“Call me Number One.”
1500 words
John Mathewson
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“Call me number One, call me number o-n-e…”
She was a skinny Hippy waif, aged between 18 and 25 at a guess, but short and scrawny enough to look like a runaway school kid. She sang off-key and roughly - very roughly - in time with the jukebox at the transport café. A bedroll wrapped in a strip of tarpaulin - probably stolen - was propped alongside her chair. Baggy tie-dyed top and long cheesecloth skirt above sandals. Long jet-black hair nearly down to her waist.
Nothing unusual in the late 60’s/early70’s, but not so common in 2002. But I had no doubt she was the genuine item; not a Yuppie Poser who goes to Glastonbury Festival once a year and self consciously drops a patently false ‘Man’ at the end of every third sentence. You don’t get that bone-deep tan from being a weekend hippy with a sunlamp. It takes several years of all-weather outdoor living to look like that.
I watched her feet tapping as I finished my transport cafe ‘Heart Attack On A Plate’, and mopped up the last of the bean juice with a thick chunk of bread.
Me? I’m a similar throwback. Mid twenties, jeans and black leather jacket. A Rocker born out of his true time. Despatch rider boots and a plain black open face crash helmet. Outside, in the gravel carpark, sat the Triton I’d inherited from my Dad. I’ll not bore you with details, either you know how good a Triton is, or you don’t. Most of the modern Jap crotch rockets can easily beat its top end of 120mph, but I just can’t ride the damned things. They don’t ‘feel’ the same. Not for me anyway.
I strolled across and got the machine to play Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Born to Run’, reflecting that Dad would have had a fit at the thought of spending ten shillings (‘Half a bloody quid, Son? Jeez…!’) to listen to one record. But how often do you find a real jukebox these days - one with whirling discs of plastic - covering more than fifty years of music?
The Hippy chick was tapping her foot even more enthusiastically as Springsteen did his stuff and I caught her eye.
“Need a ride anywhere?”
“If you’re heading North…”
“Sure. Fancy a coffee or something?”
“Wouldn’t say no to a tea. Name’s Storm, what’s yours?”
“Zak.”
When I returned to my table with two dripping mugs she’d moved over and was feeling the weight of my well-scuffed leather jacket.
“Serious kit…”
“Yes.” Something else I’d inherited. Mum had confessed - in a moment of rare close contact - that I’d actually been conceived on that jacket, somewhere along the Cornish coastline. You tend to hang onto things like that when you’ve lost everything else.
“Storm? There’s a proper Hippy name…” I fished gently.
“True, but it doesn’t work to well with my surname. Storm Amberfast, fer Chrissake! Parents do some terrible things to their kids. Anyway… Have you got a spare helmet? Not much point in this otherwise…”
“Out with the bike. Just in case… Where are you heading for?”
“New Forest. Eventually. Every little helps though.”
Bruce finished running and I set the machine going again, playing The Doors this time. ‘Riders On The Storm’ suited my mood perfectly, and she grinned too, almost as soon as the first notes trickled and tinkled from the speakers. For a few seconds I felt I could read her mind. Kindred Spirits, perhaps?
There was a message in the song alright, but not necessarily the one she was thinking about…
I looked at her for a while, her green eyes peering at mine over the rim of her cup, and thought about it. I fished again, almost 100% certain of my quarry.
“Heading for home?”
She laughed aloud, nearly spluttering a mouthful of tea.
“A family wedding tomorrow, A gathering of the clan tonight. But how did you guess?”
“Forest accent. Economy with words… You’re heading for Ringwood?”
She was looking slightly alarmed as well as intrigued.
“Co-incidence, Dear Girl. You’ve just happened to meet someone whose parents bought their wedding rings from ‘Old’ Amberfast, the Ringwood Jeweller. You must be one of the ‘numerous grandchildren’.”
“Numerous is the damned word…”
“And before you ask I grew up in Boldre, which is how I pegged you as a Forest Girl even before you mentioned Amberfast.”
I thought about the crushing boredom of what passed for a life these days and made a decision. She wouldn’t have even seen me if this wasn’t meant to be.
“Would you like to go all the way?” I asked.
"You mean…? She looked thoughtful, and to my shameless delight even blushed a little.
“To Ringwood. I’ve nothing that can’t wait. All the time in the world these days.”
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She’d looked a bit odd with a crash helmet above her Hippy clothes, but those gorgeous green eyes were sparkling with mischief and I felt something I haven’t felt for a couple of years. Once she was perched on the back of the Triton she’d managed to tuck and wrap several layers of her full cheesecloth skirt around her legs to deter some of the chill.
And now we were bend-swinging along the old roads, spurning the motorways - where I always felt uncomfortable - and she had settled in behind as if she belonged there, her body moving in time with mine. Her skinny waif figure wasn’t enough to make any difference to the performance or handling of my Triton. Had it not been for the unusual warmth of her burning against my back, and the hands lightly resting upon my thighs I could have been riding alone.
That two hundred and fifty miles up from Cornwall, travelling with serious intent, soon passes if you just get on with it and avoid any policemen. I stopped once when she tapped on my shoulder and made me aware that she needed a pee, but apart from that it was as swift a trip as I had promised her.
On the last part of the journey we were racing bad weather, closing in behind us even faster than the night.
Ringwood was just as I remembered it. A bit bigger around the edges - like a middle aged woman - but it still smelt of teenage angst, beer, rough cider, and still - that particular evening anyway- mixed up memories of suppressed violence and frustration. I pulled up outside the pub she had shouted into my ear as we came down off the by-pass.
She took off the spare helmet, hooked it onto the little security ring built into the rear of the seat, and shook out her long hair in a raven dark wave and combed it swiftly with her fingers.
The noisy party in the upper room was clearly in full swing. She looked at me thoughtfully as I hadn’t bothered to put down the stand or even turn off the motor.
“I dare say Grandad could spare some food and drink if you’d like to stay for a while. Probably even get a relative to put you up for the night if you want.”
She looked deathly pale under her tan, the shivering surfacing from deep inside now the journey was over. Strangely forlorn and lost in the yellow glow from the streetlamps, like someone who had been travelling for a long time and never expected to arrive.
“I’d rather not. I’m not too good with crowds. But I’m glad I was there to bring you home.”
“Take your helmet off for a minute…”, she said quietly, and after thumbing the kill button I did as she asked. The warm thunder of the old 650 twin was replaced by a rumble of more distant thunder as the first drops of rain started to fall. The Gods have a fine sense of timing - sometimes!
She stretched up and planted a kiss on my cheek, her face deathly cold and the hand which took mine and squeezed it felt even colder.
I kissed the back of her hand in that old-world courtly gesture that makes even cynical older women blush and tingle, and then put my helmet back on and kicked the Triton back into life.
I tell you, Man. Taking lost damsels home is no big deal when there’s nothing else to do. And it’s a traditional part of ‘ghost ballads’ to take lost female spirits home.
So I slipped away into the night, looking back once to see Storm - with her whole life still ahead of her, unlike me - entering the pub with a puzzled half wave in the direction of where I’d vanished.
What? Feeling confused? If a spook can ride a Triton, why be so surprised that he can also use a word processor?
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And for anyone who might not know them, here’s links to the two tunes.
Call Me Number One
Riders On The Storm