Franz Windsor

A story that started in Sri Lanka and ended in Northern Ireland

I cycled daily to a bakery to fetch bread for the family. The bakery, named “Paragon”, was three kilometres away and produced the best bread in my hometown. The long ride was worth the superior quality of the bread. I was returning from my usual bread run on a typical afternoon; a smiling boy stopped me by the side of the road. He boldly asked whether I could drop him off at our church on my way home. It was the first time we spoke to each other. His name was Franz.

Franz sat on my bike’s saddle, and we rode together, me peddling. Franz Windsor was a handsome young boy, a couple of years younger than me. He was an interesting character and kept talking as I rode the bike. Young, he was; he had a zest for life. A tiny part of his lower lip was missing due to an accident. He looked cute with that unique designer lip. It improved his looks.

What started as a chance encounter continued with Franz. He met me regularly during my daily bread run to the bakery close to his home. I dropped him off regularly at the church. The church compound was where the Christian boys hung out. Franz had a keen interest in my choice of clothes and fashion, asking me specific, pointed questions.

Our friendship blossomed, and he invited me to his home. Their house was built in traditional Sri Lankan architecture and was big. It had long arches, extending halls and manicured gardens. His mother, Olga, was big, XXL in size. She was a tough terror. His father, bespectacled, was an English-language newspaper editor at Lake House, the premium news outlet in Sri Lanka. His name was Gamini Windsor. Gamini was his local pseudonym in the press circles. He was a prominent and respected figure in the print media. There were domestic helpers for household chores. Franz had an elder brother, Johann, one year older than him. Both attended a top-class Christian school in Colombo, St Peter’s College.

My impression of my visits to their home is weird. Both Franz’s parents smoked, their house full of and smelling of smoke. Johann and Franz did not hesitate to light cigarettes for their parents, taking their first puff before giving them to their parents. Both boys enjoyed a lot of freedom not afforded to youngsters.

In return, Franz visited my home a few times.

Franz was particularly interested in my colourful singlets, a fashion fad in the seventies. Coloured singlets (we called them skinnies back then) were rare items that could not be easily sourced in Sri Lanka. He borrowed my singlets and denim jackets to attend parties. With limited supply, sharing clothes was not a big issue between friends. I willingly shared my tops with him.

Franz’s dad was an alcoholic. Homelife was not ideal for Franz. He associated with many older boys and some not so desirable. He was addicted to smoking at a young age. I think love was missing from his life. I was too young to understand the long-term implications of his situation.

One day at sunset, unexpectedly, Franz turned up at my place after his school run. He was full of sweat after attending his school’s sports meet. He wanted to have a shower at my home. There was no integrated bathroom inside our house. Instead, we had a water well in our large garden where we bathed in the open air. Around the well was a cover of trees that provided privacy. I usually washed after sunset in the cover of darkness in the nude. Franz had a shower in the open air, concealed by the cover. He was getting comfortable at my place and asked my permission to stay over. In turn, I asked my mother. She was reluctant to let Franz, an under-aged boy, stay over and asked me to drop him at home. That night, I took Franz on my bicycle and dropped him at his home. In hindsight, Franz would have had some issues at his house that prompted him to want to stay at my home for the night. Possibly.

Times passed quickly; I lost touch with Franz. Then, a few short years later, I left Sri Lanka for good.

Many decades later, I enquired about Franz, curious to find out about my friend who borrowed my colourful singlets and who thought I was a fashion model. I gathered that Franz had left Sri Lanka for Northern Ireland as a young lad. The unverified story is that he had ended up in the military wing of the IRA. During the bloody secessionist warfare in Northern Ireland, he had perished. He was too young, in his early twenties. Northern Irish government refused to return his body to Sri Lanka. A friend had visited Northern Ireland, retraced Franz Windsor’s movements and tried to identify his grave. That was not successful. Franz remains buried somewhere in Northern Ireland.

The only Windsors other than Franz I knew were the Royals at the House of Windsor in England. It is ironic to think that one lanky Windsor of English origin from Sri Lanka fought to dislodge the House of Windsor from Northern Ireland. It might have been high treason.

His elder brother, Johann, too, has had a tough life. He became an alcoholic like his father and died young, homeless and penniless.

Tragic and sad. It is not what I expected out of both of them. But, in life, things are unpredictable.

Rest in peace, Franz, the joyful fellow with the beautifully broken lip. You too, Johann.

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