Chapter 3

Charles called Stephanie almost as soon as he walked through his front door and recounted his day. She made sure she knew where it was he was talking about and then said;

"Sounds like that's it, little bro', sorry."

"I know, but not as sorry as me, I can tell you. Anyway, I'm off to Hope this weekend, taking the Norton to the Hope Show. Want to come?"

"I'd like to, if only for the Heavy Horses, but I can't, I'm sorry. Be seeing you!"

The Hope Show is one of those country gatherings, but a very good one. The usual competitions for various animals, opportunities for kids to get 'hands on', under supervision, with farm animals, show jumping, food and a gathering of classic vehicles, cars, motorcycles and tractors. The Heavy Horses, referred to by Stephanie, some people call 'shire' horses and are quite magnificent. Originally developed for war, to carry men in armour, they were until about the middle of the 20^th Century, used on farms and for heavy carting.

It was a fine day; it was going to be a hot one, as Charles rode into the classic bike enclosure and parked next to a Harley. He was followed by a beautifully restored Scott 'Squirrel'. The rider removed her helmet and smiled at him.

"Now then, Charlie, where's Laura?" She was a perfect complement to the bike, petite, and auburn haired.

"Did you not know? She ... died ... March, last year."

Her face fell. "Oh, Charlie ... I'm so sorry. I wondered why we hadn't seen either of you around. Is this your first event since?"

"Aye, it is. I thought it was time I started getting out and about again. I thought about bringing her Matchless, actually, but decided against. Ready for a coffee, Ally? I am."

"I think I am, yes. I rather think it's going to be too hot for coffee in a bit as well so I'd better have my caffeine fix now."

They'd known Alison Spencer for several years, meeting her regularly at classic bike and vehicle rallies and events. Now, she was a bitter-sweet reminder of his life before losing his wife, but also a real presence. They walked together to a booth that sold real coffee, made from beans, with real caffeine in ... and, mirabilis dictu — fresh donuts! Or, bacon sandwiches ... no, definitely, donuts.

They bought, and sipped, hot coffee and nibbled the still-hot, sugary donuts and chatted.

"Where's Bill?" he asked her. Bill being the owner of a collection of B.S.A. motorcycles, that Alison had been ... friendly with ... for years.

She snorted. "Bill? Remember Jean?"

He nodded. Jean Barton was a statuesque blonde who rode a Vincent Black Shadow.

"Well, Bill decided a statuesque blonde riding a Black Shadow was more interesting than a petite redhead riding a Scott Squirrel. I haven't seen hide nor hair of either of them this year. Which is quite a feat, don't you think?"

He decided that he couldn't think of anything helpful to say, so just patted her shoulder. When they'd finished their snack, they stood. Charles was about to walk but Alison pulled him close, arms around his chest and pressed the side of her face against his chest under his chin. Reflexively, his arms went around her, and gently held her against him. She relaxed, their arms dropped away and she smiled up at him.

"Thanks!"

They spent a very pleasant day together, wandering around the showground, watching the displays, and chatting to friends and acquaintances among the bikes.

The climax of the show, for them, was the procession of classic vehicles. Charles didn't expect any award for the Norton; it was everyday transport for him, and although he looked after it, it was impossible to maintain the standard of perfection necessary to win awards at classic bike events. However, he was delighted that Alison picked up a first-place with her immaculate Scott. So was she.

"Celebrate with me?" she asked, bubbling. "Call in at the Ladybower Inn on the way home?"

He smiled down at her. "Love to," he paused, "if you don't mind me treating you."

"What! Am I an idiot? I should mind an old (and very attractive) friend offering me a treat?"

He blushed slightly at that.

So, when the show closed and they left, he followed the Scott and its rider when they turned off the main road to ride through Bamford, across the bridge over the Ladybower reservoir, and pulled in, in front of the Inn. As it was a warm day, several customers were sitting outside and the old bikes drew their attention. They removed their helmets. Allison shook her head and her hair tumbled free over her shoulders. Someone whistled appreciatively and she smiled blindingly at him.

It was a good meal. If they'd been gourmets they should have accompanied it with wine, but they weren't. The Barnsley Bitter, hand-drawn real ale was far too good to resist. When they left the pub and went to the bikes, he didn't immediately go to the Norton, but faced her, reached and touched her cheek with his finger-tips.

"I've enjoyed the day, mainly thanks to you."

"So have I; and thank you for helping me celebrate. Like to come back to mine?"

He thought for a moment. "I'd rather not, just now," he said, and reached into his pocket. He handed her his card. "But if I haven't offended you, and you'd like some company next weekend, give me a call?"

"Count on it!" she responded, and took the card, tucking it into a pocket.

You may ask, what of Natalie? We've neglected our main character. She's not, as they say, a happy bunny, but she's also not really looking at herself. She's concentrating all her attention on her job and is really doing very well at it. Her boss, Bernard Jenkins, the CEO, was very drawn to her. At sixty years old and a divorcee, he was wondering if he was too old to ask her for a date. They'd had lunch together a few times but she had kept matters very business-like. She had retreated into her protective shell and was quite determined to avoid even the possibility of personal entanglements. Until Tuesday afternoon, the week after the Hope show.

"Miss Reynolds?" one of the office girls popped her head round her door.

"Yes?"

"There's someone asking for you; a Mrs. Armstrong."

"Show her in, please."

As soon as Stephanie walked in her office, she recognised her. The shock was intense, she went white, and it took several seconds before she was able to speak.

"How can I help you, Mrs. Armstrong?"

"Well, for a start, you can call me Steph, and then you can listen, without obligations to some things I'd like to say, and then, well, you can take it from there where-ever you like. OK?"

Natalie said nothing, but after a few moments, she nodded.

"Ok, then. I'm Stephanie Armstrong, but before my marriage I was Stephanie Newton. Charlie is my little brother."

She paused, looking at Natalie, who had gone even whiter, if that's possible.

"First of all, I want to thank you. I'm a therapist, and I love my brother, but I completely failed to penetrate the block he put up when Laura died. You broke the dam, somehow, and now he can move on, so thank you for that."

She looked at Natalie, meeting her eyes for several seconds.

"I'm not here to persuade you to talk to him or have anything to do with him, though I hope you may be able to do so. I want to talk to you about you."

She paused again, and looked at Natalie, who nodded again.

"From things which Charlie has said about you, I think you have at some point experienced something emotionally traumatic, something you probably don't even remember, that makes it difficult, maybe impossible, for you to believe anyone could actually love you."

By this point, Stephanie could see a line of tears from each of Natalie's eyes, but she was still listening and still meeting her gaze.

"I'm not here to tout for custom, but I am a professional psychotherapist, and I strongly recommend that you consult a professional."

Natalie cleared her throat, but her first effort to speak was just a croak, so she tried again.

"My friend Sarah, who keeps the stables near Edale, told me almost the same thing."

"She is obviously a wise, perceptive and good friend. Now. There are various ways, if you wish to proceed, for you to go about this."

Natalie cleared her throat again and Stephanie paused.

"Please ... could I talk to you?"

"I think it would be wrong for me to see you professionally. You realise, my head and my emotions are already engaged here, so I can't be independent and detached?"

"I ... don't ... think I mind about that, and I'd hate to go to see someone I don't know at all; but, you can promise professional confidentiality, can't you?"

"Certainly! Though you realise, I've already stretched things quite seriously by coming to you like this!"

"I'm ... glad you did. Just one question ... when can I start?"

Nothing and no-one in human relations can stand still. Alison Spencer had long fancied Charles without ever doing anything about it; she wasn't one for going after married men. This, however was an opportunity she was not about to let pass. She made herself wait until Tuesday evening before ringing but was quite incapable of waiting longer.

"Is that Norton of yours up to a 250 mile round trip?"

"Humph. I should say so. If not, I've got recovery insurance."

"The Shuttleworth Collection have got a flying day next Saturday."

For the uninformed, the Shuttleworth Collection is the largest collection of vintage and antique airworthy aircraft in Britain, possibly in the world; it was set up to commemorate Richard Shuttleworth, an R.A.F. pilot killed during the Second World War. It also contains classic, vintage and antique vehicles, and is based on a tiny, grass airfield near Biggleswade, in Bedfordshire. Some of the aircraft are literally centenarians and are only allowed to fly if there is absolutely no wind at all.

"Sounds good! I haven't been there for years. We'll need to leave early, though, won't we?"

"How about 7a.m.? Could you collect me?"

"Surely I can. I'll see you then!"