On How to be Charming

He was born in 1961 and named after his mother’s favourite movie star, Fred Astaire. Not that he was ever destined to grow into the shape that this name might suggest to you. By the time he reached his teens, he was more portly than sleek and any dancing he might attempt was strictly confined to the privacy of his own living room. But even in his childhood, he loved the movies of his namesake more than almost any other – with the exception of anything starring Doris Day.

Fred loved the hiss of the old films and the way he had to turn the volume on his television up almost full to catch the sharp, wry dialogue. It always dismayed him when the film had finished and he switched the video off, only to be blasted into the present day by the roar of modern programming. He would much prefer to have lived in the days when Hollywood turned out pictures rather than blockbusters – when the actresses were ladies and the comedy was gentle rather than gross.

In addition to his near obsession with classic Hollywood movies, Fred knew a great deal about modern films. He set off every day to what can only be described as his dream job in the largest cinema in Aberdeen. Each and every week a new batch of films were released and Fred could settle in and watch them over and over as he sat on his uncomfortable, straight-backed chair in the darkened theatres with his torch always at the ready on his lap. He had become so used to guiding cinema goers into their allocated seats that he could now do so with a welcoming expression on his wide face whilst never missing a second of the films’ dialogue. He had smiled when the cinema management had installed the fairy lights up the side of the stairs – he always felt as though he was guiding his customers in to land somehow.

Fred was looked down on by the other members of the cinema’s staff as something of an oddity. They mistook his contentment for a lack of ambition and this they could not understand or forgive. They were all ten to fifteen years younger with no intention of remaining in the same job for any longer than they had to, to progress up the prestigious ladder of cinema management - or they were students who just wanted an easy job with ready money. He had worked in Aberdeen cinemas for fifteen years with no laudable promotions to boast of and so they wrote him off as simply not worth their time. The majority of the staff changed every year with new students from Robert Gordon and Aberdeen Universities coming in to fill the gaps their predecessors had left. Every month, Fred was invited to the staff night out and every month excepting the first two he declined politely. Those two nights had taught him that he didn’t belong in their world of cheap drinks and loud music any more than they belonged in his world of old movies and classy leading ladies.

When he had finished his shift at the cinema he would walk home by any one of the half-dozen routes he had worked out. If he had worked the evening shift, he tended to take the straightest, quickest route home, wary of the crowds of drunken youngsters that hung around Union Street at night. But if he had managed to work his favourite afternoon shift, he might wander for half-an-hour before heading home, perhaps picking up a few bits of shopping or having a quick five-minute glance through the new paperbacks in Waterstone’s, content with his own company.

Fred lived alone a bare ten-minute walk away from Union Street and the cinema. The front door of his grey tenement block led off Baker Street into a similarly grey interior, which held six small flats. His first-floor flat was small but tidy and if he craned out of his living room window he could see the round dome of the city library and the theatre beside it. Fred had often wondered what the view would be like from the second floor flat above him but he didn’t know either of the young men who lived on the second floor well enough to ask.

Mr Mackay - the old man who lived directly below Fred would scowl when they passed one another but Fred always attempted a smile and a cheery ‘hello!’, reasoning that the laws of averages meant that he would one day catch his neighbour off-guard and he would respond cheerfully without thinking. The Green’s -the couple living in the flat beside him on the first floor were always nice – they were glad to have a neighbour who never caused any trouble or made much noise and Fred’s good manners meant that he always had time for a quick blether on the stairs with Mrs Green, which sealed her approval of him. The old lady who lived opposite Mr Mackay was an unknown face to Fred but Mrs Green had told him that she was elderly and practically bedridden. The only movement he saw at her door was if he was running late and he met her home-help letting herself into the old ladies’ flat. The two men above him on the second floor were equally a mystery to Fred, although he could distinguish between their footsteps as they went past his door and on up the stairs. The one directly above him ran up the stairs as if he had the devil at his heels, while the other had to take his time as he had a mountain bike to humph up the stairs with him.

The tenement had a walled garden to the back – not too big, just large enough to let everyone have a little piece if they had wanted it. Of course, none of them did and when Fred had taken the flat three years previously the garden had been overgrown and full of deep-rooted weeds. The Green’s were in their sixties and didn’t feel able to tackle the garden by themselves, they had told him, but at the same time they couldn’t afford the rates a gardener would charge and so the garden had stayed weedy and unused except for the wide concrete patio beside the tenement that they had erected an unstable whirligig on.

One of Fred’s first tasks after he had taken the flat had been to go round his new neighbours to ask if they would mind if he took care of the garden from now on. The Green’s had been delighted, Mr Mackay had grumped out ‘please yerself’ and Miss Lowe’s home-help had relayed the old lady’s message that she had no objections. There had been no answer at either of the flats above him and so Fred had posted a little note through each grey letterbox and received neutral but vaguely approving notes back through his own new letterbox a few days later. So now the garden had a wide strip of lawn down the centre with beds of cutting flowers and vegetables on either side. Occasionally, Fred would leave a small box of produce from his garden outside each of his neighbour’s doors. He made sure that Miss Lowe always got the best bouquet; content to cut the flowers with the most crooked stems and weediest blooms for himself.

Fred was happy; it seemed to him that he had found his corner in life and he felt lucky to have so much. He didn’t waste his wages on drink or any other frippery, so after working steadily for fifteen years he had a good pot of savings tucked away. For what he wasn’t quite sure but knew that one day the money would come in handy.

Occasionally Fred felt that something might be lacking from his life. Sometimes, especially when he was pulling out the small dining table from its place tucked into the bay window in the living room he would think of how pleasant it would be to set another place alongside his, but the thought that he was alone didn’t make him unhappy, just the tiniest bit melancholy. On nights like this, he would pick out one of his favourite movies and sit with the table angled towards the t.v., smiling as Doris Day and Rock Hudson fell in love or marvelling at how beautifully Fred and Ginger moved across the screen. When he had watched his film and washed the small amount of dishes, Fred would settle himself in bed with a mug of tea and the latest collection of Hollywood biographies he had gotten from the library. His dreams were, inevitably, filled with beautiful starlets and dashing leading men, but strangely enough Fred never dreamt of being involved with any of the stars he adored. He would always watch from the sidelines as the actors fell in and out of love, waiting for the happy ending he always gave his dreams. Somehow, he had developed the skill of waking with the end of his dream still playing. He would lie with his eyes shut, waiting for the moment when the leading man would take his love in his arms and kiss her. Then, when the string music had faded and the morning light had begun to force it’s way into his bedroom more determinedly; Fred would open his eyes and smile, eager for the next day of his good life.

Fred’s job at the new cinema had fulfilled the last of his work-related desires. He had been quite happy working in one of the city’s older cinemas, but when the new cinema had opened, Fred had been one of their first applicants. The new cinema planned to host a classic film evening once a fortnight and the thought of missing out on such an opportunity was too much for Fred to even consider. So, he jumped ship and moved across town. The disrespect of his new colleagues didn’t trouble Fred much – he had taken as much in his old job and anyway, he liked to think that his workmates weren’t being nasty, just that they could not understand the reasons behind his happiness. But then, after contenting himself to the thought of living alone for the rest of his life, Fred suddenly found someone to lay a second place at his table for.

Fred met Melanie in the Aberdeen art gallery. He had stopped by after an afternoon shift to see the Hollywood retrospective show the gallery had put on and when he was buying the book of the show in the gift shop afterwards, there she was. The queue up to Melanie’s till was long and so Fred had a few minutes to take in her appearance before he had to deal with her face to face. She was around thirty-five, he guessed, with shoulder-length blonde hair that had been carefully arranged to fall in starlet waves. Her gentle face was beautifully made-up and when she spoke to her customers, she did so through carmine-red lips. Like the rest of the gift shop staff, she wore period Hollywood clothes along with her modern gilt name badge, but unlike the others, she actually suited her outfit. Fred was smitten. In the time it took to reach this goddess’ till, Fred’s heart had began to race, he felt light-headed with anticipation and his palms sweated so violently that when he tried to lay the hardback book down carefully in front of Melanie, it slipped out of his hands and landed on the desk with a clatter.

She frowned and looked up in irritation, but found herself looking into such an enraptured expression that she was warily charmed. Melanie smiled a very small smile as she handed this strange man his bagged book and the smile he gave in return made her feel truly beautiful. They stared at one another for a few seconds more until a polite cough from the customer behind Fred reminded them that there were others present. She cleared her throat and Fred turned away, his face reddening.

He left the gallery reluctantly, feeling muddled and strangely angry for once. He pitied himself for his own delusion that a woman so pretty could ever smile at him in a way that meant anything other than politeness. He was more than aware that he was hardly film-star material – he was too short for one thing and his physique could most kindly be described as portly, but without realising his mistake, he wrote himself off too easily many times. More than once, he had taken a woman’s shy interest in him to mean mere politeness. He assumed that while he enjoyed his own company, he was far too dull to charm a woman into his life. To his knowledge he had never been charming in his life, he did not think that it was likely that he possessed the talent to be witty and charming – to pull a Fred Astaire and dance his chosen companion into submission, in full evening dress, while drinking a whisky and soda and smoking a pure white cigarette (filterless, naturally).

For the first time in more years than he could remember, Fred began to feel tiny pangs of discontent. These tiny jolts of self-pity and loneliness grew in strength and number, massing above his head until he had reached the end of the street and had a full-strength raincloud of dissatisfaction hovering over him. While he waited for the lights at the crossing to change he stared at the building opposite. A tenement much like his own, much like all those that surrounded it, constructed of grey blocks of granite that he usually thought of as clean and silvery. His cloud made the buildings seem dull and featureless and the streets were filled with young people with whom he had nothing in common. Even the more elegant construction of the theatre and library beside him did nothing to lift his spirits. A tap on his downturned shoulders made him jump.

The goddess was behind him, holding out a scrap of white paper.
“I forgot to give you your receipt.”
Fred silently took the piece of paper and his fingers brushed against hers. At the contact, Fred found the inspiration to be charming flooding through him. Without thinking, or more correctly without having to think, he caught the pretty Melanie’s fingers in his hand and kissed the back of her hand.
“Thank-you so much,” he said, smiling at the woman whose hand he still held. He did not want to let her hand go – there was always the possibility that she might walk away and Fred didn’t think he could let that happen.
Melanie blushed and smiled. “Would you like to – I mean, in the Gallery, there’s a coffee shop, and..”
“Melanie,” Fred said, decisively interrupting the goddess. “I hate to have you at a disadvantage, so I should tell you that my name is Fred and I wonder if I could be so bold as to ask whether you would care to have coffee with me in the Gallery’s coffee-shop?”
She smiled at Fred. She found that she could do little but smile in his presence.

Fred tucked his goddess’ arm through his own and turned back to face the Gallery. The walk, which had seemed to take an age alone, took a minute at most with Melanie at his side. Fred smiled to think that the view of the Gallery had always been just out of sight from his living room window. The final wisps of his cloud disappeared with the thought that all this time, his leading lady had been waiting for him in the wings.