Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #1: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and exceptionally funny!

by J. C. Williams

  Scarlett:Do you mind if I ask how you ended up living on the streets?

  Lee paused for a moment and bowed his head, before continuing.

  Lee:I had a few problems, back home in Ireland, and tried to make a new life for myself. I came to Liverpool and met a girl, but that didn’t work out. Look, I could sit here and fill you with a hard-luck story, but I’d rather look forward than backwards. I met Frank and Stan and loved what they’re trying to do. I’ve promised them that I’ll put everything I have into this initiative and I’ve got a unique perspective in that I’ve been amongst those we’re trying to help.

  Scarlett:Frank, if I can come back to you. You’re putting some money into this, but how can people help?

  Frank:Being homeless is a situation that any of our friends or family could end up in. Like most things, we need money to make this project happen. We’ve put money in, but we need to fundraise to help as many as we can and that’s where Lee is going to add real value, working with homeless charities, and getting out into the community to raise funds. We’ve got the largest taxi company in the city, so can hopefully offer employment to those who want to get themselves off the streets. It would be great if other employers would work with those who are looking to get into employment. We’re new to this, and will learn along the way, but we’ve got a desire to help and we’re all looking forward to the challenge. Lee’s passion is going to be crucial in this, but both Stan and I are custodians to make this happen.

  Scarlett:Fantastic, and I’m sure you will. And with that, Sally, it’s back to the studio to you.

  Scarlett’s face remained unmoving, as if a PAUSE button had been pressed, until she received the nod from the cameraman that they were no longer live.

  “Great, really great work you’re doing here, guys,” she said warmly, her face reanimated.

  Stan had just opened the blind to the small window which separated the two rooms, and Scarlett stared uneasily at it.

  “There’s a woman… I think… doing something rude at the window,” Scarlett said, moving to a position of cover behind the cameraman.

  Stella was stood fag in mouth, with a two-finger salute pressed up against the windowpane. Stan caught a glimpse and quickly closed the blind once more.

  “Don’t worry about Stella,” said Stan.

  “So that was a woman?” Scarlett asked.

  “Ostensibly,” Stan said.

  “It… was horrible,” Scarlett said, her face ashen. “It was like bits and pieces cobbled together to form a whole. But not the best bits. Only the worst bits.”

  Stan laughed. “That’s our Stella,” he said. “But don’t worry. She’s just a bit upset she didn’t make it onto the interview.”

  Scarlett laughed nervously and ushered the camera crew to make a hasty exit.

  “Thank you, guys, if I can do anything—” she said, calling behind her as she left, before being cut short by the door closing on her way out.

  Frank fanned his jumper to get some air to the excessive moisture that’d formed under his armpits.

  Lee wiped a solitary bead of sweat which ran down his cheek. “That went okay?” he said in a soft Irish accent.

  “That was great,” Frank assured him. “But I was shittin’ it— It’s pretty nerve-wracking, ay?”

  Lee nodded.

  Frank made a furtive glance at the door to make sure Stella was out of earshot.

  “Stan, do you honestly think we can leave Stella in charge for two weeks? She’s not exactly… y’know… customer-focused?”

  “She’s not that bad,” said Stan.

  “She’s just told Scarlett Redfern to fuck off!” said Frank.

  “It could have been a V for victory?” Stan offered weakly, though he surely knew this hadn’t been the case. He chewed his bottom lip for a moment, before continuing, “Yeah, but it’s Stella. She’ll be alright. Just make sure the bank or anyone important phones us directly. We could see if Lee wants to work from here while we’re away… at least he could tell us if the place is falling apart?”

  “Where are you guys going?” asked Lee.

  “We, as it happens, are going to the TT races,” Frank said, his face lit up.

  “I went when I was a boy. On the ferry,” said Lee. “It’s a wonderful place.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Stan said, responding to Frank’s proposition. “Lee, you wouldn’t mind working from here for a bit? It’ll get you out of that flat during the day?”

  “Sure,” said Lee. “Cheers. And thank you again for putting me up in your flat, Frank. I can’t begin to tell you what it means. If you need me to do anything when you’re away, just say the word. I’ve got a few meetings lined up with the homeless charities and the local paper, so it would be useful to meet them here. In fact, on that subject,” said Lee, looking at his watch, “I promised the local school that I’d go in and talk to the ankle-biters about life on the streets.”

  Lee walked towards the door, but then stopped. He turned and walked back over to Frank and Stan, hugging them each in turn, before leaving without saying another word.

  “I think we’ve done well to find him,” said Frank.

  Stan did not immediately answer, and Frank turned to him.

  “What do you reckon? You don’t look convinced, Stan?”

  Stan sat on the corner of his desk, arms across his chest, with one hand up to his face, thumb hooked under his chin and forefinger curled like a question mark against his lips.

  “I like the guy, don’t get me wrong,” Stan said. “There’s just something… I don’t know what. But something I can’t quite place my finger on. I’d like to get references. Maybe from a previous employer or landlord?”

  “I know,” said Frank. “I thought the same. So I’ve already asked him already, and he’s promised me he’ll have something from his previous landlord. He told me he was in the army for a while — a tank driver I think he said — and he’s going to have his references sent over. I think we just have to take a leap of faith on him. I’ve got a good feeling about him.”

  Stan looked sombre for a moment.

  “Frank, I’ve been putting off asking you this. But are you going to be okay? Y’know. Going away for two weeks?”

  Frank shadowboxed for a moment, making a good show of it, but of course Stan couldn’t be fooled so easily. Frank knew what he looked like when he peered into the mirror of late, and it wasn’t the least bit good.

  “I’m fine,” said Frank. “In fact it’s things like this charity and our bucket list that are keeping me going. I’ve started the treatment and the doctors seem positive. I know you worry about me, Stan, but don’t. The reason I do not want to tell too many people about this is that I don’t want them to treat me like a victim. I want them to treat me as, well, like Frank. Just Frank.”

  “You don’t want people to know? You’ve just been on bloody live television and told the nation!” laughed Stan.

  “Oh shit, you’re right,” said Frank, taking a look at his phone. And sure enough…

  “Shit. I’ve got fifteen missed calls and seven text messages. I suppose I should have told a few people before they heard it whilst eating their breakfast?”

  “You reckon?” said Stan, shaking his head and chuckling.

  “Ah, well, at least it’ll save me having to phone everyone to tell them!” said Frank. “By the way, that Scarlett was a bit of all right, wasn’t she!”

  “She certainly was, and it’s great to see that your libido hasn’t been dampened in all of—”

  “It’ll take more than chemo to dampen my libido!” said Frank, raising himself up proudly. “Ha!”

  Stan smiled. “Frank, I don’t want to keep asking you how you are, so I won’t. But promise me you’ll tell me if we’re doing too much or if you need to take it easier?”

  “I know,” said Frank. “And if I don’t talk about it, mate, don’t think I don’t want to share. Maybe it’s just the way my brain is wired, but I’m in this situation and jus
t feel talking about it isn’t going to change anything. I just want to make the most of the time I’ve got, and dwelling on it isn’t going to help me. Does that make sense?”

  “Totally,” said Stan. “Anyway, more importantly, who’s going to make up with Stella?”

  “You think she’s mad?” asked Frank.

  “Well,” said Stan, peering through the window. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, she’s currently drawing a huge penis on the back of your coat in black marker pen. So, fortunately, somehow, it would seem, she’s just mad with you at the moment!”

  Chapter Eight

  T he end of May for an avid road racing fan meant only one thing — The Isle of Man TT Races. Held on open roads, it was the ultimate test for the fearless riders who would test their abilities against the 37.73-mile Mountain Course. For two weeks, the small Island in the middle of the Irish Sea became a Mecca for those on two wheels, eager to see their heroes in action or to just marvel at one of the greatest sporting spectacles, anywhere, on earth.

  The route for many of those petrol-headed pilgrims was the port of Liverpool, where the Isle of Man’s Steam Packet catamaran — Sea Cat — would escort them the final eighty or so miles. The vessel sat majestically next to the imposing Royal Liver Building, which was almost as old as the races itself.

  The ferry terminal was bursting at the seams with foot passengers urging the call to commence boarding. There were fresh-faced newcomers, who’d avidly watched internet footage and DVDs of the action, but were salivating at the prospect of watching the leading bike head down the daunting Bray Hill on the first day of practice.

  Seasoned veterans were also returning, and happy to share anecdotes of the sport they loved with those experiencing it for the first time.

  A separate queue formed on the main concourse, where those lucky enough to secure a ticket for their bike would wait with the same sense of exhilaration.

  Frank and Stan waited patiently inside the terminal building, absorbing every aspect of the electric atmosphere. The TT Crowd were an eclectic mix covering every spectrum. Some sat on uncomfortable plastic seats, while others congregated on the floor, but regardless of age or nationality, there was a knowing amongst them, a knowing that they were all part of something special. Some of the veterans would look at the newcomers with a sense of jealousy, wishing they could have that feeling, of going for the first time, once again, but they knew that the first thing any of them would do when they returned home was to book two weeks’ holiday at the end of May and the beginning of June for the following year.

  Once you’d been to the first TT, the thought of two weeks on a beach holiday would seem ludicrous. It was an affliction, a craving, something you build your whole year around.

  It wasn’t just a holiday — you were part of something, a brotherhood, a special club with an insatiable desire to return each year like a homesick salmon. Many were sat in that room after having their imaginations piqued by first-time visitors the year before; such was the magical state of enamourment towards the event that you returned home and tried to relive the experience to the uninitiated.

  But even those with the most vivid imagination were ridiculously wide of the mark. You simply had to experience it for yourself.

  “I didn’t think it’d be this busy,” said Stan. “It was only by luck that I got two cancellations for the ferry. I’m starting to think that I should have booked a hotel in advance now.”

  Frank laughed until he realised Stan was serious. Frank leaned across the foreign visitor — possibly Dutch — who sat between them. “You’ve not booked us a hotel?” he said through gritted teeth.

  Stan shook his head. “No, but I’m sure it’ll be fine, yeah? We’ll get a hotel when we get there.”

  The man between them started to laugh. He was dressed head-to-foot in denim, with a black leather waistcoat that was all but covered in TT badges.

  “You’re going to try and get accommodation when you get there?” the man said, continuing to laugh. “You guys are crazy, I love it!”

  Stan looked a bit concerned. “So, no chance of a hotel?” he asked the laughing man.

  He was slouched comfortably in his seat, but when he sat upright, it was clear this man was huge, and must have been at least 6-foot-10.

  The large, laughing man seemed to consider his response — not wishing, perhaps, to discourage two virgins to the sport he loved. “It’s like trying to buy a turkey on Christmas Eve,” he said, finally. “Hotels are booked up years in advance.”

  “Oh dear,” said Stan.

  “Though you should be able to get into a campsite,” the man offered.

  “A campsite?” said Stan. “Only we haven’t got a tent.”

  The man-mountain continued to laugh to himself. “I guess this is your first visit to the Isle of Man?” he asked.

  Frank nodded. “And possibly the last, if we end up sleeping under the stars.”

  “You like the bikes?” said the denim-clad man in a thick accent.

  Frank shrugged his shoulders. “We like the Isle of Man. We used to go when we were younger. We’re going back as it’s on our bucket list.”

  The big man let out a belly laugh that caused the entire waiting room to turn and stare.

  “AH-HA-HA! A fuck-it list! You guys truly are crazy!”

  “No, a…” Frank started to say, but the Laughing Dutchman had already left to join the queue, where he continued to laugh to himself further.

  Stan left sufficient time to avoid their new friend before joining the long line. His resolve for the trip appeared to be wavering. He was used to the finer things in life, and the thought of a campsite certainly wasn’t appealing to him. Frank had known him too long, and knew what he was thinking.

  “Stanley,” Frank said. “This is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”

  “May I be frank with you, Frank?” Stan asked Frank.

  “Don’t think you’re going anywhere,” Frank replied. “Even if we’ve got to sleep in a deckchair, we’re going to the Isle of Man.”

  “Bloody hell,” was all Stan could say.

  The Irish Sea could be cruel at times, but fortunately for Frank and Stan it was as calm as a millpond as Liverpool disappeared from view behind them. The thought of sleeping under the stars seemed rather less unnerving after their third pint of lager.

  Dozens of enthusiasts filled the bar area and people spoke of their previous adventures as others listened intently, toasting to the experience that would soon greet them.

  “It’s all right, this!” said Stan.

  “Bloody marvellous,” replied Frank, who, not being an avid drinker, was slurring his words slightly. “We should have done this years ago.”

  Stan held his gaze as he looked at the huge smile on Frank’s face, and his eyes began welling up.

  “Just, ah… need some fresh air,” Stan said, excusing himself to join the crowd of smokers stood on the outside deck at the rear of the ship…

  Stan was rarely emotional, so was taken by surprise to find a stream of tears running uncontrollably down his face.

  “Everything okay?” asked a concerned woman, turning to see who’d joined their smoking ranks.

  “Just the wind,” said Stan, indicating the wind had made his eyes water. “But thanks.”

  He moved to the corner of the deck, looking down on the white foam being kicked up as the ship moved gracefully through the water. The thought of Frank leaving him was awful, simply dreadful. He was as close as a brother to him, and they’d shared every major event as they grew up. Being gay in high school, particularly a tough area of Merseyside, was challenging. Stan never forgot that Frank stood with him — not only then, but through every obstacle they’d faced since. This was Frank’s darkest hour, and Stan was wracked with guilt that he’d failed his closest friend when he needed him the most. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but the emotion continued, and Stan gently sobbed…

  “Here we go,” said Frank, opening the heavy watertight doo
r. He struggled to negotiate the weight of the door whilst carrying two plastic beakers of lager, which spilt over with the gentle pitching of the deck from the regular rise and swell of the ocean waves.

  “I thought you’d come out here for a crafty ciggy?”

  Stan turned his back and raised his hands to his face, taking a moment to adjust his hair.

  “Everything okay, Stan? Are you just admiring the view?”

  Stan cleared his throat and, despite his best efforts, it was evident from the reddening of his eyes that he was upset.

  Frank wasn’t stupid, and put his arm gently around him. “It’ll be okay, Stan. It’ll be okay.”

  Stan bowed his head. “Frank, I love you. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “I do,” said Frank. “And I’m so grateful that I can call you a friend.”

  They both leaned on the railing, staring vacantly into the brine below for a fair while, before suddenly feeling a firm, large hand clap down on each of their shoulders.

  “My crazy, homeless, fuck-it-list friends!” a booming voice said.

  Stan tried to move back but with the force of the arm across his back he was going nowhere. The huge chap from the ferry terminal, the Laughing Dutchman, was stood between them. He was bigger than they’d first thought, and wouldn’t have looked at all out of place wrestling Sir Roger Moore in a Bond film.

  “God, I bloody love this!” he said in a broken English accent. “I live for this shit!” he announced even louder, to all those stood on the small outside deck. He took up his pint, which had been resting on the floor, and drained the full contents effortlessly.

  Stan smiled uneasily and took a sip of his own drink.

  “Good, good, smile and nod, Stan,” Frank thought to himself. “Let’s hope that appeases him and he’ll bugger off.”

  The Laughing Dutchman, however, did not bugger off. Instead, he took a step closer and extended his hand, which looked like a shovel — a very large shovel. “I’m Henk!” he announced. “Henk, from Holland!”

  Stan smiled again, but it was clear that Henk was looking for conversation. “That’s Frank and I’m Stan,” he said, cautiously shaking the man’s hand.