Route 66

Her hands shocked her the most. Sometimes she was happily going about her daily tasks and caught a glimpse of them - dried parchment, sprinkled with brown spots and river delta veins. Knuckles bulging like marbles in a leather pouch. How could they belong to her? How had she aged so quickly? Her inner self was still 19 , it was only the outer shell that betrayed her passing years.

She remembered how this slow realisation of the advent of old age began.Leaflets arriving through the door advertising hearing aids, offers of a magazine subscription to ‘Golden Years’ , cunning contraptions to get you up and down stairs, in and out of baths. Now she was in her “Forever” home, but not as in the one she had always wanted, rather the one where there was no way out, except in a wooden box !

Chosen by her concerned children, it was a sweet little flat in sheltered accommodation, a warden on call for every eventuality and a beautifully manicured garden to wander around at will. Her children had ruthlessly downsized sixty plus years of her belongings, so that she now sat in her new flat - like a tiny figure in a neatly shrink-wrapped parcel.

‘Clematis House’ was a care home as sprawling as its name. Mock Tudor buildings and Georgian facades, painted in various pastel shades, intermingled with bubbling fountains and little streams to create the impression of a rural idyll. When Clare first viewed it, it reminded her strongly of a programme she used to watch on TV in the 60s -The Prisoner- where its handsome protagonist asserted “I am not a prisoner...” when he blatantly was.

The set up was not unlike her university campus days -everything on site- shop, hairdresser, little satellite post office, so no need to venture out into the real world - the glaring difference being, that there were definitely no all night parties and certainly no riotous discos! Clare had resisted visiting the communal sitting room despite having daily bulletins pushed under her door, extolling the numerous exciting activities on offer there. She shivered at the thought of sitting with the silver-haired brigade playing bingo, or even worse, some kindly nurse tucking a blanket round her knees. She preferred to walk around the beautiful gardens instead, sitting occasionally so that she could breathe in the heavenly scent of freshly mown grass and watch the birds busy with their nest-making.

Occasionally, the outside world intruded into her garden walks when the throaty roar of a motorbike reverberated in the distance, transporting her back instantly to the summer of 1970. She would take a seat then, close her eyes , and the image of Bobby would float into her mind.

She used to see him every day on the way to and from school, or rather just his oil-stained legs , as he spent most of his working day tinkering under cars. When her luck was in, he would be having a break, leaning his tall, muscular frame against the garage wall, chatting and laughing with Steve, the proprietor. She would try to make eye contact, even though when she succeeded her face burned bright with embarrassment, and she would turn swiftly away.

Bobby was like forbidden fruit - two years older than her, he had left school without any qualifications, which in her parents’ eyes made him a highly unsuitable suitor. Clare had been attracted to him at school, she had admired his ability to fix anyone’s bike and the way he could fashion beautiful garden furniture out of rusty scrap metal. A natural horticulturalist, he had turned his parents’ garden into an oasis of beauty, in stark contrast to their shabby house, the latter being yet another reason why her parents told Clare to steer clear of him. Not to mention the fact that, in her father’s words , he was a long-haired lout whose bright red trousers reflected , again her father’s opinion, his obvious propensity to waywardness.

But what 16 year old actually took heed of her parents’ advice? A smile passed briefly over Clare’s face as she rested on an ornate garden bench and recalled the day Bobby actually spoke to her.

She had just collected some groceries on her way home from school, the string handles of the heavy paper carrier bags cutting into her hands, and then a cabbage rolled off the top of a bag and careered across the road.

“Can I help?” a familiar voice called out.

Sitting astride his motorbike on the opposite side of the road was Bobby. Clare had blushed uncontrollably.

“Want a lift? Looks like you’re struggling there”.

Under any other circumstances, Clare would have loved to accept, but the idea of her rolling up at home riding pillion was laden with trouble, especially if her mother spotted her through the kitchen window. Retrieving the aberrant cabbage whilst vigorously shaking her head, Clare scuttled homeward. Life was so unfair, why was she destined to meet the boy of her dreams whilst wearing her ghastly school uniform and looking like a pack mule?

Two weeks later, their paths crossed again, but this time the stars were favourable. Clare had been to the Friday night youth club and was about to take a shortcut home through the park. Suddenly, her path was illuminated. A motorbike parked under a tree at the park entrance had turned on its light.

“Clare isn’t it?” queried a voice from the shadows. Clare could just discern the leather-clad figure of Bobby. “Fancy going for a spin?”.

Clare didn’t need asking twice, she leapt on the back of his bike , and the bike sprang into life. It felt like an amazing dream, as she clasped her arms around Bobby, luxuriating in the heady mix of leather and aftershave, feeling the power of the bike’s engine course through her body. His long, dark hair streamed past hers as they picked up speed, leaning as one, this way and that, as they took the hairpin bends of the coast road.

It had been worth being grounded for a week when she arrived home two hours later than expected. Of course, she hadn’t told the truth-how could she? And so had begun the most incredible summer of her entire life - steeped in secrecy, excitement and love. Whenever an opportunity arose they would ride to a secluded cove, skim stones and plan an epic adventure for the future - riding the length of Route 66. Then Clare’s world came crashing down -literally.

When Clare woke up her eyes hurt from the overhead strip lights, there was a constant, rhythmic beeping and her first thought was she had been abducted by aliens. As her eyes began to focus she saw her mum, slumped on a chair in the corner of the room asleep, she looked exhausted. It slowly dawned on Clare that she was in hospital-how long had she been here ? Why?

Answers were soon given, when a young nurse came in to check Clare’s temperature and woke her worried mum.

Her mum barely masked her disapproval as she recounted how Bobby had swerved to avoid a fallen tree in the road and had lost control of his bike. Clare had been unconscious for three days and broken her pelvis in two places, whilst Bobby had walked away with minor cuts and bruises.

“Can I see him please?” Clare pleaded, she could remember very little of the accident, and she knew Bobby would fill in the blanks.

“He’s gone” her mum replied, almost triumphantly.

“Gone?!” Clare gasped in disbelief.

“Your dad had words with him -he needed to know how irresponsible he has been”, this time Clare’s mum could not disguise her self-satisfaction.

“But where?”. Clare started to sob uncontrollably.

“Who knows?” Clare’s mum shrugged.

Bobby really had gone. When Clare finally left hospital she searched for clues to his whereabouts to no avail , his parents slammed the door in her face, blaming her, obviously, for him leaving.

She had lost her one true love. The bitter irony was that the man she eventually married, eminently suitable according to her parents, had been a serial adulterer and made her life so miserable. Clare remembered the first time she had discovered this - her little daughter had run excitedly into the house clutching a small pearl earring.

“Look what I found in the car ,Mummy “ proffering her find “When did you lose it?”

The only problem was, it wasn’t hers. Thus, from this event, many years of explosive rows about suspected infidelities followed , until her husband finally resolved them -by leaving her for a newer model.

Clare stood up, trying to shake these distressing memories from her mind. It was as impossible as trying to brush away the sticky cobwebs, gained from sitting on the old, wrought iron garden seat, that clung steadfastly to her clothing. Much to her chagrin, she had lost her one chance of knowing true love when Bobby left.

Clare had almost reached her apartment now. Then she heard a low, soft whistle and looked up.

Under a weeping willow tree was a motorbike, astride it a vaguely familiar figure.

“Fancy going for a spin?”

It was as if the clocks had turned back in time. Clare didn’t need asking twice.As she climbed onto the bike ,clinging for dear life to the man she had lost so many years ago, so many questions tumbled from her mouth.

“I never stopped loving you Clare” Bobby whispered, “ I left so you would have a better life than the one I could give you. I came to Clematis House as a gardener and I still do odd jobs around the place. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you sitting on that bench I made when I first came here.”

Clare buried her face in his worn, leather jacket imbibing all those long-forgotten,delectable scents. The engine sprang to life, and its energy sent new life coursing through Clare’s veins.

Bobby twisted to face her, a broad smile on his still handsome face.

“Route 66 it is then!”.