“Purple one?” replied Stella. “I thought Brad Pritt was that cream-coloured one!”
Lee placed his hand over the microphone, but it had minimal effect, as Stan and Frank could still make out the sordid details of the conversation, to their chagrin. Or, to their delight. They couldn’t decide which.
“No, darlin’, Brad Pitt is the purple one with the extra thing that pokes out like a little finger! The cream-coloured job is Guy Martin! The nine-incher!”
Stan’s eyes suddenly went wide.
Frank, uncharacteristically, had nothing to say. He just sat there, his own eyes darting back and forth, trying to work out how he could scrub this from his mind.
“Ah!” replied Stella, matter-of-factly, as if this sort of conversation were not the least bit uncommon. “That’s where I went wrong, didn’t I! Only I was looking at the six-incher!”
“The six-incher? That’s Daniel Craig, silly!”
“Daniel Craig? Then which one’s Idris Elba!”
“The larger black one! The one with the nubs all over the shaft for extra pleasure!”
“Ah! Of course it is! What was I thinking! What else would that one be! I am silly!” Stella called back. “Oh! Here it is! I found my lighter! I’d forgotten I’d moved it! All this time, I had it in my—”
“THIS LETTER,” Lee said abruptly, with all that sordid business now sorted, and returning to the matter of the original call. He cleared his throat. “This letter,” he continued, ignoring the dumbfounded faces staring back at him. “I’m going to hold it up to the screen so you can read it, alright? Here, can you see it?”
Stan screwed his eyes up. “I’ve not got my reading glasses, Lee. And Frank…” said Stan, looking over to his partner. “I think Frank is catatonic at present. Can you just read it to us, please?”
Lee read it out to them. The contents of the letter were as follows:
Frank and Stan looked at each other, to Lee on the iPad, and then back to each other.
“That’s unbelievable, Lee!” raved Stan. “Well done!”
“Lee, seriously. Well done,” Frank chirped, finding his voice again, and echoing Stan’s words. “This is a testament to your hard work. Bloody well done!”
Lee grinned like a schoolboy. “It’s grand, I agree,” he answered them. “Just grand. I was sleeping on the street not long ago, and now this! I’ve got my own flat, a beautiful girlfriend, and…”
Lee lowered his head and went silent for what seemed like an eternity.
“This is all down to you lot,” Lee went on, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand. “Sorry. Nothing to get scundered about, I know. It’s just… you lads believed in me, and because of our collective work, we’ve now got hostels and food drop in centres all over the country. You changed my life,” he said, lowering his head once more and dabbing at his face again. “Not to mention the lives of many others.”
“Lee?” asked Stan, after a respectable silence. “I think maybe there’s something wrong with the sound on this iPad. All I can hear… is a low hum… like a constant buzzing noise?”
“Hmm, I can’t hear anything,” Lee came back, after he’d gathered himself back together. “Oh, wait, hang on, yes I can.”
“And?” replied Stan.
“Sorry, I’m so used to it that I couldn’t hear it at first,” Lee explained, by way of not really explaining.
“Yes?” prompted Stan.
“Oh. Sorry. It’s, em, not the technology in your hands, I’m afraid. Rather, it’s the technology currently in Stella’s hands. In the, ah… in the vicinity of the bedroom,” he clarified. “Stella, darling. Can you come in here and stop doing what you’re doing? Please stop for just a moment, luv!” he shouted to her.
“I’m smoking!” she shouted back.
“How in hell are you smoking, and, at the very same time…? You know what, nevermind. Can you just come in here, please?” he asked.
Sure enough, Stella was indeed smoking. She always was one for multitasking. “What?” she demanded, dabbing a bead of sweat on the sleeve of a hastily-flung-on dressing gown.
“Do you fancy a trip to Glasgow, Stella?” asked Lee.
“No,” she replied automatically. “I’m sure they’ve still got a warrant out for my arrest.”
“What arrest?” asked Lee, confused.
“Or was that Dublin?” Stella mused aloud, flicking ash into the pocket of her dressing gown smartly. “Anyway, dun’t matter. It’s not my thing,” she said.
“But we’ve been shortlisted for an award,” Lee told her, waving the letter.
“Will there be free food?” she asked, interest now piqued.
Stella moved closer, into shot, and whilst it looked like the sash around the waist was holding fast on her night-time attire, Frank and Stan closed their eyes, fearing the worst, afraid it might yet give way under the considerable strain at only a moment’s notice.
Stella took the letter in her hands and pored over it, with eyes glancing up at periodic intervals. Gently — and, for her, gently was not the way she ordinarily did things — she folded the letter carefully back up, once she was done, before handing it back off to Lee.
“I’m proud of you dickheads,” she offered, with a sincerity that belied her form of address. “Seriously. I’m very proud.” She placed a hand on Lee’s shoulder, grabbed his head with her other hand, and then promptly thrust his head into the crevasse of her ample bosom.
Once released from the depths of her cleavage, and air returned again to his lungs, Lee grinned widely. “Stella, but that’s not the only surprise,” he said to her.
“Oh?”
“Have a guess who the compère for the evening is?”
“How the fuck should I know,” she replied, somewhat cross. “You know I don’t like bloody guessing games. Just out with it.”
“It’s a TV personality and sportsperson who you’re particularly keen on.”
“Just come out with it!” she shouted, but then, “Wait, hang on. Sue Barker? Is it Sue Barker??” she replied quite suddenly, and to Lee’s bewilderment.
“What? Sue Barker? What on…?” Lee covered the microphone, again, but it was equally as useless this time around as it was the last. “I’ll give you a clue,” he whispered to her. “You’ve just been getting rather friendly with him, in your own fashion.”
No reaction.
“In there,” Lee further explained, pointing over towards the bedroom.
“Brad Pitt?”
“No, not Brad Pitt. Who’d you have for afters?”
Stella’s jaw dropped, as did the fag stuck to her lip along with it.
“Not Sue Barker,” Stella confirmed.
“Not Sue Barker,” Lee verified.
“Then it’s got to be… Guy Martin??”
Lee released the microphone and announced with great fanfare, to both Stella and to the iPad, for the benefit of Stan and Frank at the other end: “The host is none other than TV star and Isle of Man TT legend, Guy Martin. Stella’s guilty pleasure.”
Frank clapped his hands. “Again. Lee, this is a fantastic achievement, and it really humbles me that…”
“WHAAAT?” Stella screamed, cutting across Frank. “You’re telling me Guy Martin is going to be at this gig? THE Guy Martin??”
By now, she’d firmly gripped Lee’s shirt, throwing a glare at him so intense it would melt the Riiser-Larsen Antarctic Ice Shelf. “You’re not lying???”
“No,” replied Lee. “I promise. I promise you I wouldn’t lie, particularly with your hands so close to my throat. But… if this isn’t your type of thing?” he teased her, which, with Stella, was a game that could play havoc with your life expectancy. “I mean, if this isn’t your sort of affair, like you said, then you needn’t feel obligated to come along…”
Stella paced back and forth like a rabid, crazed animal. She peeled the fag from her lip, and, if this weren’t unusual enough, a rare smirk emerged.
“Guy Martin?” Stella asked, in a trance-l
ike state. “Guy Martin. Guy Martin,” she kept repeating, like a mantra. “Guy Martin…”
“So you’ll be coming with us, then?” asked Lee. “It’s not too late to back out, you know. I’m sure there are other people — so-and-so, maybe? — who might go in your—”
“JUST YOU TRY AND STOP ME GOING!” said Stella, making her position absolutely clear. “I NEED TO GO!”
“Well if you’re certain, then,” Lee said with a laugh.
Stella, serious now, and much more sedate, said, “In fact I need to get back to my previous appointment with Guy Martin. Don’t tell Brad, though. He gets very jealous.”
Neither Frank, Stan, nor Lee said a word. Some things were best left unsaid. Best to leave her to her own devices, they surmised. Literally. To her own devices.
“Really great about that award, Lee,” said Frank, after a bit.
Lee nodded appreciatively. “Oh, and something else I was going to mention,” he told them. “I think we’re going to have our first resident for the farm. It’s a friend of Susie’s. And we’ve got a few more lined up on top of that.”
“Already?” asked Stan. “We’re a few weeks away from being finished, still.”
“I know, Stan. This lady is exactly what the farm was set up for. It’s domestic violence, and she needs to get away to someplace safe. So this is perfect. She’s also got a young son. For now, we’ve got her comfortable in one of the hostels over here.”
“Brilliant,” Frank joined in. “We should be finished up for early December, hopefully. We’ve had a farmer agree to come along to help out with preparing farming lessons to offer, and we’ve been inundated with people wanting to get involved with traditional crafts. I, for one, am looking forward to seeing Stan having a go at basket-weaving!”
“I’m sure I’ll be marvellous at it,” sniffed Stan.
“As well as the hostel, this is going to be a real community initiative,” Frank carried on. “Also, Lee, with the new barn, we’ve been able to increase the residential rooms from eight to twelve, so we’ve more to fill.”
“Nice problem to have!” Lee returned. “Also, we need to think about the name. At least in relation to the farm. I’m not sure it really goes, does it?”
“How do you mean?” asked Stan.
Lee stroked his chin. “Well, at the minute, with the charity being called Frank-and-Stan’s Food Stamps, that implies we’re just about providing food stamps, right? Which we’re not. We’ve got thirteen hostels across the UK, and now this one in the Isle of Man.”
Frank nodded along in agreement, stopping briefly to adjust the towel still around his waist. He wanted desperately to scratch his balls, but felt now was not the most opportune moment to do so. And thus he remained respectful, leaving his balls, for the time being, at least, unscratched.
“I do agree, Lee,” he said. “We probably need to keep Frank and Stan in there somehow, of course. And not just from an ego perspective, but more of a brand type of thing, you understand.”
“Frank and Stan’s Hostel?” suggested Stan, but then, quickly, “No, that’s rubbish. It sounds like a prison or something.”
“That will work in the UK just fine, actually,” said Lee. “Since that is indeed what they are— hostels. The place in the Isle of Man, though, is a bit more than that, isn’t it? It’s more than simply a bed for the night. It’s also somewhere to learn new skills, and to build confidence levels.”
“The TT Farm?” asked Stan.
Frank and Lee thought for a moment, before Frank opined, “It’s not the cleverest. But it does get the job done, I suppose. And if it wasn’t for the TT, we wouldn’t be here in the first place. And if it wasn’t for the TT, we wouldn’t have been gifted the farm. Albeit temporarily.”
“Plus it’s smack-bang on the TT course!” added Lee, warming up to Stan’s initially-somewhat-dodgy idea.
Frank looked over to Stan, and in the absence of any objection, declared, “Okay, guys. Frank and Stan’s TT Farm, it is. We look forward to welcoming our first guests in a few weeks, and Lee, we look forward to seeing you and Stella in Glasgow next month. We also need to get our heads together for how we’ll be funding our grand plans for the farm. We definitely need to ramp up the fundraising effort, if I’m not mistaken.”
“The charity trust should help?” enquired Lee.
“Sure, but we’ve grand plans,” explained Frank. “We’re not going to have the farm forever, so it’d be good to have the funds to buy another place as soon as Henk needs this one back.”
Stan widened his grin, moving closer to the screen. “I can’t wait for Glasgow. I’m going to have to get some fresh underpants for the trip!” he said, sharing with Lee perhaps too much information.
“I know. It’s… exciting?” replied Lee, not entirely understanding Stan’s meaning. “I’m going to treat Stella to a new frock, myself,” he added, looking over his shoulder to the direction of his dear one presently retired to the other room. “Well, not a new one, exactly, since she hasn’t got an old one to begin with. But, a lovely gown. And, perhaps some new jewellery for this big occasion. She’s an unpolished diamond, that one. A real lady. And I’m going to make her look like the true royalty that she is!” he told them.
“Lee!” Stella shouted from the bedroom.
“Yes, luv?” Lee answered attentively.
“Lee, you’re going to have to run down the shops. I’m not sure there’s much life left in Guy Martin’s batteries!”
“Right-ho!” came Lee’s jolly reply.
Chapter
Six
I s that the last biscuit, Monty?” asked Dave, staring at it like a hungry, stray dog stares into a butcher shop window.
“This one?” replied Monty, extending his tongue to take a long, luxurious lick of the chocolate coating. “I think it might be, indeed, yes,” he confirmed, dispatching it in one fluid motion.
“Bastard.”
Dave leaned back against a large tractor tyre, placing his hands behind his head, releasing a contented groan as he stretched. “It’s not a bad life, Monty. Would you look at that view,” he said reflectively, using his chubby hand to introduce the panorama that was the rolling Manx countryside. “Just there,” he said, pointing. “That’s where the steam train to Peel used to run,” he relayed to Monty, indicating a field at the south side of Frank & Stan’s TT Farm.
“It’s not too bad at all, me old chum,” Monty agreed, joining him resting against the tyre, nursing his cup of tea, and admiring the view. By virtue of his lazy eye, he had, perhaps, an arguably even better appreciation of the expansive vista. “Nossir, not half bad,” he reiterated for good measure. “And you’re a TT winner,” he added casually and for reasons apparent only to himself.
“Ay? Where’d that come from?” replied Dave. “But you’re correct in that assessment. And I’m not complaining.”
Monty slapped his friend’s thigh. “I dunno, I guess I’m proud of you, is all. My mate, Dave Quirk. A TT winner.”
“Mmm,” said Dave, like a dog getting his belly rubbed, closing his eyes contentedly.
“Do you remember our first TT?” Monty set forth.
“Sure I remember,” replied Dave, without missing a beat. “The copious amounts of alcohol that made me forget things were before and after it— not during.” He smiled at the thought.
Monty let his gaze wander, perhaps in awe of the countryside, perhaps in recollection. “Do you remember our first machine, all those years ago, when we were doing the club racing? Before the TT?”
“Remember it!” Dave came back, opening his eyes again. “Ha! That bloody thing nearly killed me! I spent weeks working on that contraption. Still, I learned what I know now from that beastie. It nearly bankrupted the pair of us, though, in the process. It was lucky you came into some cash right about then or the dream could have ended there.”
Monty slurped on his cuppa, wiping the remnants of biscuit from the side of his mouth with an expert curl of the tongue. “I didn’t h
ave any,” he remarked, after a bit.
“Any what?”
“Cash,” replied Monty. “I didn’t have a pot to piss in.”
“What? But you paid for the tyres and the bodywork from your inheritance.”
“There was no inheritance. I didn’t even have an Uncle Sam.”
“I thought it was an Auntie?” queried Dave.
“Whatever. Either way, they didn’t exist. I knew you wouldn’t have just taken the cash, so I made that whole bit up. I sold the washing machine and the fridge. I think I may have sold the lawnmower, also, and a few other things as well. The wife went absolutely mental. I almost sold the garden gnomes, but then thought better of it at the last minute, thank goodness.”
“I would have!” protested Dave, sitting up abruptly.
“Would have what?”
“Taken the cash! I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, actually.”
Monty bobbed his head. “Fair enough. Still, I’d do it again in a flash. The happiest time in my life. Again, thank goodness I kept the garden gnomes.”
A goat wandered over. Judging by its markings, it was the same as that which had terrorised the pair previously. Presently, however, the goat was considerably more placid. Their former adversary now placed its bum on the ground, taking up position sitting by Monty’s feet. It ruminated agreeably, chewing again the contents of its last meal, as it likewise took in the most pleasant of views along with its new associates.
“That mower, Monty,” Dave commented. “You didn’t sell it. I borrowed it.”
“Eh?”
“I borrowed it,” Dave repeated. “I forgot to give it back.”
Monty drained the remaining contents of his cup. “It was all about sacrifices, back then,” he said accommodatingly. “Hang on. Here, what are you laughing at?”
“I’ve just remembered that I sold your mower,” admitted Dave.
“How’s that funny, exactly? I think that’s called theft,” suggested Monty.
The goat stopped chewing, suddenly, and looked over to Dave. Monty would have looked over to Dave disapprovingly as well, but there was no need since one of his eyes was already on him anyway.
Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin Page 9