by J C Williams
“Ah, yes!” said Frank, finger in the air, either testing the wind, or about to make some point, or perhaps both. “Yes, that.”
“Yes?” said Stan expectantly.
“Yes!” Frank said again, trying to catch up with his thoughts. “Right. Well. Yes. Lee told me that a fair few of the homeless women he met were homeless as a result of domestic violence, and lived in fear of being found by abusive partners.”
“I remember now,” Stan verified.
“Well, how about this place?” said Frank, giving the house an encore. “That could be a good option for them? Away from the main island?”
“I suppose so,” shrugged Stan. “We’d need to look into the practicalities, but I like what you’re saying. There’s the opportunity to raise money for the charity, help the homeless, and give something back to the local community. This place won’t be going cheap, though. I mean, look at this land.”
“Yes, but the house needs a boatload of cash spent on it,” Frank pointed out. “So there’s that.”
Just then, a spritely fellow in a tweed jacket waved his arm from an open window like he was painting a ceiling. “We’re starting up in five minutes!” he called out, extending his five digits to emphasise the point.
“Very good!” Frank answered, waving in return. And then, to Stan: “Come on buddy, let’s see how much this place is going for.”
The same man in the tweed jacket appeared to also be the auctioneer for the day, judging by his position of prominence at the head of the room. Frank and Stan hadn’t really looked around inside, their eyes having been drawn to the multiple natural shades of green on beautiful display outside. “This place is alright,” said Frank, once his eyes had adjusted to the indoors. “It’s a bit dated, alright, but aside from that…”
Stan surveyed the room, politely, but suspiciously, trying to read the faces on those assembled. “There aren’t actually that many here. Less than ten, including us,” he whispered to Frank. “Do you think it’s quiet because every other bugger knows something that we don’t know?”
Before Frank could answer, the auctioneer began.
“Now, you’ll have all registered, and have all had the legal pack in advance, so to the business of selling this magnificent property by auction – which is my distinct pleasure. If you’ve not previously participated in an auction, fear not. I’ll make this as straightforward as I can, and I will not be speeding through it like I’m auctioning cattle. So! To business.”
“I guess this is it,” Frank said, exchanging glances with Stan.
“I’m starting at two hundred. Do I have two-hundred-thousand pounds?” asked the auctioneer. “Two hundred I have,” he said, answering his own question, pointing, presumably at the initial bidder.
Stan followed the direction of the auctioneer’s hand, sceptical that he’d find a genuine person there.
“Do I have two-fifty? I do. Thank you, madam,” the auctioneer went on.
Bidding continued, up beyond three hundred thousand pounds and into the four hundred thousand range. “This is out of our depth now,” said Stan. “Let’s get out of here.”
For Frank, however, time seemed to be moving at a different speed. Or, it could merely have been Stan’s perception of it, as an observer, as he witnessed the events unfold before him. Either way, Frank’s eyes appeared wide, like he’d been smoking something he shouldn’t have been smoking. And, then, in a motion best described as languid yet inexorable, Frank’s hand raised from its resting position.
Stan watched, paralysed, powerless to prevent Frank’s limb heading skyward.
“Four-fifty. New bidder. Thank you, sir,” said the auctioneer.
Stan looked behind them, praying they were in a parallel universe and that there was another Frank and Stan seated there, with that Frank raising his hand instead of his Frank.
“What in the hell are you doing?” Stan hissed through gritted teeth.
“I’ve got a feeling about this place, Stan,” Frank replied without even looking at him, so mesmerised was he. “Go with it,” he said dreamily. “I promise, it’ll all work out.”
“And I’ve got a feeling as well,” was Stan’s answer. “Only you’re lucky I’ve forsaken violence.”
Aside from their brief exchange, the room fell quiet after Frank’s bid, with the auctioneer desperately surveying the room in an attempt to resurrect the bidding activity. After several arduous seconds, it was evident from the hushed silence that Frank was the highest, and likely final, bidder.
Frank gave Stan’s shoulder a giddy squeeze as the gavel smashed down.
“Thank you for the highest bid, sir…” announced the auctioneer.
A little squeal of delight escaped Frank’s throat. He couldn’t help himself.
“… but I regret to advise, per the legal pack, that there is a reserve price that unfortunately has not been met this day. I’d like to thank you for your interest today.”
Stan breathed a sigh of relief.
“Ladies. Gentlemen,” the auctioneer said, addressing the small crowd as a whole, and, with that, he buggered off, quick smart.
“Did we win? I don’t understand,” said Frank, blinking, confused.
Frank had done what every novice has done at an auction, and got suckered into the atmosphere, bidding at will. For better or worse, the outcome was not as he expected it.
Stan shook his head, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “No, mate. No, you didn’t, but as far as impulse purchases go, that one would have taken some beating. Now put your registration card down, slowly. We need to go and buy the property we actually came here to buy, for fucksake.”
Frank blinked again, and waited. The auctioneer, however, did not reappear.
“Frank. Frank!” said Stan, clicking his fingers in an attempt to snap his friend back into the present. Frank rose, but he was still in a daze. “Come on, we’ll get you a beer when we’re all finished,” Stan said, coaxing him along and ushering Frank through the hallway.
Their progress was halted by the sound of an all-too-familiar voice in the dining room, near to the entrance. Stan stopped in his tracks and peered through the door, which sat slightly ajar.
“We could be in a spot of bother here,” whispered Stan.
Frank – now back in the present – moved closer to gain a better view. “Is that not the bloke from the airport?” he whispered back, although, due to the volume of the angry voice emanating from inside the room, discretion on Frank’s part may not have actually been a requirement.
“What’s he doing here? What the hell does he want?” asked Frank.
Stan looked ashen. “Eh, to be honest, Frank, it could be any number of reasons given the events of the day.”
“Yes, but…” Frank began, but, then: “Oh, bugger! Shit, Stan, he’s coming. Do something so he doesn’t see us!”
“Something like what?”
“Just something!”
Stan – who didn’t cope well under pressure – took a step forward, wrapped his arms around Frank, and set to work kissing him passionately about the mouth. He kept this up for a few long moments – long enough for one Mister Rodney Franks to walk past them and into the room they’d just vacated.
“What the hell was that??” asked Frank, gasping for air once set free. “You kissed me!”
“You told me to do something!” protested Stan.
“But you promised you’d never do that!” protested Frank, in turn.
“When did I promise that?”
“You promised!” Frank sputtered.
“Look, you said to do something, and that’s what I did, Frank. I stepped up, and it worked, now didn’t it?”
Frank couldn’t argue with results. “Come on, let’s get out of here, before they chuck us out,” he suggested.
Stan arched his neck. “Hang on, Frank,” he said, clearly eavesdropping.
Rodney Franks was currently berating a demure young lady, by the sound of it, who was trying her best to artic
ulate that the sale had ended, and the auctioneer had left.
“Yes, yes, I understand that,” said Rodney. “What you fail to understand is that I’ve come specifically all this way to the Isle of Man with the sole purpose of buying this bloody property, and you’re telling me that it’s too late?”
“You should have been here on time?” replied the young lady, some strength in her voice.
“Yes! Give it to him!” Frank said, secretly cheering her on. Stan shushed him so they could continue their earwigging.
“But I was here in plenty of time, I can assure you,” Franks went on. “But thanks to some idiot at your airport, I’ve been stuck in a room having an argument with two men armed with rubber gloves.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” answered the young lady, though from the sound of her voice she likely wasn’t all that sorry, actually. “You’ll have to phone the office to see what the next step for the property is. It really is out of my hands, I’m afraid.”
Stan couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, and he grabbed Frank and ran for the door.
“We can’t take the poor bloke’s taxi. Not again,” said Frank.
“Can and will,” said Stan. “Poor bastard doesn’t know we’ve taken it, now does he? And as far as the driver is concerned, you’re Franks.”
“Now I think on it, that little slate the driver held up?” Frank said. “It said FRANKS, didn’t it?”
“Apostrophe abuse is so rampant these days,” Stan giggled. “People are always either forgetting to add it in where it belongs, or leaving it out entirely.”
“True, true,” agreed Frank with a grin. “And besides,” he said. “The real Franks is a complete knob.”
“And not in a good way,” Stan added. “Come on, let’s go and get the keys to our little holiday home on the Isle of Man.”
“I’m right with you!” Frank said, obligingly.
As Frank and Stan eased away in luxury, Rodney Franks stood at the doorway of the property he’d missed out on buying, presumably phoning for a taxi.
Stan chuckled once more. “Rubber gloves, ha-ha. Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving fella.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” said Frank.
Stan shuffled closer across the back seat of the car. He had something private to share.
“Frank, can I just tell you? That kiss was special. You’ll make some lady very happy one day, you surely will.”
“You promised!” was all Frank could manage to say.
Chapter Eight
J urby Airfield in the north of the Island had a proud heritage as a Royal Airforce training base during World War II. The old runways and taxiways now regularly played host to a very different sort of powered vehicles: motorbikes and sidecars.
It’d been a few months since Frank and Stan had been able to scratch their racing itch at the previous year’s TT races. For two people who’d never paid much attention to motorsport, they were now well and truly hooked. In fact, DVDs of the TT action from previous years had been their entertainment of choice over the preceding winter months; indeed, they’d both inadvertently bought each other the most recent copy as a Christmas present.
Frank often reflected on his first trip to the TT races to pretty much anyone who’d listen. He spoke with passion, vigour, and admiration, all the while reflecting on the eclectic characters that they’d both met on their pilgrimage the previous year. Yes, the weather had been kind, but regardless, they’d fallen in love with this special little rock in the middle of the Irish Sea.
Frank’s bucket list was, however, the subject of some derision. Not with malice. Rather, as gentle teasing owing to the fact that there was only one item on that list – well, two, technically, as they were back once again: the Isle of Man TT Races! Considering the sheer spectacle of the greatest sporting event on earth, there simply was no relevance in adding another item to that list. To do so would have been a bitter anti-climax for Frank, and of course for his able travelling assistant, ‘Passepartout’ Sidcup, as well. Both of them would have simply compared any future experience with the one they’d had the previous year, and they knew that was impossible.
Everything about their previous trip had been an assault on their senses. From the palpable anticipation they’d experienced by those waiting to board the ferry to the sense of loyalty, friendship, and community that they’d never experienced before. And all that before they’d even set their peepers, wide-eyed, on the first bike erupting down Bray Hill at 180 miles per hour.
It was each to their own, but the thought of watching tennis on Centre Court, sitting in front of the Taj Mahal, or even looking on in wonderment at the scale of the Great Wall of China was not compelling in the slightest. Why? Because it wasn’t the TT races. It was impossible to articulate or convey that the TT wasn’t just about the racing. It was, truly, a way of life. From the second they’d returned home it was all they could talk about, counting down the days until they could return once more.
The thought of travelling across the world to watch a sporting event would once have sounded like lunacy but now they could understand, for they would surely do exactly the same if not for their already-close proximity. And the sense of brotherhood wasn’t confined only to the Island for those two weeks each year, either. Frank and Stan were like twin boys wearing their Isle of Man TT shirts at home at every opportunity. If you wore the shirt of your local football team, chances are you’d be approached by someone who wanted to either kiss you or knock the living daylights out of you, depending on where their loyalties lay. The TT engendered a different sort of reaction, however, one that was entirely positive. Strangers would see Frank and Stan’s TT attire and would approach them, eager to talk about their own previous TT experience. Or, they’d have a thirst for knowledge since they’d planned their first trip and were desperate to get some foresight into whether what they’d heard could be true – that there was simply nothing better on earth and the only way to experience it was for yourself.
Once experienced, you’d see those stood on the deck of the ferry, waving as the landscape of the Isle of Man slowly disappeared from view, for at least another year, and these grown men would be in tears. It was then that they had a chance to reflect on what they’d just lived through. Frank knew that the thought of anywhere else for item number two on his bucket list was sheer lunacy; it would’ve been the ultimate anti-climax. There was nowhere else he was going. He was back in the place he loved.
Presently, Frank and Stan had replaced the luxurious mode of travel from the day before for a slightly-more-humble rented Fiat 500. It was sad to say goodbye to the chauffeur-driven limousine, but they were able to console themselves with the thought of the invoice dropping through Rodney Frank’s letterbox.
“How the devil can we be lost?” asked Stan, with his head out of the window like an excitable dog lapping up the breeze. “It must be somewhere around here.”
As for Frank, he was unflappable at present. After all, as far as drives in the country go, this was pretty special. Their last visit was during the mayhem of the TT festival, so to see this sedate Island in rather a more relaxed manner was, well, appreciated. And that’s exactly what Frank was doing: appreciating. He drank in every glorious second as they negotiated narrow country roads, taking the time to exchange pleasantries with those whose paths they crossed.
Frank did take a moment from his cultural dalliance to remind Stan of the fact that it was Stan himself who had garnered the directions to take them to Jurby.
“Ah,” replied Stan, bringing his head back inside for a moment. “The Sulby Glen Hotel,” he said, in a moment of recollection.
Frank slowed, awaiting further instruction. “Yes?” he prodded, when instruction was not forthcoming.
“Turn left right here,” directed Stan. “Yes, left, the fellow said. I’m sure of it.”
“You could have told me that before I’d already gone straight past–?” Frank started to say. But then he smiled, again relaxing. Th
ere was no rush. It was a perfectly agreeable drive, after all. “Never mind,” he said. “We’ll get there in the end.”
“I think I can hear engines,” enthused Stan, with his ears moving in all direction in an attempt to triangulate the noise. “Yes, young Frank, it must be this way. Lead on and don’t spare the horses!”
“As many horses as this little Fiat can muster, mister!” was Frank’s giddy reply.
Dave and Monty’s machine stood out like a blind cobbler’s thumb. Their sidecar outfit – which had been totally destroyed in the accident – had been rebuilt with exactly the same livery: blue & yellow like a big boiled sweet, with the number forty-two emblazoned proudly at the front. It was impressive. The logos of their chief sponsor – Frank and Stan’s Food Stamps – were festooned all over the bodywork, including the considerable ‘bodywork’ of those riding onboard.
“What are you waving at?” asked Frank of Stan. “They must be doing a hundred and thirty. There’s no way they can… Oh, wait. They did,” Frank corrected himself. “How on earth can they even see us at that speed?” he said, gobsmacked.
Frank and Stan stood in awe, watching as their sporting heroes navigated their outfit around that circuit like masters. They were like high school cheerleaders fawning over the football jock in the big game. The smell of petrol and oil carried in the wind, as did the screaming of engines. They were both excited about signing the contract on the house, but this, what they were watching right then, was what really buttered their toast. It was magnificent. It was a real community feeling to the qualifying-stamps club event, with dozens of families with children cheering on their favourite rider, or, for the younger audience, perhaps, the most colourful outfit. The local Scout troop was also in attendance, doing a sterling job with crowd direction near to the car park.
With the action drawing to a close, Frank and Stan trudged over to the familiar-looking van to wait for Dave and Monty. They’d been in regular contact during the pair’s recovery, but, as they’d not been to the Island since the previous June, it was like rekindling an old friendship.
