General Fiction posted July 28, 2024 |
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A silly 'cheer me' story
Good Old Frank
by Claire Tennant
Feel Good Story Contest Winner

It was said around the block that you did not need to set your alarm because Mrs Wade's rooster, Frank, always sang at 6.00 am. He had been doing so for years, and indeed when l forgot to set the alarm, l heard and could rely on Frank. I don't know what age he was. In fact, l know so little about birds, both the feathered or the voluptuous kind. As far back as I could remember, you could rely on Frank to chirp up, wake up, but never slip up. That is until the reason for this story needs to be told to be believed.
The other night, though, when my head was pounding, my nose was blocked, and my throat felt like a campfire, I was disturbed. My mother had come into the room with a soothing syrup, which sent me off to sleep and probably snoring, but l awoke to the familiar alarm at 3 o'clock. I cannot say I was impressed; in fact, I was livid.
"Bugger you, Frank." I closed my eyes, but the noise continued.
"Something has ruffled his feathers." I mused.
"It could be a chick with the colic."
Yet no amount of pillow punching, doona straightening, coughing, or water sipping eased the tension that Frank was causing so early. In vain, I tossed and turned once more. Frank continued going mental, sounding like a broken record. I could not remember his disturbances of the peace being this bad.
The street we live in is normally quiet except if the wind carries the noise of the nearby railway station, so when l realised there were sounds of merriment in the said street, l had my hackles rise. Distinct banging and crashing could be heard, followed by car doors opening and closing, and a rather spicy form of bad language was being used at 400 decibels. I felt that l, as the only young male in the street, had an obligation to check things out. Reluctantly l put my tracksuit over my PJ's, slipped into socks and shoes, retrieved my mobile phone and tiptoed towards the front door. Alas, someone whom I love dearly was awake.
"Tom?" It was Mum.
"Are you okay? She said sleepily.
"Yes, Mum," I answered.
"Do you hear Frank serenading the street? l'm going to check things out."
Just to corroborate my actions, there was more spicy language outside. Mum, now up, looked aghast, putting her famous 'mother knows best' expression on and said:
"Be careful."
"I don't know whether it's a slip-up or a stickup, Mum."
"Do you need me to come with you?" she asked.
"Huh!"
I suddenly had a mental picture of Mum following me, armed with her broom and a garden spade in readiness to ward off any attacker that might dare, just dare, hurt her number one son. Despite the seriousness of the situation, l laughed. Mums will be mums.
Closing the door behind me, l confessed to being a little nervous. I noticed old Mr Hackett next to us emerging from his front door. He might only be seventy but he looked a hundred: his unshaven face and faded dressing gown almost luminous in the light the council provided.
"Hear the noise, young Tom?" he asked.
'How could you fail?" I thought but said instead.
"I'm going to check..."
"Be careful, son... you are too precious to all of us. Don't do anything stupid."
Precious? l put his bins out on a Sunday and took his wife home from the supermarket occasionally, what gives? ... it's called being neighbourly. As indeed this action was.
I hurried down to Mrs Wade's house. It was in darkness. Frank sounded as though he was leading the Hallelujah Chorus in two of the four parts while the other chickens were merrily clucking. Either that, or it was a bowling club AGM meeting. Golly!
The moon was bright and there was sufficient light from the neighbour's to clearly see the back garden. Unlike ours, it was neat and tidy; also, unlike ours, it had an old lady lying near the chook house, crying. Galvanised into action, I ran like heck towards Mrs Wade. She was in great pain, and by the looks of how she had fallen, her leg was broken. With one hand l pulled my phone out and dialled 000, the other holding Mrs Wade's hand, in an awkward attempt to comfort. Just then, Mum and Mr Hackett appeared. Mum carrying a blanket, Mr Hackett trying unsuccessfully to play Sergeant major, as l had it pretty much under control. All was quiet as we waited for the ambulance.
Eventually, Mrs Wade told us that the other noise was not from her place. She had heard Frank making a disturbance, and fearing that a fox had feasted in the hen house, she went outside to check and fix it if necessary. Frank was disturbed by the thugs across the fence. Just as the swearing and cussing were at their peak, he created more havoc, for she had slipped on the path and fallen. No thug had attacked her.
Later we discovered that the police had been warned and had swooped on the invaders, taking them to a place of safety wearing the most fetching bangles around their wrists. Getting caught is a decided slip up!
Mrs Wade was whisked away to the hospital, and l tidied up, knowing full well it would be up to me to feed the chooks ....and Frank. I could not slip up on feeding them I was too fond of Mrs Wade.
Poor old Frank, famous for the 'cock a doodle do' serenade at inappropriate times so we thought. If he had been the pet dog, he would have barked like crazy and been just as unpopular. A cat ... well, he would notice that his servant had forgotten to feed him. I understand cats Mum has always had them. Maybe that's why l got the uninteresting name of Tom.
The other night, though, when my head was pounding, my nose was blocked, and my throat felt like a campfire, I was disturbed. My mother had come into the room with a soothing syrup, which sent me off to sleep and probably snoring, but l awoke to the familiar alarm at 3 o'clock. I cannot say I was impressed; in fact, I was livid.
"Bugger you, Frank." I closed my eyes, but the noise continued.
"Something has ruffled his feathers." I mused.
"It could be a chick with the colic."
Yet no amount of pillow punching, doona straightening, coughing, or water sipping eased the tension that Frank was causing so early. In vain, I tossed and turned once more. Frank continued going mental, sounding like a broken record. I could not remember his disturbances of the peace being this bad.
The street we live in is normally quiet except if the wind carries the noise of the nearby railway station, so when l realised there were sounds of merriment in the said street, l had my hackles rise. Distinct banging and crashing could be heard, followed by car doors opening and closing, and a rather spicy form of bad language was being used at 400 decibels. I felt that l, as the only young male in the street, had an obligation to check things out. Reluctantly l put my tracksuit over my PJ's, slipped into socks and shoes, retrieved my mobile phone and tiptoed towards the front door. Alas, someone whom I love dearly was awake.
"Tom?" It was Mum.
"Are you okay? She said sleepily.
"Yes, Mum," I answered.
"Do you hear Frank serenading the street? l'm going to check things out."
Just to corroborate my actions, there was more spicy language outside. Mum, now up, looked aghast, putting her famous 'mother knows best' expression on and said:
"Be careful."
"I don't know whether it's a slip-up or a stickup, Mum."
"Do you need me to come with you?" she asked.
"Huh!"
I suddenly had a mental picture of Mum following me, armed with her broom and a garden spade in readiness to ward off any attacker that might dare, just dare, hurt her number one son. Despite the seriousness of the situation, l laughed. Mums will be mums.
Closing the door behind me, l confessed to being a little nervous. I noticed old Mr Hackett next to us emerging from his front door. He might only be seventy but he looked a hundred: his unshaven face and faded dressing gown almost luminous in the light the council provided.
"Hear the noise, young Tom?" he asked.
'How could you fail?" I thought but said instead.
"I'm going to check..."
"Be careful, son... you are too precious to all of us. Don't do anything stupid."
Precious? l put his bins out on a Sunday and took his wife home from the supermarket occasionally, what gives? ... it's called being neighbourly. As indeed this action was.
I hurried down to Mrs Wade's house. It was in darkness. Frank sounded as though he was leading the Hallelujah Chorus in two of the four parts while the other chickens were merrily clucking. Either that, or it was a bowling club AGM meeting. Golly!
The moon was bright and there was sufficient light from the neighbour's to clearly see the back garden. Unlike ours, it was neat and tidy; also, unlike ours, it had an old lady lying near the chook house, crying. Galvanised into action, I ran like heck towards Mrs Wade. She was in great pain, and by the looks of how she had fallen, her leg was broken. With one hand l pulled my phone out and dialled 000, the other holding Mrs Wade's hand, in an awkward attempt to comfort. Just then, Mum and Mr Hackett appeared. Mum carrying a blanket, Mr Hackett trying unsuccessfully to play Sergeant major, as l had it pretty much under control. All was quiet as we waited for the ambulance.
Eventually, Mrs Wade told us that the other noise was not from her place. She had heard Frank making a disturbance, and fearing that a fox had feasted in the hen house, she went outside to check and fix it if necessary. Frank was disturbed by the thugs across the fence. Just as the swearing and cussing were at their peak, he created more havoc, for she had slipped on the path and fallen. No thug had attacked her.
Later we discovered that the police had been warned and had swooped on the invaders, taking them to a place of safety wearing the most fetching bangles around their wrists. Getting caught is a decided slip up!
Mrs Wade was whisked away to the hospital, and l tidied up, knowing full well it would be up to me to feed the chooks ....and Frank. I could not slip up on feeding them I was too fond of Mrs Wade.
Poor old Frank, famous for the 'cock a doodle do' serenade at inappropriate times so we thought. If he had been the pet dog, he would have barked like crazy and been just as unpopular. A cat ... well, he would notice that his servant had forgotten to feed him. I understand cats Mum has always had them. Maybe that's why l got the uninteresting name of Tom.
![]() Feel Good Story Contest Winner |
Artwork by avmurray at FanArtReview.com





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