CHAPTER 8
It got a little frantic for an hour or so, as people in leather, denim and woolly hats queued up to buy all sorts of things. I had never seen so many beards, even if some of them seemed to be grown more in hope than in substance, but there were smiles hiding behind most of them.

My role was to grab boxes to replenish any stock running short, such as the large cigarette papers, as well as to take bundles of banknotes into the van, where I put them into a lockable metal box.

It was years before I worked out why Ken had entrusted that task to me, and with hindsight it was obviously as a means of showing that the two of them not only wanted to make me feel included, but also as a very clear way of showing their trust. Whatever the reasons, there was more than a little cash to put away. Lorraine explained it after the weekend.

“It’s the excitement, love. The start of a party weekend, plus they still have the cash on the Friday, rather than counting their pennies for the petrol to get home. Some of them will still end up hitch-hiking and having to come back for their bikes, though”

The weather held fine as that Friday afternoon turned into evening, and Ken filled the time between customers by pointing out the various types of bike on site.

“That’s an old Squariel over there, duck. Don’t see many of them about these days. Nice idea, but they have overheating problems. That’s an A sixty-five… T one-ten trumpet… Commando… Bantam, poor sod! Ooh, that one’s a Venom, and that one there is a Guzzi. Hope it doesn’t rain, for their sake!”

There was a lot more, and it wasn’t just a list of names but explanations for his comments. For example, I discovered why the Commando shimmied on tick-over, why the Square Four overheated, why the Italian V-twins might simply stop running at any hint of rain. It was my first introduction to the basics of motor mechanics, and it served me well for the whole of my working life. Ken had a true engineer’s eye for a problem and its solution, something that can never be taught but must be innate.

All of his remarks were slipped in between chatty sales talk with customers whose ages ranged from what seemed to be not much more than mine up to men and women who looked as old as my Nana. Smiles and cheeky jokes, the odd pat to my head following some lie about my health, and then, just after Lorraine had gone exploring what she called ‘the competition’, the press seemed to evaporate. Ken squeezed my shoulder, and whispered “Let me talk first, duck”

It was one of those Lorraine had described as ‘MC’. He was about forty, to my young eyes, and as wide as the old van, a patch of white in the hair above his right ear.

“Badger. How you doing?”

“Hello, Horse. Not a bad start. Weather’s doing us a favour, at least so far”

“Aye. Need some new mitts. What size you got?”

He held out a hand the size of a dinner plate, and Ken laughed.

“Not that big, sorry! I can get some, if you want”

“Aye, be good. Need them ready for next month. Our party, aye?”

“Oh? Down your clubhouse… what date?”

“Prospect will give you the details later. You’ll have a slot by the parking area. Concrete, so no tent”

“Not a problem. Could I make a suggestion? I get this stuff made up, the special sizes, and it would be safest if I took a measure. Deb? Piece of paper, if you can, and a pencil. With the maps”

I nodded, trying to work out the relationship. There was a distinct air of menace coming from the square man, but it felt general rather than specific in its aim. He wasn’t looming at Ken, but at the world in general. ‘Looming’ was the word that came immediately to me, the feeling you get standing under a cliff, uncertain if it is going to collapse and bury you. I understood Lorraine’s warning, and then ‘Horse’ spent a few seconds staring at me.

“Yours, Badger?”

“Sort of. Not been well. She’s called Debbie”

I saw something in Horse’s eyes then, something as sharp and penetrating as Ken’s instinctive understanding of bikes and their failings. The eyes stayed locked on mine.

“Aye. I can see. Word of advice, Mister Petrie. Two, and both free to you, just this once. The first is that you start taking the News of the Screws. There will be a story in there in a week or three. Second bit is simpler”

He reached out one of those huge hands, resting it on the scarf that covered what was left of my hair, which was just showing as dark stubble. Once more, those eyes inspected my soul. Still looking at me, he spoke once more to Ken, voice low and incredibly dangerous in what it implied.

“Anyone gives this kid any grief at all, you tell me. You tell me immediately, whatever time of day or night. You find a prospect and you tell them what I told you”

His eyes flicked back to Ken.

“I think Deb can draw round my hand for you, Badger. I don’t hold men’s hands, do I?”

I did as he asked, Ken advising on how close I should make the line to the edge of the huge and scarred hand Horse set down on the sheet of paper. Ken seemed to be relaxing a little, his smile almost back.

“How many pairs, Horse?”

“Um… one for now. See how they fit, then we can talk number. See you in the bar later”

He turned to walk off, only making about four yards across the grass before turning back to us.

“One last thing, Badger. I would stay away from there for a while. The whole area. It is going to get shitty. Read the Screws”

Not another word as he turned and walked away, and I noticed how he walked in a completely straight line as others stepped out of his way. Ken was trembling slightly. I stepped closer, and he laid an arm around me for a hug.

“Shit, Deb. Shit. Something is…”

I looked up at him.

“You think he knows about me?”

“Yes, duck. I think he knows most of it. He wasn’t happy about it, either”

“Will I have to leave?”

He looked down at me, and I realised his eyes were damp.

“Leave? You? After what we have bloody seen? What Loz has done her best to fix? Fucking hell, no! Never, Deb! What do you think we are? No. Don’t answer that one. I’m thinking, duck. It’s…”

He looked up as Lorraine returned, two paper bags that held chips, from the smell, and a cardboard beaker which shouted ‘hot chocolate’ at my nose.

“What’s up, love?”

“Seems the word is out about Debbie”

“Ah. You had Horse over. I could see him from the marquee. Gearbox had a word as well, with me. She said it’s like someone knocked over a wasps’ nest up that way. Deb, not now, but later. We need a chat about bad times, just a few details, nothing big, but tonight, in bed. In private, love. Now, how are you moving? Stitches not pulling?”

“Fine, Loz. Hardly know they are there, sometimes”

“Right, then. We have a plan for later, then. Ken, love, can you spare the two of us for a bit? I think we need to get Debbie seen, and not that other name. Change of clothes as well. Deb?”

“Yes?”

“Will you feel OK in a shorter skirt? Something that says teenager and girly-girl rather than boy in disguise? We are going to do some dancing, not mad stuff. Just enough to leave the right impression. Bit of make-up as well, I think”

The skirt Loz found for me was in denim, and ended around three inches above my knee. I had one of the slogan T-shirts on, the one about my mother being a biker, and sandals, and as Loz kept me supplied with cold drinks, I learned not so much how to dance but more how to let go of my fears sufficiently to let me move to the music. I didn’t know much of it, but it was loud and rhythmic, making my feet move, my body weave and twist to its insistence. Lorraine was with me, along with little Rosie, and I watched them both as their eyes closed, their heads went back and their hair flew. There were men up as well, some of them shaking their heads back and forwards while others pretended to play invisible guitars, and far more simply stamped in small circles, a can or mug of beer held in one hand and a soppy grin fixed in place.

The music took me. I was dancing and flying, all at once, my stomach buzzing with the bass and drum lines, and at last I flew free.

Later that night, as I lay sandwiched between my two saviours, we talked. It was mostly their conversation, as it was clear they knew their way around the country and the events that were their livelihood, and we evolved a plan of sorts. There were events to the North, well away from Mersey View, and there were others in Lincolnshire, in the North and East Ridings of Yorkshire, County Durham, Scotland, that would allow us to bypass the risky areas, not to mention the whole of southern England. Lorraine was as gentle as she could manage in her interrogation.

“Deb, love? Sorry if it opens old wounds, but was there anyone else there who knew you were really a girl?”

The way she phrased her question was a wonderful thing. I ran through the memories…

Slapped for sitting like a fairy.
Don’s haste and the stench of his unwashed body.
The way Charlie would kiss the back of my neck as…

“It’s OK, love. Take your time”

“Loz?”

“Yes, love?”

“Boy in the next… Benny, the boy in the next cell, bedroom, whatever. I told him. Nobody else”

“Would he tell, do you think?”

“Don’t think so”

“Good. That means we can leave you as you are. You OK staying as a girl?”

Before I could answer, Ken started laughing, and it was warm and genuine.

“OK, Loz? It’s what she always has been, duck!”

We settled down in the darkness, and more than one kind of warmth.