“Oh my,” she said, wiping a wind-induced tear from her eye. “Dave, you weren’t joking,” she offered, taking a lungful of the crisp air. “That is one of the most wonderful things I’ve ever seen. I could stay here forever.”
“So could I,” replied Dave softly, though for a different reason, but his response was carried away on the breeze. He smiled as Tyler pointed out the cathedral, until his brief reverie came to an abrupt end as thoughts of ice cream returned to the forefront of the boy’s mind, marked by a series of hopping motions. “Will you take our picture now, Big Dave? Pleeease?” Tyler pleaded. “So we don’t end up in the castle jaaail?”
“I think he’s deserved it,” Dave put forth. “Mum? What do you reckon?”
Rebecca laughed. She handed a tissue to Dave to wipe the perspiration from his forehead from his trek up the hill, though the wind from the sea had done much of the job already. “I think you’ve both deserved it,” she said. “And if the ice cream is half as good as the view, I’m sure it’ll be the best we’ve ever had.”
In short order, the frozen treat, procured without incident and no jail time, was soon a dairy-based crust on Tyler’s wee chin, and the pink bullet that was Dave’s mum’s little Nissan headed at a gentle pace towards Jurby, in the north of the Island. “He must be dreaming about motorbikes,” remarked Dave, in reference to the young one occupying the back.
Rebecca looked into the rear seat. “Oh, you mean the snoring?” she said. “I suppose it does sound like an engine. It’s funny. At that age, snoring is cute, isn’t it? Is that what you sound like, Dave? When you’re asleep?”
“Dunno,” Dave answered. “I’m usually asleep when I’m asleep, so I couldn’t say. Fair play to the young chap, though. He dispatched that ice cream quicker than a seagull eating chips, as we like to say here on the Isle.”
“Yes, it’s quite remarkable, isn’t it, that children cannot manage to eat even a meagre portion when it’s tea time, especially if vegetables are involved,” Rebecca observed. “But they can polish off a double chocolate ice cream scoop with an extra Cadbury's Flake thrown in without even blinking an eye.”
Dave didn’t answer, as he was currently trying to work out if this were all real or simply a dream, and his eyes alternated intermittently between the road and the contented, sleeping child in his rear-view mirror.
“I’m not boring you already, am I, Dave?” came Rebecca’s voice, assuring him that this was, in fact, real.
“Oh, bollocks,” Dave said. But it wasn’t in response to Becka’s question. Rather, it was in reference to the wail of a siren behind them, along with accompanying flashing blue lights.
“I wasn’t speeding, was I?” asked Dave, pulling over.
“No more than you were speeding up Ice Cream Hill,” laughed Rebecca.
Dave’s eye went wide. But it wasn’t in response to the police officer he saw advancing in his side-view mirror. Rather, it was in admiration of Becka’s deft comedic jab. “The cheek of you!” he said, laughing along with her.
Dave wound down the door window, the sound of their laughter spilling out. The officer was not amused.
“You think this is some sort of joke, do you?” the stone-faced officer asked. “I can assure you that it is not,” she said severely.
Before Dave even had chance to respond, the police officer began walking in a very deliberate manner around the perimeter of the vehicle, paying particular attention to the tyres and lights. She had her hat tucked under her arm as she performed this inspection, and she stopped now and again only to shoot icy glares in Dave’s direction. With her lean face, long neck, and slim but sturdy figure, she reminded Dave of a whippet or a greyhound. This was clearly a woman who enjoyed the responsibility bestowed on her, and Dave imagined her tenacious and fleet of foot on the occasion someone might be foolish to attempt to run from her.
When she eventually appeared back at Dave’s window, she rested her hat on the roof of the car, staring towards the distant treeline as she spoke. “You’re not so quick today, are you, sir?” she said, directed to the horizon.
Dave looked over to Becka, palms up, and with a shrug of the shoulders. “I’m sorry, officer? I don’t understand,” he said to the police officer’s torso.
“You thought you were quite the TT racer at or about ten p.m. yesterday evening, didn’t you, sir,” she replied, still watching something in the distance, as a statement rather than a question. And despite her addressing him as “sir,” there was no respect implied in her voice. In fact, when she said sir, she spat it out almost like a curse.
Dave took the comment as an odd sort of compliment, given his history. Perhaps she recognised him? He wanted to respect the officer’s authority, so he gave only a tentative response. “Thank you…” he said… “One does try?”
The officer shifted her attention from whatever elusive prey she’d been staring at off in the distance, bending down now and leaning in close to Dave’s face. Her long, narrow face and far-set eyes made Dave uncomfortable. “Levity will get you nowhere with me, I can assure you, sir,” she told him in no uncertain terms.
Dave wondered how someone who did so much assuring could be so utterly unreassuring. He also wondered, with not an ounce of fat on her, how she could possibly stand the cold. Because she was not shivering at all. Not at all. She gave the impression of being in entirely too much control to allow her body to shiver.
“I’ve got a good one for you. Since you’re a comedian,” she told him. She was not smiling as she said this. “Yes, it’s very funny, and you may well enjoy it.” She still was not smiling. “How does three penalty points on your licence for speeding away from me last night sound to you? Does that make you laugh, funnyman?” Now she was smiling. But the smile quickly turned to a scowl. “Your sort makes me sick to my stomach,” she said, looking around the interior of the car. “And with a child on board as well. Shame on you,” she said severely. “Shame on you. You’re out scouring for your next depravity-ruining location, I expect? Well, this evening won’t be going to plan quite as you expected, sir. I can assure you of that.”
Dave motioned to speak but the words wouldn’t come, as he was at something of a loss. The officer spoke again instead.
“Nothing to say, funnyman? Bit slow off the mark, are we? Though you weren’t slow of the mark when you sped away from me, tyres squealing, last night at or about ten p.m., were you? No you were not. But no one evades me for long,” she said. “Not anymore. Not again. Not ever again.”
There was obviously some kind of backstory to this policewoman that Dave was not privy to, not to mention the fact she must certainly be confusing him for someone else and in regard to some other incident which he was most definitely not involved in. “Ma’am?” he said. “I mean… officer?” he corrected himself, unsure how to best address the woman, and uncertain also as to what on earth she was on about. “I was in the pub last night. At that time. At or about that time, that is. I think you’ve got the wrong fellow,” he told her. He wanted to add, I can assure you, but thought better of it.
“Drinking? So there’s that as well, is there? The list of charges is growing by the minute, I can assure you,” she told him, not-at-all-reassuringly.
Dave tapped his fingers successively on the steering wheel, drumming out with them his displeasure. This was becoming absurd. So absurd, in fact, that…
“Has Monty put you up to this?” he asked with half a laugh.
“And who, or what, precisely, would this Monty person or thing be?” came the curt response, with the officer looking up from her notepad. It wasn’t so much that she was interested in learning about whatever excuse she thought he could be coming up with. It was more that she was gauging whether or not she might possibly be able to add on another citation with any new information he was about to present, and she had her writing implement poised at the ready.
“Monty is… Look, that doesn’t matter,” Dave said, realising now that Monty was not involved in any shenan
igans, though Dave wished desperately that this had been the case. “I wasn’t drink driving, officer,” Dave protested. “I wasn’t even driving last night at all,” he said. “I can assure you,” he added, unable to help himself. “Can you please explain to me what I’m supposed to have done?”
The officer closed her notepad temporarily, in preparation for the dressing-down she was about to administer. “I think,” she said, once ready. “I think I shall refer to it as outraging public decency. Though you people…” she said, looking down the length of her long nose… “You people may refer to it as dogging, if I’m not mistaken.” She looked especially disgusted as she said this. “On Marine Drive, at approximately ten p.m. yesterday evening. And I can assure you, I do not get paid nearly enough to compensate me for having to see your naked arse cheeks pressed up against the window. And you, madam,” she added. “Do you have no shame?”
“THAT’S ENOUGH,” said Dave. “You leave her out of this. She was not involved at all, I CAN ASSURE YOU.” He glared daggers at the officer. If the mix-up had been amusing at the start, it was humorous no longer. The officer could accuse him of anything she liked. Hell, at some point in his life, Dave knew, he’d probably done it. But impugning the honour of Rebecca was another matter entirely and this he could not tolerate.
The officer unsheathed her radio, ready to call in for back-up.
“Dave, it’s okay,” Rebecca told him, trying to calm him down. And then, turning to the officer, she offered, “Look, officer, I think this might be a simple case of mistaken identity?”
“Pink Nissan Micra. No. No, miss. I am not mistaken.”
“Oh god,” Dave muttered, the colour draining from his face. “Oh my god. I think I know what’s—”
“This will explain your mum’s underwear,” Rebecca confirmed, seeing where Dave was headed and reading his thoughts.
“Officer,” pleaded Dave in a much more conciliatory tone now. “I think you’ve got us mixed up with someone else, as my friend has said.”
“Do you think, sir, that I am foolish enough to get a bright pink Nissan Micra confused? No, I am not. I can assure—”
“No, listen, officer. Please,” Dave entreated. “What I meant to say is that the current versus former occupants of this car is where, I think, the confusion has arisen.”
“I’m listening,” said the officer, placing her radio back in its holster.
“Thank you,” said Dave. “Listen, we weren’t in the car last night. It’s my mum’s car. And… sorry, it makes me throw up a little in my mouth just to have to even think about it… but I’m certain it must have been her engaged in, em, outrageous public indecency, I think you said?”
“Close enough,” said the officer.
“It was my mum,” Dave continued. “It was my mum who was out last night carrying on in an, em, immodest fashion, to put it politely. God help me, that’s a sentence I never thought I’d have to say out loud in front of a police officer, much less a woman I only just met a few days before.”
“The only way to sort this out is to show me your arse,” replied the officer. She was not smiling, nor did she appear to be joking.
Dave narrowed his eyes. “No offence, officer. But I don’t believe that’s proper police protocol…?”
The officer took a step back, framing her fingers like a film producer’s viewfinder. “I’d recognise that arse again. It’s the only way to clear you of wrongdoing. The image. It’s burned onto my retinas. So you’ll need to prop your cheeks up against the driver’s window so I can see the— No, no, don’t take your trousers down, man! There are children about! Merely place your buttocks against the window so I can scrutinise the dimensions.”
Dave did as he was instructed. Or at least he tried to. Alas, it was like playing a game of Twister after one too many moves had already been made. He gave it a go, valiantly, raising himself up off the seat and attempting to swivel about in order to place his bum up against where the window would have been were it rolled up. But there was his oversized frame to contend with, particularly as compared to the relatively undersized dimensions of the vehicle, not to mention the very limited range of his joints. In short, there was simply no way for him to move his body into the position he was being ordered to move it into. Try as he might, it was impossible.
“Stand down, soldier!” said the officer, having seen quite enough to satisfy her. “For the love of all that’s holy, stand down, son. It’s clear you’ve got the flexibility of bog-wood.”
“So we can go?” Dave asked, relieved, and blessedly reconfiguring his body into a much less pain-inducing form.
“On your way,” the officer instructed. “You just tell your mum I’ll be keeping an eye out for her. And If I see this car, and its occupants, engaged in any further shenanigans, I will have it towed away with your mum and her… gentleman friend, still inside.” Of course, the way she said “gentleman” did not in fact imply that she in any way meant gentleman.
After the officer had gotten back in her vehicle and pulled away, Dave remained where he was, both hands clenching the steering wheel tightly.
“Dave?” Rebecca asked, concerned. “Are you okay?”
“FRANK,” was all he said, through gritted teeth.
“The cheek of him,” Becks remarked.
“What did you say?” asked Dave, turning to her, his grip on the steering wheel softening.
“I said the cheek of him,” Rebecca repeated.
Dave stared at her for a moment, and then they both burst out laughing.
When they were once again on the road, a small head popped up from the backseat. “Mummy?” asked Tyler, rubbing his eyes. “Was Big Dave waving his bum at the police person?”
“Yes, honey,” his mother told the sleepy boy. “Yes he was.”
Which only generated more laughter inside the car.
Jurby raceway had been transformed. It was a stalwart of the Isle of Man racing scene, but it’d now been elevated to another level. It was still a little over a week to the main event, but the marketing departments of the entrants, it would appear, had been out in force. Every spare inch of available trackside space had been taken up with advertising hoardings. As Dave pulled up into the carpark, one ambitious advertiser, in fact, was in the process of erecting an inflatable bridge across the track itself. “Bloody hell,” remarked Dave, climbing out of the car. “I mean bleedin’ heck,” he said, remembering the company he was in. “Would you look at this,” he said. But Rebecca, and Tyler in particular, needed no encouragement in this regard as they soaked up the spectacle with their eyes.
Pit lane, ordinarily a strip of unassuming tarmac, was now a series of pristine, temporary garages adorned with the logos of the sponsoring companies. The transformation was remarkable. The track used for club racing now resembled a miniature Silverstone racetrack.
“I need to take a picture of this to show Monty, he won’t believe this,” Dave said in wonder, more to himself than the others.
“He’s over there,” said Rebecca, pointing to the first garage.
Monty waved furiously, pointing to their garage. “Oi! We got number one!” he shouted. “Come and have a look! This is choice!” he called out, not the least bit interested in hiding his excitement. “Heya, Tyler. What do you think of our van?” he asked, once Dave & crew had joined him. In response, Tyler unzipped his coat for a moment to show off the brand-new t-shirt he was sporting for the occasion. “Noice!” Monty told him, giving the wee lad an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Tyler marvelled at the metallic grey Volkswagen Transporter van, sat patiently in the garage, as did Dave. The standard wheels had been swopped out with racing slicks, and it sat with an angry stance on uprated suspension. It was like a caged bull, anxious for the gate to be opened so it could rip the matador limb from limb. Dave ran his hand over the bodywork admiringly. He’d seen her when she arrived, of course. But, now, covered in sponsorship decals and emblems, she wouldn’t have looked at all out of place on any racing
circuit.
Rebecca moved to the side of the van, motioning to Tyler to join her. “Wow, nice pictures, boys.”
A three-foot-high picture of the TT farm dominated the side of the van with the caption, underneath:
A trio of headshots of Frank & Stan’s TT Farm racing team — Dave Quirk, Shaun ‘Monty’ Montgomery, and Guy Martin — also graced each side of the van, floating angelically above the farm scene. Dave put his arm around Monty. “We look almost regal in them pictures, Monty,” he said, admiring their images. The three heads on the van stared proudly back, waiting to bless their adoring fans in a few short days.
“She looks the part, Dave, doesn’t she?” asked Monty.
“She does,” Dave replied, casting a fond glance over to Becks, spanner in hand.
“I meant the van, Dave,” Monty answered with a soft chuckle.
“I know, mate,” Dave said, winking. “And I’m overwhelmed, mate. She’s a real beauty. It’s just a shame we’re not allowed to rip out that two-litre engine and get something with a bit more grunt in there.”
“What??” said Monty in alarm, before realising they were talking about the van again.
Rebecca handed Monty the spanner that Tyler had picked up and been playing with. “So I know you’re sidecar racers,” she said, emphasising the fact she’d remembered the name of that motorbike contraption they usually rode. “But, vans also?”
“Ah. Not so much,” confided Dave. “Here’s the thing,” Dave said. “The idea was, we’re back-of-the-van racers, yeah?”
Rebecca looked back at Dave like she didn’t understand. This was because she didn’t understand.
“Ah. Let me explain. A back-of-the-van racer is someone with little or no external funding but for whom racing is their passion, their life. They’ll travel round the country to fulfil their ambition, often sleeping in the rear of their van in the process,” Dave told her. “Hence the genesis of my brilliant idea for this race.”
Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin Page 21
