by Steve Reeder
It was set back from the road with lots of green grass for Mark to mow every alternate Saturday morning, which he obviously had that morning. Piles of newly cut grass lay in heaps next to the driveway, the breeze slowly spreading them back onto the lawn. I had forgotten how pleasant the smell of newly cut grass could be and it reminded me of my childhood. Not that we had to cut the grass that often in Bulawayo which is semi-desert, the grass only growing during the brief rainy season.
Debbie spotted me through the living room window and rushed to open the front door for me.
“Hi Simon, come on in. They are all out back. Mark decided we should have a barbecue, or something called a Braai?”
I laughed at her pronunciation, which was rude of me, and I promised myself that I would not do that again, if I could help it. I tend to make these sorts of promises all the time. I promised I wouldn’t do that any more either. A braai was simply what people from Southern Africa call a barbecue. It was an Afrikaans word originally, but had been adopted by most language groups in southern Africa, and if you think it’s a strange word, think about the word ‘Barbecue’. Still, they both sound better than ‘burnt-meat-meal’.
I followed Debbie through a neat airy house brightly lit with light blues and greens. I wrongly suspected that the interior decorating was Debbie’s doing. I should have remembered Mark’s passion for do-it-yourself applied to everything.
In the spacious back garden I found my host hard at work barbecuing huge lumps of beef while entertaining everyone else with what turned out to be stories of my army career. Somehow it seemed more humorous than I remembered.
By the time the subject of Bob and Carol’s problem came up it was sundowner’s time. Mark asked me to come inside and help prepare cocktails, and when we were alone turned to me and said.
“Look, Simon, Carol’s mum had a little accident yesterday. Nothing serious, but she and Bob want to stay on a week or so to take care of her. Problem is they don’t really want the kids wandering off by themselves.”
I thought that the kids were both old enough to take care of themselves, and said so.
“Sure, I agree with you, but living in crime ridden South Africa these days makes you a little paranoid. Anyway, they asked me to ask you if you would sort of baby sit them on the flight over, maybe make sure they got settled in a place in England?”
Frankly the idea of babysitting Michele had its merits, but I feared the novelty would wear off quickly. She seemed a headstrong young lady who would not take kindly to being put in someone else’s care.
“Does either of them know about any of this? The babysitting I mean,” I asked.
“Their parents haven’t told them that they want you to look after them. Bob thinks it would be easier if you just decided to go home at the same time, and maybe offered to help on the other side.”
He looked enquiringly at me while I thought this out. On the plus side would be an opportunity to spend some time getting to know Michele, perhaps get a dinner date sorted out, and Brett seemed a nice enough kid. On the down side was my trip to ‘Frisco and the fact that English weather was not due to warm up much for another month or so.
“All right,” I agreed finally, “If Bob organises the plane ticket, and you promise to take care of the Harley for me, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
As we would only be flying out in three days’ time, I decided that now was as good a time as any to begin my quest for Michele. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so infatuated with a girl, probably not since leaving school anyway. She was beautiful, she was intelligent, she was witty and a nice person too, which in my experience is a rare quality amongst beautiful women.
I tracked her down to the living room where she was deep in conversation with Debbie who saw me come in and immediately became my ally: married women can always be counted on to match make. I think they hate to see their husbands’ friends unmarried for some reason. Taking hold of my hand she sat me down next to Michele on a sofa larger than the last flat I’d lived in.
“Tell us about Japan, Simon,” Debbie commanded.
“Japan?” I said, startled.
“Mark tells me you spent some time in Japan.”
“Well, yes. But only for a couple of weeks having a look at the big bike factories. The Honda and Yamaha racing facilities anyway.”
I shrugged, thinking back to those heady days. All had gone for good now. Michele reached over and squeezed my arm in sympathy. Debbie smiled encouragingly at me, and said she would be right back, but just had to check on what her husband was up to. I was alone with Michele. As I couldn’t think of anything earth shattering to say, I asked “Do you really want to hear about Japan?”
She chuckled at me. “Sure why not, what did you learn about Japan in two weeks?” She smiled kindly as she mocked me and I think I fell in love. Well, there was a stirring of some sort.
“Well, until recently, although Japan manufactured nearly ninety percent of the world’s large motorbikes, you could not buy a bike bigger than 750cc unless it was imported.”
“For heaven’s sake, why not?” she asked.
“It has something to do with the fact that Japan used to have the highest motorcycle accident fatality rate in the world. Now they have one of the lowest. I don’t think banning big bikes was any help though. In the UK studies have shown that people riding superbikes, ones over 750cc, have the best safety record.” We looked at each other for a moment.
“You don’t really want to know this do you?” I asked her.
“No. Not really.” She laughed again. What a sexy laugh, I could get used to hearing it for the rest of my life, I thought. Steady boy, you’re the bachelor type, remember?
“Can I take you out to dinner tomorrow evening?” I blurted out.
She studied me for a while, searching my face, for what I wasn’t sure. Finally she nodded, and on impulse I leant forward and kissed her cheek. I received a slight nod in return.
Chapter 3
The next day dragged by. Mark and I went to a NASCAR race meeting not far from Dallas, but I found it boring in the extreme. Why do Americans get so excited about cars going around in a basic oval? There didn’t seem to be any skill in it at all. Of course, my boredom may have just been my keenness to get the day over with and see Michele again. I was becoming obsessed.
Mark’s son dripped mustard on my leg and the grossly fat guy behind me spilled coke down my neck. Not my happiest day.
I again left the Harley parked in the hotel parking lot, securely locked with a length of chain. I had no idea about the crime situation in Texas, but why take chances in a state made famous by a film called ‘The Texas Chain Saw Massacre’. TV crime appeared to be its greatest export. Don’t get confused here, they don’t export any oil. They use every drop they get out of the ground and then ask the Arabs for some more.
The taxi I had ordered, fortunately not the same one, took me to Michele’s grandparents’ house by a ten dollar too much route after hearing my accent, and I arrived ten minutes late. Not a good start.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said when she opened the door.
“Excuses?” she asked.
“None that could possible justify being late for you, dear girl.” That brought a smile of forgiveness.
She was clothed in a loose fitting pink blouse with a creamy coloured skirt that showed enough thigh to grab my attention, but not too much. She had added white sandals and a wide black belt and carried a buckskin jacket to keep her warm in the off chance that Dallas turned cold. Her long hair was swept back and held loosely with a broad pink hair clip, and just in case I missed noting that she liked pink, her mouth was pale pink and her eyes shone with pleasure at seeing me. At least I hoped it was for me.
“You should have come for me on the bike - I would have liked a ride.”
“How about tomorrow morning then?” I asked hopefully.
“OK.” She laughed. “I must be slipping, I’ve committed myself to a second date with
you, and we haven’t started the first one yet.” We smiled at each other for a moment. My desire for her must have shown in my eyes, and she accepted it with a blush, but without rejection.
“Shall we go, before your taxi gets fed up and leaves us standing in the doorway?” she suggested. “If we don’t go soon, Grandma will have you in for inspection as a possible grandson-in-law.”
“Not a bad thing,” I said lightly. She took hold of my arm.
“Slow down, tiger,” she said with a smile. “Don’t ruin the night, OK?” I nodded and moved to kiss her. She turned her head and offered me her cheek. I was getting tired of that cheek. I wanted so much more. Still, she hadn’t said no. Just not to rush her.
The evening went well. We talked about ourselves over a superb Mexican dinner, giving up little secrets about ourselves we had not told many others, and I reluctantly returned her to her family by half after midnight. Things were going well.
If only they had kept doing so.
Two days later we flew to England via New York. I had not been able to get a seat with the other two, and had be content with fending off a grossly overweight couple alongside me, who just had to tell me about their first visit to the USA. Michele smiled smugly at my misfortune from five rows ahead. I scowled back at her, which just made her laugh out loud.
Brett had guessed about my baby sitter mission, but had wisely not told his sister, for which I was thankful. I thought we were off to a good start. Michele had let me kiss her good night with a little more enthusiasm last night, and I didn’t want anything to upset her at this stage. I had the feeling she was toying with me, but I didn’t mind. I had admitted to myself that I would do just about anything for that girl. I was in love. At least I think I was.
I had met Grandma too. Before taking Michele off to the movies the previous evening, I had been dragged in for inspection by the chair-bound old lady.
She had broken both legs in the car accident and needed both Bob and Carol to look after her. This didn’t stop her from being a bit of a tyrant, to me at least. She took exception to a number of my faults, which seemed apparent to her the moment I walked in the door, not least of which was that I was unemployed and not worried about it. Brett found the episode quite funny, but Michele had been unusually quiet and reserved. I wondered if she thought approval by Grandma was important to our deepening relationship. If so, I hope I passed muster.
We landed at Heathrow as the rain began to fall, turning the Great City into a grey, unappetising collection of streets and monuments. It was enough to depress a first time visitor, but I was strangely pleased to be back. Maybe after ten years of living here I had become an Englishman.
We caught the tube into London, which had both Brett and Michele rubber-necking madly. Never having been to London before, they had never experienced underground travel.
Once in the city I arranged for a friend of mine to lend us one of his four cars, an old Ford Granada. My TVR Tasmin was in Manchester having a major engine overhaul.
With Grant having promised to come and visit next month and pick up the car, we set off for Petworth Village in West Sussex, which is where I lived when I wasn’t somewhere else. I convinced my companions that we should wait till morning before contacting Team Rodber Racing to find out the details of Brett’s new team headquarters. He wasn’t sure with whom he would be riding, although it was apparently a two riders four bike team: factory supplied machinery. A very professional set up with team manager, race engineers and huge transporters. All the things I had spent ten years trying to get for myself but had never had enough money.
I bought dinner for the three of us in Chichester, which is the closest town to Petworth, and we arrived at my rural cottage just before midnight.
I showed Michele to the only bed in the place - mine. After a moment’s protest at taking my bed, she accepted gratefully and was fast asleep in no time. Brett and I stretched out in a couple of sleeping bags on the living room floor because of the junk stacked in the other bedroom, most of it Rebecca’s. Philip had still not been to collect it. I offered up a little prayer that he wouldn’t pick tomorrow morning.
It was a good thing the carpet is thick and shaggy because I’m getting too old for sleeping on floors.
Chapter 4
“Right,” said the voice on the other end of the phone, “where are you coming from?”
“West Sussex. Just tell me where you are, and when we get to the general area, I’ll phone again, OK?” The voice agreed that this would be sensible and after brief directions on how to get to Brands Hatch - he assumed from my accent that I had no idea about the English countryside - I told him we would call the moment we were at the correct place. I was well acquainted with the racetrack anyway.
“OK, I will send some one to meet you there,” the voice said. I wondered if that was Josh Rodber himself.
The drive from Petworth to Brands, which is the other side of London, in Kent between the A20 and the M20 highway, took us over three hours including a stop for lunch. I was in no hurry as I was enjoying Michele’s company in the front seat of the old car. Brett showed signs of impatience though. I guess today was a big day for him, the start of something special. Watching him in the rear view mirror, I speculated on the year that he was about to have. At nineteen he was still a little young to be thrown into the deep end of Britain’s premier class of motorbike racing. There was no doubt that having a place in a top team would be a pressure situation. Teams didn’t spend several hundred thousand quid for you to finish outside the top ten.
We pulled up outside the gates of Brands Hatch Raceway at three thirty, to find a van with ‘Rodber Racing’ on the side waiting for us. I went across to have a word with the driver. Brett stood and peered through the gates at one of the world’s most famous racetracks. Not that he could see much from the gates, but I suppose he could tell himself he had arrived.
“You must be waiting for us, I think mate,” I said to the driver of the van.
“Are you Brett Robinson?” the driver asked. I jerked my thumb in Brett’s direction. “Right, thought you looked a little old,” he said with a grin. I scowled at him. He peered at me for a second. “You’re Simon Roberts, aren’t you?” I nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “I was at Knockhill when you beat Mackenzie with that outrageous last corner pass. That was real balls man.”
I smiled modestly. That win had pretty much been the highlight of my career, the one I would savour above all else.
I urged Brett back into the car and we followed Dave, the van driver, east along the M20 turning off at the A227 then down a series of small roads to what had been a farmhouse at one time. Now it was the headquarters of the team. I did a quick mental orientation and decided that we were near Maidstone.
The huge old barn had been converted into modern looking workshops, in front of which stood a number of gleaming new race-prepared superbikes. There were two white Ducati 998’s and two mainly green Kawasaki ZXR’s. I later learned that the ZXRs were not going to be used and that another two Ducatis were being delivered the following day. I wondered briefly if someone would lend me the Kawasakis.
Brett bundled out of the car before we had come to a halt, and before anyone could stop him, he was sitting astride one of the Ducatis, youthful enthusiasm positively radiating from him. Dave said to come meet the boss, so I followed him into the office alongside the workshops.
If the exterior still looked a little like a farm, the interior was pure modern hi-tech business. Computers dotted the room with serious looking men and women worshipping at their keyboards.
“Boss,” Dave called out to a grey haired fifty-something man in jeans and T-shirt with Rodber Racing emblazoned across the front. “Your South African contingent has arrived.” The boss examined me for a second.
“Who are you then? Where’s Robinson?”
“Simon Roberts,” I stuck out my hand, and he shook it without enthusiasm. “Your new hotshot is outside drooling on the Ducatis. I just helped them ge
t here, as they are friends of mine.” He grunted, looked around and motioned to someone else seated at one of the computers.
“Bud, let’s go meet the kid. He’s outside. This is Simon Roberts, by the way,” waving his hand in my direction. Bud stood up, and now that I could see him, I realised I knew him.
“Hello, Bud. Long time no see.” I grinned at him.
“Hiya mate. It has been a while. I’ve been down under for the last two years and brought back another wonder kid with me. You’ll meet him when he gets back from Scotland if you like. He’s gone to visit some long lost uncle.”
Bud Roache had been involved with motor cycle racing for well over ten years. He had started as a mechanic for a small privateer team, before moving on to one of the works teams in the British championships. Before long he was running the team himself, and had earned a reputation as a manager who achieved results. Teams under his control always did well.
He was not a big man, standing only five foot eleven tall, but he was physically very strong and at one time had been a member of some Special Forces unit of the British Army. Although he was an ugly bugger, even on a good day, the girls seemed to fall helplessly in love with him without him even trying.
“Can we skip the reunion, Bud,” Boss man snapped. “I’m not waiting while you two have a long lost pals party,” he said as he stomped out of the door. Bud shook his head at me.
“Sorry about that. He’s not such a bad geezer, if you know what I mean. Not usually anyway.” I wondered how Bud’s cockney way of talking had survived two years in Australia. “He just has a few worries on his mind, like.”
He motioned me out of the door, and we sped after his boss, who turned out to be Josh Rodber. It was his team, and his money paying for it all. I wondered why he wanted to be a team owner. It wasn’t as if he’d been involved before, or I would certainly have known him. I made a mental note to ask Bud later.
