Frank tried to protest and explain himself, grabbing hold desperately to Ivana’s knickers, but it all happened too quickly, and Frank found himself fallen unceremoniously to the floor, still clutching the woman’s knickers — separated from her body quite effectively in the process.
In the end, Ivana stood above him, her modesty now protected only by the bouncer’s jacket.
“Pervert!” she shouted down at him.
Stan, who till this point had been an amused bystander, could feel the tension in the room and made an effort to interject.
“Look, it’s his birthday!” was the best defence he was able to offer. “Lad’s night out, yeah?”
Ivana looked indignant. “And, this means is OK to him for stealing knickers??”
“Well, you took his hat!” replied Stan, whose attention had suddenly moved elsewhere.
He was looking at a very attractive girl who emerged barely dressed from the darker recesses of the club. She moved closer and the look on Stan’s face changed from shock to alarm.
“Dad! What the hell are you doing here? Are you mad? What are you playing at??”
The attractive young girl was now stood over him, hands on hips, looking down at him. She was topless, and had quite nice tits, though they didn’t look entirely natural, Frank thought. Of course, they wouldn’t. After all, he’s the one who’d paid for them.
“It’s not what it looks like, Molly!” protested Frank.
“Dad, you’re lying on a strip club floor, with the buttons of your trousers wide open, holding a pair of knickers, next to a naked stripper. What the hell is it supposed to look like??”
Frank opened his mouth to answer, unsure of what he might say, but Molly wasn’t finished.
“Oh, and I hope you got my card?”
Frank decided attack was the best form of defence.
“Never mind about me, what the hell are you doing here?”
Molly stamped her foot. “I’m bloody making a living, aren’t I? You always told me to get a job, and so I’ve done. Besides, my boobs look fantastic, so why not?”
She pointed them in Stan’s direction. “What do you reckon, Stan?”
“Em… very nice?” said Stan, uncertainly.
The bouncer appeared to have reached the end of his patience by this point, and visibly increased his body mass in frustration like an agitated pufferfish. “Right. You pair of tossers,” he said. “Out of here, right now.”
Neither Frank nor Stan needed asking twice, and Stan helped Frank up from the grubby carpet and they made for a hasty exit.
As they left, the bouncer held the door open to watch as they walked away, making sure, it would appear, that they’d well and truly gone.
“Shit!” said Frank. “I’ve forgotten my hat.”
But Stan didn’t stop to turn back.
“Alright, Indiana Jones, just leave it,” Stan said. “You can buy another one with the fifty pounds you forgot to give to the stripper.”
They moved swiftly away from the club, as Frank buttoned up his trousers. “I thought I was done for in there,” he said.
Stan nodded, then took a look over his shoulder.
“Frank,” Stan said wistfully. “Frank. Molly has got fantastic…”
“One more word, Stanley. Just one more word…” said Frank, who was still trying to take stock of the situation and convince himself that what had just happened had just happened.
The two friends walked through the City Centre and, throughout the walk, Frank was getting increasingly frustrated with the sporadic laughter coming from Stan. He knew he’d see the funny side of it all, eventually, but it wouldn’t be tonight. Well, not until he’d had a couple of pints at the Lion, at least.
Living in a major city, Frank had always been aware of the homeless, but, like most, had become immune to their presence. Like once buying a new car, you only then become aware of how many of the same are on the road. And so, now, Frank was seeing homeless people everywhere.
He’d started to look at them differently. He wasn’t seeing them as a pile of clothes in a doorway; these were real people with a story to tell. He wasn’t stupid, he knew there were those that weren’t good people and he knew the food voucher gesture of his could well fall into the hands of those undeserving, but he figured that, on the whole, he’d capture the good ones.
Frank took the £50 note in his pocket and walked towards a man sat in a shop doorway. The man didn’t look hungry, or even particularly dirty. Rather, he looked lost. The expression on his face was one of hopelessness, like he’d given up. As Frank approached him, the man barely lifted his head.
Frank leaned down and handed the young man the note. “Take this and see what you can do with it,” he said, barely stopping to see the reaction.
Stan looked puzzled upon Frank’s return. “Was that a note you gave him?” he asked.
Frank nodded. “Yes, the money the stripper was going to get.”
“Fifty bloody quid? You’ve more money than sense! Still, fair play to you,” Stan said. “Look, Frank, this work with homeless…”
“What about it?”
“I’m in,” said Stan. “I was really impressed with what you did with the food stamps, and, well, I’m in. I’d like to throw some money into the pot with you. Maybe help more people, for longer.”
“The things you’ll do when you’re guilty for seeing my daughter’s tits!” Frank laughed, and then, still smiling, put his arm around Stan. “Seriously, though, Stan. That’s really good of you. I’ve had a few thoughts and I’d like to try and take it to the next level. Call it a legacy from a man facing the prospect of meeting his maker.”
“Cheery thought,” said Stan, but Frank had stopped behind him.
Stan turned around. “There you are,” he said. “What are you doing?” he asked.
Frank was wracking his brain. “That man I’ve just given the money to. I’m sure I know him.”
“You’re a bloody taxi driver. You’ve probably met half of Liverpool,” Stan offered.
“No, it’s more than that,” Frank said, and he paused for a moment longer before turning back to where they’d came.
Stan jogged to keep up. “What are you doing? Where are we going?” he asked.
The man in the doorway saw Frank approach and stood.
“Look, mate, you’ve given me a fifty-pound note here. I was about to chase after you myself, in case it was your money to get home or something,” he said, holding the note out to Frank.
Frank was touched at the gesture. The man spoke in a gentle, but strong Irish accent, and, judging by the less than svelte midriff, had clearly not been without a meal for too long.
“No, no, you keep it, please,” said Frank, adding, “I don’t mean to be rude, but did I not see you on TV last week?”
Stan moved closer. “It bloody is as well,” he said. “You’re the man that tackled the armed robber who had the baseball bat.”
“Cricket bat,” the man said. “And, well, I suppose I am,” he added uncomfortably.
“Bloody hell, mate,” said Stan, shaking his head sympathetically.
Frank nodded his head in agreement. “But, hang on, you did that last week and this week you’re back to sleeping in doorways? I’ve got to be honest, when they said it was a homeless man who’d tackled the thief, I assumed he wasn’t actually homeless and that the press had embellished the fact to make the story sound better.”
“No, sadly, I am actually homeless,” the young man said. “Well, at least at the moment. My name is Lee Watson, by the way.”
“I’m Frank and this is Stan,” said Frank, extending his hand. “Look, this might be a bit premature, but, well, I don’t have a great deal of time.”
“Bloody hell, Frank, stop being so negative,” Stan said, annoyed.
“I don’t mean that, Stan. It’s getting near closing time, you tosspot, and I want a few pints!”
“Ah. Right, then,” Stan said, chuckling.
“Lee, the thi
ng is,” Frank continued. “We’re doing a bit of work with the homeless and want to try and extend what we can do. I’m not exactly sure what it will be, but, would you like a job?”
“Okay… that sounds good,” Lee said hesitantly. “But… you don’t know me. How do you know you can trust me?”
Frank smiled. “Well, you tried to give me my fifty pounds back without asking,” he explained. “Now, as far as the job, I don’t know where this is going to go, but it will give you a few quid in your pocket and get you back on your feet. Keep the money I already gave you, and take this as well,” said Frank, handing him another £50. “Get yourself a room in the hotel over there, have a wash, and come and see me at this address tomorrow and we can talk further.”
Frank wrote the office address down and handed it over.
Lee looked bewildered. “Thanks,” he said. “But how will I get there?”
“Jump in any taxi with a picture of Frankenstein on the side,” Frank said.
“Frankenstein’s monster?” Lee asked, confused.
“Right. They’ll bring you to the office,” Frank explained.
Lee still looked confused.
“I’m Frank, see? And he’s Stein,” Frank said, pointing to Stan. “We just need to get him some bolts for the sides of his neck, is all.”
Lee looked more confused.
“It’s our taxi service,” Frank said, explaining further. “We own the business.”
Suddenly, a flash of realisation swept over Lee, animating his face. “Ah! Yes! I’ve seen them. With the monster on the side!”
“Frankenstein,” said Frank proudly.
“Frankenstein’s monster, yes,” Lee said, nodding his head in agreement.
As Frank and Stan continued on their way, into the deserted shopping streets of Liverpool, a voice echoed off the brick walls along the lane, calling after them, booming like thunder from the reverberation.
“Thank you! Thank you both, very much! I won’t let you down!”
Frank raised his arm in acknowledgement and placed the other around Stan’s shoulder.
“We’re going to do good things, Stanley. I’m looking forward to this!”
“Now let’s go get that pint,” Stan agreed.
Chapter Seven
T he company ran an advert each year on regional TV. They were known for being low-budget, deliberately so, and often cringe-worthy bordering on self-deprecating. Frank had never been one for the limelight. Stan, on the other hand, was a bon vivant who relished the opportunity to promote himself, and the lure of a leading role on the small screen was one he was exceptionally eager to become involved with. His fake tan, dyed hair, and gregarious dress wouldn’t have looked out of place in a 1970’s American soap opera. On the adverts which had aired for years, Stan would appear with his usual flair, inevitably requiring rescue by one of their heroic taxi drivers in a ludicrously scripted situation where he needed a taxi. The strapline in the advert was: Frank ’n’ Stan’s – driven to help.
Stan had been grooming for days once Frank told him that BBC Breakfast were coming to do a live interview. His hair was now blacker than the Milk Tray Man on a moonless night, and he’d been a little too liberal with the application of his fake tan.
“It’ll show up as a healthy bronzed glow on camera,” he insisted.
The camera crew were due in just before 7 a.m. and the office was immaculate in anticipation. Stan had placed some sort of advert for the business at every conceivable angle and wore a t-shirt with their logo emblazoned all over it.
Every driver was given strict instructions that any impromptu appearances would be met with a severe beating, and Stella had never been out of her seat so much. For the third time that morning, she appeared with a cup of tea for Frank and Stan — despite having never made them a cuppa in the ten years prior, not once, not ever.
“Stella, you look different today,” remarked Stan on her most recent trip.
Indeed, Stella’s tight perm seemed more buoyant than usual and her leggings were almost indecent, like they’d been painted on. She certainly appeared proud of her new white t-shirt, which had the logo Sweat is just your fat crying stretched across the front. And though Stella never wore lipstick — likely because she had no lips to speak of, really — she wore it today, though without much in the way of lips, as noted, it had the appearance of a mouth having eaten its own lips, with her vibrant red lipstick, fag hanging through it, looking rather more like a traffic warning sign.
“Can a girl not make an effort?” she asked, dropping the two cups of tea onto the desk.
Frank caught sight of cigarette ash a moment before it sank beneath the surface of his drink, dissolving into the tea.
Stella stood for a moment and stared through the window, perhaps, one can only assume, looking for someone with a camera.
“I think that’s the phone ringing,” said Frank, with a smile on his face, and it wasn’t just an excuse, either — the phone actually was ringing.
She didn’t acknowledge him and continued to stare. “I’ve told my mum I’m going to be on the telly. So I don’t want to let her down, understand?”
She looked at Frank and didn’t blink. It was unnerving, and he looked toward Stan for help, but none was forthcoming.
“Well, Stella,” he said. “The thing is, they’re only really here to interview me and Lee. I hope you understand? It’s to talk about the new charity, see.”
She continued to stare.
“My mum will be watching,” she said, breathing deeply and sucking in a lungful of toxic air.
Frank wafted the smoke away as best he could. “I’ll see what I can do, Stella, but no promises. Also, if you don’t mind, I’m not sure I need any help dying any quicker, so can you leave the smoking outside of the office, please?”
“That’s a bit selfish,” she said. “Especially as I’ve been making tea for you all morning.”
She blew one final plume of smoke toward them and returned to the ringing phone.
Frank looked at Stan with a puzzled expression. “Why do we employ her, again?”
Stan pointed toward the sign above his head. “If you need to phone in sick, remember you need to speak to Stella,” it said.
“Because, Frank, as you know, without her, this place would be carnage.”
Scarlett Redfern was captivating. She was the darling of BBC TV with a shock of auburn hair and a figure that would cause traffic to stop. As she marched with purpose into the taxi office, she brought an element of class never before seen in this particular environment.
“Frank?” she asked, as she approached, with a warm, engaging tone.
Frank and Stan were like two schoolboys. They weren’t told who was coming to do the interview, and Frank mumbled an incoherent welcome. The camera crew were familiar with this reaction, and grinned as they set up their equipment.
Lee was late arriving, but forgiven, bearing in mind he was sleeping in an actual bed for the first time in months. Scarlett was a consummate professional, who put Lee and Frank at ease, positioning them for the most flattering light. Stan would no doubt find himself delighted, as two of his strategically placed adverts would remain in shot.
The cameraman, who was lining up the scene, raised his head, suddenly, from the viewfinder.
“There’s a woman in shot in the window,” he said. Then he squinted his eyes. “I think it’s a woman?”
Stella was staring through the window, and with the smoke surrounding her she looked like she’d just stepped out of the Tardis.
As Stella obviously had no intention of going anywhere, Stan very smartly closed the blinds.
Frank and Lee were wired up for sound as Scarlett touched up her immaculate makeup one final time before effortlessly going live to the camera.
Scarlett:I’m delighted to be with Frank Cryer and Lee Watson. Now, you may remember Lee, or will probably have seen him, as the homeless man who tackled an armed robber and now somewhat of an internet sensation. I’m very
pleased to say that Lee is no longer homeless and is in fact working on a fantastic new charity venture. Frank, if I can come to you first? Can you let us know a little bit about the new venture?
Frank:Yes, thanks. It’s something I only started fairly recently. This city has been good to me and the people have made our business thrive. I know a few people that have not had the best of luck in life, and sadly some of those have ended up on the streets. I wanted to do something to help them, so I put some money in so that the homeless can use their food stamps I’ve helped provide to go into a number of participating retailers to buy food.
Scarlett:Wow, that’s a great initiative. So why now?
Frank:Ah, well, because I’m dying, and wanted to do something nice.
Scarlett went silent for a moment, expecting a punchline that was not forthcoming. The faces in the room were sombre, and for a moment she lost her composure before quickly righting herself.
Scarlett:I’m truly sorry to hear that, Frank. But this is a wonderful legacy. So, what’s next?
Frank:My apologies, Scarlett, I didn’t mean to throw that one in so matter-of-fact, but, it’s a great motivator, and I kind of wish I’d done this years ago. Stan, my oldest friend and business partner, had agreed to come on board with me and put some money in as well. We want to extend our reach beyond Liverpool, and help as many people as we can, across the country. Sadly, there will always be homeless people, so Frank ’n’ Stan’s food vouchers will be a way to get targeted help to those that need it. Me and Stan are not the youngest and have a business to run, so what we wanted to do was start the movement, and have someone younger, with passion, who could help us deliver on our objectives. Which is why we wanted to work with Lee.
Scarlett:Lee, if I can come to you? For those not familiar, you were recently homeless yourself?
Lee looked smart. He was similar in height to Frank, so he’d borrowed one of Frank’s formal white shirts and a pair of black trousers. Plainly nervous, he cleared his throat before speaking.
Lee:I’m still technically homeless, although Frank and Stan have been good to me and helped me to get on my feet.
Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #1: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and exceptionally funny! Page 6
