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

  “Here you go,” said Stan, placing two pints of beer on the sticky airport bar table. “They actually stock beer from the Isle of Man,” he continued, taking a grateful sip. “Lovely.”

  Frank didn’t lift his head from his phone. “Cheers. You know, Lee might be onto something with this auction.” Frank pinched the screen to expand the image displayed on the phone.

  “It’s a bit… rough around the edges?” Stan offered, in reference to the questionable-looking farmhouse.

  Frank nodded, taking a mouthful of beer. “I know. It’s in a sorry state, which is why I’m guessing it’s cheap. But look at the view of the course. That’s only about two hundred yards up from where we were standing last year watching the race, and remember what the countryside was like around there? It was pretty spectacular.”

  Frank’s mind was racing with the possibilities.

  “And why would we want to get involved with this, again?” asked Stan doubtfully. “Aside from giving tours of it at Halloween as a haunted house?”

  Frank nodded once more. “I know. That’s what I said to Lee, but look, it’s got a load of farmland and outbuildings.”

  “I see that,” replied Stan. “But, once again, what’s that got to do with us?”

  “I’m not sure,” admitted Frank. “But I’ve got a feeling about this place. Look, the auction is this afternoon, and we’re only going to be hanging about waiting for the lawyers to phone and give us the keys to the house anyway, right? So let’s go and see it,” he wheedled, like a child pleading with his parents to go to the fairground.

  “It’s a waste of time, if you ask me,” replied Stan.

  “I’ll buy you another pint of Isle of Man beer,” offered Frank. “Isle of Man beer!” he repeated, both for emphasis to make his point and because the thought of another pint of Isle of Man beer was getting Frank himself excited.

  “You’re an idiot,” Stan told him. “But go on, then. And the bar’s over that way,” he said, pointing the way.

  Pints of beer drained, and now boarded, they sat patiently on the plane that could be best described as a puddle jumper – an intimate contraption with two rows of seats on one side and a single row on the other.

  “It’s all right, this. I think we’re only in the air for half an hour or so,” said Stan. “Oh-ho,” he whispered, his finger pointing out the window. “Here come’s that miserable sod from earlier.”

  Rodney Franks marched with purpose across the airport apron, squinting from the midday sun and with one hand up to shield his eyes.

  “He should get himself some sunglasses,” chuckled Stan, prodding Frank in the side.

  “Silly of him not to have any,” Frank agreed with a smirk.

  The plane was all but full, apart from a single seat one row forward from Frank and Stan – and close enough for Rodney Franks to audibly express his disapproval at his proximity to them with an incensed clearing of the throat.

  Frank, sat next to the window, had his eyes closed, feigning sleep, leaving Stan to offer a half-arsed smile in an attempt to remain cordial. Rodney placed his bag in the overhead locker and removed his navy-blue blazer, spinning round as he did so, with the motion causing the hem of the jacket to catch Stan full in the face. In view of the expensive loss of eyewear their fellow traveller had suffered at their hands, Stan opted to retain a conciliatory position and take the indignity of the minor assault to his person in stride – taking one for the team, as it were.

  Rodney sat bolt upright as the plane hurtled down the runway, rigid and unyielding in his indignation.

  Frank, for his part, truly was asleep now, and snoring.

  Legroom was a little neat and Stan – who didn’t have the most fluid of knee joints – stretched his left leg out to gain relief. His foot caught a plastic bag holding several tablets. Stan could see handwriting from his seated position, and he leaned down, reading the handwriting which said simply: Franks. Since it was sat on the floor in the middle of the aisle, Stan could only assume it’d been jettisoned from Rodney’s blazer during the moments-earlier introduction of jacket-to-face. Not wishing to engage Mr Franks in further hostile conversation – or any conversation at all, for that matter – he sat up and simply slipped the package furtively into the man’s blazer pocket which sat, presenting itself, draped over the armrest of his seat.

  “You’re snoring,” announced Stan to Frank with a gentle nudge, waking his friend from slumber.

  “Was I?” Frank said, not really understanding the problem. “It must be those two pints. Grab us a coffee, would you, Stan?” he asked, in reference to the hostess approaching.

  The hostess dutifully obliged, and placed two plastic cups of coffee on their seatback tables.

  “Oh, miss,” said Stan. “Sorry, could I trouble you for some milk?”

  The trolley rolled back a pace.

  “It’s just there, sir,” the woman explained, pointing.

  Stan looked confused. This is because he was, in fact, confused.

  She lowered her arm further and extended her index finger towards the plastic tube which Stan was now holding, quite by accident. “That’s it, sir,” she said, pleased to assist.

  “What’s it?” replied Stan, none the wiser.

  “That’s it. In your hand,” she answered patiently. “There. Just there. In your hand… no, now you’ve taken your hand off it… yes, that’s… no, now you’ve taken your hand off of it again… there. Yes. There you are. Lovely. And there you have it.”

  “Amazing,” said Stan, now confident enough to be left to his own devices, to a rather underwhelmed Frank. “Look, Frank. Frank, look. The milk is in this little plastic tube,” he said in wonderment. “What’ll they think of next?”

  “They?” asked Frank, not entirely interested in the answer.

  “Yes,” replied Stan.

  “They, who?”

  “You know,” said Stan. “They. Them.”

  “Them?” Frank answered, enjoying this now.

  “Them that think of things,” Stan explained.

  “Ah,” said Frank, taking a sip of his coffee.

  Stan’s initial enthusiasm quickly evaporated. There was a problem with the milk, it seemed, judging by the colour of his coffee, which had not changed. “Hang on, it’s not working. Nothing’s coming out,” he said, continuing to squeeze the tube. “Maybe I’ve got a defective one?”

  Stan kneaded the receptacle like he was milking a cow’s udder. Despite his vigorous effort, it produced no result. “Why is it not working?”

  “Stan, that’s not the way you’re meant to…” Frank began, before adding, “You know what? Carry on.” Since there was no in-flight film, the flight being too short and the plane being too small for that sort of thing, Frank was happy for any entertainment provided, however modest.

  The milk tube’s contents were, in fact, reducing, if but very slowly. And yet, somehow, Stan’s coffee remained black as a moonless night. Eventually, there was nothing left to eke out.

  “What the Dickens?” Stan muttered to himself. Eager to solve the mystery of the vanishing milk, he held the tube up to his eye for a proper look. Peering into the tip of the device like a scientist into a microscope, he caught a glimmer of an opening no wider than a flea’s arsehole in the plastic.

  “I’m sure that’s not the way it’s supposed to be,” Stan mused. “Still, the milk must’ve gone somewhere, surely?”

  Frank sniggered, tapping Stan on the arm. “Over there,” he said, softly enough for only Stan to hear, pointing the way for Stan’s eyes to follow.

  Rodney Frank’s immaculate navy-blue blazer now sported an erratic line of milk that resembled the trail of a drunken slug.

  “Oh, bugger,” Stan remarked. “How long before this bloody plane lands?”

  Stan drank the rest of his coffee black and was grateful when, in due course, the flight ended and the plane landed without further complications.

  “Hang back, will you, Frank?” Stan told Frank as the rest of
the passengers began to disembark. “I don’t want him to see that jacket and put two and two together.”

  They watched as Rodney put his blazer on and dusted off the shoulders of his jacket, failing to notice the staining on the back. Frank and Stan delayed their departure and skulked into the airport, maintaining a safe distance between them and their milk-covered adversary.

  Ahead, a jovial customs officer appeared to be acting more of a guide, extending a cordial welcome and handing out tourist information leaflets, while competently assisted in this task by a hefty German shepherd sat obediently next to its master.

  “Welcome,” said the generously proportioned official, handing a brochure to one Mr Franks – which was promptly ignored.

  The German shepherd lurched forward, virtually dislocating the arm that gripped onto its lead, and unleashed a bark that echoed through the arrivals hall. Rodney jumped back with a start. “Fine! I’ll take one of your rubbish brochures, then!” he snapped.

  Frank and Stan stopped in their tracks. “Uh-oh,” said Stan. “Do you reckon the dog must have smelt the milk? He’s going bloody mental.”

  “Dunno,” Frank replied, because he didn’t know. He looked on, anxious to see how this scene would unfold.

  The customs officer handed the dog, now back at his side, a treat. Then he placed a hand on the unhappy traveller’s shoulder. “Probably nothing to worry about, sir,” he said. “But the dog’s indicated to your pocket. Could you kindly empty the contents into the tray on the counter? Thanks ever so much.”

  “This is absurd,” grumbled Franks. “I’ve got nothing in my…”

  Rodney retrieved a plastic packet from his pocket and dangled it in abject confusion.

  “Don’t suppose those are yours, are they, sir? What’s your name?” asked the official, his amiable tone now suddenly somewhat less amiable and slightly more imposing.

  “Franks. Rodney Franks. And of course they’re not bloody mine. I’ve never seen them before!” he protested.

  “That is a familiar refrain,” the officer said, taking possession of the package. He was smiling again, though this time for a different reason. “Franks, it says here on the label,” he noted. “Fancy that. Come with me, sir. If you’d be so kind?”

  With their nemesis now unexpectedly dispatched, Frank and Stan made their way through the line and took their leave, with Frank throwing Rodney – waylaid on the sidelines – a look. “It takes all kinds,” Frank remarked loudly, shaking his head in exaggerated dismay, whereas Stan lowered his head and kept on walking.

  With no checked-in luggage to collect, the pair moved swiftly through the luggage carousel area. “We should get a taxi outside,” suggested Frank.

  “No need, my friend, no need,” replied Stan, taking his friend by the arm. “It looks like Stella has come good for once.”

  “What are you on about?” asked Frank.

  Stan moved in the direction of an immaculately dressed man in a sharp, grey suit.

  “Ah,” said Frank, spotting the little board held up for his benefit with the word FRANKS written on it. “Good old Stella,” he said to Stan in agreement, and then, “I think you’re here for us, my good man,” he told the driver, completely oblivious to the missing apostrophe in the word written on the board.

  The impeccable dress sense of the driver was matched only by the sumptuous leather on which Frank and Stan now found themselves luxuriously sat. “Stella’s done a proper good job,” marvelled Frank.

  “Where to, gentlemen?” asked the driver.

  “Would it be possible to take us here?” asked Frank, showing the auction description on his phone. “We just wanted to check something out. Should be ten minutes or so. If you could hang about? And then we’ll need to go into town to our solicitors. We’ll pay you extra for your time, of course.”

  The driver gave a confused yet respectful glance in the rear-view mirror. “Of course, sir. I was booked to take you there, and this is all on account. You’re able to have use of the car for the duration of the stay. If you’d like a glass of champagne, sir? There is a mini fridge located underneath the armrest.”

  “Excellent,” said Frank, patting his pockets like he was putting out a fire. He leaned toward Stan and whispered out the corner of his mouth, “Stella’s pulled a masterstroke with this driver. I really must phone and thank her later.” Frank continued patting himself down, taking a moment to look down to the footwell. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen my tablets, have you, Stan? I think I’ve misplaced my medication. They were in a little plastic bag. How odd. I could’ve sworn…”

  Stan shook his head no, in what he hoped was a convincing manner, his earlier mistake now confirmed without a doubt. “You, eh, aren’t going to die or anything, you know, immediately without them, are you?” he asked.

  “What? No,” replied Frank, continuing to explore himself. “I’d put today’s tablets in a plastic bag. I must have left them at home,” he assured himself. “I’ve got some others in my travel bag, but that’s really bizarre. I was certain I–”

  “But, you’re definitely not going to die without them?” enquired Stan once more.

  “No,” replied Frank. “Why do you keep–?”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said the driver. “May I trouble you with a question?”

  “Of course,” Stan answered, with mouth half-full of peanuts, and a glass of expensive champagne in hand at the ready.

  “My instructions… you see, I was expecting only one passenger. Of course this is no problem at all. I just wondered how I might address the two gentlemen?”

  “Sorry?” Frank asked.

  “Who is who?” said the driver, making it plainer.

  “Ah! I’m Frank!” said Frank. “And that’s Stan.”

  The driver went quiet for a moment. “Apologies, sir. But would you prefer I called you by your surname, Franks, or by your Christian name, Rodney? Or, simply, Mister Franks?”

  Frank looked blankly at Stan, who was occupying himself filling his glass flute yet again. “Oi,” whispered Frank. “Stan, we’re in Rodney Frank’s bloody taxi.”

  “Busy at the moment,” Stan demurred, looking at his glass sideways and then pouring in another dram of champagne to get the fill level just right, as if this were a delicate operation that required careful supervision.

  Frank coughed nervously and leaned forward in his leather chair. “You can call me Rodney,” suggested Frank. “Rodney would be just fine.”

  Frank and Stan stood in the middle of a substantial field as the car waited patiently for them. It was only a few hundred yards from where they’d had their first TT viewing experience the year before. Rolling Manx hillside flowed in every direction they turned. They filled their lungs with the fresh country air, walking casually towards the main house, which sat proudly a few feet back from the busy Douglas-to-Peel road. They peered over the shallow stone wall, and, as if on cue, a motorbike passed them by. Granted, it was going at a rather more sedate pace, but it afforded them an indication of what the view of the TT Races would be like.

  They hadn’t even stepped foot inside the property when Frank told Stan, “This place is unbelievable. Truly amazing. What a view and what a location.”

  Stan nodded in agreement. “I can’t argue with you there, Frank. But, like I said earlier, I cannot see a practical application for us, personally, or for the charity?”

  Frank rubbed his forehead. He did that, sometimes, when he was trying to produce thoughts. Occasionally, it actually worked.

  “I think there is, Stanley,” Frank said, gesticulating with enthusiasm. “I think there is, actually.” Frank paced on the spot, his hands now waving around like little windmills. “Okay, remember Lee correcting us when we wrongly assumed that most of the homeless folk were male?”

  “Not really, no,” replied Stan.

  Frank was like a wind-up toy. Stan couldn’t tell if the hands, waving continuously in circles, were generating the motion of Frank’s legs as he paced back and
forth, back and forth, or if it was the other way around. Stan thought it best, whatever was happening, to let it run its course.

  “Oh, wait, now I do. Alright, go on.”

  “The charity is doing well, yeah?” Frank continued. “Follow me, now…”

  “I’m trying,” Stan replied. He was getting dizzy.

  “We’ve got money in the bank to fund the food vouchers. And more comes in as the word gets around, right? Henk, from last year, said that he’d employ some of the homeless who wanted to learn new skills, remember?”

  “Okay?” Stan replied, unsure what direction this was all heading.

  “We need to think about the next stage in their evolution. We give the homeless food stamps, yes, But then what? Here…” said Frank, introducing the house with a theatrical arm gesture, like a gameshow host, “… is a huge house which can be used as a hostel. And out here…” he continued with another grand wave, “… is the remnants of a working farm.”

  Stan’s eyebrows perked up. “So,” he confirmed, following Frank’s logic. “A hostel for people to stay, and a farm for people to learn new skills?”

  “Exactly!” said Frank, pacing that quickly he was taking up a layer of grass. “We can use this as a creative community – crafting, farming, classes for the local children.”

  “Ohh,” Stan opined, a thought forming in his own noodle. “And with this prime location, in TT week, we could sell tickets to watch the TT – all proceeds going to the charity.”

  “Yes,” said Frank. “Excellent. Yes, yes.” In addition to the locomotion of his legs and the waving of his hands, Frank’s head was now bobbing up and down like a car dashboard nodding dog.

  “What about the females?” asked Stan.

  “What about them? I didn’t think you were keen on them, Stan?”

  “No, you idiot. You mentioned about the homeless being not just male, and with a large number of them female. What were you on about!”