Aquamarine blue

“What are you trying to achieve?”

“Nothing. I’m not trying to achieve anything. I’m just writing what I remember. It might mean something.”

“Catharsis, then? What effect are you after? For the reader, I mean. It’s going to be read, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not sure.”

“So what happens?”

“Nothing really.  It’s just a feeling. A time. A sense of being, that kind of echoes. Somewhere that isn’t there anymore. Never can be.”

“A childhood memory.”

“Yeah.

Hey, I took the bus home from work this morning. There was a bike parked next to the bus stop, on the path. A Harley. I couldn’t stop staring at it. Looking it over. Checking little things out.

It wasn’t flashy at all. Just plain black paint, a little scuffed here and there.  Nowhere near new. But it was all there. You know what I mean?”

“Kind of.”

“It was a bigger engine than the one I used to have. Full-sized: 1450cc or something, but it was a town bike. Just the bare essentials: flat bars, tiny speedo, forward foot-pegs and controls.

The exhaust pipes were long, but looked straight-through. It had those little touches like custom brakes and hoses, low slim saddle, small battery – unobtrusive – bright yellow HT cables. It wasn’t standard, you know what I’m saying? Something going on, but downplayed.

Oh, and Ohlins shocks. That bike would handle. And no oil on the floor. The engine was oil-tight. It had been shopped. Down to the last nut and bolt, probably.

Someone loved that bike.”

“Is that your point? About the Harley?”

“Hell, no. I’ve got some kind of flu-bug. Had it for days. I might have missed a bus or two, I don’t know, but that bike just fixed me. No, I’m just telling you what I saw.”

“So what's your point?”

“A vinyl seat. Aquamarine blue. Rough-ribbed surface chafing my cheek. To stop you sliding about I suppose. Back seat. We were stretched out on it, my brother and me. I expect we’d kicked each other a bit and he’d moaned and I’d got shouted at. The usual.

We were driving back from Leeds. It was dark. Probably winter. Christmas even. Late.

We were maybe on the dual-carriageway section of the ringroad, or just onto the single-carriageway after Seacroft and the Red Lion pub – Barwick-in-Elmet, A64, heading for York.

I was in and out of sleep – just on that point. The tyres were drumming on the road.  That old 1200 Ford was thrumming along. Headlights were coming and going, lighting up the headlining. But my eyes were shut.

I could hear my mam and dad talking like they were in the distance, miles away. Yet we were all four in that little space.

They were talking about the evening and who’d said what and what was really going on.

I don’t know any of that really. I could just hear their voices far away. But there was something going on. You can tell that much.”

“Can’t you remember what they said?”

“Do you think that would be helpful?”

“Maybe.”

“My dad said the headlights were dazzling him. That’s all I remember.”

“That all?”

“Yep. All I wanted was to go to sleep. I think it was cold. Maybe.”