Mollified the men explained to the chagrined students that the ball was off-side, and we got away with it, and most of the rest of the game was taken up for me by each female student in turn announcing they wanted the toilet, but never working out that it would make more sense if they all went together. On the plus side, it’s the only place I’ve ever been where there were no queues for the Ladies. Positively deserted in fact.
Safely back in the minibus, Todd wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. “How about a trip to the Lancaster Butterfly Sanctuary next time?” He suggested.
“Suits me,” I agreed, but all the students booed loudly.
“Wigan fans are stupid!” They started chanting again, obviously deciding they were safe now they were back in the van. Todd revved the engine and drove off very fast with a grinding of gears, while I just sat and laughed at him.
I called in on Quinn who had just got in from a weekend shift at work, to tell him my amusing adventures from this afternoon. He was very off hand with me and just rolled his eyes at the anecdotes and acted like everything I was telling him was a bit lame, which robbed the report of any further enjoyment for me. And besides, it wasn’t like there was any dramatic end to the tale, in reality nothing had actually happened. Quinn was always a bit like that when I told him tales from Lyndale, and I guess you do have to know some of the characters to really get why something’s funny. But this time I knew he was doing it deliberately to punish me.
“So have you got any news?” I asked him crossly, cutting short my recital.
“Yes, I’m off to Germany in May,” he said, “with some of the guys from work. We finalised the arrangements today.”
He’d kept all that bloody quiet! I thought crossly. Wouldn’t you think he would have told me ages ago that he was thinking of it?
“Biking road trip,” he elaborated smugly. “Great roads in Germany. No speed limits!”
“Your bike doesn’t do over seventy anyway,” I pointed out pettulantly, “and you’re not allowed to ride over twenty-five kilowatt until you’re twenty-one.”
He looked a bit sneering and said with pitying condescension, “I’m taking the Cat A test straight after my birthday and I’ve already got a 400cc bike lined up. I saw a great 600, but I couldn’t afford the insurance. I’ll get a limiter fixed of course, but as soon as it’s passed the inspection, I’ll just take it off again. And they’re not going to know anything about British law in Germany are they?”
Despite myself I was envious. I made the mistake of wistfully asking, “Can I come?”
He raised his eyebrows scornfully. “It’s a man-thing, the guys aren’t going to want a female along cramping their style. And besides, you haven’t even bothered to go for your Cat A yet and you’d never be able to afford to upgrade that bike on the pathetic wages you’re on… And don’t think you’re going to pull another stunt to muscle in on our trip to Buxton next Saturday, the boys don’t want you along.”
I walked out.
As I stalked my way through the kitchen, Kathleen snaffled me. I stood awkwardly, trying to work out a way of getting out without an extended ear-bashing of some sort from her. “Umm, I believe congratulations are in order,” I said politely.
This was the right thing to say apparently, she looked pleased. “That new woman of your father’s,” she plunged in. “How old is she?”
“I don’t know,” I said, thrown off-balance. I’d never even considered it.
“Because she doesn’t look above forty,” she informed me, her blue eyes darting at me. “Which means her ovaries could still be in fair working order…”
I stared at her, paralysed by what she was implying.
“And women of her age are generally getting a bit desperate if you know what I mean. Biological clock going tick-tick-tick dingaling…”
I opened my mouth but found I couldn’t say anything. Her eyes were fixed powerfully on my face. By tooting out the window and nosing over hedge she’d managed to keep a relevant handle on all my misdemeanours since I was four. “Because she hasn’t any children yet, does she?” She pursued.
“Don’t think so,” I said feebly. I’d just assumed she didn’t, I’d never thought to ask. I finally managed to plunge with relief out of their door, but with something even more horrifying to worry about than the idea of that woman moving in for good. That woman moving in for good and immediately shelling out a sprog. Aaaaaargh!
Immediately I got in, I went on the internet. The forum now showed two hundred and four views of my question and still no answers. Bastards, I thought, it’s a closed shop. It still felt like they must know I was a female. I sat and stared blankly at the screen. Then I drew that card out of my pocket. I looked down at the names. Paul, Pete and Jo. Jo had no ‘e’ on it, so I guessed it must be her. I picked up my mobile phone and rang the number. A female voice answered it.
“Is that Jo Satterthwaite?” I enquired.
“Yes.”
“I was wondering whether you’d like to meet up for a drink. Maybe tomorrow?”
She sounded wary. “Do I know you?”
“We met at Belle Vue last week, but you’d just been squeezed out in your last race so weren’t in the mood to talk.”
“Why would I want to meet up with you?” She asked aggressively.
“Because I’m a mechanic, and I thought I might be able to offer you some help with your car, join your support team maybe?”
“You’re a mechanic?” She sounded incredulous.
“Yes, at Entwistle’s Garage, maybe you know it?” I tried to keep my annoyance at her attitude out of my voice.
She said nothing.
“Well, feel free to give me a ring if you ever need some extra man hours putting in,” I said, giving up. Fucking closed society, the whole lot of them, I thought.
“Tomorrow, two pm, at the George.” She said suddenly. “See you there.” And she rung off.
Oh my God, she was going to consider me! Now I just had to find out where the George was. I had a horrid feeling it was rather a common name round here…
Google came up with a ‘George’ pub just a mile down the road from Jo’s place, so I figured that would be it. It was a bit of a mucky misty day so I’d taken the odd wrong turning on the way before finding the correct village. I wandered into the stone built old coaching inn and looked around the low beamed room for Jo. She had kindly positioned herself in an obvious place in an alcove opposite the door so that I could locate her easily. I walked over and held out my hand. “Eve McGinty, nice to meet you.”
She didn’t take my hand, which was a bit awkward but nodded and asked what I wanted to drink. Since I’d been expecting to walk in and offer to buy her a drink as a friendly opener, this was also a bit awkward. She had a barely touched pint in front of her, so I couldn’t insist on being the one to buy. I loathed beer, but I needed to fit in any way I could so I said, “Just a half, thanks,” adding, “I’m on my bike,” as an excuse.
She went up to the bar and the barman was chatting to her in a familiar way that indicated she was a regular here. And it also indicated to me that she must be older than myself as there were no issues about her being allowed to buy the alcohol. When she came back, I sat and sipped cautiously through the head while she looked me impassively up and down.
“Why did you sound so disbelieving on the phone that I was a mechanic?” I asked, tired of the silence.
“Well come on,” she dismissed a bit contemptuously, “last time I saw you, you were dressed like a tart.”
Today I’d arrived in dirty old trainers, frayed mud splashed jeans, an old biking leather, my hair tied back and no make-up. A combination of not making any effort because I knew I was only going to see a female, and not making any effort because I had a dirty, rainy, rural bike ride ahead. I said nothing. Telling her I’d done it only to get a lift would just add fuel to the fire. I bet you’re not a lesbian, I thought, but I bet every bloke who meets you thinks you are, and I bet you’re sick of it. The s
tocky, broad featured, swarthy skinned look that sat well on her brother, didn’t do a female any favours. And on top of that she chose to keep her straight dark hair cropped close to her head.
“I want to get into F2,” I said bluntly. “I’m happy to help you in any way I can to learn the trade, but ultimately I want to race, so I might end up as a competitor against you. I just thought it would be fairer to get that straight from the start.”
She stared at me. “Have you ever raced before?”
I shook my head.
“The only other women in the sport right now have graduated from up to five years in the Ministox, like I did, and there’s only one woman who’s ever got into a World Final so far and that was Sarah Bowden-”
“-aged seventeen at the Championship Final at Crewe in 1993,” I finished off for her. I was glad I’d done my homework as I could see she was impressed.
“So we’ve a way to go before we’re taken seriously. It’s hard to believe that no female’s ever made it that far again since before we were both born.”
I was gripping a wooden spar under the table out of her sight so hard my hands were hurting. I wanted to do this, conquer this world, show them what I was made of. I knew I could do it, I just needed the chance. Her eyes were still fixed coolly on me, like she wanted to assess what metal I was made of, how serious I was, how much sacrifice I was willing to make. And you know what, I thought. I haven’t got anything to sacrifice anyway. I don’t seem to have any really close friends right now, I’ve barely got a boyfriend, I don’t have any hobbies, and my home life’s turning to complete shit.
“It’s not like the Bangers or the Minis. Cars have to be built specially. Even a second hand one could put you back between four and seven thousand pounds, and that may be without even an engine in it. If you’re a mechanic then that’s a plus point, you can do a lot of your own work, but you’ll not get by without finding some sponsorship, unless of course you’ve got a rich Daddy.”
“My Dad’s just a welder,” I said. I felt discouraged by her information. At this rate it might be years before I’d saved up the money to get an F2 car. Rob had told me that he sourced his Bangers from his break-down rescue work, offering people at the roadside who had decided to write off their vehicle a hundred quid for it or even getting paid by them to take it away to the scrap yard, whereby he just asked the tow-truck to take it to his own place instead. That was the cheap, entry level way to go, but I didn’t want to do the Bangers, I wanted the Stocks. Actually, I wanted the F1s but I could see it was financially completely out of my league. So the F2s would have to do.
She waggled her head and pursed her lips. “Welder’s good,” she said. “We always need some welding doing.”
“Knows fuck-all about cars,” I added.
“As long as he can follow instructions and a pointing finger…” She shrugged.
I got the feeling this was her way of being conciliatory. If I’d said my Dad was a dentist she’d have probably said, ‘dentist’s good, we’re always knocking our teeth out with spanners.’
“Do you smoke?” She asked.
I shook my head. I sort of surprised myself when I did that, because I was perfectly capable of smoking when the social occasion demanded it, and I guessed that she was probably dying for a fag and was hoping we could decamp outside to continue our conversation in the smoker’s shelter. But I just didn’t want to get into that with a person who I may be going to have a long term partnership with. Quinn’s smoker’s breath was putting me off that whole scene. Plus I could see I was going to need every penny I had going to fund this, and all non-essentials would have to go.
“Do you want to come back to our place then, and take a look round? You’ll have to follow me back on your bike.”
I agreed with alacrity and as I suspected, the minute we got outside the door she lit up a cigarette.
“We’ve got two cars to get ready for Buxton next Saturday, one of them being my brother’s, and Dad’s inconveniently done his back in, so it may be that you’ve just turned up at the right time,” she with a hint of cheerfulness in her voice.
Buxton, I thought. Fuck you Quinn. I can’t wait to see your face when I turn up at Buxton with an opposing team.
At work next morning I found myself humming contentedly as I worked. Steve came by and did a big pantomime of sticking his finger in his ear and twisting it and slapping his palm against it. “A strange bee seems to have got loose in the garage today,” he teased. “That toneless droning is almost as bad as Bowker’s tuneless whistling.”
“Blimey we must all be happy today then for once,” I said.
He waggled his eyebrows suggestively at me. “Anything I should know?”
But I wasn’t letting on about anything just yet. It was my little secret.
That night I did yet more research on the net. I came across a club for women racing drivers, the BWRDC and systematically waded through all their profiles. I was amazed at how many different racing disciplines there were that I hadn’t come across… Hill Climbing? Autocross? One woman was taking up racing at the age of sixty after having been a kayak champion. But only one woman mentioned Stock cars, saying she started out in the Ministox and now did ‘mighty Minis’ and her brothers did F2. I emailed the membership secretary to ask if BriSCA drivers could join.
By the end of the evening I had already had an email back from the membership secretary to say no I couldn’t join. They already represented too many motorsports to expand out to Stock cars. Or did they think it was beneath them? I thought cynically. I sat back in the chair. It looked more and more like the only way in was via an existing team. The Satterthwaites might be my only hope.
By Thursday breakfast, Dad was beginning to feel a bit sore about having to do his own tea four nights in a row, but he couldn’t say that to me, because he knew I was only his daughter and not his wife and he’d just fallen into the way of letting me do it and secretly knew it wasn’t really on.
“Don’t seem to have seen either of you since last Friday, no last Thursday even, what have you both been up to?”
“Well you weren’t around at the weekend were you?” I pointed out. Over at hers, I surmised. But that was a helluva lot better than her being over here. He said nothing. “I’ve been helping a friend out with her motor every night this week,” I explained. It felt good to be able to say that. I’d been going straight after work, snatching a pie, or fish and chips on the way over there.
Dad looked across at Jamie for his explanation. Jamie just shrugged a shoulder and shovelled more coco-pops in.
I glanced at my watch and got up. “Gotta go.”
“Give me a lift to school will ya?” Jamie said, looking up suddenly.
“Oh for goodness sake!” I was impatient but he almost never asked so I said, “Hurry up then!” And waited for him.
As I handed him my spare lid I said, “You could take your test and get your own bike now if you wanted.”
“Can’t be arsed,” he said. “Not my scene.”
“Fine,” I said through tight lips. Lazy little sod.
Mid-morning I glanced up to see Rajesh approaching uncertainly across the forecourt. I walked over to intercept him before any of the men could. Rajesh looked relieved. “Wasn’t sure if this was the right place. Do you get a lunch break?”
Now what? I thought. “Half an hour,” I said. We sort of got a lunch break. Mostly we just docked in to the shed at some point when we’d finished a job and were getting peckish, but officially we were allowed to have half an hour as long as there was still someone out front to deal with any customers that came in.
“What time shall I come back?” He asked as though I’d just agreed to have lunch with him.
I glanced at my watch. “One.”
As he walked away and I went back into the shed to fill in the records book, Trevelyn was sniffing around again. “Who’s he?”
“Just someone I know,” I said abruptly. Ha ha, that was going to cause a sti
r later on, me going off for lunch with a seriously good looking older guy. Trevelyn took the opportunity to block me into a corner as he supposedly reached for something on the shelf behind. I performed contortions to suck in my chest to avoid Trev managing to lean into my boobs and looked past Trev’s shoulder to see Bolton glancing over. At my significant eye roll at him, he got the giggles and I gave him the finger. Trev straightened up, a shammy leather appearing to be the totally feeble excuse for that long stretch and I sidled out sideways keeping my back to the worktop. Bolton’s shoulders shook and I decided to abandon filling in the book right now as I wasn’t going to bloody well bend over it in front of them both.
One o’clock came as a welcome relief. Rajesh whisked me away in a rather nice six year old Mazda RX-8, right under the noses of the men.
“We’ll go to my Uncle’s restaurant,” Rajesh suggested.
That was convenient. An Uncle with a local restaurant.
There was almost no-one else there. A couple of young Mums having a girly lunch with babies asleep in their buggies, and three people looking smartly business-like with their lap-tops in front of them and their plates alongside. Rajesh sat us down in a far corner and a lad who kept giving significant glances at me and then raising his eyebrows in what he fondly thought was a discreet manner at Rajesh, brought us out some sort of chickpea, yoghurt and salad thing and then hovered. Rajesh gave him a fierce look and he retreated defeated to the kitchen. Plain yoghurt, I thought, not my favourite. But with the curried spices in it, it was actually ok.
At last we got down to the real reason for the meeting.
“How’s Nasim?” He asked.
“No-one knows,” I said in prickly tones. “She’s not saying. She turns up to school, does the work and goes home again.”
Paradise Postponed (Not Quite Eden Book 2) Page 14