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

by J. C. Williams

  “I wondered how someone could race from the back of their van and not from the steering wheel up front,” Rebecca replied with a giggle, nodding along, though still not entirely certain of the significance of the whole back-of-the-van thing.

  “And I thought of the name for the race!” Monty entered in. “The Isle Le Mans! That was all my doing!” Monty looked over to Dave, daring him to challenge his assertion. But Dave stood down, allowing Monty his moment in the sun.

  “Monty, that’s brilliant!” Rebecca responded enthusiastically, causing a now-unhappy Dave to question his silence on the matter. Nevertheless, he carried on with his explanation instead…

  “Now, along with me and Monty, that’s Guy Martin’s image up there on the van. You may not be familiar, so I’ll explain that Guy Martin is—”

  “I know who Guy Martin is,” Rebecca cut in, a cock-eyed smile on her face.

  “I’m sorry?” Dave answered, a bit taken aback that a non-racing fan like Becks would know who Martin was.

  “I already know who Guy Martin is,” she told him again, a contented grin now spread over her entire face.

  “Erm, anyway…” continued Dave, momentarily at a loss before soldiering on… “We can take the sidecar out for two hours if we want, but it’s all about this little beauty. The van, I mean. Guy’s done a bit of van racing already. You may have watched that programme on the TV the other week, World’s Fastest Van, I think it was called?” Dave suggested.

  “Hmm? No. No, I don’t think so,” replied Rebecca, registering no recognition at all.

  “No…?” said Dave, pausing to allow her to explain how, then, she might know who Guy Martin was. But she did not. The contended grin, however, remained on her face and showed no signs of abating.

  “Oh…kay?” Dave went on, confused, but at this point seeing no clarification would be forthcoming. “Anyway. Em. Right. Where was I? Oh, yes. Okay, so, apart from Guy, we’ll just be picking it up as we go along. We’re not terribly bothered about where we place at the finish. At the end of the day, of course, it’s all about raising some money for a very worthy cause.”

  “So you won’t mind if you don’t even win?” asked a genuinely impressed Rebecca.

  Monty felt compelled to offer in his opinion just then, as his bullshit meter was pinging away, needle pinned. “Dave is playing it cool,” he advised Rebecca. “I’ve known him too long for this. And what he’s conveniently left out is that we’ve actually been getting a few lessons ahead of the race. Trust me, if me and Dave are going racing, we want to win.”

  “It’s a fair cop,” Dave admitted, pulling his lips to one side of his face and shrugging.

  “It’s for charity,” Monty went on. “But I can promise that we’ll be giving it everything we’ve got. As we always do. And all of the other fellows in this race will be doing the same.”

  “Fellows?” Rebecca interrupted. “There aren’t any women racers?” she asked.

  “Hmm, now that’s actually a good point…” Dave mused, hand raising up to stroke his chin… “And has got me thinking…”

  “You’re not bloody replacing me again!” Monty admonished his partner. “We’re a team!”

  “I know, I know!” Dave protested. “I was just—”

  “You were just nothing,” Monty scolded him, not amused. “We’re a team. End of,” he said, glaring at an at-this-time still-chin-stroking and obviously-pondering Dave.

  “Fine, fine!” replied Dave.

  The conversation was interrupted, suddenly, by an irritating, nasally voice. “You lot,” it said, directed at Dave and Monty. “Are you the valet parking? Because my car needs attention.”

  Dave turned, knowing what he was about to find. Sure enough, a smug face was revealed, of the sort one might never tire of striking with a cricket bat. There was only one man with that insipid, adenoidal tone that grated on one’s nerves like fingernails down a blackboard when he spoke.

  “Rodney Franks,” laughed Dave, with an overly friendly inflexion. “Rodney, fantastic to see you again so soon,” he said sarcastically. “Happy to help! Now I’ll just show you over here, if you’d be so kind as to follow me to the exit, and we can have you back in your car in no time, on the road again, and headed on your jolly way!”

  Rebecca offered a pained smile, casting her eyes to this cravat-wearing gentleman presented before her, attempting to work out whether he were friend or foe.

  Franks raised his hands in mock submission. “Now, now, that’s not a very nice thing to say at all, Dave Quirk. Especially to a dear old friend,” he replied, making a point of looking Rebecca up and down as he said it. “I only wanted to come and see the track ahead of your little affair. Extend my best wishes and all. I’ll be honest, I’m actually impressed with what’s been done with the place in preparation for the race. It very nearly looks professional.”

  Monty stepped forward, buoyed by Dave’s opening salvo. “The best part of it?” he said. “The best part of it is that this little race, as you’ve called it, is going to allow us to buy the TT farm from Henk, for the charity. So it’s all for a very good cause, don’t you think?”

  Franks stared back at Monty but did not immediately respond. After several long moments, he pointed back at himself and said, “Oh! I’m sorry, Mister… Montgomery, is it? I’m sorry, Mr Montgomery, but I didn’t realise you were speaking to me. What with the, em, you know…” he said, holding a finger up and stirring the air with it, in obvious reference to Monty’s wonky eye. “I could see one of them looking at me, but the other…” he trailed off, looking over to the field beside them... “Was somewhere over there?”

  Monty didn’t react. It’d take a bigger man than Rodney Franks to ruffle his feathers in such a manner.

  “Anyway. The best part of this whole sordid affair?” Franks went on, mimicking Monty’s previous phrasing, and giving Rebecca an unsolicited once-over again. “The best part about this whole affair is that I’ll very shortly be owning this little racetrack. Isn’t that wonderful? In fact, the very reason I’m here today is to finalise the paperwork. I’m still very eager to build my hotel, you see. And who knows, perhaps I’ll build it right here,” he said, indicating the track with a sweep of his hand.

  “I don’t understand,” said Monty, not understanding.

  “You know that’s doesn’t really surprise me in the slightest. And how about you?” Franks said to Dave. “Would you like to translate it for your intellectually-challenged friend here?”

  Dave stared at Franks. “What that means, I presume, is that this event will soon be mysteriously booked up, or unavailable next Sunday, if you’re not racing in it?” Dave was exceedingly unhappy at this turn of events, but he refused to give Franks the satisfaction of showing it.

  Franks pulled out an invisible diary. “Correct!” he said, folding the imaginary book back over. “And if you don’t have your racetrack, then you don’t have the money to buy your precious, quaint little farm. Simple enough. Even for a simpleton to understand. Isn’t that right, Mr Montgomery?”

  “If we don’t have the money to buy the farm, it goes back to you?” Dave asked coldly.

  Franks shook his head. “It’s a possibility, though, sadly, unlikely. The Dutchman has the option to hand it back to me after a certain period, but as he said to me today, that’s not going to happen so long as he has a hole in his… well, I shan’t repeat his crass vulgarisms. But, he has a massive tax bill and associated costs if he keeps hold of the farm. Without your little event, you won’t have the money to buy it from him, so that essentially leaves the large fool two choices. The first being to sell it back to me, which he has already indicated in his own inimitably profane way that he has no intention of doing. His second option would be to sell it on the open market. As it’s riddled with asbestos, however, and he has no planning permission besides, it would sit on the market for years. He is rather between the devil and the deep blue sea, I should say.”

  Dave started stroking his chin agai
n. “Right,” he said. “So I’m just trying to work out what all this means, as well as why you’re telling me all this. You’ve bought yourself a racetrack. Which won’t have been cheap. Just to secure entry in this race? That doesn’t make an awful lot of sense, Rodney, even for someone as daft as you. Entering a team isn’t going to change your world, after all, even if you win the bloody thing. So, again, it makes absolutely no sense why you’d do this. Which only leads me to wonder… are you a bit dim?”

  Franks nodded along as Dave had been speaking. To the casual observer, it may very well have looked like they were, the two of them, old friends. But they most certainly were not. Surprisingly, Franks did not appear offended by Dave’s insults. In fact he was smiling now, and for all appearances enjoying himself.

  “Not stupid at all, Mr Quirk, I can assure you.” Dave winced as Franks said this. “But I can understand why you’d think it,” Franks continued. “I won’t lie to you, I want that farm. I’m in it for the long run and I’m fairly certain I can get planning permission for my hotel, at some point. For your elucidation, this is how I see this playing out, so do listen closely. And, for the sake of your associate Mr Montgomery especially, I’ll try to keep it as simple as possible.”

  Neither Dave nor Monty were laughing, but this didn’t concern Franks. He went on…

  “I’ll allow you to have your event next Sunday on my newly-owned racing circuit. You allow my team an entry. I shall pay the entry fee, without incident. It is for charity, after all. We have a friendly wager amongst ourselves about whether my team or your team finishes higher up the leaderboard—”

  “What bloody wager are you on about?” Dave cut across. To which Rodney massaged the air in front, shushing Dave as one might a small child.

  “I will allow your little race for charity to go forward,” Franks said magnanimously, like he was doing Dave a tremendous favour. “And, if you win, you get to raise the money you need for the farm. If my team finishes higher, however, then your Dutch friend needs to sell the farm to me. I’ll even pay him full market value, despite that horrible, troublesome asbestos. Why he wouldn’t wish to sell to me remains a mystery to myself, I’m sure,” Franks sniffed. “But you must convince him to do so.”

  Dave rubbed his chin that much it was in danger of catching fire. “You’d do all this just to get the farm? What is with you and this farm?” After receiving no reply, he asked another question: “If we lose, then what are we meant to do with all the money we’ve raised?”

  Franks gave an exaggerated frown. “Why is that a concern of mine?” he said. “I couldn’t possibly care less. I don’t know— Give it back? As it stands, presently you have no event as I will soon own the track. With my proposal, on the other hand, you at any rate at least have an opportunity to keep your farm, unlikely as that outcome may be. If you walk away from this, however, then you do not. It really is that simple.”

  “Sod that,” Monty entered in. “We’ve got most of the money already. Let’s just buy the farm from Henk, and tell this one to bugger off,” he said, without looking directly at Franks. Which wasn’t difficult, in Monty’s case. But still. Though he did look to the lady present, apologising for his language. “Pardon my French, Becks,” he told her. She waved him on, indicating that his language was just fine, actually, given the circumstances.

  “Oh, do think about it, my dim-witted friend,” suggested Franks. “If you don’t have a track, then you don’t have a race. And if you don’t have a race, then you don’t have the money you’ll need. While you may have some money just now, you still don’t possess nearly enough to purchase the farm at present.”

  Monty knew Franks wasn’t wrong, but said nothing. Taking this as acquiescence, Franks blathered on…

  “We’ll draw up a little agreement so there is no confusion or backing out at a later date. I suggest you tell your Dutch friend of my proposal, and remind him that I will pay market value if you lose the bet. If you don’t end up having the money to buy that farm of his from him, the place will sit empty for years, and it will cost him a fortune. Don’t forget to remind him of that as well. He is a businessman, after all, and so he would be mad to refuse my offer.” Franks looked at his watch. “I will need to know by eight p.m. this evening,” he told them. “As I’m sure I’ve had an enquiry to use the track next Sunday. It would be poor manners if I didn’t get back to them to confirm their booking, and it is not nice to be rude, now is it? You can see where it leads, can’t you? Of course you can. Well. Toodle pip.”

  Rodney Franks pranced off to his car, not a care in the world, like he was cock of the walk. Which in fact he was. A cock, that is.

  Monty punched the palm of his left hand with the fist of his right, wishing for all the world it was Franks he was punching. “There’s no way Henk is going to deal with the idiot, is there?” he asked Dave.

  Dave mashed the keypad on his phone. “I don’t expect he will,” he said, dialling Henk to fill him in on what had just transpired. “But if we can’t convince him, then the Isle Le Mans TT is doomed to failure before it begins. And we lose the farm, Monty, we also become unemployed. If Henk isn’t on board, then we’re all well and truly… Well, we’re all well and truly,” he said, biting his tongue for the sake of present company.

  “Who even wears a cravat?” asked Rebecca, filling the silence, still trying to get a handle on the polluting cloud of unpleasantness that was Rodney Franks. “And says toodle pip? Seriously? That’s not even a real human being. That’s… that’s…” she said, trying to put into words how she was feeling.

  Young Tyler had remained silent during the whole of the prior exchange. To him, it had been just another instance of grown-ups speaking gibberish, which is what they mostly spoke, in his six and a half years of experience. Coming to his mother’s aid, he did finally make one observation, however…

  “Mummy, he’s like a cartoon,” he said. “But not a good cartoon. A bad cartoon.”

  To which no one could disagree.

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  S usie slapped her hands on her desk, gasping for air. She lowered her head, resting it between her knees. The elderly chap with an obvious combover, wearing a pair of slippers even though it was midday, paid no attention, sat patiently waiting for his taxi to arrive.

  “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” she chanted. She gripped the corner of the desk, turning her knuckles white, with her breathing getting more and more desperate like she were giving birth to a bowling ball. A very large bowling ball.

  The old chap snapped his paper shut, taking a glance to the street directly to the side of the building, where the taxis collected those that’d ordered a cab. “Excuse me, luv?”

  “I’m fine,” replied Susie. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I wasn’t asking about that,” replied the old fellow. “Any sign of my taxi is all I want to know?”

  “Five minutes,” Susie replied, which was the standard reply of any taxi operator, in any taxi office, in any part of the world. She ignored the inbound phone, which rang incessantly, taking several further lungful’s of breath to steady herself.

  “Pick up,” she whispered to herself, repeating it several times in quick succession as she pressed her mobile phone to her ear. “Pick up,” she said one last time, impatiently, before finally giving up and throwing her phone back into her bag. “Bloody hell. Where are you going?” she asked aloud, rising up and looking out the window with increasing desperation.

  “Fifteen Willets Way, luv!” shouted the slipper-wearing chap, clearly put out at the brief delay he’d been experiencing. “I’ve told you twice already!”

  “I wasn’t speaking to you!” shouted an exasperated Susie somewhat less than professionally, which was unlike her. “I was wondering where someone’s gone,” she said. “I know where you’re going, sir. It’s on the computer.”

  “What is?” he asked, getting even more animated. “What’s on the computer?”

  Susie pulled her fingers int
o a claw, cracking her knuckles in the process, and breathing through her teeth. “Your address is on the computer,” she told him.

  “It’s not a dress,” he replied immediately.

  “What?”

  The man stood to reveal his ensemble, including his pyjamas, which were secured at the waist with what looked like the tieback sash from a pair of curtains. “It’s a dressing gown, luv. Not a dress. There’s a difference!”

  “I said a… nevermind. Harry, why do you look like you’ve just got out of bed?” Susie asked their regular customer, softening now. “You only need a white nightcap and you could be Ebenezer Scrooge, you know.”

  “I’m making a pan of stew!” Harry explained. “I didn’t have any carrots, did I? So I had to go down the shop. There wasn’t any point in getting all dressed up just to head out for ten minutes, now was there? No, I should think not,” he told her. “Logic!” he shouted, so loudly and abruptly that Susie nearly fell out of her chair.

  “But you only live about three minutes away, Harry. Why didn’t you simply walk?”

  “What? Don’t be bloody stupid. I’m only wearing my slippers!”

  “So you should have got dressed, then!” Susie sighed. “Anyhow, Harry, you didn’t happen to see Stella along your travels, did you?”

  “Who’s this Stella person?” Harry asked.

  “You know Stella, Harry. She sits right here,” offered Susie, pointing to the empty seat near to her.

  Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to trick me?” he asked. “You can’t trick me because I’m too clever for that. And there’s quite obviously no one sitting there beside you.”

  “She usually sits here, Harry. When she in. When she’s in, that’s where she sits,” explained Susie, with the patience of a saint.