Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin

by J. C. Williams

  “Thanks,” replied Stan, lowering his scarf, once he had coffee in hand, to take a cautious sip.

  “Are you, eh, okay there, mate?” the vendor asked, in a curious dance of motion, simultaneously taking a step back but at the same time craning his neck forward in order to focus in on what was on view before him. “Only,” he said, squinting his eyes. “Only, are you allergic to peanuts, or similar?”

  “What?” asked Stan, coffee dribbling down his chin for lack of required muscle control. “No,” he continued, wiping the overflow on his sleeve. He found, as he said this, that his cosmetically-induced lisp had subsided, however. Thank goodness for small favours, he thought to himself. “I’ve had a collagen injection in my lips, you see,” he offered the vendor by way of explanation, pointing to the lips in question.

  “You paid?” asked the man, moving in for an even closer look. “Seriously? You paid?” he continued, incredulous. “You paid. You paid? To look like that? To look like that,” he went on. “Come on… you’re having me on, yeah? It’s peanuts, then, isn’t it? It’s peanuts, then.”

  The coffee vendor tilted his head, from one side and then to the other, like a dog attempting to work out the origin of a strange, unfamiliar sound.

  “I’ll have you know, my fine fellow, it’s all the rage,” replied Stan, who was immediately annoyed at the lack of quality in his response. Stan flicked his scarf over his shoulder with dramatic flair and reached for his drinks, picking them up again. “In fact, you should get some collagen into this coffee,” suggested Stan. “Might get a bit of life in it.” Stan smiled, happy that he’d recovered somewhat with this second comment of his, and then set about going on his way.

  “Here, mate!” shouted the chap over the noise of the howling wind.

  Stan reluctantly turned back around, and was greeted by the sight of the vendor holding two sausages about his mouth. Stan was near to taking offence, assuming that… well, he wasn’t sure what he was assuming. It just seemed vaguely offensive to him for some reason though he wasn’t certain why. But then he noticed that the fellow was, in fact, placing the sausages around the perimeter of his mouth — one on the bottom and the other over the top — in the form of lips.

  “It’s all the rage!” shouted the man with a coarse, delighted laugh. “And I didn’t have to pay a fortune to look like a prize plumb!”

  Stan’s retaliatory banter was, well, rubbish — with Frank being the more clever of the two of them in that regard — and so he took the constructive feedback on the chin, next to his drool, and carried on his way taking a mental note to never, ever, buy a coffee from there again. He also wondered if, in future, he might simply say that, yes, he did in fact have a nut allergy. Though he disliked lying, it was, after all, a fairly good explanation — and one, not to mention, that would generate sympathy as opposed to derision. Hrmm…

  Stan didn’t have to look too far before spotting a familiar mop of grey hair dancing erratically in the firm breeze. He stopped for a tick, not only to clear his mouth of spit, but to take a moment. He lowered his head, taking several deep breaths; a burst of nausea ran through him, causing him to rest against a black handrail. He looked over at the figure slouched on the bench, staring out to sea, and he knew that within the next few minutes his life could very easily be dealt a hammer blow of bad news.

  “You know,” said Stan, handing a coffee cup over. “This is where I found you the day you learned about, em… you know.”

  Stan took a seat, and, now he had a free hand, placed it on his benchmate’s knee and squeezed. Stan took a cursory glance up to make sure it was indeed Frank’s knee he was holding onto, and not a stranger’s.

  “These waves are hypnotic,” replied Frank, with an unsurprised-to-see-you inflexion. “Anyway, I was thinking the same thing. And, if I’m not mistaken, you gave me a cup of pisswater that day also,” Frank added, prising off the lid and peering into the cup’s brackish interior.

  Stan sat in silence, staring up the River Mersey, watching the marine traffic glide languidly by. He and Frank sat under the shadow of the Royal Liver Building, near to the Pier Head, where the Isle of Man Seacat would be called home to port.

  Frank struggled with a mouthful of the fetid liquid before having no recourse but to pour the cup’s remaining contents onto the pavement. “I’m sorry, Stan.”

  “It’s all right, Frank,” Stan replied, unsure if Frank was referring to pouring out the coffee, or to something else. “It can’t be helped,” he added, in either case.

  “Do you remember Mickey Freeman? From school?” asked Frank, without preamble.

  “I don’t think so—?” replied Stan, after a moment’s reflection.

  “You do!” urged Frank. “Mop of red hair? Pasty-looking skin? He looked like the head of a matchstick.”

  Stan half closed his left eye, giving the appearance of deep thought. But it could just as easily have been the collagen.

  “Mickey…? … No. No, sorry. You’ve got me there, I’m afraid.”

  “You do,” insisted Frank once more. “He pissed himself in Geography class!”

  “Ah! Yes!” Stan replied, raising a solitary finger in recognition. “Why didn’t you say so at the start? Yes. I do remember him now, poor bastard.”

  “Mickey Freeman,” Frank declared.

  “But I think it was History class, actually? Now I think on it,” Stan said, smiling in warm recollection. “That kid pissing himself was the talk of the school,” he went on. “And, as I recall, that took a lot of attention away from me, a lot less scrutiny of my… preferences in certain areas, shall we say. At least for a bit.”

  “Yes,” Frank agreed.

  “I should really look him up and thank him for that,” Stan mused aloud.

  “You can’t,” said Frank. “He’s dead. Heart attack last week.”

  Stan’s right eye half-closed, joining its partner.

  “Yet you look pleasantly pleased by that revelation?” he proposed. “Judging by the contented grin on your face?”

  “Not at all,” replied Frank, replacing his expression with sombre contemplation. “I saw him a few months back. He told me he was training for another marathon.”

  “I’m not really sure what’s going on with this conversation, Frank? Where this is—?”

  Frank patted his friend’s thigh before continuing his lament.

  “Mickey looked twenty years younger than me, easily, when I saw him,” he said. “Full head of jet-black hair, lean, and… well… fit. Well-fit. And healthy. He told me — in between star-jumps — that he didn’t drink at all, he ate healthily, and bed early every night.”

  “Uh-huh?” Stan replied, not really liking the sound of this conversation, actually.

  “Basically, the opposite of me,” Frank admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. “He was pleasant enough,” Frank went on. “But he didn’t really hide the fact that he was in some way judging me. I’m not happy the guy’s dead, don’t get me wrong. But it just shows that you can eat well, exercise, and do everything as you should, but if the Grim Reaper’s got his claws on you then there’s bugger-all you’re gonna be able to do about it. And then there’s the opposite of that, and equally true — that you can eat shit food, smoke, and drink too much, and in turn outlive a marathon runner.”

  “In that case, Stella’s going to be immortal,” interrupted Stan.

  Frank gave an easy laugh.

  “Frank, I know the point you’re making, I think. But in view of your visit to the doctor today… I’ll be honest, I’m not being filled with confidence here by way of this convo,” Stan offered. “Frank… Frank, what did the doctor say?” he asked, lowering his voice and dropping his head down, afraid of the answer his friend might very well give.

  Frank increased his grip on Stan’s thigh. “He said I’ve got two to three good years left in me.”

  Stan brought his hand up to his mouth. “Oh, Frank. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not,” replied Frank.
“It’s great news!” he said.

  “It… it is?” asked Stan, confused.

  “Sure. Although drinking that coffee you just gave me could have reduced that figure by at least a year,” Frank said with a wink. “Look, Stan,” Frank went on. “I’m heading towards my mid-sixties. When I first got this shit inside of me, I thought I’d be gone by now. I went into that doctor’s office today waiting to be told I’d be gone by Christmas. Only he didn’t. I’m telling you, Stan — and I think I’ve said this before — I’m convinced that our adventures over the last eighteen months have extended my life. I’ve gone from death’s door, to potentially having a couple more good years.”

  Stan nodded sympathetically.

  “Right now, I’m going to concentrate on living rather than focus on dying, Stan, and, who knows, they’re bringing out new medicine all the time, y’know? So… I’ve got too much stuff I want to do. The charity is going from strength to strength, we’re going to get the keys to the farm soon, and we’ve got a TT winner to prepare for next year’s TT. I haven’t got the time to die. I simply haven’t!”

  “I’ll be right next to you for the journey,” replied Stan. “All the way,” he added, for good measure. “And death…”

  “Yeah?” said Frank.

  “Death can fuck right off,” replied Stan, with a somewhat uncharacteristic, but healthy, dose of profanity.

  Frank looked into Stan’s eyes with deep intensity — like old lovers, reunited. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, me old mate!” he agreed. “Come on,” said Frank, pushing himself up from the cold bench. “I need to phone Molly and let her know how everything went. And my lovely former wife even dropped me a text to wish me well, so I expect I’ll let her know as well.”

  Now standing, Frank stretched his arms out, taking in a lungful of the bracing sea air.

  “Stan,” he asked, turning on the spot. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Stan, busy fiddling with his scarf, replied, “Well of course you can,” with a sincere bob of the head. “Anything at all.”

  “Have you seen the state of your lips?”

  Stan lowered his scarf, pressing his fingers to his mouth. “Peanith, Frank. I muthst have an allergy,” he said, adding back in his recent speech impediment for comedic effect.

  “You’re allergic to penis, Stan?? Blimey, that’s going to put a right damper on your—”

  “I said peanuts!” Stan insisted.

  Oh,” Frank answered him, with perfect deadpan expression, knowing full well what Stan had said but not letting on — enjoying, as he was, winding his friend up. “I could’ve sworn you said—”

  “Peanuts!” reiterated Stan. This ready-made false explanation was not working out so easy as Stan thought it might.

  “Ah. I didn’t know you were allergic to peanuts?”

  Stan gave a that’s-a-stupid-question laugh, before replying, “Well obviously I didn’t know, either,” he said. “Right up until very recently. Obviously.”

  Stan pulled his scarf across his face, covering his deformity like a sort of Phantom of the Opera. “Here,” he offered suddenly, gripping Frank’s arm with sufficient force to redirect Frank’s forward progress. “Why, eh… that is… Why don’t we, em… go this way, instead?” he suggested, pointing out a new route.

  “Uh… okay?” Frank answered him, obligingly, if somewhat confusedly.

  “I know it’s the long way,” Stan proffered. “But, you know, it’ll give us an opportunity to talk about our plans—?”

  As they spun on the spot, Stan’s eyeline remained fixed on the path he’d previously walked. What he saw, and Frank did not, was that the purveyor of putrid coffee he’d encountered earlier had followed him with his mobile cart, apparently eager to taunt his prey a second time. There he stood, not far away, with the aforementioned offending prop sausages at the ready, held up to his face in furtherance of another volley of abuse.

  But Stan was willing to take a dying man on a detour, two miles through the freezing cold, just to deny this supplier of substandard coffee with additional entertainment.

  “I went to Craggy Sally’s grave today,” said Frank, by way of conversation, and completely oblivious as to the true nature of their returning via the ‘scenic route.’

  “Oh,” replied Stan, looking over his shoulder. “How was she?” he asked, barely listening.

  “Yeah, she was wonderful. She asked after you. Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Sorry, mate,” offered Stan, tuning back into the conversation. “I went yesterday, myself. I left flowers.”

  “I saw them,” acknowledged Frank. “And lovely they were.”

  “Cheers, mate.”

  “I told her all about Stella becoming a shareholder in the business,” Frank went on. “And that she’s got a boyfriend.”

  Stan smiled. “She’d be proud of Stella. Stella’s not everyone’s cup of tea, mind you. Well, hardly anybody’s, to be honest. But… still.”

  “She’s our Stella,” said Frank, smartly finishing off Stan’s rambling. “I know precisely what you mean. And we certainly wouldn’t be without her.”

  “Truer words were never spoken,” Stan agreed.

  “Back to the Isle of Man tomorrow, Stan,” Frank added, a declaration that brought a smile to both their faces.

  “Hopefully we’ll get the keys to the farm soon, also,” said Stan, rubbing his hands together, either in gleeful anticipation or to warm them up. Or, again, with the cold weather, perhaps both.

  “Assuming that smarmy bastard Rodney Franks came good on his end of the deal.”

  Frank wiped the seaspray from the mouth of the Mersey from his forehead. “We’ll need help,” he declared.

  “With what?”

  “The farm.”

  “Ah,” replied Stan. “I think I’m on the same page as you there. Do you mean…?”

  Frank’s eyebrows rose in a knowing fashion. “Do you think they’ll do it? They’ve got jobs, after all.”

  “We can only ask,” suggested Stan.

  “It would be good fun, wouldn’t it?” asked Frank.

  “It would be, at that. Frank-n-Stan’s Farm wouldn’t be complete without Dave and Monty.”

  Frank chuckled away, first to himself, and then including Stan.

  “Frank, Stan, Dave, and Monty on a farm. Fucking hell. What could possibly go wrong?”

  “What, indeed?” Stan chimed in, with the raising of an imaginary glass for a toast.

  Chapter

  Two

  T he soothing illumination of candlelight danced off the tasteful French wall art, casting a gentle glow on the faces of those in the vicinity. Background music, loud enough to be heard, but not overwhelm, kissed the ears of the diners engaged in generous conversation who broke their gaze only to top up their wine glasses. The captivating ambience was surpassed only by the astonishing aromas emanating from the kitchen.

  L’expérience restaurant was a staple of Manx cuisine, regarded as one of the finest eating establishments on the Island, and it was clear to the casual observer that romance was very much the order of the day on that bitterly cold Thursday evening. That is, it was the order of the day for all but Frank Cryer, who sat, head bowed, fiddling with an expensive-looking salt cellar doing his best to not look uncomfortable.

  “Can I get you another glass of wine?” asked the petite waitress with an unaffected smile.

  Frank placed the palm of his hand across the surface of his glass. “No, thank you,” he said, but she didn’t immediately move away. “Are you trying to get me drunk?” he added, painfully, filling the awkward silence for no required reason.

  The waitress — Chantelle, according to her name badge — tittered noncommittally in a manner that suggested she was accustomed to such inane chatter.

  “I didn’t mean–” stuttered Frank, lowering the salt cellar. He ran his finger under the collar of his shirt, before continuing, “I didn’t mean to suggest you were trying to get me drunk for nefario
us purposes,” he said, pointing to his half-full glass. “And I’m not, by the way. Drunk, I mean. And I’ve got a daughter who’s probably older than you, so…” he said, laughing in an oh-bugger-please-don’t-stand-in-front-of-me-anymore tone.

  It was a natural break in the conversation, the laugh, and any normal, rational, reasonable person would have simply stopped talking at this point. But Frank was none of these things.

  “I’m meeting someone,” he went on, undaunted, pointing at the vacant seat across from him. “After all, I’m not some sort of weirdo that would come to a fancy restaurant on a Thursday night on my own. You know…” said Frank, gesticulating animatedly… “Sat there with a book or something, a sad, pathetic creature that…”

  Frank’s diatribe veered off suddenly, taking a bit of a tumble, as he recalled the smartly-dressed businesswoman at the table — the table for one — directly behind him, where she was presently sat nursing a glass of wine, and reading her book.

  “Not you, of course,” suggested Frank, turning and pointing down to the aforementioned woman’s book. “I didn’t mean you were a weirdo, or, for that matter, sad. Or, erm, pathetic.” He coughed sharply, hoping to expectorate the stupidity out of himself, for the sake of his survival. “I think it’s nice that you’re comfortable to come out, on your own. That’s not strange,” Frank insisted. “That’s not the slightest bit strange. At all. Not the, em, littlest bit. Not…” he said, trailing off, and holding out his hand with thumb and forefinger pressed nearly together. “The littlest…”

  The stylish woman in a navy-blue suit raised her right eyebrow, just slightly. “I’m on the Island with work,” she stated coldly, looking down her nose, over the top of her book, as she addressed Frank. It was obvious from her manner that she considered it a profound imposition to have to even speak to one such as Frank, much less acknowledge his existence, considering him far below her station. She stared at him, hard, for a few long moments, with a withering gaze icy enough to coat its victim in hoarfrost. Once satisfied, she readjusted her position, and she returned to the private isolation of her book.