After The Fire

5. Valentine's Day

Corinne Ayr packed the blood pressure monitor and her testing kit into her health visitor's bag and watched Pat the Hat carry the tea tray through from the kitchen. Along with three mugs, a basket of warm croissants, and the milk bottle, it had a little vase of snowdrops and a gift in red paper. Pat put it on the coffee table in front of Rosie, his wife.

'Here you go, love. Happy Valentine's Day.'

Rosie's face wrinkled in pleasure, but, aware of her manners, she turned to her guest before she opened her present.

'Isn't he sweet?'

She offered Corinne the basket of croissants. 'He makes these himself. Did Paul get you owt nice, love?'

Corinne found it so easy to lie these days. 'The usual, you know. Chocs and a book I wanted.'

'Aw, lovely.'

Rosie unwrapped her gift: two old Blake's 7 VHSs. She couldn't hide her pleasure.

'Thanks, love. We can start these tonight.'

Pat grunted his assent, and, groaning at his knees, got down to poke at the smoky log fire.

Rosie read the back of the VHS boxes, and Corinne sipped her coffee and watched the two of them, trying, once again, to work out how they were so happy when they had so little to shout about.

Pat was overwhelmingly fat. Overwhelmingly filthy. Not overwhelmingly bright, but generous, welcoming, and sublimely good hearted. Always a black beanie over his thinning grey ponytail, he wore oily denim, wide belt, tee shirts, and boots. Rosie was small, skinny, chatty, with long grey roots in her long dark hair. She wore old cheesecloth, battered gypsy skirts with beads and glass stitched on, loose knit woollen jumpers and a stack of bangles and necklaces.

Corinne had never met anyone who disliked either of them.

'When did you two get together, then?'

Rosie looked at Pat for confirmation.

'I was fifteen, Pat was 17, so that's what, oh, too long ago now.'

Pat threw another log on and stood up. 'It were 1971. At a Country Joe and the Fish gig at the Winter Gardens. A proper long time ago.'

He saw Corinne had packed her bag and was reaching for her coat. 'I've finished the Triumph. Fancy a look before you go?'

Corinne never wanted to leave Pat and Rosie, so she gladly followed him out the front room, along the dark, stone-flagged corridor, out through the split-panelled Dutch door and on into the back yard.

After the heat and smoke from the fire it was fresh outside. Far away across the coastal plain she could see the Triton Knoll wind farms sitting in a thin strip of salt blue sea. The wind gusted in her face, sharp, and pinching, and it was good to get into the lean-to at the back of the cottage.

Refusing to take benefits, they lived off what Pat could do for other bikers. The workshop was lit by bare bulbs, and there was no furniture apart from two car seats. Pictures of motorbikes torn from magazines covered the walls, and there was an old stone sink in one corner. The magic came from the grotto of classic bikes. Immaculate Harleys, old Nortons, Triumphs, a field of shiny chrome. Wheels, chains, handlebars like antlers hanging, rusting frames in one corner, a stack of old parts in the other.

Pat could fix most machines, but his proper gift was his painting. He took requests and made them his own. Most bikes that left the workshop were newly decorated. Works of art on their fuel tanks, on the forks, on the engine cowls. Naked women in thigh boots wrestling with serpents. Hairy barbarians slaughtering dragons. Winged horses, demons' heads, ancient runes for speed and war.