Try as they might, Frank and Stan’s efforts to attract Dave and Monty’s direct attention were failing miserably.
“Try this,” suggested Stan, handing a half-eaten Scotch egg to Frank, and without further invitation Frank dispatched the meaty missile with precision, catching Monty on the bridge of the nose and breaking apart into sections. Monty, with cat-like reflexes where food was concerned, snatched every bit of the treat, in a juggling motion, straight out of the air, popping each bit into his mouth as he went along. This was not the expected result of the egg-based assault. Still, it produced the desired result in that it served the purpose of gaining Monty’s attention.
‘Tell them about the fundraiser!’ mouthed Frank and Stan in unison.
Monty cleared his throat. “Jenny,” he whispered, though much too loudly to really be considered a whisper. “Can I just…? Only I wanted to… If I might…?”
Jenny ignored him at first, before finally relenting and giving him a this-had-better-be-bloody-important glare.
Monty had breadcrumbs all over his face at this point, looking like he’d been infected with some form of strange leprosy. “This interview…” he told her, continuing on in his loud stage whisper. “Is it going out this week? Only, I wanted to tell your viewers about something, if that’s not too terribly much trouble…?”
“Let’s have it, then,” said Jenny, pretending to listen, but really thinking about her fast-approaching therapeutic bubble bath.
“Me and Dave are working on the farm, called the TT Farm, which our sponsors Frank and Stan have set up. They do a lot of charity work in the UK. Anyway, this farm is a hostel for vulnerable people who need a change of location, and, being a working farm, we’re using it to provide traditional skills and crafts,” Monty related smartly, remembering the verbal script Frank has gone over several times to him. “We’ve been given the opportunity to buy it, but we need to move pretty quickly.”
Jenny’s upper lip was beginning to curl up again, as it had done earlier, in a manner which suggested to Monty that he had perhaps eight seconds or so before she became irrevocably bored and turned the camera off. This expression caused Dave to jump in…
“You see, Jenny. We need to raise about five hundred thousand pounds in only five or six weeks’ time. So, we’re going to put on something a bit special on the Isle of Man next month. Something the Isle of Man has previously never seen the likes of.”
This managed to reclaim Jenny’s attention. “Oh?” she said, genuinely curious now.
“We’re quite excited, to be honest,” Dave began, wanting to build up the tension, but Jenny was looking at her watch already, and so he cut to the chase. “We’re going to put on a Family Fun Day, here, at this very track,” he announced, with a fanfare of jazz hands.
Neil, ever the professional, panned the camera around on that statement over the Jurby track, before returning it back towards Dave for him to resume speaking.
“As well as the Fun Day, we’re going to have the Isle of Man’s first ever twenty-four-hour race. Non-stop racing for a full day and night. What we’re looking for is for teams to enter and people to show up and support it. There’s going to be celebrities entering and everything. And here’s the thing— because it’s only a small racing track, we don’t want racing cars as they’ll be too quick. And because we’re back-of-the-van racers, we thought the best sort of vehicles for the race would be vans! An actual van race! And as we’re sidecar racers, we’re also thinking of allowing sidecars, of course, but not for the full race. They’re a bit temperamental, tend to be the sidecars, so maybe for a maximum of an hour, maybe two.”
Jenny nodded her approval. “That’s actually a great idea, guys. A twenty-four-hour race on the Isle of Man. It’ll be like Le Mans.”
Monty went to speak but the words wouldn’t come out quickly enough, with Dave beating him to it. “Ah!” exclaimed Dave, in a moment of clarity and brilliance. “What about, for the race name, then, The Isle Le Mans TT?”
“That’s absolutely genius,” replied Jenny, a sparkle in her eye.
“Thieving bastard!” Monty shouted at Dave. “That’s what I was about to say! That very thing!”
Jenny turned her back on them both, as Monty continued attempting to reclaim the moment for his own from Dave. But it was far too late for that.
“So there you have it, folks!” said Jenny, well and truly wrapping things up. “Two exclusives today! The first being that Dave Quirk and Monty Montgomery will reunite for next year’s TT races! And, second, the Isle of Man is going to be having its very own Le Mans race!”
“Called The Isle Le Mans TT!” shouted Monty from the background. “The name that I thought of myself before Dave stole it from me!”
Once the camera crew were packed up and on their way, Frank rushed over to Dave and Monty, finger poised in the air. “Ah, two points I’d like to make, gents, if you’d be so kind as to hear me out? Right, firstly, I thought we were just going to have a Family Fun Day? That is, with maybe a few laps in the sidecars? And secondly, what celebrities? We’ve not got any bloody celebrities lined up for this!”
Dave placed his oversized hands on Frank’s shoulders — which, considering Dave’s height relative to Frank’s, was more or less their natural resting position.
“We can do this, Frank,” Dave told him earnestly. “I had a moment of inspiration or epiphany, or whatever you call it.”
“An epiphany! That’s right!” Monty agreed happily.
“Look, you and Stan have done a great deal for us two idiots,” Dave continued. “I know how important this farm is to you, and, no disrespect, a crappy little family fun day isn’t going to get you five hundred grand. We can get race teams to enter this— All the big boys will want to be in on this at the ground floor, believe me. We can do the fun day, yes, but this is what’s going to bring you the money in, right? You wait and see.”
Dave leaned his head down, planting a firm kiss on Frank’s forehead. “We’re going to do this, guys,” he said, in case the kiss wasn’t convincing enough in and of itself, extending his arms to scoop Stan and Monty up, all inclusive-like, into the circle of love. “I’ve got a stirring in my loins over this one,” added Dave, which was perhaps not the best turn of phrase to use at present, in view of their proximate proximity, as it were. “And my loins never steer me wrong. The Isle ‘Le Mans’ TT. Ha! Pure genius!”
“Which I thought of first, by the way,” moaned Monty.
“There, there, Monty. It doesn’t matter who came up with the idea. All that matters is that we all pull together to make it happen,” Dave assured him, giving him a comforting pat on the back for good measure.
“That, and establishing proper credit where credit is due for the naming,” Monty agreed.
Chapter
Nine
S leep eluded Frank. He’d been stood in the bay window of his bedroom for what felt like hours, contemplating. His view of the TT Grandstand only a couple of hundred metres up the road never failed to bring a smile to his face, as did the view down to the distant lights of Douglas Harbour. A recurring, unwelcome theme was ever-present in his thoughts, though. He’d found his utopia, he knew, but this understanding was tinged with the realisation that he should have done this years ago when the commodity of time was still on his side. He knew it was futile to think such things, for if he hadn’t lived his life as he had then he wouldn’t be stood precisely where he was today. And, if he hadn’t married a blood-sucking leech, then that unholy union wouldn’t have produced a wonderful daughter. Things happen for a reason, he mused.
This evening’s slumberless night was not completely consumed by pangs of regret, however. Rather, considering the day which lay ahead, it was accompanied by a giddy feeling similar to that of a small child desperate to discover if Father Christmas had paid a visit whilst he slept.
Only Frank wasn’t sleeping at the moment. And so, although he knew he’d packed his tuxedo, he checked, yet again. He also made certain hi
s two bowties were in there. He didn’t need both, but he always packed two — placing the first inside one of his polished shoes and the other inside his jacket pocket. This way, he reasoned, though he might lose one of them, he’d be unlikely to lose the both of them. One could, of course, never be too careful.
“Cufflinks,” he said aloud, snapping his finger in the process. He took them out of the smart leather box on his dressing table, holding one aloft in each hand. “I hope I’ve made you proud, Dad,” he whispered, placing a tender kiss on each of them in turn. He put them back in the box and then rubbed his thumb over the embossed lettering on the lid — his father’s initials. “It’s a big day today, Dad,” he announced with a smile, to both himself and the ghost of his dear father.
“That you up, Frank?” came the reply, but it was no spectre or phantasm. It was only Stan. “Knock-knock,” Stan announced, as he pressed his way in. It wasn’t difficult, as the door was already ajar.
“Alright, then?” Frank asked amiably.
“I couldn’t sleep, Frank,” Stan told him. “Honestly, I’ve been up for hours just looking out over that view.”
“You too?” Frank asked sympathetically. “If anybody walked past, we would have looked like a couple of weirdos stood at our two bedroom windows in the middle of the night.”
“But we are a couple of weirdos,” Stan reminded him.
“Fair enough,” Frank replied with a laugh. “Say, have you packed your bags?” he asked.
“I did that by midnight, and I’ve checked them three or four times since.” Stan joined Frank, peering now out Frank’s window as opposed to his own. The view was much the same, at this early hour, as it was in fact at any hour. Delightful.
“Do you think we’ll win?” asked Stan reflectively.
Frank didn’t respond immediately, offering a humming noise as a placeholder. “I can’t say that I haven’t thought about it, Stan,” he said eventually. “That’s why I’ve been up most of the night. Well, that and my bladder, of course, which has now got the capacity of a thimble it would seem. Anyway, I’m just happy the charity has been nominated, Stan. That’s good enough for me. Anything more is just an added bonus.”
“Yeah… only you don’t mean a single word of that, do you,” Stan answered him, given as a statement rather than a question.
“Don’t I?” said Frank.
“Frank. Of course you don’t, Frank,” Stan chided him. “You think I don’t know you?” he said with a laugh. “You believe all those losers at the Oscars, for instance, would likely sacrifice their left arm for the chance to ram that trophy up the winners’ arse.”
“True enough,” agreed Frank. “You’ve got a point there.”
“I want to win this award tonight, Frank, and I’m not ashamed to admit it,” Stan remarked. “And there is an irony that I’m not being overly charitable here, considering the award is for Charity of the Year. Still. I can live with myself.”
“I’m sure you’ll persevere, powering through the shame,” Frank said with a chuckle.
“We can do this, Frank,” Stan advised him. “Give me a roar, Frank.”
“I’m in my underpants, Stan.”
“So? Give me a roar.”
Frank acquiesced, with his first, reluctant attempt resembling no more than the sound of a cat chewing on the telly remote control.
“Roar, goddammit!” shouted Stan, now shadowboxing a volley of punches against Frank’s midsection to prompt an appropriately lively response.
“Grrrrooooaaaar!” roared Frank. “How about that, Stanley? You’ve just let the lion out of the cage, I’m afraid!”
“Yes, I can see as much, Frank. You need to put it away.”
Frank was having none of it. “Too late for that!” he told Stan, roaring a bit more, and raising his makeshift claws for emphasis.
“No, Frank. I mean the lion has flopped out of the cage. Little Frank has escaped from the zoo. Is what I’m saying.”
“Oh,” said Frank, tucking himself back into his shorts. “I did think it was getting a touch breezy. That explains things.”
“She wasn’t, Dave,” explained Monty, patiently at first, before becoming less so. “She’s paid to be nice to people. She’s a bloody air hostess. It’s what they do.”
Dave spread his hands over the front of his kilt, flattening it out, and then checking to make sure the sporran was properly adjusted. Once satisfied, he returned his attention to Monty. “You didn’t see the glint in her eye when she asked if I wanted peanuts,” Dave told him. “She must like a man in a skirt, I expect. A man who’s clearly comfortable in his own skin.”
Stan checked his phone for directions, looking up from the pavement to the buildings around them rising above. “Are you two still on about that air hostess?” he asked, turning to the pair. “Dave, I hate to break it to you, but I think I’d have had more of a chance with that hostess. And I don’t think I’ve kissed a girl for fifty-one years!”
“That is a very hurtful thing to say, Stan, and I’m deeply offended,” Dave said, not-at-all offended.
“So what is with that kilt?” Stan enquired.
“I wanted to look my best for the occasion, didn’t I!” Dave answered. “Unlike some people,” he added, casting an eye in Monty’s direction. Monty also cast an eye in Dave’s direction, though he was currently looking straight ahead. “Anyway. It’s Manx tartan,” Dave went on. “I bought it for a wedding years ago and, what with coming up to Scotland and all, I thought I’d give it a go. Oh, and before you ask, Stan… no, I haven’t,” he announced, lifting up the front of his kilt for inspection.
Stan rolled his eyes. But only after them lingering for just a moment.
“Are you blushing, Stan?” asked Monty.
“And why would I be blushing? You think I’ve never seen a cock before?” replied Stan with a wink. “Anyway,” he continued, “it looks like Frank and Jessie know where they’re going.”
Frank and Jessie walked several paces in front of the others. It could have been to distance themselves from the three people behind, or it could have been simply that they were in a beautiful city, lost in each other’s company. Frank held their bag in his left hand and without looking, or even having to look, scooped Jessie’s hand up with his right. Frank pulled her gently closer and, once that more intimate proximity was properly sorted, placed a protective arm around Jessie’s shoulder.
“Would you get a load of the two lovebirds,” remarked Monty, but not unkindly.
Stan shared the sentiment. “I’m really happy for the both of them. Arm-in-arm, like love’s young dream. I think it’s sweet.”
Monty slowed, taking Dave by the arm with him, but before Monty could speak, he was met from Dave with, “Monty, whatever it is you’re about to say, whatever it is you’re about to tell me, I have a sneaking suspicion it’s going to involve my mum, somehow, as the subject. So don’t. For the love of god, just don’t.”
Monty gasped for air. “Moi? I was only going to make the suggestion that you should tell the receptionist that Jessie is your mum, and that she’s on her first weekend away with her new boyfriend. And that, if you ask nicely, she may just ensure your room isn’t next to your mum’s, because, well… *cough*… you know… you probably wouldn’t want to hear her headboard knocking off the wall like a woodpecker’s beak all night long. See? That’s all I was going to say.”
“Bastard,” replied Dave. “Right bastard,” he repeated, this time with an involuntary shudder at the very thought.
The rapid pitter-patter of approaching footsteps caused Dave to glance over his shoulder, and then turn around. A young boy, six or seven years of age, was running towards them at maximum velocity — and a welcome reprieve, for Dave, from Monty’s crass remarks. The child stopped at Dave’s feet, struggling to catch his breath after all the exertion. “Excuse me,” said the wee one, panting. “My dad. Over there,” he continued, pointing back down the street from the way he came. “Is on crutches. So he sent me over.
Are you by chance Dave Quark?” the boy asked.
“Dave Quirk, yes,” Dave corrected him gently.
“The Dave Quark?” the boy said, undaunted, seeming to like his own pronunciation better.
“Yes, indeed,” came Dave’s reply, with him now giving up on correcting the boy’s pronunciation. It could, after all, have simply been the boy’s Glasgow accent, and Dave didn’t want to appear rude to an obvious admirer.
Dave glanced over to the others, who had now turned round themselves, as well, to see what the commotion was about. Dave wore a proud-as-punch expression, nodding his head continuously in a ‘You see? You see?’ fashion, as he looked to them all in turn, lingering on each of them, savouring this moment. “It would seem I can’t go anywhere these days, even as far away as Glasgow, without attracting attention since the TT win,” he said, lest there be no doubt.
Dave pulled a pen from his pocket, crouching down so he could look the young lad in the eye. “So, you and your dad want an autograph, I expect?” he asked, rhetorically, as he was fairly certain of the answer. “Happy to oblige,” he said amiably, smiling, pen poised at-the-ready, waiting patiently for the boy to produce either a slip of paper or a photograph for him to sign.
The boy smiled back uncertainly, unsure if this was just another instance of adults not making an awful lot of sense, as was often the case, or if there was something more to it than that. The boy looked back down the street again, this time pointing helpfully to a man stood resting on crutches. The man had his neck craned forward, and his head cocked first this way, and then that.
Dave gave the fellow a cheerful wave, and the man waved back, somewhat hesitantly. “Your dad?” Dave asked the boy.
“Me da,” the boy confirmed.
Dave had pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, and was about to ask who to make the autograph out to, when the boy continued…
Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin Page 14
