Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #1: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and exceptionally funny!

by J. C. Williams

  “I think so. Shine your torch over there, to the left of the chimney stack.”

  “What is this place?” asked Lee.

  “I think it was a glazing factory, back in the day.”

  It was a vast expanse, but despite it being relatively warm outside, it was cold in the abandoned factory, with a damp chill in the air. The concrete floor was sodden with sporadic puddles of stagnant water. A row of inadequate windows spanned the upper third of the brick walls, but they’d long since succumbed to the elements — or possibly bored children using them for target practice.

  “Ah, over there,” said Lee.

  There were piles of wooden pallets laid out on the floor, stacked just high enough that the makeshift covering gave the pile of blankets laid on top of them sufficient distance from the cold, wet floor.

  Lee cautiously approached, holding the torch to the side of his head. “I don’t think anyone’s here, Arthur. Do you know how many stay here?”

  Arthur shook his head. “No, I only stayed in here for a few nights… maybe eight or nine people? I think people moved on as quickly as they could. It’s this dark and miserable in the middle of summer, so you can imagine what it was like in the middle of January. It was mostly younger people that stayed here, but there were an old couple as well, I don’t know how old. They’d been married for years, I forget their names now.”

  “How’d they end up in this dump?” asked Lee.

  “I think life just got the better of them both. They were injured in a car accident, couldn’t work, and I imagine the bills stacked up, and they ended up here, in this. It’s horrendous how life can turn on you.”

  Arthur looked like a different man after a few nights in a comfortable bed and a decent meal. With a proper shave and a haircut, he looked twenty years younger. The most apparent improved was that of his posture: he’d grown by at least two inches now he was no longer stooped over like a broken man.

  “What about you, Arthur? I never asked how you ended up on the street,” Lee said. “Tell me it’s none of my business if you don’t want to talk about it.”

  Arthur paused for a moment, after which were the sound of clinking glasses from where he’d tapped a pile of empty bottles strewn on the floor with the toe of his shoe.

  “My biggest mistake, Lee, was that stuff — the demon drink. I was an alcoholic.”

  “I didn’t think you drank?”

  “I lost my wife to cancer. Fortunately, it was quick. But she went through a lot of pain. I’d only drank socially before that, but I think I started hitting it to numb the pain after she was gone.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Lee said sympathetically.

  “My biggest regret is how I treated my daughter,” Arthur continued. “When she needed me the most, I was drinking myself to death. I lost my business, the house, and everything I cared about. It was only when I’d lost everything that I stopped drinking. After I ended up on the street, I couldn’t see the point even in drinking. I couldn’t see the point in anything.”

  “What about your daughter?”

  Arthur’s eyes welled up. “She moved house and got married. I was so caught up with drinking, I didn’t even walk my only daughter down the aisle. I’ll never forgive myself for that. Never.”

  “I understand,” said Lee.

  “What about you, Lee?”

  “My fate was all my own doing, Arthur. I did things I’m not proud off, got involved with some pretty despicable people — and I was one of them. I had to leave home pretty quickly, and, arriving in Liverpool with no money and a criminal record, there was only one place I was going to end up. Life is peculiar, though,” Lee said. “Who’d have thought we’d meet up and be here, now, trying to help people out?”

  “Life’s a funny old thing,” Arthur agreed.

  “That it is,” Lee replied. “Everything works out for a reason, I expect.”

  “There’s nobody here,” said Arthur, taking a final look into the pile of sheets. “We can leave a note letting them know where to come and get their food vouchers, yeah? Right, I should like to get out of here now. It really is bringing me back to an awful time in my life.”

  “Sure,” said Lee, placing several flyers for the charity on the wooden pallets. “I’ll be pretty glad to get out of this place myself,” he agreed. “I think we’ve only got three or more buildings to do, and that’s us handed out over one-hundred flyers, my old friend! That’s pretty good going.”

  Lee put the lock and chain back as they’d found it, securing the door as best they could. There wasn’t much to protect inside, but for the people who called this home it was all they had. He shuddered as they moved from the squalor, back into the warm, bright morning. “I wonder if the people in those posh apartments,” he said, pointing up the street. “Just there. I wonder if they realise the conditions the homeless live in, only thirty seconds away from them?”

  “I’m not sure most think about it,” said Arthur. “Certainly, from my experience, most people try to ignore it, while some think that people choose that existence, even.”

  “No one would choose to live like that,” agreed Lee. “Choosing to live like that would be completely mental. I mean, sure, there are some real scumbags living on the street. But there are some real scumbags anywhere you look. And most of the people I’ve met on the streets were honest, decent people, who’d just had a run of bad luck. Once you’re down to nothing, it’s exceptionally difficult to drag yourself back out again.”

  Lee paused for a moment, giving his phone a look.

  “Shit, no way, Arthur!” he said. “That’s Helen from the homeless shelter. She said they’ve had thirteen people in to collect food vouchers today, and these were people she’d never seen before. We’ve only been doing this for a few days. I’m well chuffed with that.”

  The positive news put a spring in both their steps, and spurred them on their mission to visit every derelict building in the city. It struck them that the official number of homeless could very well be significantly higher than reported. If they’d found thirteen people who’d never been to the shelter before, after all, how many more were there out there? How many more might there possibly be?

  Arthur struggled to keep up with Lee, and chased him up the street like an excited puppy.

  “You mean what you said, didn’t you?” Arthur asked, finally at Lee’s heels. “You know, about that woman in the taxi office?”

  “About her not having a go at you? Of course I did,” Lee said, stopping and allowing Arthur to catch up with him. “Still. If she comes at us, fists swinging, me old chum, you’re on your own I’m afraid. I want no part of that, as she’d give Mike Tyson a good workout!”

  “Ta, that’s very encouraging,” Arthur said, and they both laughed as they carried on their mission.

  Chapter Sixteen

  F rank’s eyes were heavy from the gentle rocking of the carriage. His head bowed toward his chest before the shrill whistle from the engine brought him back to his senses.

  “Stan, your sword. It keeps knocking me on the shin.”

  “Sorry!” replied Stan, his attention fixed outside the window. “This is amazing, you know — the countryside, and the smell. Everything. Look at this carriage,” he said, though still looking out the window. It must be a hundred years old.”

  The sound of the train was amplified when they passed through a tunnel. They were briefly thrown into darkness and with nowhere for the steam to escape, the nostalgic aroma of a bygone time filled the carriage. Once through the tunnel, the fresh light abruptly revealed new scenery outside, as well as illuminating a small tableau inside the carriage — a young boy with his grandparents, sat with his nose pressed against the window, watching the rolling Manx hills pass before his eyes.

  “Stan, it’s hitting me again. Did you really need to buy a plastic sword?”

  “It’s for my neighbour’s boy. He’ll love this,” said Stan, swinging it for effect like he was on the battlefield.

 
; “So why did you buy yourself a helmet and a shield?” asked Frank. “And why are you wearing it now?”

  “You can’t go into battle without a shield and a sword to protect you. Isn’t that right, young man?” Stan said conspiratorially to the young boy with his nose pressed to the window. They’d seen him earlier, walking around Castle Rushen, and he’d clearly persuaded his grandparents to be generous in the gift shop as he was now dressed impressively like a knight.

  The boy seemed grateful for the attention, and raised his sword, grinning. He looked at his grandparents for the required approval before launching a playful assault on Stan, who used his shield to deftly repel the attack. The grandparents smiled indulgently, though appeared wary of the strange man sat opposite, across the aisle, engaged in battle. Ultimately, they must have regarded him as harmless — or perhaps somewhat mentally deficient, poor chap — as they allowed the campaign to rally on.

  Frank was grateful for a relaxing day on the tourist trail. The last few days had been hectic, and the stress of the red flag the previous evening had played heavily on his mind. Fortunately for all concerned, it had been only an oil leak — a fairly extensive one, but nothing more serious than that, thank goodness. The time it would take to clean up the track had meant the practice session was cancelled for the evening, was all.

  As the train meandered from Castletown toward Douglas, Frank was once again transported back to his childhood, riding a train very much like the one they were in. In fact, it may well have been the very same train. He chuckled as he could almost hear his parents scolding him for putting his head too close to the open window. He looked at the young boy sharing their journey, so full of energy and enthusiasm, and wondered if the child, like he, would one day fondly relive the experience. Frank could vividly recall the wonderment at walking around Castle Rushen as a child. That in itself was a memorable experience, but, to travel there and back on steam train, for a child, was a wonderful adventure all unto itself.

  “Are you okay over there?” asked Stan. “You seem unusually quiet.” Stan had finally put down his sword. From the smile on the boy’s face, it was obvious who’d won the battle.

  “Fine, Stan, thanks. Just thinking. And remembering.”

  Stan gave him a knowing smile before returning attention to his former opponent, who was now issuing Stan the terms of surrender.

  The railway heritage on the Island was magical, and for enthusiasts — similar to the TT devotees — it was easy to understand why a visit to this wonderful island was a privilege.

  “My clothes smell of the train,” said Stan, sniffing himself, walking up the platform. “Hmm, the steam doesn’t half travel,” he said in reference to the thick covering that enveloped the station.

  “I think that’s fog,” said Frank. “That’s bizarre, it was like a summer’s day in Castletown, and now you can’t see the end of your nose in Douglas.”

  Stan looked at his watch, licking his upper lip and waggling his eyebrows cartoonishly. “Four in the afternoon, young Frank. Must be time for a pint of the Island’s finest?”

  Frank didn’t need asking twice, and they were soon positioned outside the British pub which, in spite of the fog, gave a splendid view over the boats moored in the harbour. They watched a portly gentleman sat topless in a chair on the deck of his boat, waiting patiently for the sun to reappear. All thoughts of an afternoon sail were now forgotten, judging by the beer in his hand.

  “You always said you were going to get a boat one day,” said Stan.

  “True enough,” said Frank, smiling wistfully. “Though I think I said I was going to do a lot of things. Sadly, time catches you up. I wanted a quaint little barge to travel across the country, but she always said it was stupid, and boring, the wife, so I never bought one.”

  “Ah. Unlucky,” Stan said, not unkindly.

  “I’m not sure if it is old age in general,” Frank continued on. “Or this, this… shit inside of me. But I’m feeling vulnerable. I’m afraid that I’m going to lose the desire to do things. Everything I’ve done in my life has been with one eye on the next thing. When we bought our first taxi, I wanted two. When I bought my first house, I wanted another one — with a bigger garden. Not greedy, mind, just driven to better myself. I’m worried that I’m looking at the final credits scrolling down on the story of my life. I don’t like it, Stan.”

  “We’ll buy a boat,” said Stan, matter-of-fact. “I don’t recall seeing a number two item on the bucket list. We could buy a boat, and seek out adventure on the high seas!”

  Frank smiled on one side his mouth, not committing to a full smile but appreciating Stan’s efforts. “We’d just end up like that chap over there, most likely, sat on our boat drinking beer with no intention of going anywhere.”

  “That’s not so bad?” Stan offered.

  “I’m sorry, Stan. I’ll snap out of it. That train journey really brought me back to being a kid, in a nice way. I’m just feeling nostalgic and beginning to realise how fragile life is, that’s all.”

  “All the more reason to enjoy it while you’ve got it, Frank. Remember my old Aunt Evelyn? She was so obsessed with being ill that we all thought it made her ill. It was as if that defined her. You need to see this as a challenge, Frank. One that we’re going to get you through,” Stan assured him.

  “I know, you’re right. We’ll have a couple of pints and wander up to see Dave and Monty before the practices,” replied Frank.

  “No practices tonight, I’m afraid,” announced the barman, collecting the empties from the outside tables. “Manannán’s Cloak has other plans!”

  Frank and Stan smiled and nodded like they knew what he was talking about, though they hadn’t a clue.

  The top of the cheery barman’s head was smooth as a baby’s bum, while he had the sort of beard small woodland creatures could easily make a home in without your ever being aware. He placed the glasses back on the table and gestured with dramatic effect toward the partially-covered hills in the distance. Like a veteran of the stage, his demeanour changed and his voice lowered an octave or two. “Manannán’s Cloak,” he told them. “Is the ancient Sea God, Manannán mac Lir, swathing his kingdom in mist to protect it from unwanted visitors.”

  He was clearly getting into character, much to the frustration of the thirsty punters waiting for a drink. He continued…

  “The cloak would roll in from the sea, covering the Island from prying eyes and unwelcome invaders. The grey and purple fog would only lift when our enemies had passed us by.”

  He paused for further dramatic effect, raising one eyebrow and holding his gaze for slightly longer than was comfortable. Almost on command, the bellowing, deep tone of a fog-horn from the entrance to the harbour reverberated like the beating drum from an invading force. The only thing the skilled orator was missing was a plume of smoke and dramatic explosion, for a magician’s exit. Though, in this case, the magician’s exit simply meant tending bar once again.

  Stan smiled politely till he’d taken their glasses, and he and Frank retreated back through the thirsty hordes, leaving them in their wake as they found a table.

  “Was he a bit simple, you reckon?” Stan asked once they were sat.

  “Says the fella waving a plastic sword about only minutes ago!” Frank laughed. And then, shrugging his shoulders, said, “I dunno, I quite enjoyed it. Especially the horn at the end. So, anyways, no practice tonight? That’s a bit of a nuisance. How many laps do Dave and Monty have to do?”

  Stan pulled out his race guide for a look. “Well, they didn’t complete a lap last night, and they won’t be doing any tonight. They need to do three complete laps before Sunday, so… should be okay?”

  Frank frowned. “Sunday? It’s Wednesday today, and the races start on Saturday. That means they’ve only got tomorrow and Friday to complete three laps. Dave said one of the laps has to be a certain time, linked to the third-fastest lap of the other competitors?”

  Stan continued to flick the pages. “Yes,
at the end of practice week, the organisers look at the entire leaderboard of lap times for every competitor over the course of the week. Any racer wanting to qualify must have at least one lap which is within a-hundred-and-fifteen percent of the third-fastest lap on the overall leaderboard.”

  “Explain,” said Frank.

  “Right,” said Stan, as if he were suddenly an expert, and having to explain earnestly and patiently to an initiate. “Say the third-quickest qualifying lap overall, from every racer, was a-hundred-and-fifteen miles per hour, yeah? Right, so Dave and Monty would have to complete three laps, and one of them would have to be at least a hundred miles per hour to qualify, and the speed on the other two is not as important as they just need to complete the laps.”

  “Mmm, I think I get it. Shit, that’s going to be tough, especially with a new engine. It’s only when you get here and see the scale of the place you realise how hard a lap actually is.”

  Stan drained his glass, effortlessly, before responding. “Well, if we’re not going to watch the bikes, we may as well have a walk around the local hostelries. It’s your round, my old friend, and good luck with the hairy tour guide.”

  With the practice session cancelled, the streets came alive with folk eager to soak up the jovial atmosphere. The locals would often joke that the Island sunk a little each year with the weight of the annual influx, and it wasn’t difficult to believe. In the past, visitors had mainly focussed on Douglas. With the ever-increasing popularity of the TT races, however, people were spreading out even more, keen on taking advantage of other picturesque towns in the Island as well. Industrious campsite owners and rugby clubs were happy to accommodate the overflow, but, wherever you went, there was never a hint of trouble — just people eager to share in the magic.

  For years, the iconic Bushy’s Beer tent, a short walk from the ferry terminal, was the destination of choice. A hefty tent was erected for two weeks of the year to quench the thirst of visitors, and formed the focal point of the TT entertainment. Giant screens would show race footage, and live bands would keep the hordes entertained. Adrenaline was often fuelled by the large crowd of onlookers, and exuberant bikers would succumb to their moment of glory and leave a doughnut-shaped burn-out in the tarmac. The Island’s police were exceptionally tolerant, but the moment of extravagance often led to their collars being felt and an expensive visit to the bike shop to buy a new tyre.