by J C Williams
Molly reached for a napkin, but, distrustful of even that given their surroundings, opted for her shirtsleeve instead, wiping her cheek clean. She held her dad’s hand, and with her bright smile unwavering, asked: “So does this mean I’m going to need to wait for the inheritance for a few more years?”
“It’s nothing definite, Molly,” responded Frank with a laugh, while reaching over and taking his breakfast from a now-returned Eric.
Frank prodded the bread, which nearly broke his fingernail, and the undercooked bacon looked like a few compressions could bring it back to life. “Although,” he continued without breaking his stride. “Eating this bacon butty is probably more likely to finish me off. I think I can understand why you didn’t order anything.”
“Well you should listen to me more,” said Molly, but not unkindly. “Oh, Mum said to say hello, by the way, and is glad things are working out. She said to call her if you wanted to talk or to, you know, go for a drink.”
Frank was horrified. “Go for a drink?” he said, repeating the words back. “You don’t think she’s wanting to… get together again with me… do you?” he asked, aghast.
Before he even had the opportunity to digest the thought, Molly’s belly laugh all but answered the question for him.
“Ha-ha! Dad, you really crack me up. You are so precious!”
Frank shared the laugh and wiped an imaginary bead of sweat from his brow.
“There’s something I need to tell you, Molly,” he said. “Something else.”
Ordinarily, this would have sounded like a serious subject on its own, but on the basis they’d been laughing about his mortality only a few moments earlier, an inquisitive strain of her eyes is all he achieved. “Hmm?” was all she said.
“You know Stan and I went to the Isle of Man last year?” he ventured.
“Know about it?” scoffed Molly. “I felt like I was with you, the amount of times the two of you have spoken about it.”
The mere thought of the previous year made Frank’s eyes cloud over and stare up to the grease-smeared ceiling like a lovesick girl.
“I’ve bought a house in the Isle of Man,” said Frank, bracing himself for the verbal assault he expected he was about to receive.
Molly gave a bit of a start, but she quickly steadied herself. She rattled her fingers on the table as she ruminated on this new development, which Eric took as a prompt for service.
Her expression caused Eric to cease and desist, instantly.
She took a moment and allowed her eyes to study her father’s face. He was now blowing across the surface of his tea, carefully, before taking a sip.
“I think it’s a brilliant idea,” she offered, finally.
“You do?” said Frank, lowering his cup of tea.
“Of course,” said Molly. “I’ve seen what that place has done to you couple of tossers. You’ve been like children since you got back.”
“Oh, Molly. Thank you. I was so worried you’d be upset! The plan is, I’m going to live there all year – well, probably most – but we’ll need to keep an eye on the business.”
“We?” asked Molly, although she already knew the answer.
“Yes,” said Frank. “Guess who my housemate is going to be?”
“Ohh… let me guess, now. It’s got to be… Stella, am I right?” laughed Molly.
Frank shifted his mouth to one side of his face, in a comical we-are-not-amused fashion. “Stan has gone half on the cost of the house,” he explained.
“You two are going to be like the Odd Couple,” said Molly. “Are you not afraid people will think you two are… you know, what with Stan being… I mean… you know…?”
“I didn’t think of that one,” said Frank, rubbing the stubble on his chin in as rugged a manner as possible.
“You’ll need to be overtly masculine,” laughed Molly. “Butch it up as much as possible.”
“That should be no problem for me,” he said. “What with all this excess testosterone flowing through my veins. There’s so much of it, I don’t know what to do with it all!”
With that, he took up his cup once more, daintily, blowing gently on his tea again, still afraid to drink it, terrified he’d burn his delicate lips. He continued:
“This illness… this horribly shit thing inside of me… has made me take stock of things, to put things in perspective. I was never one for all that things-happen-for-a-reason nonsense, but this last year may just have converted my way of thinking.”
“How so?” asked Molly.
“I’d always wanted to go to the Isle of Man TT races, but never did. I kept putting it off. I’m not sure why. It’s not exactly far away, after all. Hell, you can virtually see the Isle of Man from our offices on a clear day,” Frank replied. “So, again, I don’t know why I put it off.”
He paused, thoughtfully.
“Anyway, If I hadn’t become ill, I would never have gone. It’s funny that my bucket list is the thing that’s given me a new lease of life. Honestly, Molly, the people I met over there, the things I’ve seen, have changed my life – and I genuinely believe that is the reason I’ve been able to fight this… thing… for as long as I have.”
Frank looked into his daughter’s eyes.
“You will come over and see me?” he asked.
“Of course I’ll come over. Why shouldn’t I? I really want to meet this Dave and Monty you keep going on about.” She smirked. “Plus,” she said, playing with her hair, “I might just find myself a sexy biker wearing tight leathers.”
“You may encounter some stiff competition on Stan’s end,” Frank told her with a chuckle. “When I suggested moving over, he already had the local estate agents on speed dial!”
“So then what are you going to do with the business?” asked Molly. “Oh, and the charity?”
Frank chewed his lips for a moment before answering. “We’ve given this a lot of thought, actually, and one of the options was to get a full-time manager into the taxi rank.”
“To manage Stella?” Molly put forward.
Frank nodded knowingly, and then sighed.
“Aye, therein lies the rub. Stella is pivotal to the business. She’s the only one who can keep the drivers in line, and she’s great for throwing drunks out of the office at night. If we got a manager in, they wouldn’t last five minutes looking after Stella. So, the only solution is to make her the manager, and cut her in for an ownership stake. After all, she’ll be the one running the business. Albeit, Stan and I are only seventy miles away and will come home a couple of weekends a month, you know, to keep an eye on things.”
“Mm-hmm,” Molly said, listening along.
“And, with the charity, Lee has been a godsend. He’s loving his work and run that smooth enough. He’s been looking to grow the charity to extend the remit of our assistance beyond Liverpool. His aim is to have Frank ’n’ Stan’s Food Stamps issued to the homeless all over the country, within three years.”
Molly nodded. “But, Stella. In charge? She could start a fight in an empty room.”
“She’ll be fine,” offered Frank, finally taking a tentative sip of his tea.
“What does she think about all this?” Molly asked.
Frank rested his head back and looked at the ceiling once more. “Yeahhh, about that,” he said slowly. “We’ve not told her we’re going yet, actually. She was the last one we were going to tell, erm… actually.”
“Dad. You’re going to have to tell her soon, you know!” Molly told him.
“I know, I know!” Frank whined pathetically. “You wouldn’t, er… you wouldn’t fancy telling her for me, would you? Em… by any strange twist of fate?”
“Not a chance!” replied Molly. “I’m quite fond of my face, and I want to retain these looks for as long as I can.”
“Ah, I don’t know what I’m so worried about,” Frank answered. “She’s just a gentle giant, that’s all she is. A gentle…”
Molly looked at him with comical scepticism, cocking her he
ad to one side.
“Ah, bugger. Yeah, I don’t believe it either,” Frank said with another sigh. “I’m just going to have to simply man up and tell her that we’re getting her to run the business, full-time. She’ll be fine with it, I’m sure.”
Molly was still giving him a look.
“I can do this! I can do this!” Frank said, building himself up. “I can…”
Frank trailed off, the folly of his bravado becoming clear.
“Get Stan to tell her?” offered Molly.
“Can’t,” Frank immediately replied. “Such was his own desire to not have to tell Stella, that… well, see, we didn’t factor in the legal fees for the new house, right? And so Stan offered to pay the nearly six-thousand pounds extra all by himself, in exchange for not having to, you know… *cough*… talk to Stella.”
Molly closed her eyes and shook her head in despair. “Not a pair of bollocks between you,” she said under her breath, not loud enough for her father to hear.
“Even now, though,” Frank continued, “I’m still not sure it was a good deal.”
“Dad, for fucksake, if you’re brave enough to eat that bacon butty, you’re brave enough to speak with Stella! Look,” she said, standing. “I have to be somewhere in ten minutes, so…” she said, crouching over to give her dad a kiss. “I’ll pop around to see you at the weekend. I’m glad you’re feeling positive about this. And the move to the Isle of Man? It’s the right one.”
As the door chimed above her head, giving her a start once again, she took a final glance over her shoulder and smiled. “Dad,” she said. “I’ll tell Mum that you’d love to take her out for a meal and a drink, yeah?”
“You bloody won’t, or I’ll throw this bread at you!” Frank called back to her, playfully.
Frank sat with a simple grin. He knew the meeting with Molly could have gone either way. She was prone to stamping her feet like a spoilt brat at times, so, on balance, it was a fantastic result. And the fact she was covering her knockers up to the paying public was an added bonus as well.
“I’m okay,” said Frank, placing the palm of his hand over the top of his mug. But Eric wasn’t trying to refill Frank’s mug. Nor was he listening. He stood there with a faraway look on his face, and he ran his fingers through his hair. The grease from his hands gave his hair a healthy sheen that women would pay a fortune for if bottled up and marketed.
“Can I help, Eric?” asked Frank. “Eric?”
“I, eh, heard you talking about Stella?” Eric said, finally, snapping out of his reverie.
Frank tilted his head. “I did.”
“Wonderful lady,” said Eric, with a little too much enthusiasm for Frank’s comfort.
“Ah,” said Frank with a flicker of faint recollection. He’d tried to put it out of his mind, of course. Nearly succeeded, too. Until now, unfortunately. “You and her, you had a, em… moment, didn’t you? Last year, as I recall?”
Eric’s eyes floated like an empty crisp packet on the breeze. “It was one of the best nights of my life,” said Eric Fryer wistfully. “Truly wonderful, it was, like something from a Hollywood film.”
Frank went to speak but the words – any words – temporarily evaded him.
He thought for a moment longer, allowing Eric a further brief indulgence, before speaking. “Hang on, I thought you told me you’d bought her a can of Coke, and in return received a hand-job around the back of Tesco’s? Eric, that’s not exactly up there with Casablanca or Brief Encounter.”
Eric threw a look of abject scorn in Frank’s direction. It was delivered with the venom of a man who was about to ride into battle to defend the honour of the woman he loved.
“Right. I’ll just have you know, Frank,” Eric advanced, finger prodded on the grubby table. “That it was a can of Lilt. She’s got a tropical side to her, that girl, like a coconut, she does. Also, it was indeed a very Brief Encounter, as it happened, but only because I’d been without the love of a good woman for a long while,” he said indignantly. “Not that that’s any of your business, mind you,” he added.
“There’s probably less surface hair on a coconut,” smirked Frank, but his comic genius washed right over Eric.
“Anyway,” said Frank, reaching for his coat. “As much as I enjoy these nostalgic reminisces about your love life, I should get going.”
“Here, you’re not eating your bacon sandwich?” asked Eric, now wounded, his bombast instantly fading away.
Frank looked at the table and then back to Eric. “No, Eric. The bread is stale, and the bacon is that rare it’s still reciting its lines with James Cromwell from Babe: Pig in the City. So, no. I’m not eating it.”
“Alright, Frank, fair enough,” replied Eric, suddenly jolly. “Four pound, please,” he said cheerfully.
“For what?” asked Frank.
“Breakfast, of course,” responded Eric. “Fryer’s Café is not a charity-type establishment, my good fellow,” he continued, hand extended to receive payment. “I’m running a business here. And a fine business, at that.”
“What?” Frank protested. “That’s not breakfast, Eric,” he said, pointing at the table. “Seriously, mate. I’d need a pneumatic drill to get through that bread!”
But Eric remained unmoved. “Aye, it’s hearty, it is. Good bread!” was his answer. And his hand was still held out for payment.
“Bloody hell,” replied Frank, reaching for a five-pound note. “I’m starting to see why Molly doesn’t want to come here,” he said. “Keep the change,” he added, with little enthusiasm, as he marched towards the door.
As the bell chimed above his head, Frank felt Eric’s firm hand on his shoulder.
“Ah, so you’re giving me a refund?” Frank asked with a tinge of optimism.
Eric laughed for a moment. “No, of course not,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Don’t be daft. Look, now seriously,” he continued. “Will you… will you put a word in for me? With Stella? I know, a woman like her, she could have her pick of men, as sure as I’m standing here. But I’d treat her right.”
Frank went to move but the hand on his shoulder became firmer.
“I’ll treat her like the lady she is,” Eric went on. “Honestly, I would.”
Sensing Eric was serious, and that his agreement was the only way he’d avoid further grease coverage on his jacket, Frank reluctantly agreed.
“Sure, mate. Of course,” he said, examining his shoulder (which now had a smear like he’d been attacked by a slug). “I’ll be sure to tell her that you’ll treat her like the lady she is.”
Once released, Frank was pleased to step into the fresh air, and his shoulders shuddered at the thought of Eric and Stella together. “Can of Lilt,” he said aloud, with a chuckle and a further shuddering of the shoulders. “Fucking hell.”
The troubling thought was fortunately overridden by the vibration in his pocket. He rummaged for his phone and answered in his chirpiest tone. He examined the handpiece when no answer was forthcoming – a process he repeated twice more before he realised that the vibration was an alarm rather than a call.
The reminder alerted him to take his tablets – which was ordinarily a reminder of his current predicament in the health department. Today, however, he took the tablets from his breast pocket with a cheery willingness. He stared at the writing and numerous warnings about side effects – which he’d never bothered to read – and smiled, once again equating the pills to his current situation. Instead of being acutely aware of his own mortality and a reason to be full of self-pity, these pills and this illness had opened up a new chapter in his life, one that he’d be sharing with his oldest friend.
“I’m moving to the Isle of Man,” he sang aloud, to the bemusement of those waiting patiently at the bus stop. “I’m moving to the Isle of Man,” he repeated, smiling warmly at those looking back.
Frank popped the pills in his mouth and ventured up the street, with a periodic hop and a skip that Fred Astaire would have been most proud of.
Chapter Three
Y ou need to tell her,” said Frank, slumped back in his leather chair. “It’s no good pretending you’re busy in here,” he continued, waving his hand as if swatting a fly. “If you’re going to move the goalposts, then you need to man up.”
Stan leaned into the compact mirror rested on the edge of his desk, directing the flossing string through his teeth with the precision of a concert violinist.
“It’s important to floss,” replied Stan.
“You could just take your teeth out and floss them,” suggested Frank. “It’d be quicker.”
“Just because I like to look after myself, Frank. And, also, they’re veneers,” Stan corrected his friend, rubbing his tongue against the front of his teeth with satisfaction. “Bloody expensive veneers, as well.”
Stan’s preening continued, with a gentle hand over his blow-dried mane of wispy hair. “Do you like my hair this colour?” asked Stan.
Frank took his feet off his desk and shifted his balance forward. “And what colour is it now?” asked Frank. “It’s what, beginning of March? And you’ve changed your hair colour more times than I’ve changed my underpants.”
“I forget,” replied Stan, moving his head closer to the mirror for further inspection. “I think it had the word vibrant in it. Perhaps, vibrant ginger? Or something like that.”
“It goes well with the fake tan,” said Frank.
“I should do something with that mop on top of your head, Frank. If you let me loose on what you’ve got left up there, I’d get rid of that grey for you and make you look ten years younger.”
“I’m not sure I–” Frank began.
“Now you’re single and back on the market, Frank…” Stan carried on, undaunted, “… we need to give you every advantage, because, well, the truth of it is, at the minute, I don’t rate your chances.”
“The grey is distinguished,” Frank protested, although somewhat unconvincingly. “Anyway, stop avoiding it. Go and tell Stella that we’ve bought a house in the Isle of Man.”
