by Alex Morgan
“Darling, are you still there?”
“I know it’s not my fault,” Paula said so quietly she could have been talking to herself, “but it’s hard. I miss him so much. Every day, all the time. I wonder what he would have thought about things, what he would have said about the people I’ve met up here, the friends I’ve made. And I do feel guilty, because I’m meeting new people and getting on with my life, and he can’t do the same. I think I’ve met someone special, Mum, but Pete’ll never get that chance now. And, you know, sometimes I forget he’s dead and I wonder where he is and what he’s up to. Then suddenly I remember.” She raked a hand through her windblown hair. “It’s awful.”
“Yes, it is,” her mum said.
“It’s so hard, so very hard.”
Back in the saddle
Paula wrapped the chicken sandwiches in foil. The cake was cooling and the icing was ready in a bowl. She tested the temperature of the sponges with a fingertip. Still too hot to ice. She washed and peeled a couple of carrots and grated them into a plastic box, tossing in some pine nuts, sesame seeds and raisins. She poured on oil and a little vinegar, added mustard, salt and pepper, and mixed everything together with a fork.
She knew she didn’t have to make this much effort. He would have been perfectly happy with a ham roll and a bag of crisps, but she needed to be doing something.
It was barely six when she had woken, and lying in bed, unable to get back to sleep, she had begun planning the picnic as a way of squeezing out the certain knowledge that this trip was a very bad idea indeed.
The thought was still there as she showered and dressed and ate a slice of toast and marmalade, and she knew that if she didn’t fill the mental space with something practical, she would talk herself out of it.
She was waiting on Adrian Linton’s doorstep when he arrived to open the shop at nine o’clock, silently reciting the list of ingredients she needed, like a mantra to push negative thoughts out of her head. Once everything was bought, she told herself, it would be too late to back out, but even as she beat together butter and eggs for the cake, and sifted flour and cocoa powder, the voice of her fear was urging her not to go through with it.
Glancing out of the window, she saw the tandem leaning against the side of the shed, badgering and bullying her. Closing her eyes, Paula shifted her focus away from the mess of ingredients and implements surrounding her on the kitchen surfaces to the mess inside her head. Ignoring it wasn’t working, so she would try something else.
It’s another betrayal, the voice was saying. Look what happened the last time you did this: you almost ended up in hospital. Why can’t you leave well alone? You really don’t have to do it.
“I hear you,” she said out loud. “I acknowledge what you’re saying, but I’m doing it anyway. I need to do it.”
She opened her eyes, wiped her carroty hands on a dish towel and gave the sponge layers another gentle prod. Reassured that they were cool enough, she smoothed on the icing and decorated the top with Smarties. Without bothering to tidy up, she packed everything into a pannier and filled the water bottles.
Paula went outside and unscrewed the back set of pedals – her pedals – which, like the pair on the front, were little more than clips for the cleats built into the soles of cycling shoes. She replaced them with ordinary box ones which would make it possible to ride in trainers, and lowered the back seat as far as it would go.
As she was pushing the bike down the front path, she had a feeling she was being watched again. Turning, she saw Mrs McIntyre standing at an upstairs window. Her landlady smiled and briefly raised a hand in a cross between a wave and a salute. Paula returned the gesture.
Sanders opened the front door as she was balancing the tandem against his hedge. He was wearing lime green knee-length shorts, a pink Scissor Sisters T-shirt and black slip-on sand shoes. “We’re not going on the bus?” he asked delightedly.
“We’re not.”
“Really?” He was grinning from ear to ear. “We’re going on the tandem?”
“Are you ready?”
He did a little dance, waving his arms in the air. “We’re absolutely ready, ready, ready.”
“We?”
He nodded at Bovis, who was standing on the little square of lawn, watching them. “Her and me, of course.”
“You’re kidding.”
He looked wounded. “She can run beside us.”
“Sanders, she’s only got one back leg.”
“It’s not her fault she’s disabled and it’s illegal to discriminate against her because of it.” He bit into the corner of a fingernail. “Anyway, she’s still pretty fast.”
Paula took off her helmet and rubbed her forehead. Her skull felt as if it was too tight for her brain, and it was beginning to pound. “She’s a greyhound, for goodness sake, and she loves you. She’ll do anything to please you, and if that means running like buggery, she’ll do it for a hundred metres – then collapse in the gutter and fall asleep. That’s what greyhounds do. So unless she can balance on the crossbar for the rest of the way, she stays here.”
“She mibby could.”
Paula shook her head. Why hadn’t she listened to that voice? This was a very bad idea indeed.
“Sanders, that was a joke. Even if she could keep up, it would be far too dangerous to have her running along the road.” She handed him a helmet. “Now put that on and get yourself onto that saddle before I change my mind. I need to see if you can reach the pedals.”
“Two seconds.” He led Bovis inside and re-emerged wearing a small rucksack.
Paula held the bike steady while he climbed onto the back seat. If he wasn’t tall enough to pedal, it would give her a way out. Unfortunately, his legs were longer than she had realised. His position wasn’t ideal – it would put too much strain on his knees if they were trying to race – but it would do for the speed and distance they would be travelling.
“Okay,” she said. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? You’re the stoker and your job is to supply the power.”
He made a whimpering noise. “How much power?”
“Enough to get our combined weight up hills. If you’re having second thoughts, we can still catch the bus.”
“No.” He said resolutely. “I want to.”
“Fine. All you have to do is pedal as hard as you can when I tell you to, and don’t stop until I say. If I say ‘easy’, you ease off a bit, but you don’t stop pedalling. Try not to lean to one side or the other, and don’t make any other sudden moves or do anything to distract me. Oh, and you’re responsible for directions. You know how to get there, don’t you?”
“Of course I know how to get there.”
“Right then.” She swung her right leg over the bar and clicked her shoe into the pedal. The real question was whether she was ready for this. But it really was too late to think about that. “We’re off.”
The bike gave a single wobble before Paula got it under control and then they were heading down the road. Her legs felt as if the bones had melted away, leaving her with nothing more than willpower to turn the pedals. She gripped the handlebars so tightly to stop the shaking in her arms sending them off course that she could see every vein and tendon in her rapidly whitening hands. Apart from that awful trip with Ollie, she had never ridden a tandem without Pete, and it felt utterly alien to be on the front with all the responsibility it entailed. They had cycled together for seventeen years, yet she had only ever sat on the pilot’s seat to steady the bike and hold the lever while her brother tinkered with the back brake.
“We’re stopping at the junction up ahead,” she called over her shoulder. “Be ready to put your left foot down.”
They came to a halt just short of the line. Flicking her heel out to unclip her shoe so she could rest it on the tarmac – an action that normally required no conscious effort – felt like a major triumph of mind over matter.
“This is awesome. Did you see those pensioners staring at us?” Sanders asked
breathlessly. “They nearly swallowed their false teeth. We’re kings of the road, superheroes on two wheels – we have the power to go anywhere we want.”
“How do you think up all that nonsense?” Paula felt herself smiling despite her nervousness about this trip.
“It’s easy. How am I doing?”
“Not too bad for a first attempt. Don’t let your concentration wander though; you’re sitting on almost five grand’s worth of bike.”
The weight behind her shifted as he slid off the seat. “Fuck me, five grand!”
“Sanders, don’t use that word. You’re irritating enough without that too. Now get back on. I can hear a car behind us. Which way are we going?”
They passed Nora and Terry walking Terry Two as they rode up the long hill out of the village to the main road. Nora stuck her fingers in her mouth and wolf whistled, and she and Terry both waved. The bike gave such a shudder to the left as Sanders let go of his handlebars and swung round to respond, that Paula thought they were going to end up in the ditch with their feet in the air.
“Eyes front,” she yelled as she fought to get them running straight again. “Do that again and I’m dumping you right here and riding home on my own.”
“Sorry.”
They had a bit of a struggle getting going again at a couple of uphill junctions, and they took a wrong turn when Sanders got his left and right mixed up, but he soon realised his mistake, and overall Paula was surprised how well they were riding together. He enjoyed it too. Every time they went downhill he squealed with delight, and when she glanced down she could see he was taking his feet off the pedals.
She knew exactly how he felt. Riding with Pete had always meant freedom to her as, with blind awareness, she handed over all control and responsibility, leaving nothing to do but pedal and experience the ride. There was no sensation like the joy of the moment when they found that effortless, rolling gear that meant they were working with the bike instead of fighting against it. There was nothing to match the gasping, burning triumph of beating a steep hill, or the surging, dipping, weaving, whooshing exhilaration of a descent that carried them, panting and goose pimpled through the sweat, back onto the flat.
Now the passenger was in the driving seat. Sanders had chosen their destination, but she was in charge of everything else: when to slow down or speed up, when to change gear, when to brake. And it was all right. The shaking was subsiding. Arms, legs and brain were rising to the challenge and doing what they were supposed to do. She was the pilot, she was in control, and, most amazing of all, she was enjoying the ride too. There was enough power in there, stored up inside her, to do all those things and be able to taste the warm, salt air. She could turn the pedals, steer the bike and smell the fresh breath of the trees. She could see the gulls circling, and feel the hairs on her arms and legs rising in the same breeze that was carrying them aloft.
Eventually, she said, “We’ll go even faster if you keep your feet where they’re supposed to be and tuck your elbows and knees in.”
“Aye, aye captain,” Sanders replied.
They reached the turning for the bay in just under an hour – a far slower pace than she was used to – but the important thing was that they made it without injury to themselves or the bike. It took another ten minutes and all Paula’s concentration to navigate them down the narrow stony track, avoiding tree roots and potholes and the spiky arms of giant coconut-scented broom bushes that stretched out to bar their way.
When riding was no longer possible, they dismounted and pushed the bike, Sanders walking like a cowboy who had spent too long in the saddle.
“That was epic,” he said.
“Not too uncomfortable?”
“Only a bit.”
“That’s why cyclists wear padded shorts. You did well though.”
He blew on his fingers and pretended to buff his stumpy fingernails on his chest. “Lance Armstrong eat your heart out.”
“You’ve heard of Lance Armstrong?”
“Doh, he only won the Tour de France six times.”
“Seven,” Paula corrected. “He won the world’s toughest sporting event seven times in a row after beating supposedly terminal cancer. He had tumours in his lungs, brain and testicles. The doctors didn’t expect him to survive, let alone ride again, but he did it – up and down the Alps and the Pyrenees, more than three thousand kilometres in three weeks, faster than any other cyclist in the world, every year for seven years. It just shows what you can achieve if you really want to.”
“But he did it on drugs,” Sanders pointed out.
“Yes, sadly, he did.”
They emerged onto the edge of a high, grass-fringed dune. The flawless crescent of sand stretching below them was completely empty.
“This is amazing,” Paula gasped.
“It’s a special place, for thinking and stuff. Hardly anyone ever comes here.”
“I suppose most tourists want paved roads, parking and toilets. They don’t want to cycle or leave their cars miles away then cart their belongings down here. Andy took me to a beach like this further up the coast where there were seals lying about all over the place. There was no one there either.”
“Most people are lazy.” Sanders bent to pull a thorn out of his ankle. “They never get to see the good things. The cave I slept in is along there a bit. I’ll show you later if you like.”
“That was quite a walk.”
“I came part of the way on the bus. Anyway, I needed to think.”
Paula unclipped the pannier and chained the tandem to a solitary section of rusted metal fence that was almost hidden by the grass. Sanders took off his shoes and bounded ahead down the dune, seemingly oblivious to the razor-edged fronds.
“There’s a piece of tree here we can use as a table,” he called.
She picked her way to where he was sitting cross-legged on the sand and unpacked the food.
He opened his rucksack and held out a can. “It’s ginger beer. I thought you’d like it better than Tizer or Irn-Bru.”
She held it as far away as she could and pulled the ring. A fizzle of foam slid down the side. Licking it away, she took a long gulp. She hadn’t drunk ginger beer since she was a child and it tasted as deliciously fiery and illicit as she remembered. It had always made her feel grown up when they had a picnic and her dad handed round the cans of ginger beer – it had such a strange flavour, she was sure only adults were supposed to drink it. When Pete said it was his favourite, it became hers too, even though it made her tongue hot and tingly.
She raised her can slightly. “Cheers, Pete.”
“What?” Sanders was already biting into a sandwich.
“Nothing.”
He brandished it in her direction. “These are nice.”
Paula peeled the lid off the carrot salad and gave him a fork. “More vitamins to build you up.”
He grinned. There were fragments of chicken stuck between his small animal teeth. “I’ve got something to show you.”
He passed her a large envelope from his rucksack. It contained a letter and a certificate.
“What are these?”
“Have a look.”
She read the certificate. “You’ve sponsored a king penguin called Bungee from Edinburgh Zoo.”
He beamed at her. “The letter says it’s a present from an anonymous donor. Any idea who that could be?”
Paula smiled. “None at all.”
“It says he’s Sir Nils Olav’s twin brother.”
“I didn’t know penguins could have twins.”
“The letter says they hatched on the same day. That’s as good as twins. Someone else adopted him when he was little and chose his name, but they didn’t keep up the payments, so now he’s mine for good and I can visit him whenever I like.”
“That’s wonderful.” She raised her can again. “To Bungee, the penguin.”
“Bungee, the penguin,” Sanders repeated solemnly, knocking his can against hers. “I was thinking I might write
a book.”
“Really? What about?”
“About a superhero penguin that solves crimes and stuff, you know like James Bond. I’m going to call it Double-o-Penguin.”
Paula laughed. “That’s brilliant. You should write it.”
“Mibby I will.” He took a swig from his can. “I’ve decided, you know.”
“About what?” Paula asked nervously.
He gazed out to sea. “Everything.”
“That’s what I thought you meant. And?”
“I’m me, and that’s who I’m going to stay. I don’t want to be someone else just because a load of doctors think it’s a good idea.” He took another quick sip and turned his attention back to the view.
“So?” Paula prompted.
He spoke without looking at her. “So no drugs and no operations.”
“Where will that leave you?”
He balanced his can on the tree trunk. “Where I am now, in the middle, being me.”
“But you will change, whether you like it or not, and it’ll be even easier for people to see that you’re different. Are you prepared for that?”
“It’s who I am,” he said quietly. “There will always be horrible people like at the gala. At least it’ll be my change, with no one interfering. I’ll still be Sanders. If I can deal with it, everyone else will have to as well.”
“And if you don’t like it?”
“I can always have the hormones and surgery and stuff later.”
“Fair enough.”
When he didn’t say anything more, Paula opened the cake box and took a knife out of the pannier. “Here, you cut it.”
“Wow, it’s got Smarties on top.” Sanders cut two huge slices. “Did Nora bake it?”
“I did. It’s my mum’s recipe. She used to make it for Pete and me on our birthday. I got her out of bed at seven this morning to check I’d remembered it right. Then I woke Mrs McIntyre to borrow the tins.”
He bit into his slice. “Yum. This is even better than the sandwiches.”
“I wanted to make you something special before I left.”
