One of Henk’s friends, Rudy — also a seasoned veteran aficionado, judging by his adornment of racing badges — grinned like a madman.
“Fooking amazing, no?” he said, gripping Frank and Stan around the shoulders.
The lads nodded in agreement, still somewhat stunned and ears ringing.
“Right! Sidecars next!” Rudy exclaimed, pulling a hip flask from his pocket, which he eagerly shared with his new friends.
Frank was almost embarrassed at the hospitality complete strangers were showing them, but the slug of smooth, expensive-tasting alcohol both eased his concerns and warmed his insides quite nicely now that the warming rays of the sun had disappeared behind the treeline.
The anticipation grew, once again, as the infectious enthusiasm of the radio commentator — Chris Kinley — radiated from the speakers, as he called away the sidecar competitors from the start line. There was barely chance to take a second nip from the hip flask before the sidecars broke the birds foolish enough to settle back into the trees from their reverie for a second time.
Frank thought about how he’d explain what he was seeing to his friends at home, but he couldn’t. No matter how many videos, photographs, or detailed descriptions, it was simply unfathomable to anyone not fortunate enough to see it in person. The only way to truly appreciate it, properly appreciate it, was to actually be there. It now made perfect sense why people sat in a field all day, or hovered in a tree, to view the grand display.
They may not have been as quick as their solo counterparts, but the sidecars could shift, and unbelievably so. Stan and Frank marvelled as the ‘chairs’ hurtled past them, the riders once again bobbing their head as they negotiated the small dip in the road. They were every bit as impressive as those before, and it was difficult to conceive that two people were attached to these pieces of metal hurtling next to them.
Frank shook his head in dismay. “Dave and Monty must be absolutely bonkers to get on one of them things!” he shouted over the sound of the screaming engines.
The end of the sidecar session brought an end to Frank and Stan’s TT debut. They were both emotionally drained, sporting a look of complete bewilderment. The smile on Frank’s face dropped for a moment, as he said, “I can’t believe I’ve waited so long to see that. We should have done this thirty years ago, Stan.”
Stan smiled. “It’s better than having never done it at all,” he said. “Plus, we’ve got another two weeks of this to look forward to!”
Frank didn’t respond. For a few moments, his brain was elsewhere.
“Hello, Frank, are you listening?” Stan asked.
Frank’s attention was back, his brain now returned to his body. “We need to get a sidecar,” he declared.
“I think we’re a bit old for that, to be honest,” said Stan. “Plus I’m not so sure I’d want to see you in tight leathers, no offence.”
“Not for us, Stan,” Frank replied with urgency and conviction. “We need to get a sidecar for Dave and Monty — well, at least an engine — I’m dead serious. There has got be somewhere on this island we can buy an engine. Stan, this is unbelievable. The racing, the Island, Henk, the boat, the… everything.”
Frank was a man possessed. Stan didn’t dare interrupt him.
“I fucking love this place to pieces,” Frank continued. “Just imagine how unbelievable it’d be to have a sidecar with our name on it. Well, the charity’s, I mean,” he said, now gripping Stan around the shoulders. “Stan, with the amount of money we have, we must be able to sort an engine out. We’re not just going to be watching the races, my old friend. You and I are going to be part of the races!”
“I’m with you, mate,” Stan said. “I love it to bits as well, only…”
“Only what?” Frank asked.
“Only, can you let go my shoulders?” Stan said. “Your bloody death-grip is hurting me, for fucksake!”
Chapter Twelve
N othing filled the bars and pubs of Liverpool more than a warm, balmy summer evening. The town centre was heaving as happy punters cast aside their suit jackets and ties, enjoying a drink or two after a day at the office. It was easy to forget the pain and fear of a bitter-cold winter’s evening when drenched in the warming rays.
Arthur Hughes enjoyed the bustling crowds; it was easy for him to be anonymous and for a brief time, less vulnerable. It was difficult to retain a respectable appearance without washing facilities, but Arthur managed as best he could under the circumstances. His greying hair was a little more erratic than it once was, and the absence of a fresh razorblade meant the stubble on his face was irregular. He tried to dress as smartly as he could, if nothing else, for a fleeting feeling of normality. He’d aged more this past six months than the previous six years. His eyes were the biggest clue; the sparkling blue eyes of his youth were now hollow and sunken, and had virtually glossed over. He looked like a man who’d all but given up. And, in fact, this was precisely what he was.
“What are you staring at, you dirty git?” shouted a young city type clutching a large glass of red wine. “Are you simple or something? Stop looking at my girlfriend!” he added, much to the amusement of his colleagues.
Arthur shuffled uneasily; he tried to move away quickly but his loose-fitting slippers made it more difficult than it should have been.
“I’m– I’m sorry,” he stuttered over his shoulders as he walked away.
“Pervert!” shouted the voice over the crowd. “Look at his bloody slippers!” it said, to an eruption of laughter.
“I thought she looked like someone,” Arthur said quietly. “I’m sorry, she looked like someone I knew.”
He continued to protest his innocence, mumbling to himself, long after they were out of earshot. A wave of emotion ran through him as he stood in a doorway and rubbed his ears furiously, like he was trying to start a fire. He sat on a concrete step and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.
“I thought I knew her,” he said aloud, to no one. “She looked familiar.”
His coat was too big — ideal for winter, but stifling in this weather. He didn’t live through the previous colder months; he existed. He couldn’t afford to let go the coat, and if he tried to store it somewhere, he knew it’d be gone when he returned for it. His dark trousers were an inch or so too short for him, but fitted comfortably at the waist, which, like the compassion in his eyes, was slowly diminishing. His comfortable brown boots, which had served him well during the ice and snow, were, like everything he owned, taken from him. The peril of having something of use on the streets was that someone younger and stronger would take them at will. Arthur, even in his present condition, was no pushover, and those boots were vital for survival. He hadn’t given them up without a fight, which was the reason for the savage-looking gash on his left cheek.
Lack of food was crippling, but what Arthur struggled with most was the lack of sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept more than two or three hours at a time. It helped not at all that, as soon as he found a place of relative safety, it was gone the following night and he was alone, once again, looking for a place to get his head down.
“Are you going to bed?” said a young voice.
Arthur took his head from his hands and looked quizzically at a young girl, no older than three or four, stood in front of him. She had a vibrant summer dress on and had her blonde hair tied up in bunches.
“Are you going to bed?” she asked, in reference to his slippers. “My mummy bought me some slippers, like yours, but mine don’t have as many stains. Do you live in this house?” she continued at pace.
Arthur smiled and gently waved her away, but she stood and smiled. “Would you like a sherbet lemon?” she said, pulling a yellow sweet from her pocket. “I’ve got several. They’re my favourite. Mummy doesn’t know that I took them from the house.”
“You should go,” said Arthur gently.
“I’m Emily,” she said, handing Arthur the yellow sweet.
“You shouldn’t talk
to strangers, Emily,” said Arthur, taking the sweet in the hope it would usher her on her way.
She smiled and skipped up the road, humming a tune to herself. She stopped for a moment to unwrap the tightly-bound plastic wrapper separating her from her own lemon treat. She was oblivious to the speeding traffic in front of her, and continued to concentrate on the sweet that yet eluded her.
Arthur jumped up and shouted, “Emily!”
She didn’t respond so Arthur quickened his pace. The slippers caused him to stumble, so he kicked them to one side.
“Emily!” he shouted, louder this time. He broke into a jog as he continued to call after her. “Stop there, sweetheart!”
She took a step onto the road and startled traffic swerved from the nearside lane to take avoiding action. The screeching tyres finally broke Emily’s concentration, but her momentum took her a further pace into the road.
Arthur lunged forward and caught the collar of her dress, throwing her toward the pavement. A black taxi skimmed millimetres from Arthur, and the passenger-side wing mirror clipped him just above the waist. If Emily had still been in the road, the impact would have been directly on her head. The collision knocked Arthur off his feet and he landed awkwardly on top of Emily, who, by now, had naturally started to scream.
Barefoot and not as mobile as he once was, Arthur flailed on the pavement, unable to get to his feet. Several bystanders moved cautiously toward the pair, unsure what exactly was going on. Emily continued to scream, as a trickle of blood ran down her knee onto her white ankle socks.
Arthur managed to roll over onto his front, and pushed himself into a praying position before using a black bin as leverage to get back to standing. He was in pain and had lacerations on his feet, but his first thought was for the little girl. She tried to smile at him, but the tears prevailed as she sobbed uncontrollably.
Several bystanders moved to assist, closely followed by a hysterical woman who took Emily in her arms.
“Baby, baby, I only turned my back for one moment,” she said, caressing the girl’s hair, and wiping her bloodied knee with a handkerchief.
“Baby, what happened?”
Emily took a laboured breath in between sobs, and pointed to Arthur. “That man,” she said.
Her mother squeezed her as she looked askance at Arthur, a mixture of dismay and disgust on her face. Arthur knew he looked a state, which certainly didn’t help her opinion of him.
One of the onlookers was a burly workman, and, faced with the situation before him, took a firm grip on Arthur’s arm and shoved him away from the girl.
“I pushed her,” said Arthur. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
The workman was initially the aggressor, but as the baying mob — including Emily’s mother — heard that Arthur had pushed her, became the calming influence as he placed a protective arm around Arthur, preventing a physical assault.
Arthur was pushed into the shop doorway from where the mother had appeared, but he had trouble maintaining coherency and could only mumble to himself incessantly.
“The old bastard’s mental!” shouted one voice.
“Should be strung up!” shouted another.
Arthur’s heart smashed in his chest as a cloud of angry faces floated in front of him.
“I’ve phoned the old bill!” shouted a store security officer, who moved to calm the situation. He took Arthur by the arm and guided him inside the shop, away from the angry mob. Once inside, Arthur took one final look back toward Emily. Her sobs had given way to a smile, and she held her palm to show him the yellow boiled sweet, finally undone, in her hand.
“I need my slippers,” Arthur said to no one. “I can’t go anywhere without my slippers.”
Arthur sat alone and scared atop of a thin blue plastic mattress in a cold custody suite. Still, though he knew it was irrational, the thought of a safe, secure night’s sleep was becoming appealing. The banging and screaming from the neighbouring cells, on the other hand, disturbed him greatly. Arthur pushed his knees into his chest and he buried his head, holding his ears to drain out the noise.
He didn’t hear the cell door open.
“Arthur, come on mate, you’re free to go,” said a firm but gentle voice.
Arthur followed the young officer without question. He was brought to the same sergeant’s desk where he’d been processed a few hours earlier.
“You’re free to go, no charges,” said the sergeant. “Do you need a lift anywhere?” he added, not unkindly.
The younger officer took Arthur to one side, and explained to him that the girl had told her mother what had happened and that they’d been into the station as soon as they were able.
“The young girl asked me to give you this,” said the officer. “I think it’s a lemon sherbet? She said not to worry as she’s got another.”
Arthur bowed his head and brushed his cheek, which had suddenly gone wet.
“I can go?” asked Arthur.
“Not quite yet, I’m afraid,” said the officer. “By the way, my name is Darren. Wait there for a moment, please?”
Darren came back with a bag, from which he produced a pair of immaculate black walking boots. “Size seven? We could only guess, but the shop said you can change them no problem if you need to.”
Arthur looked up at the officer, confused.
“Ah. Well, you see, when we found out what had happened, we went to look for your slippers. We found them, sure enough, but they were a mess. And so all the team on shift threw some money in to buy you some boots. I hope you don’t mind? You know, about the slippers? Oh, and we’ve also got some clothes left from lost-property. all cleaned. Please, help yourself.”
After a bit, the sergeant handed him a pile of leaflets on where the homeless could get help, such as accommodation and food. In truth, Arthur had exhausted all of the available options, but he was so grateful for a moment of compassion that he took them anyway, gratefully. His boots were a perfect fit and the clothes from lost property were deeply appreciated. He didn’t keep his existing wardrobe apart from the coat, which kept him warm in winter.
“One more thing,” said Darren. “There’s someone who wants to talk with you at the front desk.”
Darren escorted him and gave him a friendly pat on the back.
“Take care, okay?” the officer said fondly, then nodded at the man waiting patiently on a wooden bench in the reception area.
“Arthur?” asked the man politely.
Arthur looked back at the policeman, who gave him a reassuring nod, and then to the new fellow again. “Yes, I’m Arthur,” he said cautiously.
“Great!” said the new fellow. “Arthur, my name is Lee Watson, and I work for a charity called Frank ’n’ Stan’s Food Stamps. It’s not the catchiest, I know, but the clue is in the name. Can we grab a coffee?”
Arthur was suspicious. After months of living on the streets, it was difficult to be anything but, but he gratefully took a mug of hot tea and a large bacon bap and listened to Lee.
Lee had clearly indulged since his time on the streets, sporting a rather impressive paunch, but his enthusiasm was equally as impressive. He spoke with passion about his own time spent homeless, and his chance meeting with Frank and Stan. Arthur felt a fair bit of empathy with Lee because he’d been in the very same situation Arthur currently found himself, albeit Lee being considerably younger.
“Arthur, in short, I’m part of a charity who gives food stamps out to the homeless. We’re not the first and hopefully we won’t be the last, but we want to ensure that the homeless are getting at least one hot meal a day. Here’s a list where you can collect the vouchers, and here’s a list where you can redeem them. They have no cash value so cannot be exchanged for alcohol or drugs. We know there are food banks, Salvation Army, and other charities, but they’re struggling to cope. This way, you can be sure to get a healthy warm meal every day. Well until the money runs out, at least!”
Arthur frowned, but Lee did his best to reassure him.
“Arthur, honestly, there’s no catch. Just a bunch of people hoping to do some good — that’s it. We just want people to spread the word. The guys at the police station have been great, calling us when they have someone they think we can help, I hope you don’t mind? Do you have any questions?”
Arthur took a mouthful of his tea and sat in silence for a moment. The tea was hot and he could feel himself warming. His vision blurred as his eyes welled up.
“Are you okay?” asked Lee. “Can I do anything? If you need me to get you a lift somewhere, that’s no problem? Arthur…?”
Arthur dabbed at his eyes with a napkin, and, then, vision clear, took a look down at his new boots.
“I got these new boots,” he said, admiring them. “I was happy for a brief moment, but then I realised that someone would see them and want to take them and I’d end up with another black eye. I was almost tempted to give them back and go barefooted — at least then people would leave me alone. But then I thought that, at least with these boots, I could walk further — or, in this case, climb further.”
“Climb?” asked Lee, uncertainly.
“Yes, climb. The only positive thing I could think about these shoes, at least at first, was that I could walk in comfort to the highest building I could find.” Arthur took a picture from his inside pocket and held it out. “Lee, I was going to take this picture of my daughter, climb a building, any would do, the taller the better, and jump from it.”
The blood drained from Lee’s face. “Mate. You’re not going to, you know, jump in front of a train, or something stupid?” he asked.
“No, Lee, I’m not,” Arthur continued. “That was my plan, but not anymore. I’ve seen more compassion today, in this one day, than I have taken altogether in a good long while. The thought of a warm meal each day, for me, is more than you can possibly imagine. Well, then again, I suppose you can and have imagined.”
Arthur was beginning, tentatively, to feel human once again.
Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #1: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and exceptionally funny! Page 11
