“And following Michael we have the lovely Georgi Stephens on her 1902 Sunbeam Safety,” the MC enthused from the loudspeakers.
There was a lot more, I’ve heard it so often I simply tuned it out and concentrated on manoeuvring my behemoth of a steed along the roadway. It would be at lot easier of course if we weren’t riding so slowly for the audience to see us. Some people do battle re-enactments, others prefer to relive some strange war free version of the 1940’s, but for me, Michael and our cohort its vintage bicycles.
Yep, on any summer weekend you’ll find us demonstrating our steeds at events up and down the country, fêtes, carnivals, cycle races, even a wedding. The bikes are obviously the ‘stars’ of the show, polished and oiled to perfection but of course wearing modern clothing wouldn’t do them justice. So of course, whilst it’s not our ‘thing’ exactly, we do all wear period ‘costume’, from Fraser in his tweeds and deerstalker astride his Ordinary to me in the crinolines and corsetry of the early twentieth century.
I smiled and waved at the slightly bored crowd, they’ve come to watch the racing of course, not a bunch of weirdos on ancient bed irons . Living history pah, its sweaty blokes in lycra they’ve come to see, we are just a diversion from the main event. To be fair, that used to be me – not that I raced but a bit of free entertainment and I’d be there behind the barriers cheering and jeering with the rest.
So how did I come to be doing this? Well it’s a long story…
I pushed the kitchen door open, home after another ‘exciting’ day at Duplo Logistics loading and unloading a seemingly endless line of juggernauts.
“What’s for tea?” I asked without preamble.
“Egg and chips,” mum replied, “Kettles on.”
“Cheers, so what’s new?” I queried as I fished my snap tin out of my bag.
Since dad died it’s just been me and mum, our family isn’t particularly close and living hundreds of miles from most of them means we’re a weddings and funerals bunch so mum’s next words filled me with dread.
“Spoke to your gran earlier.”
“She okay?”
“Fine.”
“So, what did she want? Who died?”
Sorry if that sounds a bit impersonal but she only ever calls to impart such news, never just for a chat. And whilst it could’ve been a birth or wedding, mum’s tone suggested otherwise.
“Your Uncle Frank,” mum advised cracking an egg into the frying pan.
I searched the grey cells for information and came up blank, “Uncle Frank?”
“Well great uncle really, your Great Gran’s oldest brother, he was at Dad’s funeral.”
To be honest the Queen could’ve been there and I wouldn’t’ve known, I was more than a little emotional, shook lots of hands – well you know what it’s like.
“Funeral?” I enquired as I buttered some bread.
“Tuesday.”
“You want to go?” I asked.
“It’s right down in Penzance.”
“And?”
It might be for a funeral but I could do with a few days away from Duplo, mum doesn’t drive so rather than parent taxi we do child taxi.
“You sure, it’s a long way.”
“I’ll sort it at work tomorrow, we can go at the weekend, make a bit of a trip of it eh?”
“Well I’d like to see your cousin Abby’s new baby.”
“That’s settled then, I’ll book us a B&B somewhere like Plymouth, we can have a root round Dartmoor, see the baby, go to the funeral Tuesday and come back up Wednesday.”
“Thanks luv, I’ll ring your Gran back later,” she sliding my egg and chips onto the table before kissing the top of my head.
In the end, Maureen in HR convinced me to take the whole week off, it’s not like I was short of holiday to take, I’ve not taken any since Easter when I took mum to the Lakes for a few days. We might be going for a funeral but I was quite looking forward to going away, okay I don’t really ‘know’ any of my cousins, aunts or uncles but it’ll be nice to see them, touch base so to speak. I know it’s a bit weird, a twenty something living and doing stuff with their parent but neither of us are particularly garrulous, doesn’t mean we don’t socialise, we just don’t have lots of friends.
The drive south from home near Goole to Launceston, a bit north of Plymouth, took most of Saturday, some three hundred odd miles across the heart of England. I’ve never been one for flash cars, guess I get that from dad who ran a succession of elderly motors, I think the newest was nearly ten years old. I’m not quite that bad, the current Fiat 500 is only five years old, it only gets used for work and short trips for the most part, it’s not the most comfortable for such a long journey.
Sunday we did the tourist bit, Launceston Castle, the nearby heritage railway then after lunch we went to see Aby and the new-ish arrival down near Plymouth. not really being a baby person, I spent most of the visit rather bored nursing a cup of rather nasty weak tea. Mum of course was in her element.
“You’re quiet,” mum observed as we headed back through the east Cornish countryside to our base.
“Just thinking.”
“I’ve seen that look before, thinking about what?”
“Kids, grandchildren, Aunty Jean has a right flock and I’m not even seeing anyone.”
“Pschorr! If it happens it happens, if it doesn’t, well that's okay too,” she told me.
“It’s not that I don’t want all that stuff,” I allowed, “It’s just, well Howden’s hardly dating central and a forklift driver at Duplo hardly makes me a great catch does it?”
“Don’t put yourself down luv, you’ve got a steady job and it’s not like you don’t scrub up well. Jean’s lot might breed like rabbits but I think you got the looks.”
“So why am I still single?”
“Your time will come luv, now are we eating at the hotel or going out tonight?”
Monday was more tourist stuff, out to Tintagel, a walk out to the ‘castle’ then a traditional Cornish pasty for lunch. Then it was down to Padstow, mum wanted to visit Prideaux Place, an Elizabethan manor house overlooking the village – she’s a big Poldark fan, apparently, they did some filming there. Anyhow, we did the house tour then had a cream tea before returning to Launceston via Bodmin Moor, the only significant bit of upland west of the Tamar.
And so, to Tuesday and the reason for our trip to Cornwall, Great Uncle Frank’s funeral in Penzance.
“There’s a lot of people,” I mentioned as I slid into the pew next to mum, “They can’t all be relatives.”
“Course not, your uncle was involved in all sorts of local groups, bit of a historian, I remember going to visit when I was little, the house was packed with all sorts of stuff.”
Looking around there were few faces I knew, why would I know them, I’m Yorkshire born and bred and this is deepest Cornwall. Aby was here with her husband but no baby, my other cousins, James and Emily were here with their broods, Aunt Jean, Uncle Bruce, Gran, maybe another couple of faces I recognized but couldn’t put names to. There was no doubt many of the congregation wondering who we were, strangers in a strange land.
I hadn’t really thought about it but dear old Uncle Frank, it turns out, was ninety-eight when he passed, the Celebrant giving us a few highlights of the deceased’ life. The old coot had certainly not been idle, there hadn’t been any children, Doris, my Great Aunt having died in childbirth during a wartime air raid on Plymouth. Moving to Penzance after the war Frank became a pillar of the community, amateur theatrics, a magistrate and much more besides.
We sang a couple of hymns, listened to a reading from another old codger and then followed the casket out into the graveyard. I felt a bit sad, not the distraught mess at Dad’s funeral but rather a sort of sadness that I’d not known the man, I’m sure we’d have got on like a house on fire. The outside bit of the service was soon over, our fellow mourners melted away, there wasn’t going to be an official wake but from snatches of conversation, some of my Uncles friends were going for a drink or two in his local.
“You two coming to the house for tea?” Gran demanded, as brusque as ever.
“Erm, yes, okay,” Mum replied.
“Nothing fancy mind, you know the way.” and she was off after Aunt Jean and Uncle Bruce.
“Doesn’t get any more likeable does she?” I opined as mum and I made our way back to the car.
“Makes me glad not living too close,” mum admitted.
“Silly question mum, but you do know the way to Gran’s?”
“Er.”
“Come on, we can follow Aunty Jean.”
It was a close thing, they were just pulling away when we got to the car, we were saved by the stream of traffic at the end of the road. Gran actually lives a few miles away at Helston, Uncle Bruce drives like a flippin’ maniac and a couple of times we lost sight of them, in the end however we pulled up outside Penwiddy Cottage just moments behind them. I probably have been before but it must have been when Dad was around.
“It’s not changed,” Mum told me as we followed the others up to the house.
“Your kids not coming Jean?” Mum enquired as we did the coat shuffle in the hallway.
“You know what mum’s like,” my aunt advised.
“Thought she might’ve mellowed a bit.”
“We should be so lucky.”
We made our way into the living room where Gran was already enthroned in an ancient high-backed armchair.
“Get in here then, you’re making the place look untidy, you child, make yourself useful and put the kettle on, tea things are in the top cupboard.”
Guess I’m making the tea then, “Er okay Gran.”
I found the kitchen, clearly Gran doesn’t believe in replacing stuff that's not broken, no electric kettle, an ancient stove top affair, not so much as a whistle. I’m not useless even if mum does do most of the cooking and brewing at home although loose tea was a new one for me. By the time I’d found everything and got the tea mashing I’d been almost fifteen minutes.
I guess my tea making was acceptable, leastwise Gran seemed to mellow a little with the tannins.
“Not married yet then child?”
“No Gran,” I agreed, I might be an adult but somehow she had me quavering in my boots, well shoes – you know what I mean.
“It’ll be all that cold.”
“We’re only in Yorkshire,” mum interjected, “Not the Arctic.”
“Pah!” Gran stated before addressing me again, “There’s nothing wrong with you?”
“Mum!” Aunt Jean hissed.
“Er not as far as I know,” I replied.
“You’ve got the look of the Trenear’s about you, those northern types clearly can’t spot good breeding.”
By now my face was quite warm, so shoot me, I embarrass easily.
“Does anyone fancy a sandwich?” mum enquired.
“Er please Diane,” Uncle Bruce managed.
“Everything’s prepared in the fridge,” Gran instructed.
“I’ll give you a hand mum,” I told my parent, anything to end my grilling.
Gran was right about nothing fancy, the plated sandwiches ran to egg mayonnaise or luncheon meat, mum found a jar of piccalilli, a few mini tomato’s and some sliced beetroot which filled the offering out a bit. I found the crockery and cutlery and we soon had the makings of Gran’s ‘tea’ on the table. Apparently, our efforts passed muster, Gran making short work of a couple of rounds of luncheon meat.
“There’s cake in the tin child, and you can make a fresh pot too.”
I guess that's my cue again.
“So, what’s happening with Uncle Frank’s stuff?” Mum asked.
“Blowed if I know,” Gran admitted.
“There’s a will,” Aunt Jean advised, “Me and Bruce are going to see the Solicitor tomorrow.”
“You should go along Diane,” my Gran suggested, “Keep an eye on your sister.”
Mum looked over to me, we had planned on going over to Dartmoor but I guess that could wait.
“Fine by me,” I replied with a shrug.
“Guess it can’t hurt,” Mum stated.
And so that was settled.
“Gran seemed pretty keen on us going to this reading thing,” I noted as for a second day we headed down the A30.
“I suppose she wants to make sure everything is above board,” Mum suggested.
“I guess,” I answered even if something nagged that she knew more than she was letting on.
The meeting was in the solicitors Camborne office rather than Penzance, guess it’s closer to where Aunt Jean lives and we made good time from Launceston. The town is one of those boom towns, recent housing dominating the old town, which is squeezed into a few streets adjacent to the railway station. Uncle Bruce suggested we park at the station and walk to the office, easier said than done but after a couple of circuits of the carpark I managed to slip the Fiat into a freshly vacated spot.
Mawnan, Smith and Turner kept office above the ‘Bengal Tiger’ at the top of the High Street, none of your plush modern offices for this lot, it looked like they’d been here since the place was built back in the mists of time. We made our way upstairs and into the cosy reception cum waiting room.
“You found it then,” Uncle Bruce greeted, “Get parked okay?”
“Eventually,” I allowed.
“Mr Turner should be here shortly,” the girl womaning the desk advised putting down the phone, “Would anyone like tea or coffee?”
“Some tea would be nice,” Mum opined.
“Best make it a pot,” Aunt Jean put in – hey, don’t I get a choice?
A few minutes later a slightly harried Mr Turner arrived and we were ushered into his office, the tea arriving as we found ourselves seats after doing the introductions.
“So, this is the reading of the last Will & Testament of Frank Arthur Penhaligon, late of Church Lane, Penzance.”
And so, it started, Uncle Frank wasn’t a millionaire but he’d been careful with his money, owned the cottage on Church Lane as well as several other properties. Clearly, from my Aunts reaction, this was all news to my relatives, although I couldn’t help thinking that Gran was well aware of what we were being told. Mr Turner detailed bequests to a variety of charities and organisations before family were mentioned.
“To my nieces, Diane and Jean, the sum of ten thousand pounds,” he paused.
Mum squeezed my hand, well that was a turn up for the books.
“The next bit is a bit convoluted I’m afraid,” Mr T told us, “Frank was trying to be even handed and we discussed this on several occasions to be certain of his intentions.”
“Well get on man,” Aunt Jean snapped – wonder where she gets that bluntness from?
“Sorry, I’ll go through the behests and I’ll explain the small print afterwards. To the children of the aforementioned Jean Dunton, Abigail, James and Emily, the property of 13b Hilltop and contents thereof, Mousehole, to be shared equally amongst them. And to the child of Diane Stephens, Georgina, the property of 4 Church Lane, Penzance and contents thereof. This concludes he last Will & Testament of Frank Arthur Penhaligon.”
© Maddy Bell 11 November 2018
“Who’s this Georgina?” Aunt Jean demanded and how does she warrant the property on its own?”
“I think there must be some mistake Mr Turner,” Mum interjected, “This is my child here and George is definitely of the male persuasion.”
“Maybe it’s just a typo,” Uncle Bruce suggested, “George, Georgina – sound pretty much the same.”
Aunt Jean was really on her husband’s case, “Bruce! It still doesn’t account for why George, Georgina, whatever gets more than my three.”
“If you’ll let me explain Mrs Dunton.”
“Shut up Jean, let the man talk,” Mum slapped her sister down, “Please go on Mr Turner.”
“Your Uncle had the properties valued two months ago, the Mousehole property whilst currently being rented has been thoroughly modernised and similar properties are selling for around four hundred and fifty thousand pounds. The Penzance property is currently valued at around one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, of course all parties are free to sell or maintain the properties as is their choice, we would of course be happy to handle any legal aspects for the beneficiates.”
“Sounds fair enough to me,” Bruce offered.
“So, what do we do about this name business?” Mum, the ever practical one queried.
I was still in a daze an hour later as Mum poured the tea, we were taking in one of Camborne’s numerous tea rooms. A couple of hours ago I was, well not quite living hand to mouth but not exactly rich, living with my mum and no immediate prospect of that changing anytime soon. Now, thanks to a relative that I might have met once, who couldn’t even remember my gender, I’m a property owner.
“Well that was a turn up for the books,” Mum noted passing me a cup of tea.
“No kidding,” I agreed, “I get a house and a sex change in one fell swoop.”
“Mr Turner was pretty sure he could get that corrected.”
“And if he can’t I get nothing?”
“Well there’s always the alternative, it’s not like it would affect anything else and you could change it back later.”
Oh yeah, top idea Mr Turner, change my name to Georgina to satisfy the conditions of the will. What’s in a name, it doesn’t define anything I guess, it’s just a label I suppose.
“Goodness knows where he got the idea you were a girl though.”
“Maybe he just misheard, you did always call me Georgie.”
“Perhaps,” Mum agreed, “So we going to look at this house while we’re down here?”
“I guess so, I’ve got the keys so we could go this afternoon if you like.”
Four Church Lane turned out to be a tiny cottage, sandwiched between two and six of course, on a steep lane barely wide enough for two cars to pass, we had to park the car near the main road lower down the hill. The tiny front garden was a bit overgrown but inside it was tidy enough, even if there were stacks of magazines around the small living room. It felt, I dunno, a bit weird, wrong, poking around someone else’s house when they weren’t there, except of course Uncle Frank wouldn’t be coming back and once the paperwork was sorted out, this was now mine.
Nothing was exactly new, the stuff in the kitchen, fridge, cooker and so on, was all a few years old but well looked after, the stove clean for example. Upstairs, the tiny bedroom contained not much beyond a wardrobe and the bed, the bathroom must have been fitted in a formerly second bedroom at least thirty years ago – all moulded tiles and avocado ceramics. The surprise was at the back of the house, a narrow strip of yard cum garden some twenty metres long with some sort of outhouse at the far end.
“So, what do you reckon,” Mum enquired joining me at the bedroom window.
“It’s not exactly Buck Palace is it?”
“I think the term is bijou, I’m sure Mr Turner will know someone who does house clearances.”
“No, I think Uncle Frank deserves better than that, I’ll do it myself, you never know, there might be something valuable amongst all the dross.”
“You want a cuppa? there’s some long-life milk in the fridge, smelt okay.”
“Go on then, I’ll go and look in the shed, I’m guessing that's what this other key is for.”
To my surprise, the ‘shed’ was not just locked but alarmed, one of those keypad things, I tried the number on the tag, the thing beeped and the door clicked open. I guess I was expecting piles of rusting stuff, broken furniture and the like so I was quite surprised to find a tidy workshop, tools all in their place on a shadow board, even if I couldn’t imagine what some of them were for. Must be worth a pretty penny, I was about to leave when I spotted the envelope on the workbench, clearly propped up and addressed to ‘Georgina Stephens’.
“What’ve you got there?” Mum enquired when I returned to the kitchen.
“Not sure, it’s addressed to Georgina so I guess it’s meant for me.”
“Well open it then.”
It was one of those big padded things, I opened it and tipped the contents onto the kitchen table. Several sheets of paper, a couple of ‘Yale’ type keys and one of those photo wallets you get hard copy prints in. the first paper was folded in half with just ‘George’ written on it, I opened it out and scanned the carefully handwritten script.
‘George,
yes, I know you aren’t Georgina, smoke and mirrors, just my little joke, let your Aunt’s family think I was going ga ga.
Of course, if you are reading this you already know the details of my will, I do hope you’ll look kindly towards me. I have a sort of last request, of course I’m not about to know whether you humour me or not but I would like to think you will. The keys in the envelope are for a pair of garages, lock ups if you like, at the top of the lane. The garages go with the house, the contents are yours to do with as you feel fit, so we come to a dead man’s wish.
If you can find it in you, I’d like for you to give the old bike a last outing with the Veteran and Vintage Bicycle Club. There’s a sheet with their contact details, I’m afraid they can be a bit anal, sticklers for detail and so on but they are a friendly enough bunch really. Just one ride, I had planned to ride myself but maybe that was a bit ambitious at my age eh lad!
I’ve put some photos in so you can see what you are letting yourself in for, the costumes and stuff – my friends at the theatre made me up a couple, they are in the wardrobe behind the bikes.
Well that’s about its ‘Georgina’, as that chap with the pointy ears used to say, live long and prosper.
Yours
Frank Penhaligon
“So?” Mum enquired when I finished reading.
“It’s from Uncle Frank.”
“Well I’d worked that out myself, what does he say?”
I pushed the note across to her and reached for the pack of photos. There were only half a dozen, snaps rather than professional shots, each a shot of ancient bikes and their riders.
“Bit of a strange request,” Mum opined.
“Bit,” I agreed.
“Will you do it?”
“Well I guess it’s not a lot to ask, I mean, he didn’t have to give me the house and stuff did he, it’s not like we were close or anything.”
“Best go and have a look at these garages then,” she suggested.
There were only two garages up the lane so not exactly difficult to find even if we were both puffing well by the time we got there. I opened the first door to find the old boy’s car under a dustsheet.
“Not seen one of those for a while,” Mum told me as I pulled the cover back.
“What is it?” I asked looking at the beefy vehicle.
“Interceptor , when you were small there was a chap up at Wressle had one, his was blue, I think. Looks like it’s in good nick.”
“Key’s in the ignition,” I noted opening the door.
Well you have to start the thing, right? and it is mine now. Click, click, Vrooom! I took my foot off the accelerator and let the engine tick over, a chuckling rumble that stirred the blood. Tempting as it was to take the beast out, I resisted and instead turned the motor off.
“Not taking it for a spin?” Mum queried, clearly smitten.
“Best not, don’t think my insurance covers it.”
“Not even a little ride?”
“I’ll ring the insurance people tomorrow,” I replied fishing through the glove box, “Excellent, log book’s here.
“Guess that means we’ll be coming back to Penzance then?”
“Yes mum, let’s see what’s in the other garage.”
Garage two was full of, well bike stuff of the human powered kind. Wheels, frames, boxes of bits, tyres, even complete bikes. There was less order in here although it was still tidyish, at the back several bikes were under a dust sheet and as promised, an ancient wardrobe. Mum beat me to the door, unlocking it and swinging it open, I couldn’t see in as the door obscured my view.
“Well?”
“Costumes like he said, looks like stuff from one of those period things on the telly.”
“Doubt if they’ll fit me,” I mentioned with a shrug.
“We can get them altered, I take it you’ve decided to do the ride thingy?”
“I feel I owe him, despite his sense of humour.”
Mum closed the wardrobe, “Well unless we are staying here tonight, we should probably get going Georgina.”
“Mu-um,” I complained.
“I always envied Jean her daughters and now I’ve got one.”
“Whatever,” I sighed relocking the bike garage.
“I’ve been talking with some of my colleagues,” Mr Turner advised after we’d exchanged the usual greetings.
“That sounds a bit ominous,” I allowed with a sigh, “So what’s the crack then?”
“In layman’s terms, any changes to the Will would effectively make it null and void, we’d need to take it to arbitration and your Uncles wishes could be challenged. It’s happened before, some of the Charities can be quite, er, combative and there is the possibility that not only you but the other family bequeaths could be overturned.”
“So, what do we do then?”
“My colleagues are all in agreement that the safest course of action for Frank’s estate would be for you to change your name by deed poll, it’s still a little dodgy if you like but if it ever went before a judge it’s unlikely, they’d query it.”
“Is it likely to go to court?”
“I don’t think so, unless another party decided to contest the Will, if we dot all the i’s and cross the t’s they’ll have less grounds.”
I sighed, “And this Deed Poll thing, I can change it back later?”
“Certainly, but I’d suggest keeping the new persona until all the legalities with the Behest are done and dusted.”
“Which will take?”
“It could be up to a year.”
Uncle Frank, I could kill you for this!
The legal beagle went on, “I can sort the paperwork out today, we can be all ‘legal’ with Georgina in about ten days.”
“Go on then, do it.”
“Look at it this way, you can at least still go by George.”
There wasn’t a lot we could actually do once that was set in motion, so we returned to the sightseeing that we’d planned. Well apart that is from slipping down to Penzance to give Mum that ride in the Jensen, the extra insurance was a bit of a shock, apparently its some sort of classic. Anyhow, we did our joy ride on Friday, taking the opportunity to call in on Gran again, of course Aunt Jean had filled her in on all the Behests.
Even Gran cracked a smile over the whole ‘Georgina’ thing.
“He was always a joker.”
“Well I wish he hadn’t done it with a legal document,” I sighed.
“Will you keep the house?”
“That’s what I want to know,” Mum slipped in.
“Not sure Gran, guess I could rent it out.”
“Or move down here.”
Yeah, or move down to Cornwall.
“My life is up in Yorkshire.”
“Hmmph!”
Okay, it’s not much of a life, and what about Mum?
I’ll say this, Mawnan, Smith and Turner were quick, we’d only been back home three days before a registered letter arrived with my Deed Poll inside. I got old Jack Thomas over the road to witness for me, well he’s half blind so there wouldn’t be any awkward questions from that quarter. Mum had it back in the post to Cornwall the next day, she mow officially has her ‘daughter’, at least in name – not that I’ll actually be going by Georgina anytime soon.
Of course, nothing is ever that simple, to stay legal some paperwork did need to be changed, Driver’s licence, work, doctor and the bank. I might have got away with some stuff but I didn’t just go from George to Georgina, oh no, Mum somehow landed me with a middle name, I’m now legally speaking Georgina Annabel Stephens – what a GAS – not!
With the name change sorted Mr Turner as executor expedited the Will registration, a stream of legal documents flowed between Cornwall and Yorkshire. Aunt Jean had decided not to challenge anything after a visit to ‘my’ cottage, the property her offspring were given, clearly much more valuable than my ‘gift’. Of course, we were not exactly broadcasting the details of the garage contents.
Of course becoming Georgina didn't suddenly make me rich or anything, not only that but I wasn't even certain that I wanted to 'liquidate' my new Cornish assets. Firstly, I needed to find out exactly what those assets are, oh I know there's the cottage, the car and the bikes but what else is in the house or hidden around the various buildings? And so, started my weekly commutes from Yorkshire to Cornwall.
The first couple of visits mum came down to help, curiosity as much as a desire to help, I think. We used a b&b the first week but apart from being costly it did seem a bit daft when I own a perfectly good house. A visit into Penzance supplied some new bed linen – it just seemed a bit weird to use Uncle Franks’ stuff, anyhow mum used the bed and I camped on the sofa.
I don't know what I thought might be lurking but once the old papers, magazines and clothes were disposed of the cottage seemed to have given up all its secrets. There wasn't much, a few quid in a tin marked 'xmas' and a variety of bits and pieces that just about everyone seems to accumulate. Anything remotely family we boxed up, Gran can decide what to do with it, the rest was earmarked for one of the local charity emporiums.
“So, what're you going to do about the garages?” Mum asked as we headed north yet again.
“Do?”
“You know, the car and the other stuff.”
“Dunno, seems a shame to just cash them in.”
“And exactly what will you do with a fifty-year-old sports car?”
“Thought you liked it?”
“There's a difference between liking it and owning it,” she suggested.
“So, you'd sell it?”
“It must be worth a few bob,” she pointed out.
The Traffic cop looked at my licence, he’d pulled me over, I’m sure just to check the Jensen out, I was on my way back to Yorkshire with it. Three weeks after mum’s intervention and I still hadn't made a decision so I was bringing it north, at least mum can get a few more rides while I think about it.
“Georgina Annabel Stephens? Are you sure this is your licence sir?”
“My Mum wanted a girl?”
“very droll sir.”
“It’s the truth, look, it’s my picture on there.”
“Hmm, if you can join me in the patrol car please sir.”
Having registered the Deed Poll, his enquiries soon confirmed my identity and I’m sure they had a good laugh at my expense down at the station later. I am so changing my name back as soon as I get the nod.
With all the personal stuff removed I decided to let the cottage out until I’d made up my mind, it’s not like I was desperate for the money. As a holiday let it only needed a few quid spent on white goods, a new telly and it was good to go. A local agency was happy to administer things and my cut was quite handsome, certainly enough to make a quick decision unnecessary.
Of course, my name change caused the odd eyebrow lift although for the most part people weren't actually aware of it. It’s not like my bank card actually had the new moniker spelt out on it, just GA Stephens only the extra initial different to the original. My signature has always been a bit of a scrawl so I hadn't even adjusted that – no, apart from instances like the police stop there hasn't actually been any fall out, it’s not like I’ve changed sex is it?
Whilst in pretty fair trim, the Jensen did need some work, whether I was keeping it or not and I found a Jensen specialist in a Sheffield back street who was all too willing to part me from my cash to get it into tip top condition. I mentioned before that I'm hardly a petrol head, I might have cut and run if I had been, apparently, I’ve got the FF model with a rare manual gearbox mated to the huge six litre Chrysler power cube. FF, yeah got me too, think four wheel drive a decade before Audi got there which in turn means expensive.
It wasn't really necessary as the agent was supposed to do regular checks but I made a point of going south once a month to check on the property. The rental takings financed the building maintenance, new gutters, a lick of paint on the walls and during a rare unlet week, a refurbished bathroom. That of course really did cost a pretty penny, sorting out tradesmen at quite short notice will always involve a bit of palm greasing.
Uncle Frank had passed in April, by June things were settled pretty much, whilst I had the rental income and the Jensen, nothing else has really changed in Howden. My cousins however had liquidated their bequest as soon as the ink was dried, mum reckons they lost quite a bit due to their haste. That’s not to say they hadn't managed a sizeable return, Gran had hinted at something just over four hundred thousand pounds – good luck to them. Dad always went on about the security of bricks and mortar, it sounds a bit pat but I'm of the same mind – you can't spend bricks very easily and what you've not had you can't miss right?
It was some months later that Mum reminded me about the old bikes and my sort of promise to my departed Uncle.
Maddy Bell © 16 November 2018
1902 Sunbeam Safety – part the third
I left mum visiting with Gran then drove the now familiar roads around the bay, not to the cottage but instead I parked the Jensen outside my pair of garages. Uncle Frank's behest and request was simple enough once you got past all the hilarity over names, essentially I've to ride one of his vintage bikes at some event or other. Well its not like it'll kill me to do it, first thing is to sort out the bike, hence todays visit to the garage.
The lock took a bit of jiggling to open, then I dragged the first couple of folding panels across, flooding the interior with light reflected from the whitewashed wall across the lane. Everything was as I remembered, the stacks of parts, the old wardrobes and of course the bikes. Clearly Uncle Frank had bought a lot of this stuff 'on spec', if he didn't someone saw him coming!
Whilst there were bits of perhaps a dozen old bed irons piled up only four bikes under the dust sheet looked anything like complete. Closer inspection had me regretting my rash promise, apart from flat tyres, one was missing a saddle, another pedals, the third had the chain hanging from the handlebars and the last had a front wheel bent well out of shape. If I'm to get one of these working I'm going to have to spend some serious time and effort – I know I promised but thats when I thought I could maybe just pump the tyres up and go.
It was as I looked over the steeds in dread that I recalled the workshop behind the cottage, wasn't there a bike in there? I guess its worth a look before I make a decision, that decided I closed up the garage and walked down to Number Four. I made myself known to the family just unpacking for their stay before going around back and along the garden to the outhouse at the end of the plot.
To be honest i'd forgotten about the workshop, not that it was there but just how spic and span it was. Once the fluorescent crackled into life I pulled the door closed behind me and wewent over to the workstand to inspect the bike firmly clamped there. Whilst a bit dusty it looked complete, I turned the pedal crank, after a stiff start it moved freely enough and when I worked out which was the right brake lever, that did its job too.
This is more like it. I found a roll of paper cleaning towel and set too to remove the layer of dust on the deep maroon paint and chrome. A few minutes effort and apart from the flat tyres it looked showroom fresh, I guess this is the bike Frank wanted me to ride.
I spotted an airline and after finding the power for the compressor soon had the tyres pumped. It might seem a bit over board but lets face it, my Uncle was ninety eight, I guess pumping tyres was getting a bit of an effort. Anyhow, air inserted I dropped the bike out of the stand, almost literally, it weighs a ton, before clambering aboard to get a feel for it.
Well I'm no expert but it felt okay so I did the old trouser in sock thing before wheeling the beast outside. Of course Church Lane is steep and narrow so I walked down to Brick Kiln Lane which runs across the hillside before mounting up for my first ride. My bike back in Howden isn't much, a £99 special from the garage out on the six one four, twenty one gears that rarely get put to work and tyres the local tractors would be proud of.
I pushed off and with a series of grunts got the pedals going round which allowed me to weave along the lane for fifty yards before running out of road. Which is where I discovered that the brakes are more of an idea than a working proposition. Luckily I wasn't moving very fast which allowed me to do a hasty dismount before I hit the wall at the end.
A bit of experimenting showed that at best the plate pressing directly onto the tyres would perhaps skim a bit of speed but there was little control with it. After a couple more passes along Brick Kiln Lane allowed me to get a feel for the handling before I decided to head back. I got the beast moving and swung into Church Lane.
Well the lane is steep, the bike heavy, my control still a bit sketchy and the car coming down caused me to panic. The brakes chose this moment to actually provide stopping power – of course and combined with a loss of forward momentum it was inevitable that it wouldn't end well. It wasn't a crash as such, more a slow speed comedy fall as I fought to keep the bike upright, the result was inevitable, me laid on the tarmac with the bike on top.
"So Missy, you sorted out this bike then?” mum asked as we left Gran's a couple of hours later.
"Will you stop calling me that and yes I have.”
Okay, you can laugh if you like but mum has taken to calling me Missy after all the business with names to claim my inheritance. First it was Georgina which was hilarious not, then it was Annabel, when I complained she started the Missy business. I mean, come on, I'm a grown man, so okay my documents name me as Georgina Annabel but mum's having far too much fun with it. My name is George!
"Just mucking Georgi, what about the costumes?”
grrrr!
"Thought i'd talk to the bike club bods first, its only a one off, maybe I can wear normal togs. Where are we eating?”
"After an afternoon with your gran i'd settle for a bag of chips.”
"We'll eat back at the hotel then,” we're staying up in Launceston again.
If I can get out of dressing up for this I will, I am not into theatricals at any level – I was third shepherd in the infants Nativity, the tea towel and sheet was enough for me. Once we got onto the A30 I put my foot down, the Interceptor eating the miles and drinking the go juice but for the journey down to Cornwall its more comfortable than the Fiat. It was just as well, we ended up travelling back to Yorkshire with the old bike in the back and several black bags of stuff from the wardrobes – mum was in charge of that so i've no idea what's in there.
Over the next couple of weeks I tried ringing the contact Uncle Frank had given me in his bundle of stuff but there wasn't any reply. Not to be put off I penned a short note which mum put in the post for me, if nothing comes of it at least i've made an effort. Internet? Well all that was on their website was a few pictures, no email or contact beyond what Frank had, talk about a secret society.
It was only a week later that my pie and mash was disturbed by the trilling of my mobile.
"You getting that?” Mum demanded.
"If its important they'll ring back.”
"And what if they don't, could be the girl of your dreams Georgi.”
I rolled my eyes, "Okay, okay, I'll get it.”
So of course it stopped as I picked the phone up.
"Well ring them back then.”
"I don't know who it is, no caller id.”
"You're hopeless, no wonder you don't have any social life.”
"Okay, I'm ringing, happy?”
"I'll put your dinner in the oven.”
Joy, dried up pie, such a gastronomic delight. I pulled up the number and hit dial as I walked through to the lounge.
The phone trilled four times and I was about to do my own end call when it was answered, "Fawkes.”
"Er, you just called me?” I squeaked, okay, my social skills are minimal.
"George Stephens?”
"Well technically its Georgina but everyone calls me Georgi,” I babbled out more information than was really required.
"Er Simon Fawkes, you wrote to me about the Veteran and Vintage Bicycle Club?”
"Oh right, yeah, Uncle Franks bike.”
"Sorry?”
"The reason I wrote to you.”
"Um, not sure I follow,” he admitted.
"Uncle Frank's bike.”
"Still not following miz Stephens, Georgina, can we start at the beginning?”
Did he just call me miss? Nah, don't be so daft, you're paranoid.
I drew a deep breath before starting again, "So my Uncle died in the spring and left me his house, a jensen and a load of old bikes.”
"Sorry about your uncle,” Simon told me, "Old bikes?”
"Yeah, you know, proper old fashioned stuff, bar brakes, think one has like solid tyres.”
"And you want to sell them?”
"No, well maybe but thats not why I wrote, I did try ringing but couldn't get through, anyway I sort of made a promise.”
"Promise?”
"Well rather rashly I said i'd give one his bikes a last run, you know, in his honour?”
"Ah,” Simon allowed, "I think I see where this is going now, so you need the Club's help to make this happen?”
"Got it in one Mr Fawkes, you're not related?”
"Distantly, we don't talk about him in the family. So what is this bike you have?”
"Not sure really, I can send you some pictures, you do have email right?”
"I might like old bikes but I'm not a Luddite.”
"Sorry, its just there's not one on the website.”
"There isn't? I thought Jean had sorted that out, well anyway, send me the pictures and in the meantime I'll look in the diary to see what we can work out. Oh can you travel, you're up in Yorkshire right?”
"Yep, we're right by the M62 so travelling isn't an issue, its only a one off after all.”
We ended the call and I returned to mum in the kitchen.
"That was a long call.”
"It was the guy from the bike club,” I mentioned, "Looks like I'll be able to fulfill my promise after all.”
"That's nice luv, you want your dinner now?”
it'll be well crozzled but after a day at Duplo I'm starving, "Please.”
I checked the screen again, finally, the last picture was attached. I moved the cursor into the message box and started typing.
Dear Simon
As we discussed earlier i've attached some photos of the bike, hope they
are of some interest. I think the brand is Sunbeam.
I look forward to hearing from you soon re the ride.
Yours
George Stephens
That should do, I hit send and sat back in the chair. Well Uncle Frank, it looks like you'll get your last wish after all.
It was two days later when I spotted a reply from notthatfawkes @ bikenet.co.uk, I clicked on the link and a moment later it popped up on the screen.
Dear Georgi
Hope this finds you well.
Thank you for the pictures, the bike is indeed a Sunbeam, a very rare one
at that! It seems that your Uncle found a 1902 Sunbeam Safety, one of
the earliest from that manufacturer, as far as I know there's only one other
survivor which is in a museum in Denmark. I'd certainly be interested to at
least see pictures of the other machines in your care, who knows what else
lurks!
Well thats the bike news, onto getting you on a ride. I've attached
a list of possibilities that don't involve too much travelling for you. Of course
we need to get you kitted out in appropriate costume, i've spoken to Jean
who is our expert on things fashion, she'll research things and will give you a
call in the next week or so.
Hope this meets with your approval, looking forward to meeting you and the
Sunbeam.
Simon
Well thats interesting I suppose, "Mum?”
"You don't need to shout.”
"Sorry, I got a reply from that Simon bloke, apparently Uncle Frank's bike is some sort of rarity.”
"He was certainly a dark one eh, he sorted you out a ride?”
"There's a list of possibilities, have to get the costume sorted I guess.”
"Thought you were going to wiggle out of that?”
"Seems a bit churlish, he's already got some woman researching it.”
"Remember i've got the stuff your Uncle had.”
"I'd best let you talk to this Jean woman when she rings.”
Mum smirked, "That might be best.”
After some calender checking we settled on the vintage and veteran vehicle meet up at Newby Hall just outside Ripon. Its the sort of thing we've ended up at occasionally for something to do, its quite nice seeing the old cars and so on, drop in a stately home and it makes a nice day. Its six weeks away so we should be all sorted by then clothing wise, Mum spoke to that Jean woman last night, apparently most of the stuff is in the bags of my Uncle left.
"We could enter the Jensen,” Mum suggested.
"I wasn't gonna use it.”
"And just how were you going to get the two of us, a bike and your costume in the Fiat?”
"Roof rack?”
"Don't be daft Georgi, we'll go in the Interceptor, there's loads of room in that and if we show the parking's sorted.”
I sighed, "Alright, we'll show the car too, anything else? The fridge is knocking on a bit.”
"Now you're being silly, we do need to sort out some stuff for your costume though.”
"We do?”
"Yes we do, Jean said we don't need to go to authentic underwear but it'd look better if at least give a nod to the period.”
"If you say so.”
"I do, i've found a place over in Wakefield that specialises in this stuff, you've got an appointment at ten on Saturday.”
"Appointment?”
"Well its hardly Marks & Sparks, its all bespoke.”
"Bespoke knickers, whatever next.”
I dropped another email to Mr Fawkes telling him of our plans, he confirmed that he'd see us there along with the other members of the club and their steeds. He suggested that I practice riding my own steed in costume, unfamiliar clothing could potentially get caught in wheels and chains which wouldn't do much for my dignity or honour my benefactor very well. Sort of makes sense, not that I could see how plus fours would get into the chain, but whatever.
We took the Five Hundred along the M62 Saturday morning, we were passing Knottingley before mum spoke.
"George?”
"Thats me.”
"There's something I need to tell you.”
"Oh? Did you see that idiot in the Audi?”
"Look we can go home, forget all this mallarky.”
"What mallarky?”
She took a deep breath, "Jean, Simon, they think you're a girl.”
"Don't be daft,” I scoffed.
"I'm not, apparently that old bike is a ladies model and somehow they got hold of your new name, one and one...”
"Make three, sugar. What about my voice?
"Hate to break it to you love but you can sound a bit girly, especially on the phone.”
"So this costume...”
"Is for a woman.”
"I don't suppose I could just wear mens stuff?”
"On a ladies bike? We'll go home and forget all this stupidity.”
My first instinct was to agree, turn us around and end it now. Something in my head was however telling me otherwise, that I should at least give it a throw, become Georgina in more than just name, it would bring a smile to the old mans face. Yeah, and i'd have the last laugh.
"Do you reckon I could pull it off?”
"As in pretend to be a girl?”
"Yeah, could I pass as a woman? I don't mean drag queen, just ordinary woman.”
She considered me across the car, "Well Georgina, we can give it a go, we've got five weeks.”
"Lets do it then, you said you always wanted a daughter.”
Brave words, maybe rash words. Its not like i'd even considered the idea until now, I might not be the manliest example of manhood but if you sliced me up i'd say 'man' through every slice. But if you are going to do something, do it well, and so we embarked on a mission to make Georgina a reality rather than just a legal dodge.
"Stand still” mum ordered.
"Well stop sticking pins in me and I will,” I replied with something of a whine.
"There,” she concluded, "Try that now.”
I sat back on the Sunbeam's saddle and grabbed the handlebars, "Seems okay.”
It's been quite an intense few weeks, mum's taken me in hand, i've been shaved, plucked, painted, and squeezed to within an inch of becoming Georgina. This evening is the final dress rehearsal so to speak, the first time we've put everything together.
"Try riding,” mater suggested.
It felt weird pedaling with all the skirts and underpinnings, even the button boots made it feel different to my previous practicing. You can't do much other than sit bolt upright when you have a corset on and I was distracted by the drop earrings hanging from my newly pierced lobes. All this effort for one day, but I made a promise and i'm gonna honour that promise.
I eased to a stop back at the car where mum was waiting, we've driven out to a dead end lane near Sandhall.
"Well?”
"Its okay, could do without these flippin' knickers.”
"We talked about that.”
"I know, doesn't mean I can't complain though.”
"Well your hair has mostly survived, we'll use more lacquer on Sunday.”
"Georgi?”
I span round, okay after a month of mum calling me Georgi or Georgina all the time I've got to the point of reacting to it.
"Hello?”
"Simon as in Fawkes, nice to finally meet you in the flesh so to speak.”
I took the offered hand and shook, "And you. Well do I pass muster?”
"I think you'll fit right in, come on, i'll introduce you to the others.”
That was all over two years ago.
"And following Michael we have the lovely Georgi Stephens on her 1902 Sunbeam Safety,” the MC enthused from the loudspeakers.
There was a lot more, i’ve heard it so often I simply tuned it out and concentrated on manouevering my behemoth of a steed along the roadway. It would be at lot easier of course if we weren’t riding so slowly for the audience to see us. Some people do battle re-enactments, others prefer to relive some strange war free version of the 1940’s, but for me, Michael and our cohort its vintage bicycles.
Yep, on any summer weekend you’ll find us demonstrating our steeds at events up and down the country, fêtes, carnivals, cycle races, even a wedding. The bikes are obviously the ‘stars’ of the show, polished and oiled to perfection but of course wearing modern clothing wouldn’t do them justice. So of course, whilst its not our ‘thing’ exactly, we do all wear period ‘costume’, from Fraser in his tweeds and deerstalker astride his Ordinary to me in the crinolines and corsetry of the early twentieth century.
As far as the rest of the club or anyone watching is concerned I am Georgi Stephens, but like a reverse super hero, during the week I return to boring old George, the forklift driver. I never have changed my name back, well its not like it affects anything and it could be a hassle if I get stopped in the Jensen going to an event. At mums insistence I have been out in girl drab a few times, that is just weird, I guess i'm just more comfortable pretending to be an Edwardian lady bicycler.
Maddy Bell © 25.12.2018
"Georgi, can I have a word, in private like,” Fraser enquired as he helped me load the old Sunbeam into the Jensen.
You remember Fraser, handlebar moustache, tweeds and rides a silly sixty five inch Ordinary, Penny Farthing to you lot. I am quite capable of getting my steed into the car but I'm hardly gonna turn down help, Mum played hell the other week when I got oil on my blouse.
"We're talking now,” I pointed out.
"Not here,” he looked around the make shift carpark, "Too many ears, you got to get straight off?”
"Not really,” I allowed, "Whats this about?”
"I'll tell all, look, can you meet me at the Kings Head down in the village?”
“'kay,” I allowed with a shrug, "I need to change out of this clobber, fifteen minutes?”
"I'll get us a table.”
Before you go jumping to conclusions, Fraser is in his seventies, happily married and I'm not that sort of girl.
I might've been doing this for a while now but I'm still not comfortable using the ladies to change but its either that or do the driving in my cycling garb. Not a problem I hear you say, well let me tell you, when you've tried getting in and out of an Interceptor in a corset and floor length skirt you can talk. So anyway, i've got into a routine, after our 'demonstrations' I lose the skirt and corset, well the rest of the costume as well for that matter, in favour of a more contemporary outfit to drive home. Which is where the ablutions come in, its not something you can do in public after all.
Many people have issues about getting changed in public places, the pool, changing rooms and so on but that's not exactly my issue. You only just remembered right, yeah, despite my name I'm not of the fairer sex even if everyone in the vintage bike world thinks I am. Yeah, thanks Uncle Frank.
Okay, I'll admit that I pass quite well, since this whole caper started I've got quite adept at the hair and makeup stuff and I'll even admit to enjoying the dressing up and riding stuff. But off the bike, well i'm a reluctant cross dresser, but with a name like Georgina and everyone around thinking I'm a girl, well dressing as me, the real me, not gonna happen. And so its a trip to the ladies.
The Jensen crunched into the pub car park, its not the easiest car to drive but a couple of years practice does wonders. I pulled into an empty spot and cut the engine, I checked myself in the interior mirror, wonder what all this cloak and dagger stuff is about? The Jensen rarely arrives anywhere unnoticed and I spotted Fraser waving from one of the picnic tables.
I clambered out as demurely as its possible, straightened my dress out, I say dress, its one of those shapeless, layered Scandinavian things, ideal for disguising my lack of shape and the flat shoes that go with avoid the whole heels thing. I slipped on my oversized sunnies, grabbed my bag and walked over to join Fraser.
"Got you a G&T,” he greeted.
"Er thanks, no Margery?” I asked sitting myself on the bench.
"Inside.”
"Shouldn't we go in?”
"In a bit, cheers.”
"Er cheers,” I agreed lifting my drink, taking a quick sip before going on, "So um, whats the big secret?”
"This stays between us for now lass.”
"Sure,” I agreed.
"You know David, over in Bolton?”
"Thin chap, side burns?”
"Thats the chap, anyhow he's been working on a project for a while now.”
"Isn't he the Chopper guy,” I interjected.
"Indeed he is lass, so he finished the bike, an original 1970 Mk1 or so he tells me and so proud he sends pictures and stuff to Nottingham.”
Nottingham of course being the home of Raleigh.
Fraser continued, "Well the guys there were made up, apparently their own collection doesn't include a purple five speed.”
"Thought they only came with a three speed Sturmey?”
"Apparently not.”
"So what's the big secret and how do I come in?”
"Well the Raleigh marketing bods got wind and came up with a proposal, they want to, what did he say now, oh yeah, they want to re imagine the original advertising.”
"Sounds interesting.”
"Well Dave thought the Club should be involved somehow, maybe provide riders, that sort of thing.”
"I'd have thought Raleigh would have their own models for that sort of stuff,” I opined.
"Maybe they do, maybe they don't, but anyway, Dave thought you might be interested.”
"Why me? I thought it was a bike for teenage boys.”
"Thats what I thought lass, but according to Dave it was supposed to be a non gender specific machine, easy to ride for anyone, apparently they did a whole series of ad's promoting it to young women.”
"Doesn't answer my question Fraser, why me, there are girls better qualified than me in the Club, the Pidcock girls for instance.”
"Too young Georgi, it needs a good looking twenty something to work.”
"Guess I qualify on one level then,” I stated.
"So you up for it girl?”
am I? There's like a million reasons why it's a bad idea but part of me was intrigued.
"I'm not sure.”
"The Club stands to get a few Bob out of it,” Fraser hinted.
"What about costumes and stuff?”
"Raleigh will sort all that out.”
"When do they need to know?”
"Tomorrow?”
Nothing like putting me on the spot. What could go wrong – okay so a lot, but seventies, that was all like flares and those kaftan things right? Easier to do than the Edwardian stuff I wear with the Sunbeam.
"Go on then,” I'll probably regret it but i've said it now.
"You did what?” Mum queried as I finished retelling the whole thing once I got back to Howden.
"I said yes,” I confirmed.
"That's what I thought you said, you do remember that you're my son?”
"Course I do, its only sitting on a bike in a pair of jeans.”
"You sure? Have you seen these advertisements?”
"No,” I admitted, "Fraser is going to get Dave to email the info over.”
"Huh.”
"What's that supposed to mean?”
"Well if this Dave is as computer savvy as the rest of them you might see it in a fortnight, do you even know when this is supposed to happen?”
"Fraser thought the end of the month.”
"You do remember we're going to Cornwall for your Gran's birthday?”
"Course,” I fibbed.”
I'm sure she wasn't buying that but all she said was 'hmm'.
"Let me get changed and we can look for the old ad's on the Net,” I suggested.
"They didn't have computers back then.”
"I know, but I bet someone's scanned them and put them up.”
"I'll make a pot of tea.”
Thirty minutes later I was staring at the computer monitor in disbelief.
"This can't be right.”
"Told you,” Mum mentioned with some glee in her voice, "You can always ring Fraser and say you've changed your mind.”
The search didn't come up with much but flares didn't feature in any of them, quite the opposite in fact, short shorts, knee boots, tank tops but not a full trouser or loose fit garment to be seen.
"I said i'd do it.”
"George, I'm your mother, you don't have to do everything you say you will, look what happened two years ago.”
"I know, “ I agreed with a sigh, "But I don't want to let everyone down, maybe there are some other adverts that aren't on here?”
"You're the expert Georgi, if you insist on doing this it'll involve more than just wearing a corset and a bit of makeup.”
"A wig for starters, these girls are all full on blondes.”
"Thats the least worry, you'll need some sort of breast forms, we'll have to hide George junior somehow, oh and shave your legs, at least you have good legs.”
"Doesn't seem so bad.”
"You could just say no.”
"It might not be that bad, there might be other ads they're talking about.”
"And I'm the Bishop of York,” Mum suggested.
Okay, maybe I should've got a bit more detail before saying yes but I said i'd do it, not sure about hiding junior in those shorts, apparently they're called Hot Pants, did women really wear them in public? I'm sure Raleigh can't mean these, they'd never get away with them in today's PC world, would they?
"I got you some stuff in Goole earlier,” Mum advised plonking my dinner on the table.
"Stuff?” I queried.
"So we can sort you out for this photo thing.”
"What sort of stuff?”
"You'll see, eat first, then we'll do the show and tell.”
Urgh! She does this all the time.
"What are these?” I queried, peering into the Boyes carrier bag mum had handed to me.
"If you're going to do this foolery Georgi, you don't want to make an exhibition of yourself.”
"I thought that was the idea,” I quipped.
"Don't be clever with me young lady.”
"I'm not...”
She interrupted my rebuttle, "You agreed to do this Georgina, you can't hide behind those skirts and corsets for this, are you doing it or not?”
"I said I would,” I replied with a sigh.
"So we need to be prepared.”
"I guess, so what is in here?”
"Underwear for a start, get yourself cleaned up and we'll see what we need to do.”
Well, at least she's supportive even if she thinks I'm daft.
"You're kidding!”
S gave me 'that' look, kidding she wasn't, dead serious she was. This stuff is a million miles from my Edwardian garb, whilst I wear knickers and so on with that, they're nothiong like these. For starters, the bra, this thing is a full on lift and seperate job, no hiding a ladies assets here and the pants, I'm sure they're too small, they're certainly crushing George Junior.
"You're going to have to do something, its pretty obvious what's in your knickers.”
"But no one's gonna see me in my underwear.”
"Ha, maybe, but those shorts won't hide much and what if they go for a minidress?”
"Minidress?”
"They don't exactly leave a lot to the imagination.”
Maybe I have bitten too much off.
After several attempts at hiding Junior I admitted defeat and fired up the computer. My mind was boggled, clearly 'cross dressing' is more prevalent than I ever thought. From jokey Hallowe'en to full on transgendered and not missing a stop between, there's stuff to create the desired level of illusion.
I guess my 'problem' is that I need to look 100% woman but its just a one off and some of this stuff isn't cheap. Okay, lets start at the bottom, what can I do on the cheap?
"Well?” I asked the following evening.
I'd followed the instructions carefully, Junior was tucked away and looking in the bathroom mirror, things looked reasonably girly.
"Hmm, not bad, whats it like moving around? Can you sit comfortably, I'm guessing you'll have to ride this bike?”
"Its comfortable enough sitting but I'm not sure about a saddle,” I admitted.
"Put the shorts on and try it then,” Mum suggested.
The shorts were a pair of 'Daisy Dukes', that was even the brand name, they looked decidedly uncomfortable.
“'kay,” I agreed.
"Ooo! That's not happening!” think putting your bits in a vice and slamming it shut.
"Hmm,” Mum had a strange look on her face, "Wait here.”
She returned with a pair of, I don't know quite what they are but they're sort of padded, bit like a disposable nappy?
"Really?”
"Two birds, a bit of padding and it'll give you a bit more lady shape.”
Talk about embarrasing, first finding out your mother uses these things and secondly that she wants you to wear a pair. Well I suppose its worth a go before I give up.
"So?”
"Well as long as I don't bounce up and down too much.”
"Hmm,” she allowed plucking at the er, brief bit of denim I was wearing, "Hopefully if its shorts they'll be fuller cut than these.”
"A bikini is fuller cut than these,” I opined.
"Don't talk rubbish Georgi, I think you'll do.”
It felt a bit more than strange, dressed more fully as a woman than i've ever been before getting into the Jensen. Tucked, padded and wearing contemporary clothing, I don't want to be a woman, but for today I need to be more woman than I usually am as Georgina on her 1902 Sunbeam. At least mum is coming as chaperone.
We're doing the photo shoot at the Granada Studios in Manchester, apparently they have a passable London set and stuff to make things look sort of period correct. Anyhow, its an easy journey from Howden, drop onto the sixty two and drive west, across Yorkshire and then drop into Manchester centre, couple of hours if we're lucky. I hit the starter button and the Interceptor burst into life, the familiar throaty roar taking my mind off how I'm dressed.
"Miss Stephens?” a youngish chap enquired as we climbed out of the Jensen, "James Dixon, Raleigh.”
"Er hi, its Georgi, this is my mum.”
"Nice to meet you both, cool car.”
"Sixty five FF, Chrysler V8,” i boasted.
"Hey maybe we could get it in the shoot,” James seemed quite taken with my wheels. "So, Dave says you ride vintage bikes as a hobby?”
He was leading us through what I guess you'd call the Back Lot.
"Er yes, not a Raleigh I'm afraid, its usually an old Sunbeam I inherited, not being funny but why aren't you using a proper model for this?”
"You kidding, they all think they're Gods gift, much better results with, I don't mean to offend, but amateurs and one who knows her way around a bike is a bonus. Here we go.”
He pushed a door open and ushered us inside.
To be honest, you see a lot of Choppers when we do our displays, people drag 'em out of their sheds and expect us to be in awe of the rusty clunker and wanting to part good cash for them. Dave's machine, you could see straight away, was something special, from the rare purple paint to the spotless chrome, it could've come off the production line this morning. This was less a renovation than a piece of art.
"Lovely isn't she,” another chap grinned, "Dave Thornton.”
I shook the offered hand, "Georgi.”
"Thought as much,” he smiled, "Fraser didn't say you were a model.”
"I'm not, forklift driver during the week.”
"Er shall we get started,” James suggested, "Georgi, if you go with Mary here, she'll sort out your wardrobe.”
"Hey George,” Sid called across what is laughingly called the canteen, "What dja reckon, bit of awright eh.”
My work colleague is a bit coarse at the best of times, it was hardly a surprise that he was ogling some girly mag. Except of course when curiosity got the better of me it wasn't.
"What I couldn't do wiv that,” he went on holding the Sun up so I could see the image.
My blood ran cold, there, in full technicolour was one of the new ads promoting the latest rendition of the Raleigh Chopper, the MkVI. Nothing wrong with that except the girl sat astride the vintage bike in the picture was one GE Stephens, aka Georgi, aka Georgina – in other words, its me. Of course, James had said they wanted to run an ad campaign for the new machine, that vintage was big just now and anything with 'history' was good.
I guess I hadn't really taken everything in that day in Manchester, what with a couple of costume changes, learning to rideRaleigh's classic lowrider and yes doing some extra shots with my Jensen as a prop. They even got Dave in on things, one of those long car coats, porn star moustache and sat in the Interceptor – yeah typical stone age advertising imagery. I won't say I enjoyed myself exactly, it wasn't terrible but I did feel somewhat exposed in those shorts!
"Er quite the looker,” I offered.
"Not arf, Billy Jenkins 'ad one,” Sid rambled on.
"Girl?”
"Chopper yer daft git.”
"Before my time.”
I really will have to think before agreeing to stuff, James was hinting they'd like me to do some more ad work for them. I should be flattered I suppose, how no one has worked out there's more to Georgi Stephens than meets the eye I'll never know. Lets just hope Gran doesn't get wind of this – damn, the car!
Maddy Bell © 29.1.2019