Chapter 10

Rob:

I was back in the city of my birth, with a very lovely young woman who was in every respect perfect, my ideal; intelligent, pretty, and unpretentious. Not to mention a wonderful lover. Sheffield is a great city; green, lively, a fascinating history, two universities, you name it. Theoretically it’s in Yorkshire, but the city boundary is contiguous to the south with Derbyshire. If you’re a climber, the crags of north Derbyshire are a short bus ride out of town. A walker? The moors likewise. A cyclist? Well, personally, I prefer cycling without the hills, thank you, but enthusiasts love it. So why was I feeling uncomfortable?

Some things were necessary, so Thursday morning we stocked up and in the afternoon Clara investigated the universities. Sheffield University became a University in 1905, and has a good reputation in research. It includes a medical school. Hallam University began life as a Polytechnic, formed from several vocational schools, but became a University in 1992. It has a high reputation in several vocational areas, training teachers, health care professionals, engineers and business people. It is, I’m told, the eleventh largest University in Britain. Clara requested prospectuses and applications from both institutions.

I rang my parents, whom I had not informed of my engaged status. Mum was exasperated.

“You’d better bring her down this evening! Unless you’re still tired from your journey. There’ll be a casserole in the oven.”

Clara found me pottering with my laptop. “You haven’t talked about your parents.”

“No, I haven’t. Mum’s a social worker in North Derbyshire. Dad’s, well, he lectures in engineering at the college in Chesterfield. We’re not what you might call ‘close’. Okay, but not close. Anyway, we’re invited to supper this evening.”

“Oh...”

“Don’t worry – they’ll like you.”

They did. We rode out of town mid afternoon, not straight to Calver, but just to get clear of the congestion before it really started to build. We stopped just twelve miles out at Grindleford Station Cafe. The cafe is at the foot of Padley Gorge and as the name suggests is in the redundant station building. It’s a little like the cafe at Felixstowe Ferry, though without the fresh sea-food. Random, unmatched crockery and cutlery, similarly un-matched tables and chairs. Plain, substantial meals for outdoor people. Hot drinks in pint or half-pint mugs. Idiosyncratic staff. In the winter, open fires.

Having time to spare, we ventured into the lower part of the gorge to get a feel of the ancient trees and the brook which feeds a mill pond. The mill is now a residence, of course, without a functioning mill-wheel, but the woods are magical in their way. I sometimes say I expect to meet elves, hobbits or ents walking there. Clara’s hand in mine made it especially magical.

We got to Mum and Dad’s at half-past six. Dad came to the door. “Come in, come in!” he stepped back and we entered the house. He held out a hand to Clara. “Welcome to our home. You must be Clara.”

“Thank you.” Clara took his hand briefly and smiled.

Dad turned to me, “Your mother’s in the kitchen. Why don’t you take Clara through and introduce her?”

The kitchen was warm and pots were steaming on the hob. Mum looked at us and smiled. “Well! Clara, you are very welcome, dear. Robert, why don’t you go and talk to your father?”

I know when I’m dismissed, and I was pretty sure Mum wouldn’t hurt Clara, so I did as I was told. I found Dad in his study and declined his offer of whisky; alcohol and motorcycles do not mix and I would have to take Clara home on Oscar, of course. “So, Rob. Your fiancée comes as something of a surprise. How did you meet?”

“I found her on the hard shoulder of the M11.”

It took a second or two to penetrate, but Dad’s jaw dropped. “What ... how...”

“She was riding with an acquaintance to London, and he pushed her out of the car when she refused to agree to have sex with him.”

Dad’s pretty strait-laced, and I could see his temperature rising. “That’s...”

“Pretty disgusting, isn’t it? She dropped out of University when her parents were killed. Went through a bad patch. Was trying to get her life together.”

“There’s a story there.”

“There is. But she’s bright. Needs to complete her BA history and is thinking of doing that in Sheffield.”

“Oh ... kay ... So which university was she at?”

“Cambridge. Girton.”

“Really? And she doesn’t want to go back there? There’s a certain cachet to an Oxbridge degree.”

“There is, of course. And Cambridge is a lovely city. But there are associations there she wants to avoid.” I shrugged. “She lived with me in Jenni Peter’s boat. Let me work, cooked, looked after the fire ... She was just great to be around. Plays chess – much better than I do. Likes music.”

“I see. So. Long engagement?”

“Four weeks. Wedding in Felixstowe. Jenni’s foster-mum sort of adopted her, like she did Jenni.”

“Did you tell us that story?”

“Only a little. Jenni was a runaway. Now, she’s a barge-Master and has a doctorate in mathematics.”

“All the mathematics doctorates I met have been a bit odd.”

“I know what you mean. But Jenni’s lovely. Just very bright. You wouldn’t know about that, though, unless you got into a deep conversation about it; she certainly doesn’t flaunt her intelligence.”

“I’d like to meet her.”

“You will, assuming you and Mum are coming to the wedding.”

“Count on it. Your mother may have some difficulty getting away, but she will.”

Clara;

When Rob left me there in the kitchen with his mother, it was a bit scary. Perhaps that’s not quite the right word. But I’d never taken anyone home to my parents, or been taken. Never came close. I know Rob said he wasn’t close to his parents, but you could see there was something there. His mother looked me up and down and smiled. “My dear, you are very welcome. I worried – his father and I both worried – that he didn’t seem to form relationships with young ladies. My name’s Eleanor, but most people call me ‘Ellie’. Either will do, unless you come to the point where you want to call me ‘Mum’.”

“Thank you,” I said, hesitated, and said, “Ellie.”

Her warm smile ramped up noticeably. “So ... this comes as a shock. A welcome shock, but still a shock. How did you meet?”

“He found me walking down the hard shoulder of the M11.”

“Really? And you got on the back of that motorbike of his?”

“Yes, really.” I explained the circumstances. Her smile faded, but I could see compassion there, and acceptance. It was easy to talk to her. When I finished explaining, I said, “I can see where Rob got his listening gift.”

“Thank you, dear. I don’t think Rob realises how much of us there is in him. Fred ... my husband ... fixes things, at least, he did until he entered academia. Rob wanted to fix people. It was a puzzle for us when he gave it up in order to write. If it’s brought you into the family, though, it’s a good thing.” She busied herself with food preparation. “I imagine if you were okay living in that boat with him, you won’t mind eating in the kitchen.”

“Not at all. I think it would have been intimidating to be moved into a formal dining room!”

It was a good meal. Solid, nutritious, unpretentious. Tea to drink; leaf tea in a pot. Apple pie and custard to follow. Discussion about places Rob should take me, assorted museums and galleries. “Perhaps we could meet at the weekend?” Ellie suggested. “Longshaw? The Monsall Trail? Miller’s Dale?”

Perhaps I should explain that, back in the nineteen sixties, Doctor Richard Beeching was commissioned to report on British Railways. The result of the report was that the railway network was drastically reduced in what became known as the Beeching Axe; fifty-five percent of stations and thirty percent of lines, which were mainly lesser branch lines. I won’t get in to the discussion about it, which is still controversial today. What matters is that much of the cut routes ended up as walking or cycling trails, often through spectacular countryside. Others were taken over by private groups and are now charitable ‘heritage’ steam railways independent of the public system. They are, in fact, profitable, and some of the restored locomotives and rolling stock run expensive trips on the main rail routes. But that’s by the by. In Derbyshire, one of the routes is now the Monsall Trail with a section through Millers Dale, once a very large station. I’d heard about it in several different settings.

“Millers Dale,” Rob said.

Ellie and Fred looked at each other. “Sounds good,” Ellie said. “Meet in the station car-park mid-morning on Saturday?”

Honestly, it was all new to me, so I didn’t mind. I smiled and nodded.

“It’s a plan, then,” Ellie confirmed.

Rob got me home about ten. I was tired – we both were – but no too tired to shower together. Unlimited hot water! That had natural consequences in the form of an orgasm apiece and, since we were too sleepy to do more than sleep, a wet patch in the morning.

When we woke, the wet patch discouraged further activity of a sexual nature. It might not have, had we not both needed to use the facilities. So we had breakfast and made sandwiches.

It was Friday morning; a dry day, though cloudy. Rob suggested a walk up the Porter Valley. Sheffield has a lot of rivers, which tumble down from the hills around. The biggest is the Don, into which the others feed. But the rivers are the reason for Sheffield’s existence. They originally provided the motive power for local industry, as I’ll explain in a bit. As it happens, ‘my’ period of interest is the Dark Ages, between the end of the Roman era and up to the Normans. But history is interesting, regardless of the period.