Chapter 1

Rob Weatherby

It was just a little ride. I heaved the old bike onto its centre stand. It’s a 1956 Norton Dominator 88; five hundred cc, two cylinders, so-called ‘wideline featherbed’ frame. It’s old enough to have white-on-black registration plates, 49 OSC. Okay, it’s the wrong way round, but it’s been ‘OSCAR’ ever since I bought him. You have to be fairly tall – certainly over five foot ten – to reach the ground comfortably, just because the seat is so wide. For any enthusiast out there, he’s got a ‘chronometric’ speedo. Originally, that instrument was considered so accurate that Police machines counted it as a second witness. Practically, the difference it makes is that the needle doesn’t move smoothly, but twitches in little steps. What else? Well, the lighting system is dreadful. In the winter, I fit a more recent motor with an alternator instead of the original dynamo. The original brakes are barely adequate, but I have a twin-leading-shoe front brake that’s very effective. The model is supposed to be capable of ‘eighty-eight’ miles an hour, hence the name, but a little attention to the internals, a sports cam, raised compression, polished ports, twin carburettors – raises that to a genuine ‘ton’. Oscar isn’t a ‘boy racer’ though. I’ve got a top-box (for my helmet) and panniers, and a tourer half-fairing.

I opened the top-box to put my helmet in, but then remembered I still had my friend’s helmet in there. I could, however, take off my high-vis vest and gloves and squeeze them in. I’d just have to carry the helmet. I walked toward the café, beginning to sweat, despite my light clothing. Look, this is England. Summer temperatures above twenty-one Celsius (seventy Fahrenheit) are quite unusual, but we were having one of our periodic ‘heat-waves’, unbroken even by thunderstorms so far, and even in Yorkshire we were getting up to twenty-nine (Eighty-four Fahrenheit). We’re just not used to it, and I, personally, prefer to be cold.

I walked into the café, which was dim and cool; not actually air-conditioned, but there was a device which circulated moist air and lowered the temperature somewhat. Despite the outside temperature, I wasn’t going to go without my coffee – and, yes, I know people drink iced coffee, however I like it hot – but I would have a salad instead of my usual hot meal, and have ice water as well.

There I sat with my salad, hot coffee and cold water, looking out at the car park. The quiche with the salad was obviously freshly made that day, with crisp, short pastry and tasty with cheese, onion and broccoli. I was about half-way through the meal, alternating hot coffee with cold water, when I saw an MG TD sports-car arrive. Now, I’m not a car enthusiast, but that was a gorgeous car and clearly in immaculate condition, though it didn’t seem to be moving quite right. It drew in to a space.

I need to tell you something about myself here. I do not do well with the opposite sex. Oh, I’m definitely hetero. I’ll look at women (discreetly) all day and appreciate a nice figure or well-shaped legs, and I have zero interest in ogling other men. But I’m shy, I suppose. At twenty-eight, I’d had a few one-off dates, but had never overcome my lack of confidence.

As I watched, an absolutely stunning young woman vaulted out of the car, not bothering to open the low door. In that moment, I glimpsed perfect legs, thanks to her short-shorts, and it was obvious thanks to her sheer, skimpy blouse, that she was wearing no bra.

She strode towards the door of the café, but paused as she passed Oscar, then carried on. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Glossy dark hair was pulled back into a long pony-tail, emphasising high cheek-bones and almond eyes. She was, I supposed, about five foot six. The shorts emphasised her curved hips and narrow waist, her midriff exposed by her blouse. Bra or no, her breasts pushed her blouse out very nicely.

She entered, and surveyed the room, her gaze fixing on me, or, at least, on the helmet resting on the table in front of me, then she headed straight for me.

“Excuse me...” her voice, a husky contralto, did things – painful things – to my mid-section. It was a perfect match to her perfect figure. I stood, awkwardly, pushing my chair back with my calves.

It was an effort, but I kept my eyes on hers. “Um ... yes?”

“Please, sit. If I may?” She indicated the chair opposite me.

“Oh! Er, yeah ... yes ... of course.” I didn’t sit until she did, and picked up my helmet to set it out of the way.

“That is your motorcycle out there?”

“Um, yes?”

“Do you know anything about motor-mechanics?”

I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. “Well, some. I rebuilt Oscar from a wreck. I’m not very up on cars, though.”

“I seem to have a problem with my MG. Would you mind very much taking a look at it? I was going to call for recovery, but perhaps you can save me some time. But do finish your lunch first.”

“Sh ... sure. I won’t be long.”

“I’ll just get a drink while you finish.”

I think that was almost the longest conversation I’d had with any woman for quite some time. My awkwardness was just one reason I never got past one date with any woman. Of course, she was asking a favour, but none-the-less...

She rose, gracefully, and strolled across to the counter, where she purchased an iced coffee ... a caramel macchiato something or other. Well outside of my experience, anyway. I concentrated on eating neatly as she came back and sat back down.

“What year is your bike? It must be fifties?”

“Oh, er, yes. 1956, actually.”

“A couple of years younger than my MG, then. I love the thing, but it takes a little looking after.”

This was a conversation I could handle. “Yes, Oscar needs attention almost every week. Of course it helps that I know everything about him, and I’m careful about oil changes, that sort of thing.”

“I confess the MG is looked after by a local garage. I know almost nothing about what’s under the bonnet.”

Should I say something about that? Deep breath. “If you’re going to use a classic vehicle, it pays to know how to do basic tasks – change the plugs, for example.”

“I suppose so.”

I look the last mouthful, chewed and swallowed, drank the last of my coffee – not really still hot enough – and washed it all down with the remains of the ice-water.

She sipped her iced coffee. “My name’s Lisa Alcott,” she said.

“Oh, um, Rob Weatherby,” I said, holding out a hand, which she took and squeezed firmly, her hand warm and dry.

“Nice to meet you, Rob. Do you think you can help me?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I carry a very basic tool-kit, actually what was supplied with the bike originally. I can change the plugs, clean the points, that sort of thing. Anything more than that needs a workshop. Though I have taken the head off in a camp-site when I’ve been away from home for a few days and had the head gasket go. But then I was carrying more tools.”

She finished her drink and stood, and I followed her out. I lifted the bonnet – it lifts from the side and folds over. “Try and start it?”

She got in – actually opened the low door to do so – turned on the ignition and pulled a knob. The starter churned, but there was clearly no life in the motor.

“Enough,” I said, and took the cap off the distributor. “Try again.”

The problem was glaringly obvious. The rotor arm wasn’t turning. “Enough. I can see your problem. I don’t know how you managed to nurse the car here. I suppose the gears finally gave up as you arrived, but there’s something broken in the distributor drive.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Not here. I don’t carry enough tools, and it’ll probably need parts. I don’t know how serious the fault is, either. Do you have recovery insurance?”

“Yes, I do. But I don’t want to have to wait here for someone to come. I need to be in Sheffield in a couple of hours.” She cocked her head. “I don’t suppose you have a spare helmet in that box, do you?”

“As it happens, yes. And yes, I’m heading for Sheffield, too. Um ... if ... um ... you’d like a lift...”

“Really? I’d love a lift, if you don’t mind. I’ll warn you, I’ve never been on a motorbike before.”

Oh, well. I’d take the main roads, instead of the A616, so there’d be fewer and less dramatic corners. “Do you want to make arrangements for your car now? We can leave any time, but you’d probably be best served to leave soon if you’ve got a deadline.”

She glanced at her watch. “I’ve an interview at the Archaeology department of the University at three-thirty. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll ring the garage and get them to collect the MG. I’ll leave the keys in the café.” She walked back into the café, fiddling with her smart phone. I closed the bonnet of the MG, donned my helmet and got Joe’s helmet out of the top-box, and laid my gloves on the headlamp. When I saw her coming back, I held the helmet out to her.

She put it on, but fumbled with the fastening until I did it for her. “Let me start Oscar before you get on. Then you can step on the foot-peg on the left, swing your leg over, and put your arms round me. That’s really so you stay in line with me. There’s a tendency for inexperienced passengers to try to sit upright when we go round corners.”