“I’m sorry, Stella,” Molly told her as Stella rose. “For what it’s worth, I’m your friend. And I won’t let you down, yeah? I promise. Can I do anything to help, Stella? Is there anything you need?”
“Well you could get yourself up to the bar while I’m out and get me another Guinness, now you ask, as well as two more packets of scampi fries. That’s for starters. After that, we’ll have to see.” Stella smiled broadly. This was her way of saying thank you.
“Coming right up, then,” said Molly with a laugh, long since accustomed by now to Stella’s idiosyncrasies.
Chapter
Fifteen
S tan capered about the kitchen of the TT farm which, fortunately for two hungry stomachs, and unlike the rest of the farm, was further ahead on the refurbishment schedule. The builders had been stood down, for now, until the future plans were secured, but with Rebecca’s assistance the place could, in parts, be considered homey. “It’s days like this that make you glad to be alive, Frank. The sun’s in the sky and not a cloud in sight and the forecast for the weekend is more of the same. We really did luck out on the weather,” Stan said, dropping a pair of perfectly poached egg onto Frank’s plate.
“How’s that toast coming along?” Frank asked, unwilling to tuck into his eggs without toast at hand.
“Coming up!” answered Stan, thrusting his spatula up in the air for emphasis.
“It was snowing this time last year,” observed Frank, applying a liberal application of salt to his eggs, and then reaching for the HP Sauce. “Hang on,” Frank said, freezing suddenly, and clutching his hand to his chest.
“What is it, Frank?” Stan said, alarmed, rushing to his friend’s side. “Are you okay, Frank? Are you having a turn?” asked Stan desperately, looking Frank over like an A&E doctor. “Do we need to get you to hospital? Speak to me, Frank!” Poor Stan was nearly in tears at this point.
“No, it’s just…” Frank began hesitantly.
“Just what?? Tell me, Frank!” Stan cried.
“It’s just, I thought there was going to be beans as well…?”
Stan didn’t know whether to be relieved or to hit Frank over the head with his spatula. “Monty ate the last tin,” he told Frank. “I have to get more.”
“That boy likes his beans,” Frank remarked, oblivious to Stan’s distress. That, or enjoying it. “Anyway, about that toast? Only I thought it’d be ready by now. Not sure why it’s taking so long…?”
Stan uncocked his spatula-wielding arm with a sigh, letting it drop down and relax. “On it,” he said. “Butter?”
“What a silly question. Of course, butter. But I’ll do it myself. You never put enough butter on when I leave it to you.”
“I’m just looking out for your health, Frank. God knows someone’s got to. And speaking of which, you should go easier on the salt, by the way,” Stan instructed, handing Frank his toast.
“Bollocks to that,” remarked Frank. “Here, what’s this?”
“What’s what?” Stan asked. “What is it now?”
“Why’s my toast so dark? Why’d you leave it in so long?”
“Well I was a bit distracted, wasn’t I??” Stan shouted.
“Oi, easy there, Stan,” Frank told him. “What’s gotten into you this morning? Look at that sun shining. It’s a lovely day! Pecker up, old chum!” Stan was standing back over at the kitchen counter, clutching his own hand to his chest now. “What are you doing over there?” Frank asked him. “Aren’t you going to join me for breakfast?”
“Yeessss,” Stan replied, sounding like he was trying to charm a snake. “Just give me a moment. I’m collecting the Branston Pickle for myself.”
“Anyway. Like I was saying,” Frank carried on cheerfully once Stan had joined him at the table. “It was snowing this time last year. Remember having that snowball fight with the neighbour’s kids?”
“Yes. I do, at that,” Stan told him. “You’re implying it was a mutual battle, though. However, I seem to recall those little blighters launching an unprovoked attack when we parked up outside the house.”
“You gave as good as you got, Stan. You were simply annoyed because you’d only just had a spray tan and looked like an orange snowman in the end. So. The weather’s looking good for Sunday, then?”
“Perfect by all accounts, Frank,” Stan said, taking a sip of his freshly-squeezed juice. Frank was staring at his, hard, with a look of intense pain on his face. But Stan wasn’t going to fall into the same trap twice. “What is it, Frank?” he asked calmly.
“Why have you got—?” Frank started to say.
“This is freshly squeezed, Frank. You don’t like freshly-squeezed juice.”
“But—”
“And this is grapefruit juice, Frank. You prefer orange.”
“But then—?”
“Monty drank the last of it, Frank. And that reminds me, I need to pick up more bread as well. He’s toasted nearly all of it.”
“For his beans,” said Frank, the equation becoming clear in his head: beans + toast = Monty.
“But, yes. Perfect weather,” Stan continued now that bit of business had been sorted. “And I know it cost a few quid having an indoor Plan B for our Family Fun Day, but having it outdoors is going to make such a difference. It also means all the stalls can get set up the day before and leave their stuff overnight without it getting soaked. Oh, and that reminds me,” he said again, taking a small notepad from his pocket and jotting something down.
“Bread, beans, and orange juice,” Frank reminded him helpfully. “Oh, and pick up some McVitie’s Digestives, will you? I’ve had a craving for those lately. The chocolate-covered ones.”
“That not what I was going to…” Stan began, but then dropped his shoulders in defeat. “Fine,” he said, scribbling down Frank’s order. And with that business sorted, Stan went on: “No, I need to arrange a couple of security guards to watch the site overnight. You know, make sure everything is where it should be on Sunday. So,” he said. “Henk is keen with everything? What if it doesn’t work out?”
“I wouldn’t say keen, exactly, Stan. And we just need to hope that the boys come good in the race. I feel pretty bad, because the only time we really see Henk of late is when we’re asking for something. I can see it in his face that he’s sick to death of this place by now. Well, the swearword was in Dutch, but I didn’t need to be a native to get the general gist of what he was saying. He told me in no uncertain terms that he wants this place to be a roaring success but that, after tomorrow, that’s him done with it. He doesn’t want to have to deal with Rodney Franks again, that’s for certain. But, come Monday, either this farm will be in the hands of the charity or Henk will have no choice but to be selling it back to Franks. How’s Team Frank-and-Stan’s preparations going, by the way?” he asked, casting a glance over to the front kitchen window overlooking the field. “They’ve certainly been industrious, the lads, between eating all our food,” he said, poking his egg with a toast soldier, just the way he liked. “That sidecar is going to run like a dream with the time they’ve spent on it.”
Stan, mouth full, waved his fork around as he spoke. “They’ve not been working on the sidecar or the van of late, actually, as both vehicles are currently nestled in the garage at Jurby waiting for the big day. Ever since their new-best-friend Guy Martin appeared, they’ve been wasting time mucking about with that clapped-out old banger of a tractor that Monty painted. Take a look at them,” Stan said, pointing his utensil in the direction of the window. “They’re at it right now. I saw them as I was making breakfast.”
“I’ll never get tired of that view,” Frank sighed.
“Monty’s builder’s bum?” Stan suggested.
“I can’t see it from this distance,” Frank said with a laugh. “But no. I meant the Isle of Man countryside, Stan. But Monty’s arse does have a certain hypnotic appeal of its own, I suppose.”
“That tractor they’d so lovingly festooned in the same colours as their sidecar ha
s never seen so much attention, I expect,” remarked Stan. “And judging by the rust patches it had, I’d say it’d been sitting in that field for ages, and through who-knows-how-many Manx winters. It’s a waste of time if you ask me,” Stan observed. “That thing is ready for the knacker’s yard.”
Frank couldn’t disagree. “A bit like us in that regard, my old friend. Besides, you’re only jealous because that old girl is getting more attention from the boys than you are!”
“Pish posh!” Stan countered, words he’d never uttered before, but he didn’t know what else to say.
“Hang on,” said Frank, craning his neck to get a look out the window from the kitchen table. “Guy’s looking a bit happy with himself at present,” he related to Stan. “Either that or he’s caught fire? He’s running around the tractor like a madman, and the others are jumping up and down and pointing and waving about. Do you think something’s gone wrong? Should we go out and check on them?” he asked. “Stan…?” But Stan had already snatched up his coat and was heading out towards the field.
“What’s going on? You haven’t got it working, have you?” asked Frank, now out in the field once he’d caught up with Stan. Frank stood with his upper half keeled over, panting and trying to get his breath back. At least he could see Guy had not caught on fire.
So confident of their success were they that they’d in fact also fastened the original trailer to the rear of the tractor, an attachment presumably used in years past to transport the previous owners’ workforce around the farm as it had a bench seat running down the interior of either side of it. “Jump in!” said Guy, offering a hand to Stan, who was first in the queue. Stan, for his part, appeared somewhat reluctant to comply, as if he were unsure he could manage to jump up that high to get in. More likely, however, he only wanted Guy’s assistance because that meant Guy laying hands on him.
“You’ve got the honours,” declared Dave, handing the key to Guy. “It was you that mostly coaxed her back to life. The bloody Tractor Whisperer, you are!”
Guy protested at first, but then graciously accepted the keys, pausing to look at each of the watching faces in turn, dramatically, as if he were about to board some sort of space shuttle on a one-way expedition to the stars. “You’re certain, then?” he asked, receiving a sturdy nod from both Dave and Monty in return. “I love this,” he announced, climbing aboard Tractor Number Forty-Two, with the polished blue & yellow bodywork gleaming in the mid-morning sun like a great boiled sweet.
After everyone else had climbed up into the trailer — requiring, remarkably, no assistance — Guy offered an oil-covered thumbs-up, ensuring his charges were all seated comfortably. “Ready?” he bellowed. “Here we go!”
And with that, the crisp, tranquil air was violated by the din of a decrepit diesel engine busting back into life. It rattled at first like the lungs of a lifelong smoker taking their first morning breath, and with each rotation of the engine all heads on board motioned in a rhythmic fashion, urging her along, until finally, in a wondrous burst of thick acrid smoke, the engine that’d been silenced for years announced its triumphant revival to the world in glorious fashion, and with the engine thereafter running quite smoothly and contentedly.
“Yes! You bloody beauty!” screamed Guy, applying the throttle confidently, and easing the big boiled sweet out of her premature retirement and into awaiting glory.
After its initial maiden voyage, they took it in turns, each of them, to captain the aged beauty for a lap or two around the field, with their teeth drying out from smiling so much. That is, apart from Stan, whose cosmetically-enhanced gnashers retained an oily sheen throughout.
As the tractor commenced another circuitous journey, Monty at the helm, Frank leaned towards Guy, both settled in at the back now, planting a firm hand on his shoulder. “I understand Dave and Monty explained about the race being a little more than just an exhibition affair?”
Guy nodded, one ear listening to Frank, and with the other ear attending to the notes of the engine, like a choirmaster. “She’ll be ’rite, Frank,” Guy replied. “I’ve never entered a race thinking of it as an exhibition anyway. The only difference now is that I don’t feel the slightest bit guilty, as an experienced competitor, about ragging the nuts off of that van and doing what I need to cross that finish line first.”
Frank smiled, looking back to the farmhouse for a brief second. “So you’re up for finishing ahead of Rodney Franks’ team, then? This place means the world to us, Guy. We’ve got impressive plans for it, and to see that bloody idiot turn it into a hotel would be truly heartbreaking.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about my competitive streak, Frank. And you’ve got a couple of beauties in Dave and Monty, as well. We’ve had a few practice laps in the van, and those two boys can definitely drive. I’d say the lessons must have paid off. And of course we already know they can handle a sidecar.”
Optimism overtook the anxiety in Frank’s eyes. “The van’s quick then, Guy?” But Guy’s attention was taken by a loose bolt on the side of the trailer, which appeared to be his next project. This chap certainly was easily distracted by anything mechanical and shiny, Frank mused.
“The van,” Frank repeated. “It’s quick, then?”
Guy laughed, assuming the question to be a joke. “Bloody hell, Frank, stop worrying. But the van? Quick? Not a chance. It’s a right bag of spanners. But it’s reliable enough, to be sure. And the good thing about it, at least, is that every other bugger in the race is in something that’s just as slow.” Guy stared directly at Frank, his current focus no longer in doubt. “I’ll drag every last horsepower out of that van, Frank, and trust me, I’ll drive that bugger like I’ve stolen it. We just need to shift some excess weight, and that’ll get a couple more miles an hour out of her.”
“We can’t put them on a diet now, can we?” Stan asked. “Ah… you mean from the van? Like seats, and that?”
Guy eyed Dave and Monty for a moment. “It probably wouldn’t hurt to send them for a run around the farm, Frank. Every ounce saved can only help.”
“Hmm. They’d probably gain any weight lost back within a day,” Frank pondered aloud.
Guy slapped his grubby paw on Frank’s immaculately clean beige chinos, with no concern for the perfect greasy handprint he left in the process. “If we don’t beat them, Frank, it won’t be for lack of trying!” he told Frank.
Guy cocked his head, directing his ear and listening to the engine note that purred like a kitten. It might best be described as a kitten with laryngitis, one could argue. But, for Guy Martin, that sound was a sweet as anything the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra could ever muster.
Guy focussed back in on Frank, grinning. “I’m pleased I’ve met you crazy bastards, Frank. I’ve got a feeling this is going to be a weekend to remember.”
Chapter
Sixteen
… Good morning, folks. Chris Kinley here in what I’m delighted to report is a mild Isle of Man. We’ve got an absolutely fantastic day in store for you today on Manx Radio, which is the reason I’m out and about at seven a.m. on a Sunday morning instead of being tucked up in bed, but I wouldn’t miss this for anything. The road-racing calendar is already over for the year, which is why I’m salivating at the prospect of what’s in store for you today. I’m here in Jurby, and even though the sun has not yet risen it’s a hive of activity in the north of the Island for the inaugural Isle Le Mans TT, a twenty-four-hour race around this circuit involving vans with only modest modification permitted, but, as a little twist, teams can, if they choose, bring out the sidecars for a maximum of two hours.
In addition to the racing, folks, there’s also a Family Fun Day down here today. If I look around through the darkness I can see bouncy castles, fairground rides, food stalls, and all sorts of other activities at the ready. The doors have only been open a few minutes, and there must be a couple hundred people here already. It really does promise to be a delightful carnival atmosphere. Though we know some of the competitors
involved, for the most part the teams are keeping the identity of their racers a closely-guarded secret, and you can smell the competitive streak. I should probably remind them all that this is a charity event for Frank-and-Stan’s TT Farm! Ha-ha!
What we do know is that we’ve got at least several celebrities in attendance racing today, including two TT legends for certain, and if those guys are involved you can be certain they’ll be going for it! In fact, I’ve just seen one of them now, none other than the world’s fastest road racer, Peter Hickman! Peter, if I can grab you a moment? ...
Yes, here he is! Thank you, Peter. Now, Peter, I bet you didn’t think you’d be racing in the Isle of Man in November, now did you?
PH:Well I heard you were going to be here, Chris, and I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing you until next year! Ha-ha! Seriously, though, when the sponsors got in touch to see if I wanted to do this, I signed up straight away. I was supposed to be at a wedding today, Chris, to be honest, but this event is something special, and could very well be history in the making.
CK:Well as long as you’re not the groom, Peter, I think you’ll be fine! So. Four wheels instead of two, this time? What do you think?
PH:Yeah, I’m looking forward to it. It’s going to be a long day, but it’ll be mega. It’s great coverage for all the sponsors, and should be a great day out for all involved, racers and spectators alike.
CK:Will your team be entering a sidecar?
PH:Ha! Not a chance. I tried it once and ended up with three months’ worth of chiropractor visits. So no sidecar here. But the teams with the sidecars will have a massive advantage, so will be the ones with an eye on the top step, I should think. We’re just here to have a bit of fun, though, and maybe put a bit of a show on for the crowd.
Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin Page 24