashaying toward the showers.
"I firmly believe the existence of that woman makes the world a better place" said Frederick. "I must do my utmost to make her fall in love with me". Frederick swam another length, this time breast stroke and began to hatch a plan to seduce the most desirable and elusive female on the planet.
Stolid but inwardly elated, Frederick Goodge dressed himself, then proceeded to the showers to wash himself and his clothes. Naturally, Frederick Goodge was not the sort of fellow who'd be caught dead or at least naked in the public showers with another man of the same sex. Such was the delicacy of his disposition, Frederick would have reservations about disrobing in front of a pasty if he suspected it might be male.
On the way home on the bus, Frederick Goodge gawped out of the window and contemplated his next move. He suffered from chronically low self-esteem but reassured himself that, were he the one in the world with the lowest opinion of himself, he might just have something to boast about. "That's not enough to win over the likes of Dana Drawl", Frederick Goodge minded. "I need to be a man about this. I need to ooze confidence, emit charm and discharge suavity. That's the way to do it."
The bus jerked to a halt and Frederick Goodge was slung down the stairs like a naughty angel. He reassembled himself and disembarked from the bus. It was certainly not his stop but Frederick Goodge was well in the habit of getting off the bus early and walking in a valiant bid to shed some much maligned blubber that had taken up residency around his waist. In truth, Frederick Goodge was not too fussed about his weight. This time last year he had been a streamlined prince, positively nubile but about as happy as a lactose intolerant, claustrophobic creationist stuck in a very small spaceship hurtling towards the Milky Way. This year, he was a few pounds fatter, sure, but the U.S of America had a fab new President and Britain had done really well in the Olympics. All in all, it had been a good year.
Insanely, jam was simultaneously exhumed from the garden of woe at the end of Frederick Goodge's house.
"My gregarious forefathers would not have been proud of me," sighed Frederick. "I can only redeem myself by getting welded to a bountiful scone or marrying above my station. I must
find Dana Drawl. Come to think of it, I don't even know how I know her name. Perhaps the narrator whispered it into my mind."
The phone rang. Frederick Goodge was the human embodiment of a syncopated rhythm and answered it. "Hallo" he hollowed, with an ironic nod to Jessica, the busty if predictable goddess of convention.
"Can I speak with a Mr Frederick Goodge please?" said the disembodied voice.
"Who is speaking?" asked Frederick, inquisitive like a game of chess.
"It is the manager of the swimming pool in Orpington" said the voice, dog-eared but distinctive.
"This is Mr Frederick Goodge. I am he," said Frederick, spot on like a pin.
"Oh, well, you have left your goggles in the changing room. I will hold them for you, if you wish to come and pick them up," said the manager.
Frederick Goodge thought hard for a moment.
"No thanks, if I come back to the swimming pool just to pick up a gorky old pair of goggles, this story will never get going and people will stop reading," said Frederick, firm and fair like a judge's mop. Then he put down the receiver and went into the garden and made himself a jam sandwich.
Frederick Goodge polished off his jam sandwich with insouciant glee. "Elderberry really is the Englishman's grape," he thought to himself and promptly decided to grow a moustache for the noble purpose of pursuing in a romantic and sexy way the heavenly affections of the delectable Dana Drawl.
Meanwhile, Dana Drawl was cyclically rotated with time. She was nothing if not capricious.
Then she whisked some hue and mixed it with milk. Did Frederick Goodge have any idea what he was weaving himself into?
No.
Meanwhile, Frederick Goodge had wired himself up to a magic box and begun his exotic, quixotic search for the lonesome whereabouts of his subjective love object.
Crucially, Frederick Goodge had not always been as peculiar as he may seem. He was born into a surprisingly normal family in Petts Wood, the second son of two parents with four sons and one daughter. He was born a couple of weeks late but this did not impede his progress as a child or human being. (Frederick Goodge will probably die a couple of weeks late but I don't want to spoil the ending of the story for you, nor indeed for Frederick himself, although I imagine he'll be rather chuffed to discover he has an extra two weeks to live, not least because that is the perfect period for a holiday, which he loves.)
Frederick Goodge was unremarkable as a child and 9 out 10 people who were asked what they thought of him as part of a survey in Chislehurst replied they had no idea who he was. The fact is only 10 people were asked and the one person who knew him was his uncle Gerge and he said he found Frederick to be small and possibly made out of glass. The fact is Uncle Gerge was not really Frederick's uncle and was almost certainly made out of glass.
Frederick liked sport very much as a child and was playing tennis before he could even swim. He used to hit a ball against the wall in the back garden, he had once tried to swim against the wall in the back garden but this merely resulted in a cool combination of cramp and confusion.
Frederick Goodge got along well with all 3 of his brothers and his sister too. In terms of tennis, which is how Frederick tended to think of everything, he could enjoy a game of doubles with his brothers and his steely sister would happily be employed as the obedient ball-girl. His sister never learnt how to play tennis, and this failing or sporting privation would in adult life become a huge, dinosaur-sized bone of contention.
In his first school report, before Frederick Goodge had fully blossomed into the devilishly mediocre oddball that you and I both know and have (mixed) feelings for and about, his school teacher had written the following:
"Frederick Goodge is not exactly what one would call a go-getter. He may only be six, but they are already signs in his behaviour and his exam results, which indicate that success in any field is beyond him and if he is not careful he will fall victim to the power of his very own solipsistic imagination and come to a very sticky end indeed."
At the time, neither Frederick or his parents had that first idea what this could have meant. Years later, however, Frederick Goodge read in the News Shopper that his school teacher had taken his life by jumping into a vat of treacle. This bizarre tragic news reminded Frederick of something his father had told him the day he was born. Naturally, he couldn't remember the exact words and wished his father had written them down but the jist of it was something about the absurdity of worldly ambition and how most people that are really successful are actually a bit stupid. In any case, Frederick was glad to be alive and more suspicious of treacle than ever.
It suddenly occurred to Frederick Goodge that perhaps it wasn't his fault he had bumped into Dana Drawl in the swimming pool after all. Think about it - he was doing back crawl but what was Dana doing? If she was doing front crawl, then what was her excuse? Frederick Goodge was so flustered and Dana Drawl was so beautiful that he hadn't dared demur. Thus, Frederick decided that Dana had bumped into him on purpose to occasion their meeting and set in motion the incongruous chain of events that would lead to their eventual and implausible union. Or something.
Frederick Goodge studied hard at school, driven on by a wanton desire to know why the universe was and how it came to be. Much to Frederick's frustration, the majority of school subjects (including science and french) merely skirted around the big questions and complacent teachers would sweat outloud and hop on the spot when challenged by Frederick's increasingly philosophical inquiries.
Just then, Frederick picked his ear, curious. He wondered how it was that the manager of the swimming pool in Orpington had known that the goggles belonged to him. Somethings we will never know he concluded, satisfied if only marginally. He wondered also how one became the manager of something like a swimming pool. It was so big! And the showers and the changing rooms, the manager must be in charge of those too. Frederick Goodge decided that if he ever accomplished his quest of finding the fabled Dana Drawl, then his next goal would be to secure gainful employment in an establishment akin to a leisure centre. Oh to be a lifeguard or something similar!
Frederick Goodge looked out of his window and saw an owl. Superstitious without being moronic, Frederick deduced this meant that Dana might be in Denmark. He composed a letter to the Danish tourist board in advance of his trip, just to make sure he wasn't wasting his time. Here it is:
Dear Denmark,
My name is Frederick Goodge and I am coming to Denmark in search of a woman, who goes by the name of Dana Drawl. However, I have a few questions before I leave:
(1) I have a feeling Dana may be in Aalberg or Copenhagen. Is it possible to go to both places as I understand they are on different islands or do you have a law about this sort of thing?
(2) I am very keen to visit the birthplace of Hans Christien Andersen, whereabouts is this and should I bring a present?
(3) At school we read Hamlet by William Shakespeare which is set in Denmark and everyone dies at the end but I hope the country is safer now than it used to be. Is it?
Many thanks for all your help.
Kind regards,
Frederick Goodge
The very next day Frederick received a reply. Here it is:
Dear Mr Goodge,
Thank you for your letter. I will answer your questions as listed:
(1) Of course you can go to both Aalborg and Copenhagen. It will take about 5½ hours by train to go from Aalborg to Copenhagen.
(2) Hans Christian Andersen's birthplace is in Odense (the fourth largest city in Denmark). The city is actually on the way from Aalborg to Copenhagen so you can stop there before you go to Copenhagen. You do not need to bring a present, but I think you can donate some money to the museum if you like.
(3) I can assure you that the country is really safe these days. As you probably know Shakespeare wrote the play 400 years ago and he has actually never even been to Denmark, so the Denmark he describes is pure fiction.
I hope you will find this information useful to you but please do not hesitate to write back to us if you have any further questions.
Best regards.
K ...
Danish Tourist Board
Buoyed up, Frederick Goodge brushed his teeth, packed his bags and went to Denmark to look for Dana Drawl.
She wasn't there.
Disheartened, Frederick Goodge contemplated reporting the owl he had seen in his garden to the police. He didn't. He should have known not to trust an owl out and about in the daytime. Most owls are nocturnal, Frederick reasoned, except for maybe the snowy owl but the snowy owl does not prevail in the sunny environs of south east London.
Frederick Goodge was all gloom and doom. All gloom and doom that is until he noticed a postcard on the floor by the door. He bent down and picked it and studied it as if it was a brand new sort of species that had never been seen before. It was a postcard of the Great Sphinx of Giza. Frederick Goodge thought of a joke: the Great Sphinx of Giza has no nose. How does it smell? Actually, not that bad considering how old it is. About 5,000 years in case you were wondering. There is some debate about who it was built for and by but it is agreed that it is definitely very old. Frederick chuckled to himself and then turned the postcard over. It was blank except for the postmark, which was was from Brighton.
“This is curious,” said Frederick to himself. “Dana Drawl must be in Egypt but she wants me to think she is in Brighton.”
“Never mind that,” replied Frederick to himself, “how can she be in Egypt if the postmark is Brighton? Surely she is in Brighton but she wants me to think she is in Egypt.”
“I suppose so,” said Frederick, “but that doesn’t explain why she lied to me.”
“She didn’t lie to me if she really is in Brighton,” replied Frederick.
“I am getting cocky,” said Frederick. “Dana Drawl is smarter than me put together. Let’s not forget that.”
“If only you could be put together,” he said.
“If only,” said Frederick, “but meanwhile I am convinced that Dana is in Egypt. I have a feeling that she is trading camels in the desert for desserts, probably yoghurt but I can’t be sure. As for the postmark, it is befuddling and it cannot be explained but there are many things in this world that cannot be explained and in my opinion that is what makes life so wonderful and worth living.”
“You’ve certainly changed your tune,” said Frederick.
“I have indeed,” said Frederick again, “Denmark was a low point for me but someone is clearly thinking of me. When you know someone is thinking of you, you feel alive and that’s one of the most agreeable feelings in the world.
Frederick Goodge decided to make himself a cup of tea. He said to himself, “I think I talk to myself too much. I’m afraid I may be losing my mind.”
“Don’t worry,” he replied, “I can look after myself. Are you making a cup of tea for me too?”
“Of course I am,” said Frederick Goodge and took another cup from the cupboard and set it down next to his. “Tea for two,” said Frederick with a winsome smile as if he had just discovered the secret of the universe, “by the way, I think I’ve just discovered the secret of the universe but I’ll be damned if you think I’m going to share it with you.”
After his cup of tea, Frederick Goodge was laid up in ordinary for the next three months. The vicissitudes of daily life continued but as far as you and I are concerned, nothing happened, except Frederick had a dream in which the following took place:
Frederick Goodge was sitting in his armchair contemplating everything and nothing with slightly more emphasis on the latter. Frederick was suddenly thrown out of his chair by the disarming sound of the front door slamming and a photograph falling off the wall and onto the floor. Frederick got to his feet, conveniently located at the end of his legs, walked over to the photograph, picked it up and looked at it. It was a photograph of Frederick Goodge and Dana Drawl, the glass in the frame of which had been broken in two. Interestingly enough, Frederick’s relationship with Dana Drawl had just been broken in two and it was Dana’s slamming of the front door upon her exit that had caused the photograph to fall off the wall and break in two in the first place.
Frederick sat back down with the photograph in his hand and shimmered. Then the photograph spoke to Frederick, in hushed tones of joy and sadness, evoking a myriad of beautiful and terrible memories. Frederick was struck dumb and speechless and thus unable to respond. For the life of him, Harold could not understand why he felt the way he did and such a conundrum threatened to drive him up the wall, across the ceiling, down the other side, through the hall, out the front door and round the bend. What Frederick didn’t know was that it was in fact a simple and common phenomenon (yet a phenomenon all the same) easily explained away by that very convenient and equally confusing umbrella term more commonly known as love. In other words, Frederick ignored the fact that love was really the essence of the universe, that is to say, a synthesis of all things and since Dana meant absolutely everything to Frederick, it followed necessarily that absolutely everything meant Dana to Frederick.
This is how Frederick and Dan were broken in two:
“I have had enough and enough is enough,” said Dana.
To which Frederick replied, “Is it?”
“Yes,” said Dana, “more than enough.”
“What about the children?” said Frederick.
“Simple,” said Dana, “we won’t have any.”
“Typical,” said Frederick, “it’s always the children that suffer the most.”
Frederick hung his head and raised his arms high up into the air. This was his way of demonstrating the shortness of his tether, which was arguably abstruse, but incontestably effective. Dana looked at him and beamed. This was her way of demonstrating her ability to light up her face, which traditionally she would only do at Christmas time but for the purpose of this dream sequence, Dana kindly agreed to make an exception.
“Do you love me enough to let me go?” she asked.
“No,” said Frederick.
“That’s too bad,” said Dana, “because I love you enough to leave you.”
Upon which, Dana left but before she did, Frederick asked her where she was going.
“Egypt,” said Dana.
“Are you telling me the truth?” said Frederick.
“Yes,” said Dana, “but what if I am not?” Upon which, she left and this time she did.
Then Frederick Goodge woke up. It was spring and pretty flowers appeared and fat birds sang. Frederick joined in and whistled. He whistled, “On top of Old Smoky” because he felt it very apt and the only tune he knew off by heart. In the style of a true romantic hero, Frederick was crippled by his own extravagant sensibilities, which had been overwhelmed by the grief caused by Dana’s sudden and unexpected departure. But it was just a dream! Or was it something more?
Frederick Goodge was reeling. His dream had seemed so real. If his instincts were anything to go by, then Dana really might be in Brighton. Or if she really had sent the blank postcard, then she might in Egypt. In any case, she was definitely in Egypt or Brighton. Sanguine to the letter, Frederick hired a horse and rode on down to Brighton.
Frederick arrived in Brighton and went straight to the beach; he was canny and recalled that Dana liked to swim. Harold took his shoes and socks off, walked along the beach and hurt his feet. The beach was not sandy, but full of pebbly. Frederick pondered the age-old process of coastal erosion and wondered what was taking so long. Green, Frederick considered that England was shrinking and sinking but decided that although this might well be the place, it was probably not the time.
Frederick Goodge looked out for Dana Drawl or a clue because a clue is about the best a man can hope for in this world but he didn’t find anything, not even an old penny or a wooden spoon. Frederick said to himself,
“I don’t know where Dana Drawl. I don’t even have a clue. For all I know, she could be in Egypt.”
Frederick continued along the beach and came to where the old pier had stood before it collapsed. Bits of the old pier were floating about on the water. It was very windy and Frederick said Goodge to himself,
“I don’t like the wind but I suppose it’s good for windsurfers and tired birds so I won’t complain and besides I wouldn’t know who to complain to.”
At this, Frederick heard a voice behind him and he turned round.
“That’s why people go to church,” said the voice.
The voice belonged to an old man, tepid.
Frederick thought he recognised the old man from his past or his future or something like that. When the old man came closer to Frederick, indeed he did look terribly familiar although Frederick knew (he didn’t know how he knew but he knew) that he had never seen him before in his life.
“Before is the operative word here," said Frederick.
Then the old man said in hushed tones of joy and sadness,
“My wife was on the pier when it collapsed.”
Frederick Goodge didn’t know what to say but recognising the combination of joy and sadness in the old man’s tones, replied, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
To which the old man said,
“So am I. I used to win a lot of money on the fruit machines.” Frederick didn’t know if this was a joke or not and he wanted to ask about the old man’s wife but he just couldn’t find the words. He was desperately trying to remember where he had put them when suddenly he heard an old lady’s voice behind him calling out his name. At the same time, both Frederick and the old man turned around and looked back towards the promenade, whence the lady’s voice was hailing. There was an old lady wearing what looked to Frederick like a bag on her head and waving a stick.
“That’s my wife,” said the old man. “She has a very weak voice but the wind carries it well. I have to go now.”
Frederick Goodge was rather nonplussed and since he didn’t like being nonplussed said,
“So your wife survived when the old pier collapsed?”
“Yes,” said the old man. “And I’ve been in mourning ever since”. The old man gave Frederick a cheeky wink and started back towards his wife. The old man gave his wife a little kiss on the cheek and pointed to Frederick. The old lady waved at Frederick and Frederick, not sure of the correct waving at old people that he didn’t know etiquette, waved back. The old man smiled and gave his wife another kiss on the cheek and it was precisely at the moment that the old man’s lips made contact with the old lady’s cheek for the second time that Frederick realised who the old man was.
“That’s me,” Frederick Goodge said to himself. It was still very windy on the beach and bits of the old pier were still floating about on the water.
“That’s me,” Frederick repeated to himself, “but I wonder who the old lady could be.”
Pensive, Frederick rode back to Petts Wood. He returned his horse to the stables in Jubilee Park and went home.
On St George's day, the doorbell rang. "Imagine if it were St. George!" thought Frederick. "Would he be a tea or a coffee man? Herbal tea, I reckon. Jammy dodger or rich tea? Jaffer, for sure."
Frederick opened the door and his eyes fell upon the bibbed body of a beautiful young lady; short and blonde and doubtless fair and petite. Frederick rubbed his eyes and was struck by the rather uncanny resemblance the young lady bore to another certain female individual known simply as Dana Drawl.
“Good evening, sir,” said the young lady. “I’m sorry to bother you on this fine wintry evening.”
“You are not bothering me. Furthermore, this evening may be fine but it is certainly not wintry. The weather has been nothing but clement ever since my return from Brighton, where it was windy and bits of the old pier floated about on the water. Say, what is your name?”
“Sally Nubuck,” said the young lady.
“You are beautiful, Sally Nubuck,” said Frederick. “You look very much like a girl I think I know. Except for the bib.”
“What did she look like, this girl you think you know, except for the bib?”
“She was tall and dark and beautiful.”
“But I’m short and blonde and cute. Everybody says so.”
“Oh dear. Then I suppose great bodies don’t look alike,” said Frederick.
“I don’t understand,” said Sally.
“Don’t worry. It’s just a theory I'm working on.”
“Oh, I guess it must be my uncanny resemblance bearing hips,” said Sally.
“Yes it must be,” said Frederick. “Would you like to come in?”
The young lady looked at Frederick and saw in his eyes that he was kind, if a little odd and safe, if a little odd and stepped through the doorway.
Once inside, it didn’t take long for Sally to realise that Frederick’s house was very narrow. Frederick Goodge read Sally’s mind and said,
“That’s right. I have to sidle everywhere. Otherwise I get stuck. May I suggest we proceed to the living room in an orderly single file?”
Sally Nubuck did not reply; she merely followed Frederick’s suggestion and, tucking in her elbows so as not to bang them against the walls, which happened to be made out of paper, entered the living room and collapsed into a unseemly heap on the floor. Then Frederick said,
“Sit down or take a seat. It’s entirely up to you.”
Sally got up and sat down in Frederick’s specifically designed armchair for people with mainly arms, felt horribly ill at ease, got up and took a (normal) seat. Again Frederick read Sally’s mind and said,
“That’s right, or phew! It couldn’t have been closer. Would you like some tea?”
“No thanks. I can’t stay long. I have to visit every house in the road before nightfall,” said Sally.
“I’m not convinced that night falls exactly but it certainly is a long road, there are no two ways about that,” said Frederick. “What is it that you do?” inquired Frederick Goodge, indicating the bib with a twitch of his nose. “Is it something to do with a charity?”
“Do you not know already? I thought you could read my mind,” said Sally Nubuck, swinging her legs and waving her arms all over the place. She was revelling in the relative open space and was certainly not looking forward to sidling back down the hallway again.
“I could read your mind if I wanted to. But sometimes I like talking to people and not knowing what they’re going to say.”
“Sure thing,” said Sally. “I work for a charity for homeless people. I’m collecting money for our Christmas dinner. I know it is only April but still. Would you be interested in giving a donation?”
“I keep turkeys in my back garden,” said Frederick.
“Are you a farmer?” said Sally.
“I’m a writer.”
“What do you write?” said Sally.
“Turkeys,” said Frederick. At this point Sally guffawed and then she said,
“What do you write about?”
“I write about the lengths people go to in order to make other people like them and the widths people go to in order to make other people dislike them and on top of that, the depths of people’s indifference to each other,” said Frederick.
“I see,” said Sally. “Why do you keep turkeys in your back garden?”
“I find they make a mess on the carpet and they peck through the paper walls.” Sally guffawed for a second time and then blushed because as far as she could recall she had never guffawed twice in one day before. She was very embarrassed but Frederick found her to be very sexy and decided to fancy her right away and on the spot.
“I fancy you,” said Frederick. “I think you are sexy when you guffaw. Would you like a turkey?”
“Yes, please,” said Sally. At this Frederick suddenly felt an impulse to fondle Sally’s elbows but he refrained on grounds of decency and went out into the garden. He picked up the plumpest and most delectable turkey from the lot (if ever the truth be known the lot only consisted of one whole turkey but in fairness Frederick possessed even less qualms than turkeys when it came to lying about the size of his livestock in order to enhance his otherwise utterly ineffectual wooing technique) and came back into the living room and dumped the turkey on the floor.
“There,” he said, “that’s the biggest turkey I could find.”
“That’s a chicken,” said Sally.
“It can’t be. It’s the only turkey I’ve got,” said Frederick.
“It’s still a chicken,” said Sally, trying desperately not to guffaw for the third time.
“It seems I have as many qualms as turkeys after all,” said Frederick.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing,” said Frederick, gazing deep into Sally’s big brown eyes. “I would very much like to kiss you.”
“Then why don’t you?” said Sally.
This was a very good question, to which Frederick had no good answer. Therefore he said nothing, closed his mouth and gently placed his lips onto Sally’s. At this, Frederick Goodge kissed Sally Nubuck, Sally Nubuck kissed Frederick Goodge, and Frederick remembered the old man he had met on the (pebbly) beach in Brighton and said to himself,
“I am not in love with Dana Drawl anymore. I am not in love with anyone per se. I am simply in love with the idea of being in love.”
“This is all very well,” said Frederick, “just don’t tell Sally, or your turkey won’t be the only thing she calls a chicken.”
“That’s a good point,” replied Frederick, and carried on kissing. At the same time, Sally was saying to herself all manner of crazy things such as, “I don’t care about Christmas or homeless people. I just love awkward kissing and ambiguous fowl.”
Of course Frederick could have read Sally’s mind at this point but he decided not to. If he had, he would have said something like this:
“The universe is as it is and always will be. Everything is in perfect balance with everything else and always will be. And does this mean that if I had had a turkey instead of a chicken I would have got sex instead of a kiss?”
However, he wisely refrained from doing so because that night, as on so many other nights in so many other parts of the world, one thing led to another and needless to say, one kiss led to sex.
And what amazing sex it was too! Frederick described the experience as positively sexual and Sally described the sex as an experience, not exactly positive but by no means negative either. The chicken was nowhere to be seen and glorious silence reigned supreme. Frederick munched on a carrot and Sally asked Frederick why he was munching on a carrot and Frederick said,
“I’m trying to give up smoking,” and Sally said,
“I know a girl named Penelope Splendorwrift who ate too many carrots and turned orange.” Frederick nearly choked and the hair on his head nearly started growing back and then he spat several little bits of carrot out of his mouth and onto the bed. “I have a phobia of the colour orange, which I am trying to overcome by eating carrots,” he said. “Do you think if I eat twenty carrots a day, I will turn orange?”
“Probably,” said Sally Nubuck, lighting up a cigarette. “Would you like a cigarette?”
“No thanks, “ said Frederick, his whole face swelling up in time with the happy realisation that there existed on this particular planet a girl as particular as he himself and that they just happened to be located in exactly the same bed, naked and together and once again, naturally and inevitably, glorious silence reigned supreme. Frederick was at one with Sally, who was at one with Frederick and together they were at two with each other. Then Sally asked a very pertinent question.
“Why do you have walls made of paper?” she said. To which Frederick replied,
“I’m a writer. And I have no time for wallpaper.” Sally was mildly amused but still not convinced that Frederick was a writer.
“One day I will prove it to you,” proffered Frederick. “In the meantime allow me to show you my fine collection of pens.” Frederick got out of bed, being careful not to reveal too much of his feminine side for fear of disturbing Sally, Sally who had been so strangely drawn, like a post-modern portrait of Jimmy Carter laying an egg in the billiard room, to Frederick’s ambiguous and unspoken virility only one hour and forty minutes previous.
“I keep my pens locked away,” said Frederick, “in case I ever feel the uncontrollable and spasm-like urge to write.”
“Sometimes you make so much sense I think you must be insane,” said Sally. “I don’t want to see your pens. Come back to bed. I want to make love to you again.”
“I don’t feel like it,” said Frederick, glancing at the barometer on the wall above the chest of drawers where he kept his pens, “my mood is changing and there’s nothing I can do about it.” Frederick’s spirits were sinking fast like a speedboat full of holes and Sally knew that she had to act quickly not least because she felt a tremendous sexual energy bursting out of her body and so she said,
“When we’re alone, I feel as though we’re the only two people in the whole wide world.” Frederick considered this observation to be a very facile one indeed not only because they had never been alone before but his instincts told him that he should honour Sally’s feelings just in case he ever wanted to see her naked again. So he said,
“So do I, although I don’t think the world is wide, probably because it is round.”
“I know what you mean,” said Sally, “but I wonder if you are capable of saying anything remotely romantic or sexy of your own accord and without being prompted by me or your penis.” Frederick was startled by the sheerness of Sally’s most speculative suggestion. He took a step forward towards the bed and then suddenly two steps back and a hop to the side. He realised that if he moved any closer to the bed, he would be close to the bed, and thus unable to think logically and say exactly what he meant. The bed contained a naked woman and beds that contain naked women tend to hijack a man’s (and Frederick Goodge's for Frederick Goodge was nothing if not a man) rationality by proxy and thus make him say things that later he will regret and pretend to forget.
“Listen to this,” he said, “for a long time I was in love with a romantic ideal called Dana Drawl. You remind me of her. One day I could be in love with you.”
“Hmm,” said Sally, who was as depressed as Frederick was delighted by this deceptively double-edged and backhanded slice of information, “at least you are frank, I suppose. I could learn to find that quite endearing”.
To which Frederick replied,
“Yes. But now I think it is time for bed. You can borrow some pyjamas if you like.”
“I always sleep naked,” said Sally, “but I’m afraid I won’t be able to sleep just yet. I’m very restless. It seems on this occasion I must take responsibility for my own orgasm. Do you mind?”
Frederick was taken aback on the spot.
“You mean…”
“Yes. Do you mind?”
To be honest, Frederick didn’t have the faintest idea whether he minded or not. Should he have minded? Should he have been embarrassed? He certainly wasn’t proud of himself. He was bemused and confused and he lowered his head, maybe in shame but more likely in order to see if he was still naked. He was. He promptly decided he was embarrassed but that he didn’t really mind. And then for some reason he panicked. He suddenly felt the way he feels when he has an itch somewhere on his body that he cannot quite locate. Something was wrong, as in not quite right but he couldn’t put his finger on it so he covered up his lambent penis and said,
“I have to brush my teeth and put my pyjamas on. I’m going to sleep downstairs on the floor. It’ll be good for my back. You can have the bed. You do whatever you have to do. Indeed, whatever tickles your pickle. Night has fallen and it is good.”
Frederick Goodge woke up the day after St George's day on the floor in his living room. He felt like crap. Realising that he had used a chicken as a pillow, he decide to wash his hair and boil an egg. Frederick remembered too why the chicken was in the living room in the first place. That’s right, he had offered it to a girl who wanted donations to help cook a Christmas dinner for a pack of errant and homeless folk. The girl had rejected the chicken on account of it being a chicken as opposed to a turkey. Never mind. Philosophy to the rescue: You can’t have everything, think of the taxation!
Frederick Goodge couldn’t care less, truth be told. He would have the chicken himself and it was way too early to be taking the idea of Christmas seriously.
Frederick was perpendicular as he fished for memories of last night. It was great that he had had sex last night, which just happened to be great. That reminds him. The girl Frederick had sex with is still in his bed, slumbering.
Frederick wanted to go and see her but was worried what he looked like. He looked in the mirror. He looked fine, except for the chicken feathers. Now Frederick Goodge is worried what the girl looks like. He can’t even remember her name. Were you drunk last night Frederick? No, of course not. You don’t drink. Why? Because you have absolutely no constitution for alcohol and whenever you drink you sleep with girls that you don’t really like and you wake up on the floor in your living room with your head on a chicken. Shit bags, you think. It could be worse. At least there is not a chicken on your head. You put a hat on and boil an egg.
Sally trudged downstairs in her yellow fundraising bib like a bored and crumpled explorer coming in from the tepid. She had not slept very well. In fact she had hardly slept a wink. Her mind had been racing around and around the track of her brain circuit trying to catch up with the reasons why she had slept with such a waywardly effusive bod as Frederick, in whose pathetic paper laden house she was now loath to find herself.
Sally enters the kitchen with Frederick in the middle of his egg. He is all yellow, like a bib. He reads Sally’s mind, as he does. Sally thinks Frederick is radioactive, if not sick.
“I’m fine,” says Frederick. “How are you?”
“I could be better,” says Sally, “I didn’t sleep very well.”
“Nor did I,” Frederick replied. “Perhaps you should have slept on the floor or at least we had fabulous sex last night. Would you like an egg?"
“No thanks,” says Sally. “I think I should go now. I still have lots of work to do. I didn’t get very far yesterday.”
Frederick is very understanding. He wants to thank her for the sexual satisfaction she gave him last night but thinks this may be an insensitive thing to do.
“Thanks for the shag,” says Sally, “or is that an insensitive thing to say?”
“No, no it’s fine. I get it all the time. I’m a bit of a sex maniac, if you must know. Sex is the chain that turns the wheels on my bicycle of post-isms existence.”
“I didn’t have to know that but I do have to go. How much do you want to give to the charity? Christmas is coming up in eight months and it’s very cold outside.”
“It's not cold but how much do you recommend?”
“As much as you can afford.”
“I take it you don’t want the chicken?”
“I’ll take the chicken. Some people can’t afford pillows.”
Frederick Goodge feels relieved that he is wearing a hat. He notes that he always feels relieved when he wears a hat. He tries to think of a time in his life when he was wearing a hat and felt even slightly put upon or tense. He cannot.
(There was one occasion when Frederick was lampooned in Hackney Downs for wearing a beret, which was so traumatising it has been erased his from memory.)
Sally Nubuck says, "look, I’m not trying you make you feel guilty. If you don’t want to make a donation, you don’t have to. Don’t feel bad, I’m used to it. Thanks for the chicken.”
Then she turns around (she has a really cute behind as if you haven’t noticed already) and goes into the living room to pick up the chicken. The chicken is fast asleep, which is not surprising after the restless night it had, what with it being flat squashed under Frederick's tubby head and lucky too because otherwise it would have been much more difficult to pick up.
A dramatic moment. This is important; Sally’s about to leave and Frederick will never see her again unless he decides, in the manner of an atypical fellow, what his feelings are and does something about them sharpish. Well?
Too late.
Sally is gone and Frederick Goodge is spent. He realises Sally is wonderful and adorable but gone. Frederick broods over all the sad things in the world and comes to the conclusion that perhaps the saddest thing of all is a missed opportunity.
You are Frederick Goodge. Stranger than strange. Cannot afford to be choosy. Alone 99% of the time. A catch literally walked into your life and out again. You are alone once more. You lament your loneliness and finish your egg.
So what of this Sally character? And just where or who is Dana Drawl? Frederick Goodge's head was swimming. He decided the rest of his body could do with the same. He got on the 208 bus and went back to the Walnuts Leisure Centre in Orpington.
"Here are your goggles, Mr Goodge" said the manager of the swimming pool. Frederick thanked the manager and went into the changing rooms. He resented having to shower before entering the pool (I am good with hygiene, why humiliate me and imply I smell?) but he did anyway.
Frederick Goodge swam five lengths and got out. He was tired and bored. He did not bump into anyone, let alone the most beautiful girl in the world. He felt bad about Sally Nubuck. He tried to remember the name of the charity she worked for so he could get in touch with her. What would he say if he did?
Frederick Goodge asked the manager of the swimming pool if he knew anyone called Sally Nubuck who worked for a charity for homeless people. She had a well-kempt body, Frederick reasoned, so there was a fine chance she liked to swim. The manager asked Frederick to describe Sally. Like a good deal of men, Frederick is not good at describing women.
"She is small, with hair and a lovely face," said Frederick.
"No," said the manager. "But I'm sure I would recognise her if I saw her. I'll give you a call if anyone fitting that description comes in for a swim. Are you a private detective?"
Frederick Goodge hesitated but not for long. "Yes," he said. "I am new so I do not have a card yet. When I have my cards, I will send you one in the post."
And this is how Frederick Goodge became a private detective.
He went home on the bus and wondered if real private detectives travel by bus. "Maybe I should invest in a bike," he thought.
And this is how Frederick Goodge became a private detective who rides a bike.
In May and June, Frederick had a series of dreams and they were strange to say the least. The next day, he wrote a letter. This is it:
Dear English Croquet Association,
Recently I have been having the strangest dreams! Sometimes I am asleep when I have these dreams and sometimes I am awake and sometimes I find it is very difficult to tell the difference. Why am I telling you this you may be wondering? Well, the reason I am writing to you is two-fold.
One: in my dreams I am competing in a croquet tournament in Belsize Park with a man called Bernard (Bernard Neal perhaps, the Croquet Association President?)
Two: I have never played croquet in my real life before but I think I would be very good at it (if my dream-performance against Bernard is anything to go by) and would therefore like to apply for a place in your next tournament.
I understand this may seem like a strange request but I have consulted a friend of mine who is an expert in dream analysis, (he is manager of a well-respected leisure centre in Orpington but has read many books including The Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund Freud and Around the World in 80 days by Jules Verne) and he has said I even have a chance of winning the tournament!
I have read on your website that non-members are allowed to play in one tournament before they must become members? If I win the tournament, I should be delighted to become a member of your association. If I lose, hopefully we can come to some sort of arrangement.
Yours faithfully,
Frederick Goodge
P.S I am now a private detective so if you ever have need of one, please do not hesitate to get in touch.
Needless to say, Frederick did not receive a reply from the Croquet Association but how interesting that Frederick referred to the manager of the swimming pool as his friend?
Yes, Frederick and the swimming pool manager, Archie Hoodwinkle, had become friends after Frederick sent Archie one of his new business cards and Archie had phoned him and told him he had left his Wiggle nose clip at the swimming pool last time he was there.
One rainy day in September Frederick and Archie met in Lorenzo's, which is a bookshop, that is also a cafe, on Orpington high street.
"Are you still having those strange dreams about croquet?" asked Archie.
"No," said Frederick. "Have you seen anyone small, with hair and a lovely face?"
"No," said Archie. "How's tricks?"
"I don't know what that means," said Frederick.
"I think it means how are things?" said Archie.
"Which things?" asked Frederick.
"I'm not sure," said Archie."How's the detective work going?"
"I'm not at liberty to talk about that," said Frederick. "Let's meet here next week. Same time, same place."
Frederick Goodge and Archie Hoodwinkle were very fond of each other. Frederick could spend all day sipping tea and conversing with Archie but Archie had to get back to the swimming pool. It was empty because it was raining out and nobody goes swimming in the rain but Archie still had to get back on account of being the manager and having to set a good example.
Frederick had a quick browse at the books and came across a novel by Tom Stoppard. He knew Tom Stoppard, not personally, but he admired him for his plays, which were very funny and clever too. He did not know that Tom Stoppard had written a novel and was intrigued. He picked up the book and flicked through it. It seemed weird. Perhaps Tom should stick to plays, thought Frederick and he put the book back.
Frederick was about to exit Lorenzo's when he stopped ( a flash in his head - a mental picture) and darted back to the book. Had he glimpsed an inscription in the front of the novel by Tom Stoppard? Yes, scribbled on the front page was this:
Darling Dana,
I know you like his plays so this should be right up your street!
Love always,
Peter Sarstedt
Spontaneous, Frederick Goodge ripped out the front page of the book and excitedly leaped out of the shop and onto the pavement. Wet, slippy, Frederick slipped on the pavement and conked his knee. Realising there might be more clues in the book, he limped back inside and bought it and apologised for stealing the front page in the first place.
At home, Frederick didn't have any peas so on his knee he put some beans. He read the whole book keeping both eyes out for any further clues.
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