by Alex Morgan
Together, though, it was another matter. Right from their first race, Pete’s desire to win was so strong it fed them both and lifted her to a level far beyond what she would have achieved alone.
Her mind might be letting her down over the day-to-day stuff, but seventeen years on, the memory of that day was still fresh.
Pete’s breaths echoed her own, each gasped intake a fraction behind, each ragged exhalation a reminder of her own pain.
Concentrate now, focus, make them match. Find a distraction – anything apart from what her body was feeling and her mind knew was coming.
Her feet had never turned so fast. Her calves and thighs throbbed with lactic acid as they fought to keep up. Over forty miles an hour they were doing, well over, and there was a roundabout at the bottom of the long hill.
Cold sweat slicked Paula’s hairline and trickled down the back of her neck. There was no way they could make the turn, no way on earth. She wanted to pull her feet off the pedals and throw out her arms and legs like a sail to slow them down.
They had ridden the course before, but never like this: at this speed, with the road so slippery, with so much at stake. When they crashed, they would break their necks. If they survived, they would be left speechless, brainless, immobile, trapped in wheelchairs forever.
Was it worth it? Every muscle, every bone, every blood vessel screamed no, no, it isn’t, but still she turned the cranks. She had to do it for him.
She glanced up from her handlebars. The giveway line was seconds away. Slow down, slow down, Pete, please. She could move nothing but eyes and feet as the fear pressed down on her shoulders.
“Please God, let us make it in one piece.”
The tandem swung out as it crossed the greasy white line and Pete leant them into the tight curve of the roundabout, a thin cushion of air between their exposed flesh and the jagged teeth of the tarmac.
“Please God,” she prayed, “please, let us win.”
Now, she was left alone to struggle against the rising road and her own fragility. Where would she get her inspiration to carry on? She had competed because it was what he wanted. She had done it for him, the other half of herself, the embodiment of the characteristics she lacked and admired. He had a mental toughness, a steely core she could never hope to share. He rode to win. She rode so he could win. Without him, there was no point.
Maybe it was fitting that her body seemed to be giving out. Why should she go on riding without him? A part of her had died with him and what remained couldn’t survive alone. The knowledge of what had happened was with her every morning when she woke, the combination of panic and anger constricting her heart and lungs, twisting her intestines and weighing on her arms and legs until they ached. It buzzed in her head all day and filled every millimetre of air around her. It made her hands suddenly start shaking when she tried to do the simplest tasks, like brushing her teeth or tying her trainers, and it made her throat constrict when she went to speak. She had never felt so out of control in her life – hurtling downhill at forty-five miles an hour on the back of a tandem couldn’t hold a candle to this. The only time she had felt truly at peace since it happened was when she was in bed with Andy, and look how that had turned out.
Paula lowered her head and dug in. This was nonsense. She had to stop thinking like this. What would Pete tell her? Focus, focus on the road, focus on your legs. Focus on spinning those bloody cranks as fast as humanly possible. That was all that counted for him.
Gradually, her muscles warmed up. Stretching out and releasing the tension of inactivity, she started to feel as if she was in control again. Maybe it was just a question of focus. Maybe she could still do it. Turning down the road towards Westwick, she slid into that familiar groove. Fields, hedges, trees and sky scudded past in a blur. She was flying, light, fluid and unburdened. The earth and all the misery it contained could not hurt her now. The secret power of her own body had snapped that hold. This was true freedom.
Cake and donkeys
Paula had ordered a cafetière of coffee from Kylie in Nora’s Ark, and was trying to decide between the lemon drizzle cake and the peach loaf, when she caught sight of Sanders and Bovis mooching along the other side of Main Street. Sanders had his hands in the pockets of his shorts, Bovis her nose to the ground as she followed some trail only she could sense.
Paula rapped on the window but Sanders was too far away to hear.
“I’ll be back in a second,” she told Kylie.
Sticking her head round the door, she shouted his name. He stopped and glanced over.
“I’ll treat you to some cake.”
“No thanks,” he yelled back.
“Go on, chocolate cake and a float?”
He thought for a moment then crossed the road. Paula returned to the table, where Kylie was waiting.
“I’ll have the peach loaf and Sanders will have the usual.”
Sanders tied Bovis’s lead to the ring outside, came in and sat opposite her.
“I’ve ordered for you,” she said.
He nodded but didn’t speak.
“I remembered a joke,” she offered. “Do you want to hear it?”
He put his forearms on the table and rested his chin on his clasped hands. “Go on then,” he said without enthusiasm.
“Okay. I’m not very good at telling jokes so you’ll have to bear with me on the delivery, but it goes something like this. What do you call a donkey with a limp?”
He looked up at her. “Dunno.”
“A wonky donkey.”
“Is that it?”
“No, there’s more.” Paula waited until Kylie had unloaded their order from her tray and moved off to serve another table.
“What do you call a donkey with a limp and a twitch in one eye?”
He shook his head.
“A winky-wonky donkey.”
Sanders smiled and took a big bite of cake.
“What do you call a donkey with a limp and a twitch in one eye that likes to play the piano?” she persevered.
He swallowed. “Don’t know, tell me.”
“A plinky-plonky, winky-wonky donkey. And what you call a donkey with a limp and a twitch in one eye that likes to play the piano and dance?”
He was grinning now, chocolate crumbs all round his mouth.
She stretched out her hands to show that this was the finale. “A honky-tonky, plinky-plonky, winky-wonky donkey.”
Sanders clapped. “That was pretty good.”
“I didn’t do badly, did I?” She poured some coffee, added milk and took a sip. “Could we be friends again then?”
He sucked up a strawful of red fizz streaked with melting vanilla ice-cream. “Aye, okay, on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“If I tell you something, you’ll believe me.”
“I’d like to believe you, Sanders, but …” She didn’t want to drive him away again but she couldn’t lie. She had done enough of that in the past few days.
“But what?” He was watching her intently, a forkful of cake suspended halfway to his mouth.
She pursed her lips. “It’s very difficult because before, well, you told me a few things that weren’t true.” She swallowed some more coffee. “That makes it hard for me to know when you’re telling the truth.”
“When did I lie to you? I was joking when I told you that stuff about Mrs McIntyre and her shopping trolley.”
“I wasn’t thinking about that.”
He frowned. “What then?”
Paula pushed her plate away. “You said Adrian Linton overcharged holidaymakers.”
Sanders shrugged and unloaded the fork into his mouth.
“And that the newsagent …”
“Old Renton.” His voice was muffled by the cake.
“That Mr Renton offered Sandra money for sex, and we both know that couldn’t be true.”
He opened his mouth as if to defend himself but shut it again without saying anything. He began sucking noisily on his
straw.
“See what I mean?” Paula ploughed on. “I like you a lot, Sanders, and I know you like telling stories, but sometimes it’s better to just run with the truth. Believe me, I know. I wish I’d done more of it myself recently.”
He tapped the rim of his glass with a chewed fingernail, and the moment seemed to stretch. Paula let him be, and eventually he spoke.
“I’ve got something really important to tell you.”
“And?” she prompted.
Sanders looked nervous, and she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.
“It’s really, really important.” He whispered, and Paula leaned in towards him.
“Why don’t you just tell me, Sanders?”
He looked around at the tables filled with people. “Not here. I’ll tell you tomorrow when we’re on our own.”
“Okay,” Paula said. “Tell me where and when, and I’ll be there.”
“The farm,” he said. “Mr Thompson’s farm. We could go on the tandem.”
He looked up at her hopefully, but Paula just shook her head. She felt utterly exhausted. “I have to go.” She stood up.
Sanders got to his feet. “Okay, okay. We’ll go on the bus. I’ll bring sandwiches. Meet you at your place at eleven?”
“Okay, Mr Thompson’s farm on the bus.”
She went straight home and switched on her laptop, hoping that, in spite of everything she had said and done, there might be a message from Ollie: something simple and reassuring and familiar to hold onto, an anchor to keep her from drifting even further out of her depth. But there was only one message. The subject line read: Viagra, half price. Don’t miss it!
She hit delete.
Winky-wonky donkeys
Paula wasn’t sure if she felt better or worse the next morning. Her dream had changed a little. The oil was gone and everything was back to the way it had been before. When her childhood self ran across the beach and darted through the gap between the garden walls, she was able to follow. When she got there, there was no sign of little Paula, but at least she was no longer drowning in suffocating black slime.
In her waking world, everything was the way it had been too. In spite of the dreams, she looked forward to sleep: it was an escape. Awake, she had to face reality: Pete was gone and she was alone. She tried not to think about Andy, but it was difficult when the memory of his touch was so vivid.
It wasn’t until she was eating breakfast that she remembered her promise to Sanders. She wondered briefly about finding an excuse to cancel, but he wanted to share a secret and she couldn’t let him down.
She was standing in the back garden, crumbing a piece of burnt toast for the birds and wondering if he was going to turn up – it was already ten past eleven – when his head appeared over the gate.
He came in without closing it. “Hi, PT. Sorry I’m late – we’d run out of carrots so I had to go and buy some.”
“Morning, Sanders. Could you just try calling me Paula, like everyone else?”
“You said PT was your nickname.”
“It was but I shouldn’t have told you. It was Pete’s name for me because it was so like his own. He was the only one who used it and I want to keep it that way.”
He shrugged. “Okay, PT.”
“If you’re going to be a smart arse, you can turn round right now and head for home.”
“Sorry. Is sliced pork all right? It was the only thing in the fridge. I put in some salad cream and slices of cucumber, and I got a couple of bags of crisps, and loads of carrots for the donkeys.”
Paula dusted her hands on the legs of her jeans. “That’s fine. We’d better get going.” She threw him her keys. “Lock the gate – we’ll go out the front.”
“Hang on a sec.” Bovis loped into the garden.
“What’s she doing here?”
“Mr Thompson won’t let her on the farm in case she chases the animals.”
“Obviously, but why’s she here?”
Sanders affected a wounded expression. “Can’t she stay? The garden’s all walled in. I can’t leave her at home. She ate Mum’s purse this morning and Mum said if I didn’t take her away she’d make her into a new one.”
“Can’t you leave her at your granny’s?”
“She’s gone to St Andrews to get new false teeth.”
“Couldn’t you just stick Bovis in her back garden?”
“Nan lives in a flat. She hasn’t got a garden.”
Paula knew she should ask Mrs McIntyre’s permission, but if they didn’t go right away, they would miss the bus. “All right, fine,” she said. “You can leave her. Now come on.”
The bus dropped them at the farm gate. They walked up the track and Paula knocked on the open back door. A rotund man of about fifty wearing jeans and a stained green sweatshirt emerged.
He smiled, revealing a missing front tooth.
“Are you Mr Thompson?”
“I’m a Mr Thompson, hen. This here’s my brother Jim’s farm. He’s ower by the animals, if you’re needin’ to see him. I’m Bill Thompson.”
“We’ve come to see the donkeys,” said Sanders, who had been busy stroking one of the farm cats.
“Well, that’ll be fine, I’m sure. Don’t go feedin’ them any rubbish though.” He winked at Paula.
“We brought carrots,” Sanders said. “They’re not rubbish, are they?”
Mr Thompson smiled again. “Naw, carrots are good for donkeys and wee boys.”
A slightly older man dressed in muddy blue overalls climbed over a stile and walked across the yard.
He waved to Sanders. “Howdy, wee man,” he said. “Is your nan with you?”
“Not today,” Sanders replied. “I brought my friend Paula to see the donkeys.”
“D’you ken who this wee fella is, Bill?” Jim Thompson asked his brother.
Bill frowned. “Should I?”
“It’s Agnes Clapperton’s grandson.”
Bill broke into a wide grin. “Naw! Fancy that. Long time ago, before I moved away to work on the rigs, I was good friends with your nan – and your ma. You tell your nan, Billy Thomson’s back and he was asking after her.”
A swirl of cool air gathered the dust from the farmyard and blew it around in a little cloud. Paula shivered and zipped up her fleece.
“Aye, it’s a fine, breezy day,” Bill said. “Typical Scottish summer. Away an’ say hello to your furry friends.”
A couple of donkeys strolled across to the fence when they saw Paula and Sanders approach. Sanders held out a carrot to the closest one. Gripping the end between its teeth, the donkey crunched it up. He handed another to Paula and she fed its companion. Other donkeys trotted over when they realised there was food on offer.
Sanders handed out more carrots. They were nibbling up the last of the orange crumbs that had fallen on the grass when Jim joined them. The donkeys crowded even closer to the fence, stretching their necks so he could stroke their soft grey and brown noses.
“They’re completely useless and they eat me out o’ house and home, but I cannae help being fond o’ them,” he said.
“Are they the ones that used to be on the beach at Craskferry?” Paula asked.
“Aye, the very same, but that’s a good long time ago. They havnae worked for the best part o’ twenty years.”
She smiled. “I went for rides on them when I came for the summer as a child. It’s lovely to see them again.”
“Bill used to run them for me, but we’re all getting on now, aren’t we?” He rubbed one of them behind the ears. “I retired them after he went offshore. There’s no demand for donkey rides anymore.
The PC brigade don’t like it. Nothin’ left for it but to grow old gracefully. Isn’t that right, fellas?”
Jim left them alone with the donkeys, and Paula marvelled at the way Sanders stroked them and gently untangled the burrs from their stubby manes. He was calm now, and she wondered if he needed this time to work up to whatever it was he wanted to tell her.
; Sure enough, when they had left the farm and strolled into a small wood, where they sat together on the trunk of a fallen tree by a little waterfall, he finally came out with it.
“I’ve got to choose,” he said, standing up to throw the last of his sandwich into the water.
“Choose between what, Sanders?” Paula asked gently. She didn’t want to push him – she could see from the concentration on his face that he was trying to say something important.
He joined her back on the trunk and helped himself to a bag of crisps. “You know how most babies are born boys or girls.”
She swallowed. “I thought they all were.”
“Not all. Some are kind of stuck in the middle and someone has to choose what they’ll be. Sometimes they get to choose for themselves later..”
Paula laid her sandwich down. “Like a …” She searched for the word. “Hermaphrodite? I thought they only existed in Greek myths and things like that.”
This had the makings of another one of Sanders’ bizarre stories, but the tone of his voice, his facial expressions, his whole demeanour told her that it was different.
“Aye, kind of. I think a hermaphrodite is both. You know, a boy and a girl. I was born with something wrong with me that means I’ll start turning into a girl soon. I have to decide what to do about it.” He shoved a handful of crisps into his mouth.
Paula felt as if someone had punched all the air out of her. She wanted to tell herself that, regardless of what her eyes and ears told her, he was lying again, but she knew utterly and instinctively that, for once, he wasn’t. Even Sanders couldn’t make this up.
“Bloody hell, Sanders,” she blurted out.
“It’s rude to swear.”
“Sorry, you’re right. Have you always known this?”
He nodded but didn’t look at her. “Mum said I was special because I’d been given a choice other people didn’t get.” He grimaced. “I don’t want a choice though.”
“But you’re a boy just now. I mean, you were born a boy, weren’t you?” she floundered.