A Bicycle Made For Two

by Mary Jayne Baker

  ‘It might bring custom your way, son, but it’ll do me no favours.’ Kit, one of Gerry’s farmer friends, leaned across the crowd to talk to Billy. ‘You don’t have land to worry about. I don’t fancy my fields trodden into muck and my cows scared into miscarriage by a load of oblivious townies.’

  ‘He’s got a point,’ Gerry said. He shrugged in our direction. ‘Sorry, kids, but he has.’ Sue glared at him.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Roger said, holding up his hand. ‘You’ll have an opportunity to say your piece when we’ve heard – oh.’ He broke off to acknowledge the man who’d just entered. I caught a brief flash of a too-familiar face, topped with sandy curls, before it blended into the crowd. ‘The new cycle shop owner, I assume? We’ve just started, you haven’t missed anything.’

  I pressed my eyes closed.

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ I muttered to Tom in Italian.

  ‘Yes. It’s him. Sorry, Lana.’

  Stewart McLean. The man who never called. He was back.

  Chapter 8

  I risked peeping out of one eye. Stewart was at the back of the crowd. He didn’t seem to have noticed me.

  He looked different than he had on our one and only date – God, it seemed a lifetime ago now. Still handsome, but there was something in his face, a certain… I don’t know, a sadness? He was paler, too.

  Ah, he’d spotted me. He caught my eye and smiled – the smile hadn’t changed, at least. It was still warm, sexy, enticing. Full of lies. Bloody well smiling at me! After a year!

  I pretended I hadn’t noticed and looked the other way.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ I muttered to Tom.

  ‘I don’t know, do I? Ignore him. And stop speaking Italian, everyone’ll think we’re talking about them.’

  ‘We are talking about them.’ I glared sideways at Stewart. ‘One of them.’

  Roger was blinking at us. I flung him an apologetic smile.

  ‘Sorry. Just practising what we want to say. Er, in Italian, so… it’ll be a surprise.’

  ‘Ah. Very good.’ He turned back to the crowd. ‘So before we get into a debate, I’m going to hand over to a couple of our younger business owners. Of course we all knew Phil Donati, who ran the restaurant for many years until he sadly passed away last month. I’d like to thank his children Lana and Tom for coming at this difficult time, to make the case for the Grand Départ passing through Egglethwaite. This was their suggestion so I know they’ll have some persuasive arguments.’

  ‘Oh God. Class 4 nativity,’ I heard Tom mutter.

  We both remembered The Great Class 4 Nativity Disaster. Tom had got the plum role of innkeeper – well, it was a plum role given most of his class were playing farm animals. He even had a line: ‘No room at the inn’. Just five words; he’d spent weeks practising them in different voices in front of the mirror. But when little Joseph and Mary, a Tiny Tears doll stuffed up her frock, knocked at his door, Tom just gaped like a halibut for a full minute before waving a welcoming hand and saying ‘Yeah, come on in’. After that he was relegated to Junior Donkey for the rest of primary.

  And it looked like the nerves that had ruined the Class 4 nativity were back tenfold tonight.

  ‘Stay strong, Tommy,’ I whispered. ‘We can do this.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’

  ‘Er, right. Hi,’ I said to the crowd, trying not to look at Stewart. I fixed my gaze on Sue, who smiled encouragingly. If I just pretended I was talking to her, maybe I could get through it. ‘Yeah, so, as you all know there’s been a successful bid by Welcome to Yorkshire to bring the Grand Départ here next year. It’s expected to lure big crowds from all over the country – the world even – so I thought, well, why shouldn’t we get a wedge of the cheesecake? We’re most of us business owners here and I’m sure we wouldn’t sniff at the extra trade.’

  There was a faint murmur of conversation. I couldn’t tell if people were interested and discussing what I’d said, or bored and talking amongst themselves.

  Tom came to back me up. ‘If the beauty of the Yorkshire Dales wooed the Tour organisers, then maybe the beauty of our little patch can bring them here. We’ve got as much scenery as anywhere.’ His voice was shaking with nerves, poor little donkey, but he struggled manfully to the end. ‘My dad always said he wouldn’t swap this corner of the county for the whole world, and neither would I.’

  ‘Why should they choose us though?’ Billy said. ‘I certainly wouldn’t object to a full pub for a few days, but I don’t see what we’ve got to offer over other villages. The scenery’s bonny enough, Tommy lad, but nothing that can’t be matched by our neighbours.’

  ‘There’s the view from Pagans’ Rock,’ I said, determinedly avoiding Stewart’s gaze. ‘That’s impressive by any benchmark.’

  ‘I’m not denying that,’ Billy said. ‘Still, can Pagans’ Rock alone cut the Dijon? Oakworth’s only a few miles away: they’ve got a hundred views, and a heritage railway. Hebden Bridge has got the canal, Haworth’s got the literary thing going for it. What’s Egglethwaite got? One good view and a cobbled street.’

  ‘Setts,’ I heard Gerry mutter. Sue nudged him in the ribs.

  ‘He’s not wrong, darling,’ Yolanda said to me. ‘The competition is rather stiff, isn’t it? Yorkshire’s got Herriot Country, Emmerdale Country, all sorts of countries. And here our little village is in the middle of… well, Nowhere Country.’

  ‘No. We’re Brontë Country, aren’t we?’

  ‘Well, just, I suppose. But we’re not close enough to Haworth for anyone to notice us.’

  ‘Ok, maybe we’re not in the tourist bit,’ Tom admitted. ‘But only because no one outside the area knows we’re here. That could be part of our sales pitch, couldn’t it? The hidden treasure angle? Nothing to lose by trying.’

  ‘There’s a lot to lose for us farmers,’ Kit said. ‘Suppose we’re successful? Your restaurant and the pub might do all right off it, and Caroline’s B&B. I don’t see what’s in it for the rest of us.’

  ‘A lot of churned-up land and worried animals, that’s what,’ Gerry said. He shot me an apologetic grimace.

  Kit nodded. ‘Some of us are quite happy being a hidden treasure, ta all the same.’

  ‘It’s once-in-a-lifetime though, isn’t it?’ It was Mrs Wakefield, headteacher of our old primary school. ‘I’m not a business owner, but I’d certainly welcome the chance to be part of something as historic as this. And the children would be so excited. We could plan a whole term’s activities around it.’

  ‘That is a point,’ Roger said. ‘My grandchildren would love it.’

  ‘History’s all well and good, but what about my walls then, eh?’ Trevor, founder of the Egglethwaite Wallers, piped up. ‘Our volunteers have spent the last six months getting all the drystone walling round here sorted out. I don’t fancy a load of bloody tourists leaning on it, knocking the capstones off.’

  ‘There wouldn’t necessarily be any damage. Not if we put safeguards in place.’

  I didn’t need to look up to see who’d spoken. I still remembered that voice, vibrating through me the night he’d held me against his body up at Pagans’ Rock.

  ‘Ah. Mr McLean. Please do give us your view, as a newcomer to the area.’ Roger gestured to Stewart, who moved through the crowd to the front.

  ‘I used to take part in things like this pretty frequently – nothing as big as a Grand Tour, but some fairly high-profile events. I’d be more than willing to contact the organisers on your behalf to find out what measures could be taken to protect land and livestock.’ He nodded to Trevor. ‘And walling, of course.’

  Yolanda turned wide eyes on him. ‘Oh my goodness! I’ve just realised who you are.’

  He smiled. ‘When the shop opens next month I’ll be just another business owner. But if I can help with cycling contacts, I will. I’m new here, I’d like to ma
ke a few friends.’

  There was a hum of interest as everyone put a name and a face together and came up with four.

  ‘I’m sure we’d be grateful for any help you can offer, Mr McLean,’ Roger said. ‘With you backing us, perhaps Egglethwaite wouldn’t be such a lost cause after all. How many other villages have their own celebrity cyclist?’

  ‘Just a local businessman, Mr Collingwood. I don’t cycle any more.’

  Didn’t cycle any more. The man who’d told me competing was his life didn’t cycle any more. Then again, he’d told me he was going to call me, too, and that had been a web of lies.

  I tried to tone down my glare a bit. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.

  ‘Well, perhaps I can move things forward with a suggestion,’ Roger said. ‘Let’s say that Egglethwaite will put in a bid to be included on the Grand Départ route.’ He held up a hand as Kit opened his mouth to object. ‘If the organisers are able to put safeguards in place to protect local farmland, and if the route hasn’t been decided already. And may I further propose that we form a dedicated committee to pursue this?’

  ‘Isn’t that your job?’ Sue demanded. ‘I thought that’s why we had a village society, to follow up on things like this.’

  ‘As I’m sure your husband has told you, Susan, the society has many important issues to deal with,’ Roger said stiffly. ‘This would be far too time-consuming to add to our monthly agenda on top of everything else.’

  ‘Ah, now, I’m glad you brought that up. Another pair of Marks & Spencers’ finest went missing off my line the other day. Silk as well. Have you got any leads on that knicker thief yet or what, lad?’

  ‘Maybe he’s making himself a parachute,’ Gerry muttered. ‘Ow,’ he said as his wife dug him in the ribs.

  Roger drew himself up. ‘We’re pursuing a number of leads. Can we stay on topic, please?’ He looked over at us. ‘I really feel something like this should be business-led. What are your thoughts, Lana?’

  ‘My knickers are fine, thanks, Roger. Still got a full set.’

  It was worth it to see him blush.

  ‘Your thoughts on the Tour, young lady,’ he said sternly. ‘Would you be willing to join a committee?’

  I hesitated, glancing at Tom. How far did we really want to go with this?

  ‘Oh. Right,’ Gerry said as Sue elbowed him again. ‘Look, Rodge, it was good of Lana and Tom to come tonight, but I’m not sure they’re in a position to commit themselves to anything more right now. You know it’s a tough time for the family.’

  ‘Of course, thoughtless of me,’ Roger said. ‘There’s no pressure, you two. Whatever you feel comfortable with.’

  ‘I’d like to join the committee,’ Tom said.

  I blinked at him. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Yeah. We suggested it, the least we can do is follow it through.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And it’ll be good for us, Lana. We should be doing something.’

  I thought of Dad, and his last message to us. Making a difference…

  ‘Well, perhaps you’re right,’ I said. ‘Ok, Rodge. Count yourself in two Donatis.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sure we all appreciate it.’ He looked around the rest of the crowd. ‘Any other volunteers?’

  ‘Ow! God almighty, our lass, can you give it a rest?’ Gerry muttered as Sue dug her elbow into his ribs again. He turned to Roger. ‘All right, me and herself’ll join. Anything for a quiet life.’

  ‘You?’ Roger said. ‘I thought you said it was a terrible idea.’

  ‘Not as terrible as upsetting the wife, believe me.’

  Roger shot a look at Sue, who had her formidable face on, but he was a sensible man and managed to refrain from nodding.

  ‘Ok, that’s four,’ he said. ‘Any more for any more?’

  ‘Count me in too,’ Stewart said. ‘Seems like something useful I can get involved in, if I’m going to be part of the community.’

  For God’s sake! What the hell did that man think he was playing at? He was the last person I wanted to be on a committee with, as no doubt he well knew.

  ‘And me,’ Yolanda said. ‘You know me, Roger Collingwood: anything for the village.’ She shot a flirtatious smile in Stewart’s direction, making it pretty clear what the anything she’d do for the village was.

  Roger beamed. ‘Six, excellent. Well then, on that note I think we can end the meeting. Thank you for coming, everyone.’

  Chapter 9

  Once the meeting was officially over, I barged through the crowd, determined to get out before I had to speak to Stewart.

  ‘Wait up, sis! I want a word with Rodge before we go,’ Tom called.

  ‘I’ll see you at home!’ I shouted over my shoulder, steaming ahead to the exit.

  But it was too late. I’d no sooner made it through the door when I felt a hand on my arm. Bloody long-legged cyclists, you just couldn’t out-stride them.

  ‘Lana. Wait a sec.’

  I turned to face Stewart – slowly, to avoid any impression I was either angry with him or keen to see him. It was the nonchalant turn of a woman who didn’t care. A woman who went on hundreds of dates with gorgeous eligible bachelors, of which he was the least gorgeous, the least eligible and by far the least memorable.

  Well, that was the intention. It actually came out more drunken pirouette.

  Stewart was smiling broadly, for all the world like the last year hadn’t happened. Bastard. But the smile faltered a little when he clocked the black look on my face. No matter how hard I tried to be the woman who didn’t care, my brow would seem to knit into the resentful frown of the woman who cared so much that at any moment she might either burst into tears or lamp him one.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. Carelessly.

  ‘Er, hi. Good to see you again.’

  He blinked a few times, as if lost for what to say next. His cheeks were pink with shame. Well, I hoped it was shame. If it wasn’t it bloody well ought to be. The other meeting attendees were streaming past us on their way to the pub, and I made a valiant effort to stop various parts of my face twitching.

  ‘So, um, how you’ve been?’ Stewart fumbled at last.

  Single. Lonely. Haunted by the face of a dying loved one.

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  ‘Good. That’s good.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Ok. Well, up and down.’

  ‘So you stopped cycling then, did you?’ Tonewise I was aiming for cool and casual, but it came out more accusing.

  The blush deepened. ‘Yeah. Invalided out. Knee injury.’

  ‘Sorry to hear it.’

  ‘You still wenching?’

  ‘Only when I need to eat, pay bills, that sort of thing. So yes, most nights.’

  Another silence. The broad smile was long gone now, and I let him sweat. Buggered if I was going to be the first to bring up our doomed first-and-last date.

  ‘Lana, are we ok?’ he blurted out at last.

  ‘Why wouldn’t we be?’

  ‘Just, you know, last year and everything. Us. And now, with this group and everything and me living here and… everything.’

  ‘Last year?’ My fake nonchalance was so palpably, pungently fake it probably triggered every polygraph within a ten-mile radius. ‘Oh! Pagans’ Rock,’ I fake-remembered airily. ‘Right, yeah. Long time ago.’

  ‘Pagans’ Rock.’ He stretched out a hand, then pulled it back again, looking confused. ‘You know, I meant to call you, after that night. Honestly I did. It was… something came up.’

  Something came up. That was it, was it? The best I was getting? Something came up that’d lasted a whole fucking year, apparently. That was one impressive something.

  I almost asked what, but bit my tongue. He was perfectly capable of telling me if he wanted. I wasn’t going to let him think I cared a spit about him or his someth
ings.

  ‘It’s fine.’ I summoned a forced smile of my own. ‘Honestly, Stewart, I’d forgotten all about it.’

  ‘Right. Ok. Good. That’s good.’ Not a glimmer of disappointment. If anything, he sounded relieved. ‘So are we ok to work together on this Tour de France thing?’

  ‘Course,’ I lied. ‘Be useful to have your expertise on board.’

  ‘And we’re friends? I’d like us to be. Just friends, that’s all.’

  ‘We’re… neighbours.’

  ‘Lana, what’re you – oh.’ Tom pulled up short and cast a worried glance from me to Stewart, taking in the matching blushes we’d painted between us. I don’t know what Stewart’s was in aid of, but mine was a generous shot of humiliation with a solid rage mixer. On the rocks.

  ‘Sorry, am I interrupting?’ Tom asked.

  ‘No, we’re done. Come on, Tommy, let’s go.’ I gave Stewart a curt nod. ‘See you around.’

  ‘Yeah. Bye, Lana.’ He put one hand briefly on my shoulder before I left, and I felt a very gentle pressure. ‘Hey,’ he said, his voice softer. ‘Sorry to hear about your dad, kid. He was one of the good guys.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’

  ‘What was that all about?’ Tom muttered as I took his arm to guide him away.

  ‘Stewart McLean, that’s what,’ I said once we were out of earshot, finally giving vent to my pent-up rage. ‘Can you Adam and fucking Eve it? Asking if we can be friends. Friends! After a year! What a first-class, prime-cut arse monkey.’

  ‘Right. Arse monkey.’ He frowned. ‘What’s an arse monkey, sis?’

  ‘It’s a monkey made of arses. Or an arse made of monkeys, either could apply.’

  ‘You’re being very unfair on monkeys, you know.’

  ‘Stewart bloody McLean! God, I wish Dad were here to give him a slap.’

  ‘You want me to give him a slap?’

  ‘No. I think I’d have more fun doing it myself.’ I squeezed his elbow. ‘Thanks for offering though.’