Francis Good's Hung Himself
by Alan Gillespie
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: A story based on a true event – the death of a neighbourhood drunk.
_____________________________________________________________________
I was raised on a small scheme in a commuter town where people get to know one another quickly. Lots of people never leave. They stay and even though they grow old nothing ever changes. Ask any of these people and they’ll tell you a story about Francis Good.
I’ve known Francis since I was wee. He used to share a lift with my dad when they worked at the same factory. I used to kick about with his son, who’s a year younger than me, in the street. Playing football and chapping doors and running away.
It’s a hell of a shock to find out someone’s dead when you’re used to them being alive.
He hung himself from the doorframe in his bedroom on a Friday night after he got in from the pub. He’d been there all day but was seemingly on juice.
I suppose you can’t hang yourself too smartly when you’re pissed as a Christmas pudding.
Francis probably weighed about six stone the last time I saw him. He had the build of a pencil. Light as a feather. Once I was walking home from the pub when I saw a wee pair of plastic shoes sticking out from the bottom of a hedge. It was Francis. Dead to the world. Snoring. I knew where he lived and carried him over my shoulder, trying not to shake him. He didn’t like it. He scowled and howled. But I couldn’t just leave him there in a bush.
After a few drinks Francis could only speak in an inarticulate mumble. You’d get more coherence from a spaniel. He got angry too. When he realised he wasn’t making sense, he’d lapse into sign language – the refuge of a drunk with no means of spoken communication.
In so many ways Francis was a drunken pain in the arse. He used to take things too far – wee jokes and jibes that he thought were funny but weren’t. And he took a few good batterings as well. An ambulance was phoned when he was found bleeding (and pissing himself) in the toilets. Other times he had black eyes after getting jumped on the way home. But he wasn’t bad, that’s the main thing. There was nothing evil in Francis, nothing malicious.
And the funny thing is, he didn’t drink a drop in the house. This for a man who spent so much of his life and wages in the pub, who so often took the term ‘legless’ to new levels of literal application. His son, Michael, found him hanging, see, and when later they cleared out the house they found a cupboard full of litre bottles of Jack Daniels. He’d get them every Christmas and birthday, going back years, but hadn’t touched a drop. So perhaps he didn’t go in the pub just to drink. Maybe it was for the company.
(I say he hadn’t touched a drop. That’s a lie. There was an empty miniature lying in the kitchen. Just the one.)
I told my dad. I said, Francis Good’s hung himself. Dad wasn’t exactly upset. He saw it was a shame. It was years ago they worked together, when they were young men in their twenties, when I was a baby. Mum’s got a photograph of them together. Dad, twenty-three years old but looking fifteen. Francis, striking, cheery, charming.
Dad told me a story. About the time he agreed to run Francis to work for a few days. It made sense. They lived nearby. They were pals. Francis’s car was in the garage getting fixed. Dad said to Mum, I’ll get petrol money off him. Dad’s always been what they call tight with money. He doesn’t like giving it away. Makes sense. Anyway, at the end of the week, Dad asked for his petrol money and Francis gave him a whole pound.
There was one time in the pub, it was someone’s birthday. I’d bought a few cans of silly string. When Francis went to the bathroom me and my pal followed him and covered him with the stuff while he tried to pee. I can still see him coming back out the toilet door, staggering drunk, silly string hanging off him like spaghetti on a baby.
He took it well enough. Had a laugh. Swore revenge. He’d say, I’ll get you back for that, one of these days. When you least suspect it, you’ll get it. Mark my fucking words.
I went into the pub the day after he was found. The police had taken the body and weren’t letting anyone into the house. Forensics. The pub was the place to go. It gave you perspective. Made it seem real. I couldn’t believe it. Like I said, you get used to someone being alive.
It was a summer’s day and the pub was busy. It was like nothing had happened. Old Mick sat where he always sat. Big Tam huffed and puffed behind the bar. A couple of regulars watched the horse-racing on the television, dashing to the bookies between races with their accumulators. You’d think Francis Good wasn’t dead at all.
But then I saw Bernard. He was Francis’s pal. Used to watch the football together. First-footed each other at New Year. Bernard was sitting at the bar with half a pint of lager, and he was crying. No shame. No hiding.
‘Hello Bernard,’ I said. Well, what can you say?
I told him I’d heard. About Francis. I said sorry. Even though it wasn’t my fault.
Bernard shook his head. ‘The stupid bastard,’ he said. ‘The stupid little bastard. I told him to do something. Told him all the time. You need something to get you out of bed.’ I remembered Francis was laid off work last year. ‘I kept on telling him, you need to do something, volunteer, do up the garden, walk the neighbour’s dog, you need something to get out of bed for otherwise it just does your head in, you get depressed, you don’t know what the point is anymore, you don’t see how you can go on with nothing to do and nobody to speak to and nothing to get out your bed for.’
Francis had been out of work for the best part of a year. I hadn’t known that. I’d have given him Dad’s number and tried to hook him up with something. Some work. He was also behind on the mortgage. His roof had a leak. His car was buggered. His fridge wasn’t working and there were rats in the cupboard.
The pub’s full of tradesmen. Joiners, plumbers, mechanics. Any one of them would have helped. All he had to do was ask.
But no. Seems it all went too fast. Scary how fast things get out of control. Jobseekers allowance doesn’t stretch far when you smoke twenty a day and piss the rest against a wall. That’s what they say, anyway.
I left the pub expecting to bump into Francis Good at the door. Or to find him slumped against a wall outside. Bernard and the others stayed to drink. They hung around.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: A story based on a true event – the death of a neighbourhood drunk.
_____________________________________________________________________
I was raised on a small scheme in a commuter town where people get to know one another quickly. Lots of people never leave. They stay and even though they grow old nothing ever changes. Ask any of these people and they’ll tell you a story about Francis Good.
I’ve known Francis since I was wee. He used to share a lift with my dad when they worked at the same factory. I used to kick about with his son, who’s a year younger than me, in the street. Playing football and chapping doors and running away.
It’s a hell of a shock to find out someone’s dead when you’re used to them being alive.
He hung himself from the doorframe in his bedroom on a Friday night after he got in from the pub. He’d been there all day but was seemingly on juice.
I suppose you can’t hang yourself too smartly when you’re pissed as a Christmas pudding.
Francis probably weighed about six stone the last time I saw him. He had the build of a pencil. Light as a feather. Once I was walking home from the pub when I saw a wee pair of plastic shoes sticking out from the bottom of a hedge. It was Francis. Dead to the world. Snoring. I knew where he lived and carried him over my shoulder, trying not to shake him. He didn’t like it. He scowled and howled. But I couldn’t just leave him there in a bush.
After a few drinks Francis could only speak in an inarticulate mumble. You’d get more coherence from a spaniel. He got angry too. When he realised he wasn’t making sense, he’d lapse into sign language – the refuge of a drunk with no means of spoken communication.
In so many ways Francis was a drunken pain in the arse. He used to take things too far – wee jokes and jibes that he thought were funny but weren’t. And he took a few good batterings as well. An ambulance was phoned when he was found bleeding (and pissing himself) in the toilets. Other times he had black eyes after getting jumped on the way home. But he wasn’t bad, that’s the main thing. There was nothing evil in Francis, nothing malicious.
And the funny thing is, he didn’t drink a drop in the house. This for a man who spent so much of his life and wages in the pub, who so often took the term ‘legless’ to new levels of literal application. His son, Michael, found him hanging, see, and when later they cleared out the house they found a cupboard full of litre bottles of Jack Daniels. He’d get them every Christmas and birthday, going back years, but hadn’t touched a drop. So perhaps he didn’t go in the pub just to drink. Maybe it was for the company.
(I say he hadn’t touched a drop. That’s a lie. There was an empty miniature lying in the kitchen. Just the one.)
I told my dad. I said, Francis Good’s hung himself. Dad wasn’t exactly upset. He saw it was a shame. It was years ago they worked together, when they were young men in their twenties, when I was a baby. Mum’s got a photograph of them together. Dad, twenty-three years old but looking fifteen. Francis, striking, cheery, charming.
Dad told me a story. About the time he agreed to run Francis to work for a few days. It made sense. They lived nearby. They were pals. Francis’s car was in the garage getting fixed. Dad said to Mum, I’ll get petrol money off him. Dad’s always been what they call tight with money. He doesn’t like giving it away. Makes sense. Anyway, at the end of the week, Dad asked for his petrol money and Francis gave him a whole pound.
There was one time in the pub, it was someone’s birthday. I’d bought a few cans of silly string. When Francis went to the bathroom me and my pal followed him and covered him with the stuff while he tried to pee. I can still see him coming back out the toilet door, staggering drunk, silly string hanging off him like spaghetti on a baby.
He took it well enough. Had a laugh. Swore revenge. He’d say, I’ll get you back for that, one of these days. When you least suspect it, you’ll get it. Mark my fucking words.
I went into the pub the day after he was found. The police had taken the body and weren’t letting anyone into the house. Forensics. The pub was the place to go. It gave you perspective. Made it seem real. I couldn’t believe it. Like I said, you get used to someone being alive.
It was a summer’s day and the pub was busy. It was like nothing had happened. Old Mick sat where he always sat. Big Tam huffed and puffed behind the bar. A couple of regulars watched the horse-racing on the television, dashing to the bookies between races with their accumulators. You’d think Francis Good wasn’t dead at all.
But then I saw Bernard. He was Francis’s pal. Used to watch the football together. First-footed each other at New Year. Bernard was sitting at the bar with half a pint of lager, and he was crying. No shame. No hiding.
‘Hello Bernard,’ I said. Well, what can you say?
I told him I’d heard. About Francis. I said sorry. Even though it wasn’t my fault.
Bernard shook his head. ‘The stupid bastard,’ he said. ‘The stupid little bastard. I told him to do something. Told him all the time. You need something to get you out of bed.’ I remembered Francis was laid off work last year. ‘I kept on telling him, you need to do something, volunteer, do up the garden, walk the neighbour’s dog, you need something to get out of bed for otherwise it just does your head in, you get depressed, you don’t know what the point is anymore, you don’t see how you can go on with nothing to do and nobody to speak to and nothing to get out your bed for.’
Francis had been out of work for the best part of a year. I hadn’t known that. I’d have given him Dad’s number and tried to hook him up with something. Some work. He was also behind on the mortgage. His roof had a leak. His car was buggered. His fridge wasn’t working and there were rats in the cupboard.
The pub’s full of tradesmen. Joiners, plumbers, mechanics. Any one of them would have helped. All he had to do was ask.
But no. Seems it all went too fast. Scary how fast things get out of control. Jobseekers allowance doesn’t stretch far when you smoke twenty a day and piss the rest against a wall. That’s what they say, anyway.
I left the pub expecting to bump into Francis Good at the door. Or to find him slumped against a wall outside. Bernard and the others stayed to drink. They hung around.
About the Author
Alan Gillespie is a 25 year old male who hails from Kirkcaldy. He studies Creative Writing at Glasgow University and edits the online literary journal, From Glasgow to Saturn (http://glasgowtosaturn.com/). His short stories appear here and there.
Say hello at http://alangillespie.wordpress.com.
Say hello at http://alangillespie.wordpress.com.