A Tribute To Frank Windsor
It ‘were’ another cold, dark, wet evening in the northern province of Newtown, nestling on the coast of Lancashire. A large bulk of a man in a worn light-coloured suit with the buttons heaving under the strain stood surveying the raindrops racing down the window. The streetlights outside were blurred and dulled by the downpour.
His contemplation was broken by the sounds of raised voices outside his office door. The imposing man strode with purpose and flung open his office door. His bulk framed in the doorway, his lungs burst forth with a booming clarity that left no one under the impression they had disturbed a sleeping tiger.
“Sergeant Blackitt, I want silence in my life, so will you and these people...” there was a pause for full menacing effect, the booming voice was lowered to a mild growl. “I need some room and silence to read my files please”.
“Right you are, Inspector Barlow.”
The Inspector returned to his office and picked up a weighty file entitled ‘FRANK WINDSOR’.
Sergeant Blackitt knocked and entered, bearing gifts of a hot brown nature, in a chipped cup. “Thank you, Blackitt”. The desk sergeant looked over at the file Barlow had in his shovel of a hand.
“You know Blackitt, I can’t work out if this man Windsor was a genius or simply the world’s hardest working actor?” He thumbed through page after page. “His life has held tragedy, love, loneliness and a dogged determination to make the best out of things. But yet, he was well known and never off our screens, I can’t fathom why he didn’t just hang his trilby up when it was time to rest. I mean look at this”. Page after page ran through his fingers onto the desk.
Sergeant Blackitt grinned out the corner of his mouth and replied, “Plenty of form then?”
“For an innocent man”, Barlow paused. “For an innocent man...” repeated Barlow.
Blackitt left and Barlow returned to the file.
Born: Frank W Higgins, 12 July 1928, in Walsall to a modest sized family. Parents not rich, working class but hard grafters at that. Schooling : Queen Mary's Grammar School - appeared in a number of school productions.
Work: Learnt his craft in London (Barlow tutted at this) - Central School of Speech and Drama. They taught everything from Puppetry to Shakespeare.
Barlow let out another sigh. “Not another bloody spear holder”.
Barlow turned over the page and leaned forward into the file. “Interesting. Now it gets interesting”.
BBC, 1955- played the Crown Prince Rudolph of Austria.
1960 - 'An Age Of Kings' - part of the rep company.
“In fact, quite a lot of TV plays, for both sides”. Barlow snorted. “In amongst the stage treading and shouting at the audience”.
1962, played a detective sergeant in a fictional Northern town in a hard hitting and ground-breaking live TV crime drama on the BBC. “Z Cars. Preposterous name for a show!” dismissed Barlow. But he cracked a smile at the detail that followed. “Know for violently breaking wind before and during transmission, which caused some hilarity amongst his fellow actors. I knew he wasn’t that squeaky clean”.
Barlow coughed to clear his throat and then returned to his file.
'A For Andromeda',' ITV Playhouse', 'Randall And Hopkirk (Deceased)', 'The Avengers', 'Softly Softly'... “All this and much more during the 1960s. A very prolific little worker. But always returning to the police role. I wonder... Frank, you have so much to offer the viewers, I hope you didn’t end up as a copper for most your career?” Barlow supped his cup of tea. He opened his bottom drawer and took out a half bottle of whisky and poured a little into his brew. “Just to ward off the cold” he chuckled, replacing the bottle and closing the drawer.
“Now where was I?”
The 1970s: 'Softly Softly Task Force', 'Jack the Ripper', 'Second Verdict'. “Isn’t it time to diversify Frank?” Barlow looked around knowing he was alone but just making sure...
'Headmaster'; a play from 1977 which was turned into a 6-part series... Family entertainment with ‘The Goodies’ and returning to 'Z Cars' for one last appearance as a Detective Chief Superintendent. Barlow raised his cup at this saying “You deserved that rank, my friend”.
“An amazing continuation into the 80s, 90s and 00s. Prolific is not the word I’m looking for…” Barlow rubbed his nose and looked up for inspiration. “I’d say loved and adored, a staple of British television. It appears you always got a top performance from the man, even if the scripts were a bit ropey”.
Barlow moved along the page to read the heart ache of Frank losing his son in a car accident, the press intrusion, the headlines. “Vultures! Can’t a man grieve?” Barlow almost spat the words out.
“I’m rather proud of your form lad. I mean, if I was known for just half the things you accomplished …” Barlow stopped thinking out loud as the door opened. A tall, lean man wearing a trilby and very sodden raincoat comes in, leaving puddles as he walks.
Barlow snapped shut his file and slid it into his drawer.
“Oh, sorry sir, I didn’t know you were still here” came the soft Northern tones of the trilby wearing man.
“No problem John, I, er…” Barlow paused, walking over to the coat rack, grabbing his overcoat and putting it on.
“I never really got to thank you that much, John. I mean, when it comes to a round I can be a little..”
“Tight-fisted” replied John.
Barlow’s gaze snapped up and his face fell, just a moment of anger wafted across it. The expression left as quickly as it arrived. “Aye, you’re not wrong there, John”.
Barlow’s right arm shot out for John to grasp his hand and shake it. For a moment John paused, looking at the hand. Barlow wasn’t a man who showed much in the way of friendship or warmth, but he knew deep down they were the greatest of friends. John grasped Barlow’s hand warmly. Barlow placed his other hand over his as if to cement their friendship. The moment ended... Barlow opened the door and said as he strode out “Time for a couple, John?”
John followed him, switching off the office light and closing the door.
“I wouldn’t miss that for a hotpot supper”. He laughed, and they walked out from the Police Station into the cold damp crime-ridden streets of Newtown...
FRANK WINDSOR: 12 July 1928 – 30 September 2020
(Written by Warren Cummings)
(Cover design by Martin Holmes
