The Ride-1

THE RIDE

So, it had all been arranged, virtually on the spur of the moment. They were to meet at Euston, with their bikes, in time for the 08.46 slow train to Liverpool Lime Street.

Frank had been round at Lisa’s place in Carshalton, reinforcing the defences of the chicken run. The foxes had broken in on Sunday night, again, killing Lisa’s entire flock apart from Jackie the big Rhode Island Red who was still at the vet’s being treated for multiple lacerations.

Lisa had phoned Frank’s wife, Celine, a fellow chicken lover in floods of tears and Celine had volunteered Frank’ services to shore up the defences of the run ahead of any future additions to Lisa’s flock.

Frank helped Lisa bury the pathetic little torn bodies of the three bantam Orpingtons, Melanie, Missie and Flora, before turning his attention to the run.

Lisa watched Frank as he humped the brutally heavy grey paving stones to reinforce the run. Watched him rather longer than was necessary, truth be told, not that Frank minded. He liked Lisa; had known her a long time. Divorced ten years ago – Geoff, her consultant hubby had, inexplicably, gone off to pursue ‘other interests’ – must have been mad, Frank thought. In fairness, Geoff hadn’t stinted on the settlement, handing over the smart little Carshalton terrace to Lisa lock, stock and barrel. She’d had enough cash and private pension to retire, almost on a whim, from her job as a GP on turning 55 a couple of years ago.

One morning, at meeting with some of the more obtuse and jobsworthy members of the Health Trust she’d shouted: “You lot deserve to be strung up from the speed camera poles and your remains thrown into Carshalton Ponds!” and had stormed out, never to return.

They met often, Frank usually with Celine in tow, though not always.

Lisa liked Frank too; his wide shoulders, his understated muscularity, the slight freckling of his skin where it had caught the sun. Above all, his sense of humour. She dissolved in peals of laughter when he made some quip about Jackie the Rhode Island (“that chicken’s full of misinformation”).

“Well, I’ll miss you when you’re away. Where did you say you were going?”

“Liverpool. A work trip.”

“Never been to Liverpool; never been north of Birmingham. Well, apart from a medical conference near Manchester Airport. And we flew up once to the Edinburgh Festival. Looking forward?”

“Yes, I’m taking my bike on the train so I’ll get a chance to do a pub crawl on wheels during the evening.”

“You don’t let up, do you? Ever thought of slowing down a bit, now you’re 65?”
”Nope.”

“Will you be on your own up in Liverpool?”

“I’ll be at my publisher’s offices during the day but in the evening, yes, But that’s fine. I can keep myself amused.”

“Look…this is just an idea. Jackie will be at the vet for at least a couple of days, and when she comes out my sister can look after her. Could I come up to Liverpool with you? I’ll bring my bike too.”

“Well, er, yes. I don’t see why not. If you don’t think you’ll be bored.”

“Bored with you? I don’t think so. What hotel are you staying at - one of the city centre ones?”

“I’m staying in Kensington.”

“Kensington? But I thought you were going to Liverpool … ”

“There’s a Kensington in Liverpool too. But it’s nothing like the Kensington Kensington. It’s not really a hotel, though, more a lodging house … Are you sure about this? It’s rough, to be honest.”

“How many beds in the room?”

“At least two.”

“I’m coming. What train are you getting?”

 

The long journey on the slow London Midland stopper passed pleasantly enough, with a change at Stafford. Lisa quizzed him about his work and what he’d be doing in Liverpool.

“We’re putting our third issue of the year to bed – sorry, that’s a publishing term. We’re doing the layout and production so we can go to press.”

“Can I ask, Frank, how much do you get paid for doing this?”

“About three grand. But that’s not just for the three days in Liverpool, there’s a good month’s worth of work that goes into it beforehand.”

“Three grand a month. That isn’t really much, is it?”

“No, I suppose not, but publishing is what it is.”

“And why won’t your publisher pay for an actual hotel?”

“Well, he would, but he’s an old mate, we go back years. I try not to run up his expenses too much…”

“You’re very LOYAL,” aren’t you?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing…”

“No, it’s not, you silly sausage…”

 

The countryside outside the windows had been a grey-green, blur. Then suddenly, at Runcorn, the vast expanse of the Mersey opened up underneath the train. “It’s like the Amazon,” said Lisa.

“You’d know, of course. It’s just like the Amazon, only its cold. And no green jungly stuff. You’re lucky to see it in the sun.”

A couple of minutes later, the clatter of the points at South Parkway; they’d be in Lime Street in a few minutes. Lisa rose, gathered up her bags and clipped on her streamlined cycle helmet. She turned. “By the way, did you tell Celine I was coming with you?”

“Actually, I didn’t.”

“Could we, maybe … keep it like that?”

 

 

They checked hurriedly into the terraced house in Kensington. No more than punching in the code on the keypad and chucking their surplus belongings on the beds. Lisa took in the worn industrial blue carpet, the slightly grubby shared bathroom and communal kitchen. She said nothing.

Then they remounted their bikes, in a hurry to explore the city on the balmy spring evening. Frank stopped off at the Tesco on Hanover Street to stock up with sandwiches and pasties for the next couple of days.

“Healthy living, eh?” said Lisa. “Still, I expect you’ll burn it off. Cycling and ... other stuff.”

“Sometimes I treat myself to the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. Twenty quid.”

“Saints preserve us … ”

 

 

Up Parliament Street to Peter Kavanagh’s, a riot of stained glass, wood carvings, paintings and pictures on every surface. The round, rimmed tables, reputedly the same design as the ones on the Lusitania, now of course at the bottom of the sea.

Tall Lisa’s slightly strangulated vowels raised no eyebrows; Peter Kavanagh’s was a well-established stop on the Liverpool tourist trail. They were used to exotic visitors.

Then they cycled past the hulking Edwardian-Gothic Anglican cathedral and delicate modernist Paddy’s Wigwam and then on to the city’s great set piece, the Philharmonic, all mahogany, stucco, mosaics and marble.

Lisa asked questions and Frank answered as best he could. She was astonished to learn that Liverpool was still a major seaport, that they still built or at least repaired ships in Birkenhead (“I’d have thought that would have closed down years ago.”)

“You like your beer, don’t you Frank?”

“I do.”

“How many pints a week?”

“Search me. Ten or so as a rough average. More when I’m on trips. Less when I’m at home. Celine worries about my health.”

“So she should.”

“Hey! What about you with twenty quid bottles of Mouton Blanc or whatever in your kitchen every night?”

“Not every night. And besides, that’s different…”
“Different because it’s posh, and expensive…”

“Less of that class envy, my man…”

 

Lisa, a fit, strong cyclist but a nervous one in traffic, was delighted to find how calm Liverpool’s roads were, post-6pm. She was worried at first about leaving her ten-year-old road bike out of sight at pub stops (her new £3,000 Boardman had been left at home, of course) but Frank assured her it was fine, and it was.

Lisa wasn’t a drinker, but she relented and had a half in each of the two previous pubs. Unused to alcohol, her progress on the bike had become increasingly erratic.

 

 

The friendly landlady of the Globe, serving Frank for the second time, nodded in Lisa’s direction and asked: “Would your wife like anything else?” Lisa collapsed in peals of laughter. “I say Frank – this floor feels like it’s on a slope.”

“It’s absolutely level, I assure you.” Frank winked and nodded at the landlady: “Straight as a die…”

“Shouldn’t be drinking. Take me home and put me to bed…”

“You don’t get off that easily - not before we’ve  been to the Central…”

 

The Central was the big place on Ranelagh Street opposite the Merseyrail station, was having a karaoke night. A fat blonde woman was at the mike, murdering something that Frank couldn’t quite recognise. Then he started:  “Oh…”

“Something wrong?”

No! It’s just …Follow You Follow Me … At our wedding…”

“I know … I was there…”

 

As they pushed their bikes inside the lodging house, Frank gave a sharp yelp of pain. "You've done your back in. Probably a delayed reaction to heaving those horrible paving slabs around for me the other day. I’m sorry … Whatever, Dr Lisa has got some ibuprofen gel in her handbag.”

“Ibuprofen? You’re a bit young to be carrying that around in your bag...”

“Always be prepared; you wouldn’t believe what I have. Probably enough medical kit to do a complete hip replacement if I needed to … ”

 

“Oooh!”

“Bit cold, isn’t it? Let me rub it in … Gently, gently, nice and gently … ”

Frank’s bad back at least solved one dilemma that night.

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Continued in Part 2: The Ride-2 | ABCtales