A Bicycle Made For Two

by Mary Jayne Baker

  ‘Then you must bring him to meet me.’

  I smiled. ‘A bit soon for that.’

  ‘You think I’ll frighten him off, hey?’

  I patted his hand. ‘I don’t want you to tire yourself out grilling him on his intentions, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll be good.’ His eyes were half closed now. ‘Well, I’m glad you met a nice boy. I always hoped I’d see you find someone to take care of you.’

  ‘No need for you to worry about that. I can take care of me.’

  ‘I know you can. But the best thing is to have someone take care of you, and you do the same for them. The best thing.’ He sighed, and I knew he was thinking about Mum. She’d been dead nearly 20 years – so long that to me she was just a shadow from my little-girl memory – but for Dad the pain was raw.

  He looked over at Tom. ‘You too, Tomasso. When will you find yourself a nice boy?’

  Tom flinched. ‘Do you have to call me that? Tomasso Donati sounds well pretentious.’

  ‘Ha! Your mother wanted Thomas, but I overruled her. We have to have something of the homeland.’

  ‘Then you could’ve opened a bloody Italian restaurant,’ Tom muttered, glancing down at the medieval costume he hadn’t had time to change out of. But he was smiling.

  Dad pointed a shaking finger. ‘Don’t change the subject. You hope I’ll fall asleep before you answer, don’t you?’

  Tom grinned. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, I think it might work,’ Dad said, yawning. ‘Go to bed now, kids. You’ll have a busy day tomorrow.’ He blinked in confusion. ‘Tomorrow’s Friday, isn’t it?’

  ‘Saturday, Dad,’ I said. ‘Today’s Friday.’ One side-effect of the medication and irregular bedtimes was Dad tended to lose track of time.

  I stood and leaned over him to plant a kiss on his cheek, blinking back a tear. His appearance had changed so much over the last few years, it was hard to believe the gaunt, pain-riven face belonged to the same man as my strong, energetic dad.

  ‘You get some sleep, ok?’ I whispered. ‘Maybe we’ll go out in the morning if you’re up to it. Love you, Papa.’

  He smiled. ‘I like it when you call me that.’

  ‘I know you do. Night night.’

  I left the room, closing the door quietly so Tom could say his goodnight. He came out a second later, his usual grin vanished. When he wasn’t smiling his face looked tired and careworn, the way I knew mine must too. Instinctively, I clung to him and burst into tears against his shoulder.

  ‘Oh God, I wish we could make it stop,’ I whispered. ‘It’s hurting him more than he tells us.’

  ‘I know, sis, I know. Me too.’

  Chapter 3

  ‘And you’re absolutely certain I look ok?’ I asked Tom, twisting my neck uncomfortably as I tried to get a look at my back in the mirror.

  ‘For the two hundred and ninth time, Lana, you look fine.’

  ‘Oh God, fine? Just fine? Fine doesn’t mean fine, it means crap, everyone knows that. It’s what you say when you think someone’s got docker hips and an arse the size of Finland.’

  ‘Look, I’m your brother. Don’t you think if you had an arse the size of Finland, I’d be first in line to tell you?’

  ‘Hmm. Suppose there is that.’ I yanked up my strappy top a bit to hide some of my stare-inviting cleavage. ‘Ugh, big boobs are a nightmare. They make perfectly respectable River Island tops look like fetish gear. Don’t know what blokes see in them.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Don’t look too desperate, do I?’ I yanked it up a bit further. ‘Or too frumpy? Like I’m trying too hard to hide it?’

  ‘Fine. You look fine. Arse the size of a modest peninsula at most, just the right ratio of fabric to flesh and with hips like the most feminine of maritime workers.’ He stood up from the edge of his bed and gave me a little shove towards the door. ‘Now bugger off, I need to change for my shift. Just relax and enjoy yourself, ok?’

  ‘Yes. Relax. Right.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Sorry. Don’t want to mess it up, that’s all.’

  ‘Never seen you this nervous before a date. You must be keen on him.’

  My eyes widened. ‘What, does it show? You swore I didn’t look desperate!’

  Tom groaned. ‘Here we go again.’

  I jumped when a buzz sounded on the intercom, letting us know there was someone waiting at the foot of the stairs to our flat.

  ‘It’s him!’ I hissed. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘You answer it.’

  ‘Answer it. Ok, I can do that. I think.’ I gave his arm a squeeze. ‘See you in the next life, Tommy.’

  ‘Just have fun!’ he called after me as I headed down to the restaurant.

  Stewart was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, smiling warmly.

  ‘Um, hi,’ I said, fighting back a blush. ‘So… you’re here.’

  ‘Seem to be.’ He leaned forward to kiss my cheek. ‘Good to see you again, Lana. You look nice.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks. You too.’

  He was looking pretty sexy in his smart-casual ensemble, a well-tailored blazer slung carelessly over a tight grey t-shirt. I tried not to stare at the athletic lines of his body under the clinging cotton.

  ‘So, um, you want to come upstairs for a minute?’ I asked, fighting back the fizzing sensation that had sprung up in my stomach when he’d kissed me.

  ‘If you promise you’ll still respect me afterwards.’

  I smiled, relaxing a little. ‘To meet my dad, you daft sod. He asked if we could stop in before we headed off.’

  ‘Oh. Ok.’

  He followed me up the stairs.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ I said as we made our way to Dad’s room. ‘First date and you’re already getting roped into meeting the parents.’

  ‘No need to apologise, Lana. I’d love to meet your dad.’

  ‘It’ll be nice for him to see a new face. He can’t get out and about much now, it gets him down.’

  Dad was wide awake, sitting up in bed doing the Guardian crossword as the dying sun streamed through the windows. I was glad Stewart was meeting him on one of his better evenings.

  It was in the early days following Dad’s diagnosis, when he was still on cooking duty in the restaurant, that Tom and I had started noticing the flickers of pain. They were few and far between then: the occasional wince, leaning against a worktop to steady himself. Then they’d started to get more frequent. Now, nearly seven years later, they weren’t flickers any more. The agony was ever-present, and the hardest thing was having to read it there in his face.

  But he did his best to summon the old, jovial Dad as I bashfully guided Stewart by the elbow into his room.

  ‘Um,’ I said when I’d shuffled in.

  ‘Lost for words? That makes a change.’ Dad put his crossword to one side and nodded to Stewart. ‘A shy little flower, my Lana. And if you believe that then trust me, you’ll believe anything.’

  I smiled. ‘Don’t you start embarrassing me, old man.’

  ‘Who, me? Never.’ Dad crossed himself solemnly.

  Stewart laughed. ‘Stewart McLean,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘Good to meet you.’ He flashed an anxious look at me. ‘Er, sir.’

  Dad smiled as he shook Stewart’s hand. ‘Phil will do fine. Sit down, lad. My daughter tells me I’m supposed to—’ he shot a look at me— ‘grill him on his intentions, Lana, was that the phrase?’

  ‘Dad’s good at grilling,’ I told Stewart. ‘He’s a chef, you know.’

  Stewart smiled a little uncertainly as he took a seat in Tom’s chair. I claimed my usual place on the other side of the bed.

  ‘Stewart McLean.’ Dad looked thoughtful. ‘I know that name from somewhere. Are you from Egglethwaite?’

  ‘No, I live about ten miles away. Out Halifax way.’
<
br />   ‘And what is it that you do?’

  ‘I’m a cyclist.’

  ‘Cyclist…’ Dad blinked as something clicked. ‘Not the Stewart McLean who set a new record in the Etape du Dales last year, surely?’

  ‘Er, yes, that was me,’ Stewart said, flushing slightly.

  Dad looked impressed. He was a big follower of cycling. Personally I wouldn’t know a spoke from a sprocket, but if Dad thought Stewart was a big deal in the sport he must be someone to be reckoned with.

  ‘Well, there’s a coincidence. I’ve just been reading about you.’ Dad thumbed through his newspaper with a trembling hand. ‘Top ten athletes to watch, it says here. Stewart McLean, number six.’ He gave Stewart an approving nod. ‘Very good.’

  Stewart smiled. ‘Does that mean I’ve got your blessing to take out your daughter?’

  ‘I’m afraid you have to get that from her. I’m not allowed a say now she’s so very grown up, she tells me.’ He turned to me. ‘Where are you going, Lana?’

  I shrugged. ‘Was thinking the pub.’

  Dad waved a dismissive hand. ‘Pfft. The Fox is not a romantic place for a date. You want to go somewhere you can be alone.’

  His lips were twitching at one side, the familiar teasing smile. I was hardened to it now, but when he’d embarrassed me like this in front of boyfriends as a teenager it’d been excruciating. Nice to see there was one old hobby he could still enjoy.

  ‘Nothing wrong with the Fox,’ I said. ‘If we run out of things to talk about, we can play darts.’

  ‘Worse and worse, little girl. Every Italian bone is crying.’

  Dad beckoned me to him. I stood and leaned over the bed.

  ‘Take him up to Pagans’ Rock,’ he whispered. ‘You can see the stars there.’

  ‘Pagans’ Rock? It’s a bit of a walk, Dad.’

  ‘All the better. At this time of the night you can have it to yourselves. Take some champagne from behind the bar if you like.’

  I smiled. ‘Take it out of my wages, you mean?’

  He shrugged. ‘Of course. We’re not made of money.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ I asked Stewart. ‘It’s about a mile uphill but it’s well worth seeing.’

  He looked bewildered. ‘Er, no. Sorry, where are we going?’

  ‘Local beauty spot, my dad’s favourite. Shame to waste a lovely evening like this indoors really.’

  ‘Have fun,’ Dad called after us as we left. ‘Be back by 11, Lana.’

  ‘I’m not 16 any more, Dad!’ I called back.

  ‘Ok, midnight then.’

  Stewart smiled as he followed me downstairs.

  ‘Takes good care of you, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, he’s just teasing. Anyway, he likes you, I can tell.’

  ‘I like him. He’s a brave man. I can see he’s in pain.’

  ‘All the time,’ I said soberly. ‘I’m glad you got to meet him like he was today.’

  ‘What was different about today?’

  ‘He’s so out of it a lot of the time now, with the drugs. That was the old Dad. He… we don’t see too much of that guy any more.’

  I nipped behind the bar, nodding to our second waitress Debbie on barmaid duty, and passed Stewart a bottle of champagne from the fridge. He tucked it under one arm while I slipped a couple of flutes into my handbag.

  We left and started walking up the cobbled main street towards open countryside.

  ‘So. You’re a proper cyclist,’ I said to Stewart. ‘My dad doesn’t raise an eyebrow for just anyone, you know.’

  He laughed. ‘Not sure there’s any such thing as a proper cyclist. But I do it for a living, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Another celebrity diner for our collection. I’ll have to tell my brother, he’ll be made up.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that. Harper’s the celeb in the family.’

  ‘Mmm. I bet he doesn’t let you forget it either.’

  Stewart grimaced. ‘Yeah, sorry about him. He was on his absolute worst behaviour that night for some reason. Hope he didn’t give you too much of a headache with that living foodist bollocks.’

  ‘That wasn’t so bad, but the arsey review we could’ve done without. That’s the last thing a small business needs.’

  ‘He didn’t leave you a review, did he?’

  ‘Yeah. One star, and I know he posted it before he’d tried the food. Bastard.’

  Stewart looked mortified. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Lana. I’ll get him to take it down.’

  ‘Oh yeah, that reminds me.’ I fished in my bag and handed him a little square packet. ‘For you.’

  He frowned at it. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘After Eight. Don’t tell your cousin.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, blinking. ‘Er, cheers. I’ll smoke it later.’

  We passed Holyfield Farm, the last outpost of civilisation before nature took over, and made our way along the wooded footpath that led up to Pagans’ Rock. The sun was just sinking into the horizon, splashing the sky auburn and gold.

  Stewart was walking close by my side. My fingers accidentally brushed against his and he glanced down to see what was tickling.

  I flushed, yanking my hand away. ‘Sorry.’

  He smiled. ‘Here,’ he said, taking my hand and twining my fingers in his. My stomach fluttered at the exciting, unfamiliar press of skin on skin. The tip of Stewart’s thumb made soft, lazy circles on the backs of my fingers as we continued our walk hand in hand.

  ‘This is nice,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yeah.’ The word came out like a sigh.

  ‘Good to find out what you look like out of uniform, by the way.’

  I smiled. ‘Everything you expected and less, right?’

  ‘Dunno, I think I could adjust to it.’ He ran an approving gaze over the long chestnut waves cascading over my shoulders, for once free of the elasticated cloth cap that had been making my working life an ear-pinched hell since my teens. ‘Not that the Mother Goose look wasn’t rocking for you. Still, I like non-wenchy Lana best.’

  He gave my fingers a squeeze.

  ‘Bit of a scramble here,’ I said as we approached the grassy verge leading up to Pagans’ Rock. ‘Think you can handle it?’

  ‘Hey. I’m an athlete.’ He glanced up the steep incline. ‘What is this place anyway?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  By the time we’d put dignity aside and scrabbled hamster-like to the top, we were both out of breath, even the athlete. But it was worth it to see Stewart’s face.

  ‘I never knew this was here,’ he said in a hushed voice.

  ‘Not many people do. Us locals try to keep it quiet.’

  ‘I can see why.’

  A huge, flat rock jutted from the edge of the tree-circled heath we were standing on. Far beneath curved the serpent arches of Egglethwaite’s old railway viaduct, reflected in the sunset-fired square of the reservoir behind. With the moors rising up in the background, blushing with the embers of the day, I had to admit Dad was right: when it came to romantic settings, there was nowhere like Pagans’ Rock.

  He’d brought my mum here when they were courting and, scratched somewhere in the stone among hundreds of other lovers’ marks, you could still find their initials. Soppy buggers.

  ‘Beats the pub, right?’ I said to Stewart after a moment’s silence while we drank the view.

  ‘It does,’ he said quietly. He nodded to the viaduct. ‘Does that thing still get used?’

  ‘No, they shut it up back in the sixties. It just sits there now. Impressive old thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is pretty spectacular.’ He smiled. ‘Still, for me tonight’s more about the company.’ He nodded to the flat surface of the rock, carved all over with the messages and initials of more than 200 years’ worth of visitors. ‘Shall we si
t?’

  ‘Ok.’

  I scrambled onto the rock and sat down, crossing my legs like a yogi – the flexible levitating type, not the picnic-basket-stealing type – and Stewart lowered himself down next to me. He uncorked the champagne I’d borrowed from the bar with a satisfying pop-fizz as I rummaged in my bag for the flutes. When he’d poured us both a glass he put one arm around my shoulders, his fingers curling lightly around my upper arm.

  The height was quite dizzying, when you took the time to drink it in. As a kid it had always made me nervous being this close to the edge of the rock, even clinging tightly to my parents’ hands. But with Stewart’s reassuringly solid arm around me, I felt safe enough. I nestled into it, a thrill shooting through me as his fingers started trailing gently over the bare skin of my arm.

  ‘Cold?’ he whispered when he felt me shiver. ‘You can have my jacket if you want.’

  ‘I’m ok. Just ticklish.’

  He grinned. ‘One day, I promise you’ll regret telling me that.’

  ‘Feels nice,’ I murmured, letting my head drop onto his shoulder. ‘Don’t stop.’

  It’d been so long since I’d been out with a lad, I’d been worrying myself sick beforehand that I’d have forgotten how you were supposed to do it. Tom had been right when he’d said it was the most anxious he’d seen me. My dating nerves seemed to follow a formula that went something like ‘length of time since last date multiplied by how much you like the guy equals how much of a tit you’re terrified you’ll make of yourself’.

  But now I was actually there, Stewart’s soft fingers brushing my skin as we inhaled the mingled scent of cherry blossom and champagne drifting to us on the breeze, it all seemed quite easy. The setting was right. The closeness was right. Stewart was right. Somehow, it was all… just right.

  Although there was one thing missing. Wine, check. Sunset, check. Sexy man with magic fingers, check. All we needed now was…

  ‘We could do with some music, couldn’t we?’ Stewart said.

  ‘You read my mind,’ I said, smiling. ‘Just a sec.’ I fumbled in my jeans for my smartphone and fired up a bit of Kirsty MacColl. Instantly, the dulcet sound of her familiar Brit-country stylings blared from the tinny speaker. Not the most romantic playlist, but it was all I had on there. Anyway, it helped me relax.