Chapter 10

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” James Weatherby commented to his wife, who was efficiently navigating them to the Alcott residence in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire.

“I think so, dear. I certainly would prefer our son’s fiancée not be estranged from her family, and I think it well worth a weekend spent playing Bridge to try to... bridge... the gap between Lisa and her father,” she responded calmly. “Take the next right, nearly to the end, then left.”

He did as he was told, and they found themselves facing an impressive high gate in an eight-foot wall. “I suppose this must be it,” he said. “A little intimidating, I think.”

“You’re not wrong. Of course, academics don’t command the sort of income which would enable, or justify, living somewhere like this. What do we do? There’s an intercom there...”

Before James could use it, though, the gates swung open in front of them, and he drove through them and round a tear-drop shaped lawn on a gravel drive to stop in front of the house. Margaret was trying to decide whether the house was large enough to qualify as a ‘mansion’. Probably not, but it was still large. Well maintained, it was in the Georgian style. Possibly actually Georgian in age.

The door opened as they got out, and they saw a plump, friendly-looking woman in an apron, who stepped out and came down the steps to meet them. Welcome to Patrick Lodge,” she said.

Margaret raised an eyebrow. “Named for the Bishop?”

“Indeed, though I doubt he was ever here. Anyway. I’m Anna Hewson, housekeeper and cook. If you’d like to bring your bags in, I’ll take you to Missus Alcott.” When they passed her, she went on, “if you just leave your bags there, I’ll show you to your room once you’ve met Missus Alcott.”

They did as they were told, and were ushered into a large lounge, where a slight, shapely, somewhat oriental looking woman was stitching something. She stood as they entered and laid her handiwork to her side. “Good evening! Welcome to our home. Margaret ... James. I’m Emily Alcott.” She looked past them to Anna Hewson. “Thank you, Anna. I’ll take care of our visitors. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

She departed, and Emily returned her attention to her guests. “I do most of the cooking and at least some of the housework, but this is a big house and Anna is an enormous help. She cooks – rather better than I do – for us, especially when we have visitors. If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you to your room.”

Emily Alcott led them upstairs to a large bedroom with a connecting en suite bathroom, which was very well appointed, as the saying goes. “When you’re settled, come back down to the lounge. Basil should be home in the next half-hour or so, and we’ll get acquainted.”

Basil Alcott and James Weatherby were remarkably similar in appearance, both over six feet, solidly built, with broad shoulders. Emily and Margaret watched as the two men felt each other out. The first point of contact was their shared liking for Scotch Whisky; a minor disagreement over the best distilleries was a trivial matter. They’d both served briefly, on a short-service commission, in the military; Basil in logistics and James in Naval Intelligence. Basil had met Emily while deployed to Singapore. By the time they were all sitting at the dining-table, the men might have known each other for years. Emily and Margaret merely smiled at each other and chatted about gardening.

The men’s mutual respect was cemented by a hard-fought evening of Bridge, in which Margaret and James came out marginally ahead. At bed-time, Basil actually told James, “I’m sorry I have a prior commitment for tomorrow, but I’ll be here in the evening.”

Well, it seems that my parents hit it off with Lisa’s. I don’t doubt that was due mostly to the efforts of the ladies – Dad’s not much more ‘social’ than me, and I didn’t get the impression that Lisa’s Dad was particularly flexible, to put it mildly. Anyway, a consequence of that visit was a family meeting – both sets of parents, Lisa and my humble self – at Lisa’s parents’ home. I was, at last, out of my leg cast, and everything seemed to be healing up nicely. It was just a little frustrating that my pelvis apparently needed longer.

The evening before we were going, I asked Lisa again where Oscar was hidden. “I could at least begin dismantling to get an idea of the damage. Start getting parts repaired or replacements ordered.”

Lisa sighed. “Okay, Love. Okay. I’ll take you to see him Saturday afternoon. He’s in the garage that looks after my MG.”

Unless you have, like me, built a bike (or any vehicle, for that matter) from the ground up, then used it as daily transport, serviced, cleaned and polished it, I don’t think I can convey the attachment that forms. I trusted Lisa – trusted her with my love and my life – but I could not help worrying – whittlin’, as we say up here – about the machine. I’d set that worry aside, since I couldn’t do anything about it, but the prospect of seeing Oscar, of seeing what a mess he was in ... that worry surfaced again.

I tried to concentrate on some work, a particularly abstruse piece of technical writing, but in the end gave up. I lost myself as best I could in the fantasy world of Anne McCaffrey’s Pern.

Lisa came home early. “I thought we could go early to Gainsborough,” she smiled. “That way, we’ll miss most of the bad traffic, and we can call in to visit Oscar before seeing my parents. Is that okay with you?”

I took her face gently in both hands and kissed her softly. “Thank you, Sweetheart.” Her smile lit up her face as she heard the gratitude in my voice.

It was a little back-road garage, unprepossessing from the road. But behind the office and workshop for routine work, there was a larger building. We were led through or past areas in which different activities were going on – a panel-beating space, a spray-paint booth, a machine-shop – to a spotless, warm, dry garage at the very back.

In front of me was a very shiny, black, Ford Mustang. I’m not into cars, as I’ve said, especially not American cars, but even I recognised it.

“Ford Mustang,” our escort said. “This is an early one – nineteen sixty-five. It’s got the big Vee-eight motor.” He led the way past the vehicle and there, on the other side of a space big enough for a couple more cars, was Oscar.

Though I say it, I’d done a good job rebuilding him in the first place, but ... I strode across the room. He gleamed. Black paint was so glossy, it might have almost been chrome. The chrome, the exposed alloy all shone. The screen on the half-fairing had not a blemish. I stroked the silver-grey finish on the tank. I blinked and fished in my pocket for a handkerchief so I could blow my nose.

I tore my attention away from my mechanical friend and turned to Lisa, who was watching with a half-smile, half frown. I spread my arms and she stepped into them. I squeezed her, and looked over her shoulder at our escort. “You’ve done a magnificent job,” I said, “but you do know Oscar is daily transport, not a Concours specimen?”

“Oh, yes. The chrome and alloy is all lacquered. The frame has been hard stove-enamelled. We replaced the fork legs, rather than try to straighten them, and the fairing is new. It was obvious the bike hadn’t been cosseted in an air-conditioned garage, so we did what we could to make sure it wouldn’t need too much attention on the cosmetics. We stripped the motor and checked for wear. Everything is well within tolerances. We replaced the head gasket...” I was about to comment, but he went on before I could, “with a new solid copper one. We were told that the compound gasket was subject to problems. And, of course, while we had it stripped down we polished the alloy and bead-blasted and stove-enamelled the fins on the cylinders.”

“What oil did you use?”

He smiled. “We noticed that what was in there was thick, so we used a Castrol SAE fifty. Care to tell me why?”

I shrugged. “Multi-grades tend to seep through the oil pump,” I told him. “It takes longer to warm up with the mono-grade, but it doesn’t get pumped out of the breather.”

“Ah. Makes sense.”

I straddled him. Tickled the carb, switched on, retarded the ignition, closed the choke, and stood on the kick-start lever.

“Rob!” Lisa protested as my leg straightened and I dropped.

Oscar roared into life.

For a few seconds, I enjoyed the smooth rumble of the exhaust, then turned off, and swung my leg back over to stand next to my machine.

“Robert Weatherby! You were told no motorcycling!”

“And I’m not riding, or straining anything. I just wanted to hear the motor.” Lisa stood scowling. I stepped up to her and pecked her on the forehead. “Thank you. It looks like a fantastic job, and he sounds as good as new.” She was still scowling a little, so I stooped and whispered in her ear, “I love you. Not just for this.”