The Big One

By Darren Bane

"Life is like a rollercoaster ride, full of ups and downs."

So says Tom Grey, a man who has been on a down for as long as he cares, or dares, to remember. But as his 50th birthday fast approaches, he decides it is time to experience an up again, to feel like he is living, not existing; to make a memory.

The feel-good factor rides high in this gentle, young-at-heart comedy about the misadventures of four friends who embark on day trip from Weston-super-Mare to Blackpool in the hope of recapturing their lost youth at the top of one of Europe's biggest rollercoaster rides.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781326605759

Book preview

The Big One

The Big One

Darren Bane

db

books

2016

Darren Bane was born at a very early age and has persistently refused to grow up ever since. He is a multi-award-winning communications professional. Away from the day job, he is an amateur author, pretend prestidigitator, jolly hockey player (or hockeyologist, as he would have it) and doting dad. He is married, with one son, and has not yet lived in the south west of England all his life.

Copyright © 2016 Darren M Bane.

All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

This publication is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the characters and events portrayed in this book, and real characters and events, is entirely coincidental. (For the most part, anyway; a few of my acquaintances from the past may recognise a few character traits or catchphrases here and there!).

First Published in 2014

Revised second edition published 2015. Both under the name Darren M Bane.

First published under name Darren Bane in April 2016.

ISBN 978-1-326-60575-9

db books

[e-mail]

www.darrenbane.co.uk

db02e

For Debs and Matthew

The adventure we have shared together has been my big one.

Acknowledgements

With thanks to my very own avuncular bunch, Whitey, Lambo and Billy Boy, with whom I shared an equally memorable, if not quite so eventful, day trip from Weston to Blackpool, just to ride The Big One rollercoaster, on 6th June, 1998, not to mention other avuncular types, namely the ‘real’ Wobbly Bob, Mike, Wads and Jeffers, who all influenced some of characters and scenarios, plus Kieron, my first reviewer/critic, who provided such positive feedback after reading the first completed draft so many years ago.

Prologue

LIFE is like a rollercoaster ride, said Tom Grey philosophically, as he placed his half empty – or perchance half full – glass on top of the faded mahogany bar.

He shifted on his stool, which creaked painfully under his weight, making him instinctively reach for the small of his back, and turned to look his friend in the eye, making sure he had his full attention.

Bob took a long drink from his own glass, and met Tom’s gaze.

Yes, said Tom. Life is like a rollercoaster; it’s full of ups and downs, highs and lows, twists and turns. And the thing is, once you get on and it starts rolling, you can’t really get off, even if you want to. You have to wait for it to come to a natural end. And all that time, while it’s hurtling along its track, the future is laid out before it, pre-ordained and set. You can’t always see what is coming, you can’t always predict it, especially if it’s a new ride you haven’t been on before, but it’s laid out before you, its course is set, and there is nothing you can do to change it. And then, just when you think you might be getting used to it, just when you think you might just be starting to get the hang of it, maybe even enjoying it, it is suddenly all over.

He paused, to give Bob a chance to fully absorb these words of wisdom and insight.

There’s lovely, said the Welshman, after a few contemplative moments. And you think your life is like a rollercoaster, eh boyo?

Tom nodded. Definitely. Full of ups and downs.

I see, said Bob. Your theory is not without some kind of logic, boyo. I can buy the life is a rollercoaster because it’s full of ups and downs, highs and lows, twists and turns. That bit I can deal with.

Go on, said Tom, unsure where this was leading.

Well, it’s like this, see. When you get on a rollercoaster, you take quite a while to slowly climb your way to the highest point, which is usually quite early on in the ride. And then you sort of peak and after that, well, for the most part, it’s pretty much downhill all the way, isn’t it? Oh, granted, there will be some twists and turns, and perhaps a few highs, but they are never as good or as high as that first one, are they? No, boyo, once you peak, early on, it’s downhill all the way.

My trouble, said Tom, his fingers toying idly with the rim of his tankard, is that I’ve been on a down for as long as I can remember. And it’s not one of those white-knuckle, wind-through-the-hair, exhilarating, adrenalin-rush kind of downs either, but more of a slow, steady, gentle, decline.

And the thing is, said Bob, you feel like you could do with an up again, is that it, boyo?

I do, said Tom, enthusiastically. That’s exactly it, Bob. I’ve been on a steady slope of decline for so long, it’s like I have stopped living. I am just existing. I need to feel like I am alive again; I need to make a memory, before I become one, find my inner smile. I need to feel young again, to experience a proper up, a real high. Face it, when did we last make a memory?

I can’t remember, smiled Bob, ducking instinctively to avoid the slap across the head that he knew Tom would try to deliver.

Hang about now, bach! said Bob, I’m confused now. You say life is like a rollercoaster, full of ups and downs?

Yes.

Well, on a rollercoaster, the up bits are the slow, boring, bits, the means to an end. It’s the down bits that provide all the excitement, thrills and adventure. Surely, on a rollercoaster, it’s those down bits that are the best bits. And the more extreme the down, the better it is, and the more you enjoy the ride.

Tom picked up his tankard, drained the remaining dregs from it, and replaced it with a resolute thud back on top of the bar.

He glanced mischievously at Bob, smiled, and said, yes, well, that’s where the whole rollercoaster philosophy of mine completely, utterly and totally falls apart, isn’t it?

One

At the usual time, just after four-thirty, of the usual day, Wednesday, Tom Grey walked into his usual bar, for a pint of his usual.

As usual.

A minute before he entered the bar the landlord, Ted Edwards, filled Tom’s usual tankard, which had the words ‘Tom’s Usual’ etched into the glass, with a pint of his usual ale, and placed it onto a soggy cardboard square beer mat on top of the well-worn bar, waiting for Tom’s imminent, inevitable, arrival.

As usual.

Scattered around the room were the same old familiar faces, sitting quietly, in a comfortably numb fashion, staring into their drinks and contemplating matters.

As usual.

It had not occurred to the landlord that it might be someone other than Tom who would enter the bar at that particular time of day on that particular day of the week. And it had not occurred to him that, even it was Tom, he might choose to drink something different today.

It had not occurred to him because it just would not happen. At the usual time of the usual day, Tom Grey would walk into his usual bar for a pint of his usual. As usual.

Why on earth should today be any different? It was the way it had always been, as far as anyone could remember. It was the way it always was and, as far as anyone could tell, it was the way it always would be.

Tom dragged a rickety wooden stool across the flagstone floor to his usual position, about half-way along the bar, while Ted waited to be paid.

Big Ted, Tom said, acknowledging the landlord’s presence.

Greybeard, said Ted, solemnly. As usual.

Tom fished inside the pocket of his trousers and produced a crumpled banknote which Ted greedily snatched from his grasp almost before he had finished pulling it clear of his trousers.

Tom stared at his tankard on the bar. His tankard. Nobody else drank from it. It was exclusively his. The landlord had presented it to Tom a good few years ago now, to mark his twenty fifth anniversary as a regular customer.

As Tom clambered onto the stool, it complained with a sickening, splintering, creak. Tom winced.

Was that you or the stool? asked Ted.

Either, replied Tom. Possibly both.

There was more truth in this than Tom would care to admit. He had noticed that, as he got older, his body had become more and more numb. He did not always feel any pain or discomfort, and could not, therefore, honestly admit, nor accurately deny, responsibility for some of the noises that sometimes seemed to come from his body.

He was often teased that he had been a regular visitor to this bar for so long that he had become part of the furniture, so perhaps it was not inconceivable that Tom and the stool had become one in some kind of strange, spooky, symbiotic, way.

The Jolly Roger was a small public house on a side street a short walk from the centre of the tired seaside town of Weston-super-Mare, in the south west of England. The resort’s halcyon days were back in Victorian times, and there were those who suggested that the sleepy seaside town had not really woken up since, but continued to exist in a blurry-eyed state of slumber.

It has few genuine claims to fame; it’s known for its pier, its donkeys, Marconi’s radio broadcast, being the childhood home of British comedy legend John Cleese, MP and author Jeffrey Archer, and the birthplace of Bob Hope’s dad, but is probably most infamous for its nickname of Weston-super-Mud, inspired by its murky brown waters, if you’re lucky enough to see the waters, that is. One of its few genuinely fascinating facts is that it has the second highest tidal range in the world.

The Jolly Roger was just a stone’s throw away from the actual seafront, which explained why, more often than not, at least one of the panes of glass in its ornate bay window was usually boarded up.

It was close enough to the seafront and town centre to be very convenient for those who used it, but far enough from the beaten track to ensure it remained mostly undiscovered by casual passers-by and tourists. It was very much a tavern for the locals, and as such was frequented by a small but fiercely loyal band of regulars.

On Tom’s eighteenth birthday his father had first led him across the threshold, and Tom had dutifully been following in his father’s footsteps ever since. That was more than thirty years ago now, and those footsteps had created a very well-worn path.

Tom raised his glass to his mouth, glanced at the familiar face of the landlord, said, happy days and then took a long, comforting, drink.

Talking of happy days, said Ted, his monotone, voice betraying not the slightest trace of happiness, and maybe even conveying just a little hint of menace, I have something out back which might be of interest to you.

Without further explanation, the tall, gaunt, landlord disappeared through a door behind the bar, which led to the kitchen and first floor accommodation, where he lived with his wife and son.

He returned a few moments later and casually dropped two photographs onto the bar in front of Tom. Mrs Ted was spring cleaning, and came across these in a box of odds and ends in the loft, said Ted, before disappearing out back once more.

Tom prised the first of the pictures from the sticky surface of the bar and studied the image. A sentimental smile spread across his face. Happy days indeed.

The photo was from his twentieth birthday, marking the end of his teenage years and the start of his manhood.

There were four youths pictured standing at the bar of the Jolly Roger, their glasses raised in a toast. Tom chose not to dwell on the younger version of himself, but to concentrate on the other three.

Standing next to the young Tom was Bob Evans, who was some three years his junior. But even when this picture was taken, almost thirty years ago, Bob had been almost completely bald. Come to think of it, Tom could not remember a time when Bob had not been losing his hair. He had been born bald and it seemed as if his head had been comfortable with that look and had shown no great desire to change it.

There was certainly no sign of the full, white, cotton-wool beard which Bob sported today. And there was no trace of the ample     midriff, either, the result of the many pints of beer Bob had consumed between the time this picture had been taken and the present day.

Nevertheless, it was definitely Bob Evans in the picture, or Wobbly Bob as he was affectionately known, partly because of his liking for ale and partly because his ample midriff did, indeed, tend to wobble when he walked.

But just when, exactly, had this svelte, whippet-like man in the photograph morph into the portly Father Christmas clone that he was today? When had this transformation occurred?

Both Bobs were very different and yet were both unmistakably Bob Evans, both as familiar to Tom as anything he had known in his life. So when had the one become the other? When had that washboard stomach in the old photograph turn into something that now resembled the contents of a bargain basement jelly mould?

Standing next to Bob in the picture was ‘Old Bill’ Bullock, who had been well over six feet tall since his early teenage years. He looked pretty much the same, right down to his thick, soup-strainer,      moustache. The key difference was that, in the photo, the moustache was the same colour as the hair on Bill’s head whereas today, there was a marked difference.

The thinning hair on Bill’s scalp today was grey to whitening, while the moustache remained much darker, possibly because it was protected from the bleaching rays of the sun by the shelter afforded by his prominent proboscis.

The fourth person in the photo was Dave, also known as        Seldom, because the others did not see him very often. In fact, Tom realised with horror, he had not actually had a drink with Dave in person since his own fortieth birthday party in the Jolly Roger. And that was now little more than a week away from being an entire decade ago.

In their teens, this quartet had branded themselves as Alcoholics Unanimous. But then Seldom moved away to university, and it was if, as part of his higher education, he outgrew the friends he left behind. It was almost as if Dave grew up, which was something that the other three stubbornly and steadfastly refused to do.

Tom sighed. A whole decade! Where had the time gone? He took another deep drink from his tankard and then forced the second photo away from the adhesive coating that had developed over many years on the top of the bar.

There were just two people in this picture. One was clearly Tom, and might well have been taken within the past few days. The thing is, the other, younger, person was also Tom.

He swallowed hard to shift the growing lump from his throat. He was looking at a photo of him and his father, taken on that very first visit of his to the Jolly Roger, on his eighteenth birthday.

The most unnerving thing about this photo was that his father looked more like Tom than Tom did. Or vice versa.

Tom allowed the image to slip from his hand. He lifted his head to stare between the upturned bottles of spirits hanging behind the bar, and into the mirrored panels on the wall behind.

His father was staring back at him.

Only it wasn’t his father, of course. It was him.

He let out a gasp. He glanced again at the two photos, concentrating on the images of his younger self. Yes, it was him all right, no doubt about it. So when did the fresh-faced youth whose features were so familiar suddenly shape himself into a replica of his father? Just when, exactly had his hair changed colour, from the dark mop in the photos to the frighteningly, noticeably, thinner, steel-grey follicles he sported today? He had never really been aware of his hair actually changing colour, but when he compared his reflection to the images before him, he had irrefutable evidence.

All he needed to do now was to add a dash of pink rinse, and he would be able to go to a fancy dress party as a scouring pad.

Of course, not only had his hair changed colour but it had also receded too. When did that happen? When did his hair lose the strength it needed to push all the way through to the top of his head and out? These days, it seemed his hair could not manage that feat, and opted, instead, to break out of his nostrils and even, on occasion, from his ears.

There was no trace of any nasal hair in the photo. But it was very much a feature of his face today.

Nasal hair; the mere thought of it made Tom shudder. There are very few things in life which can truly make a grown man cry. Having your genitals sandpapered probably tops the list, followed very closely by a well-aimed kick right between the legs. But right up there is the excruciatingly eye-watering pain of having a particularly stubborn hair yanked from a man’s nostril. And, in some ways, the nasal hair agony is even worse than the other two, because in the majority of cases, it is self-inflicted, so you have all the build up and anticipation ahead of the act, whereas sometimes a man doesn’t always realise he is about to be kicked in the balls until it happens.

Tom often thought that it would make a good torture in spy films; forget electrocution, truth drugs or brain washing. Just tie a man to a chair and roughly pluck out his nasal hairs one by one with a pair of children’s toy pliers, the thick, hard-to-handle, cumbersome safety ones rather than the more precise adult instruments.

He also noticed that, in the photo of him and his father, his chin was devoid of any hair, being covered instead with a generous sprinkling of teenage acne.

The Alcoholics Unanimous picture, which had been taken two years later, showed the first evidence of the beard Tom now wore, although the word beard is used loosely, and advisedly. What Tom actually had was a dusting of what he considered to be closely cropped and meticulously maintained designer stubble. Others saw it as a source of mirth and merriment, often teasing Tom that when puberty finally takes hold, he might be able to grow a proper one.

And, of course, back then, it was much darker and did not have the ‘grey highlights’ it now featured He ran his fingers over his chin and tried to tell himself that the greying effect made him look rather distinguished. His mischievous mind suggested that ‘extinguished’ would be a more apt description.

His advancing years, coupled with this mould-like facial growth had earned Tom the nickname Greybeard among his peers.

His mirror image stared at him further. With reddened, tired, eyes, sunken and surrounded by an intricate, web-like, network of lines and deeply engrained wrinkles. Yes, wrinkles.

Some would kindly refer to them as laughter lines but although Tom liked to laugh at least as much as the next man, if not an awful lot more, he could not remember having laughed quite this much.

He felt a sudden panic-fuelled urge and fumbled with his belt, searching for his mobile phone. He called his home number.

First sign of madness, he mumbled, is talking to yourself, which I now appear to be doing even before I actually do. Unless, of course, I’m not in.

After five rings, his home answering machine cut in. But the voice that Tom heard was not instantly recognisable as his own, but his father’s, which only served to heighten his increasingly delicate mental state, since his dear father had passed away several years ago.

The greeting Tom was now listening to had only been recorded about a year ago, but it was definitely his father’s dulcet tones.

There was no denying it, then. The evidence was overwhelming. Without noticing exactly when it had happened, Tom Grey had grown into a carbon copy clone of his father.

He studied the two photos one more time. He had always regarded himself as something of a snappy, sharp, dresser, a vision of sartorial elegance who took pride in his appearance. And now? He had become a walking advertisement for the menswear department of mainstream High Street family clothing stores.

He was wearing his usual grey suit over a white shirt which had creases so sharp they could draw blood, plain grey tie and, of course, the mandatory sensible shoes.

When had he started wearing sensible shoes? When had his fashion sense become so dull and so grey? No wonder his nickname was Greybeard. He was not only grey by name, but grey by nature. He had become grey in every sense of the word. Grey like his clothing. Grey like the thinning hair on his head. Grey like the growth on his chin. Grey in the mind, too.

Tom Grey was old. Not wise, mature nor distinguished, but old. But now, today, there was something far worse than that, something far more depressing than the inevitable ticking of his biological clock.

Today Tom Grey felt old.

The pub suddenly felt hostile and daunting. Suddenly he did feel very much a part of the outdated, antiquated, fixtures and fittings. Tom Grey slumped on his stool and sighed.

He felt older than he had ever felt in his entire life.

Two

The antique cuckoo clock on the wall did not so much chirp as cough and splutter to announce that it was now five o’clock.

Ted Edwards emerged from out back and started to pour a pint of foaming ale into a handled mug.

Tom Grey watched him intently. Ted looked the same as he always had; tall, lean, gaunt, with a thin, pointed, face, narrow, sneering, mouth, and eyes like paper-cut slits from which he regarded all with a steely stare.

He had the appearance and manner of an actor who could portray a butler in a 1950s murder mystery movie in which the butler very most definitely did do it, and would most likely get away with it too.

He wore the permanent, sour-faced expression of a man who had been raised on a daily diet of very sharp sherbet lemons. And judging by his sunken cheeks and squinting eyes, he might well be sucking on one right now.

Cheer up, snarled Ted, without any real expression of feeling in his voice. It might not ever happen.

Too late, sighed Tom. It already has.

What has?

Me. Getting old.

None of us are getting any younger mate, said Ted. But if it’s any consolation, I think you are one of the most childish men I know. It’s about time you grew up.

An ear-piercing creak filled the air. Tom winced and instinctively reached for his back before realising that this time the hinges of the door at the entrance of the bar were the source of the sound.

Afternoon boyo! boomed Bob Evans, as he sauntered into the room, taking up his usual position on a stool next to Tom just as Ted placed the glass of ale onto the bar.

Hang about now, bach, protested Bob, how do you know what I want to drink?

It’s your usual, snapped Ted, coldly. It’s what you always drink.

And just suppose I fancied something unusual today?

Ted stared at Bob for a few moments, considering this. Was Bob serious? Was he really prepared to recklessly disrupt the natural order of things? Or was he simply being mischievous?

As if, scoffed Ted, having made up his mind. You lot are too set in your ways to break with any tradition or routine. Something unusual, indeed! You lot are so predictable, I can set my watch by you!

Then how about service with a smile, boyo, now that would be something unusual! teased Bob.

Ted raised an eyebrow. Bob beamed triumphantly at provoking such a startling show of expression from the stony-faced landlord. Ted had very expressive eyebrows. They seemed to compensate for the almost total lack of expression that the rest of him ever betrayed. This particular raising of one eyebrow was a warning shot to Bob that if he continued with this kind of malarkey he was likely to end up wearing his drink.

But Bob was on a roll. May I just say what a joy it is for me to wander into this humble hostelry to be greeted by your beaming countenance, Teddy. Other pubs have happy hours but here, every moment is lavishly laced with joy.

Have you been drinking already? scowled Ted suspiciously, his eyes, unbelievably, narrowing even more than usual.

I am simply delirious with the delight of being here, said Bob. He nodded towards Tom’s tankard. Another one, boyo?

I thought you would never ask, said Tom, slipping from his stool. I’m going to have to make room for it. I’m going to splash my boots.

He then walked across the bar towards the public conveniences which were located, conveniently, at the back of the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, Ted dropped both elbows onto the bar, leaned across towards Bob, startling him somewhat, and hissed, pssst!

Not yet, boyo, but I’m working on it, said Bob.

Ted fired another raised eyebrow at him, from close range. Be serious for a moment, he hissed. I’m worried about Tom. He hasn’t really been himself for the past few days.

"I wouldn’t worry too much boyo, I think he is just a little sensitive at the moment, that’s all.’

Well done Sherlock, said Ted. I’d worked that much out. But what’s behind it?

It’s his birthday soon, boyo, isn’t it?

Of course! said Ted. But he’s had plenty of birthdays before, so he’s had lots of practice. Why is this one getting him down?

It’s his fiftieth.

Fifty? Ted momentarily raised both eyebrows at once, in a rare, spontaneous, show of emotion. I didn’t realise. I guess I never think of him as being that old.

It’s a week today, and we’ve all got the day off, but Tom hasn’t decided what he wants to do yet.

Ted filled Tom’s tankard with beer, took Bob’s money and then returned out back just as Tom returned to his stool. In perfect unison he and Bob raised their glasses, clinked them together, and said, happy days!

Well, here we are then, boyo, said Bob.

Ah, but are we?

Eh?

Well, I am here, but you are definitely there.

Hang about now bach, said Bob, you are mistaken. I am here and you are there.

But I was here first, Tom pointed out. And if I was here first, that means you can’t be here too, and therefore you are there. Or herefore, you are there.

So I am there and you are here? smiled Bob.

You’ve got it, said Tom.

Well, there’s lovely, said Bob in his finest Welsh brogue.

And here’s lovely, too.

Such nonsensical gibberish was typical of the easy, comfortable, rapport shared by the two. Such conversations often prompted remarks such as ‘will those two ever grow up?’ from eavesdroppers, which was bitterly ironic given Tom’s current mental state of feeling so very old.

How’s work? asked Bob.

Terribly average, thanks, said Tom. The wheels of the insurance industry continue to rotate at a mediocre pace. How about you? How are the new intake of students? Any Turner Prize winners of tomorrow amongst them?

"One or