Short story: Boy meets grill

Craig clearly didn’t like her – but what Fran did next left him stunned

OHIS WORDS WERE SLURRED, HIS EYES TWITCHED

h. It’s you.’ Craig’s expression resembled that of someone who had stepped in something unmentionable.

What was it with him? For some reason he didn’t seem to like her. Which was a shame, because under different circumstances – if, maybe, he didn’t scowl every time he saw her – she might have found him quite likeable. He was, after all, reasonably dishy. Specs, short hair, slightly geeky.

‘Hello.’ Fran opted for her usual smile and polite manner, despite his attitude. ‘I’ve come for the Bartley-batson file.’

Almost everything was accessible via the computer, but just occasionally there was the odd ancient document that hadn’t yet been uploaded, and an old Bartley-batson ground plan was one of them. Hence, Fran was venturing down to the basement where Craig was singlehandedly sorting, cataloguing and eventually scanning the vast archives.

The archives were a relic from a different age. Brown desk, wooden filing cabinets and rows of tall bookshelves separated by narrow aisles. Boxes, crumpled and half-squashed, were stacked haphazardly, papers and documents sticking out randomly. It was dark too. Gloomy. Claustrophobic. Maybe Craig’s mood was affected by working amidst all this oppressive, old stuff – although other people said he was lovely with them.

‘Wait here.’ Craig, grumpy face on, disappeared into the archives.

‘Okey-dokey.’ Fran gazed round and spotted a calendar pinned on the wall. Discworld. From the Terry Pratchett books. Ooh, she liked those. She leaned forward for a closer look, lightly resting a hand on a pile of documents.

Unfortunately, the pile was more precarious than it looked and it slid sideways, scattering papers to the floor. ‘Oops!’ She hurriedly crouched to gather them up, but in her haste elbowed a stack of boxes, which toppled, crashing into a metal grill situated low on the wall. The grill dislodged and fell too. It was a big grill. Two feet wide, one foot high. Probably some air-conditio... ‘What are you doing?’ Fran looked up. Craig had returned. ‘Oh hello. Nothing. Well, I say nothing. I sort of knocked these and they went there and then I knocked these over. Then this fell off.’ She held up the grill. ‘I’ll just...’ She went to reattach it. ‘Leave it. There’s a knack.’ ‘A knack?’ Obviously! Fran couldn’t get it to reattach at all.

‘It’s a tricky fit. It ought to be repaired. I have complained.’

Yes, Fran could imagine Craig complaining.

‘I said, leave it,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it when you’re gone.’ He reached across to take the grill, but somehow the corner had attached itself to the button on the cuff of Fran’s blouse.

There was a moment of resistance as Fran tried to let go, but the grill was still gripping the button.

She tugged. Craig tugged back. Then it was free! But Craig’s momentum and his forward stoop across the desk meant the grill sprang backwards. Fast. And clonked him one. Hard.

Craig said: ‘Uunnhh...’ Then he collapsed to the floor, the grill falling with a clang beside him.

‘Oh... Crikey...’ Fran scurried round the desk and found him lying there, eyes fluttering, blood already trickling from the gash on his forehead. ‘Ew, nasty!’

His eyes blinked open and he flinched when he found her face just inches away.

‘Wha...’ He frowned, winced, and raised a hand gingerly to his forehead. When his fingers came away bloody he groaned loudly. ‘I’m beed-aling...’ He tried to sit up, groaned some more, went a funny colour, and flopped back again. ‘You need an ambulance,’ Fran said. ‘An amblience? No, I’m...’ His words were slurred, his eyes twitched. ‘Ooh, I feel a bit peculiar.’

Fran desperately tried to remember what she knew about head injuries and concussion. Nothing, apparently. So she grabbed his desk phone and dialled 999. By the time the paramedics had done their assessment, a small crowd of spectators had accumulated in the basement. Fran felt like charging them a fee. Especially when they applauded as Craig was trundled away in a wheelchair. He had insisted he could walk, but the paramedics insisted harder.

Fran insisted on accompanying him. Not just to the ambulance, but all the way to the hospital. Craig wasn’t keen. ‘No way!’ But Fran felt responsible. ‘You need someone with you.’

‘Not you though. Tell her.’ He nudged a paramedic. ‘You can stop her, can’t you?’ The paramedic nodded and agreed. Then said that Craig might be glad of the company when he arrived at the hospital.

‘Go on,’ Fran said. ‘I’ve never been in an ambulance before.’ ‘Look, Ann, I’d rather you just...’ ‘It’s Fran, actually.’ ‘What?’ ‘Fran. You called me Ann.’ ‘But you Ann.’ ‘No I’m not. I’m Fran.’ Craig looked confused. ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Positive. You’re the one who got bashed on the bonce, not me.’ ‘But... But...’ ‘Let’s discuss it on the way.’ And Fran was in the back of the ambulance before

he could protest any further. Then they were off to the hospital.

‘So you’re definitely not…’ Craig said, ‘Ann Fanshaw?’ ‘No, I’m Fran Shore.’ She spelt it out. He managed a faint smile. ‘I thought you were Ann Fanshaaawww.’

Then his eyelids fluttered again and he fell asleep. In A&E, Craig was installed in a bed, taken away for an X-ray, brought back, poked, prodded and left alone.

He was now propped up on the bed, looking pretty much normal, apart from the dressing on his forehead. ‘You’ve probably given me a scar.’ ‘Yes, all right. I have apologised.’ ‘Have you? I don’t remember.’

Had she? She couldn’t remember either in all the hoo-ha. Probably had though. And it wasn’t wise to overdo an apology, so she let things stand.

Craig would be kept in A&E for a couple of hours, a nurse explained – ‘For observation’ – then he’d be released later on when they were sure he didn’t have any complications.

‘So, Ann Fanshaw,’ Fran said. ‘She used to work in marketing.’ ‘Did she?’ ‘And you thought she was me. I mean, I was her. Herself was myself.’

‘But you’re not,’ Craig said. ‘You’re someone entirely different, apparently.’

Fran frowned. ‘But I don’t look anything like Ann Fanshaw. She was short with a dark bob. Tweedy clothes. And she wore glasses. Great big ones. With pink frames. Getting us confused is a bit much.’ Offence was there to be taken, if she fancied doing so.

‘Hold on, I remember that woman now. She drove a Renault, didn’t she?’

‘She did,’ Fran said. ‘But she left the company yonks ago.’

‘I never realised was the Fanshaw. I thought she was you. Or rather I thought you were her.’ He chuckled. ‘All this time and I’ve been disliking the wrong person.’ ‘What?’ ‘It was a real effort to be civil.’ Fran gave this some thought. ‘But you never were civil,’ she said.

‘Oh, yeah.’ He was sheepish now.

‘But why didn’t you like her?’ Fran said. ‘The real Ann, I mean. Not me. You obviously didn’t know her well, or you wouldn’t have got us confused.’ ‘It’s a long story.’ ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ ‘I’ve got this friend. He used to work with Ann Fanshaw. He mentioned her one day and the name rang a bell. I told him, “I think she works at my place now.” He told me to keep her at arm’s length. He said she was horrible, always having a go and causing trouble. She even tried to get him the sack. So clearly I was never going to be friends with her.’ ‘Clearly!’ ‘Solidarity and all that.’ ‘Right.’ Fran could see the logic. Sort of. ‘Except you got the wrong person.’

‘The names are similar,’ he said in his defence. ‘Very easy to get mixed up.’

‘You’re lucky. There’ve been times when I could have happily clobbered you one because of your attitude.’ ‘Er, hello.’ He pointed at his bandages. ‘That was an accident!’ Fran sighed. He really was quite dishy. ‘All this time and you’ve been mistakenly disliking me.’ Had he not been so grumpy with her she might have actually...

‘It was quite difficult,’ he said, ‘doing the whole angry thing whenever I saw you. Because I couldn’t understand it. You seemed so nice and you were always polite, no matter what I was like. You weren’t at all like he described you.’

‘Which is hardly surprising, as I wasn’t the person he described.’ ‘No. Sorry.’ He pulled a face. ‘And I’m sorry too. For the...’ She indicated his head. ‘You know.’ ‘Apology accepted.’ ‘Same here.’ He yawned and seemed to be settling down for a nap. The nurse had said tiredness was usual. Injury, comedown from the stress, the painkillers.

‘Funny really...’ He was sinking fast. ‘...because I always thought you were really attractive. It seemed a shame I wasn’t allowed to like you.’ ‘Attractive?’ ‘I even wondered what it would be like to...’ And he drifted off.

‘To what?’ Fran shook his shoulder. ‘Wake up! You wondered what?’

He blinked his eyes open. ‘...to, you know, kiss you...’

Fran stared at him. Oh what the heck! He probably wouldn’t remember anyway when he woke up. So she kissed him.

‘Nice... Especially now I actually like you...’ Then, this time, sleep overtook him properly. But he was smiling even as he dozed.

Afterwards, he did remember that first kiss. Much to Fran’s delight. And later, when people asked how they got together, Fran said: ‘Well, it wasn’t love at first sight... but Craig eventually fell for me...’

After all, he had the scar – tiny, but there nonetheless – to prove it. The End Steve Beresford, 2021