The Lady of Mannby Stefan Brenner |
Part 1, Part 3, Part 4 appear in this issue. |
| part 2 of 4 |
A pattern emerged in the frenetic activity of practice week. The agony of the early alarm, the loading and unloading, dismantling and rebuilding, scrutineering and stop-watching: meals were cooked and consumed without care or concern. With each practice session my lap times were reduced, until, on Wednesday morning, the magic ‘ton’ was finally bettered. This achieved, it remained only to run in the new pistons and rings that I had saved for race day.
That evening, I toured gently round the course to the Glen Helen hotel. I was to meet up with Ruth and Siân and wait for the roads to reopen. Tom would then come up with the van to pick us all up. By the time I arrived, the girls were already firmly ensconced at the bar. I left the bike leaning against some straw bales and went inside.
“Poor old Tom’s missing out again,” Siân said, and giggled. “He won’t be able to make it up here for a drink till they open the roads and that could be ages yet.” She had obviously not been suffering from the same deprivation.
“Not all that long,” I replied, plonking myself down on the nearest bar-stool. “I didn’t get away till at least halfway through the session.”
“We’ve been having quite a session of our own,” was Siân’s slightly slurred riposte: the large vodka in front of her provided material evidence of her claim, as if any further evidence were needed.
Ruth’s glass was also full, but her demeanour appeared to be less one of smugness and more one of guilty acquiescence.
“So, isn’t somebody going to get me one?” I asked. “A pint of Okells will do nicely.”
Ruth’s face flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry, I’ll see to it.”
“No need for that, I’m buying.” The softly spoken voice, with its Northern Irish accent, came from directly behind us.
As we turned, the voice continued. “Number 22: Michael Corkill.” This revelation implied nothing magical: the voice would merely have noted the number on my bike and guessed that I was its rider. Then all it had to do was check any program to obtain my name.
The voice’s owner now came right up to us, hand up to catch the barman’s eye. “A pint of Okells and one of orange juice and lemonade when you’re ready, friend,” he ordered.
A young man stood before us, dressed in racing leathers. He was shortish, slim and wiry, with a bristly moustache adorning his youthful face. Its reddish hue matched his closely cropped hair. His intense, hazel-brown eyes fixed me with a gimlet stare.
“Running in the Yam, aren’t you? Then I suppose that you’ll be out on that Bologna beastie of yours tomorrow afternoon.” This, too, would not be hard to work out. The wiry Ulsterman produced money from an inside pocket as the drinks arrived on the bar.
“Don’t worry, I know all about you, and every other runner in the Junior who’s topped the ton in practice. I make it my business to know about the opposition.” He laughed. “But then we’re all friends in here. Cheers, drink up now.” He took a swig of his disgustingly bright orange pint, turned away, and I read the name emblazoned in red letters across the back of his white leathers: ‘Jim McCree’
Without warning, there was a random hush in the general hubbub and I caught every word as Siân mouthed to Ruth: “you know that he’s a Newcomer, only 20, and damn quick. Been rocketing up the leaderboard, and everyone reckons that he’ll go really well in the race.”
“A ... ing Newcomer!” I swore out loud. I suddenly felt old at 32.
“Sssh!” Ruth warned. “Quiet or he’ll hear you.”
“So what if he does!” I had had enough. Nowadays, there was no respect for age or experience and every Newcomer thought he was a world champion.
“Michael, listen, you got a drink out of him” Ruth joined in. “Anyway, forget about him: the only thing that counts is you. You get the Replica whatever he does, so what does it matter?”
“You’re right enough there.” I swilled down the last of my free beverage. The drink had quenched my thirst, but then some thirsts are easier to quench than others.
* * *
I sat brooding in the corner while my pint sat on the table before me, untouched. There was one thing in my favour over McCree, I reminded myself. This was his first ever ‘Manx’: that was why he was classed as a ‘Newcomer’. Before he even lined up for Tuesday’s race, he would have to ride the four lap Newcomers. By the start of the Junior, the young Ulsterman might not be feeling so fresh and some of his seemingly boundless confidence might even have been drained by a couple of near things on the track.
Tom was due in anytime now with the van. The girls seemed quite drunk, heads bent close together in an animated conversation. I wasn’t worried about the hour: there was no practice for me in the morning. All the while, Siân’s slim hands fluttered like butterflies. As she stressed some point or other, they alighted momentarily on Ruth’s shoulder, leg or hands. I had not dared to hope that they would take so easily to one another. Hill View during race week could be a claustrophobic place and I had feared a clash of personalities between the two of them.
Suddenly, I found myself wondering where the devil Tom had got to. The roads must be open by now, the roars and screams of passing machines had long since given way to a silence which was almost eerie. Then the door opened and Tom trudged in, closely followed by a female I hadn’t ever clapped eyes on before.
“Hiya Michael,” he said nonchalantly. “I’ve brought Cathy here to pick up her brother: is there a Jim McCree about?”
A shouted greeting from Jim to his sister confirmed his presence. She left Tom’s side and he ambled purposefully over to join his wife towards the bar. I, however, remained rooted where I sat, eyes on Cathy McCree.
Just a little shorter than her brother, Cathy was also more heavily built. Her well defined bosom and hips meant that she cut a strongly feminine figure, even in a baggy tee-shirt and jeans. Her auburn hair hung halfway down her back in un-styled luxuriance. She had a somewhat freckled complexion, with a pug nose, wide mouth and strong chin. She was no beauty, but her pale green eyes were most unusual and had a cat-like, hypnotic, quality.
Noting my stare, she turned the full force of those eyes towards me and I realised that she must be a lot older than Jim, there was a fine network of lines at their corners.
“So you’re the famous Michael then, Tom has been telling me all about you.” Her cool certainty constituted an invitation as well as a challenge. “Nice of him to bring me up here, wasn’t it?” I suspected that she had obtained the favour with ease.
Tom interrupted any retort with a shout. “Hey, you two, come over here! Let’s all have a drink together.”
I contrived to keep as close to Cathy and as far from Jim as I could. Leaving the latter to talk technicalities with Tom, I edged closer to Cathy. Ruth and Siân seemed to be engrossed in something private. Normally, I would have been intrigued to know what they were on about and tried to listen in. Instead, I found myself asking Cathy, “so, who is Jim’s mechanic?”
“I see, you don’t think I could do it.” She smiled, mocking, testing me out.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything like that.” I felt off-balance, unsure of myself and what to say.
“Because you would be wrong if you thought I couldn’t.” She chuckled at the ridiculous idea. “Though as it happens, I’m not. We’ve a couple of lads from home to do the spannering, so my time’s my own.”
“Home, where’s that exactly?”
“Ever heard of Newtownabbey?” I just shook my head: I didn’t seem to be thinking straight.
“It’s in County Antrim.” My mind remained a blank and I didn’t respond. “You know, in Ireland, silly, you’ll have surely heard of that?” I finally nodded, trying to regain my composure, but those emerald eyes kept disrupting my equilibrium.
Then, completely out of the blue: “the blonde: she’s the girlfriend then?”
“What blonde? Oh you mean Ruth. Yeah, I suppose so.” I supposed so, what was I saying!
My thoughts whirled in circles. I had the distinct feeling that this woman had used Tom to get close to me: otherwise, why hadn’t the lads from Antrim come to pick Jim up? She would have had little trouble in finding out where Tom was going by asking in the paddock. On the other hand, that would not explain why Jim had come up here in the first place: not unless the two of them were in it together. No, that was crazy. Glen Helen was a natural stopping point for running in, what with the hotel and the car park. I should have asked the man himself; we’d be leaving any minute.
* * *
Jim was offering to drive the van back to Douglas; after all, he was the only one who hadn’t been drinking. I should have been grateful, but I wasn’t. Tom, with Siân sitting on his lap squeezed into the front seat. Ruth had become seriously unsteady with all the drink, and she was wedged in between Tom and the door to keep her upright. Cathy and I were ordered into the back. We sat on the floor, facing each other in the darkness, cramped together between the two racing bikes.
Without any conscious act of will, I found one hand resting firmly on Cathy’s leg. And, as the van bumped slowly back from Ballacraine her hand closed over mine, guiding its passage as it slid upwards, until it was pressing urgently at the warm softness between her thighs. Her luminous eyes gleamed with reflected light from the street lamps, transfixing me. The hammering sound of blood pounding in my ears make me dizzy as I felt her thick hair brush my face.
“I’ll see you at the Celtic Craft Centre at Sulby Glen: Sunday at mid-day.” The way she said it made what would usually be a question sound just like the command it was undoubtedly meant to be. Then we slowed for Braddan Bridge and she suddenly withdrew her hand from mine. The spell was broken, leaving me embarrassed, ashamed. But something remained intangibly altered, something that could never be undone.
* * *
Thursday morning dawned early, a soft ethereal glow presaging the full force of the sun. I, alone, was awake and witnessed this dawning; the others slept on. Tired and confused, I watched the new day emerge, lighting up the roofs of Douglas, from my window. I pondered the significance of the previous evening’s events, but could find no pattern. To the contrary, everything appeared to be no more than some random concatenation of coincidences. I would have to wait and see if anything more comprehensible emerged, like the dawn, to shed some light on what was going on. Returning to my bed, I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
I was awoken by Tom’s ebullient shout. “It’s gone 10 o’clock you lazy bastard: everyone else is up. I’ve brought you some tea.” My eyes began to focus: there was Tom, the promised mug of tea in his hand. “Come on man wake up! In case you’ve forgotten, you’re supposed to be taking the Duke out this afternoon.” I groaned. Unbelievably, I had forgotten. Or, rather, I just hadn’t given it a thought. I stirred and groggily climbed out of bed.
Lunch-time and we were back in Noble’s Park paddock. A mighty shove and the Ducati bellowed into life in an explosion of sound. I eased in the clutch; the off-beat impulses of power from the vee-twin motor propelling me up to the collecting area and out on to the Glencrutchery road.
Down the steep descent of Bray Hill the phenomenal torque of the four-stroke cylinders drove the Duke forwards effortlessly and it gained speed with a deceptive rapidity. At Quarter Bridge, a couple of less appealing characteristics of the roadster-based machine manifested themselves: its sheer weight made it a real handful to stop, and the bike’s long wheelbase rendered it unhappy with sudden changes of direction.
Rather to my surprise, the long-legged, lolloping four-stroke appeared to be more than a match for anything: a few two-stroke pure racing machines did get the better of me in the tight sections approaching Sarah’s Cottage, but once on the Cronk-y-Voddy straight, striding into its higher gears, the Duke easily clawed back the lost ground.
However, it was on the Mountain that I began to really appreciate the merits of my sleek creation. The steep slopes drained the zip from the high-revving two-strokes, leaving them gasping; while the V-twin motor’s tremendous spread of power just shrugged off the gravitational drag and rarefied air of Snaefell. On the mountain, moreover, even the Ducati’s extra weight and wheelbase became a positive asset, keeping the bike rock solid as I tore over the railway tracks at The Bungalow and sliced through the gusting breeze at Brandywell.
As I swept down through Keppel and Kate’s, I spotted a gaggle of 350cc machines ahead, easily identified by their blue racing number plates. I reeled them in on the drop to the Creg; then bellowed past them though Brandish, the noise from the high-level megaphone exhausts rising to an earth-shaking crescendo. As I did so, I thought I caught a glimpse of red on white, the colours of Jim McCree’s racing leathers; then it was off with the throttle and full on the brakes for Hilbery. Winding down through Cronk-ny-Mona and slowing for Governor’s, the dicing bunch re-passed me; and McCree, for it was him, moved over momentarily, almost brushing my fairing with his own and then he was gone, wailing like a Banshee down the Glencrutchery road.
Tom ran to meet me as I thumbed the kill-button and coasted to a halt. “What’s she like to ride? How’s she running? What do you reckon you got out of her down the Mountain?”
The questions rained down upon my helmet but its shiny surface was impervious to them all. “Any problems?” he persisted.
In answer, I just shook my head and gesticulated towards the jerry-cans behind the van, demanding more fuel. He complied immediately and this set the pattern for the afternoon session; me doing the riding, Tom the refilling and adjusting. Conversation was kept to a minimum.
Then the weather began to deteriorate, each of the sun’s rays flashing a final farewell and then blinking out, as the cloud cover gradually increased. There was a smell of rain on the Atlantic breeze blowing in from the West, and, presently, the first droplets were falling on the exposed sections between Kirk Michael and Ramsey.
Fleeing before the advancing weather front, the Ducati laid down its own trail of thunder as I ran for the shelter of Douglas and the paddock. Installed in the van’s warm cab, I let the tensions of the day ebb away. I gently slipped into half-waking, trance-like, state, reflecting on my relationship with the two bikes.
The Yamaha had been my long-time companion, its familiarity instilling a feeling of trust in its unswerving loyalty and dependability, through thick and thin, good times and bad. Even after last year’s brutal treatment, the TZ had come back without hidden flaws or vices, as sweet and responsive as ever.
The Ducati was another beast altogether. Compliant and rebellious in turn, its moods remained unpredictable; one moment it was a gentle pussycat, lazily consuming miles of tarmac and purring safely around bends; the next and it became a willful tigress, ready to bite and tear at the surrounding verges.
A persistent tapping noise woke me from my reverie. “Hey Corkill, wake up!” This week, I seemed to be living in dream-world with everyone else trying to break in. Considering the rain outside, Jim McCree seemed strangely cheerful. He watched me yawn and blink confusedly behind the glass.
“Let me in man, can’t you see that it’s piddling down out here.” I reluctantly moved over and he climbed into the van dripping rainwater all over the seat. “She’s a flyer alright; there was no way I could hold you down the Mountain.” The man seemed friendly enough, smiling and relaxed. Perhaps I had misjudged him.
“It’s a damn good thing you can’t run her in the Junior: I might even have worried about beating you.” He laughed, opened the van door and, before I could think of a suitable retort, slipped away into the rain.
* * *
Copyright © 2007 by Stefan Brenner
