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

  The vicar, who’d seen enough, took a step forward, his hand held aloft like he was poised to deliver a sermon.

  “Gentlemen! What in goodness’ sake is going on here? Don’t you realise that this is a funeral?” he demanded.

  The mob drew to a halt and a dubious-looking little fellow with a stooped back, errant grey hair and an unkempt, wispy, sea-spray beard, shuffled forward in what looked very much to be his favourite, most comfortable slippers. He took a cloth cap from his head and placed it under his arm.

  “Yessir,” he said, respectfully. “Yessir, vicar. That’s why we’ve come.”

  “All of you?” asked the vicar, still unsure of their intentions.

  The old man looked back towards his comrades and then again to the vicar. “Yessir, all of us, that’s right,” he said.

  The vicar cocked his head just slightly, foreseeing an explanation.

  “That man,” the old fellow continued, nodding at the coffin (which was still being supported by the pallbearers, pallbearers who were in fact starting to show the onset of strain caused by the unexpected delay). “That man has helped us more in the last six months than most people have done in a lifetime. Because of Frank and Stan’s Food Stamps, the majority of us have managed to have a meal each and every day – and a good meal, at that. That man cared about the people here, and did something about it. That man made a friend of each and every homeless person in his city, and we’d be damned if we didn’t come here today to see him off properly.”

  “Ehem,” coughed one of the pallbearers. “Sorry,” he said deferentially. “Only Julian has got a dodgy knee. I’m worried it’s going to give way?”

  The vicar acknowledged him. “Very good,” the vicar said, facing back to the old fellow stood cap-in-hand. “You are, of course, all very welcome, but we should get the proceedings underway. If you don’t mind, we should–”

  “Excuse me, sir. Just a moment,” said the elderly gentleman. Without response from the vicar, he turned to those stood behind him and waved his hand. With that, twelve men, arguably the smarter-looking of the lot, stepped forward. They walked in front of the coffin and formed a line, six each, on either side of the church entrance. Judging by the stance and uniformity, it looked likely that several of the men were formerly in the military.

  The vicar smiled and placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Let’s go,” the vicar said softly. “And, that really is a wonderful gesture.” At the same time as the vicar instructed the coffin to move, the guard of honour that had formed stood to attention and gave their fallen comrade the respect that he deserved.

  Stella was unable to contain her emotion, and the ink from the newspaper was now smeared across her face – forming a sort of cryptic Rorschach pattern.

  “Come on,” said Stan, escorting her and Lee into the service. “He’d have liked this,” remarked Stan, admiring the men stood either side of them as they entered the church.

  The vicar once again took up position in front of his congregation and scanned the room at the numbers present – swelled significantly over the preceding twenty minutes. He allowed the typical murmurings of a flock to come to natural conclusion before preparing to dive into his funereal script. He placed his notes in front of him and cleared his throat, raising one arm for emphasis, but before he had a chance to open his mouth the door flew open with one final straggler.

  “Sorry, your honour. My apologies!” said the man, dripping in sweat and gasping for breath. “I had to move the coach before I could… there were two coaches… two of them, and… down the road… and I couldn’t just…” He paused, suddenly aware that all eyes in the room were upon him. “Well… it’s not important. Again. My apologies.”

  Stan craned his neck toward the man, who was looking unsuccessfully for somewhere to sit. “Over here,” he called over, waving rather limply. “I saved you a seat.”

  “Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me,” said the latecomer, extending his regrets for the intrusion. He gave Stella as wide a berth as was possible between the narrow church pews, offering her a gracious smile, before collapsing on the hard, wooden bench seat next to Stan.

  Stan gave him the order of service, offering it as a fan to relieve the flow of sweat which ran down the man’s face. He looked at his watch. “Bloody hell, Frank. I didn’t think you were going to make it on time,” he said.

  Frank wiped the sweat from his forehead, taking several gulps of air. “I know. I didn’t realise half the homeless population of Liverpool were going to show up. I had to arrange a second coach at a moment’s notice and have an unscheduled stop at the charity shop so I could kit them out with suits to wear. Also, it’s difficult to drive when you’ve got your head held out the window. They’re a smashing bunch, really, but, sheesh, they don’t half stink, and–” He paused suddenly, mid-sentence. And, then, “Stan?” he whispered. “What’s wrong with Stella’s face?”

  “Don’t be rude, Frank,” was Stan’s reply.

  Frank fanned himself with the order of service while the vicar made his introductions. With the arrival of the homeless hordes, it was now a very respectable turnout – with some even spilling over, out through the main doors. The moment was particularly poignant for Frank as it could very easily have been his face on the front cover of the brochure he was looking at. Fortunately, his decision to proceed with treatment for his illness meant that the arrival of his own expiry date was delayed, at least for now.

  Stan used his elbow to attract Frank’s attention, breaking his reverie. “You’re up, buddy,” he told his friend, motioning to the vicar’s lectern.

  “Oh, yes, right,” said Frank, reaching inside his jacket pocket for his well-thumbed notes. Frank shuffled through the pew and then, lowering his head, made his way up the aisle to the front of the church. He was never one for public speaking, but he wanted to do this. He wanted to show his respect to a valued colleague who’d become a trusted friend in the short time he’d known him.

  Frank looked to the vicar for approval to proceed, and then took up his pile of notes, snapping them into position. He looked at the eyes staring at him, and then back to the well-considered notes before him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, with a quiver apparent in his voice. The words on the paper were swirling in front of him, blending into each other as his rehearsed speech that he’d practice-delivered so fluently in front of the mirror now eluded him. His legs started to buckle, and, to make matters worse, the acrid aroma of his passengers now followed him wherever he went, clinging tenaciously to the linings of his nostrils. His eyes started to water.

  Frank stared vacantly for several seconds before taking his notes, rolling them up and placing them in his trouser pocket. He took a deep breath and placed his hands on the lectern in front of him, which also served to steady him, before continuing.

  “I was going to stand up here and tell you what a remarkable man Arthur Hughes was – well, is – and will always be. But, I don’t really need to do that, because if you didn’t think that then you probably wouldn’t be here in the first place. I’d only known Arthur for a little under a year, but rarely have I seen someone with such compassion, such… such…”

  Frank took a moment, and dried his eyes with a white handkerchief.

  “He was a special man, a man that wanted to give something back to the community. Some of you may know that with the help of my friend, Stan, we set up a charity to help the homeless in Liverpool. Fate brought us Arthur, I truly believe that. Arthur didn’t rest until he’d reached out to every homeless person he could. I can promise you, he didn’t give me or Stan a moment’s peace. He was constantly throwing ideas and suggestions at us. Some were a bit crazy and others were genius, but, regardless, every suggestion was for the good of other people.

  “They honestly broke the mould when Arthur was made. This may sound like a bit of a cliché. With Arthur, however, it couldn’t be more true. Never have I had the pleasure of being with someone who was concerned more with how y
ou were than himself. He was a warm, considerate man who I was very proud to call a friend. No matter how brief it was, he’s made an impact on my life and those here today. These people…”

  Frank gestured to the homeless in attendance, who’d now, unsurprisingly, divided the occupants of the church and were now sat on their own.

  “… These people here don’t own a home, and often don’t know where their next meal is coming from. Arthur worked tirelessly to get these people a warm meal each day, and, often, a place to sleep – where they’d feel safe and secure.

  “We all know Arthur had his own problems, but it was precisely that empathy that made him more determined to help these people. And those very people were insistent that they’d be here today. To say goodbye to their friend.”

  Frank looked to the coffin, and then back to the attendees.

  “Arthur, you’re one in a million. And I promise you this. We’ll carry on with the charity. We’ll get bigger and stronger and we’ll help more and more people, not just in Liverpool, but all over the country. Arthur,” said Frank, with his shoulders now heaving. “Arthur. You’ve made me a better man, and it was a pleasure to know you.”

  Two candles flickered as Frank placed a tender hand on the coffin. He wiped another tear from his cheek and smiled.

  “Goodbye, my friend… goodbye.”

  Chapter Two

  T he smell of cheap floral air freshener was waging war against a pungent aroma of grease, tobacco, and sweat. It was a valiant effort, but, judging by Molly’s reaction as the door opened, it was a battle it was not likely to win. She ducked her head suddenly in reaction to a bell attached to the top of the door frame that rang as she entered, announcing her arrival.

  Frank stretched out his arm, welcoming her over to his table next to the window. “Are you okay?” he asked, once she joined him. “You seemed startled by that bell.”

  “No, not startled,” answered Molly. “More of a conditioned response, I suppose.”

  “Conditioned response?” asked Frank, confused.

  “It’s a signal I worked out with my special clients. When they rang a bell, that meant I’d…” she began, before spotting the look of horror on her father’s face.

  “It’s not important,” Molly told him, quickly changing the subject. “Anyway. I’m not sure why you insist on meeting me here,” she said, as a statement rather than a question. She scrutinised the wooden chair for detritus before cautiously hooking the handles of her designer handbag over it.

  “It’s good to see you, Molly,” answered Frank.

  “Dad, it stinks in here,” Molly answered him, wrinkling her nose.

  She removed her jacket, and repeated the same diligence as with her handbag, before finally taking a seat. She reached for her hair, which was tied back with thought and attention (as opposed to, say, the I’m-late-and-have-a-meeting-in-eight-minutes approach). “Now I’m going to have to wash my hair again. Honestly, Dad, this place is really manky.”

  “It’s lovely to see you, Molly,” Frank reiterated with a wry smile. He could have met her at work, the trendy coffee shop, or even the park – after all, it was a lovely morning – but Frank took great pleasure in meeting her here. “I thought you said you liked it in here?” he asked, feigning innocence.

  Molly threw her eyes around Fryer’s Café, but it only served to increase her level of contempt. “Dad, it’s a complete rubbish heap. Is this not where you met me last year?”

  Frank knew full well that it was. “Is it?” he said. “Herm, you could be right, Molly. Maybe I just misheard you last time? Anyway, so how’s work?” he asked cheerfully.

  “Dad, I hope you’ve not just asked me here to complain about my job. After all, it was you who told me to get a job. Remember?”

  “I’m not here to judge,” Frank assured her. “Only, it’s just that I thought you could probably have found something more…?”

  “More what?” demanded Molly. “Respectable? Are you ashamed of me, then?”

  Frank held his hands aloft in protest. “Molly, I was going to suggest you could find a job with, perhaps, longer-term career prospects, is all.”

  “Are you saying I’m old for my line of work? That I’m past my prime??” asked Molly indignantly. “Well?”

  “Of course not!” Frank pleaded. “You’re perfectly fit to… look, you’re perfectly fit… *cough*… I’m just saying that being a stripper has probably got a shelf life. Surely?”

  Molly’s mouth dropped in disgust. “Dad, I’m a lap dancer. Not a stripper. There’s a huge difference.”

  It was fair to say that Frank was not overly knowledgeable on the subject, and, had it been anyone other than his daughter, he’d likely have enquired further on the subject.

  Molly snapped her head towards the window and changed her expression like the flick of a switch, as two workmen in hard hats, noticing her through the window, motioned and gesticulated in a ‘friendly’ way. Smiling back, she held their gaze until they’d passed before adopting the expression, once again, like she was sucking on a lemon.

  Frank placed his hands on the table, atop hers. “Whatever you do, Molly, you know I’ll always love you. You know that, right?”

  Molly nodded, her demeanour thawing a bit. “I quit my job two months ago, as it turns out,” she said. “I’ve started taking a design class, actually.”

  Despite the swell of pride and self-satisfaction in her voice, she subconsciously pulled up her plunge neckline t-shirt, as if she were telling her expensive yet ample cleavage that, sadly, time was finally expired on their fledgeling career.

  “That’s wonderful!” said Frank, his face radiating at the news that the three of them, so to speak, were resigning.

  “Yes, well I hope you’re satisfied,” was Molly’s reply.

  “Molly, you say it like you’ve done it reluctantly, as if you were punishing me for doing it in the first place. I’ve told you, I just want you to be happy. Honestly. Just make sure that whatever you do, you do it for the right reasons, that’s all. Okay? And this design class sounds like a fantastic idea,” he said, looking her up and down. “You’re very much like your mother in that regard,” he added encouragingly. “In that you’ve both got an elegant dress sense. I think it’s a perfect fit, yeah?”

  Eric Fryer, purveyor of the fine establishment that bore his name, hovered, waiting for a natural break in the conversation before pouncing with his notepad.

  Fryer’s checked trousers were partially covered by a black-and-white apron which had more stains than an old mattress in a brothel. Judging by the belly which flopped over his waistline, he’d evidently been overindulging in his own menu of greasy goods, and his ample bosom might well have made Molly jealous (if not for her augmentation surgery, at least).

  “Get you a refill?” asked Eric, in reference to Frank’s empty mug.

  “Yes, please,” said Frank. “And a bacon butty when you’ve got a moment, Eric.”

  “Bacon butty,” Eric repeated. He then shifted his attention towards Molly, who in turn stared back at him. Hard.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” she asked the confused-looking Eric Fryer sternly.

  “I think, eh, that’s my line?” offered Eric, notepad poised at the ready.

  “How’s that?” Molly snapped back, not at all accommodatingly.

  “Can I get you anything to eat or drink, luv?” asked Eric.

  Molly smiled and looked towards her father, but when Eric didn’t move, her attention returned back again to the patient proprietor.

  “Oh, you’re being serious?” she asked. “No,” she said. “No, no. Oh good god, no,” she elaborated, once again casting her eyes around the room as if that should have been enough of an explanation.

  Eric smiled courteously. He was either thick-skinned or Molly’s reaction was commonplace, or, more likely, Eric had clapped eyes on her plunge neckline t-shirt which had returned to its original, revealing position, affording a generous, ample, breath-taking view.


  “Bacon sarnie, Eric? Hello??” said Frank.

  “Yes, of course,” said Eric, his eyes retracting and settling back into their sockets.

  “That would usually have cost you fifty pound,” said Molly. “You’re lucky that I don’t charge for that anymore.”

  A bemused Eric retired to the kitchen to prepare some grease, fried in grease, seasoned with more grease.

  Molly fiddled with a salt cellar on the table. Her head was bowed. She went to speak but the words didn’t come. For those looking through the café window, they might’ve looked like they were very much bored with each other’s company, right then, though that was not the case at all...

  “I want…” offered Molly before trailing off, chewing her lip as she moved her attention to the pepper pot, playing it through her fingers absently.

  She looked up and her huge brown eyes had welled up. Her brash exterior had suddenly deserted her, leaving her vulnerable.

  “Do you know,” said Frank. “Looking at you, sat there, I could close my eyes and see my little girl, sat on my knee staring up at me.” Frank reached for her hand. “I miss that little girl, Molly. I miss my little girl.”

  Molly smiled. A tear slowly navigated its way down her cheek, over to her chin, and then onto the table. She didn’t try to stop it.

  “You know,” mused Frank. “That tear is probably the closest thing that table’s had to a clean all week.”

  Molly’s laugh set free the remainder of her tears. “I’m still your little girl, Dad. I probably don’t… well, I know I don’t tell you that I love you enough, Dad. Well, I do. Love you, that is.”

  Frank’s bottom lip covered his top lip while he nodded slowly; those words were what he’d longed to hear, and couldn’t have sounded sweeter to his ear.

  “I know, Molly, I know. And the treatment is going well, by the way,” he said, the words drawing a sunny smile from her. He put his hands up to manage her expectations. “It’s still there, Molly. It’s still there, mind. But the doctors are happy with the progress. I just need to remain positive.”