Chapter 3

Rob.

It was a good thing I had work to occupy my mind over the next couple of days, not to mention a thorough check over of Oscar. I cleaned his chrome and the alloy casings, topped up the oil – mono-grade SAE 50 for the engine, SAE 30 for the primary chain, the gearbox was fine – changed the final drive chain. Adjusted the brakes, cleaned the mag points and the plugs, and made sure I had spares in the tool box. The lights were fine – at least, as fine as they ever were, they all worked – and the horn too. That’s a later and much louder replacement. By Thursday morning he was gleaming and started first kick.

Wednesday night, Lisa called to ask about clothing. I recommended jeans and a top, plus something waterproof, the latter to go in my tank bag, assuming that the weather co-operated. “Dress for the weather, and it’s cooler on the bike than standing still”. I thought I could hear her ‘Duh’ over the phone.

The forecast was good, and the day began bright and clear. Oscar, as I say, started first kick, and I set off to navigate the one-way streets to Cavendish Street, where I was to collect my passenger. She was waiting by the entrance to her part of the development, holding a shining white helmet, which had, I noted, a pair of goggles in place. She saw me and waved, and I turned Oscar round, the road being a dead end at that point. By the time I was facing the right way she had her helmet on, trotted over to me, and climbed on.

I waited for her to put her arms round me, and that didn’t happen for a few seconds, so I glanced round. Of course, she’d pulled the goggles down to protect her eyes. But once she’d settled herself, her arms wrapped around me, I set off.

Once we’d extricated ourselves from the tangle of streets of the inner-city, I chose to take the Manchester Road out of town. That’s quite a good road, though only two lanes and a fifty miles per hour limit. I turned off over the Ladybower Bridge, then through Bamford and to Hathersage, where I turned off to take the minor road to Calver Sough, and thence to Ashford-in-the-Water.

I stopped in the main street, Oscar rumbling away quietly beneath us. “This is Ashford. The Bull’s Head do a really good meal, and real ale.” I pointed at the building, set back from the road with a small car-park in front. “But it’s only ... not quite eleven. Do you want to ride some more, or take a wander round the village and get some coffee?”

“Coffee!” she exclaimed, positively. “I’ve heard about Ashford, though I’ve never been here. It’s an interesting place.”

“It is,” I agreed. “Let’s just park Oscar, and choose a tea-room.”

Ashford has two pubs, though one is more of a hotel and restaurant; a village shop, an ancient church, and several tea-rooms. It sits next to the river Wye, where, traditionally, sheep have been driven through the river to wash them; just below the ‘Sheepwash Bridge’, in fact. The village also has the essential village hall and a cricket ground. I ran Oscar into the Bull’s Head car-park, and Lisa got off. I tried to park so as to minimise the amount of space he occupied.

Quite close, there was a tea shop. It was small, and felt cramped, but I knew the others would be much the same, so we found a table and ordered coffee and cake.

Lisa.

It wasn’t so far – what, twenty-five miles? Less than my first experience of riding pillion on an old motorbike. But by the time we arrived in Ashford I was about ready to trip him to the ground and do him right there in the view of God ‘n’ everyone. Probably not a good idea. I restrained myself. What was it about the guy? Okay, he looked okay, but skinny. I’m no clothes horse myself, but really ... he needed some encouragement in the dressing area. Let’s see, Tall – maybe six foot two. Beard. Not used to facial hair in my family. But it was trimmed neatly enough. Eyes. Yes, his eyes. Blue. Expressive. Yeah ... very expressive. Who was it called the eyes the window of the soul? If that was true, he had a very attractive soul. And he controlled his eyes. I don’t mind a guy looking at me, but I much prefer that he looks at my eyes when we’re talking, rather than my bosom. I mean, I’m not spectacular in the chest region, but I know there’s enough – I’m a C cup – to be interesting to any hetero male. Conversation. Yeah. Once I got him talking it was obvious he was quite knowledgeable, with a quick wit. But he didn’t dominate the conversation.

Of course, part of my horniness, a large part, was the bike. Taken logically, it’s not so much, but ... I don’t know ... there’s a feeling of ... solidity, perhaps. The power, or the impression of power, is somewhat of an illusion. Torque, I suppose is a better term. Not that I know much about that.

So there we are, sitting close together – of necessity, it’s a very small café, and busy – and chatting about the village. I knew a little, from reading about the place. We finished our snack, and walked. First call, the church. Holy Trinity church; twelfth century, but rebuilt in the nineteenth, while retaining its ancient character. Of particular interest are the ‘Virgin’s Crowns’, or ‘Crants’. These are a relic of an ancient tradition in which a ‘crown’ of wood, decorated with white flowers, was carried as part of the funeral of a young maiden. They are, now, much faded despite having been conserved and protected by Perspex domes, but I still found my eyes prickling with incipient tears at these memorials of the untimely death of young girls. I cleared my throat, blinked, and suggested we move on. As we left the church, my hand – without my conscious decision – found Rob’s, and our fingers twined.

A circuit of the village, including watching the ducks at the landing by the Sheepwash Bridge – I bemoaned the fact we had nothing to feed them – got us back to the Bull’s Head just after mid-day. The menu was quite good – I ordered sea bass – and when it arrived it was nicely presented and well cooked. I supposed it was unsurprising that Rob ordered steak-and-ale pie, which was probably the most conventional and traditional dish available. He had beer, one I’d never heard of, which had something to do with a rock group; Robinsons Trooper. That’s the beer. The band, I think, was AC/DC. Something like that. (Actually, Iron Maiden. I looked it up later).

I considered wine. “I don’t know much about wine,” Rob said, “but the beer’s good. Try the Unicorn.”

I did. It was good.

“I don’t usually drink when I’m out on Oscar,” Rob told me, lifting his glass to gaze into it. “But I like a good beer, and if I’m eating, by the time I’m finished the alcohol will be mostly gone from my system.”

“I suppose so.”

“Alcohol and driving are not a good mix,” he went on, “and on a bike I think it’s even more important to be on the qui vivre.”

Well, that was an insight into this man. A useful one. “I’m glad you think that way.”

“I’m not in a hurry to meet my maker, and I’d hate for Oscar to be messed up.”

Our food arrived and put paid to further conversation.

He didn’t take me straight home. We passed Monsall Head, and detoured from the straight route to visit Eyam, the Plague village. It was necessary to park Oscar and wander round.

“Thank you for this,” I told Rob. “I’ve read about Eyam and the plague.” Yes, I’m an archaeologist, and my speciality area is prehistory, but I was a historian first and the tale of the Black Death, and how the Eyam villagers, led by their Rector, William Mompesson, accepted quarantine, is well known. Two hundred and sixty villagers died, of a population between three hundred and fifty and eight hundred, but it is likely that their sacrifice saved hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lives by limiting the spread of the disease.

At length, after a snack of tea and scones, we set off back to Sheffield. He stopped outside my entrance to the apartment block, and I stepped off. Oscar was chuntering away between his legs. He lifted the front of his helmet, looking at me. I might have kissed his cheek, but they were covered by the sides of the helmet, so I was forced to kiss his lips. He must have felt the jolt. I certainly did.

“It’s been a wonderful day,” I said. “Please tell me if you’re going out again. Maybe further, next time.” I kissed him again, braced, this time, then turned and walked to the door. I opened it, and looked back. He was staring after me, but I turned away and shut the door. Something wrenched inside me.

Rob.

I watched her walk away, poetry in motion. Who sang that? It was long before I was born. But how perfect. She glanced back as she opened the door, but then she was gone. I sat there for some time before recollecting that Oscar was still throbbing away under me. I manoeuvred the four-hundred-plus pound bike round to head home. Can a machine have feelings? It seems like it, quite often. Oscar ran smoothly, and didn’t miss a beat as I made my way through the afternoon rush-hour – that should be hours, by the way. Starts any time after three, and goes on to maybe seven, before the evening rush starts – traffic. I wheeled him into the garage, glanced round, and patted him on the headlamp as I left.

I had plenty to occupy me for the next couple of weeks, and Oscar rarely got taken out of the garage even for short excursions across the city. I relaxed in front of the telly, when I needed a break. Star Trek. Nature programmes and history, supplemented (since meeting Lisa) with archaeology programmes. But then I got the urge again. I wanted aeroplanes. Historic aeroplanes. A Shuttleworth Collection flying day was coming up at the weekend. Nervously, I called Lisa, and got her voice-mail.