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

by J. C. Williams

  “Keep ’er steady,” Dave said to himself, over and over. He tucked himself in as they hurtled down the notoriously rapid Cronk-y-Voddy Straight. A flash of colour passed him on the right side, completely disorientating him. For an instant, he thought he’d clipped the kerb and was in the process of flipping over, but, as it turned out, it was another outfit had darted past them like they were standing still.

  Dave’s heart raced; he thought they were the final outfit out on track, so being overtaken at that pace scared the hell out of him. He took a deep breath and composed himself, but before the outfit in front disappeared from view, he caught sight of Harry McMullan taking the opportunity to raise his middle finger up behind his back.

  Dave resisted every urge in his body to chase him down. He knew they were significantly quicker. And, besides, he couldn’t let his ego get in the way — he just had to bring her home.

  McMullan and Dearie were currently third quickest, but Dave knew that if they increased their time on this lap, he and Monty could likely be pushed out of the qualifying places. Dave didn’t want to dwell on this. He couldn’t influence what they did, and just had to focus on what he could control. If anything, he rolled off the throttle a little as his heart was still thumping out of his chest.

  The temporary fix of the front fairing held firm, and Dave brought Monty and the bike back in one piece. As he rode up the return lane, he had no idea if he’d qualified, but did he care?

  Damn right, he did!

  The first person he saw was Chris Kinley, who was still live on-air, interviewing Harry McMullan. He cut McMullan short for a moment and held up his clipboard where he’d written:

  Chris patted him on the back as Dave leaned over to Monty to deliver the news. A wave of emotion rushed over him and his eyes welled up with tears of relief.

  “We’ve fucking done it, Monty! We’ve only gone and done it!”

  Chapter Twenty

  T he beer tent on Douglas Promenade was busy earlier in practice week, but with the races starting the following morning, the place was completely heaving.

  “They didn’t have champagne, only lager. And warm lager, at that!” said Stan, returning from the bar. “Are you okay, Frank? You look… well, you like you’re either in pain or having an orgasm?”

  “Just contented,” said Frank. “Lager?” he asked, taking his beer.

  “Stella,” said Stan. “It’s all they had, I just said.”

  “What about Stella?” Frank said, only half-listening.

  “Stella Artois. The lager,” Stan explained.

  “Ah. Right. Thanks, Stan. Sorry, lost in thought. What a day today, yeah? That was amazing. I really didn’t think they were going to do it. The commentator sounded like he was going to rupture something, he was so excited! Dave just texted me back, by the way. Says he’s going to get his head down early.”

  Frank’s phone rang, and he stared at it, confused.

  “Ah, it’s a phone,” Stan said, teasing him. “That ring you’re hearing? They do that sometimes.”

  “Do they?” Frank said, taking the ribbing like a good sport. “I never knew.”

  “Is that Molly again?” asked Stan. “Did she ever manage to get hold of you?”

  “I did phone her back, yeah,” replied Frank. “Said we’d have a good talk about things when I get back. But, no, this is someone calling from a private number, so I can’t imagine it’s Molly. Probably someone trying to sell me life insurance, although I’m not sure they’d give me a quote at the moment!”

  “Hmm,” said Stan.

  “Yes, hello,” said Frank, picking up the call. He closed his eyes to concentrate, and attempted to filter out the noise of the rock band performing thirty feet away, but realised it was a battle he was never going to win. He motioned to Stan for them to move to the far end of the car park on which the tent stood.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you. You’ll need to start again,” he said, once they were clear. “Right… Yes, this is Frank.”

  Stan looked on, concerned.

  “Stella gave you my number?” Frank asked the caller.

  “Who is it?” Stan mouthed, and Frank shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

  Frank went quiet as he listened carefully.

  “Look, who the hell is this??” he said, finally. “Hello? Hello?” And, then, to Stan, “The fucker hung up on me!”

  “That sounded serious, who on earth was it?” asked Stan.

  Frank took a mouthful of his drink and shook his head again.

  “I’m not sure, Stan. Some bloke with a foreign accent. Stella had given him my number, apparently.”

  Stan rolled his eyes. “Let me guess,” he said. “Another happy customer she’s managed to piss off?”

  “No, not this time,” Frank said, gravely. “He didn’t give me a name, but he was a less-than-pleasant sort. His accent was thick, and he spoke so quickly it was difficult to keep up with him. But he gave me the indication — well, he actually said straight out, near as I could tell — that Lee was thieving scum and he’d only left Ireland before people caught up with him.”

  Stan paused for a moment to digest the information. “Lee?” he said incredulously. “It doesn’t make sense. The guy’s a bloody hero! He stopped that robbery, after all, and just look what he’s done for the charity, raising all that cash in only a few days.”

  “Shit, Stan. The cash. What about all the cash?” said Frank.

  “The cash is fine,” replied Stan. “The money is in the office safe, and Stella has got the only key. If he can break into that safe or he manages to get the key off Stella, then he deserves the cash inside.”

  “We can’t have misjudged the guy that much?” said Frank. He took another mouthful of his beer and replayed in his mind his interactions with Lee. “You know, this could be nothing but a load of rubbish. We can’t just go and accuse the guy of something he hasn’t done. He’s been kicked on the streets for months and the last thing he needs are his new colleagues accusing him of being a thief.”

  “It’s Friday!” exclaimed Stan suddenly.

  Frank looked at him, unsure of what point he was trying to make.

  “Friday, Frank! Stella will have put the wages for the part-time drivers in the safe!” explained Stan. “Frank, I’m not sure we can take the risk on this. With the money from the charity and the wages, there’ll probably be about thirty thousand in that safe!”

  Frank shook his head and picked up his phone. “Oh, Stan. What if we’ve made a giant mistake on this one? What if Lee is a thief? Fuck, fuck, fuck! I need to phone Stella and let her know, at least warn her of the possibility.”

  The two of them walked through the fairground, towards the middle section of the promenade where it was a little more sedate, and so quieter.

  “Stan, I’ll do this on speakerphone so you can hear what’s being said on both ends,” said Frank.

  Like phoning most taxi offices, it rang continuously, with no one picking up.

  “It’s Friday night, they must be busy,” offered Stan. “Try her mobile?”

  Frank rang her mobile. “Hello,” came a gruff voice.

  “Stella, it’s Frank and Stan. Right. I’ve got you on speakerphone, luv.”

  “You two can fuck right off,” she said, before hanging up.

  “Did she just hang up on us?” said Frank.

  “She just hung up on us,” said Stan. “Do we need to remind Stella who pays her wages?”

  “You can, if you like,” replied Frank. “Personally, I’m not that brave. And you must remember my condition.”

  “And what condition is that again?” asked Stan.

  “Extreme cowardice,” said Frank. I’m not that brave enough to go toe-to-toe against Stella — even when there’s seventy miles of water between us.”

  “Ah. That one,” replied Stan. “Well, if you don’t at least try her again, we may not have a pot to piss in very soon.”

  “I’ll try her again, shall I?” Frank said.
>
  “What is it you lot want?” Stella’s voice came over speakerphone, as warm and welcoming as ever. “Only I’m really very busy at the moment.”

  Frank thought it best to take a conciliatory approach. “Sorry, we just tried the work number and it rang and rang. Are you really very busy?”

  “At the moment? No, not especially,” Stella said, and then made an audible sucking-in noise — the all-too-familiar sound of her taking a long drag off a cigarette.

  “I thought you just said—?” Frank ventured.

  “I’ve got Susie in helping,” replied Stella.

  “Ah, good. That’s nice. You sound like you’re talking with an echo?”

  “I’m in the toilet! Having a shit, if you must know!” Stella replied, with sufficient volume over speakerphone that the elderly couple unfortunate enough to be enjoying an evening stroll along the promenade nearby now surely also knew.

  “But I just heard you smoking?” said Frank.

  “I smoke when I shit!” said Stella. “Get over it! It helps me to relax, dunnit!”

  “Thanks, Stella, I’m happy you’re relaxed,” said Frank, nearly retching.

  “Easy, Frank,” Stan said encouragingly, patting Frank on the back.

  “Damn straight I’m relaxed!” came the relaxed reply. “And was that Stan I just heard? Stan, you can fuck right off!”

  “Lovely to hear your voice as well,” Stan replied.

  “Look, I’ll keep this brief,” said Frank.

  “Thank Christ!” Another long sucking-in of air.

  “Look, have you seen Lee lately?”

  “In the women’s loo? I should hope not!” Stella responded. “Is there something about him I should know about? Is he a stalker of beautiful women such as myself??”

  “I meant in general,” Frank replied, as placidly as possible, so as to maintain her relaxed state.

  “Oh. Shame, then,” said Stella. “No. His mate, the old git, has been in looking for him. He was sat in your office for about three hours, staring at the wall. Probably dribbling. One of the drivers said they saw Lee near Lime Street Station, earlier, though.”

  Frank felt his shoulders drop. “Stella, did he seem okay when you spoke to him last?”

  “What? I’ve not spoken to that idiot more than once,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” said Frank, unconvincingly. “Did you put the wages in the safe, by any chance?”

  “Frank, it’s Friday!” she admonished him. “When have I not put the bloody wages in the bloody safe on a bloody Friday! What’s going on??”

  “Stella, I’ve just had a phone call to say Lee might not be quite the knight in shining armour that we thought he was.”

  “I soddin’ well told you that, didn’t I, you bloody pair of gormless wankers. But does anyone ever listen to Stella? No, they bloody well don’t! As soon as I’ve finished up here, I’m getting that old bloke and hanging him up by his bollocks. He must know where Lee is. When I get some information out of him, I’ll let you Dickhead Twins know.”

  “Don’t be daft, Stella,” said Stan. “If he knew where Lee was, why would he be hanging about the office? Anyway, why are you so keen to find Lee?”

  “You mean besides what you just said? Because he’s got the bloody safe key!” Stella replied. “He told me he was putting some cash in that they’d been given over the last couple of days. And I assumed he’d just forgotten to give me the key back.”

  “Has he taken the cash from the safe?” asked Frank, tentatively.

  “How the hell would I know? He’s got the bloody key, so I can’t very well open it to bloody check, now can I?”

  “Why did you give him the key?” ventured Stan, rather bravely.

  “Don’t start that with me, Stan, or I’ll smash your bollocks in as well. You told me he was working for you, and he’s been poncing around here like he owns the bloody place!”

  “Shit, shit, shit,” mouthed Frank. “Look, Stella, me and Stan are going to get a plane home in the morning. Don’t call the police just yet, this could be all a big misunderstanding and nothing more, yeah?”

  There was no response.

  “Stella, are you there? Stella, are you okay??”

  “I’m wiping, have bloody patience!” said Stella, taking another drag of her cigarette. “It’s not so easy for girls, is it? It’s tricky! You’ve got to—”

  “Stella, I don’t need to know all the details!” Frank felt the contents of his stomach rise to his oesophagus, and his diaphragm spasm. “Stella, we’ll be home soon, alright? Leave the old bloke alone… do not hurt him!”

  Frank hung up the phone, put his hands on his hips, and looked up into the sky. He looked very much like a superhero, albeit an old, very tired, and gravely ill superhero.

  “Stan, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we’re going to have to go home and sort this mess out,” he said.

  Stan looked crestfallen. “I know you’re right, of course. But the race is tomorrow!” he said, devastated.

  “I know, pal, I know, but there’s nothing else we can do. There’s simply nothing for it.”

  Fortunately for Frank and Stan, everyone was travelling to the Island rather than away from it, and they were able to get the first flight out in the morning.

  “I’m gutted,” said Stan as the plane left the tarmac at Ronaldsway Airport. “Gutted.”

  “I know,” said Frank. “And me as well. But we can still listen to it on the radio?” he added, trying to sound positive, though it was hard to pierce the pervading gloom. “Anyway, it was nice of Henk to invite us back in. Though I can’t say I slept much last night. I’m devastated that we’re not going to see the race, but the prospect that we may have been taken for a couple of chumps is really upsetting me even more. We’ve given Lee every opportunity to rebuild his life, to make a fresh start. He could have made a massive impact on other people’s lives.”

  “As you said, Frank, it might be totally innocent,” Stan offered.

  “That’s what I’d been trying to convince myself of all night long. But why would he go missing with the safe key? I hate to face up to facts, but I think we’ve been done over. Look, if we have been ripped off, can we keep it to ourselves? I’m going to put the money back into the charity account.”

  “We’re going to put it back, you mean,” said Stan. “I trusted Lee as much as you did, so don’t think for a minute you’re footing the bill on your own!”

  “Cheers, mate,” said Frank.

  “Should we call the police?” asked Stan. “Y’know… if?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” replied Frank. “And I don’t want to see the guy locked up. But I don’t think we have much of a choice. If we don’t get them involved, and people did find out, they might think we were in some way involved, or even worse, that we’ve tried to rip off the charity. I don’t like it, but I think we’ll have to.”

  Stan was presently staring at Frank rather intently.

  “What is it?” said Frank. “What’re you looking at me like that for?”

  “Frank, are you okay?” said Stan, and Frank could tell from Stan’s face that he was being quite serious. “Honestly, you look washed out. I think you should go to see the doctor once we’ve landed.”

  Frank’s first reaction was to resist, but he did indeed feel washed out, and, if he looked it as well, he knew Stan’s concern was well-placed. “Okay, mate,” he said. “I will. And I’ll even let you drive me!”

  Two men wearing black overalls and motorcycle helmets entered the offices of Frank ’n’ Stan’s Taxis. This wasn’t particularly unusual, in itself, as they had a courier delivery contract and they’d often have riders coming and going to the office each day.

  Stella didn’t even raise her head when the bell hung over the door chimed gently. She was engrossed in the Times’ crossword puzzle and had a pen poised in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

  “Give me the fucking money!” shouted one of the men,
now stood in front of the desk.

  Stella didn’t flinch. “Seven across. Name of the theatre where Lincoln was assassinated,” she said. She took the pen and began foraging in her ear with it.

  “Money!” the man repeated, more aggressively.

  Stella slowly looked up. “No, dickhead,” she said, evenly. “It begins with an eff. As in, eff you, yeah?”

  The two men turned to face each other, and for a moment it looked like they might disappear as quickly as they’d arrived.

  “Give me the money! Now!” shouted the other man, stepping forward and taking a miniature cricket bat from inside his jacket. It was made for kids, obviously, or as a tourist souvenir, though it still looked of quite sturdy construction.

  Stella was both unamused and unconcerned. “Bloody cricketers!” she cursed. “It’s always the bloody cricketers, innit??”

  “What?” said one of the intruders.

  “That doesn’t even—?” said the other.

  And, then, ignoring them, “Now. You lot,” Stella said, taking a long drag off her cigarette. “I can tell from the accents you’re not from around these parts, so I feel obliged to educate you. See, in this country, taxi offices tend not to have a lot of cash hanging about. Think about it, yeah? When have you ever gone to a taxi office and paid the person behind the counter? You don’t. You pay the taxi, don’t you? Now, either you’re very stupid, the pair of you, or you’ve mistaken me for the post office — which does have cash, and is down the street, just there.”

  She pointed in the direction of the post office, helpfully.

  The two men looked at each, their expressions unreadable as their tinted visors were both down, and then back at Stella.

  “If you both piss off now, right now, I’ll extend you the courtesy of not telling them you’re on the way, I promise.”

  Stella reached under the counter and calmly produced a bat of her own, revealing a rather large — and full-sized — American Louisville Slugger® baseball bat.

  She went to casually rest it on her shoulder, but, as she began to do so, the man with the mini cricket bat in hand leant forward and swung, catching Stella on the side of the temple before she even knew what had happened.