Chapter 1 What is beauty?

If you wanted to be unpleasant, you could call me a dirty old man. I suppose that's accurate, depending on your definition. I'm certainly old. My mind and emotions, though are still those of a young man. There's not much point in chasing the pretty young things – the spirit is willing, but the flesh can no longer keep up. So what I do is watch. I try to make sure I'm discreet; I really don't want to make anyone uncomfortable. But ... you're a young woman, you're dressed to make the most of your figure; legs covered only by tights, perhaps a gap between your shorts or micro-mini and your top, Rather a lot of cleavage showing. What ... you don't want me to look?

But a few weeks ago, I was made to think about beauty. I suppose it's just as well different folks have different ideas of beauty. Take cars, for example. I've heard people rhapsodising over cars that I think are surpassingly ugly (like the Fiat Multipla). My ideal is the Jaguar XK8. Perhaps the curves suggesting femininity may explain that.

I don't care about ethnicity, or hair colour (though I dislike dyed hair). I'm not much bothered by height or build. What makes a person beautiful?

I want to tell you about Bella. Properly, she's Isabella, but I call her Bella. We met by accident ... literally.

I was riding my bike, a 1965 Triumph T110, through the Fens – a part of Cambridgeshire once known as the Isle of Ely. Why? Because I got lost. I thought I was taking a ... well, not so much a short cut, as avoiding some serious roadworks on the A14. The Fens are possibly the most boring area on earth. Miles and miles of reclaimed, below-sea-level, agricultural land, almost dead flat, with the occasional rise where the glaciers left a heap of gravel. I don't need to go into detail about them, except to say the roads run dead straight for a mile or so, then take a right-angled bend, often with little or no indication of what is coming. I was very tired. On a main road, I'd have stopped at the first motel, hotel or B.&B. that had a vacancy. Hell, I'd have stopped anywhere with a sign out, main road or not.

I should have seen the bungalow. I should have realised the road turned there – it had to, there was a house there ... I nearly made it round the corner, but locals cutting the corner had left an accumulation of loose gravel on the outside of the bend with the result that my precious bike slid sideways off the road, bending the footrest and scraping various important parts, closely followed by me, losing skin and gaining gravel rash in the process. I was incredibly lucky ... in more ways than one, later ... as neither the bike or I ended up in a ditch, just, sitting on the grass verge, turning the air blue. At first I was mainly bothered about the bike, but then my body began reporting in. Pain!

The motor stalled, the headlight was rapidly depleting the battery and I dragged myself over to the bike to turn the light off. Early evening in November in the Fens, no street lighting, heavy cloud cover ... it was quite incredibly dark. Just a few lights scattered around – at a considerable distance, just a slight gleam to the side of the bungalow. I managed to stand and began to drag the heavy machine upright.

"Are you alright?" The soft voice came as a shock; she hadn't used a torch. How she could see I just don't know.

I got the machine upright and on its stand and removed my helmet. "I'm sorry?"

"Are you hurt? I heard the motor, the scrape and the motor stop. People often have trouble on this corner."

"Just gravel rash and some damage to the bike," I replied.

"Would you like to bring the bike round to the side of the house? I'll have a look at your injuries and you'll have light to look at your bike."

"I don't want to put you out..." Although I was reluctant to put her to any trouble it certainly made sense.

"Nonsense; it's just Dad and me and we'd welcome a little company."

I pushed the old Triumph forward off its stand, staggered a bit and, limping, pushed it round and down the drive to the side of the house.

"Let me open the garage," the girl ... woman? said. She unlocked the big doors and I wheeled my bike in beside a small car ... an elderly Fiesta. I heaved it onto its stand again and walked round to look at the right side. I had to groan at the bent foot-rest, scraped silencer and mangled bar-end mirror.

"I'm Bella," she said, then; "your leg..." she gasped.

I looked down at myself. My leathers were shredded down my right thigh, which was red and black – the black being little bits of gravel embedded in my flesh. Just seeing it enhanced the pain ... a lot. I unzipped the front of the outfit and started to peel it down. When it got to waist level, I kicked off my boots; my thigh really stung as the leather touched it on the way down and as I bent my hip and knee. My trousers and thermal undies would never be any use again, that was for sure.

"Andrew Briggs," I said, holding out my hand. She took it. I thought I felt an electric shock as we touched. "Pleased to meet you," I added

Releasing her hand, I turned and rummaged in my pannier for my overnight bag ... the pannier was scraped too, but that wouldn't be too difficult to replace. But then I turned and looked at my rescuer for the first time.

You'll gather I like girls, though I'm really too old to do anything but look. I wouldn't have looked twice at her at any other time. She wasn't exactly ugly, but somehow nothing seemed quite in the right proportions. She looked kind, though, and genuinely concerned for me.

"Come into the kitchen," she said.

She sat me on a hard chair by the kitchen table and began assembling medical supplies. I wondered why she would have sealed, sterile packs of saline solution, gauze, forceps, but said nothing. She was gentle, careful, thorough. It hurt, but it could have been a lot worse. When she'd picked out the last bit of gravel she held up a packet.

"Paraffin gauze," she said, "with a topical antibiotic. You don't need to get an infection in that scrape."

It was cool and soothing as she smoothed it on, padded it with gauze and wrapped my thigh with a crepe bandage.

"Thank you..." I paused, "you're very gentle. I ... doubt if I'd get a better job in a casualty unit."

"I worked in one," she said. "This isn't the first time for you, is it?"

"Hardly," I answered, "but I've never had better care."

She nodded in acceptance, frowning. "Are you on a schedule? That bike is going to be difficult to ride until you straighten that footrest, your thigh is going to hurt, and you're at least an hour from the A1. These are not roads to ride fast on ... as you've discovered."

"I'm ... on holiday. Sort of. No, I'm not on a schedule; I was going to stay where-ever was available when I got tired."

"Well, we have a spare room if you'd like to stop here. My father and I would welcome your company."

It made sense. My leg was easier than it was, but it was going to be stiff and uncomfortable and she was right – I did need to sort the bike out before I went much further.

"Thank you," I said, "I'm grateful. I'm happy to pay..."

"Not necessary," she smiled, and for a moment she seemed ... different. "Come through with me."