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

  The booming laugh, in response, indicated that Henk was happy with the characterisation.

  “I’d go with loser, also!” shouted a very loud and exceptionally brave voice from the rear of the hall, brave in that Henk was not the sort of chap you wanted to annoy – rather like throwing stones at a brown bear, it wasn’t conducive to a long and healthy life.

  “Well,” said Chris Kinley, wiping his forehead. “This is all getting a bit… lively?”

  The owner of the heckling voice sauntered forward with a cocksure arrogance, and as its owner emerged from the darkness it was revealed that the voice belonged to none other than Rodney Franks.

  “It’s that wanker again,” whispered Frank to Stan. “And it looks like he’s bought himself some fancy new sunglasses!”

  Further round the table, Dave was also whispering – to Monty. “I hope you’ve pressed Record on that phone?” he said.

  With Franks’ approach, the presenter once again attempted to maintain order. “Gentlemen, please,” pleaded Kinley, tapping the microphone once more.

  Rodney proceeded forward, taking a trajectory that left two rows of tables between him and Henk; he was a gobshite but he wasn’t entirely stupid – Henk could crush his head like a pimple.

  “My team and my boys,” Franks carried on despite Kinley’s appeal for civility, pointing up to the stage. “Are champions! They have the best machinery, pit crew, and management. The McMullan brothers are a joke. A joke! I mean, look at their main money-man – he’s an oaf. A giant oaf and a laughingstock!”

  On each table, a small rubber ball with the TT logo was left for each guest – a memento of the evening, as it were. It wasn’t the soft sort of rubber; rather, it was of the denser variety, like a stress ball. And it was one of these balls, at that moment, which hurtled through the air like a comet, connecting perfectly with the side of Rodney Franks’ forehead, sending the new sunglasses nestled there flying into the darkest recess of the room.

  Back at the table, Dave placed a congratulatory hand on Monty’s arm. “Tell you what, Monty. For a man with wonky eyes, that was a shot a bloody military sniper would envy.”

  “Years of practice working up that right arm,” replied Monty with a contented grin.

  “I won’t ask for what purpose,” Dave replied with a chuckle.

  “I had to do something,” Monty went on. “This whole scenario is like the plot from a Rocky film – I felt like it needed some sort of resolution.”

  “You did the right thing,” suggested Dave.

  Henk erupted into uncontrollable laughter. Franks, for his part, crawled on the floor, rubbing his head with one hand and reaching out with the other in search for his glasses. It was a most undignified look for such an arrogant man, which meant Henk couldn’t stop laughing, with the result of infuriating Franks only further.

  “Put your money where your mouth is, Rodney!” said Henk, draining the contents of his glass. “My team against yours!”

  “They’ve definitely been watching too much Rocky,” said Monty, not bothering to whisper now.

  “Rocky Four?” asked Dave, but Monty couldn’t be sure.

  Henk stood, and his sheer mass caused several of the attendees to gasp.

  “Rodney!” Henk said in his booming voice. “I’ll bet you my Vincent! The one I took from you at auction! I’ll bet you my Vincent that my boys will win both sidecar races!”

  Franks stood. He had not found his sunglasses. He didn’t like his eyes showing, especially in negotiations, but a challenge like this had to be accepted nevertheless.

  “Not a chance!” Franks called out. “And, deal! What do you want from me, cash?”

  Henk waved his hand, so vast, it blocked out the light for many in the audience. “I don’t need your money, Rodney!” he chuckled. Franks disliked being addressed with such familiarity, using his Christian name. Which is of course precisely why Henk did so. “Tell you what, Rodney!” Henk continued, moving forward. “I beat you to the Vincent at auction, so you put up what you won at auction today!”

  “W–what?” replied Franks. “W–what auction?” he stuttered. He wasn’t the sort of man that ordinarily stuttered.

  “The auction for that farm you won today! The auction you somehow managed to get rearranged without anyone else knowing about it!”

  Rodney paused for a moment, before answering, “That farm is worth more than the bloody Vincent, and you know it.”

  “I’ll throw in the Aston Martin!” replied Henk without hesitation.

  “Deal,” Franks answered. “My sidecar will beat your sidecar in both races. I’d shake your hand on it. But I don’t know where it’s been,” he added, acting the maggot, because, yes, he was that much of an arsehole.

  Monty leaned back into Dave. “This is fucking embarrassing. You’d think two men as rich as them would be a bit better at this whole threats-across-a-crowded-room thing. Look, even Chris Kinley’s had enough – he’s buggered off,” he said, in reference to the empty chair on stage. “Dave,” said Monty, tapping Dave’s hand. “Two things. What’s a Vincent, and what bloody farm?”

  “I’ll tell you later, but can you do me a favour with this just now? I’ll tell you when,” he said, handing Monty his rubber ball.

  The four people who were pivotal to this bet were sat on stage equally as perplexed as those sitting in the crowd. Egos had been deflated, and, with Kinley having legged it, it appeared as good a time as any to draw the evening to a close.

  Jack Napier had leaned over the sofa to retrieve his bag, and, once his back was turned, Dave tapped Monty’s knee. And Monty, like a catapult, released the rubber ball in the direction of the stage per Dave’s instruction.

  Dave was deeply impressed as the ball caught Napier square at the base of the skull. “That really is some arm you’ve got,” he said admiringly.

  With no clear indication of where the assault originated, Napier could only assume it’d come from the sofa opposite, and, without thought, leapt at Tom and Harry McMullan with fists flailing.

  Security was non-existent, so this was, once again, a certain waif-like boy’s time to shine. Those hours scrutinising martial arts movies were clearly about to pay dividends.

  “Look! There’s Adrian again!” exclaimed Monty. “Frank, that’s Adrian,” he told Frank.

  “Let’s crack on,” said Dave, turmoil ensuing behind him. “Leave them four to bash each other to pieces. Hopefully they’ll put each other out of action in the process, and that means we’ll get on that top step.”

  “Nice!” said Monty enthusiastically, apparently enjoying the thought of that prospect. “That’s the spirit! One might say you’re full of the TT spirit. They should really give you an award for that…”

  “They’ve already done, if you recall,” said Dave in answer, unsure if Monty were being serious or having him on. It was often difficult to tell.

  Monty smiled. “I know, Dave. I know,” came his reply. “Now, let’s go get them beans-on-toast!”

  Chapter Eleven

  G lencrutchery Road was an iconic stretch of tarmac. It had a dual purpose: a main arterial route for the Island’s commuters, and, then, during racing, home to the Grandstand – the world-famous scoreboard, and, of course, the start/finish line of the most famous and challenging race anywhere. Those last few hundred metres could be the difference between heartbreak, or of the fulfilment of a lifelong dream: hurtling towards the chequered flag to be immortalised as a winner of the most challenging high-speed road race on the globe.

  Many riders over the years, to their great regret, had miscalculated their fuel stop only to find the engine stuttering to an agonising stop at Governor’s Dip and be forced to push their machine the final few hundred yards of Glencrutchery Road to bring her home. The margin for error over multiple laps of this circuit was nil; the machines and riders took a brutal physical hammering, and all that effort could be for nought if you’d not filled the tank to the brim or, for instance, one wire had unhelpfully s
haken loose.

  The saying, “To finish first, you must first finish,” was never more relevant than it was on the TT course.

  One person who’d never tire of his view of Glencrutchery Road was Stan. It’d been a late night, but he awoke fresh, surprisingly enough, considering the time they’d gone to bed. He stood in just white underpants, watching the commuters on their way to work from his bay window, a contented expression on his face. Such was his delight at the absence of a hangover that he greeted the new morning enthusiastically, with a series of star jumps to get the blood flowing.

  “Frank!” shouted Stan, mid-star jump. “Frank, I think Henk is in the garden, and he looks like he’s crying! How did he not make it home? I know he was drunk, but he only lives next door!”

  Frank peered around the bathroom door, toothbrush in hand. “What? Why is he crying?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think he’s strangling a tree. You should go and see him, for the sake of the tree if nothing else,” suggested Stan.

  Frank hadn’t taken one step out the front door when Henk pounced. Henk wasn’t wearing the same clothes as the night before, so must have at least made it home at some point, which only presented Frank with more confusion.

  “I’ve been ringing that bell for twenty minutes!” exclaimed Henk, poking his finger desperately into it again to illustrate, recreating the act over and over again. “You didn’t answer!”

  Frank retreated a step. He was frightened.

  “I don’t think we’ve got a battery in it yet,” he offered, tentatively. “Is, eh, everything okay, Henk? You look a little… unhinged.”

  Henk had the look of a complete nutter about him, eyes wide and feverishly darting in this direction and that. He looked box-of-frogs loony.

  Henk fell to his knees, which, considering his height, was a considerable journey. “Frank!” he pleaded, arms reached out as if in prayer. “Please tell me I didn’t bet the Vincent! Frank, tell me it was all a dream!” he beseeched, in his broken Dutch drawl.

  Frank took a moment or so, out of respect, before nodding in acknowledgement. “I’m afraid so, Henk.”

  It was too much for Henk, who pitched forwards, head now rested against Frank’s waist. Frank was new to the neighbourhood, and caught sight of the middle-aged man in the house opposite, briefcase in one hand, small girl in the other. Frank offered a salutary wave, but couldn’t escape the fact he had a seven-foot crying Dutchman’s head inches from his crotch. And, unfortunately, to push Henk to one side, in his current condition, would be about as wise as throwing stones at a hornet’s nest.

  Frank looked down on Henk serenely, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, like a vicar blessing one of his flock.

  “Henk, can you not buy another Vincent? I mean, if need be?” he put forward mildly.

  “Nooo!” Henk moaned. “Do not be an achterlijke gladiool! That motorcycle was the object of my dreams when I was a boy! It was all my father spoke about – he loved that bike more than he did me! I had posters of it when I grew up and I swore that one day I would own one! My Vincent Black Lightning is one of the finest and rarest machines ever made! It is irreplaceable! And what made it even sweeter still was that I purchased it right from under Rodney Franks’ neus!”

  “His what?” Frank asked.

  “His neus!” Henk reiterated, pointing to his nose. “His neus!”

  Frank was a little underwhelmed. After all, as lovely as motorbikes were, it was still only a motorbike.

  “You must be confident, though, Henk, yeah?” Frank asked. “Look, mate, sorry, but any chance you could, you know… stand up?” he suggested gently, offering a further awkward wave to another neighbour who would likely never speak to him again after this.

  Henk rose and, now, at full height, loomed over Frank once more, before Frank continued.

  “Look, you must be confident in Tom and Harry, right? After all, you know how good that machine is,” Frank told him. “And so surely you’ll win the bet?”

  Henk put his hand to his head. “I was confident! Until I got a call from Tom this morning telling me he’s fractured his wrist, fighting with Rodney’s boys last night!”

  “Is that the same wrist that kept him out of the TT last year?”

  “Yes!” wailed Henk. “He’s broken it all over again!”

  Frank climbed on his toes, offering a series of friendly it’ll-all-be-okay pats across the arm, but Henk was beyond consolation.

  “There’s still a few weeks till the TT, Henk,” said Frank. “He’ll be fine,” he assured him. “Em… just out of interest, how much would a Vincent Black Lightning set one back?”

  That question sent Henk’s bottom lip aquiver. “I do not know, maybe five-hundred-thousand pounds! It’s one of the finest and rarest motorcycles! Anywhere!” Because of the booming nature of his voice, even when Henk was quietly sobbing, it sounded as if he was shouting.

  At Henk’s reply, if Frank had been a cartoon character, his eyes, in response, would have extended from out their sockets and smacked into Henk’s chest with an AHH-OOO-GAH horn sound effect. As it was, he chewed the back of his own hand, instead, to resist a reaction that would likely finish Henk off.

  Frank was running out of comforting words. “It’ll be okay, Henk. Tom and Harry will win both the sidecar races with ease, you’ll see, and you’ll have bragging rights over that wazzock, Rodney Franks, for life, and you’ll own a farm on top of it all.”

  “I do not want a farm!” Henk answered. “Do I look like a farmer?? I only threw the farm into the bet because you mentioned it earlier in the day! If I win that farm, the pair of you are buying it off me! You and Stan were the ones putting the idea inside of my head! Do you have any beer??” he said, before realisation kicked in once more.

  “Godverdomme, if I lose this bet I am going to lose my beautiful Vincent!”

  Frank took his gnawed-up hand from his mouth. “Are you certain you want a beer, Henk? It’s only nine in the morning,” he said, looking at his watch. “Don’t forget the Aston Martin!” he offered.

  “What??” replied Henk. “What about my Aston Martin??” he asked, doubling his body mass, clearly unaware that his beloved car was at stake as well as his cherished bike.

  The blood in Frank’s face drained.

  “Eh,” he said, looking for inspiration, or a trap door to fall through. “Do you want a glass with your beer, Henk?”

  Chapter Twelve

  A n excitable girl with an orange gingham dress and yellow bunches squealed with delight when a chocolate cake with seven flaming candles arrived on the plastic table in front of her, followed by a chorus of “Happy Birthday.” Others, in for a quick meal, smiled politely, or with sympathy, at the man – presumably the girl’s father – who tried, without success, to keep control of several high-energy children fuelled by burgers, chips, Coca-Cola, and, imminently, sugary cake.

  Ordinarily, Stella didn’t let anything disturb her Big Mac meals; she’d think nothing of smashing her fist into the heart of that cake. But, today, she sat at her usual booth, distracted, with her eyes glazed over, head bowed. She gave an expectant glance towards the sound of the door opening, but it was only the arrival of another group of giddy children – and was met with disappointment rather than frustration.

  “Are you not eating tonight?” asked one of the braver members of staff, cleaning the adjacent table.

  Stella took a further look at her watch, followed by a cursory glance at her phone. “No,” she said, picking up her half-empty bottle of water, and shuffling across the bench. “Not tonight. I’m on a, er…”

  “An ay-yure?” the staff member asked, confused.

  “Ah, you know what, it doesn’t matter. I’ll see you tomorrow, Hayley.”

  Stella took one final glance around the restaurant, sticking her head into the booth behind hers, and, with the shake of her permed head, moved in the direction of the exit.

  Hayley followed close behind. “Stella,” she said, with what for al
l the world appeared to be a sincere smile. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this. But I just wanted you to know you look really nice tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a skirt before, and it really suits you.”

  Stella scrutinised Hayley’s face, and Hayley didn’t know it but she was about nought-point-eight of a second away from being punched directly in the windpipe.

  Stella soon deduced that there was no sarcastic undertone. She was caught off guard by the compliment, unsure what exactly to do with it. Stella pulled a fag from somewhere – from where, Hayley couldn’t be sure; it was retrieved and dispatched to her mouth with the kind of skilful sleight-of-hand a seasoned magician could only aspire to.

  Stella offered a nod of the head to Hayley, pulling up the collars on her leather jacket to protect her from the bracing chill air outside. Once outside, the rain that had threatened earlier now settled onto Stella’s tightly wound perm, before spilling over, taking a layer of her mascara with it, and running down her face. The butt of her cigarette was coated with an application of cerise pink lipstick, matching the colour of her fingernails – which Stella had spent an age perfecting.

  “Stupid bitch,” she cursed, with a gruff, breaking voice. Another glance at her phone screen invoked a further reaction of hostility. She used the back of her hand to rub the pink lipstick from her mouth, gently at first, before rubbing like she was attempting to start a fire.

  “Stupid, stupid, bitch,” she repeated, causing those in her path to step gingerly to the left-hand side of the pavement.

  For most of those in town the rain was an unwelcome visitor, but, for Stella, the raindrops were the perfect alibi to mask the tears that flowed freely. They weren’t tears of sadness but rather tears of anger.

  Her cigarette – like her hairstyling – succumbed to the heavy shower, and so a vacant bus shelter was a welcome respite.