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J C Williams
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Copyright © 2018 J C Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews. For information, please contact the author.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Second Kindle edition July 2019
Cover artwork by Paul Nugent
Proofreading, editing, formatting, and design provided by Dave Scott and Cupboardy Wordsmithing
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
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Dedicated to the heroes, on and off the track, who make The Isle of Man TT the greatest sporting spectacle in the world.
Dave Quirk, the epitome of back-of-the-van racing — your assistance has been invaluable.
Chapter One
C an I phone someone for you, Mr Cryer?” asked the petite receptionist. She was pretty and gave him a look of compassion that was genuine, not forced. She held her gaze, tilting her head as she curled her lips, revealing a faint smile that brought a glimmer to her vibrant blue eyes.
Frank stared vacantly in her direction. He could hear the words and see her lips moving, but it didn’t compute.
“How about your wife or children? Do you have children?”
He took a step forward. “Could you get me a glass of water, Miss?”
She smiled and moved toward the water dispenser located next to the vast oak reception desk. “You should let me phone someone,” she said, handing him the fragile plastic cup.
He felt like he was in a dream sequence, expecting to wake up at any moment. He drained the contents of the cup and looked at the people sat patiently in the sterile waiting room. The incessant ringing from behind the reception desk reverberated through his skull like a pneumatic drill. The faces that looked back at him from the waiting room appeared to melt in front of his eyes.
He felt like the room was spinning around him, as if on an acid-fuelled adventure, before the firm vibration in his trouser pocket roused him back to reality.
“Yes, hello, Molly,” he said, before listening for a moment. And then, “I’m sorry, I forgot.” He raised his hand to his forehead. “I know I said I’d be there, but… look, I’m sorry. Did your mum not make it either?”
Frank nodded his head as the voice on the other end became louder and more heated. He rolled his eyes as he moved to one side to allow an elderly lady to collect a prescription slip.
“Look, I’m sorry, there’s nothing more I can say,” he insisted. The frustration in his face intensified. “What’s so important that I’d miss you coming out of hospital?” he said, mirroring the caller’s words. “What’s so important?” he repeated, with controlled aggression in his breaking voice.
Frank looked around at his current surrounding and took comfort from the friendly receptionist looking back at him — maybe she was a nurse and not a receptionist, he thought.
“Molly, it’s not always about you, you know,” he said, returning his attention to his phone. “You’re like your mother at times. Selfish!”
He listened for a moment longer as he pressed his palm down on the desk, and then said, “Me, I’m… I’ve… I’m at a work thing, I’m sorry. I couldn’t get out of it.”
He gripped the corner of the desk with such force that his knuckles turned white. “I know you’ve been in hospital and I said I’d be there to see how it turned out, but, as I said, I’ve got something on that I couldn’t reschedule.”
He moved the phone an inch away from his head as the volume increased to an extent that it was in danger of rupturing his eardrum. A woman on a rant is a challenge to interrupt so he stood patiently and waited for the opportune moment…
“I’m bloody selfish?” he shouted, now commanding the attention of those seated in the waiting room.
“I’m selfish,” he repeated. “I see. Did you forget that it was me working eighteen hours a day that keeps you in your designer clothes and pays for that swanky flat? When was the last time you asked how I was? I know I said I’d be there, but I couldn’t make it, and don’t forget that it was me that paid for the operation to make your bloody tits bigger, so excuse me for being selfish for once in my life!”
He mashed the keyboard to end the call, before slamming the phone down on the desk. He placed his face in his hands, taking several deep breaths to compose himself. He looked back at the receptionist, who had wheeled herself a couple of extra feet away from him.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said, raising his hands in submission. “I’ve got one, by the way.”
“Pardon me?” she said.
“You asked if I had children. I’ve got one. A girl called Molly. A girl called Molly who by now has an expensive pair of extended knockers. I’m sorry about this, but, you know, it’s not been the best of days.”
“Take these,” she said, moving closer to him.
She handed him a pile of brochures, which he glanced at before placing them inside his jacket pocket.
“If you need anything, just ask,” she said.
“Thank you… I mean that, you’ve been wonderful. And I will. Call you, that is.”
Frank turned, offering a conciliatory smile toward the patrons of the waiting room who were all now aware of his daughter’s endowments.
The doctor’s surgery had motion-sensor glass doors that met each other in the middle. One of them was lazy and operated about half the speed as the other. He’d noticed it on the way in and had made a mental note to remember this on the way out. He was still reeling from the conversation with Molly, however, when he just remembered the thing he was meant to remember — too late — and his face smashed off the glass door that opened slower than it should.
The greasy imprint of his nose was visible on the glass as were several others whose owners had been, it would appear, equally as distracted. Frank smiled as a little girl walking toward the door had observed his misfortune and was now doubled over laughing as her mother yanked her arm whilst trying to suppress her own laughter.
“I’d watch that door if I were you,” said Frank to the little girl — who now had mirthful tears running down her cheeks — ruffling her hair as she passed by with her mum. “It’s a magnet for proboscis prints, you know.”
He was grateful for the distraction, despite the pain of his throbbing beak, and took a deep breath of the air — which was bracing for a March morning. His phone was buzzing again in his pocket, but he chose to ignore it, reasoning it would be another tirade.
It was a little after 10 a.m. but the morning rush hour had not abated. Frank stepped between two parked cars and recoiled as a white-van man passed him at speed, sounding
his horn as he extended his middle finger to further convey his fond regards.
Frank resisted the temptation to return the gesture, and he crossed the road with greater attention. His Mercedes taxi was parked in the corner of the pay-and-display car park; he was fortunate to find a space at that time of the morning.
His pace quickened as he caught sight of a pencil-thin parking attendant who looked like he was wearing his dad’s trousers, stood looking at the sticker on his car.
“Hello, sir, hello!” shouted Frank as he broke into a gentle trot. “I’m here, come on, I’m only five minutes late.”
The attendant — Terry, according to his name badge — greeted him with a warm smile, which was somewhat unnerving in view of the circumstance.
Terry looked over the rim of his wire glasses which sat on an impressive Roman nose, and then flicked his arm smartly forwards to reveal his watch. “That’s okay, sir,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “I thought I’d wait here for five minutes before issuing a ticket. I often find, in this job, that people are never more than five minutes late. And by being patient for a moment or two longer, we get happy customers who’ll come back and use us again.”
Frank was taken off-guard and thought he must be on camera in some bizarre television show. “Thanks, Terry,” he said suspiciously, his eyes darting around the car park. When it was clear there was no ulterior motive, and no hidden camera, he smiled and climbed inside his plush car, pulling the sticker off the window. It left a thin ragged remnant that would require a firm fingernail to remove later.
He started his car and observed Terry through the rear-view mirror, stood there continuing his surveillance duties with an endearing smile on his face.
“Terry!” shouted Frank, climbing back out of his car. “Terry, wait there a moment, please!”
Frank jogged forward and offered his hand, which was cautiously received. “Look, what you just did has made my day,” explained Frank. “I can afford the ticket and, to be honest, I deserved it. I’m late, after all.”
Terry didn’t speak but looked at his hand which was enclosed in Frank’s for a little longer than was comfortable before finally letting go.
“Terry,” Frank continued. “People… see, people getting back to their car is the final aspect of their journey. If they’ve had a shit day, they know that salvation is available by getting back into the cocoon that is their car and being able to drive away from all the craziness, or whatever has made them have a shit day. If they try to escape and find you putting a ticket on their car, that’s why people get irrationally upset.”
Terry said nothing, and let Frank go on.
“I mean, it’s not your bloody fault that they didn’t buy a ticket for the correct amount of time. Like me. I shouldn’t have been so stupid, should I? But you just happen to be the final link in the chain of what could be the worst day that person has ever had.”
Frank stood at the rear of his car and pushed down on his greying hair that blew erratically in the sharp wind. “Terry, you most likely think I’m mental, or at the very least, unhinged, but you had it in your gift to push me over the edge this morning. But you didn’t. I’d have paid my forty-pound fine—”
“Sixty,” said Terry reflexively.
“Sixty, then,” Frank agreed. “But the point is, I’d have paid that fine, eventually, probably after the third reminder, and I’d have forgotten about you, only left with the bitter memory of the parking ticket. I certainly wouldn’t have remembered that your name was Terry. I certainly wouldn’t have recalled the distinguished, impressive nose, or the man that was proud to put his high-viz jacket on every morning to survey his castle and restore order where they were none. All I would have remembered was, just when I thought my shit-fuelled day couldn’t get any worse, up pops a jumped-up power monger whose sole duty that day was to make my life even more of a misery.”
Frank shifted his weight, then continued.
“Terry, you didn’t do that. And you didn’t have to do what you did. But now, when I think of this horrible day, I’ll think of you and how you had it in your power to kick a man when he was down. You didn’t do that, Terry. And I genuinely mean it, when I say, thank you.”
Terry smiled and took a step forward. He placed his hand on Frank’s shoulder and, as appeared to be the theme of the day, tilted his head. “You’ll be fine, it’s not the end of the road,” he said gently as he leaned down to pick up one of the brochures that had fallen from Frank’s pocket.
Terry glanced at it for a moment before handing it back to Frank, who illogically now felt a wave of vulnerability.
“My mum had the same thing,” continued Terry. “And four years later she’s still going strong and always onto me about getting a girlfriend, a house, or even a better job, but I like this job and I wouldn’t be any happier if I was stuck in an office, nine-till-five. You need to do what you enjoy.”
Frank twisted the brochure between his hands and nodded. “I wish you were around twenty years ago to tell me that.”
He paused for a moment before continuing.
“You know what, Terry, I was meant to meet you today. Call it fate, or whatever. But there’s a reason I met you. I’m going to go home, just now, and do something to my wife that I should have done six months ago.”
“Lucky girl,” said Terry.
“No, trust me, if you met her, or at least spoke to her, that’s the last thing you’d want to do. She’s not a nice person. I’m going to go home and tell the bitch I’m leaving her.”
Terry scratched his chin. “Okay… didn’t see that one coming.”
Frank paced on the spot, clasping his hands together like a church and steeple before him and rubbing the index fingers of the steeple together while placing them against his lips. His pointer fingers grew warm from the friction.
“She knew I was at the doctor’s today, but was too busy to come, not that I wanted her to,” he said. “She’s with her fitness instructor, Boris. A huge blond-haired chap, from Latvia, or that neck of the woods, but it’s more the horizontal exercise she’s getting, if you know what I mean.”
Terry was unsure if he should adopt the sympathetic-looking, tilted-head approach once again. “Are you going to hit him… the instructor, Boris?” he asked.
“Hit him? Good god, no. He’s built like a brick shithouse. He’d eat me alive… No, if anything, I should be buying him a pint. He’s committed the ultimate sacrifice and should be commended. My wife is horrible, plain and simple. She only married me for my money, I know that. I’m what… sixty-one, and she’s fifteen years younger than me, but she’s only happy when she’s got a credit card in her hand and only smiles when the dentist is bleaching her teeth for the umpteenth time. The sad thing is, my daughter has inherited most of her less-than-endearing features, and those she hadn’t, she’s now had enlarged. I’ve been putting this off for months, but, life’s too short. Thanks, Terry!” Frank placed both his hands upon Terry’s shoulders and met his eyes. “Thank you!” he said again with sincerity.
Frank climbed back into his car and watched as a bemused car park attendant continued on his rounds.
His phone had continued to vibrate, so he took it reluctantly from his pocket. His trepidation at the call, however, was replaced by a warm smile when he saw several texts from Stan:
Hiya, Frank. Hope you’re well, pal, just checking in to see how it went. Don’t rush back, I’ll look after things at work. X
It was only a text, but it meant a great deal. In that one message, he’d had more compassion than from his own family. Frank replied:
1. Not the best news, but I’m fine, honest. 2. I’m going home to tell her I’m leaving her…
Frank re-read the words and the reality set in. Rather than a feeling of dread, he sat back in the sumptuous leather seat and felt a warmth of contentment spread through him.
Immediately, his phone lit up once again:
1. We’ll get you through, whatever it is. 2. Good, she’s a bitch�
�� Great tits though.
Frank laughed as he put the phone back in his pocket.
He checked his hair in the rear-view mirror which was erratic. He was a youthful sixty-something, and if he dyed his greying hair, he could easily be mistaken for late forties. He still had most of his hair, his teeth were in good shape, and other than a slight paunch — which was fairly easily rectifiable in the gym, if he’d had a mind to rectifying it — he was in good shape. Despite this, his wife was all too eager to point out that he was ready for the knackers’ yard, and the more he listened to her the more he started to believe it. Today could easily have been the worst day in his life, but, bizarrely, he was feeling optimistic as he drove out of the car park, giving Terry an enthusiastic thumbs-up for good measure.
Frank had never been particularly materialistic. He could appreciate the finer things in life, of course, but their house — with its tree-lined private driveway leading to a cul-de-sac with five opulent detached mansions — was all her idea.
He never thought of himself as rich; it’d taken many years to build up his business, so wealth accumulation had been a gradual process and, as such, difficult to place a finger on the turning point. That is, there was no one moment when Frank suddenly thought to himself, “Ah, I’m rich.”
He’d bought his first taxi with Stan when they were eighteen, when most their age would be out drinking. They invested everything they’d made, and one car became two, then five, until eventually they had over one hundred and thirty and were one of the largest operators in Liverpool.
He always felt uncomfortable in the house surrounded by those that were exceedingly materialistic. When they married, Helen had a penchant for a nice meal and an exotic holiday, but she was, ultimately, happy with her lot. The house had changed her for the worse; she’d become obsessed with possessions, labels, and what other people thought of her and, more so, what they thought of her husband. For years, she’d insist that Frank leave the taxi on the main road, for instance, and walk into the house. She gave the impression that she was a little embarrassed about him, controlling what he wore and how he should conduct himself in front of people that really didn’t matter to their lives.
Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #1: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and exceptionally funny! Page 1