Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #2: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and sublimely funny - one to put a huge smile on your face!

by J C Williams

  “I will,” said Stan. “Only not just now. She’s busy, getting ready for an appointment.”

  Even though there was a wall between them and Stella, Stan had lowered his voice to a whisper and rode his chair closer to Frank. Stan took a cautious look over his shoulder to make sure she wasn’t looking at them through the glass portal window which divided their office from the taxi waiting room, where Stella ruled with an iron fist. Satisfied it was clear, Stan moistened his lips to continue.

  “Stella,” Stan whispered. “Has got a lunch date.”

  “With a man?” asked Frank immediately.

  “Yes, with a man!” replied Stan, after a further check over his shoulder. “As opposed to what?”

  “It’s not Eric Fryer from the café, is it?” asked Frank, suddenly feeling ill. It could’ve been the thought of that horrible bacon sarnie, or it could have been the image come to mind of Eric and Stella becoming overly familiar. Likely, it was a combination of both. Frank rubbed his upset belly, willing the contents of his stomach to remain in his stomach.

  “No,” Stan told him. “It’s some bloke she met on a dating website, actually. He’s in the armed forces, and he’s in the country on leave, apparently. They’ve been speaking for weeks now and getting up to all sorts of–”

  “Stop,” commanded Frank. “Seriously. Stop. Look, em…” he said. “I don’t intend this to come across as it may sound – well, perhaps I do – but has this poor fellow seen her picture? It’s just, I recall she did similar last year, and she had her profile picture set as Brigitte Nielsen.”

  “Apparently so,” said Stan. “Seen her true picture, I mean.”

  “And he still fancies her?” Frank asked, perplexed. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound cruel. But… I’m just trying to work this out… he still fancies her?”

  “And she must really like him,” Stan went on. “As she paid for his flight to get here.”

  “What? She’s told you all this?” asked Frank.

  Stan shook his head from side to side. “Stella? Of course she bloody hasn’t. She’s not exactly the sort of person to open up about her personal life.”

  “Then, how–?” inquired Frank.

  “I read an email over her shoulder,” Stan replied with a naughty grin. “How else?”

  “Eric Fryer won’t be pleased,” offered Frank. “And he’s really seen her picture, this fellow?” Frank asked, repeating himself. But Stan was now distracted by peering through the glass porthole.

  “She’s putting makeup on,” said Stan, like a proud father watching his daughter getting ready for her prom date. “Aww, all joking apart, Frank. I do hope this goes well for her. She’s been quite light-hearted this last couple of weeks, have you noticed?”

  “Has she?” replied Frank. “I hadn’t–”

  “Relatively speaking, of course,” Stan clarified.

  “Ah,” Frank answered.

  “So perhaps a bit of romance is just what she needs to mellow her out a little bit? Plus, with her mood elevated, it might make telling her that we’re buggering off and leaving her in charge a little more, I dunno… palatable?”

  “But he’s truly seen her picture, this fellow?” Frank asked yet again.

  “Shit, she’s coming!” said Stan, darting back to his desk. As the door opened, Stan mashed at the keyboard on his computer, like a teenager caught watching porn by his mum.

  “Stella. You look nice,” said Stan as casually as possible.

  Stella had on her trademark black leggings – which were, of course, stretched out a little further than the manufacturer would have intended. They were tucked into a pair of ominous-looking leather boots that appeared as if they’d been retrieved from a corpse in a Mad Max movie. Her simple brown t-shirt had an image of two fingers, either side of her chest, pointing towards her generous bosom, with the caption emblazoned across them: If these were brains, I’d be a freakin’ genius!

  In other words, her attire was, by Stella standards, quite tasteful.

  “Going anywhere nice?” asked Frank innocently, but Stella didn’t offer the courtesy of a response. She reached her hand into the front of her trousers and rummaged until she retrieved her packet of cigarettes.

  “I’m going out,” said Stella flatly, lighting a fag. “Susie’s in covering me, so you couple of massive shitgibbons stay out of her way. Especially you, Frank,” she said with an accusing stare, backed up with a firm finger of suspicion.

  “Wait, what?” asked Frank. “What the hell have I done?” he pleaded, but Stella was not for distracting and left, leaving a choking trail of tobacco and perfume behind.

  “But what’ve I done?” asked Frank again, to no one at all.

  “We should go out for lunch,” announced Stan after a few moments. “We could go to that coffee shop on the main street, you know, the one opposite that new burger restaurant.”

  “What’s this? You’ve never asked me out for lunch,” Frank answered him. “Not once. Never.”

  “Well, then,” said Stan, grabbing his coat. “It’s very much overdue, isn’t it? Come on, you massive shitgibbon. Let’s go.”

  “What’ve I bloody done??” pleaded Frank.

  Stan laughed in reply.

  Frank was, in fact, eager to get away from the smell in the office and agreed to a free lunch with little resistance. “We should tell Susie that we’re going out,” he said to Stan. “I’m going to suggest that it’s better coming from you, though. Since I’m not sure what it is exactly I’ve done?”

  Stan only laughed at him again in response, which made Frank wonder all the more what he might possibly be guilty of.

  “Why are we sat outside?” asked Frank, zipping his jacket up. “It’s bloody brass monkeys. We should be sat inside.”

  “Nonsense,” replied Stan, stirring his coffee. “A bit of bracing air will do you the world of good. Have your coffee, that’ll warm your cockles.”

  Frank narrowed his eyes with suspicion. “You’ve never worried about my cockles before. First it’s free lunch, and now my cockles. What’s this all about?” he asked, but it was clear that Stan was looking straight through him. “Stan?”

  Stan’s head was angled to one side, his focus taken by events across the main street.

  Frank twisted his neck like an owl and followed Stan’s line of sight.

  “Cover your bloody face!” shouted Stan. “Here, use this menu,” he offered. “A useless spy you’d make, Frank,” he admonished.

  “Well I didn’t know we were on a stakeout, now did I? Who is it we’re–? Oh, you big soft old bugger,” said Frank, suddenly catching on. He’d been unsure what surveillance operation they were on until he clapped eyes on a head covered in a tight perm surrounded by a cloud of smoke – prompting Frank to immediately seek cover behind the proffered menu.

  “I’m certain I don’t know what you’re on about,” protested Stan in mock ignorance. “I just wanted to take my oldest buddy out for a coffee and a bite to eat. Can’t I even take my–?”

  “She’s a grown woman,” responded Frank. “And she can seriously look after herself. Better than you or I, in fact.”

  “I know she can,” Stan said eventually, conceding his obvious true intentions. His gaze across the street remained unwavering, however. “I just don’t want to see her getting hurt, or hooking up with some absolute psychopath,” he admitted. Stan turned to Frank. “Do you know what I mean, Frank?” he said, and his eyes betrayed genuine concern.

  Frank nodded. “I certainly do, me old mate. And I think that it’s nice that you care like you do. It warms my cockles.”

  “Told you,” Stan answered him with a discreet chuckle (because they were, after all, on a stakeout).

  The pair of them sat outside that coffee shop, freezing their bollocks off for the next forty-five minutes. The muscles in Frank’s neck had given up the ghost twenty minutes or so earlier, so to continue his surveillance he had to sit snugly next to Stan. To those passing by, the two of them likel
y would’ve looked very much like intimate lovers enjoying a coffee date – albeit a slightly odd sort of date, what with them both peering intently, off into the distance, over the top of their shop menus.

  “I’m getting hypothermia,” said Frank. “I don’t think I can feel my feet anymore. Is that the first sign?”

  “You’re confusing hypothermia with frostbite,” Stan responded. “And they’re still there, at the bottom of your legs where they’ve always been,” he said, kicking out at Frank’s feet for good measure. “Here. Do you feel that?”

  “Feel what? Ouch, that hurt! No, I can’t feel a thing, actually,” came Frank’s reply.

  “Dementia, most likely, is my prognosis,” Stan said. “Though of course I’m not a doctor.”

  “That really hurt,” Frank complained. “Through the numbness and lack of feeling, I mean.”

  “Do you get the impression that Stella’s date is running late?” Stan asked, getting back to the subject at hand. “She’s been sitting there alone this whole time.”

  Frank gave his old pal a sympathetic glance. “Stan, I hate to say it, but maybe the guy’s shown up, seen Stella – in the flesh, as it were – and continued on his way, forthwith.”

  Stan’s head dropped. “Maybe, Frank. Maybe. I hope not, for Stella’s sake. Let’s give it another half hour and we’ll call it a day, okay?”

  Two more cups of coffee were had, a pork pie for Frank, and a cucumber sandwich for Stan, and a half hour had turned into an hour and a half – with still no sign of a man in uniform at Stella’s table across the way. Frank and Stan, on the other hand, were cosied into each other for warmth, enhancing their appearance of being an adoring couple.

  “What’s she doing now?” asked Stan, straining his eyes.

  “She’s got her head in her hands,” replied Frank.

  Stan pushed his chair back and stood up. “Right, then. Come on, let’s see to her,” said Stan, beginning his march across the street without so much as looking back.

  “Slow down, Stan!” Frank replied, hobbling after. “There’s no blood left in my feet,” he said, whinging. “The circulation’s completely gone…”

  “Nothing a good amputation won’t sort out,” Stan assured him. “Now come on!”

  The pair of would-be spies navigated the street, weaving their way through busy traffic – resulting in several horns tooted and a handful of two-finger salutes. A waiter stood at the doorway of the burger restaurant with a concerned – or possibly frightened – expression on his face, as he glanced back inside, apparently unsure what to do.

  “We’ve got this,” said Stan to the waiter.

  Stella had her head placed on her hands, which were planted on the table. She’d have looked like a child at primary school having a nap if it were not for her outsized form and the spine-chilling wailing noise emanating from her person.

  Frank and Stan approached Stella with purpose, from opposite ends of her table – safer that way – and sat down next to her on either side. Stella raised her head briefly and broke down in tears when she caught sight of them. They both leaned into Stella’s substantial frame and shared a rare moment of tenderness with her.

  “I’ve… been… a… complete… dickhead,” sobbed Stella, the tears now flowing uncontrollably. “I thought he really liked me,” she said, as Frank and Stan held onto her.

  The waiter signalled to his colleague, assuring him there was no need to phone the authorities regarding the mad scary woman.

  “Come on, Stella,” Stan said softly. “Let’s get you back to the office.”

  Stella sat in Frank’s chair, sucking the very life out of a cigarette.

  “If you mention any of this, I’ll remove your bollocks with rusty shears,” she said, their shared moment of tenderness well and truly left behind.

  “We won’t say anything,” Stan assured her. “So what happened to your date, anyway?”

  “Who said anything about a date?” she replied, steely-eyed.

  “What?” asked Frank. “So why were you sat outside the restaurant for nearly three freezing-cold hours?” Frank knew immediately, as soon as he said it, that he’d put his frozen foot right in it.

  “And how would you lot even know I was there?” growled Stella.

  Frank backpedalled. “I, erm, drove past earlier and noticed you – by pure coincidence – and when I drove past again later… again, by pure coincidence… you were, em… still there?” he offered unconvincingly, fooling no one.

  Stella’s eyes continued to bore into Frank’s, mercilessly, but then, suddenly, she completely deflated.

  “I met a man on the internet,” she said, all her piss and vinegar depleted. “And he was supposed to meet me today. Only he didn’t.”

  “Maybe he was just late? Or got the wrong day?” suggested Stan in an effort to massage her ego back to life.

  Stella raised her eyes skyward. “No, I’ve been stitched up like a kipper,” she said. “I’ve already paid over three thousand pounds to this guy as he said he couldn’t afford his flights. He texted me when I was sat there, with some bullshit story about his flight being cancelled and that he needed another two thousand pound sent over to him. I’ve been such a tit,” she said, her shame now turning to anger. “I’ve sent some bloody thieving, lying bastard over three thousand pounds! And I had to borrow that three thousand pounds from my sister, as well!” she exclaimed, smashing her fists into the desk.

  “We… might be able to help you out with that, actually,” Frank proposed, taking a position of safety near to the main door.

  “What?” barked Stella. “You’ll find him and kill him for me? I can do that myself!”

  “No. With the money,” replied Frank. “We’ll give you the three thousand pounds back,” he told her, waving his hand between him and Stan for, presumably, illustrative purposes.

  “And why exactly would you do that?” she asked suspiciously, but pulling herself together well enough, at this point, to light another fag.

  “Yes,” said Stan, echoing her words. “And why exactly would we do that?”

  Frank moved forward a pace, feeling it safe enough now to do so.

  “Look, Stella,” he began. “We’ve got something to tell you and it may come as a bit of a surprise.” Frank took up a breath, before continuing. “Me-and-Stan-have-bought-a-house-in-the-Isle-of-Man-and-we’re-moving-over-there,” he rattled off on the exhale, without stopping.

  “Whassis?” Stella replied, eying him queerly.

  “This is a gesture of our goodwill,” Frank told her.

  “It is?” Stan said, interjecting. And, then, giving in, “This is a gesture of our goodwill,” he said, repeating Frank’s words with a shrug.

  “As well as a pay rise,” Frank continued. “And a share of the business if you’ll run things for us.”

  All that was missing from his delivery was a roly-poly and a couple of jazz hands to conclude.

  Stella looked at Frank through the corner of her eye. “So let me be sure I’m clear on this. You’ll be giving me a three-thousand-pound up-front bonus, a pay rise, and a share of the business?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Frank confirmed.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Stan reiterated, not wishing to be left out and not given credit.

  “How much of a share?” Stella enquired.

  “Two percent,” offered Frank, who looked at Stan for approval.

  “Ten percent,” countered Stella, fag hanging from her bottom lip.

  “Five!” replied Frank, once again looking at Stan, who had abruptly distanced himself from this negotiation.

  “Seven!” panicked Frank, talking the figure up further even though Stella hadn’t responded to the previous offer.

  “Done!” snapped Stella, spitting in her palm before reaching out her chubby hand to cement the deal.

  Frank smiled. “So, you’re not upset that we’re going?”

  “Why the hell should I be upset?” Stella answered. “I’ve known this for d
ays. Molly told me when she came in looking for you,” she said, looking at Frank. “And the sooner you two Bellend Boys are gone, the better, as far as I’m concerned!”

  “So you knew we were going all along?” asked Stan, glaring over at a suddenly-gone-quiet Frank.

  “Yup,” said Stella. “But the cash will come in very handy, as will the seven percent. Of course, I’d have settled for the two percent,” she told him. “But he,” she said, pointing at Frank. “Is shit at negotiating. And I knew I could get him up. Besides,” she added, “… you two have been about as much bloody use as a packet of rubber nails around here lately.”

  “Well done, Frank,” said Stan. “Well done. I’ll be the chief negotiator of this team from now on.” He turned to Stella. “Anyway, Stella, we’ll be back most weekends, so you don’t need to worry.”

  “Why would I worry? I’m not worried,” she said, placing her packet of fags back into the darkest recess down the front of her trousers. “In fact, I’m quite looking forward to it.”

  “Great,” interjected Frank, finding his voice once again. “Now all that’s sorted, Stanley, we can get the boat booked!” Then he remembered something. “Oh, Stella, one more thing,” he added. “Aside from spying on you with Stan – looking out for you, I mean – what’s this nonsense about something I’ve done? What have I done?” He implored pathetically.

  “Jesus, Frank, are you still–? She’s just having a–” Stan began.

  Stella stared hard at Frank. “You know full well what you’ve done, you great wazzock. You know.”

  Frank turned to Stan for aid.

  “Don’t ask me,” Stan laughed. “This is your problem you’ve gotten yourself into. I certainly can’t get you out of it.”

  Frank was left both helpless and nonplussed.

  “Well, then,” Stan said with finality. “That’s everything sorted, isn’t it!”

  “But–” Frank protested, to no avail.

  “Right. So,” Stan continued, smiling with some satisfaction. “I’ll let Dave and Monty know that we’re all sorted and we’re on our way! I can’t wait to see those two lovely knobs again!”