“Right, you lot!” shouted Jack, now stood at the front of the bus after having reached their destination, and trying to get the attention of the riotous mob. He reached over to his clipboard and held it aloft like a lunatic street preacher wielding whatever version of the Bible they happened to be peddling. “Order!” he shouted, feeling very much the schoolteacher on an outing to the zoo. Jack screwed up his face in mild disgust. “Lionel? Ahem. Will you please put your eyeball back in?” said Jack, tapping his clipboard with his pen. “There’s a good lad,” he added, as if addressing a small child. Sure, Lionel taking his glass eye out was his own unique party trick, particularly after he’d had a few, but it really did freak Jack out every time. “And if I find you’ve been drinking, Lionel, then you’re not allowed to play!”
“I’ve got my eye on you today, Jack!” Lionel shouted back in response, holding his eye up like the lens of a periscope, before erupting into laughter.
Jack had already been on the receiving end of this optical-based gag a fair few times, so this was nothing new to him. “Yes, very good,” said Jack, smiling politely, and again, talking as if he were addressing a small child. And, speaking of small children, Lionel had in fact previously performed the same trick on poor Lucas, who promptly shit himself. Quite literally, that is, with his nappy having to be changed immediately.
“Just make sure you’ve got your bloody eyeball reinserted before they get you in your kart, Lionel? Promise me, please?” pleaded Jack. “The last thing we need is a bouncing glass eyeball on the loose out on the track, right? It could well cause an accident, someone would take a terrible tumble, and then where would we be, yes?” he added, trying to inject some cautionary logic into the fray.
“I like to take a tumble!” someone from the group called out gleefully. “It’s been ages, mind, but I’m all for it!”
Jack took a deep breath, setting his jaw for the battle that lie ahead. “Come on, you lot, get your stuff and let’s go!” he said to the group in general, sallying forth and rallying the troops, as it were. “Ah. Hello there, Florence,” he said, to one of the troops in particular, offering his arm for her to link onto in assistance as she moved towards the exit and then down the steps. “I’m glad you joined us for today’s outing,” he told her. “And don’t be put off by Lionel’s eyeball antics, or the rest. They’re all mad as hatters, this lot, but they’re relatively harmless for the most part,” he said reassuringly, giving her a wink as he welcomed her into the Silver Sprinters fold, and smiling at her warmly.
It was funny the way things had gone full circle in life. Jack, once one of the most disorganised, reckless, and don’t-exactly-give-a-toss persons you’d ever care to meet, was now playing chaperone to a busload of seniors. Only a few short years ago, responsibility for Jack would have been deciding if he should wear his underpants for more than one day. But now, he was a father, had the love of a wonderful woman, was a successful businessman, and was at present one of the leading figures of a charity who just happened to be looking after the most loveable, crazy bunch of crackpots ever. And despite the challenges, frustrations, and exasperations the herding of this special flock of crazed loons presented, he found he wouldn’t change his current life for anything. An added bonus also, alongside this, was the amount of time he was now spending with his grandad, and the relationship the two of them had was something that brought Jack a lot of joy. Hell, even the arrival of Grandad’s newest pet, Ray, had been a pleasant enough addition of sorts.
Outside the bus, and on terra firma…
“Are you having a go?” asked Brad, a bubbly if somewhat sceptical at the moment chap in his mid-twenties or so who was, by all appearances, in charge of affairs at the racetrack for the course of the day.
“Negative. Not having a go. Go out there…” confirmed Jack, pointing at the go-kart racetrack… “With them lot,” he confirmed further, indicating with his finger to a gaggle of old folk all geared up in blue overalls and crash helmets. “No, I’ve brought myself a nice flask of tea, mate, so I’m going to rest up against that lovely tree, right over there, and watch on from a safe distance,” he told Brad. “They’re all yours now, buddy,” said Jack cheerily, nodding towards the group.
Brad returned an exaggerated gulp. “Right. Well. Wish me luck, then,” said Brad, holding his hands together and looking skyward for salvation.
Jack rested himself up against the previously mentioned tree, his bum planted comfortably on the grass. It was far enough from the track to avoid any wayward kart that could penetrate the wall of car tyres that served as the perimeter, but close enough so he could see the action and hear the giggling group. With their helmets on and faces covered, an unwitting passer-by could easily have mistaken them for small kids the way the old ones were carrying on. Ironic, that, considering they’d have a combined age of… well, Jack wasn’t entirely sure, and had neither enough fingers for the counting required nor the inclination to work it out in his head. If you gave any one of them a birthday cake, however, you would likely need a fire extinguisher in order to blow out all of the candles.
The contagious laughter of the group carried through the air on what was a glorious early spring morning. Yes, Jack would certainly be quite content to just soak up the Manx countryside and watch on from his position of relative safety as his charges hurtled around the racetrack. Jack did laugh to himself when the first batch of eight karts were filled and sat on the starting grid. “They look like Mario Kart,” he said, before lifting his arm to return the wave being offered in his direction. “Grandad,” whispered Jack, before offering a vigorous thumbs-up back in the direction of Sterling Moss. “Go get ’em, you crazy old bugger,” he said. And he wasn’t sure why, but his eyes filled up, which caught him off guard for a moment. “Go get ’em, Grandad,” he repeated, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
“Everything okay, son?” asked Vince, wandering over to Jack’s spot and for some reason not out on the track with the others. “They look good, don’t they,” he said to Jack, as more of an observation than a question.
Jack nodded, a warm smile on his chops. “You not having a go, Vince? From what you were telling me about your driving career, you were a shoo-in for this here inaugural Silver Racers trophy,” he said, tapping a neat little trophy lying next to him like it was a pet dog.
Vince stood over Jack, not joining him on the grass, and not really saying anything else at this point.
“Here. You want a cuppa?” asked Jack, offering up his flask accommodatingly.
“Eh? Sure, I suppose,” replied Vince half-heartedly.
The promise of a nice brew wasn’t met with the amount of enthusiasm Jack might have expected, and there also appeared to be something on Vince’s mind. “Vince, why are you not out on the track, by the way?” Jack enquired, slightly concerned, as this didn’t make sense given Vince’s earlier enthusiasm at the prospect of racing.
“I wanted to race, but they said I couldn’t,” Vince answered, lowering his head. “Old age,” he added, half-mumbling, and now looking off into the distance.
“What? Old age?” said Jack, pushing himself up to a standing position. “They said you couldn’t race because of your age?” continued Jack, now up to full height and dusting himself down. “Well we’ll just see about that, now won’t we?” he vowed, suddenly full of piss and vinegar.
The truth was, Jack couldn’t punch his way out of a wet cardboard box. But nobody picked on his gang except for Jack himself, if Jack had anything to say about it. No, there wouldn’t be fisticuffs, but Jack was quite adept at dishing out a severe tongue-lashing when the need presented itself.
“No, son, it’s all right,” said Vince, placing a surprisingly firm hand on Jack’s arm. “It’s fine, and I’m happy to sit up here with you, honestly. Don’t trouble yourself, lad.”
“It’s not fine,” said Jack, well and truly on his soapbox. “When I booked, they knew you lot were a bunch of wrinkly old… well, people of a certain age. It’s no
t acceptable to not allow you to race because of your age. That’s rubbish, and it’s just not right!”
Brad appeared from the pit lane, walking over to the tree where Jack and Vince were both stood. “Sorry about that,” said Brad cheerily, and clearly not a good judge of a contentious situation considering his merry demeanour. “How about you wave the chequered flag when they finish the race? Would you like that?” Brad happily suggested to Vince, swooshing his arms back and forth to emphasise the point.
“Tell you what, Brad. How about I stick that flag right up your arse??” said Jack.
Brad’s mouth opened, but then no words came out. He seemed puzzled by Jack’s response. Brad’s jaw moved, as if he might be trying to form words, but before Brad had opportunity to either accept or decline Jack’s generous offer regarding the flag and where Brad should be placing it, Jack had stepped down from his soapbox, so to speak, and had now unleashed the most fearsome weapon in his arsenal: his pointing finger.
“To not allow someone to race because they’re old is simply not acceptable!” Jack said. “Not acceptable in the slightest!” he said, reiterating his point.
Brad screwed up his face like he was trying to work out a particularly difficult maths problem. “Well, I didn’t mean any offence,” said Brad. “And, em… old age can be cruel at times, what with the physical afflictions, and, ah, such…?” Brad offered somewhat tentatively, attempting to decipher Jack’s meaning, albeit unsuccessfully.
“I’ll tell you what’s cruel,” continued Jack, finger still poised. “Embarrassing this fine upstanding gentleman in front of his friends by not letting him race on account of him being old!”
“But… the insurance wouldn’t allow it…?” protested Brad, and not really understanding why Jack was so obviously upset.
“Insurance? That’s your excuse??” shouted Jack. “That makes no sense! How can you let them lot on and not him? Some of that lot have got ten years on him, and surely if you’re an old codger, then you’re an old codger! What’s different about him…” said Jack, moving his pointing finger in Vince’s direction… “and that lot hurtling around your track?”
“Well they’ve all got two legs, for starters?” said Brad, shaking his head and wondering why he’d bothered coming over.
“They’ve… they’ve got what now?” said Jack, with his voice lowering and his pointing finger suddenly drooping.
“Two legs,” said Brad flatly. “The insurance company can be a bit funny about me allowing people to race when they’ve only got one leg.”
Jack ran his eyes up and down Vince and then up and down again. Jack wasn’t a doctor or anything but even he could see Vince had two legs on account of the fact that he had, well, two legs. He was standing on the both of them, right there in front of him. Indeed, it was now Jack’s turn to be confused.
Vince, who was rather used to this sort of reaction, reached down to rap his knuckles against the particular leg in question, producing as a result a sound that was clearly not knucklebones against flesh, and with different pitches and tones depending upon where he rapped. “You should see me when I’ve had a few pints,” Vince added proudly. “I can often get the tune to It’s Not Unusual by Tom Jones from this thing!”
“You’ve only got one leg?” asked Jack, telling Vince something he of course must’ve already been keenly aware of. And if Vince hadn’t been aware of it, then this news would’ve come as a hell of a shock for him indeed.
“Aye, son,” said Vince.
“Yeah, and I only found out myself because one of the others in the group had taken it and was riding it like a witch’s broom,” Brad explained, scrunching his lips to one side of his face in a sort of don’t-quite-know-what-to-make-of-this type expression.
“I’ll bet that was Grandad…? If I were to hazard a guess…?” ventured Jack.
“Aye, son,” confirmed Vince. “I only took it off so I could tighten her up before I put my overalls on. It’s my fault, really. I was using it as a cricket bat while they threw rolled-up socks at me, and that’s when things got out of hand.”
Jack shook his head. “Brad, I’m sorry about the whole… well… you know,” said Jack, holding his pointer finger aloft like it was a dangerous weapon that needed to be handled with the utmost caution and care. “I just thought… well… you know,” he said with a slightly embarrassed shrug, and then holstering his weaponised finger by retracting it into his palm and stuffing his hand into his pocket.
“You were just looking out for your friends. I get it. And I respect that,” said Brad, patting Jack’s shoulder. “Anyway, I must get back to the rest of them.”
Once Brad was on his way, Jack settled himself down onto the grass once again, resuming his position sitting comfortably against the tree. He shuffled over a bit, giving enough room for Vince to place his back against the broad base of the tree as well. “Come on, peg-leg, park yourself down here,” said Jack, patting the ground beside him invitingly. “Right. And that offer of a nice cuppa remains open, if you’re still interested, then?” he added, producing his flask of tea for a second time.
“That’d be good, son,” Vince agreed, more receptively this time, and easing himself to the ground with a supporting hand from Jack held up to assist.
“We’ll have a nice morning enjoying the view, Vince,” said Jack, once Vince had joined him. “What a spot for a cuppa,” he observed pleasantly, looking around them, and then out to the track.
“It’s not half,” confirmed Vince. “It’s not half,” he said again, nodding in happy agreement.
The two men pressed their backs against the tree, taking in the spectacle of the Lonely Heart Attack Club’s motorised racing division hurtling around the track at breakneck speed… or, at least, as fast as the limiting devices placed on the motors allowed them to proceed, which may not have been breakneck speed, exactly, but thrillingly fast nevertheless. Well, except for one of the karts, that is, and with this one particular kart appearing almost stationary in contrast to the others. Either the limiter had gone haywire, or its forward motion was being self-limited by the driver.
“I’m going to guess that’s Florence. I didn’t imagine she’d be a petrolhead,” suggested Jack with a smile and a gentle laugh. He opened his mouth to say something else, but then he closed it again. He turned to glare at Vince, indicating a thought was either forming in his head or had perhaps already formed.
Vince blew the steam from his cup. “Everything okay, son?” he asked in reference to Jack’s sudden icy stare in his direction.
Jack went quiet for what seemed like an age, with something clearly on his mind. After a rather uncomfortable silence, he burst back into life. “No, it’s not!” Jack said. “How in hell’s name have you been refused access to a go-karting track on account of having one leg when you’re the one who soddin’ well drove us all down here in the first place in our new bus??”
“It’s an automatic gearbox in the bus, son,” Vince pointed out. “No clutch pedal. So I only need one leg. And fortunately I’ve got the one good leg on the correct side.”
“Oh, well that’s okay, then,” scoffed Jack, and with no attempt to disguise the moderate sarcasm in his tone. “Vince,” he said, swivelling around on the grass now in order to face his one-legged companion directly. “Vince, if you’re not insured to drive a toy kart, then what do you think our insurance company is going to say about you driving a thirty-thousand-pound bus with sixteen people on board?”
“They’d be hopping mad?” suggested Vince, attempting to defuse the situation with a bit of humour. “I thought you knew, Jack? About the leg, I mean. Did you not pick up on the fact that they all call me Long John Silver?”
“I didn’t want to ask, to be honest,” replied Jack. “I thought it was a bawdy reference to a certain part of your anatomy that I’d frankly rather remain ignorant about,” he explained. “Or, best-case scenario, maybe just some pirate-related gag that I wasn’t privy to.”
“Aarrrrgh,” replied
Vince, in his finest pirate drawl. “Maybe a bit of both, matey,” he said with a wink.
Jack gave a little shudder, and then straightened himself out, returning his attention to the track.
“And what about the pronounced limp I’ve got?” asked Vince. “That didn’t tip you off?”
“About the…?” asked Jack, fearing, mistakenly, that Vince was still talking about one very particular cumbersome appendage.
“About the leg,” answered Vince. “It didn’t tip you off that something was amiss? Or, in fact, missing? Plus, that I have a tendency to go listing slightly to port when I walk, having to constantly self-correct?”
“Ah. Well. That. I just attributed that to you simply being very old,” admitted Jack, quickly adding, “Em, no offence.”
“No offence taken,” replied Vince with a laugh.
“Anyway, you’re our only way of getting home. The only one with us who can drive that bus,” added Jack, taking a sip of his tea and watching on as the karts continued to circulate around the track in front of them, and with one of the karts progressing, still, much slower than the others. “So if you don’t say anything about the, you know…” proposed Jack, waving his left hand, in reference to Vince’s missing limb… “Then I won’t, either. Just don’t crash, yeah?”
“Right-o!” said Vince, readily agreeing.
Both of them sat sipping their tea for a while, watching the others as the lot of them enjoyed themselves, and enjoying the fact that the group were so thoroughly enjoying themselves. And then Jack sighed.
The Lonely Heart Attack Club - Project VIP Page 12
