Chapter 3

Abigail had felt shy about meeting her parents when she got in the house. Her mother had 'accidentally' emerged from her room heading for the bathroom just at the right moment to meet her.

"Good night, love?"

The smile on her daughter's face was enough answer, but;

"Lovely, thanks, Mum."

"'Night, then. Sleep well!"

And she did ... tired, even drained, but content, dreaming of love's embrace.

Thursday morning, mid-morning she was in the cafeteria with a cup of coffee in front of her. Although she was facing the entrance, she had been too lost in thought to notice Mike enter, so it was quite a shock when his lips touched hers.

"I couldn't wait any longer to do that again," he said, smiling.

"I'm glad..." she smiled.

He kissed her again. "Coffee ... I need coffee. Forgive me?" he grinned.

"Oh, I suppose so ... eventually." And he went to fetch his own drink.

They agreed to meet at lunch time, which they did, but when it was time to leave, Mike saw Sherise and her cronies next to the way out. Snagging Abigail's hand and twining his fingers in hers, he walked deliberately close by the other girls. Sherise, as he expected, made a comment (not fit to repeat in polite company) as he passed.

"Oh! Sherise! Hi!" He pretended he'd only just seen her. "I've been meaning to look you up. I need to say thank you."

"You need to thank me?" She asked doubtfully, suspicion in her voice.

"Why, yes. If you hadn't dumped me, I'd never have met Abigail here. You know, I never thought I'd meet an attractive girl who could string more than two words together about something other than clothes or sex, but thanks to you, I have," behind him, Abigail was red with embarrassment, but he went on, "so, thank you, Sherise and ... see you around!" He turned to Abigail, smiled, and said; "coming, love?" When she nodded, they left together, hand in hand.

Sherise was also red; her 'friends' stifling sniggers. She was not at all happy; her usual snide one-upmanship had obviously backfired.

Abigail and Mike went their separate ways, each a little sad they'd not be seeing each other again, probably, until the next day.

That evening, Mike worked hard to get up to date with his work; Abigail worked up a sweat warming up and then working through a couple of katas with her instructor, a black-belt second dan. After a fight with him in which she almost managed a point, they bowed to each other and left the tatami.

"I think you're ready for the next step," the 'sensei' told her.

"Really?"

"Yes. The next grading isn't for a couple of months, but keep up as you have been doing, and I think you'll be wearing black instead of brown. Keep your focus, though; I thought you weren't entirely here at times this evening."

"Yes, well ... I, er," she blushed.

"A boyfriend? Well, you've got a life. But if you want your black-belt, you need to focus, at least while you're in the dojo."

"Yes, Sensei. Thank you. I will try to concentrate."

Mike suggested that Saturday, weather permitting, he give her a taste of what motorcycling was about. "But it's no fun in the rain," he added.

Friday evening, she met Mike's mother who took to her immediately and they studied together (really studied, that is) until it was time for Mike to walk her the half-mile or so to her home ... and to a good-night kiss that had lost none of the impact their previous kisses had possessed.

Saturday dawned bright with a promise of a hot day. Mike packed water-proofs, an old leather jacket and gloves he thought would not be too big for Abigail and a spare helmet in a tank-bag and set off for her home.

It needs to be said that the bike was elderly. Okay, it'd been rebuilt and was in perfect condition, but it was still ... a 1952, plunger-framed AJS 500cc single-cylinder machine. Something, in other words, to make an enthusiast's eyes gleam, but definitely not glamorous.

On arrival, he was not entirely unsurprised to be greeted by Mr. Ferguson who grilled him about the bike, his plans for the day and safety in general.

"Well," said Mike, "I suppose it might do eighty with a following wind, but, frankly, it's very uncomfortable. Fifty-five is about my limit for cruising. The vibration, you see. The tyres are modern, no trouble with adhesion; the brakes are as good as I can get them. The lights are appalling, but I just don't ride it at night if I can avoid it; six volt dynamos just won't cut it in modern conditions. But it's great fun for pottering around in the country. I thought I'd head for Matlock Bath, have a walk by the river and get some lunch, be back here tea-time."

Mr. Ferguson looked at the young man before him; tall, solidly built; as clean and tidy as it is possible to be riding an old bike and with an open expression and steady eyes.

"Okay ... I'm trusting you with my daughter, Mike," he looked at him steadily and was somewhat reassured by the serious expression on the young man's face. "Come back here and have tea with us. I, er, think it would be good to convince you we're not ... like my sister-in-law."

Mike smiled, "I think I'd worked that out. Someone as nice as Abigail must have pretty good parents."

Her father snorted. "Never mind the flattery, just bring her back undamaged by six o'clock, okay?"

Mike nodded, and the man left the room to be replaced by Abigail in jeans and t-shirt, carrying an SHU sweat-shirt, sensible low shoes on her feet.

"Will I do like this?"

"Oh, yes..." he paused, just looking at her. "I, er, brought an old leather jacket. You might not want the sweat-shirt, but we can pop it in the tank-bag in case."

They went outside to the machine. She stood and stared at it.

"What ... is ... that?"

"That," he said, pride evident in his voice, "is a 1952, AJS 18CS; 500cc."

"Oh. And that's what you're taking me for a ride on?"

"Yep! I'm afraid you'll have to wait for me to start it before you climb on. Once it's started, sit behind me, wrap your arms round me and just try to stay behind me ... I mean, lean with me as we lean around corners, okay?"

"I suppose..." She watched as he heaved the machine off its stand and straddled it, fiddling with levers on the handlebars, none of which she had any idea about, positioned the kick-start and threw his weight on it ... and then again; the motor thumped into life. He beckoned to her and, rather nervously, she swung her leg over and settled on the pillion. He reached back and pulled her arms round him; not at all reluctantly, she tightened them around him. There was a clunk as he kicked it into first gear, twisted the throttle, and they were off.

At first, she felt insecure. In fact, that's a bit like saying 'water is wet'. She was very insecure and very nervous and she pressed herself against Mike's back. The wind whipped past her, the vibrations ... the vibrations... seemed to penetrate to the core of her being. At the end of the road, he slowed and suddenly the bike seemed to be falling sideways; it was all she could do to not try to sit vertically. He was very aware of the suddenly increased pressure of her arms and the involuntary squeak as he made the acute turn onto Rustlings Road and accelerated past the park.

To Abigail, it seemed as though they were racing, but as she settled a little, she realised they were only travelling at the same speed as everyone else. They had to wait several minutes for a gap in the traffic before turning onto Ecclesall Road, then they were pulling up the long hill; the sound of the old motor deepening and hardening as it had to work harder; the vibrations intensifying.