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

by J. C. Williams

  Stella shrugged her exceedingly broad shoulders. “No. It’s true. Listen. Every time I walk into a room he’s on his laptop, slamming the lid down when he sees me. He must be… you know…” she said, shaking her fist like a craps player to illustrate. “As if I’m not enough for him! And that’s not the worst of it. He’s been going out without explanation, and when he is around he’s constantly texting when he thinks I’m not looking.”

  “Oh,” Susie replied.

  “Something’s going on,” Stella said.

  “Oh,” Susie said again.

  “Surely I’m all he needs?” Stella asked, waving her fag up and down her seated torso, as if the answer should be obvious. “Plus, I’m shit hot in bed, yeah?” she told Susie. “Let me tell you, I do things to him he didn’t think were even possible. I could make a bloody Bangkok hooker blush. Strewth. But, I dunno, maybe he’s just decided he doesn’t want to be with a fuller-figured woman anymore…?”

  “Is this why you joined the gym?” Susie asked.

  But Stella only nodded in response, and with her face going through a series of strange contortions in apparent frustration, unaccustomed as it was to exhibiting proper displays of emotion and attempting in vain to work out the proper configuration.

  Susie was in rather unchartered territory, and, like removing a thorn from a lion’s paw, she approached Stella with caution, finally put a hand on her back, settling it down there as lightly as a butterfly. “But you can’t improve upon perfection, can you,” she told Stella gently.

  “I don’t know why I got involved with a man,” Stella went on. “They cause you nothing but trouble. I think I was better off being single,” she said. “Are you okay on your own?” she added.

  “On my…?” Susie began, somewhat taken aback by the overly personal nature of Stella’s enquiry, as well as Stella just assuming that she was single when in fact she was very happily married.

  “Yeah. Those wet wipes don’t seem to have hit the spot,” Stella continued. “I’m feeling a bit clammy. Down below. If you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I know what you—” Susie started to say, both relieved and alarmed.

  “I should probably shower,” Stella announced.

  “Of course. You go. I’ve got things under control here,” Susie assured her.

  Stella packed up her kit bag, offering what looked like the faintest of smiles in Susie’s direction as she made her way to the front door. “I’ll leave this propped open, Susie, I think I was wrong,” she said, looking over her shoulder.

  “What’s that?”

  “That smell. It’s got twenty minutes written all over it.”

  After Stella left, Susie was enjoying the influx of fresh air, and the noxious haze in the office seemed to clear just in time for the phone to ring. “Frank-and-Stan’s Taxis!” Susie cheerily announced into the phone, but then her face abruptly adopted a more worried expression…

  “No, Lee. She’s just left.” Susie paused for a moment, looking over to the flowers. “Yes,” she replied to him. “They arrived about an hour ago. They’re beautiful.”

  Susie listened for a few seconds more, before lowering her voice, taking a cautionary look around the waiting room. “Lee,” she whispered into the handset. “Listen to me for a moment.”

  She took one final visual sweep before moving her head even closer to the receiver.

  “Lee, Stella isn’t stupid. She knows something’s not right.” Susie shot glances to the entrance door continuously as she spoke. “Lee, Stella knows there’s something going on. She knows something’s afoot,” she said, her hands shaking. “Oh, god, Lee. And what the hell is she going to do when she knows that I’m involved…?”

  Chapter

  Twelve

  P anoramic countryside vistas were never too far from view in the Isle of Man. For a devoted city boy, the quieter life had taken some adjustment, but Stan was now a firm advocate. The location of the TT Farm provided a backdrop to rolling Manx hillside from virtually every window. Autumn was packing its bags for another year, allowing crisp winter mornings to make an appearance, and the canvas on display outside was evolving accordingly once again.

  Stan pressed his thighs against the outdated radiator in their temporary office, nursing a cup of tea, as two plump robins fought over the fat ball of beef suet Stan had hung outside the window to attract their feathered friends. He ran his tongue across his teeth, removing the spoon from his cup, licking it clean, and fashioning it like a temporary mirror to examine his veneers. Satisfied they were in pristine condition, he angled it slightly, horrified at the sight of several errant, untidy hairs projecting down from his left nostril. He lowered his cup, searching through his desk drawer for a pair of tweezers in order to perform an unexpected mission of extirpation.

  “Morning, Stanley!” boomed Dave, who was followed closely behind by Monty. “Are you admiring that view? There’s a brass monkey in tears out there. Bloody cold, it is!”

  Stan’s nasal hairs were spared from their impromptu extraction, at least for the present time. “It’s stunning, boys!” he answered Dave. “Frigid. But stunning. I’ve actually been watching the birds for the last hour.”

  “I never fancied you as a birdwatcher, Stanley,” said Dave merrily, now hammering in an elliptical-shaped wooden plaque up on the wall with little regard for Stan’s shattered tranquillity.

  “Oh, yes!” replied Stan, the joke going right over his head. Stan peered over Dave’s shoulder, reading the sign which Dave was now busy straightening. Race HQ – The TT Farm, it read. “I like it, Dave,” said Stan. “Nicely done!”

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” Dave remarked, entirely pleased with himself. “Me and Monty spent most of yesterday carving the wording, but the chickens we added in for extra effect were a real nightmare, what with all that fine detail work, as if the lettering wasn’t enough of a battle,” he said. And, then, turning to his partner in crime, “Oi! Monty! Does this look like I’ve hung it straight to you?”

  “You’re asking me?” Monty had to remind him, pointing to his eyes and twirling his fingers around.

  “Oh. Right,” Dave said. “Stan? Whaddaya reckon?” he asked.

  “Look’s perfect,” Stan told him. “Very professional.”

  “I should say so,” Dave replied, with an absolute confidence rivalling that of Stella’s. “I thought it was apt to call the TT Farm the race headquarters, yeah?” he said, admiring his handiwork. “Who’d have thought we’d be part of this,” he went on, waving his hand extravagantly.

  “This?” enquired Monty, turning around. He had busied himself with tea-making duty.

  “All this,” Dave said, with another grand sweep of his hand.

  “Ah,” Monty replied, returning to his task.

  “Stan, it’s like I’m a new man, I tell you,” Dave told Stan. “I’ve struggled to sleep, but not in a bad way. It’s because my mind is full of ideas for the farm! I can see it so clearly…” he went on passionately, looking off into the distance… “There will be people milling around, learning new skills, working in the great outdoors… It’s going to be a real community. Oh, and two weeks to go to the big event, mind you. Monty’s been keeping his eye on the long-range weather forecast every day.”

  “My good eye,” confirmed Monty. “And it looks favourable. The racing will be fine in whatever weather, of course. I mean it’ll go on as planned whatever the weather, I should say. But of course we’re hoping for good weather all around, since it’d be a real shame if we have to move or cancel the Family Fun Day portion of the event.”

  “We’ve got loads of stalls lined up for the day,” Dave agreed. “We just need the good weather for it.”

  “It should be fine,” laughed Stan, although not unkindly. “The Isle of Man is known for its generous smattering of winter sun. We’ll just need to remain optimistic and pray to the weather gods. Oh, that reminds me. Speaking of the race, I took a call, but it was relating to the Isle Le Mans.”

&nbs
p; “I came up with that name, remember. I thought of it first,” Monty insisted.

  “Fucksake, Monty, let it go, mate!” Dave told him.

  “I’m just saying,” Monty mumbled to himself.

  “So do I need to phone someone back?” asked Dave of Stan.

  Stan referred to his handwritten scrawl, but stared at it like it was penned in a foreign language. “I’m not sure I’ve taken it down correctly, actually. I couldn’t really understand the fellow. As near as I could tell, I think his name was Gary Larkin? Does that make sense?”

  Dave rubbed his chin, looking over to Monty’s blank face. “I got nothin,” Monty admitted.

  “I’m afraid that’s not one either of us know, Stan,” said Dave.

  Stan stroked his earlobe. “It’s fine. I just couldn’t understand him. He sounded a bit crazy, to be honest. He kept saying things like ‘by ’eck’ and ‘now, then,’ and he must have called me ‘chief’ half a dozen times or so,” he told them. “Oh, wait. There was something else,” Stan went on. “He did reference his van, said something about it being very quick. In fact, he said it’d been around the…” Stan paused, looking at his notes again, tracing his finger along the lines… “See, this is where I’m confused. Because I couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. Here,” he said, tapping a spot on his notes. “Here it is. He told me his van had been around an ice-skating ring, yeah? But that doesn’t make any sense, right? Because that’s just nonsense.”

  “Wait, back up the bus, say that again?” said Dave.

  “No, I hung up on him at that point, right?” said Stan. “Because I thought surely he was taking the piss. I imagine it must have been Frank, now I think on it. Disguising his voice? Taking the piss? It must’ve been Frank.”

  Dave stood over Stan, looking over his shoulder, trying to decipher his hieroglyphics. “The bit about the ice-skating ring,” Dave advanced. “Stan, could that have been Nürburgring? And, could Gary Larkin, perhaps, have been our Guy Martin?”

  Stan paused in thought. He brought his fingers up to his nose, and he began pinching absently at the long nose hairs he’d been addressing earlier, trying to spark something in his memory. “I suppose it could have been?” he said, finally. “If it was, could you tell him not to speak so quickly? It’s difficult to—”

  “Bloody hell, Stan, you’ve hung up on Guy Martin!” Dave shouted at him. “And that van he was talking about was the one he had on TV trying to break a record at the Nürburgring, and you thought it was some sort bloody ice-skating park!”

  “It wasn’t my fault?” was the only thing Stan could think to say.

  “I’ll have to manage Guy’s expectations about the maximum amount of modifications permitted as sadly that van is a little over prepared for this.” Dave muttered to himself, reaching for his phone. “Bloody Gary Larkin,” he said, laughing lest he should cry. “Ay? What’s this?” he said, his phone vibrating in his hand. “Oh. It’s a number I don’t know. Maybe this is Gary Larkin getting hold of me,” Dave speculated, casting an evil eye over to Stan. “Hallo?” he said, engaging the call. “This is Dave speaking…”

  Dave paced around the office like a caged animal, eventually coming to a stop before the vista window, and stood there, looking out. His body was not at all relaxed.

  “Yes, hello. I thought I didn’t recognise this number.” Dave listened intently for a minute or so, as Stan and Monty watched on expectantly. “I’m sorry but we cannot accept your entry, I think this was made quite clear previously,” Dave said once resumed speaking. His teeth were clenched together, and he was trying his damnedest to keep his cool. “Yes, I know you’ve got the van ready and all, but, as I said, it’s just not possible.”

  The volume on the other end of the phone increased several decibels, causing Dave to pull his hand away by half an arm’s length. His cheeks fluttered and flapped in agitation, with his body mass appearing to inflate and increase as a result, until the phone in his hand looked like a child’s toy. “Listen, dipshit!” he said, phone now back to his ear and all semblance of civility cast aside. “I know you’ve probably surrounded yourself by a bunch of gormless, gutless wonders, but your intimidation tactics won’t work with me! No means no! Get it? Now sod off!”

  Dave ended the call, and took several deep breaths to steady himself. For a moment, it looked as if his fist might become part of the plasterboard.

  Monty bit his bottom lip. “I’m a bit confused, Dave. I thought we needed Guy Martin? I know you said his van was a bit ambitious, But still. We could have talked him around, surely?”

  “That wasn’t Guy Martin. Believe me, I’m not that bloody stupid, mate,” Dave answered him, still angling around, looking for something to punch. “It was that fucking idiot, Rodney Franks, asking for a late entry. But he’s already been told.”

  Stan nodded in approval. “He’s a bit keen, is he not? What’s that all about? It’s going to be a great day, sure, but he seems unusually needy. Is it because he doesn’t like to be told no?”

  “Probably. He’s got a new race team for next year’s TT, and wanted to use this as a launch pad in view of the audience and participants, I expect,” Dave speculated. “At least we know if Rodney wants in, then that indicates our race must be considered a prestigious event to be involved in. He probably knows that Henk is as well, which only means he’s champing at the bit that much more. He must be going mad.” Dave laughed. “He said to me, this tosser, that he’d give me one more chance to change my mind. Otherwise what happened next would be down to me. Fucking seriously? Who even speaks like that?? He’s like a really bad villain from a Scooby Doo episode.”

  “Scoob and the gang,” said Monty, for no apparent reason.

  “Ah. Anyway,” Dave went on. “I’m not letting that idiot upset me. I’m in too much of a good mood at the moment. I’ll just ring Guy back and sort that business out,” he said, brightening up, since after Rodney Franks it was impossible to be cross at Stan any longer.

  “It’s good to see you so enthusiastic, Dave,” said Stan, happy to no longer be the subject of Dave’s ire. “You too, Monty. And Dave, don’t take this the wrong way, and I’m certainly not saying you were particularly scruffy before… but you look like you’ve made a bit of an effort…? Is that a new shirt you’re wearing? And… you smell pretty good, as well?”

  “He’s in heat for the TT Farm’s newest resident,” explained Monty. “He likes her.”

  “I bloody don’t,” Dave protested, stomping his foot like a child. Well, like an especially large child.

  “So the new alpaca that arrived yesterday?” Monty teased him. “That’s what this about, Dave? I really don’t—”

  “Not the alpaca!” said Dave, along with another foot stomp.

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with alpacas,” Monty assured his friend. “If that’s what you really—”

  “That’ll explain the cologne, then, will it?” asked Stan, playing along.

  “Nar, that’s just horse manure,” Monty offered, getting a laugh from Stan in return.

  Dave, however, was not laughing. “ANYWAY,” he said, shooting Monty a you’re-getting-it-later stare. “Look at this, Stanley,” he said, changing the subject, and holding his phone in front of Stan’s face.

  “What am I looking at here?” enquired a clueless Stan.

  “I’ll explain,” Dave said, explaining. “I didn’t think Henk could be any more of a legend, right? But when the entry fees for Isle Le Mans went on sale, Henk paid twenty-thousand for two places— one for his team, and one for us to auction off. Not only is Henk letting the TT Farm keep the money from that auction, he’s also throwing the van in for the auctioned slot’s team to race.”

  Dave moved over to the computer, conscious that Stan didn’t have his glasses, and loaded up the page he was referring to for Stan to examine.

  Dave had initially considered giving the auctioned entry to the highest bidder, but he knew that some idiot with too much cash — like Rodney Fr
anks — would enter a team. Dave was a privateer racer at heart, self-funded, with motor oil flowing through his veins. Sure, he’d experienced the factory racing life, taking a TT victory in the process, but, for him, that wasn’t a sustainable career path. The success of blue-ribband racing events, like the TT, was a healthy mix of privateers and those in the factory camp, Dave felt. In fact the majority of those with factory support were often those that’d once been privateers, and who’d never forgotten their roots, and were the first to lend out a spanner or to provide advice on suspension set-up to a beginner.

  There is always the exception to the rule, however — the factory outfits who contribute nothing to the racing community, purely in it for what they can take out. Fortunately, this was exceptionally rare. Rodney Franks, on the other hand, epitomised all that was wrong with those with too much money. He, along with those misguided enough to closely associate with him, developed a pompous sense of entitlement. And this was the reason Dave didn’t want to just take the cash from whatever highest bidder offered it for the auctioned slot, even when the future of the farm and their careers could have made that decision sufficiently more palatable.

  “And I’ve purchased a trophy, by the way,” announced Dave. “A nice one. As well as the entry, we’re going to award this beauty to Privateer of the Year. I reckon it doesn’t necessarily need to be a racer, either, necessarily. It could also be, instead, someone linked to the racing, like a marshal or charity fundraiser. Anyway, Stan,” said Dave, pointing to the computer screen. “This is the charity fundraising page we set up for our event, and what we did here was let the public decide who their winner was going to be. For the auctioned place, I mean. Not the race itself, obviously.”

  Stan smiled. “I like it.”

  “So,” continued Dave. “The public donate ten pounds, and for every donation they get a vote to nominate the winner of their choice. Of course we’ll need to keep an eye on things in case that bellend Rodney tried to pull a Donald Trump and buy his way in.”