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 driver of a silver Vauxhall slowed like a kerb-crawler. The passenger window wound down as the driver leaned over. “Give you a lift, Stella?” came a familiar voice from within the taxi. The taxi was one replete with Frank ’n’ Stan’s logo plastered all over its rear quarter.

  Stella shook her head. “No, Bert. Thank you,” she replied.

  “Why are you getting the bus? You okay, Stella?” pressed Bert. “You look nice tonight, Stella, by the way.”

  “What’s it to you, Bert?” she said, rearing up, normal service resumed. “If you’re taking the piss out of me, Bert, I’ll run you over with your own bloody car!”

  Bert offered a hand out in submission, “No, Stella. I’m not taking the piss.” Bert, like most who possessed sense, was not brave enough or stupid enough to do such a thing.

  Stella paused for a moment and a rare tinge of guilt ran through her. “I’m sorry, Bert. Thank you for the offer. I was supposed to be having a, eh, meeting with Lee tonight. But I must have gotten my days mixed up.”

  Bert scratched his chin. “Hrm, I’m sure I heard his name over the radio, earlier. You want me to check on this here thing?” he offered, pointing to the box-like modern technological device stuck to the inside of his taxi’s windscreen.

  “No,” said Stella. “Actually, yes,” she said, changing her mind instantly.

  Bert mashed his fingers on the screen; it was fairly evident he’d not embraced this new-fangled gadgetry. “Are you sure you didn’t want a lift? It’s a shitty night and this rain’s going to get heavier later,” he said. “Ah, wait, here we go, Stella. Tommy dropped him off at a quarter to eight at MacArthur’s.”

  “Is that the expensive steakhouse?” asked Stella.

  “Yeah. That’s the one. I can take you there, if you like?” Bert suggested.

  Stella dropped her freshly-ignited fag, jumping into the back of the taxi. “Yes please, Bert. And turn that rear-view mirror this way, would you? I need to sort out my makeup.”

  “Are you wearing perfume?” asked Bert. “It’s nice!”

  Stella was more accepting of the second compliment of the evening. She forgot herself, almost releasing a titter, before remembering herself once again. “Keep your eyes on the road, you cheeky old get,” she demanded. “And you can turn that meter off, for starters!”

  Bert averted his eyes, and, wishing to remain in good health this night, the meter was duly switched off as instructed.

  “Did you go to the wrong meeting place?” he asked, once his daring had returned.

  “What?” snapped Stella, before taking a severe slug from a hip flask.

  “Where did you wait for him?”

  “McDonald’s,” she replied, with a that’s-not-stupid-though look on her face. “That could explain it,” she said, less abruptly, her expression softening. “He mentioned food, and I heard Mac, and my mind defaulted naturally to a burger. Do you want a slug?” she offered, waving the hip flask like a flag.

  “Thanks, Stella, but, eh, I’m good,” he said, eying the flask with caution. “Is that some sort of test, by the way?” he enquired. But, with the arrival at their destination only moments later, Bert would never know the answer.

  “No tip?” he asked, catching more than an eyeful of the departing Stella as she exited the vehicle.

  “You want a tip? Right, then. Never trust a fart,” she offered with sage-like assurance. “You’ll lose, eventually.”

  Stella wasn’t overly gushing with praise, as was her nature, but Bert knew the rattle on the side door was her way of expressing her gratitude.

  With Bert off on his way again, Stella sheltered under the awning of the shop next door to the MacArthur’s restaurant, checking her phone once more. “I’m sure he said McDonald’s,” she said to herself, aloud, before taking another mouthful of Dutch courage.

  The high street was, sadly, not as it once was. The independent shops there had long since vacated in favour of betting shops, charity shops, and takeaway outlets. To find an establishment the calibre of the newly-opened steakhouse was welcome – although likely a misjudgement on the part of the owners, considering the run-down nature of the street.

  Stella ran her hands over her hair, removing the excess water in a manner akin to squeezing a sponge. That sorted, she turned her attention to another matter: unfortunately, the combination of walking and sitting had played havoc with the hosiery and lingerie departments on her person. Her knickers were in a pitched battle with her tights to see which could make further progression up her gluteal divide; it felt like cheese wire cutting her in two. She looked left, and then right, before taking the plunge.

  She gripped the back of her skirt with her left hand and ran her right hand down the contours of her posterior cheeks, removing unwelcome fabric like a plough through a field. But her knickers were nothing if not tenacious, and the last hurdle wouldn’t budge. This was to be a two-handed job.

  And so she hitched up the rear of her skirt, using the glass window to secure it in place. She now had free reign to delve in with both hands, and, no matter how obstinate, her knickers would not have standing to resist a sustained assault of this type for long. With inevitable victory thus secured, she whisked her tights down, taking the opportunity to restore order where once there had been none.

  Such was the well-practised military precision of the operation – Stella having fought this same campaign many times before – that those passing in the road were none the wiser. The same could not be said, however, for the unfortunate cleaner who’d just reported for duty in the shop behind which glass frontage Stella was stood. The grey-haired gentleman holding a mop wore a solemn, haunted expression, with his lower jaw swinging loose. This poor chap had just seen things that would be impossible to unsee, the horror of which would plague him for the remainder of his now sad, hopeless existence. And, to add salt to the wound, it was his job to have to remove the symmetrical grease patch left behind from Stella’s tremendous behind.

  At Stella’s end, with her mission officially and successfully accomplished, green rope and mood lighting directed Stella towards the entrance of MacArthur’s restaurant. She eased open the door, releasing a burst of warm air, stinging her reddened cheeks (those located in the upper bodily quadrant, that is). The quality of the décor was matched only by the glorious aroma emanating from the kitchen, though the patrons on several of the tables offered her a less-than-discreet glance over the rim of their wine glasses.

  Stella examined each table in turn – to the apparent discomfort of those seated – but there was no sign of Lee. Stella put her hip flask back in her bag – now was not the time for a quick nip – and ventured further up the restaurant where it became clear it was an L-shaped floor plan with an additional room at the rear, housing several more tables.

  An impressive fish tank built into the wall served as a partition between the two sections of the eatery. Stella pressed her nose to the thick glass but her view into the other room was contorted by the movement of the water. She heard a laugh she recognised. Her entire face was pressed flat against the cold glass; it would have been quite the vision had those on the other side possessed the inclination to look in that direction.

  But no one in the room beyond the fish tank looked in her direction. Stella’s heart sank. The room was empty apart from the owner of the familiar laugh and the brunette lady sat opposite. Although Stella’s view was distorted, it was clear what was going on.

  She felt a fool.

  Embarrassed, she took a step back, followed by several deep breaths. Get out of here, you stupid cow, she instructed herself.

  “Can I help?” asked the woman who’d come up behind Stella. It was delivered, however, in a tone which didn’t suggest that any help was actually on offer. In point of fact, there was a distinct what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-in-my-restaurant connotation to the tone.

  The woman was a good five inches shorter than Stella but carried a certain air of authority, with her jet-black hair tied tightly
back, and, on her nose, brown-rimmed glasses perched – which she looked down through. For someone so lacking in height, it must be said, she did a remarkable job of looking down on someone.

  “Well?” the woman demanded.

  Stella went to move around her. “I was just looking for… I’m sorry, it’s a big mistake. My mistake,” she said, uncharacteristically conciliatory.

  The woman – the owner/proprietor – put her hand across Stella’s path to prevent her exit.

  Ordinarily, this course of action would have resulted in broken bones, a serious choking, or often both. But there was no wind left in Stella’s sails, and she went to move again, offering a whimpered “sorry” as she did so.

  The proprietor was not content to accept an apology, raising her voice to an extent that all eyes in the restaurant were now on Stella.

  “I’m fed up with people like you!” bellowed the woman. “We’ve invested money into this community to try and make it a better area to live, and the thanks we get is your sort in here every night trying to use the toilets, or, more than likely, steal purses from the cloakroom. We’ve had enough of it! Coming in here looking like that, it’s not on! Now you mind yourself, and you tell the rest of your lot that you’re not welcome in here. Ever!”

  Stella stared for a moment. But she didn’t have anything to offer in return. Not this time.

  Audible murmurings of disgust were issued forth by those seated, with Stella opting for as dignified an exit as she could muster under the circumstance. She was dumbstruck; her legs like jelly. It took every ounce of strength to make it down the stairs without the floodgates opening. Once outside, she sat on the bottom step, allowing her head to drop to her knees.

  The cleaner from the nearby shop had now ventured outside as well, busying himself sorting out the remnants of Stella’s earlier contribution. He’d wrapped a tea towel around his face like a cowboy in a sandstorm. A wet cloth hung from a broom handle, which he used to remove the violation on his window from a suitably safe distance. And then he noticed Stella.

  “Can I help you there, miss?” he asked, clearly not recognising Stella from a frontal trajectory, but Stella just shook her head.

  “I’ve got this,” said a voice from the figure now trailing down the stairs behind Stella. “But thanks,” the owner of the voice called over to the workman.

  Lee sat next to Stella and put his arm around her shoulder. “You’re quite the topic of conversation in the restaurant, you know,” he said.

  She didn’t look up. “You didn’t see me. How did you know it was me?” she eventually replied.

  “The waitress said there’d been a kerfuffle with a prostitute trying to use the toilets again. She said she was glad it wasn’t her that chucked you out because you were pretty scary, with hair like Velcro. I pretty much figured it was you at that point.”

  Stella grunted in response.

  “The owner realised her mistake,” Lee went on. “She’s very sorry and says you’re welcome back in, if you’d like, for a complimentary meal.”

  Stella lifted her head, wiping her face. “I’ve been sat in McDonald’s all night. I thought I’d got the date wrong. Or something.”

  “McDonald’s?” Lee said. “Honestly, now. Do you think I’d take you on a date to McDonald’s? Not on yer nelly. Stella, come on, I’ve got a bit more class and you deserve a bit better than that for our third date. I haven’t a notion how to work this bloody phone properly,” he said by way of explanation. “It must have autocorrected or I-don’t know-what, and here I’ve been sat all night thinking you’ve stood me up!”

  “So they thought I was a prostitute?” said Stella with a grin.

  “That’s a good thing?” asked Lee.

  Stella pondered that thought for a moment. “When you’re often referred to as a bloke, a prostitute is at least heading in the right direction. At least prostitutes are female.”

  “Not always,” replied Lee in an instant.

  “Not helping, Lee. And you seem to know a lot about the subject.”

  “I’ve bought you something, Stella,” said Lee after a moment, handing Stella a white plastic bag. She sighed, giving her cheek a further wipe with the back of her hand. “What is it?”

  “Open it and see, whydontcha.”

  She pulled out a large piece of black fabric which she gently unfolded before holding it out in front of her. “It’s a picture of a motorbike?” she said, surprised.

  “And so it is,” replied Lee cheerfully.

  Stella’s face turned to thunder. “Are you calling me a bike, you cheeky bastard? The town bike?? Because, if you are, I’ll do to you what I should have done to that stuck-up cow in the restaurant!”

  “Jeez, no! No, of course I’m not,” protested Lee, gently easing Stella’s clenched fist back to a resting position. “It’s an Isle of Man TT shirt. Take a gander, that’s the map of the island around the motorbike.”

  “I don’t get it?” said Stella, not getting it.

  “Look, Stella. I know we’ve only had two and a half dates, but it’s the Isle of Man TT next month. I wondered – well, hoped – that I could take you over to the TT? I’ve spoken with Frank and Stan and we can stay with them. It’s all sorted.”

  “Sordid, you mean?” she replied.

  Stella retained a look of suspicion, certain that Lee was having her on, and going to punctuate his sentence with “just kidding” or similar. But he didn’t. Instead, he stared kindly into Stella’s eyes and used the back of his hand to wipe the remaining tears off her face.

  She coughed, clearing her throat. “I’d… you know, quite actually, em… like that. And I can wear the t-shirt,” she added, holding it out once more, now divining its purpose.

  “That would be grand,” Lee answered.

  “Lee, who was the girl you were sat with? Not that it matters, but, you know… I just…”

  Lee leaned forward and placed the simplest of kisses on Stella’s cheek.

  “That was the waitress! I told you I was rubbish on the phone. I’d texted you three times to see where you were, but I got some error message. I think I was sending you a message over the internet when I didn’t have Wi-Fi. Something like that. So the waitress was showing me how to send a–”

  Ping-Ping-Ping

  With impeccable timing, Stella’s phone lit up with three consecutive messages.

  “Come on. Let’s go and eat her free sympathy meal,” said Lee, pointing back up to the restaurant. “I hope you’re hungry!”

  Stella chuckled. “You needn’t worry there. She’s going to need to get more staff on in the kitchen!” she replied, patting her stomach. “Lee…” she said, yanking on his arm as he rose. “Only that entire restaurant thinks I’m a prostitute.”

  Lee gently lifted her up, helping Stella to her feet.

  “It’s better than being a bloke, Stella, you said it yourself. Besides, so what if they think you’re a working girl. It’s a posh restaurant, so at least they’ll suppose you’re a classy one. They might think you’re high-rent!”

  “High-rent, that’s me all over,” replied Stella with a generous portion of sarcasm. She stopped again before they reached the door.

  “What is it?” Lee asked.

  “Look, when we open this door…” she told him. “They’re all going to be staring at us.”

  “Let them?” he replied.

  “No, listen,” she explained. “I’m going to tell them you came out for a quick hand job, right?”

  “Let’s crack on, then!” replied Lee, laughing, and without the slightest bit of concern. “And considering some of those women had faces on them like burst trout, you might pick up some new ‘customers’ from the gents in here!”

  “Excellent,” she said, taking one further slug from the hip flask.

  Outside the shop, the cleaner had a tender smile on his face, pleased for the young couple starting out on a new romantic chapter in their lives. Okay, it wasn’t quite Mills and Boon, but sweet nonetheless.
His starry-eyed distraction came crashing back to earth with the realisation that the arse grease on his window wasn’t budging and he’d have to redouble his efforts. He held out his arms to measure the length of the imprint, rather like a fisherman explaining the size of his catch, as his brain struggled to interpret what he was seeing.

  He shuddered. “That’s a whole lot of loving,” he said, putting his back into the job at hand.

  Chapter Thirteen

  June 1979

  T he tabloid press were the makers of men, and, sadly, also the breakers. Just like the seasons, fashions changed as did tastes in music. The Garden Tools rode the crest of their wave, with money coming into one pocket hand-over-fist, but going out the other just as quickly. Sold-out concerts and in-demand TV appearances, once common for TGT, were now a thing of the past.

  The band had earned and spent more than most would see in a lifetime, but, for Frank and Stan, they could see the writing was on the wall and their business model was to make sure all of their eggs weren’t stored in the same basket. Sure, they’d done their best for the lads, but ultimately the band’s overindulgence in drugs, alcohol, and other excess – along with the capricious nature of public favour (or lack thereof) – had undone all Frank and Stan’s hard work in the case of the Tools.

  Still, with Stan’s dramatic flair and Frank’s charismatic persona, their talent agency had grown to one of the largest in London. There were new premises, new staff, a new townhouse, and the latest cars. Their acts filled the dance halls and music venues and seeing first-hand how fickle the public could be, they ensured they had acts on their books that covered all genres and age groups. On any given day they’d be arranging country & western acts, punk bands, or even classical musicians, for instance.

  What they were selling, people wanted, and on the uber-trendy London social scene, Frank and Stan were very much “A-list,” counting celebrities, sport stars, and politicians amongst their social circle. One tabloid that’d been so eager, early on, to stick the boot into their first signing, were now equally keen to laud them as two of the country’s most eligible bachelors under thirty.