Page 1 of Calling Frank O'Hare

1

So many possibilities

Frank opened the French windows that led from his studio to the back garden and was nearly knocked over by two big dogs, excited to get out for their first romp of the day. Turf flew this way and that as they tore up the patchy lawn and crashed through daffodils that were already past their best. Good job he wasn’t precious about these things. A third, much smaller dog trotted between his legs and took a more sedate amble around the garden’s perimeter, keeping a dignified distance from her altogether larger and more boisterous offspring.

Frank turned his attention to the studio, bathed in morning sunlight and perfect for painting. It had been a breakfast room once and still was when his lovely Netta stayed over, but most of the time he painted in it. Living alone had its plus points, mainly being able to choose how you lived. And for the next two weeks, Frank was choosing to live as a full-time artist, rather than someone who fitted it in around his other job. It was officially the first day of the Easter holidays. Until his college re-opened, there would be no guiding non-plussed sixth formers around the intricacies of Shakespeare, Austen et al. There would only be painting, and that filled Frank with a pleasing, if somewhat smug sense of contentment. It was a feeling he rarely felt in his day job, so he allowed himself a brief wallow in it.

Wallow over, he set out his paints and checked his brushes. All clean and ready to go. Just one stretch before he got going because, according to Netta, it was good to stretch and keep yourself loose. Particularly when you had a minor back problem, as he did. Not that he was in bad shape for sixty-one. A tiny bit overweight maybe, but nothing life threatening, and he still had a good head of hair. It was better than most men of his age, although it wasn’t what it used to be. The old back did give him a bit of jip now and then, but he couldn’t complain. In fact there was very little to complain about in his life. He got on just great with his daughter, Robyn. She had moved to Edinburgh, which was a long way from Birmingham but not prohibitively so. The woman he loved lived next door, handy but not in your face, and they had a good thing going, as the song said. There was an exhibition in the autumn to look forward to, and he was about to start on a new canvas in readiness for it. All in all, Frank was happy. And comfortable. He was happy and comfortable. Not a bad place to be.

Satisfied with his stretch and his life, he selected the first tube of paint. It was a new one, as yet unopened. Frank loved a brand new tube of paint. There was so much potential in them, so many possibilities. He unscrewed the top and broke the seal. Time to get started.

Then the phone rang.

He checked the caller ID. It was his sister. Frank tutted and screwed the top back onto the paint. He was going to have to take this, whether he wanted to or not.

‘Frank, it’s Siobhan, your sister.’

‘I know who you are, Siobhan. What’s up? Is it the parents?’

‘Now why would you ask me that?’

‘You don’t usually call.’

‘I could say the same for you, Francis. They’re grand. There’s nothing wrong with them.’

‘What is it then?’

‘Who is it, you mean.’

‘Ah.’ There was no need to say more. He knew what was coming next.

‘It’s Martin.’ Of course it was. Wasn’t it always Martin? ‘He’s gone missing. Well, not completely missing. There’s been sightings.’ She stopped, her last word left dangling over a cliff edge waiting to be rescued.

Frank let a few more seconds pass but since no further words were forthcoming, he embarked on the rescue mission. ‘Sightings?’

‘Scotland.’

‘Scotland’s a big country, Siobhan. Any particular part?’

‘Glasgow. Cousin Finn bumped into him. He was half-cut.’

‘Finn, or Martin?’

‘Martin I think, but it could have been either. Or both. Anyway that’s where we think he is. Would you go and get him?’

Frank looked longingly at the tube of paint he’d abandoned moments earlier. ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine.’

Perhaps he’d said it too quietly or perhaps his sister wasn’t listening. Either way, she carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘You know what Martin’s like. He needs minding sometimes.’

‘Only sometimes? Did Finn get his address?’

‘Of course not. Finn’s almost as useless as Martin.’

‘What are the odds of me finding him without an address? Besides, I can’t go. I have responsibilities.’

‘Responsibilities? And what would they be now?’

As usual, Siobhan said it in a way that implied he was a complete numpty. He could tell she was waiting for an answer to pour scorn on and he knew before he opened his mouth, he was about to give her one. ‘Dogs. I have dogs to look after.’