LITMIR.BIZ

      THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the four met at breakfast. Charles noticed the old folks seemed subdued compared to the chatter from the previous evening and kept glancing at the four as they ate.

      A woman put a full English breakfast in front of Charles. He looked at the plate of greasy offerings and tucked in.

      “Glad to see you found your appetite, Charles,” said Mrs Chew, who hovered around the table.

      Charles nodded and shovelled a sausage into his mouth.

      “Right,” whispered Steve. “When Chewy buggers off we can plan what to do today.”

      He sneered at the other terrified looking old folk and played his imaginary air guitar. They cringed and put their heads down, rushing to finish their food.

      “So Elvin, how did you end up here?” asked Charles, while cutting up a runny egg.

      Elvin was the eldest of the four at seventy-five-years-old. A small solid built man who remained fit and active throughout his life. He had lived at Fossdyke since his wife passed away. Bald as a baboon’s botty, his dry sense of humour made people laugh with his witty off-the-cuff remarks.

      Elvin took a slurp of tea and said. “After me missus died, I didn’t want to be alone, so I looked for a residential home and I liked Fossdyke. It was close to the sea, with a well-equipped leisure centre and swimming pool nearby, with other seaside amenities within walking distance. It appeared clean, efficient, and well run. I arranged an interview with Mrs Chew, who told me that there was a room available. She showed me around the residents’ quarters and while showing me the dining room, a woman came over and pulled ‘er to one side. Chewy apologised, saying that she needed to sort out a problem, and she directed me to the recreation room, suggesting that I should check it out. I went along to the room and as I approached, I heard a guitar playing.” He pointed to Steve, who chuckled as Elvin continued. “So I went into the room and he stopped playing and asked me if I was lost... No, I said, Just ‘aving a gander.” Elvin smiled at Steve and continued. “A gander,” he said and taking the mickey out of my cockney accent, asked. “Wot part of London are you from me old cock sparra? The Grimsby part, I told ‘im.”

      He laughed, unplugged his Stratocaster from the amp, walked over, and said his name was Steve Baker... or I could call him, ‘Strat.’ I told ‘im, I’m Elvin Stanley... or he could call me, Elvin Stanley,” he chuckled and continued. “I told him I knew the song he was playing, County Jail Blues and said it was a great song and I could play it. He asked if I was a guitarist. I told him I wasn’t, but a dab hand on the old double bass. He must have got the ‘ump, because he couldn’t take his eyes off me Bobby Charlton comb-over, and said I looked like a twat.” Elvin rubbed his bald head. “He said he had Braun clippers and would give me a solar panel for a sex machine.”

      “Well I did, but you still look like a twat,” interrupted Steve chuckling and rubbing his head.

      Hmm, grumbled Elvin. “Then the cheeky git said, Elvin, that’s a stupid name for a rock star. I didn’t understand what he meant, so I said, I’m not a rock star... I'm a geriatric.”

      Steve interrupted. “I wanted to liven the place up, so I wanted to tell everyone he was a rock star. I knew it would give old Elsie an orgasm. Her tubes won't have been lubed since her old man snuffed it. She's probably got moss growing from her flaps,” said Steve and chortled.

      Elvin laughed, pointed at Steve, and said. “He then glared at me and announced. I’ll call you Chippers! Short for chipmunk, because one of the bloody annoying chipmunks on T.V.’s called Alvin, which sounds like Elvin, so Chipper's it is.”

      Elvin looked at Steve, smiled, and said. “He made me feel right at home before Chewy came back into the rec room. She gave him a filthy look, dragged me away to her office, apologised, and hoped that Steve hadn’t put me off the home. She assured me that the other old residents were far more relaxed.” Elvin laughed. “I paid my deposit there and then, sorted out the paperwork, and a few days later me and my old double bass moved in.”

      “Yeah,” said Steve, “there was hell on over the next few months for the old codgers.”

      Elvin chuckled and said, “Which only got worse for them when Wayne arrived wiv his drum kit and Yamaha keyboard.”

      “Great for us, though,” said Steve, “we were now a trio.”

      Charles cringed, recalling the dreadful noise he’d heard from this trio.

      After breakfast, the four went to the recreation room. Residents who milled around in there were about to leave when Mrs Chew walked in and stood guard over the door to their instruments.

      “We’ve got bingo at 10:00 am, so none of your antics today,” she said and scowled.

      The four sighed, went to the coffee machine, took their beverages outside, and sat on a bench in the grounds.

      “What did Mrs Chew mean last night when she mentioned what happened last time?” asked Charles, looking intrigued.

      The three looked uncomfortable and Charles thought he had hit a raw nerve, but after a moment's silence, Steve said. “You tell him, deaf boy. After all, it was your fault.”

      “What?” Wayne asked, feigning deafness and fiddling with his hearing-aid.

      Steve sniggered and said. “Okay, I'll tell him.”

      Steve took a drink of coffee and said. “Old deaf boy hadn’t told us his full story, and always became selectively deaf when we questioned him about his life. Although strangely enough when we are in a pub his hearing becomes clear when offered a pint of beer,” he said, and he and Elvin chuckled.

      Wayne, knowing he had been rumbled and his hearing was okay, took over telling the story, which happened over a year ago. “Toward the end of my first year at Fossdyke, I noticed small spots of grey hair.”

      “Small!” Steve interrupted, “you're a lying twat Logan. You looked like Santa’s dandruff.” he chuckled.

      Wayne glared at Steve. “At least I have hair, baldy,” said Wayne, running his fingers through his hair. “Not bad for a seventy-two-year-old,” he smirked. “Anyhow, I was applying a dab of black hair dye

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