Just one more

‘I used to have one of these,’ Maurice stopped in front of a gleaming 1967 BSA Bantam. ‘Years ago,’ he added.
‘Is there a bike you haven’t had?’ Bess laughed, as she and her father made their way up the row of vintage motorcycles at the exhibition.
‘Well will you look at that,’ he stopped yet again. ‘And it’s for sale.’
Bess knew he would have to haggle for it, so she left him to talk with the bike’s owner, and by the time she came back he was the proud owner of a 1969 Norton Commando.
Maurice had always had motorbikes. His biggest problem had always been which one he liked best. Over the past thirty years, he had owned and sold more bikes than you could shake a stick at. It was almost a case of the grass being greener on the other side. The minute he got used to his latest purchase, he spotted something else, and the something else usually didn’t have the clutch problem his current bike had, or was much lighter and easier to handle.
There were countless reasons why Maurice kept changing bikes, and Bess had to smile to herself every time her father explained about his latest acquisition. It was almost as though he was trying to justify his actions.
‘It’s your money, Dad,’ she would say. ‘If you want it, you get it. You don’t have to try and convince me.’
The funny thing was, Maurice rarely, if ever lost money on a deal. He seemed to have a knack of getting virtually what he paid for each one when he sold it on.
‘I think I’m going to keep the Honda as well,’ he announced as they drove home that evening. ‘Then I can use that for everyday and keep the Norton for special occasions.’ He looked over for Bess’s reaction, and when there was none, carried on. ‘They’ll both fit in the shed.’ Yes, he decided. That’s what he would do.
And it worked well. Both bikes had their different uses, and Maurice finally seemed happy. Until one day when Bess called just as he was taking delivery of another bike.
‘I miss the Royal Enfield,’ Maurice explained as he checked the bike over. ‘It’s a classic.’ He stood back to admire it. ‘Only thing is, I can’t quite decide which one to sell.’ He thought in silence for a moment. ‘Mmm. Maybe I’ll keep all three. I’m sure I have an old bike cover somewhere. I can move the Honda out here and keep the other two in the shed. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Stick the kettle on Love,’ he said to Bess over his shoulder.
Saying nothing, Bess did as she was asked. Maybe three bikes were a little over the top, but it was none of her business.
If it had ended there, Bess would have been happy enough, but over the next few months, her father seemed to lose the plot a little. By the end of the summer Maurice had no less than twenty bikes. He was spending more on insurance and bike covers than he did on food, and it was getting ridiculous. On more than one occasion she had tried to talk her father into getting rid of a few, but it was no use. He loved them all, and there was something unique about each of them.
‘If I could take my favourite part from each bike and put them all into one, then I would do that, but as that can’t be done, I’ll just have to have my little collection,’ Maurice explained patiently.
By October, his collection had grown by another five bikes. And then came the decision to bring just one or two into the house. At least it started with one or two. But within a couple of weeks every room in the ground floor of Maurice’s small semi had its floor-space taken up by bikes. It was ok, he explained to Bess. He put plenty of newspaper down first, so oil spots wouldn’t ruin the carpets.
Bess was getting seriously worried about her father. When she called to see him they stood in the kitchen as there really wasn’t any space in the living room anymore.
‘Don’t you think you should get rid of a few, Dad?’ she asked carefully. ‘You really could do with a bit more room to move around.’
It wasn’t until Maurice got stuck in the hallway one day, that he saw the bigger picture. In desperation he had to shout a neighbour from an upstairs window to come and move two of his precious bikes so that he could get out. And that was when he realised Bess was right. Some of them had to go.
The ad in the ‘Old Bike Mart’ produced a lot of interest, and within two weeks Maurice was back down to ten bikes, with half of these going the following week. The newspapers were taken up, and he was able to take his cups of tea with Bess into the living room again.
‘This is more like it,’ Bess looked out the kitchen window at the last three bike covers flapping in the breeze. ‘And you say these are going at the weekend?’
Maurice nodded sadly.
‘That just leaves me the two in the shed. Back to square one.’
‘Yes, but you know it makes sense, Dad.’ Bess smiled at her father, who nodded slowly.
Maurice watched as the car and horsebox pulled away, taking with it his beloved Triumph. Well, that was it. Only the Royal Enfield and the Honda left. And he was keeping those, come hell or high water.
Sitting down with his coffee and a slice of date and walnut cake, Maurice idly flicked through the latest copy of the ‘Old Bike Mart.’ Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to look in the ‘for sale’ section, but he was, after all, only looking. One could always dream. Then it caught his eye. The first bike he’d ever owned. A fair price too.
Maurice picked up the phone.
‘Oh, Good Afternoon. I’m calling about the Velocette.’