by J C Williams
Jack wheeled the two bikes through the streets of Castletown. He loved it down here, and if he didn’t work in Douglas, or have Grandad so close, he’d live there in an instant. Once the ancient capital of the Isle of Man, the town was dominated by the incredible Castle Rushen, a wonderfully preserved medieval castle. There was a quaint feel to the area and it wasn’t difficult to imagine the main square as it would have been hundreds of years earlier. Jack made sure that the coffee shop they opened was respectful of the surroundings and embraced the rich heritage.
He smiled as he looked at his grandad’s bike, unsure what he was going to do to wind him up — but he’d think of something. The pink bike had a large, polished bell which gently chimed as he moved through the cobbled street. An elderly woman held tightly to her husband’s arm, walking in front of Jack. He was content to move at their pace, but the sound of the bell alerted them to his presence. “Morning,” Jack said warmly.
The mature gentleman turned and gave him a friendly wave and ushered him to pass. His graceful companion also turned, admiring the pink bike. “I used to have one similar, when I was a girl!” she said.
She held her gaze for longer than Jack felt comfortable with. He’d been on the television a few times and often in the paper from his work with the club, so was occasionally recognised. He was about to engage them in small talk, and possibly recruit them to the club, when her face turned from cordial to one of wrath. Jack looked behind to understand the direction of the anger, but was interrupted by a shrill scream which reverberated through the narrow streets.
“Thief!” she screamed at the top of her voice. For a creature so timid, she could certainly project her voice. Jack froze; he stared at her, and she at him. Her husband looked bewildered. They were alone in the street and it felt like a scene from a poorly-scripted Western film.
Her husband moved to calm her, but as he did, she reached inside her shopping bag and pulled out two apples. Jack stood in between the bikes with his hand on each saddle; unless he was prepared to drop the bikes, he had no defence. The first apple flew through the air and missed him by a whisker. Before he had a chance to move, the second apple was raised behind her head like an all-star baseball pitcher. She raised her front foot to gain further leverage, and released the projectile with precision. Jack’s brain instructed him to move, but he had the two bikes, and couldn’t. He winced in anticipation as the apple caught him at full tempo, precisely in the middle of his forehead, just above the rim of his glasses. Her husband didn’t know whether to scold her, or congratulate her; it was a wonderful shot. Jack couldn’t comprehend what was happening, and the only words he could muster were, “Stop… please.”
She turned to her husband and pointed at the pink bike. “That’s the one they were talking about on the radio. That poor man who had his bike stolen along with a vibrant pink one with a basket on the front. That shit has stolen them!”
The old man appeared to double his body mass. “Is that the man’s stolen bike?” he asked firmly, pointing with his walking stick.
Jack shuffled nervously. “Yes, but it’s not what it looks like!”
“Thief!” screamed the woman again, with even greater amplification.
Jack knew his position was hopeless; retreat was his only option. He tried to negotiate the tight street to complete a U-turn, but it was impossible holding two bikes. Every time he moved, they caught up with themselves, very much like two coat hangers getting overly amorous with each other. There was a small gap by the elderly couple, who were getting more and more animated. He needed to escape but didn’t want to knock them over at the same time. He bowed his head, not only to escape a further onslaught, but to evade the CCTV which would, no doubt, be used later in the day.
He gripped the bikes and quickly, but deliberately, moved towards the gap on the right-hand side of the man. The man appeared to be satisfied with audibly raising the alarm, but the delicate woman gave chase. It was a fairly restrained chase, as Jack struggled to move quicker than the bikes would allow. “Bloody Grandad!” he shouted, moving away from the town square. The sound of the pink bike’s bell intensified the quicker he moved, and just when he thought he was clear, he looked over his shoulder and saw his pursuer reaching in her shopping bag for further weaponry. She gained a small advantage and was in reaching-distance of grabbing Jack by the back of his shirt. The gradient increased slightly and the woman slowed. Just as Jack was breaking clear, she made one final desperate lunge and grabbed him by the waistband of his chequered chef’s trousers — which he insisted on wearing as they were ‘super comfy’ — though fortunately for all, the elastic on his trousers held firm.
The ageing vigilante terminated her pursuit, but continued to shout for assistance.
Her husband, on the other hand, was like a steam train, slow off the mark but quick once he got into his rhythm. He gained on Jack for a time, but youth appeared to be winning the day. In a last-gasp effort, the ageing sprinter threw his walking stick like a boomerang. It soared through the air with precision and clipped Jack on the ankle with sufficient force to knock his legs together, causing him to fall to the cobblestones. In a desperate effort to get back to his feet, his hands became entwined in the spokes, rendering him all but immobile. He lay face-down with the two bikes covering him like a tent, his hands firmly restrained in the wheels.
Several other older people had joined the baying mob and it resembled an ageing, Benny Hill chase scene, albeit one in ultra-slow motion.
“That’s him!” Jack’s elderly nemesis shouted, pointing to the tangled heap that was now Jack, though, to be fair, it didn’t take the greatest investigative mind to deduce who the alleged bike thief was.
“Call the police!” came the collective cry. All the angry crowd was missing were pitchforks and torches.
Jack tried desperately to state his case, but it was useless. The angry ramblings of old folk were all but impossible to drown out. A small white cocker spaniel, meanwhile, peered from the doorway of a nearby shop, curious as to the noise that’d disturbed its nap. It moved towards Jack and, once in position, began sniffing him intently. The wet nose on the base of Jack’s back caused him to wriggle like his feet were being tickled.
“Bugger off!” he shouted, through gritted teeth.
Instead, the cold wet nose soon turned into a warm pungent trickle as the dog gratefully cocked (as per its name) its leg over a defenceless Jack.
A confused policeman soon arrived and released Jack from his wheeled shackles, and instructed the group to give him air. For a generation who were not quick to embrace technology, there were certainly enough eager to record the whole sorry incident on their mobile phones!
Jack looked at the champion sprinter and crack shot with a walking stick. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “We’ve got an Olympics for the elderly coming up. I think you and your wife would be just perfect for it.”
MacFarlane’s restaurant was one of the finest eateries on the Isle of Man. It was only a few shops up from Emma and Jack’s, but their previous financial situation meant that they weren’t frequent patrons — so when they did go, it was always special. The proprietor was Roy, a proud Scotsman, demonstrated by the family tartan which adorned the restaurant. He’d always come out from behind the pass; he was softly spoken, but had a happy round face and was always interested to hear what you had to say.
Jack was running late, primarily due to the explanation he had to provide to the police in Castletown. Emma was already seated at a cosy table in the corner when he arrived. As Jack removed his coat he admired her charming face, partially illuminated by the faint glow of a flickering candle. She was beautiful and he had to remind himself that it was he, Jack Tate, who had the pleasure of having dinner with this magnificent woman.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “The police took some convincing and Grandad didn’t bloody help as they couldn’t contact him. Apparently, he and Ray had gone kayaking. They had to get Tommy ou
t to corroborate my story.”
She smiled. “So they released you, no further action?”
“Yes, although I think I saw mobile phones, and if that is not a YouTube hit video, I don’t know what is. So, remind me again why we’re here and why I’m not in trouble for not remembering?”
“Well, we’ve been together for a little over eighteen months and I thought it would be nice for us to go out, just the two of us.”
“Great! So, just to be clear. I’m in no trouble in any way for not marking the occasion? You’re not going to throw this back in my face in a month or two?”
“No, I promise!”
The waitress stood politely as Jack struggled to remove his jumper. “Yes, please,” he said. “I’d love a large beer.”
“I’m fine with water, for now,” said Emma to the waitress. And then, to Jack, “Are you going to keep me in suspense?”
“What?”
“You know what!”
“Oh, you mean about me being violated by a dog?”
“No! What did the estate agent say?”
Jack drew it out for as long as it was still safe, and then… “They’ve accepted the offer!”
Emma’s face erupted into a ginormous smile. “That’s amazing! I can’t believe we’ve got the house we loved.”
“I know, he’s literally called me as I was walking from the car park. He tried earlier, but I think my phone was being held as evidence at that point. We’re going to be homeowners!”
Jack had drained the contents of his first beer and was comfortably onto his second as their steak arrived.
“Tommy thinks the Wrinkly Olympics are a great idea. He thinks their club will be fully on board. Kelvin has put me in touch with someone from BBC Sport and they seem to be fairly interested, depending on how many people we have coming over, which I suppose is fair. They don’t want two old boys throwing a Frisbee to each other… You’re a bit quiet, are you, okay?”
“I’m fine, I’m just happy,” Emma said, with a cute, giddy grin.
“You know, I think Roy has discovered a new species of animal — that doesn’t taste like any steak that I’ve managed to cook. It melts. Like butter.”
Emma put her hand on Jack’s. “We should do this more often.”
“The budget may not stretch to it, now we’re getting a mortgage. It’s crazy to think that the shop was nearly bankrupt, and look at us now, nearly homeowners, four coffee shops and branching out our club into the UK.”
“And you’re going to be an internet sensation again. Did you give Grandad his bike back?”
“No, not yet. I’m making him sweat.”
“How?”
“I’ve told him that the police found his bike. He was over the moon and started talking about demanding justice. He soon changed his tune when I told him the police had seized it as part of a ‘peeping tom’ enquiry they currently had underway. I told him they had some old pervert on CCTV looking somewhat the worse for wear, and when they showed me the still picture I had no option but to say I thought it was him.”
“You’re mean!” laughed Emma.
“Because of him I was nearly lynched by the ‘blue-rinse mafia’ so making him sweat is the least he deserved. God, that steak was amazing. Pudding?”
Emma tilted her head and motioned towards the waitress, who soon reappeared with a polished serving dish with a giant lid. She placed it on the table and slowly removed the lid to reveal a solitary slim, white, plastic stick — which looked somewhat lost against the expansive but largely-vacant gleaming metal server.
Emma smiled at the waitress, and then over towards Jack as she started to laugh. Jack grinned nervously and then started to laugh as well, joining in, unsure what the joke was but not wanting to look stupid or offend. Emma nodded towards the dish and raised her eyebrows in an expressive manner. Jack was starting to blush, feeling slightly stupid that he wasn’t getting the joke.
“Ah, okay, I get it,” he said, even though he didn’t. He took the thin end of the stick, having a go at it, and prodded it into his mouth, jabbing at his teeth. “Steak in the teeth, then?” he said, hoping he’d gotten it right.
To the revulsion of the waitress, he was virtually sucking the end of the stick.
Emma rolled her eyes. “Jack, you’re such a dick. But I love you anyway. Jack. Take a look at what’s currently in your mouth.”
He continued to grin uncomfortably before a moment of realisation finally struck him. He looked at Emma, to the waitress, and then back to Emma.
“You mean?”
“Yes,” she said. “We’re having a baby and you’ve just been sucking my wee!”
.
Chapter Five
E arly April in the Irish Sea was always a calculated gamble. Those that’d grown up with Island life would understand the trepidation of researching the shipping forecast several days before a sea crossing. Primarily serving the Isle of Man-to-Heysham route, the Ben-my-Chree was a workhorse — over a hundred and twenty-five meters in length with a service speed of 19 knots. She was, perhaps, not the most reliable of vessels and, like many in the Lonely Heart Attack Club, entering her twilight years, but Emma still had childish excitement whenever she climbed aboard.
“Oh, I love the smell!” she said to Jack as they climbed the steep stairs from the car deck to the passenger lounge.
“What? Vomit, oil, and rotting fish?” asked Jack.
“No!” she said, slapping Jack on the arm. “Salt air, the wind in your hair. The smell of adventure and a feeling of going on a journey.”
“Do I have to wear this?” interjected Pete, like a petulant child unwilling to wait until the adults had finished speaking.
“Yes, you do!” said Jack. “You’re the ‘stag’ and just because you’ve been greedy and had a best man and a maid of honour doesn’t mean you’re getting out of the ritual humiliation bestowed by said best man.”
“But it’s only the three of us,” Pete pleaded. “At least on a normal stag do, there’s another fifteen blokes with various vulgarity plastered across their chest with a ‘witty’ nickname adorned on their back. It’s clear they’re on a stag do, and some degree of latitude is given to the stag. I just look like I’m going on holiday with two friends, looking like this! Plus, everyone knows I’m gay and will think this is some sort of statement piece.”
Pete shuffled tenderly up the stairs, anxious that the skin-tight suit would explode like a popped balloon and shards of fabric would pepper the hull of the dignified ship. “But… Daffyd — The only gay in the village?”
“Take the coat off,” instructed Jack as they walked into the passenger lounge. “We’ll sit here. Right next to the bar.”
Pete removed his coat to reveal the skin-tight, rubber styled, red short and t-shirt combination. The red glistened like a disco ball and the ensemble was complete with a white cross that made him look like a giant Swiss flag. There were a couple of cheers from those ‘in the know’ but for the majority, they assumed that his attire was both voluntary and a bit… odd.
“Beer, Pete?” asked Jack.
“It’s eight a.m.! I’ll have a peppermint tea.”
“Whoa… steady on there, big guy. You’ve got a full weekend ahead — you don’t want to burn yourself out!”
Emma leaned towards Pete and admired the costume. “You like it a little bit, though… don’t you!”
“A little bit, yes” Pete admitted despite himself. “Safe to say that Jack will not be getting this back after the weekend.”
Emma stood on the top deck as the ship eased out of Douglas Harbour. It was windy, but not particularly cold. She loved to see the Island from this unique vantage point and soaked in the sight of Langness in the South, all the way up to Maughold in the North of the Island. The sun had partially broken through a dense covering of cloud and illuminated the Island like a little jewel in the Irish Sea. Fortunately, the sea was kind for them, with only the faintest hint of the white horses on the breaking waves.
“It’s wonderful,” she said, turning to give him a kiss. “You taste salty from this sea air!”
Jack took a step back and stared at her.
“What is it?” she asked.
Her dark hair, which was usually tied back, flowed freely in the wind and her eyes wrinkled as the fresh breeze caught her face. “Nothing, I was just thinking that this is the first time our baby has been off the Island. Are you going to tell Pete? I think he’ll probably guess when you don’t drink anything this weekend.”
“No, not yet. I’ll just tell him I’m on a diet or something.”
BING-BONG
“Ooh, wait,” said Jack. “Listen.”
“This is your captain, Kenneth Crellin, and I have the pleasure of taking you to Heysham today. There is a light north-easterly breeze but I’m pleased to report that we should have a comfortable crossing for you today. We should be alongside, in Heysham, a little after noon. I’ll give you a further update a little later on this morning. We’d also like to welcome a special guest sailing today, Daffyd, who I’m assured is ‘the only gay in the village’. I’m sure I don’t need to point him out to you, but if you’d like to buy him a drink he’s sat right next to the bar and he is getting married next month, to our favourite horticulturist, Kelvin Reed. Best of luck from us all, Pete.”
“He’s going to love you!” said Emma.
“Brilliant! Yes, we should maybe stay up here for a bit.”
Pete’s face was as red as his outfit when they gingerly made their way back to the table. The peppermint tea was cast aside, replaced by several pints of beer in plastic glasses.
“It takes a lot to make me blush, Jack Tate! Well done, though, that was fantastic.”
