‘Do you watch Charlie Drake?’ I ask the girl as she gently guides me out of the bed and into the armchair.
‘I don’t know no Charlie Drake, Mr. Watkins,’ she replies and scrunches up the bedsheet. ‘Oh, Mr. Watkins, another accident.’
‘Charlie Drake. He’s the most famous comedian on television.’
‘I don’t see much television,’ the girl says and takes a spray can to the mattress.
‘Charlie Drake. Little feller, wild hair. He says, “Hello my darlinks” all the time. It’s his watch-er-ma-call-it.”
‘No, Mr. Watkins, no Charlie Drake.’
‘He’s always with Mr. Poo. Mr. Poo keeps taking him by the lapels and dragging him over the counter.’
The girl rolls the sheet up and throws it in the corner of the room.
‘He makes records. They’re always playing them on Children’s Favourites. My Boomerang Won’t Come Back.’ I try to sing it but the words won’t come.
The girl takes a duster and has a go at the sideboard.
‘At the start of his programme he’s walking down the High Street and he comes to a shop with a plate glass window and he does that funny thing with his arm and …’ I stop myself. That wasn’t Charlie Drake, that was the other feller. Whatsisname? With the trilby hat.
‘No Charlie Drake,’ the girl says bundling the sheet in her arms. ‘Maurice will come to clean you up, Mr. Watkins. Take your pills, now, there’s a good boy.’
I swallow the medicine, wondering who is Mr. Watkins?
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 