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‘We put everything on the line, you know, Dad? Not just the physical comforts, we were living our politics, examining our every action. I didn’t find it easy, I tried to use my art to contribute. It was life-changing, Dad, you never tried to understand that.’
Dad swills his tea around in his cup, looks at it with distaste.
Mum shifts in her chair, starts to push up on the arms. ‘Is the tea still hot in the pot?’
‘It’s OK, Mum.’ I take her cup, my hand shaking it on the saucer. ‘I’ll do it.’
Mum lowers herself down, wincing slightly. Is her back hurting again?
‘Are you OK? Do you want some painkillers?’ I hand her the tea.
‘Just a twinge when I got up, I don’t take drugs unnecessarily.’ Her best martyr voice.
I throw out the dregs of Dad’s tea in the kitchen. Why on earth am I arguing about the past with these totally illogical old people? The point was Gethin, wasn’t it? I come back and pour Dad a fresh cup.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought up all that stuff. I suppose I’m just wondering, why is it different when Gethin drops out?’ I ask, calmer now.
Silence. Mum looks at Dad who sits scowling with his chin on his chest. Then she glances up at the photos on the mantelpiece and back at me, self-satisfaction twitching the sides of a smile.
The air seems to thicken as it hits me – they are saying it is no different for Gethin. That I am no better at allowing him to be his own person. I want to scream and throw my cup against the wall. How dare you compare my parenting to yours?
My chest tightens; I can hardly breathe. Dad lets out a snort as he falls into a doze, and Mum leans back in her chair, still smiling. They will always win whatever I say.
I have to get out of here before I suffocate completely.
Motorcycle madness – Jez
All of ten minutes on the road this morning and the purple-black cloud hanging over the mountains tips its contents into the wind aimed directly at me. Fuck’s sake. Like riding through a waterfall – the road a steaming inky blur. Drop my speed, only to be taken on the straight by a souped-up Honda Civic. Splashing me to fuckery. OK, with your windscreen fucking wipers! Need to invent them for crash helmets – way to a cool few million? Fuck, another soaking from a frigging Ford Transit. The Shame, to be taken by a van! No fun in this at all.
Covered a load of miles yesterday, up through the borders to Jedburgh, taking it cautious. Pumped up with pain killers, ribs bound tight in stretchy bandage. Keeping concentration after the shock of the day before. Let go a bit once I hit the Highlands. Roaring up the side of Loch Ness, sun glinting off the flash of dark water. Keep riding fast and far and the thoughts won’t catch you. But now with the pasting from the elements, side still aching like fuck, I’m thinking, know what, I could take a day off. Maybe even a B&B. Don’t want to run out of roads, right? Coming into a bend, drop a gear, lean in careful, but still nearly lose the back wheel. Next place I get to we’ll call it quits.
The road twists up lined with dark pines then opens to a clear run high above the coast. I can sense the sea more than see it. No sign of civilisation yet. Then the low bulk of a one storey building. Catch the dull gleam of corrugated iron roof, slow down to read the sign, pull in, raise the visor. HIGHLAND MOTORCYCLE MUSEUM hanging on rusty chains from the roof.
Chances of that? Gotta be a sign. I park up, clip my lid to the bike. Squelch my way to the entrance, wringing the water from my gloves.
The door creaks open, taking me to an empty booth pasted with old motorbike adverts. There’s a bell on the open hatch and a hand-written sign:
Adults £8, small, old and poor people £4. Please ring bell and WAIT.
I unzip my jacket to let out the body-steam. Damp seeped through to my T shirt. Pool of water around sodden boots. I ding the bell and wait as instructed. Take a quick scan of the place.
The booth opens onto what looks to be the rest of the museum. Gleaming line of polished bikes along the far wall. Rusty engine parts stacked on shelves. The floor space broken up with displays and the far end cordoned off with police tape for like a workshop stuffed with half-built bikes. Rhythm of drips into tin buckets adding to the drumbeat of rain on the roof. Ring the bell again and just starting to wonder if anyone’s about when I hear the drop of a spanner and the geezer emerges from the workshop.
He walks towards me wiping his hands on dirty overalls. His focus somewhere distant as he looks right through me, frowning slightly. Flash of sinister American Road Movie with hammering rain for effect.
He lets himself into the booth and gives me the onceover in my still-only-a-bit-worn leathers. Pauses for a millisecond to clock my tits before looking down at the electronic till.
‘That’ll be £8.’ He peers at me from under thick eyebrows.
I hand him a tenner and he purses his lips with concentration as he pulls off the till receipt.
‘I’d’a thought you’d have one of them old money tills, right, with the big silver keys?’
‘Aye, I got talked into this on the grounds it does everything bar the shopping.’ He pulls a wry smile. Looks me in the eye. Nice deep brown eyes, as it happens, but his skin is rough as fuck and he’s got to be at least twice my age. Not a chance mate.
‘However, it doesn’t fix bikes and there’s not a deal else for it to do.’ He waves towards the empty museum.
I move forward to look around. ‘You got any old Harleys?’
