Chapter 7

Still Rob.

So there we were; I – very gradually – began to believe Lisa genuinely cared for me. For myself, I, metaphorically of course, placed her on a pedestal and worshipped her. A week after her father’s visit and our ... acknowledgement or our relationship; okay, our beginning to have sex ... no ... beginning to make love ... whatever ... a week after that, Lisa was at the University and I was working on a horribly turgid history text, when I heard my phone ring with a familiar ring tone I hadn’t heard for some time.

“Yeah, Mum? Good time with the Gräfin?”

“Yes – Karin is as hospitable as ever. You should visit, you know. But where are you? I’ve been calling your flat for a couple of days.”

My parents were friends with a German noblewoman, Gräfin Karin von Freiburg, whom Grandad had met during the Occupation, an attractive, quite wealthy, but much older woman. “I, um, had a bit of a bump with the bike.”

“Oh, Robert! And you say you’re safe on that thing.”

“I am, most of the time. An old guy’s foot slipped off the clutch and his car lurched out in front of me at just the wrong moment. I’ll be okay, but I’m staying with a friend for a few weeks until I can get around without casts.”

“Robert! Why didn’t you call?” Without giving me a chance to answer, she went on, “So where are you? Who are you staying with? Who’s looking after you?”

“If you’ll let me get a word in, Mum? I’m staying with Lisa Alcott, who is an Archaeology student at the University, in her flat in West One.” I gave her the address.

“You’ve got a girlfriend?” That was a bit of a leap from what I’d actually said, and Mum’s voice somehow combined surprise, hope and disbelief.

“Actually, Mum, I’ve got a fiancée.”

“You’re getting married? How long have you known this ... young woman? She is young, I suppose?”

“Let’s see. I’ve known her for about four months. She’s a couple of years older than me. I only asked her to marry me last week, so we haven’t set a date.”

“But ... what...” My mother, speechless, is very unusual.

“You’ll love her, Mum, when you meet her.”

There was a long silence. “Rob, you’re my son, and I love you, but ... I’d be the first to admit you’re ... naive. Are you sure she’s not leading you on?”

“Mother! I confess I can’t see what she sees in me, but I also can’t see any advantage for her in trying to con me.”

“Well! I suppose we need to meet her. But you can’t come here?”

“Not without Lisa driving me.”

“And we’re tied up until the weekend anyway. Could you get her to bring you on Sunday? Come for lunch?”

“I expect so. I’ll ask.”

Lisa, on her return, was not only willing, but delighted to meet my parents. “My parents will come around eventually; at least, Mummy will. But in the meantime, or if they don’t, your parents will be mine.”

A couple of days after that, she came home proudly brandishing her CBT certificate. “I’m booked to start training for the test next week,” she beamed. “I just need to look for a bike to learn on. What would you recommend?”

“I take it money isn’t a big issue?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Well you have a wide choice. The only limitation is on the power of the machine. I’d probably suggest something similar to the machines you did the CBT on.”

“Those were Honda 125s. Not as much fun as your Norton.”

“No. Or rather, different. There’s a lot of choice in that range. There are larger bikes. Yamaha make a 400 single that qualifies, and Royal Enfield a 500 single that’s cheaper. You might find that a bit heavy to start on.”

“What about an older machine?”

“Well, there your choice is limited by what’s available. I’d just point out that many of them require a lot more rider input than a new machine.”

“Such as?”

“Valve-lifter – compression release, that is – ignition advance, choke. And none will have an electric start. And the gear-lever will be on the opposite side if you go for a British machine.”

“But I could do it?”

I shrugged. “You could do it. It’ll just mean you have a lot more to learn and more to think about as you take the test.” I had an ‘out of the box’ thought then. There was always my ‘new’ model 55. I was sure it would qualify on power output, was low and light enough she’d be able to manage it. But could I trust her with it? Should I? I took a deep breath. “There’s always my model 55.”

“You’d let me ride that?” Her eyes were wide. “But ... Rob, it’s ... I mean ... it must be worth a small fortune.”

“Probably about ten grand to the right person, if I was going to sell it right now. It’s to concours standard at the moment, but I always intended to ride it, so it won’t stay that good.”

Her eyes were wide, but they were also bright with excitement. “Can we go and look? Now?”

I chuckled. “If you like. We’ll have to get takeaway for supper, though, if we do.”

Nothing would do but that we drove – Lisa drove – to my garage, and I unlocked the doors. She went straight in and stroked the tank of the model 55. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, “She’s beautiful.”

“You think? I think she looks a bit spindly. I was going to call her Scarecrow.” I wasn’t, actually. I hadn’t begun to think of a name.

“You can’t!” Lisa scowled at me.

I laughed. “No, I wasn’t. I still haven’t thought about a name.”

“Well, I suppose she is quite slim. I’ll call her Jean, after Jean Shrimpton.” She nodded firmly.

“Jean it is. Now. You can see the rear stand. That needs to be fastened up, which is a lot less convenient than a modern machine. You need to keep the machine balanced as you do whatever. I prefer to have a bike leaning slightly towards me. That way, I’ve got more control. Push forward.” She took hold of the handlebars and pushed. The stand swung up with a twang. I watched as Lisa awkwardly (the only time I could ever use that adjective about her) balanced the rear of the machine against her thigh in order to bend over and clamp the rest in the ‘up’ position, then push ‘Jean’ out of the garage. She glanced at me before straddling the machine and I nodded.

“Controls,” I said. “Throttle, clutch and brake as usual. Incidentally, the brakes are much less efficient than modern ones, so make allowance for that. I know you do with the MG, but these are probably worse. Gear change on the right, rear brake on the left. Gears are one up, two, three and four down.”

I stepped up to the front of the machine. “Valve lifter, ignition advance, choke,” I went on, pointing. “Magneto ignition, switch there. Ignition to fully retarded, petrol on – that’s the left-hand one under the tank. The right hand tap is the reserve.” I indicated the correct position. “Kick-start to compression...”

She was obviously uncertain and a little nervous, but she placed her right foot on the lever, with the bike resting against her left leg. “Now release the compression and gently get the piston to top dead centre.”

I was impressed. She did it all perfectly. “Okay. Tickle the carb. That’s the little button on top of the float-chamber. Warm day, so let’s not bother with the choke. Balance the bike and put your weight on the kick-start. She glanced at me and I hid a smile as she copied what I do, which is give a little jump to add weight to the kick. The bike coughed, but didn’t start. “I’m impressed,” I said. “Now do it again. Better give the carb another tickle, but we don’t want to overdo that and flood her.”

The bike thumped into life. “Advance the ignition,” I said, loudly to be heard clearly.

She did so, and sat, obviously absorbing the feel of the thing. Then, clutch ... clunk as the clutch freed when she kicked it into gear ... a few revs, actually more than I would have used, which was understandable; there’s an enormous difference between an old ‘big single’ and a modern motor, especially a small one, and she was off, down the line of garages, out of the close and round the small island at the head of it. I heard the revs dip as she changed up into second on the way back, then she was stopped by me, feeling for neutral on the unfamiliar configuration.

She was glowing. “I love it ... her,” she said, killing the ignition. “I’d better put her away.”

I watched her as she reversed the process of getting ‘Jean’ out of her home, and clearly saw the regret in her eyes as she closed the garage door. We called at a nearby Chinese takeaway and took the food back to West One.

As we were finishing our supper, she sighed. “Rob, I love that bike, but I don’t think it’d be sensible to use it to prepare for the test. I’ll use a school bike and cast around for something similar.”

I nodded. “I think you’re right. You could do it, I’m sure, but it’ll be a lot easier with a less demanding bike. Once you’ve got the full licence, you can take your time to adjust. We could look for something like a BSA Bantam. That’ll have a right-hand change; but they’re ‘up for up’ instead of down. Confusing.”