‘Frank On Holiday’ is a story about a character, Frank, who popped into my mind a few weeks ago and wasn’t going to leave until I’d told his story. Using dialogue to create the characters and also as a basis for manipulating time, ‘Frank On Holiday’ is a simple short story about life, death, and that point in space and time that divides them.

Frank On Holiday

The sun was out.

The sun was always out in Acapulco, Frank noticed. It was out every day in 1953 when he was here on his honeymoon and, 56 years later, it was still out. And Frank still hated it.

For Frank, not much had changed in the past 50 years. A few more wrinkles, perhaps. Aches and pains in places that he previously didn’t know existed. Less hair. Certainly less teeth. But the glasses were the same round wire frames that he’d had in during his deployment as a engineer for the United States Navy and the slight paunch around his middle had remained only to spread and sag with the rest of his skin. The only thing to really remind Frank of the passing of time was the one thing he loved above all else. Molly.

“You daft old man. What are we doing back here? We’re too old for Acapulco, Frank”

Frank watched Molly shuffling next to him. He could never see the old woman that she had come to despise in the mirror. The shakes from Parkinson that rattled her body simply didn’t register in his mind. “Ah, Molly. You’re just as beautiful as the day I met you. Let an old man enjoy his last days in peace.”

Frank loved to remember the day he and Molly met. They met the way young things did in those days; not on some fan-dangled website but at the local diner, over a chocolate milkshake. Molly was a waitress at Rosie’s Diner and every day after work, at exactly 5:15, she would escort Frank to the second booth along from the door, and sweetly ask him ‘What would you like today, Frank?’ and Frank would always reply ‘One vanilla milkshake please Molly’. He would then watch her walk away, with her long brown hair tied loosely and decorated with a fresh red gardenia, and wish above anything else that he could ask her for a date.

For near on a year Frank stuck to his routine until one day, Molly brought back a chocolate milkshake instead of a vanilla one. Before he could say a word Molly had untied her apron, slid into the booth opposite him and, with a cheeky grin, told him special occasions warranted the luxury of chocolate. Three weeks later, on the fifth of February, 1953, they were married and on their way to escaping the cold Michigan winter for a honeymoon in Mexico where Frank spent ten beautiful days watching his new wife cavort along the beach, trailing sand and salt behind her. It was this memory of Molly racing through the shallow waves that brought Frank back to Acapulco where he was currently waging war on the relentless sun in a floppy brown bowling hat and wet socks underneath his sandals.

Normally, Frank wouldn’t wear socks and sandals in public. While socks and sandals were certainly a comfortable footwear arrangement, Molly had told him years ago that he looked ridiculous and old and he never did it again. Until today. Today he was shuffling around the pool looking every bit of his eighty two years in long grey socks up to his knees due to the nasty burn on his feet he got the day before that made any exposure to the sun excruciating. Checking the branches above for coconuts, Frank plopped himself down in a weathered deck chair, sniffed at the savoury air and  closed his eyes against the rays of light that were peeking through the palm fronds.

“Aren’t you hot in those socks?”

Frank looked over to see a young girl, no more than twenty, lounging on the deck chair next to him. Girls her age didn’t to talk to old men like him, unless it was to ridicule. And Frank felt ridiculous enough already.

“They’re wet.”

“Oh. Right. Sure.”

“It’s my feet. They got sunburned yesterday. That’s why I’m wearing socks. To keep them out of the sun.” Frank was beginning to feel utterly pathetic. He had felt an increasing need to explain himself, or excuse himself, over the past few years. Young pups had started looking at him like he might need a diaper change at any moment. They spoke too slowly and too loudly, exaggerating every syllable as if he were an infant learning new words. Frank wanted to tell them that in his day he was sharper than a tack and quicker than three of them running tag-team. But this sort of talk just got Frank a look of pity, often with the hint of a suppressed smirk, and a consoling pat on the shoulder.

“Oh, that’s terrible. I guess you’d best keep them out of the sun now. But it’s just such a shame, you know. Now you can’t feel the sand between your toes. ”

Frank remembered how Molly used to spend hours burying her toes in the sand. “You know young lady, you remind me of my wife. I remember when we were here 50 odd years ago. She ran along that beach and it took us days to shake all the sand out of her hair. She was so beautiful. She loved the feel of sand beneath her feet. And she had no compunction talking to strangers either.”

“Where is she now?”

“Molly? Ah, she’s around. She always wanted to come back to Acapulco. Can you imagine in all those years it’s only now we’ve made time.”

Fifty years, thought Frank. Fifty blissful years married to the young lass with a red gardenia in her hair who stole his heart over a chocolate milkshake.

“I’m Clare.”

Frank took the slim tanned paw that was extended towards him and shook it.

“Frank.”

“Nice to meet you Frank. See you at dinner?”

Frank wasn’t sure whether this was an invitation, so he didn’t answer beyond a non-committal  nod. He merely watched Clare as she wrapped her sarong around her waist and glided off the deckchair.

By 6pm that night, Frank was ready. He was dressed in his best casual suit; a dark blue linen that brought out the sharpness of his eyes that one of the maids had pressed for him that afternoon. It was too hot for the coat but he wore it anyway, partly to cover up his old man’s stoop and partly because the red gardenia he’d picked on the way down from his room and placed in his breast pocket set off the whole outfit nicely. He’d swapped his sandals for some comfortable loafers, slicked back his hair with Brylcreem and was comfortably seated as his usual table on the deck, watching the sun go down.

On their honeymoon, Frank and Molly were always the first diners to be seated. It wasn’t hard to see why Molly was enchanted. Looking out over the ocean her eyes would dance with the waves, excited at every new colour that seeped into the clouds. Each excitement was another excuse for her to bounce into his lap, fling her arms around his neck, and tell him how happy she was to be his. Frank was content simply watching the beautiful creature before him turn into a golden goddess, her red hair aflame as the last blaze of the sun was drowned by the sea. Frank knew he was a lucky man. He was told by other men often enough. He was lucky to have her as long as he did. Every day, another blessing.

“6pm is too early for dinner.”

Frank opened his eyes surprised to see Molly smiling opposite him. Only she was too young to be Molly. Of course. Clare. Her name was Clare.

“Hello, Clare.”

Clare was wearing a green silk dress that clung to her shoulders, her thick blonde hair piled up at the nape of the neck, turned auburn with the setting sun. She looked exactly like Frank remembered her from 50 years ago.

“You look great Frank. Losing the sandals was a good idea.” Clare grinned.

“You don’t look to bad yourself Miss Clare. Can I get you a drink?”

“Where’s Molly?”

“She’ll be here soon I expect.”

Clare smiled. “Okay then. Well, how bout a dance? You’re not too old to dance are you, Frank?”

“I’ll have you know, young lady, that I was one of the best in my time.”

“Ha, your time? Well, lets keep it easy then.” Clare stretched over the bar and whispered something into the barman’s ear.

With the the mellow tones of Nat King Cole filling the air, Frank’s eyes welled.

“That was the song that was playing when Molly and I first met.”

“It’s a classic, isn’t it. Do you remember when it came out?”

“I do. 1952. September. Right before we were married.”

“I used to love dancing to this song.”

“I remember when you used to dance to it in the kitchen. I’d always know that when you were dancing to this song you were remembering the day you chose me. You were, and still are, unforgettable.”

Frank’s shoulders drooped. This was all too much. Clare. Molly. He was old, and he was confused.

“Molly?”

“It’s Clare, Frank. We’re waiting for Molly, remember?”

“I remember. We sat at this very table 50 years ago. I promised that I’d never forget. I always said we’d come back. Then all of a sudden it was too late. We got old. You weren’t supposed to go without me.”

Frank slumped back in his chair. The sun, the memories, they both burned his heart. He’d come back to Acapulco to try and bring her back. It’d been fifteen years since he’d seen her and now, she was here. Sitting across from him in a green silk dress, not a day older than they day that they met.

“Frank, can you hear me?”

Clare watched the old man decaying opposite her. In the past twenty minutes it was almost as though he’d aged twenty years. She was worried about him, he seemed so lost and confused. Where was his wife, Molly? Why were they here, anyway? Acapulco was hardly the place for a pair of eighty year olds trying to relive their youth, especially when one was suffering from Parkinson’s and the other, most certainly, from dementia.

“Frank?”

Frank closed his eyes as the last rays of the sun were swallowed by the sea. He didn’t notice the wilting of the red gardenia in his breast pocket, and barely registered the slim little paw tapping his shoulder with increasing urgency. As Clare began to shake him, frantically calling out for help, Frank only remembered how soft her hair felt against his cheek and how it smelt just like salted roses.

“Remember how I used to love running along that beach, Frank? I used to love you watching me. I loved how I could just run and run, with the wind whipping around me, and know that you’d always be here waiting. When my legs tired and the salt stung my eyes I’d come back and you’d be there.”

“I never left you Molly.”

“I know sweetheart. I know. But when I died it was here that I wanted to wait for you. I knew you would come back.”

Molly stood, holding her hand out to Frank. Quietly, with the barest exhale of breath, Frank slipped his fingers through hers. And as the tide pulled in and created vanishing shadows on the shore, the only thing Frank had eyes for was his wife, running once again along Acapulco beach with the sand between her toes.