The Extraordinary Adventures of Charlie Frank

By Len Cooke

Charlie Frank is middle-aged, out of work and for the first time in his life, in trouble with the law. To makes matters worse, his octogenarian father is arrested for mooning out of a bus window and his wife, who no longer loves him, is going through a mid-life crisis. Then he meets and falls in love with Grace, a beautiful police officer and for a troubled Charlie Frank, life will never be the same again.

A less than politically correct feel-good story for those who enjoy life but do not, necessarily, take it too seriously.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Panda Press
• Release date: Nov 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540197672

Len Cooke

As with many writers, Len regards the art as being very much part of his DNA. After taking early retirement from his work on nuclear submarines, his passion for justice and decency led him to work as a volunteer in one of Her Majesty's Prisons and that collective experience, together with his travels to many parts of the world, has given him an unrivalled maturity, and at times, wicked sense of humour that can often be seen in his work.  

Book preview

The Extraordinary Adventures

of

Charlie Frank

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Len Cooke

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Published by Red Panda Press 2012/16

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any events, persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters are fictitious products of the author’s imagination

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Copyright Len Cooke 1996/2016

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Also by Len Cooke

September

The Time Travellers’ Guide to Total Chaos

or Harry, Sandy and the Zandron

The Illusionists

The Guardian Angel

The Mind Hunter

The McEndrick Option

The Jupiter Three Dilemma

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To the memory of my late father, a man who positively hated Martians!

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The Extraordinary Adventures

of

Charlie Frank

––––––––

Charlie Frank is middle-aged, out of work and for the first time in his life, in trouble with the law. To makes matters worse, his octogenarian father is arrested for mooning out of a bus window and his wife, who no longer loves him, is going through a mid-life crisis. Then he meets and falls in love with Grace, a beautiful police officer and for a troubled Charlie Frank, life will never be the same again.

A less than politically correct feel-good story for those who enjoy life but do not, necessarily, take it too seriously.

CHAPTER ONE

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Charles Frank drew heavily on the remains of his cigarette, stared wistfully at the freedom that for the next four hours would elude him, shrugged pragmatically and threw the stub on the ground.

‘Charlie!’

Startled, he turned to face the speaker, stood in the now open staff entrance of the engineering factory where, man and boy, Charlie had worked for the past thirty-five years.

‘Yes?’

Raymond Briarton, a twenty-four-year-old newly qualified engineering graduate smirked at him conceitedly. ‘Boss wants to see you in his office,’ he began, ‘like about five minutes ago.’ Leaving Charlie thinking he had just been licked by a brand new razor blade, Briarton grinned mockingly before once again disappearing back into the gloom of the factory.

Charlie glanced at his watch; it was five minutes after eight. With a sigh and a last, almost sneaked glance at the ‘freedom’ that now lay behind him; he slowly, and reluctantly, entered the premises of RightFab PLC.

*

Francis Middleton, fifty-five-year-old narcissist, power-dresser and egotist, glanced up from her computer monitor screen and scowled with almost professional disinterest at the visitor. ‘You may go straight in, Mr Frank,’ she began, matter-of-factly, ‘don’t bother knocking, he’s waiting for you.’

Charlie nodded and moved to the first of the large and ancient oaken doors that had once, two mergers and three takeovers previously, formed the executive suite of Shirrel and Sons. Old habits die-hard however and, quite subliminally, Charlie found himself knocking dutifully and waiting for a reply before entering the sanctum sanctorum that lay beyond.

David Crossley, well-groomed and immaculately dressed thirty-three-year-old works manager of the Lancashire branch of RightFab, smiled at Charlie much as a medical consultant might smile at a patient he was about to advise had no more than three weeks left to live.

‘Charlie,’ he said, rising to his feet and moving from behind an oversized desk that doubled as a small conference table and which Charlie had, ever since its recent installation, thought might also serve as a medium-sized stage or helicopter landing pad.

‘David,’ returned Charlie, wondering why the man was being so unusually friendly. The two men shook hands, Crossley with the enthusiasm of a man who had not seen an old friend for over a decade, whilst Charlie allowed his own arm to go limp as the younger, stronger man, abused the limb.

At length, Crossley pointed to one of the two, overly ostentatious, green leather upholstered visitors’ chairs, positioned at the front of the ‘stage’. ‘Please,’ he began, ‘take a seat.’

Obediently, Charlie sat. Crossley, mindful of the training he had received during his numerous man-management courses, also joined him in no-man’s-land. For the briefest moment the two men sat opposite each other in silence, one still very confused, the other, carrying out a final, high-speed mental rehearsal of the speech he had spent most of the weekend working on. When Crossley did speak however, it was with the gravitas and conviction of the highly experienced prosecution counsel, trying to make a final impression on a weary jury at the end of a tedious, difficult and overlong murder trial. ‘Charlie,’ he said, almost apologetically, ‘remind me, how long have you worked for us?’

The question made Charlie’s expression move from one of confusion to bewilderment. ‘Thirty-five years, Dave but – you know that.’

Crossley flushed, the figure thirty-five, was of key relevance to what he had in mind for his quality control manager, however it appeared that before he had even started into his dissertation, he had caused offence. A flicker of emotion, that could only be indicative of acute pain flashed, quickly, across his youthful, eager face and as the senior man eased himself into the doubtful comfort of the chair, he brought his fingers together as though about to offer up a prayer. ‘Charlie,’ said Crossley, ‘I’ll come straight to the point.’ Charlie nodded in gratitude. ‘You’ve attended all the recent management briefings and therefore you’re fully up-to-speed with Corporate thinking vis–à–vis personnel and manning level projections in the short to medium term.’

‘Of course,’ replied Charlie, more than a hint of anger now apparent in his tone. ‘And as you also know, I think they stink! They’re disloyal to the people who’ve stuck by this place and made it what it is, they’re completely short-termist and,’ he began shaking his head in disgust. ‘Well – ultimately, in my opinion, they’re a recipe for disaster.’

David, realising he had unwittingly unleashed a less than friendly tiger onto a busy shopping street, held up both hands in a gesture of conciliation. ‘Sure, sure, I do know your views, Charles; as do the Board and rest assured they, and I, have every possible respect for them.’

Charlie relaxed a little and slowly the colour of his face returned to a more normal, less scarlet hue. The scowl of disgust, however, remained. ‘So, how many are to go this time?’ he asked, bluntly.

David grimaced uncomfortably. ‘Hmm, sixty-one – all told.’

‘Christ! That’s nearly ten-percent of the workforce.’

‘Nine point-eight, to be precise,’ offered David.

‘When?’

‘This morning.’

Charlie shook his head disbelievingly. ‘Why so quickly, why the bloody bin-bag and an escort to the door routine? It’s degrading and unnecessary.’

‘Head office are very concerned about sabotage, as you well know, Charlie.’

‘Bollocks, when has there ever been any sabotage here?’

‘There hasn’t because we’ve never allowed it to happen. Think about it, Charlie, what would be the consequences if someone started getting mean with the computers?’

Charlie shook his head. ‘Frankly, I’d love to get mean with some of the bloody computers!’

David began wriggling in his chair. He was feeling uncomfortable in the presence of the older and much more down-to-earth Northerner and as yet he was nowhere near the precise reason he had convened the meeting for. Then, unwittingly, Charlie gave him the opening he had been seeking.

‘Anyway, why sixty-one; that’s a damned odd number, where are they all going to come from?’

David nodded and extracted a piece of paper from his folder. ‘We’re closing the foundry facility. It’s no longer cost-effective and head office has decided that in future we will buy in what we need from the Pacific Rim, probably China or Korea. That accounts for thirty-five of the positions, from the two labourers right up to Johnny Thompson, the foundry manager. He looked at his visitor but the latter was holding his head in his hands and shaking it disbelievingly. ‘As from tomorrow,’ continued Dave, ‘all the cleaning in the offices will be done by private a contractor. Five clerical positions are to go and...’ He paused, inhaled deeply, wiped sweat off the palm of his right hand onto his left trouser leg and waited for the explosion that was yet to be detonated in his relatively small office. Head Office has also decided to lose twenty people from the Quality Control Department.’

David had spoken the final three words very quickly. Now he sat back in his chair awaiting the eruption that must surely follow. Charlie, however, merely eyed him shrewdly. ‘Twenty people are the Quality Control Department, David, including me, its head! How are you going to ensure our – your products leave the factory fit-for-purpose without any quality control checks?’

David grimaced again and held up a hand. ‘You must understand two things, Charlie. This has nothing whatever to do with me; this is a fiat from head office. You must also understand that it’s nothing personal. Indeed, it’s been fully recognized that you’ve been an outstanding and loyal member of staff for thirty-five years.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s just that...well...that we’re now living in desperate times and desperate times mean___’

Charlie waived him to silence. ‘Cut the bullshit and answer the question.’

David raised an eyebrow and shrugged. ‘As of this morning we have introduced job self-verification. In future the person responsible for the production task, whether it be welding, machining, painting or whatever; will be responsible for ensuring that his or her part of product production complies with specification.’

Charlie could not believe what he was hearing and his eyes made a sweep of the ceiling as they rolled in their sockets. ‘How long have you been here, David?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Eight months...why?’

Charlie ignored the question, preferring instead to concentrate on what appeared to be an arithmetical problem. ‘That’s not bad,’ he replied, ‘not bad at all. That’s about a hundred people a month you’ve sacked, give or take___’

‘Not me, Charlie,’ protested Dave, ‘not me, I’m just the messenger. I simply implement Board policy.’

Charlie’s head was shaking dismissively. ‘Answer me another question, Dave, what’s your occupation, I mean – your true occupation, what you were trained for at college?’

‘I’m an accountant of course, you know I am.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie. ‘So, what the hell is an accountant doing running an engineering company?’

David began to flush with anger. ‘What’s that got to do with anything? Accountants are trained in running businesses and juggling figures, who better therefore to run this one?’

Charlie shook his head, sadly. ‘You’re a mechanic, David, a figures man. You have no empathy with either the product or the people who manufacture it. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, you don’t fucking well understand either one of them!’

David suddenly smiled, Charlie thinking he must resemble a serial-killer watching the police arrest the wrong man. ‘Listen,’ said the accountant quietly, ‘I don’t think using shop floor language is going to help either of us. Either talk sensibly, Charlie, and with respect; or I’ll have to close the meeting down.’

If the senior man had thought to phase his staff member he was about to be seriously disappointed. ‘Don’t come at me with the old industrial relations bullshit,’ replied Charlie, coolly. ‘You and your cronies in the RightFab SS obviously want me out, so what difference does it make? Anyway, stop buggering about, what’s the deal?’

David’s eyebrows shot into his forehead, he had never in his wildest dreams considered that Charles Frank, Quality Control Manager and undisputed terror of the Production Executive, would have come so quietly. Momentarily flustered he once again delved into the folder on his lap, at last producing a sheet of typewritten A4. After briefly refreshing his memory as to its contents, he looked up and smiled, weakly.

‘You’ve been with the Company for thirty-five years.’ Charlie, now looking extremely bored, nodded. ‘Twenty-nine of which,’ continued Dave, ‘post completion of your apprenticeship, are pensionable.’ Once again Charlie nodded in agreement. ‘The Company have agreed to enhance your pension by those six years, to thirty-five sixtieths of your salary and are prepared to make a lump sum payment to match of thirty-five thousand pounds. As you are fifty you can begin drawing pension right away. It’s an early retirement package, Charlie and as an accountant,’ Dave paused for a second and looked at his former colleague apologetically. ‘Well as both your boss and an accountant I can only recommend that, in the current climate, you take it.’ David sat back in his chair, desperately wanting to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief; however the omnipresent ego would not allow such a luxury.

Charlie nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Are your leaders quite certain they wish to go ahead with this?’ he asked quietly.

‘Of course,’ replied Dave indignantly. ‘This is not something new; it’s been in place for years in other countries and other industries.’

‘Self-verification means, ultimately, that the production workforce will have total control over the quality of any product that leaves this factory. They and they alone will be responsible for ensuring it complies with customer requirements, they and they alone therefore will have the long-term future of the Company at their mercy!’

David scoffed. ‘Rubbish, anyone not doing the business will be weeded out, warned and if necessary sacked. This is 2012 you know, we have the whip hand these days, not organised labour.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Charlie, ‘the occasional drop-off in quality would not be a major Corporate threatening problem and I do agree that the workforce is so demoralised, stressed out and neurotic that most of them will toe-the-line, most of the time.’

‘All of the time,’ corrected Dave.

Charlie shrugged with his hands. ‘What happens if, one day or perhaps even for one whole week, they all get seriously brave and turn out a complete crock of shit? Millions of pounds worth of useless junk that only the customer will eventually discover is not worth the steel it’s made out of?’

The question was so unexpected, so completely out-with his thinking that Dave could at first only shake his head. ‘That’s rubbish, they’d be fired and they know it.’

‘All of them, remember I said all, you’re telling me that everyone on production would be fired?’ asked Charlie. ‘Where’s your Company then? Where’s its reputation? What happens to the share holders and the share options of your top executives?’

Dave was beginning to look very confused, he began to stutter. ‘That’s ridiculous, by doing what you suggest the workforce would be putting itself out of work en masse. They’d never commit employment suicide that way, there’s nowhere for them to go afterwards!’

‘They might buy the Company themselves, for a knock-down price of course, a price that truly reflected its value – as decided by the Receiver.’

The idea was so outlandish to Dave that he dismissed the notion out of hand. ‘Sorry, Charlie; that may sound a romantic if not old-fashioned socialist ideal, but it has no resemblance to reality.’

Charlie smiled cynically and moved towards the door, when he reached it he placed a hand on the polished brass knob and turned to look at his former boss. ‘Who’s out here?’

Now Dave also stood; he swallowed hard and looked at his carpet. ‘Your escort off the premises, Charlie.’

‘Armed with a bin-liner?’

‘I’ve asked that they put all your personal effects in a cardboard box. You’re most welcome to check everything before you leave.’

Charlie looked impressed. ‘A cardboard box, now that is generous.’

‘Don’t be like that, Charlie,’ protested Dave. ‘We’re in the middle of one of the greatest economic downturns seen since, well I don’t know when. This is happening all over Europe and we either cut back on overheads or we don’t survive. As I said earlier, there’s nothing at all personal about this it’s simply___’

Charlie held up a restraining and very positive hand. ‘I know, thirty-five years loyal service counts for nothing in your world, I’m now just a simple, obsolete overhead you need to get rid of. I’ll see myself out, thanks for everything.’

As he closed the door behind him, Francis Middleton looked up from her desk; the faintest nuance of a smirk passing across her over-made-up face. Then she picked up her telephone and keyed in a number.

‘Mrs Middleton here,’ she said at length, ‘Mr Frank is ready now.’ With the ease of a psychopath, she replaced the handset and began sifting through the contents of her out-tray. Eventually, at the bottom of a pile of identical looking, buff-coloured envelopes, she found the one she was looking for. She held it out to Charlie. ‘This contains your P60, a cheque covering your severance pay, details about your pension status and...’ she allowed herself a slight smile. ‘Should you require it the Company have arranged free counselling for the next month.’

Charlie took the envelope and placed it in his suit pocket. As he did so he grinned at Francis. They had both worked for the same firm for over thirty years and for all of those thirty years they had never got on. To Charlie, Francis Middleton was a social throwback. She, at all times, viewed life through monochromatic, fixed focal length lenses, not only was there no colour in Francis’s world, there were not even any shades of grey. Everything was done by the book; no matter what the personal consequences to those involved; the book had been written and therefore had to be obeyed. Yes, thought Charlie, eyeing her sadly, Francis was one of the most insensitive, peevish, inflexible people he had ever met in the whole of his life and yet, and yet, next Sunday morning she would be in church, singing the praises of the Christian deity she would have the world and its dog believe she believed in.

The outer door suddenly opened and a large man, aged about fifty-five, eased himself breathlessly into the room. Charlie recognised the newcomer immediately; Jim Watts was the head of Security, he was also an old friend and drinking buddy.

‘Sorry about this, Frank,’ said Jim, sheepishly. ‘They’ve no right doing this to you, not this way any road.’

Charlie smiled and shook his head. ‘You have my things?’

‘They’re in West Lodge, all boxed up; you can collect them on the way out.’

Charlie nodded and made towards the door. Suddenly he stopped and turned back to the now openly gloating Francis, an evil and wicked grin now spreading across his own face. ‘I’m sorry, Francis,’ he began, ‘I clean forgot, Dave asked me to give you a message.’

‘Yes?’ said Francis, clearly angry that, even in his present traumatised condition, he should have forgotten such an important errand.

Charlie walked back towards her, bent across the desk and began whispering in her ear. ‘Dave said that, as soon as I’ve gone, could you possibly pop into his office? Apparently he’s stressed out to hell this morning and desperate for one of those really serious blow-jobs he tells all the lads you do so well