By this point, Guy was also under the van himself, lending a hand, and muttering to himself incoherently. Eventually, he presented himself to Dave, appearing from under their own van’s chassis with a grin. Guy looked back at the other mechanics, and then up to Dave and Monty again. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, we can do this, I think. This’ll work.”
“How long?” shouted Monty, hopping on the spot like he was in dire need of a wee.
“Ten more minutes!” answered Guy, already back under the van now. “Get yourself suited up and ready! We’re back in the game!”
“You’re up, Dave, it’s still your turn,” Monty said, slapping his friend’s arm.
But the crash appeared to have dinted Dave’s confidence as well as the van. Dave took in several deep breaths before finally answering. “I can’t do this,” he said. “I think I’ve lost my conviction, Monty. What if I crash her again? Then we’re truly done for.”
Monty’s response was to slap Dave across the face with his racing glove like a trout. “Shut it, you big girl’s blouse!” he scolded him lovingly. “You’re a bloody TT winner, Dave, or have you forgotten? You know how to handle pressure, you silly sod! Now get yourself suited up and ready, and you get out there and try your best,” he told Dave, slapping the glove across Dave’s chest now every few words to bring the point home. “Nothing can stop you! You’re a beast! Nothing can stand in your way!” he said, hammering away. “Nothing can… oh forfucksake, what does this idiot want again?” groaned Monty, greeted by the vision of Rodney Franks, standing in their way, along with two rather reluctant-looking scrutineers he’d pulled along with him.
Rodney looked at the two officials, and then pointed to the donor suspension van, now sat cannibalised in Team Frank & Stan’s garage, and tapping the air in front of him like a manic woodpecker. “They can’t do that!” he insisted, with his trademark juvenile petulance. “Their van is out of the race, so that’s it, they’re disqualified! They can’t just go and build another van!”
The officials did not appear to be entirely happy held in the company of Rodney Franks, with one of the two not even attempting to hide the look of open contempt over his face. “We don’t have rules covering this,” he said. Rodney started to protest, but the official would have none it, shutting him down instantly. “In case you’d forgotten, this is a charity race, and not the F1 World Championship. And so as to your little throw-your-dummy-out-of-the-pram complaint, you’ve absolutely no luck there, I’m afraid, and I’m not at all interested. Can’t help you. Come on, Derek,” he said to his friend. “I’m not paid enough to deal with helmets like this idiot.” And he and Derek left, leaving Rodney Franks twisting in the wind.
If Rodney were a cartoon, as young Tyler had suggested — a bad cartoon — he would presently have had steam coming out of his ears. A passing policeman, alerted by the commotion, poked his nose into the garage. “Right. What’s all this, then? Everything okay in here?” he asked, his expert eyes training in on Franks, knowing a ne’er-do-well when he saw one.
Dave smiled a happy smile as the mechanics, meanwhile, toiled feverishly with the van. “Wonderful here, officer,” Dave replied. “Although this chap,” he added, nodding his head in Rodney’s general direction. “Appears to be lost, as he’s in the wrong garage.”
“Come on, you!” said the officer to Rodney, obligingly. “Let’s move along, shall we?”
With that sorted, an optimistic voice under the van shouted, “Two minutes!”
Monty scurried over to the open laptop on the workbench counter to check the race monitor live timings, but was somewhat disheartened by what greeted him. “We were seven laps ahead of Rodney’s team, but with this delay, we’re now nine laps down on them,” he informed the others.
“At least we’ve got a chance, Monty!” shouted Guy, fist-bumping his dejected colleague. “Am I right or am I right?”
“You’re right,” Monty had to admit. And, then, noticing they had new visitors — welcome visitors, of the non-Rodney Franks variety — said, “Heya! There’s a welcome sight for a change!!”
Dave was not in disagreement.
“Tyler really wanted to wish you good luck,” Rebecca announced to Dave. “And so did I. So, you know… good luck,” she said, standing on her tip-toes and placing a kiss on Dave’s cheek, resulting in a serious case of blushing on Dave’s part.
Ordinarily, Monty would have jumped right in under such circumstances and taken immense delight in pointing out Dave’s acute embarrassment. But on this occasion he let it go, offering a warm smile instead. It felt like the right thing to do.
“Good luck, Big Dave!” Tyler chimed in. “Open up the bottle!”
“Throttle, honey!” Rebecca gently corrected her son. “You were supposed to say open up the throttle!”
“I like his idea better!” Monty laughed.
“As do I!” Dave agreed, ruffling Tyler’s hair.
“It’s all yours!” the last mechanic announced, slamming shut the bonnet. “She should be fine now. Just make sure you don’t introduce her to that tyre wall again!”
Dave threw on his helmet and jumped into the cab, strapping himself in. Guy and Monty slapped the side of the van as he reversed out of the garage. Then came Dave’s rallying cry…
“Right! It’s on, chaps!” But then he looked worriedly at Becks, who was quite happily not a chap.
“It’s okay!” she shouted. “Just go! Go, go, go!”
Chapter
Twenty
F rank gripped Jessie’s hand as the doctor approached, looking Stan’s patient notes over on his clipboard. “I think he’s smiling,” whispered Jessie. “Hopefully that’s positive news?”
“I hope so too,” Frank told her, easing out of the moulded plastic chair in the hospital waiting room, and standing to properly greet the physician. Frank cast a quick glance over to Molly, Stella, and Lee, before returning his full attention to the doctor.
“Are you family?” asked the doctor kindly, and directly to Frank, since Frank was the one standing.
“Yes!” Frank answered him. “I’m the, ehm, brother,” he said, feeling a small white lie wouldn’t hurt in the present situation.
“I’m Dr Sampson,” the doctor said, offering a firm, friendly handshake. “I’ve got some great news!” Dr Sampson announced. “Everything went according to plan, and a new little girl has been brought into the world.”
Frank’s smile evaporated. “I don’t understand. Has Stan had sex-reassignment surgery? I thought…?” Frank glanced back to Jessie and the others, but their faces told him that they were just as perplexed as he was. “I don’t understand,” Frank said again, his worry now muddled with bewilderment.
But before the good doctor could say another word, a colleague had arrived by his side, tapped him on the shoulder, and spoken something discreetly into his ear.
“Ah. Apologies,” Dr Sampson came back. “Slight mistake. Only you were the first to stand, and sat here amongst the others, I thought surely… Well. You understand, of course.”
Frank didn’t understand, but he was starting to. He watched on as Dr Sampson turned to the others in the group waiting. That is, the larger group of people waiting that Frank & Co had sat amidst for lack of other available seating. The larger group, some of which, Frank now noticed, were sporting non-lit cigars out their mouths, while others were clutching a collective raft of festive helium balloons with things like Congratulations! and It’s a Girl! emblazoned across them.
“So, em, yes, as I said,” Dr Sampson went on, now addressing this larger group. “Mother is doing just fine, as is the brand-new baby girl. Father passed out during delivery, as the only complication, but he’s by now recovered and back on his feet. So all’s well.”
The group thanked the doctor for the news, though the surprise factor had been markedly reduced. “Not so dramatic hearing it the second time around,” someone grumbled, and several in the group cast Frank an evil eye.
“Sorry,” Fra
nk offered, pleading stupidity. “Apologies. And, erm, congratulations,” he said, sitting back down.
The second doctor addressed Frank. “I’m Stan’s doctor. You’re here for Stan, then?” he asked.
“Yes!” answered Frank, desperate for news. But the doctor was looking away, smiling broadly, his attention on the other group and the celebratory balloons.
“Oi! Over here! Out with it!” barked Stella.
“Ah. Sorry about that,” said the second doctor, still smiling. “So. Stan is doing just fine,” he told them.
“Thank goodness,” said Lee.
Frank looked on, brow furrowed, waiting for the doctor to continue. He did not at all appreciate the wide grin on this fellow’s face, given the grave circumstances of Stan’s arrival to the hospital and the seriousness of his condition. It was wildly inappropriate and terribly unprofessional, Frank thought, and he would most definitely be entering a complaint once this was all said and done.
“So. The patient is conscious,” the doctor went on. “We’re still conducting some tests, so he’s going to be with us for a bit longer, but these are just routine at this point so no cause for concern,” he said cheerfully. “Don’t worry, he’s quite comfortable at the moment. We’ve given him some morphine for the pain.”
Frank was beginning to get fairly angry at the untimely nature of this doctor’s unrelentingly sunny demeanour.
Stella gave out a choking sob. “I thought we’d lost the stupid old bugger,” she blubbered.
“I’m sorry?” said the doctor, cocking his head, still grinning. “It’s not so serious, having one of these. Very common, actually. You’d be surprised how many people come in each with—”
“You bastard!” Frank shouted, rising from his chair again.
At Frank’s outburst, a large, thickset guard, great in both height and circumference, appeared from around a corner. “Dr Slughorn?” he asked, before the doctor casually waved him away.
“It’s all right, Nigel, but thank you.”
Nigel nodded. “Right. Call me if you need me,” he said, slipping away again, presumably to eat another side of beef.
“Nigel’s the dearest thing,” Dr Slughorn remarked, accompanied by an affectionate chuckle, and more to himself than those he was addressing. “Would you like to see your brother now?” he asked abruptly. But nobody responded to the question. “Sir? Your brother? Would you like to see him now?” He was looking directly at Frank as he said this.
Frank blinked. Then he looked behind him, though saw no one there. He turned back around, realisation kicking in. “Oh! Yes! My brother! Yes!” he said. He coughed. “Yes, please,” he said, happy to finally dispense with the chatter, and also happy to rid himself of what he saw as Dr Slughorn’s smarmy grin.
Just as they were about to be led away to Stan’s recovery room, however, Dave and Monty all but took the ward doors off their hinges, arriving on the scene like a corpulent Batman and a plump, ageing Robin.
“We just heard!” a frantic Dave shouted. “How is he?” demanded Dave of the doctor.
“Are you family?” asked the doctor.
Monty glanced at Dave. “His brothers, yes,” Monty told the doctor, pointing between the two of them.
“Right. Brothers,” Dave confirmed.
The doctor looked to his clipboard, riffling through the notes there. “Stan has a lot of brothers,” he said, then shrugged and looked back up to them. “Well. Anyway,” he told those assembled, his cheerful grin yet retained. “Your Stan nearly passed—”
“Passed??” echoed Dave.
“Oh my dear lord,” said Molly.
“Jayzus,” said Lee.
“Nearly passed?” Frank said, repeating the doctor’s words. “Then why are you—?”
“Yes, it was rather a big one he had!” said Dr Slughorn merrily. “Of course others have had much larger, and gotten through it just fine. But for a first-timer, I imagine, it might seem—”
“You bastard!” Frank shouted, for a second time.
“I’m sorry?” Dr Slughorn asked, for a second time. “It’s no cause for alarm,” he said with a little laugh. “Honestly, we just provide them something for the pain, give them loads of water, and most times they’ll pass—”
Stella had, at this point, had quite enough. “Now you listen here, Chuckles!” she said, snatching the clipboard from his hands, and looming over him. “If you laugh one more fucking time, you’re the one who’ll need a doctor!”
Nigel reappeared, and Dr Slughorn held up a hand, indicating he should remain at stand-by. “I say,” he remarked to the overly-concerned, increasingly-agitated group before him. “Surely you’re making an awful lot of fuss over a—?”
“Are you certain you’re a doctor, Dr Slughorn?” asked Frank incredulously. “Is that even your real name? Who has a name like that?? What kind of outfit are you running here???”
“I have a name like that?” Dr Slughorn suggested. “And I don’t run things here…?” As he said this, he was motioning to Nigel, the doctor beginning to realise the gravity of the situation when Stella started curling her hands into fists and cracking her knuckles in anticipation of a smackdown.
Nigel stepped closer just as Stella began to advance menacingly toward the good doctor. But he stopped, uncertain as to how to proceed. Yes, an attack upon the doctor’s person by the husky woman did appear imminent. And yet Nigel found himself strangely drawn to the brutish beauty. And so he hesitated.
“Really an awful lot of fuss over a kidney stone,” the doctor reiterated, this time managing to complete the observation.
“The… what?” said Stella, halting mid-stride.
“The what?” said Frank.
“The what?” said Dave. “We were told Stan had a heart attack!”
“We came straight away, as soon as we were given the news,” added Monty. “Why didn’t anyone tell us sooner?”
“A heart attack? Goodness gracious, no,” Dr Slughorn said to them all. “May I…?” he asked of Stella, and an apologetic Stella handed him back his clipboard. “Yes,” he went on, checking his notes quickly, though he didn’t really need to. It was more in an effort to re-establish himself as the doctor in charge. “As I said, really quite common,” he went on, holding the clipboard to his breast now. “We see patients come in nearly every day with them. It can certainly be alarming to someone who’s never had one before, but ordinarily it’s nothing too terribly serious and be sorted out easily enough.”
“Oh,” Frank told the doctor. “Oh,” he told Nigel, who was now simply observing placidly.
Nigel, for his part, found himself considerably relieved. Despite his redoubtable appearance, he actually hated violence and made an effort, whenever possible, to avoid conflict at all costs.
Dr Slughorn continued, “Yes. Now your Mr Sidcup’s stone is on the large side, but not so large that he can’t pass it naturally. So we’re trying for that, and giving him medication to manage the pain in the meantime. We’ll have done imaging tests by now, and I’ll view the results shortly along with our resident urologist. If Stanley can’t pass the stone naturally, there’s an option of extracorporeal shock wave lithotripsy, which, don’t worry, is not as medieval as it sounds. It’s just breaking the stone up with sound waves.”
“Oh,” said Frank.
“Right,” the doctor went on. “And if the lithotripsy method isn’t workable, then we just go in and snatch the little blighter out.”
“Oh,” said Frank.
“Snatch it out?” enquired Lee.
“Yes. We go up through the urethra and grab the little bugger,” the doctor explained.
Lee, Monty, and Dave all winced and shuddered at this.
“He wouldn’t feel a thing,” Dr Slughorn assured them. “He’d be put under for it. Simple, easy procedure. Up the urethra, snatch up the stone, pull it out, and Bob’s your uncle. No trouble at all. And the stent is left in the urethra for a few weeks during healing, and then slipped out at that time dur
ing a simple office follow-up visit. Easy peasy lemon squeezy!” he said, with a jolly chuckle.
At which point Lee, Monty, and Dave all winced and shuddered once again.
“Oh,” said Frank.
There was a moment of silence as the reality of the situation settled in, until Molly spoke up.
“Haaaannng on,” she said. “Dad,” she said, turning to her father. “Didn’t you tell me quite specifically that Stan’d had a heart attack?”
“Oh,” said Frank.
“Quite specifically?” she pressed.
All eyes were now on Frank. Even Nigel, off to the side, still present, raised an eyebrow as if to say, Well, then?
“I thought…” Frank began. “I could’ve sworn that paramedic said… No wait… actually… actually, it was Stan, wasn’t it? … He told me… What did he tell me? … He told me… he told me he thought he was dying, didn’t he? He didn’t… I suppose he didn’t actually say heart attack specifically, did he? Not specifically. I just assumed…” he said, trailing off.
“Jayzus, Frank,” said Lee.
Frank placed his hands over his face, and for a moment looked like he was about to introduce a fit of laughter, but his shoulders heaved. “I thought I’d lost him!” he sobbed. “I thought that stupid bastard had checked out before me!”
Stella pulled a handkerchief from her bosom and handed it to Frank, who readily accepted it, burying his face in it to sop up his tears as he continued to sob.
Nigel, who couldn’t bear to see anyone in pain, stepped in to gently pat Frank on the back, sneaking admiring glances at Stella as he did so. To which Lee couldn’t but notice, though did not get upset. “Bad luck, fella,” Lee leaned over and whispered up into Nigel’s ear. “This one’s already taken, mate.”
The sense of relief, of course, over Stan not dying was shared by all present, all Stan’s closest friends, gathered there together to comfort each other in their moment of perceived grief. They had all, every one of them, thought about what Stan meant to them, and the notion of his possible loss had brought them all together in shared compassion. Stella managed to sum it up best…
Frank 'n' Stan's Bucket List #3 Isle 'Le Mans' TT: Featuring Guy Martin Page 29