Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #2: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and sublimely funny - one to put a huge smile on your face!

by J C Williams

Parents nearby shielded their children’s eyes from the sordid spectacle.

  “Is it always like this with you two tosspots?” asked Sam.

  “Like what?” asked Dave, stood in his familiar pose, arms crossed, one hand rubbing his chin.

  “This,” Sam said, with a broad gesturing wave of his hand.

  “Pretty much,” chuckled Dave. “Though this is a quiet day. Stick around, kid, things with me and Monty get pretty exciting.”

  “It gets worse than this?” asked Sam in disbelief.

  “Or better, depending upon your point of view,” Dave replied. “So, what about it? Are you going to get us two fat bastards in shape so we can fit in our sidecar?”

  Sam’s shoulders dropped as he considered Dave’s request, but he was soon distracted by the sound of police sirens, sirens that were getting ever nearer to Monty – who was presently flailing in the water like a beached manatee.

  “Or,” mused Dave. “You could suggest to Frank that his money may be better spent on liposuction?”

  Sam licked his lips and looked sideways, with eyes narrowed, and a that’s-not-a-bad-idea expression.

  Fortunately for Monty the sound of the sirens continued onwards, and, once his testicles had returned to their optimum surface temperature, the two ‘athletes’ that were Dave and Monty continued on their first training run. Cosmetic surgery to remove their excess fatty tissue was always an option, but, for now, a gentle meander up Douglas Promenade was not a bad way to start. Sam knew he had his work cut out for him, when, after fifty metres or so, his new charges were blowing desperate bursts of expelled air more than surfacing whales.

  Still, progress was being made, and this one small, exceptionally slow and laboured step was progress to decreasing their mass and increasing their lap times at the Isle of Man TT.

  Chapter Five

  Early summer – 1968

  F rank Cryer!” shouted Mr Prenderghast, who marched straight for Frank’s desk. Once there, he smashed his hands down, causing Frank’s assortment of stationery and writing implements to tumble to the floor. “Do you think I’m an idiot?” Prenderghast screamed, with saliva spraying over those seated nearby, and a visible vain throbbing intently on his forehead.

  “No, sir, not at all,” replied Frank, “I was just–”

  “I know what you were doing, you useless little gobshite. You were staring out of the window and ignoring every last word I’ve bothered to impart on you, same as you’ve done all year.”

  Ordinarily, an outburst of this degree would evoke some form of shock, but, this being Mr Prenderghast’s class, it was taken as business-as-usual.

  “I know you’ve only got three weeks left at this school,” Prenderghast continued, not yet done with Frank. “And trust me, we’ll be as glad to see the back of you as you will of us.” He stood over Frank with his gaze unwavering, through ugly, thick-rimmed glasses supported over the bridge of an impressive Roman nose. In point of fact, it was the only thing impressive about Mr Prenderghast.

  “But, sir,” Frank protested. “I am going to miss this school. And I’ll especially miss you and these little chats we have from time to time,” Frank went on. “They’re very dear to me,” he said, much to the amusement – and astonishment – of the class. “They’re very dear to me,” he repeated. “And I shall miss them when they’re gone.”

  Frank spoke in such a gentle, sincere tone that it was difficult to think he were not being genuine. Which of course he wasn’t. But it was precisely this that intensified his teacher’s ill temper and lack of decorum.

  “Well I won’t miss you, you smarmy little git, you can be certain of that. In fact I won’t miss any of you uninspired idiots. And trust me, from what I’ve seen this year, not one of you vacuous little shits will amount to anything, mark my words.”

  Frank waited politely for a moment before raising his hand. “Sir?” he enquired, but no acknowledgement or permission to speak was given. “Sir?” he persisted, this time with a deliberate overemphasis and drawing-out of the er in the word sir.

  “What??” screamed Mr Prenderghast.

  Frank’s solemn expression didn’t flicker. “Sir. Is any of that going to be in the test?”

  Frank, as it happened, was not stupid. He just wasn’t interested, and he was counting the days till he could walk out of school for the last time. It was challenging growing up in a less-than-salubrious section of Liverpool. Violence in the community was rife, and the school walls were, unfortunately, no safeguard. A disagreement in school, for example, could soon escalate and retribution on the streets was commonplace. Frank was fortunate in that his sharp wit and personality made him popular with all ranges within the social spectrum, and he was therefore able for the most part at managing to keep those who could do him serious damage at arm’s length.

  One of those who relished serious damage – inflicting it, that is – was Wayne Stanhope. Being kind, he would be best described as scum, scum bred from a long line of scum, and one who if heaven forbid was able to find a girl stupid enough to oblige, would surely breed additional scum. He was abhorrent. And he couldn’t blame how he was by how he was brought up, either, because like most in the school nobody had anything apart from a shared sense of community. This sense of belonging meant little to the Stanhopes, however, who would think nothing of stealing from their own.

  In no way did Frank consider Wayne Stanhope a friend, but, on balance, it was better to be stood behind him than in front of him.

  As Frank made a sharp exit from Mr Prenderghast’s class, it was no great surprise to see the aforementioned villainous cur in the corridor, resting on one knee, pummelling some poor unfortunate who had, perhaps, looked at Wayne on a jaunty angle.

  The easiest way to get schoolchildren to congregate at a moment’s notice, of course, was not the use of the school bell but rather the chant of fight-fight-fight! If any further evidence of Mr Prenderghast’s caring nature (or lack thereof) were required, he leaned out through the doorframe at the sound of the commotion, shook his head dismissively, and retreated from whence he’d come – leaving the unfortunate wretch on the floor at the mercy of the skin-headed brute atop him.

  Frank wasn’t one for taking enjoyment in other people’s misery, but such was the popularity of this one-sided bout that easy access toward the canteen was not possible and he had no alternative than to watch on from a distance. Frank felt a pang of guilt, taking heart that, since it was someone else on the receiving end of the Stanhope boy’s violent overtures, then at least it wasn’t him. This was a sentiment likely to be shared by the rest of the crowd, though, unlike Frank, this bloodthirsty horde appeared to relish the cruelty on display before them. He cringed at the sheer delight shown on their faces. These were the sort of people that would be cheering the lion on as it ripped the throat out of a Christian slave.

  “So who pissed in Wayne’s chips this time?” asked Frank, with a sigh, to no one in particular.

  “Sidcup,” said an enthusiastic voice belonging to a pasty-looking kid with half-mast trousers and a haircut forged by a mother’s love.

  Frank nodded with a vacant expression as he’d seen it all before, but then there was a sudden recognition and realisation. “Fuck, what?” shouted Frank, to be heard over the baying mob. “Stan Sidcup??”

  The pasty kid shrugged his shoulders and grunted without averting his eyes from the spectacle unfolding on the cold concrete floor. Entertainment such as this, after all, was a welcome relief and broke up the day quite nicely.

  “Shit,” said Frank, dropping his schoolbag. Without a moment’s hesitation, he lowered his head and barged into the crowd without any clear plan as to what was coming next. As one obstacle was pushed aside, the gap was simply filled by another – it was like wading through quicksand – but, with a dogged persistence, he soon had a ringside view of the melee.

  Wayne crouched over Stan, throttling or punching – whatever stage of his repertoire he was currently delivering. It was a mismatch of epic
proportions, with the aggressor being at least two foot taller than the other, much-smaller boy. Stan, being as slight as he was, would have struggled in a fight even with the pasty kid Frank had encountered a moment earlier.

  From Frank’s vantage point he could not at first get a visual on Stan, but he could hear the dull, meaty slap of flesh being pummelled. Frank looked closer and caught sight of a pair of shoes poking out from under the huge frame above. If Stan were wearing ruby red slippers, he’d have made a perfect facsimile at that moment of the Wicked Witch of the East with Dorothy’s house having come down to squash him.

  Frank took one step forward with his arm extended. He took a grip of Wayne’s beige school shirt, a once-white shirt which looked like it’d been worn by a fair few generations of Stanhopes before him. Frank applied the appropriate degree of force, and, with a quick jerk and shove and with leverage to his advantage, caught Wayne off-balance – as Wayne was unaccustomed to conflictus interruptus – tipping him onto his side and splayed out on the floor.

  Frank glanced up from the melee for a brief moment – perhaps looking for divine inspiration – but was met with only a sea of confused faces: What was he playing at? Why was he ruining the afternoon’s festivities?

  Frank was equally as perplexed, but for a different reason; he was unsure how this situation might pan out.

  Stan, for his part, held a hand to his damaged face and tried to comfort himself. With the onlookers now quiet, unsure what to make of this new development, and the heretofore sound of knuckle-on-face now abated, all that could be heard was Stan’s involuntary whimpers of pain.

  “What the fuck?” demanded Wayne, now risen up again on one knee. He was not used to being humiliated in such a fashion, and, eager to redeem himself, was now keen to impart a second beating of the day.

  Frank raised his hands in submission, standing with mouth agape. It had all seemed like a dream sequence up until this point, happening in a strange sort of alternate reality, moving through air made of treacle. But he was snapped back to the present, sharply, as a sudden flash of silver dashed out from Wayne’s rear pocket.

  “I’ll fuckin’ do you, Cryer!” screamed Wayne, cocking his arm back.

  This dispute had deviated from the path of a simple beating – a difference of opinion, if you will – and turned rather more dire. For fear of being caught in the thick of it, and wishing to avoid injury, the crowd of spectators quickly retreated. Blood and eviscerated entrails and grievous bodily harm were all well and good in theory, of course, but this was becoming all too real.

  Prenderghast appeared once more, briefly, before also taking up a position of hasty retreat.

  Frank knew the best course towards immediate self-preservation was to run. But he also knew that, if he did, Wayne and his cronies would simply smash his front door through that night and exact their revenge.

  Frank swung his right foot in Wayne’s direction and with remarkable precision (and quite to his surprise) kicked the implement – now identified by Frank as a screwdriver – from Wayne’s grasp and sending it skittering up the corridor, spinning.

  Frank continued his offensive with a decisive advance. “Mr Price,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Wayne gripped the front of Frank’s shirt and used it to pull himself up to full standing position. “You absolute wan–”

  “Mr Price,” repeated Frank with greater urgency. “He’s walking up the corridor,” he continued, with his eyes now partially closed.

  Wayne glanced over his shoulder, and, when greeted by the appearance of the school headmaster and two security guards, he released his grip on Frank.

  Thinking on his feet, Frank had an idea. “I saw him coming,” he said, nodding in Mr Price’s direction. “And wanted to warn you,” he told the Stanhope boy.

  The use of burly security guards in a school was testament to the calibre of some of the more unsavoury pupils found therein, and they soon flanked Wayne, preventing further assault.

  Mr Price looked at those stood, down to Stan and then back to Wayne. “Right! What’s all this, then?” he demanded, his eyes darting back and forth between them.

  “Wayne was helping him up,” offered Frank, pointing down to Stan, still there on the floor. “I think he must have fallen over?”

  Mr Price looked down at Stan, whose face was a bloodied mess. “Sidcup, did he do this to you?” he asked, pointing at the Stanhope boy.

  Frank gave Stan a furtive look, which left no illusion as to what his response should be.

  “No, sir,” said Stan weakly. The word ‘sir’ was pronounced shhhir, likely due to one tooth missing from the beating and another one dangling like an over-ripe pear from a tree. “As Frank shhhed. I fell.”

  Mr Price’s face was pinched with anger. “You fell? Into what? A bloody revolving door??” He gave one further look of suspicion before marching off. “Present yourself to the nurse, then, Sidcup,” he said over his shoulder. “And don’t forget to put them teeth under your pillow for the tooth fairy. Bloody pillock.”

  Wayne dusted himself down and scanned his knuckles for damage. They were bloodied, with the skin torn open. He looked them over, and he nodded with satisfaction. Then he squared up to Frank and Stan, who were now standing together. He was still unsure as to what had just happened, exactly.

  Wayne Stanhope was stupid. Of this, there could be no doubt. Still, he knew enough to realise that if Frank had not cast him off the Sidcup boy, he’d be in rather a spot of bother. Being suspended or expelled caused Wayne no concern, of course. However, being caught in possession with a screwdriver for nefarious purposes, on the other hand, would have been a matter handled by the police rather than the headmaster. The likely destination for Wayne, in such case, would have been a young offenders’ institution, and, no matter how much swagger you had, a few months locked up in there was not something that held much appeal.

  Wayne held his stare for a moment, likely as the cogs in his brain were clogged up by the aroma of glue, which he and his brothers were rumoured to partake in. Which, on reflection, really could explain a great deal about his general disposition.

  Frank stared back, as if he were not the slightest bit bothered. But, on the inside, he was shitting enough bricks to build a moderate-sized row of houses. People, Frank knew, have ended up in hospital at Wayne Stanhope’s hands for a lot less than he’d just done.

  “Frank,” stated Wayne, flatly – which was taken as a thank you. Then Wayne turned to Stan. “Look at me again, Sidcup,” he said. “I fookin’ dare ya.”

  Wayne’s rage was now in check, but only barely. The pressure had to be relieved somehow, it seemed. A pimple on his spotty, greasy face burst of its own accord, its contents of pus spewing forth in sudden, sweet release.

  “If you look at me again, you bleedin’ poofta, I’ll take the rest of your teeth out,” he warned the Sidcup boy, but he said this almost placidly, as he was now unexpectedly rather calm.

  Wayne flexed his shoulders and cracked his neck, casting an eye over those in the crowd that had remained, to ensure there were no signs of dissent. With his reputation of being the school’s premier arsehole apparently intact, he picked up his partially-ripped bag, gestured to his like-minded – in that they were also mentally challenged – posse, and receded back into whatever cavity or shadowed recess bullies reside in when they’re not actively engaged in bullying.

  “Move on,” instructed Mr Prenderghast, who’d finally appeared from the safety of his classroom now the confrontation was over. “You should get that mouth looked at, Sidcup,” he added, with no genuine concern.

  Frank put his arm around Stan’s shoulder and steered him towards the gent’s toilet to clean himself up and stem the flow of blood from his open wounds. Frank looked back to Mr Prenderghast and shook his head. “I’ll be really sad to see the back of you, Prenderghast,” he called out. “Really sad.” The pretence of politeness in Frank’s voice that he’d employed earlier in class was now entirely gone. “You thi
nk I didn’t learn much from you this last year, but I have. I’ve learned what a really shit teacher is like. Oh, and some of the words you’ve taught us by your example over the course of the term have definitely stayed with me. Every time I hear the word odious, for instance, I shall think directly of you, sir.”

  Prenderghast gave in response something between a grin and a grimace, unsure of what to say. But, as there were still a few bystanders lingering, he mustered some incoherent threat involving detention and achieving nothing in life, before, like the Stanhope boy, retreating back from whence he came.

  Growing up, Frank and Stan were inseparable, like brothers. In fact, the majority of people assumed they were related. They shared a love of football, cycling, anything in the great outdoors. Frank was the one who’d be first up the tree, charging forth, all safety instructions from their mothers forgotten in an instant, whereas Stan was rather more cautious, and more likely to be the one holding the coats.

  The street they grew up in was an intimate affair. Two rows of terraced houses sat either side of the road – or the football pitch, as it were, since it was often commandeered by the neighbourhood youth who’d strategically placed a range of inanimate objects so as to prevent vehicular access from disturbing their game.

  There wasn’t a lot of money to go around, but the two boys’ families managed nevertheless. Whilst the meals they had, for instance, may not have been gourmet, they were substantial enough (“Eat some bread with that, lad!” was a familiar mantra) and, importantly, warm. There were also annual holidays to the Isle of Man, which they simply adored. Generally, they’d be in each other’s houses most days, and if they hadn’t returned home by bedtime the parents knew they needn’t worry since either boy would simply end up sleeping at the other’s house. It was a wonderful, carefree time and nothing would ever get in the way of the bonds of their friendship…

  That is, until the intimacy of the street was taken a stage too far. It wasn’t just Frank and Stan who were hopping over the fence to play. Stan’s dad, as it turned out, was also happy to pop over to play whenever Frank’s dad went out to work. Sadly, through no fault of their own, Frank and Stan came to be separated for reasons unbeknownst to them at the time. They knew something was afoot, but what exactly that may have been was not explained to them. Two families were destroyed and uprooted and whilst Frank and Stan never fell out, that special bond they’d enjoyed for so long was cruelly snapped – presumably like the elastic in Frank’s mother’s knickers.