“The glass might be half-full, but the bloody bank account is going to be empty,” Dave answered, not rising to the challenge. “Frank and Stan are going to be devastated by this. Absolutely gutted. Monty, I’ve seen with my own eyes how much it’s going to cost to make this place habitable, and there’s not a hope in hell they’re going to want to stump that amount of cash up after what they’ve already spent.”
“It’s that bad?”
“It’s not good. They’ve only got the lease on the farm for a couple of years and there’s not a snowball in hell’s chance they’ll spend that sort of money when the place is likely going to be ultimately demolished anyway in order to make way for the hotel. Sorry, mate, but I think the TT Farm is going to remain a pipe dream.”
“Bugger,” Monty commiserated.
“And I also think,” Dave added, “that we better have a word with our former bosses or get ourselves down the job centre, quick-smart!”
The goat, still sleeping blissfully up until this point, suddenly awoke, stood upright, and began making chewing motions. When it realised that there was in fact nothing left in its mouth to chew on, it wandered off, presumably in search of same.
Chapter
Seven
I t’s nice out here,” remarked Stan, running his tongue around the top of his ice cream as he would across the tip of a…
“You want some?” he asked Frank, pressing it into Frank’s face like a reporter’s microphone.
“I’m good, thanks,” came Frank’s reply.
“It’s not like you to turn an ice cream down, Frank,” remarked Stan, feelings hurt.
“I could get my own,” Frank suggested. One that’s less, I don’t know… desecrated…?”
Stan pouted for a moment, but only for a moment, before attending to his ice cream once again, this time attacking it with gusto. “Suit yourself,” he said happily, between lip smacks.
Frank didn’t respond. He took a deliberate lungful of the bracing sea air. He smiled as a plastic ball, propelled by the gentle breeze, was chased down by a determined boy along the beach. “I love it in Peel. Well, to be fair, I love everywhere on this Island. But there’s something about Peel, in particular. The heritage, and the sense of nostalgia are…” he paused, searching for the right word. “Humbling?” he ventured. “I mean, look at Peel Castle.”
“Right. I’m looking at it,” replied Stan, carefully following instructions. “Now what?”
“You could almost close your eyes,” Frank went on, “and imagine you were on sentry duty when you clapped eyes on a flotilla of Viking invaders.”
“Oh,” said Stan, realising he was only meant to imagine here and that there were really no further instructions other than this.
“You wonder what would have gone through your head,” mused Frank.
“Probably a Viking spear?” Stan suggested helpfully.
“You could be right, Stan,” Frank agreed with a chuckle.
Frank turned his attention back to the pursuit on the beach, a pursuit which had now been joined by a black border collie and what looked like the boy’s sister. The squeals of delight carried perfectly on the breeze, interrupted only by the occasional bark from the boisterous dog.
Frank and Stan sat on the multi-coloured wooden benches for over an hour, after their Viking and ice cream-related exchanges, with barely a word between them. It was late September, but mild; families packed the small seaside town, taking advantage of the favourable weather. It wasn’t an awkward silence between the two of them but, rather, one of pleasant contentment. Stan made short work of his ice cream treat, Frank dreamt further of Viking invasions of times past, and the pair of them simply carried on enjoying the splendid view.
Eventually, Stan looked up and down the promenade, and then back over to the ice cream shop. “Did Dave and Monty go for a pint of lager or something?” he asked. “Only they went into the shop with you earlier, but I’ve not seen them since.”
Frank’s hands were tucked inside his jacket, so he pointed with his foot. “Over there. On the beach,” he said.
Stan raised his hand to defend against the sun, shielding his eyes. He craned his neck forward, focussing on the two grown men kneeling in the sand surrounded by several children observing their efforts. “Are they making sandcastles?” he asked.
“I expect so. They were trying out a few different bucket-and-spade combinations when we were in the shop. Daft buggers,” Frank answered him.
Stan turned his attention directly to Frank. He went to speak, but stopped mid-delivery, words evading him momentarily.
“Yes?” said Frank, distracted, not quite in the present and images of Norsemen coming ashore still playing through his mind.
“You remember when I said I wouldn’t bring up your illness unless you wanted to talk about it?” said Stan, finding his words.
“I do,” replied Frank, his eyes coming into focus.
“Do you want to talk about it?” prodded Stan gently.
“Not particularly?” came the reply, with Frank pulling up the zip on his coat and burying his chin in the fabric.
Stan proceeded carefully, taking a few moments to get his question ready, like a dog circling round before finally settling down to bed. “Is there anything you’re not telling me, Frank?” he asked delicately.
“No, Stan. I promise. I’ll be honest, I’ve been a little tired lately. Perhaps I’ve been doing a bit too much? I’ll maybe have a few early nights to sort things out,” he offered up.
“You’re still on the treatment, Frank? You’ve not taken yourself of it?” Stan enquired sympathetically.
“What? No, of course not,” insisted Frank, looking at Stan quite earnestly. “I won’t give up, Stan, I promise you that. I’ll fight this thing right to the end, believe me. Like you said before, Death can bloody well fuck right off! Am I right?”
“Right as rain,” Stan agreed with a laugh.
“No, shan’t be getting rid of me that easily, old boy,” said Frank. “And, besides, it’s Molly’s birthday today!”
“I sent her a card and flowers,” Stan told him, smiling gently.
Frank smiled as well. “I found a picture of her sat on my knee,” he related. “It was maybe her first day at primary school, and she was probably no older than that little boy there running after his ball,” he said, pointing out the young one still gambolling on the beach. “My goodness she was a pretty little girl, my Molly. She had this cheeky little glimmer in her eye, and a smile that’d melt your ice cream.”
Stan looked around, confused, to see if there was more ice cream about that perhaps he might’ve missed. Confirming that there was, sadly, no more ice cream to be had, he replied, “I remember, Frank. She was a little cracker. Still is.”
“I know Molly and I have not always had the perfect father-daughter relationship, Stan. But I’ve always loved my little… my little…”
Frank couldn’t continue, his voice breaking under a wave of emotion. He pitched forward, placing his head in his hands, shoulders heaving.
“Here, here, what’s all this?” asked Stan, sliding across the bench, placing a comforting arm around Frank’s shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Stan, it’s just…” Frank began, but the emotion caught his words up in his throat again.
Stan held onto his friend tightly. “You don’t apologise to me, Frank Cryer. There’s no need. In fact, this here is what you need. It’s just what you need.” It was unclear, with the last remark, if Stan was referring to the good cry Frank was having, or the flurry of pats he was giving Frank’s heaving shoulders, or perhaps both.
The emotion had made its way over to Stan’s face as well, and he found himself wiping at his cheeks. “I’ve just had a spray tan and now it’s going to be laid to waste,” he admonished his dear friend.
“I don’t want to go,” whispered Frank. “I love everything in my life. I’m scared, Stan. I think of Molly and how quickly she’s grown up and I hoped one day that I’d be
running along the beach myself, chasing after my grandchildren. That’s not going to happen now, Stan. That’s not going to happen, is it?”
Frank’s watery eyes pleaded, and with every fibre of his being Stan wanted to give Frank endless assurances to the contrary, but he knew that he couldn’t.
“Will you tell them, Stan?” Frank said.
“Tell who, what?” Stan answered.
“My grandchildren, Stan. If Molly has children. Will you sit them down when they’re old enough and tell them about me?”
Stan’s bottom lip began to quiver of its own accord. He secured it between his whitened teeth, nodding to Frank as he did so. “Of course,” he began, but had to stop to clear his throat. “Of course I will, you daft bugger,” he continued. “I’ll tell them about the kindest man I ever met and how, out of all these billions of people on this little planet, I was fortunate enough to travel through life’s journey with one of the most generous, compassionate, and loyal fellows that I could have ever imagined calling my friend.”
Dave placed his red bucket at Stan’s feet. “Right, what’s all this?” he asked, but, try as they might, Stan and Frank were unable to string a coherent sentence together between them, blubbering as they both were at present.
Monty placed his red spade in Dave’s bucket, throwing an enquiring glance at him. He was hoping for some sort of an explanation, but Dave appeared equally as perplexed as regards to the current sobbing state of their friends.
“Male menopause?” suggested Dave, whispering to Monty.
What the cause of Stan and Frank’s lamentation, it didn’t matter. Instinctively, Dave and Monty sat either side of Frank and Stan, as that’s what friends were for, giving them a good cuddle.
It seemed to do the trick, since Frank regained his composure in short order.
Frank looked at them each in turn. Clearing the emotion from his voice, he said to them, “If I sat here all the day, I don’t believe I could think of the words to convey the positive influence you three have had on my life. Thank you. I mean it.”
“There’s more of us?” Monty asked, confused, afraid his wonky eye had been betraying him all these years. But he quickly ascertained that Frank was merely referencing Stan along with he and Dave, and he got back to the business of hugging in which they were currently engaged.
A wee head appeared above the retaining seawall in front of them, just then. A pigtailed girl with a sand-covered face wore a stern expression. “We’ve not finished, you two!” she admonished them. “Please, mister?” she said, now directing her attention over to Frank and Stan. “Please can they come back to play? Only we’ve not finished the sandcastle!”
Like children, Dave and Monty stared expectantly at Frank and Stan, ready to hang on their every word, every utterance magical and unexpected.
“Oh go on, then,” said Stan, finally, fearful the pair might burst if kept in suspense much longer. “You can go and play for ten minutes, or at least until Henk shows up,” he instructed them.
Dave and Monty were up in a flash, bucket and spade in hand, and making haste towards the sandy shoreline before you could say Jack Robinson.
“Play nice!” Frank called after them with a chuckle. “And make sure you let the other boys and girls have a go with the bucket, too!”
The bustling throngs on the promenade parted like the Red Sea, with concerned parents scooping children in their arms for safety’s sake. A towering figure strode through their midst like a force of nature. “You steaming droppings of disease-infested excrement!” bellowed its voice, only adding to the keen apprehension of those assembled.
The figure progressed forward, unstoppable, leaving those in its wake scurrying away like crabs. As it moved ever closer to Frank and Stan’s bench, it began shaking its mammoth clenched fist, only adding to the terrible effect.
“Henk looks very cross,” suggested Frank to Stan, confidentially, before offering a conciliatory wave to the approaching figure blotting out the sun.
Henk towered over the still-seated Frank and Stan, glowering at them. Or just glowering in general. It was not yet evident.
“Ice cream?” asked Stan, pointing towards the shop behind, helpfully.
Henk stamped his foot down, shaking the earth. “That cravat-necked, unhealthy, undernourished zakkenwasser!” Henk yelled, looking to the sky, appealing to the gods. Or shouting at them. One or the other. Regardless, Henk’s insults may not have come across the smoothest in English, but they were absolutely brilliant in their original untranslated Dutch.
Frank raised his hand, like a schoolboy about to ask a question, and nevertheless, without gaining permission, remarked, “I’m guessing the meeting with the planners wasn’t positive?” Frank knew their friend Dutch Henk well and, now it was clear his fury wasn’t directed at them, could see that it was safe to speak freely.
“You should have an ice cream,” repeated Stan. He was never proficient at reading a situation well. Either that or he simply felt that ice cream was a good solution to any problem.
Henk’s usual double-denim clothing combination with a black leather waistcoat was accompanied by a loosely-fastened black tie. The veins in forehead bulged and throbbed. His hair danced about his head, kept aloft by a wind that seemed to be more forceful at that raised elevation, giving the appearance of Medusa’s writhing serpents.
Henk sat on the seawall, in front of Stan and Frank, looking particularly grim. “I am going to kill Rodney Franks,” he said, spitting out the name of Rodney Franks like an ominous curse, dire and malevolent.
Frank and Stan looked at each other. They were no fans of Rodney Franks, either of them, but they wondered where this was leading.
Henk removed a raft of papers from inside his denim jacket, the breeze taking them up like a cheeky Manx gull scooping up someone’s chips, resulting in them flapping wildly.
Frank stood up, ensuring he retained a respectful distance. “What happened, exactly, at the planning meeting, Henk?” he said, speculating as to the source of Henk’s agitation.
“They have turned down permission for the TT Hotel,” Henk told him, without preamble. “The planning department had been given many objections to the building because of what they referred to as its greenbelt location.”
Stan joined Frank in the standing position. “That can’t have been orchestrated by Rodney Franks, surely?” he asked.
“He had something to do with it,” explained Henk. “As I came out of the planning meeting, he was waiting in the carpark. He had a giant cake on a table with candles. As I walked past him, three men with trumpets appeared!”
Frank turned to Stan, mouthing the words ‘real trumpets?’ in puzzlement, trying to work out if Henk was speaking literally here or metaphorically. Simultaneously, Stan turned to Frank and enquired, similarly mouthing the words, ‘real cake?’ In the end, neither considered it wise to pursue such a line of questioning directly with Henk.
“So I am fairly certain he had something to do with the planning objections,” Henk went on. “Several of the objection letters indicated that there had been Viking treasure found on the site previously. So, the planners said that even if there had not been objections to the hotel, I would still have needed to complete a full archaeological dig. Which would have taken many months.”
Stan cast Frank an admonishing look. ‘Vikings’ he mouthed accusingly. Then, when Henk looked away for a moment to the heavens once again, Stan, all blame immediately cast aside, mouthed the additional silent words, ‘Should we tell him about the asbestos?’ enquiringly.
Frank shook his head frantically, and then took a seat next to Henk on the seawall. “You can try again?” he said to Henk. “You must be able to appeal the decision?”
The knuckles of Henk’s fists were white as sun-bleached whale bones. “It has taken me months to get to this stage, Frank. I could continue, but there would be no guarantee. Rodney Franks put a clause in the contract that I can return the property and the land back to him at a reduce
d rate within one hundred and eighty days. You see this? This genital herpes of a person knew all along that I would never get the planning permission within that time frame.”
Stan took a step closer. “You can’t give him it back?”
“I have spent nearly two hundred thousand pounds on lawyers and architects. If I continue on, I could spend another two hundred thousand pounds with no guarantee of planning permission. And to make matters worse still, I would need to employ Illinois Jones to check for Viking treasure,” replied Henk gravely.
No one was brave enough to correct his film reference, nor felt it was the time for such things. Henk continued…
“I will get my revenge against Franks, good fellows, you may be certain of it. But he has won this battle, I am afraid, and I cannot let personal feelings get in the way of business decisions. I would be foolish to persist at this time. I am sorry, the two of you, but I am going to sell the farm back to the pus-filled abscess of infected tissue that is Rodney Franks. It would seem I have no choice in the matter.”
“No. No you can’t, Henk,” pleaded Frank, sliding closer to him, but, even then, marvelling admiringly at the peculiar manner of Henk’s strange insults. “You see, we’ve got everything in place. For the charity. We’ve got the first residents to arrive in a few weeks. We’ve got funding in place, and volunteers to help us with training courses. Frank and I have spent about fifty grand on the place already ourselves!”
Henk’s aggression eased as the passion on Frank’s face was apparent. “I am sorry, fellows, I know the importance of this place to you, but I cannot waste funds by spending more money on something I have already spent money on that is not good. You are businessmen. You can understand?”
Stan shrugged his shoulders, he couldn’t argue with the logic. “At the risk of giving you more bad news, Henk…”
A look of panic crossed over Frank’s face, but only temporarily, because he knew it needed saying, what Stan was about to say.
“Full disclosure, Henk. But you may get less from Rodney, in the end, than you imagine.”
Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin Page 11