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

  Susie tried to smile encouragingly, but, given what she’d just heard, her expression came out more like she had trapped wind. Even that, however, disappeared from her face quicker than Stella’s pork pie when she spotted one of Stella’s pens that’d somehow made its way over to Susie’s side of the desk. Fortunately, Stella’s attention was taken by a ringing phone, allowing the pen to be returned to the correct side of the desk and sparing Susie from a potential headlock or other form of unpleasantness. Aside from that, unwanted images of stolen undergarments were, mercifully, removed from Susie’s mind as the main door to the office burst open and a figure appeared.

  “How do, ladies?” crooned Lee in a soft Irish drawl, holding a single red rose in each hand, peering over the countertop. “How are the two best-looking taxi operators in the entire county doing today?” he went on. “And you, Susie. When are you going to make an honest man out of me, my dear?” he asked, handing over one of the red roses to her.

  Susie giggled like a schoolgirl, wafting her hand like she was swatting an imaginary fly. “Oh, Lee. You’re full of it. Still, I will take that rose,” she told him, having a sniff of the floral gift.

  Lee slid up the counter like a drunk moving in on another pint. He rested his chin on the counter and looked down on Stella at her desk with puppy-dog eyes. Stella was immune to his charm – or utter bollocks as she liked to call it. Lee, undeterred, made the outline of a heart with his fingers, staring over like a lovesick horse peering out of its stable.

  Stella ended her call with professionalism, taking a moment to raise her middle finger dutifully and offering it in Lee’s general direction.

  Undeterred, Lee handed over the other rose to her. “I brought you this, dear Stella. And I feel compelled to say, its beauty is matched only by–”

  “The fuck do you want?” asked Stella, her middle finger remaining resolute.

  Lee feigned a look of shock, as if this sort of behaviour from Stella were something completely unexpected. “Frank and Stan in?” he enquired, peering through the porthole window.

  “They’re gone to the Isle of Man, Lee,” said Susie, with rather more civility. “I think they’re exchanging contracts on their new house.”

  “What?” said Lee, marching over to their office to confirm their absence for himself. “I thought they were going tomorrow,” he said, dejected, placing a carrier bag on the floor.

  “I’m management,” said Stella, resting her mug on the countertop – logo clearly present – to confirm her stature. “Shareholder, yeah? Just like it says,” she told him, tapping the relevant bit with her fingernail.

  “Thanks, Stella, but it’s to do with the charity, not the taxi business. Balls, I really need to talk to them about something. Well done on the ownership, by the way. Good on ya,” Lee said, opening the office door, hoping Frank and Stan might actually be inside there yet, perhaps only in hiding.

  Stella held her attention a little longer than expected in Lee’s direction. Susie didn’t miss a trick, and was straight onto this, raising one eyebrow in her colleague’s direction – resulting in a distinct reddening of Stella’s cheeks and a coarse rebuff.

  Lee cleaned up well, it must be said. It was impressive what not living on the streets could do for a man. His gut had disappeared as a result of eating a healthy diet, and he looked fresher from not sleeping in a wheelie bin. Overall, a bed, a flat, and a job had really perked Lee up. (And had certainly perked up his arse as well, if Stella’s staring was any indication, what with her eyes gorging themselves on it as they were.)

  Having been on the streets for so long and coming out the other side had really spurred Lee on in the charity work. Largely a result of his diligence, Frank and Stan’s Food Stamps had gone from strength to strength. There was plenty of money in the bank to cover it, and an ever-expanding army of volunteers, eager to deliver assistance to the homeless, spreading out across the country. Also, their sponsorship of Dave and Monty at the previous TT had worked wonders for the charity, and whilst their team hadn’t finished the race, they were plastered all over the national press due to their gallantry. The publicity the charity received from sponsoring them was priceless.

  “What’s with that carrier bag, Lee?” Stella queried, now in a standing position and hands on her hips. “And what are you doing carrying your empty coffee mug around with you? You do realise you’re not homeless anymore?”

  Lee’s shoulders dropped. He knew from Stella’s question that Frank and Stan had bottled it. “Those two didn’t say anything to you, then?” asked Lee.

  Stella didn’t speak, just shook her head gravely, side-to-side, ever so slowly.

  “Bastards,” Lee spat out, slapping the wooden doorframe. “Those couple of bloody cowards promised me that they’d told you and it was all alright.”

  “What all was alright?” enquired Stella, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  Lee sighed. “The Chuckle Brothers–” Lee began.

  “You mean the Bellend Boys?” suggested Stella.

  “If you like,” said Lee. “Yes. They told me that I was okay working from here and that they’d cleared it with you. Look, Stella,” he pleaded with her, all his previous swagger well and truly having deserted him by now, and taking a breath before continuing. “I won’t get in your way, honestly, and I promise that once a day I’ll–”

  “It’s fine,” Stella commented.

  “–make the tea, and then…” Lee stopped speaking, looking to Susie with confusion, and then back to Stella. “It’s fine?” he said, repeating Stella’s words back to her.

  “It’s fine,” remarked Stella once more. “Whatevs.”

  Lee and Susie both stood there, hesitant to react, and waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it never did, and they had no choice but to take Stella’s words at face value.

  With Lee’s confidence restored, and his ego inflated back to optimal level, there was a melodic lilt to his voice once more. “Besides,” crooned Lee. “You two couple of lovely ladies could probably do with a man about the house, so to speak, especially after the robbery last year, yeah?”

  Stella laughed (or cleared tar from her throat – they sounded essentially the same). By the time her bum had touched the leather of her chair, she’d retrieved one knuckle duster, a miniature baseball bat, and what appeared to be some sort of small, portable mediaeval torture device.

  Lee goggled at the items on display, unsure what to make of them.

  “If you’re ever going to borrow an umbrella,” she said. “Don’t take that one,” she told him, pointing to the corner of the room. “It’s a sword.”

  He stared back at her, confused.

  “Let me put it to you like this, Lee. If anyone came in here to try and rob me again, I’d bloody well castrate them.” She wasn’t joking when she said this. She was dead serious. “Don’t worry, I’ve got things well and truly under control,” she said, stroking the mysterious-looking torture device affectionately.

  Lee retreated into the office like a frightened hermit crab, wondering if the innocent-looking umbrella was indeed a lethal weapon.

  Lee took a final glance through the porthole, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps to make sure Stella wasn’t in pursuit? But that was entirely irrational – after all, why should she be? He reasoned the arsenal on her desk must have spooked him more than he first realised.

  He hadn’t walked two paces away from the window when he spotted a handwritten note on Stan’s desk, obviously written by Stan, as Stan had the better handwriting of the two:

  Lee made himself comfortable in Stan’s chair, placing his foot on the corner of the desk for good measure. He rolled up the note with a grin. “Bloody jellyfish,” he said, lobbing the paper expertly into the nearby bin. He reached into his trouser pocket, placing the piece of A4 paper he retrieved therein onto the table, flattening it out, and considering what he saw printed upon it. After a moment of deliberation, he dialled a number and placed it onto speakerphone:

 
Frank:Hello, this is Frank.

  Lee:Frank, it’s Lee. I’m phoning from your office.

  Frank:Ah, are you okay? Are you still in one piece?

  Lee:Yes, no thanks to you two.

  Frank:Yeah, sorry about that, but, you know, we’re cowards. So… yeah. Hope you’re settling in?

  Lee:All good, thanks. Look, where are you two?

  Frank:Just on the way to the airport. We’re exchanging contracts on the new house later. Is everything okay?

  Lee:All good, Frank. This guy I met who’s an estate agent was talking about the Isle of Man and knew I worked with you. He’d read about the TT sponsorship you did last year.

  Frank:Okay…?

  Lee:There’s a property being auctioned tomorrow and it looks pretty special. Apparently it’s smack bang in one of the fastest parts of the TT run. The views are to die for. Not literally, of course, but you know what I–

  Frank:You do know we’re about to buy a house already?

  Lee:I know. But this house I mention isn’t for you.

  Frank:Lee, are you absolutely certain Stella hasn’t smacked you over the head several times? Because, if you had a head injury, you wouldn’t necessarily know it. And you’re not making much sense.

  Lee:I’m fine. This house is derelict. It’s in a desperate state and needs to be gutted. But it’s huge, see? It was used as some sort of hostel, previously.

  Frank:No, I don’t see. Lee, what are you banging on about? Why would that interest us?

  Lee:It’s up for auction and this guy thinks it’ll go cheap, right? I know how much you love the Isle of Man so wondered if you wanted to do something, you know, from the charity angle. It’s got a load of farmland attached, so–

  Frank:I don’t think there are many homeless people in the Isle of Man, Lee.

  Lee:I know. I wasn’t thinking for housing them. But maybe some sort of rehabilitation or something?

  Frank: …

  Lee:You know what? Forget it. Sorry, Frank, it’s a stupid idea. Don’t worry yourself over it.

  Frank:No, no, Lee, thanks for this. I was just thinking. Can you scan the details over in an email and I’ll take a look? I’m not sure what we could use it for just yet, but if it’s as good as you say it is then it’s certainly worth a butcher’s. Besides, we’ll have some time to kill while we’re on the Island. Right, we’re pulling up to the airport presently, Lee. So I’ll be sure we stay in touch. Oh, Lee. Lee, one thing…

  Lee:Does it involve Stella?

  Frank:No. Well, yes. In a way. The umbrella by the door? Don’t touch it, yeah? It nearly took my hand clean off.

  Lee eased himself back into the seat and admired the rolling Manx hillside on the estate agent’s handout. It did look impressive, and Lee could see himself, quite comfortably, as landed gentry on this sprawling estate. As far as turnarounds go, eating from a skip a few months earlier to landed gentry was something out of a movie, or even a book. It was always good to dream, and that’s exactly what he did, closing his eyes, imagining the country air ruffling his hair as a voluptuous farm girl kicked the barn door to one side, demanding that Lee immediately–

  There was the sound of a throat clearing. Alas, it was not that of the farm girl.

  “Shit!” said Lee, jumping out of the chair like he’d been electrocuted. He rubbed his eyes. “How long have you been stood there, Stella?” he asked. “You’re not armed, are you?”

  “Only with a cuppa,” she said, placing a cup of tea on his desk before him, as well as one of her precious KitKats.

  Lee’s eyes darted over the items, looking to see if it was some sort of trap being laid, but they looked innocuous enough.

  “Thank you,” he said. “That’s… very kind.”

  “Yeah well don’t get a swelled head or nuthin’ and expect this every time,” Stella replied, and leaving him to it. As she exited the office, a rattled Lee was left checking his underpants for seepage, owing to the dramatic manner in which he was awakened. Stella was certainly more effective, in her way, than was his alarm clock.

  “Lee,” called Stella, poking her head back through the door.

  “Yuuuursss,” Lee responded, now expecting the punchline.

  “You’re taking me out for a drink,” she said. “You decide when and where, but I’m free on Friday night.” This wasn’t an invitation but rather more a statement of fact. “Right,” she said in closing, the matter settled.

  Lee’s eyes shifted around the office like he were looking for salvation, or, more likely, an escape route. There was none. He took a slug of tea and nodded his head. “Eh, right ho, Stella. A drink it is. Do you mean like a date?”

  Stella shrugged her unnaturally broad shoulders. “Call it whatever you like, but if you’re calling it a date, be warned that Stella doesn’t put out on the first,” Stella told him, chuckling to herself at the last statement and giving him a wink, leaving Lee to reflect, or to quite possibly phone a travel agent.

  “What the fuck?” he asked rhetorically once the door was closed and when sure the coast was clear. He slapped himself several times, wondering if in fact he might still be in the land of slumber and just dreamt – or nightmared – the last conversation.

  But he was indeed awake, and he had to face the truth of it.

  “I’m going on a date with Stella? Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph. I’m going on a date with Stella.”

  Chapter Seven

  F rank and Stan had a spring in their step walking into the airport terminal. They were evidently proud of the charity they’d set up, what with the huge logo on each of their matching navy polo shirts.

  “We’re buying a house in the Isle of Man,” said Frank, beaming ear to ear, and saying it aloud to convince himself it was actually happening and not just a fantasy. “I only wish we’d gotten the boat over, like last time. I really enjoyed that.”

  “This is certainly a new experience,” agreed Stan, pulling documents from a plastic wallet. “We’ll get the boat next time, though,” he promised, as if placating an excitable child (which, essentially, he was).

  “Where are you flying to today, sir?” asked the check-in lady accommodatingly, the check-in lady sporting nearly as much tan as Stan himself (though hers appeared to be, in fact, genuine).

  “Isle of Man!” replied Frank on Stan’s behalf, appearing eagerly from the rear. “We’re buying a holiday home over there!” he explained, despite no explanation being required.

  “Excellent,” replied Shelly (that is, as evidenced by her name badge). “And will this be your first time visiting the Island?” she asked amiably.

  It was a question asked as a matter of routine, simply as a pleasantry, one would expect. For those unfortunate enough to find themselves in the queue behind Frank and Stan, however, this would result in a good ten minutes added to their wait time in that queue, with Frank jumping into action relaying their previous year’s experience of Dave and Monty, the TT races, and so forth. Such was the passion in Frank’s voice that Shelly – good-natured soul that she was – was drawn in. Much to the frustration of those stood behind.

  One gentleman, in particular, was exceptionally effective in letting his frustration be known, coughing at regular intervals, and tapping his watch on several occasions. After one final strategic cough, Shelly relented and reluctantly ushered the two eager travellers on their way. “Have a safe trip!” she bade them. “And I’ll be looking out for Dave and Minty at the TT!”

  “Monty,” Frank corrected her kindly, smiling and waving his boarding pass.

  “About bloody time,” said the coughing man. He tapped his watch once more, for good measure, so all could see that his time was valuable and important. He was well-dressed, with neatly-pressed slacks, polished shoes, and dark hair slicked back. A navy blazer hung over the handle of the travel bag at his feet.

  “I’ve somewhere to be,” the man said, throwing a look of callous disapproval.

  Though Frank had a very low tolerance for pompous gits, he nevertheless disliked
causing offence and preferred to settle matters in as polite a manner as he could whenever at all possible (he was, after all, British) and so turned to offer his apologies and lament on the cause of their excitement.

  As he looked the man in the eye to speak, he failed to notice the fellow’s bag stood at knee height.

  “Sorry about that,” said Frank. “As I was just telling young Shelly here–”

  But Frank’s tale was cut short by him stumbling on the travel bag, sending it forth with a sharp kick. The man’s blazer, after a short travel through the air, came to rest unceremoniously in a crumpled heap, sending the sunglasses formerly stored in its breast pocket sliding along the floor.

  The commotion caused an inquisitive Stan to step forward, but his progress was halted by the sickening crunch of breaking glass. Stan picked up his foot as shards of expensive sunglasses lenses dropped from his rubber sole and tinkled down to the floor.

  “You blithering idiots!” shouted the man, causing the armed security to glance over in their direction.

  Frank and Stan offered their services to rectify the situation, with Stan offering several times to make financial recompense, but the man badly wanted nothing more than to rid himself of their company and insisted they just “Piss off!”

  The two travellers took their leave and left the grumpy stranger to his own devices.

  “Charming fellow,” whispered Frank, once at a safe distance. “You dodged a bullet there, Stan. Those glasses looked very dear.”

  Behind them, back at the ticket desk, the unhappy gentleman whose travel bag Frank had accosted was being taken care of…

  “Name, sir, and destination?” Young Shelly asked, ever the consummate professional, though with her smile now painted on.

  “Franks,” he replied, shaking his blazer clean. He was not smiling, nor even attempting to smile. In fact he was not even looking at her, his attention solely on his blazer and deeming her not worthy of direct interaction.

  “Rodney Franks,” he continued, as if that in itself should mean something to her, or anyone else, for that matter, who heard the name. “And I’m travelling to the Isle of Man as well. So be sure to not sit me near those two imbeciles,” he demanded from her, pointing to the receding figures of Frank and Stan.