Chapter 8

Lisa.

I love my mother. Actually, I love my father, despite his attempts to control my life. But, as I say, I love my Mum, and when she rang me to talk, I had no problem with that.

“Yes, Mum, I’m getting married.”

“Can I be there when you do?”

“Of course, Mum! Dad can be there, too, as long as he’s not going to make a disturbance.”

“Church wedding?”

“We haven’t discussed that. Rob’s parents are chapel, and I’m sure they might like a religious ceremony. Rob and I, we both have our doubts, faith-wise. I’d be happy with a civil wedding.”

“Could I meet your fiancé?”

Why not? It only took a moment’s thought for a response. “I think that’s a great idea, Mum. Tell you what, though, I won’t tell him you’re coming. If you come in the afternoon, you’d have a couple of hours to get to know him before I get home. I’ll just say he’s a bit shy and reserved.”

“Tomorrow? I was going to visit Meadowhall anyway. I’ll get the tram into town.”

“Good enough. I’ll see you when I get home – half-past four, or five-ish.”

“I love you, Lisa.”

“I love you too, Mum.”

Rob.

We were well into September, and I was hopeful of getting out of the casts. We’d settled into a comfortable routine, with Lisa spending most of the days at the University, either teaching, counselling students, or working on her thesis, while I was mostly stuck in her flat. I could work, do some cooking, read and so on. I put in some time every day on keyboard, left handed. Though I say it myself, I was getting better, even if no-one else would have noticed.

I’d finished my lunch of cheese sandwiches, and was sitting with a cup of tea and a book. The intercom buzzed. Normally I would have ignored it, but Lisa had said I could expect a delivery, so I answered with the flat number.

“Hello, is that Rob? This is Emily Alcott, Lisa’s mother. I wonder if I might talk to you for a bit?”

I didn’t think long about that. Lisa’s mother was not her father (okay, I know that sounds stupid, but think about what I’m trying to say). I didn’t want my fiancée to be completely alienated from her family; in fact I was hopeful she could work out something – a ‘modus vivendi’ perhaps – with her father.

“Sure, come on up,” and released the lock on the outside door.

It took my visitor about five minutes to find the lifts and get to the door of the flat. The door bell rang, and I stomped to the door, and opened it.

There stood ... a very attractive woman. Not much like Lisa, though; petite, only about five foot two. Slim and shapely, though less ... well endowed ... than Lisa. Her hair was darker, almost black, and straight. I did recognise one feature, though – her eyes. Lisa’s eyes are almondine, with a hint of an epicanthic fold, suggesting some oriental in her ancestry. I now knew something of that ancestry, as Emily Alcott was clearly part oriental – perhaps half, or maybe a quarter.

We looked at each other. Her expression was serious – perhaps even scared. I dare say mine betrayed my trepidation. I had to smile. The lady was very good looking, and I’ve since come to the conclusion that I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress. “Come in,” I told her, stepping back.

“Thank you.” Her voice (which had been distorted by the intercom before) was clear and sweet.

“Can I get you some refreshment?”

“Green tea would be most appreciated.”

I could do that. “Please – make yourself at home,” I said, going to the kitchenette to boil the kettle. For some reason, I didn’t make tea in mugs with tea-bags, but rather made up a tray, with a pot of green tea, and a pot of Earl Grey – leaf tea, not tea bags – a small jug of milk, a halved lemon, sugar bowl, and Lisa’s bone-china cups and saucers. I dare say that wishing to impress Lisa’s mother was part of the reason, but it certainly wasn’t conscious.

Carrying the tray was a little awkward, but I managed without any disasters.

“My, how civilised,” Emily commented with a smile.

“I try,” I returned the smile warmly. “My mother tried to instil the elements of civilisation in her son. She didn’t always succeed, but some stuck.”

I picked up the pot containing the green tea and the tea-strainer and raised an eyebrow at my visitor.

“Another couple of minutes, I think,” she responded.

I nodded, and poured my Earl Grey. “I prefer mine a little weak,” I said.

She nodded. “No milk, or lemon?”

“Not for me, unless the tea is stronger than I prefer, then I might have a squeeze of lemon.”

I glanced at her, and she nodded, so I poured her green tea. “No milk, or lemon, or sugar for me,” she said, and I handed her the cup and saucer.

We sipped, in silence. Lisa’s mother started out thoughtful, but began to smile. “So...” she began. “You want to marry my daughter.”

I frowned and thought for a moment. “I’d say, we want to marry each other.”

“Perfect!” She put down her cup. “That’s as it should be.” She paused and took a deep breath, holding my eyes. “I love my husband. I really do. But there are times when I’d like to beat some sense into him. He’s stubborn, prejudiced, and closed minded. On the other hand, within limits, he’s honest and straight as a die. Also, he loves his daughter and wants the best for her; the problem being that he can’t see that what he sees as the best ... is not the same as she. Tell me ... one of the things your mother disapproves of ... would that be your motorcycle?”

“It would. At least ... she doesn’t exactly disapprove of the bike, she’s just nervous I’ll get hurt.”

“Not without justice, it would seem.”

“I have friends who’ve been riding for years without a problem, and others who seem to get into trouble every time they go out. I’ve been riding eight years. I’ve slid off a couple of times on ice, but this is the first time I’ve been injured. It was a pure accident; an elderly man lost control of his car. In future, I’ll give such a vehicle a much wider berth. Live and learn. In all honesty, I expect I was a little distracted, as well. But riding a motorbike is ... I don’t know if I can explain. I have friends who climb, others who sail, or practice martial arts. I dislike heights, swim poorly because I don’t float, and am uncoordinated. But I can ride a motorbike, and do it well. The bike is freedom, but requires focus. It offers excitement, with a degree of controlled risk. Besides that, I love the challenge of building the things. To build a bike that’s out of date, but making it work well. Overcoming problems like poor brakes and lousy lighting. Maximising the efficiency of the engine, partly to improve performance, but also to reduce pollutant release and increase fuel economy.” I ran out of things to say, and Emily was still sitting there with a smile on her face.