It would be fun, and it would pay well, certainly many times more than she'd earned from helping Annabelle out of a jam, but that had been fun too. They were a nice bunch of girls, and the punters had been no trouble. Just the usual selection of nice lonely business men in need of a little TLC, and well mannered middle aged single guys with urges to satisfy and a taste for younger prettier women than they could normally attract.
All of them had treated her with respect and in return she'd made sure that they went away with the feeling that they were just a little bit special. It's what she was good at.
It may not be a vocation that would suit everyone, but it suited her fine. She enjoyed her work a lot, and had done rather well out of it, as this old stone country cottage and her working apartment in Bath city centre clearly demonstrated.
She had a few advanced bookings over the next couple of weeks, arranged by the agency that provided a lot of her work and vetted any new clients, followed by a long weekend off when she would be heading away to a motorcycle rally with her tent and bedroll strapped to the sissybar of her bobbed BMW.
A weekend of ride outs, live music, junk food, and partying the nights away with like minded enthusiasts would be a complete and welcome contrast to this weekend's private house party at a minor stately home in the Midlands.
She was looking forward to it. She could meet up with friends old and new that knew nothing of her lifestyle and judged it even less.
* * *
Sitting in a comfortable village pub with a pint of good ale in front of him, Terry Peters looked at his old friend in exasperation,
“I jus' don't get it, Tony… I know you likes doin' it, but what's it all for, eh? Why not get yourself a proper bird, 'stead o' goin' down all these knockin' shops. You never know what you might pick up”. He chuckled to himself, as he saw the grin appear on his friend's face, “P'raps I put that a bit badly, but you know what I mean. How d'you know that they ain't riddled with the clap or somethin' even worse?” Tony interrupted his friend's distinct 'Brizzle Burr' accented diatribe. They'd been discussing their day, and to his closest friends Tony had very few secrets.
“Aw c'mon now, Terry, you've seen some of them birds falling out of the pubs and clubs. They're not exactly discerning, staggering down the street clinging onto some trendy clubber type that they've only just met. Looking for some alleyway where they can consummate their new 'relationship' with a knee trembler against a graffiti covered wall. It isn't even likely to be something classy like a 'Banksy'! That's if they haven't been at it already in the club's bogs. No…” He chuckled, “Leave it out, mate. How many of them are sober enough to even remember what a condom looks like? let alone actually put one on”. He took a mouthful of his cider then continued, “I mean to say, there's housing estates that's full of silly little scrubbers pushing prams 'cos they let some randy no mark into their knickers on a night out. How many of them are on repeat prescriptions for antibiotics, eh? An' the buggers that gave 'em the nippers or the dose of whatever STD is currently top of the charts, are nowhere to be seen, while you and I are supporting them out of our taxes.”
Terry shrugged,“Yeah, mate. I hear what you're sayin', but I ain't on about that sort of thing. Not just one night stands… I mean… don't you want to have a proper girlfriend?” He sipped at his beer, “Y'know, like, someone who you can spend some time with, not just for a bit of nookie”. Tony knew Terry's preferences in these kind of matters, though the man was currently between girlfriends. He shook his head,
“No, my old friend. Not yet, at least. It's too much hassle, it's almost as bad as havin' a dog… which brings us back to those clubber birds.” He grinned, “But seriously, you've got to consider them when you want to sod off somewhere on the bike at short notice. Y'know, like when a mate calls you about a rally or a party somewhere… like that Dorset do in a few weeks time. You can just up, and go, without being told that you promised to go out furniture shopping for your girlfriend's flat. You know what I mean? You don't end up letting anyone down.”
Terry nodded,“OK, I get that. So… You can't go without a shag, so you have to go to a knockin' shop. Is that it?” Tony laughed, as he put his glass back on the table,
“No Terry, it's not quite as simple as that, not at all, I like going to these places, it's fun. I like the variety of the girls. Sometimes I fancy a nice cuddly little Goth chick, other times a skinny waif like blonde, or an athletically built black girl. Variety, mate, it's the spice of life. It's like finding a new piece of road with a nice set of bends to ride, every one is different, understand? But I don't want to own that road an' I don't need to. There's no strings, and I'm not just picking up some poor disillusioned girl that thinks it's going to be forever, then letting her down after getting my wicked way with her”. He took out his tobacco tin and began to roll a cigarette, “No, mate, this way, it's a dead cert that I’ll get laid and the girls are willing, skilled, and are getting what they want too… the cash. It's a no brainer.” He paused to lick the gummed strip on his roll up, “… and they're careful, and therefore safe…” He paused, tapping his cigarette on the table to settle the tobacco, “After all, I don't go out shagging those crackhead street tarts down Fishponds road, do I? No way! Only decent parlours for me… If anything looks in the least bit dodgy, then I'm out of there.” He slid the tin across the table to his friend. “You comin' out for a smoke?” Terry nodded and took a paper and a generous pinch of tobacco, then began to roll up a smoke,
“Cheers…” He licked the paper and closed the rollup, then stood up. Tony followed suit. Still talking animatedly, the two friends went outside into the fresh night air.
4 - Away from it
One Friday afternoon, just a few weeks later, Lena was turning off a B road into a tiny winding rural lane that led to a freshly mown farmer's field that overlooked the not too far distant English Channel.
The Sun was shining, the air was perfumed with the delicate smell of freshly cut grass, and her bike's crisp and resonant exhaust notes bounced off the banks and stone walls like sweet music to her ears.
Turning into the gateway, she could see a scattering of bikes leaning on their sidestands while people were busily erecting tents and setting up camp for the weekend. Others were still setting up trade stands, portable toilets and showers, and other facilities.
* * *
Lena finished putting up her small tent, slipping the remaining spare pegs back into their nylon pouch which she then put back into the tent's own bag, before tossing it inside the open flap. She unstrapped her sleeping bag, and a PVC stuffer bag containing changes of clothes and necessary toiletries from the back of her bike, then threw them all, along with her leather jacket, unceremoniously into the tent.
Taking a look around her, she could see a few bikes, parked beside tents, that she recognised from this or other similar events. More machines were still arriving and probably would be for some while to come, especially if they'd come from some distance.
In her case the rally was reasonably close to home, just down near the Dorset coast, so her journey had only taken a couple of pleasant hours on nice winding country roads in the sunshine. It had given her time to watch the countryside go by and muse on the things that mattered to her.
At least she hadn't had to endure the boredom and discomfort of a long motorway stretch. On her kind of bike, they became quite literally a pain in the neck with the constant wind pressure from sustained high speed cruising.
She picked up her helmet from the grass and put it carefully into a protective bag before placing it gently inside the tent. She zipped up the tent flap, and after another look around her, she headed across the field towards the food van.
It was parked to one side of an open area in front of the makeshift stage, in reality an old flatbed trailer with screens around it and a gantry for the stage lighting.
In front of the stage, in the middle of the open area, a couple of men were rigging up the mixing desk, making it ready f
or the bands. They had laid boards over the cables that linked it to the stage so they would be protected from the expected onslaught of motorcycle boots, Doc Martens and the various forms of army surplus and industrial footwear favoured by many bikers.
Both men looked up as she passed them, a look of sheer admiration on their faces. She was wearing old jeans and a loosely fitting T shirt bearing the very faded logo from a now defunct Bristol bike shop. Despite the fact that she had no makeup and her glorious red hair was plastered flat from wearing her crash helmet, she could still turn heads..
Lena wasn't there to pull, she was there to relax. She was there to have a good time with other bikers, and to bathe in that weird kind of solitude that could sometimes be found in the midst of a crowd of like minded strangers. But she still managed to turn heads.
The catering van's operator had provided a selection of plastic garden chairs and tables for his customers, so Lena sat down with her bacon roll and her plastic cup of stewed tea from the huge pot on top of the urn. Somehow, in the open air, she thought it tasted it better that way.
Chewing on her roll, her mind on nothing in particular, she looked out across the field to the rapidly filling camping area as she waited for her tea to cool to a low enough temperature to drink. All seemed well with the world. The Sun was shining still, low down in the western sky, and somehow the ever present rumbling background noise of arriving motorcycles seemed soothing, at least until it was interrupted by one of the roadies checking the microphones for the evening’s entertainment.
A large tattooed girl, wearing a tie dyed men's vest, cut short jeans, and yellow boots, walked past carrying a tray full of steaming plastic cups. She nodded across to Lena in recognition, then called out,
“Hi ya, Lena… I'll see yer tonight… Should be good, the band have been going down well in local pubs, or so I'm told… Catch ya later… Gotta get these back to the lads”. Lena nodded,
“Yeah… Sure…” The woman continued across the field. Lena searched the recesses of her memory for her name. The face and figure rang a bell, as did the large Chinese dragon climbing up the girl's arm. It suddenly came to her, 'Grizz', that was her name. She'd said it was short for Griselda, but that could have been a nickname as well. Lena thought that she might have changed her hair colour too, from last year's blue to the mauve that she wore now. Still, it had been a year since she'd seen her and her crowd. This wasn't really their stamping ground. They came from somewhere up north, and as far as Lena was aware, this was the only rally this far south that they bothered with.
She screwed up the paper serviette that had accompanied her bacon roll, drank down her tea then walked across to the waste bin to drop the cup and tissue into it before heading back to her tent. The band weren't scheduled to come on for a couple of hours yet, so she decided to take a nap before the night's partying started.
Sleep was a rare luxury at motorcycle rallies. You'd get into your sleeping bag late, but any chances of a morning lie in were scuppered by the early dawn sunshine making its way through the fabric of your tent at some unearthly hour, usually followed shortly by the movement of campers heading for the toilets. If you slept through these, then there would soon be the sound of bikes leaving and returning to the site, as their owners headed to the nearest village shop, or to the local garage to top up their tanks ready for the rideout later on. Even for those that were suffering with a hangover after the excesses of the night before, opportunities for sleeping late into the morning would be extremely unlikely.
* * *
Later that evening, Lena was standing to one side of the stage listening to the local five piece band as they played one of her favourite songs. She was familiar with 'Little Feat's' version of Lowell George's 'Willin' ' but these young lads had given the song their own stamp, and she liked it. She liked it a lot.
She made a mental note to find out, during the band's half time break, if they had recorded it. There was always a chance that they'd have CDs for sale. Many relatively unknown gigging bands did produce these to sell at gigs, often nothing more than home produced discs burned on somebody's computer. These days, it was even easier to produce them than the cassettes that were frequently sold to fans at pub and club gigs in the past. Added to that, the digital sound quality was infinitely superior to the tapes, even if the recordings had been taken direct from the mixing desk at a live show. In fact, often these live recordings had more spirit and character than the more technically and musically perfect, but sometimes cold sounding, studio recordings.
Out of the corner of her eye, she became aware of somebody waving furiously at her. Turning to look, she saw Grizz, the girl from earlier, with her friends as they made their way from the bar tent to the area in front of the stage. Lena acknowledged her and made her way over to where they were headed to join them.
* * *
Tony was standing, tankard of cider in hand, watching and listening as five young lads were giving creditable renderings of some of his favourite rock and blues numbers.
A very beautiful girl caught his eye, she was standing next to the makeshift stage. Something about her looked familiar, very familiar, but he wasn’t quite sure what it was. A friend spoke to him and he turned to answer, when he turned back the girl had moved and he couldn’t see where she'd gone.
He placed his tankard carefully on the ground and took out his tobacco tin to roll a cigarette while looking around to see if he could see his friend Terry. He'd ridden off earlier to the nearest coastal village in search of some good fish and chips.
Tony had decided to patronise the food stall that was on site as he figured that they weren't going to make much of a fortune for themselves out of the visitors to a small bike rally. They were almost certainly either friends or relatives of the organisers attending with their snack van as a favour.
He put the tin back into his pocket, then lit his cigarette. As he did so, two young lads wandered up and asked him for a light. He didn't recognise them, they didn't look like bikers' offspring attending with their parents. They were dressed differently to the way those youngsters usually did at these kinds of events. More 'urban', rather than adopting the biker look, or even the rock fan style often seen at live gigs.
Tony guessed that they were probably a couple of local village kids checking out the show, despite their 'urban' style clothing in the heart of the countryside.
Tickets were made available on the gate for the evening gig, though it wasn't uncommon for local teenagers to slip onto the site from the adjacent fields. No one worried too much as long as they behaved themselves.
Tony put his lighter back into his pocket and picked up his drink. Taking a swig, he turned to listen to two of his friends as they regaled the tale of a recent close shave with a police car that had seen them riding a little too quickly for the posted speed limit, but had failed to turn round in time to give pursuit. As more drink was consumed, the banter became more ribald and the anecdotes less believable, but no one seemed to care anymore. They were relaxing with their own kind and having fun.
5 - Morning
Lying awake as the early morning sunlight streamed in through the open flap of her tent, Lena finally decided that she could delay no longer. It was no good, she was going to have to leave the warm cocoon of her sleeping bag and venture across the field to the mobile toilet block.
She unzipped the bag, then wriggled into her jeans before emerging blinking into the daylight. Looking around she could see that there were only a few people outside their tents, either smoking, or putting kettles onto camping stoves.
Across the field she could see the catering van. Its flap was still closed but there was a stream of vapour coming out from the stainless steel vent pipe into the cold air where it condensed into a white plume worthy of some kind of industrial facility. Patches of mist hung just above the dewy grass. They seemed to have an almost ethereal look about them as they seemed to softly glow in the low, early morning, sun.
She walked
over to the mobile toilet, wishing that she'd pulled on her boots, rather than simply slipping her feet into the canvas espadrilles that had already become sodden after only a few steps across the wet grass.
Fortunately the hire company's cleaners had already been to service the block so it smelled cleanly of disinfectant rather than of stale urine and vomit. She wondered at what unearthly hour these poor souls must have to start work. These facilities were something that in the past she'd tended to take for granted, simply accepting that they were there.
* * *
Feeling greatly relieved, Lena stepped out once more into the sunshine. Then Froze. But it wasn't the early morning chill that brought forth her next utterance,
“Oh, Jesus!… No!”. Neither had it been the 'Second Coming'. In Lena's world, those two words meant something very different.
She had a pretty good memory for faces, and was certain that the one that was walking towards her had been one of her punters when she'd been helping Annabelle out of a staff shortage situation only a little while back.
“Hi… It's Lena, isn't it?… Or is that just a working name?” The man drew on his roll up, then smiled, as he slowly exhaled smoke. Lena wasn't ashamed of how she earned her living, but she didn't want to broadcast it to the people in her own private life that might judge her unfairly. She hoped that her recent punter felt the same way.
“Er… Yes, it is Lena… and yes… it's my real name…” She paused, unsure whether she should admit to remembering his name. It might seem as though he'd made an impression on her, though in fact he'd been OK. He'd been considerate and undemanding. That was all that really mattered apart from him leaving completely satisfied with her service. “You're Tony… That's right, isn't it?” He nodded as she continued, “Listen… I'd appreciate it if we kept our recent encounter to ourselves, OK?” He smiled, nodding again,
“Of course… no problem… some people can be funny about that sort of thing, can't they?… D'you fancy a coffee?” She looked across at the still closed food van,