The Lady Charlotte

I based this story on a mysterious old elegy, which forced me to change my style. It is admittedly different, but I enjoyed writing it. So, settle down at the back of the class, and listen while I tell you a tale from old England...

THE LADY CHARLOTTE

From above, it is indeed a green and pleasant land. Fields, trees, and narrow lanes create a verdant patchwork in this valley; an ode to the beauty of an ancient land, writ large in the sward, and punctuated by a small village nearby, and a few tiny hamlets of two or three houses.

Drawing a little closer, the eye is inescapably drawn to a large house set on a hill at the top of the valley -- the mons at the isthmus of the thighs that formed the sides of Edgemore Vale. From the size of the squared 'C' shape of the structure, the expensive slate of the roof tiles, the large number of chimneys, and the carefully manicured lawns and shrubberies, it is owned by a family of great stature and wealth.

Down the hill -- the long, arrow-straight driveway from the manor pointing its location -- is a modest dwelling, a rambling barn alongside it. The house is more a cottage, and the barn lacks the expected farming implements and livestock nearby. The lane between the two properties has seen a surprising number of motorcycles come and go, in loud, harsh harmony.

The cottage is attractive, but the eye is inevitably hijacked by the beautiful architecture up the hill, captured by the white pebble driveway, mugged by the perfect gardens, and raped by the welcoming grandeur of the wide solid-oak front doors set in a glorious Italian marble entranceway. If the smaller house is the epitome of Middle England, this noble neighbour is its royal crowning glory.

The arched windows are wide-eyed to allow the occupants to take in all the glorious views that burst forth on all sides. Extending into the distance are the multi-hued forests that stand to attention on the heights of the valley, mirroring each other as they stretch into the remoteness. A small, artfully redirected river makes its way along the estate's lower edge, the driveway bridging it at the majestic gateway. Wild geese, moorhens and swans decorate it as if painted into the tableau by a master artist who enjoyed a cliché.

Up at the manor house, within a pair of those immaculately polished windows, sat what used to be termed 'a spinster of the parish'. All who saw her were unanimous in their description of her; 'beautiful', 'elegant', 'high-class and handsome', and even 'magnificent'. However, those accounts were more rumour than eye-witness testimony, as those who had seen her in person over the previous four and a half years were few. But the rumours abounded, echoing back and forth.

Behind the windows, the room was panelled in amber wood, its elegant perfection enhanced or marred here and there by one of the small masterpieces left behind by her deceased parents. A chandelier hung from the ceiling in its crystalline glory, although practical electric lights had replaced the candles. As always, Lady Charlotte Evans sat behind the elegant George II desk, a masterpiece in mahogany with ebony inlays, that was carelessly devalued by the modern computer monitor and keyboard set upon it. The drawers had been designed to hold valuable papers, the finest writing implements, riding gloves of kid-skin, or valued mementoes of secret amours. Now, however, they were home to everyday miscellaneous bric-a-brac; a half-finished bottle of bourbon, a few packets of cigarettes and lighters, batteries, a small electrical screwdriver, dozens of pens, a few paperbacks.

The daughter of a peer of the realm, she worked carefully, putting the finishing touches and final polishes to her ninth novel. Even at this stage, with the publishers making advance sales, her latest bodice-ripper was almost guaranteed to be another best-seller. Working to an unbreakable internal deadline, she laboured tirelessly, only stopping now and again to light another cigarette -- and glance upwards. It was a habit -- a bad habit. She knew it was terrible for her, but she couldn't stop, and she didn't seriously want to. The cigarettes were almost as bad.

The next time she looked up, she noticed a patina of dust on its surface and immediately knelt on the desk to wipe it off with a duster she kept specifically for that purpose. With a murmur of satisfaction, she slipped back down and retook her seat in the high-backed chair, ensuring her view.

The once again pristine mirror, mounted on the slant, was high and broad, allowing her to see the views through both of the windows behind her -- her desk placed against the wall opposite them. She hated the sight of the uninhabited cottage; resenting that it remained in her thoughts, continually trying to displace the beautiful, lusting maidens, the hard-bodied, well-endowed heroes, and evil -- albeit sexually fascinating -- villains who populated the novels which kept her large coffers overflowing.

She never ever looked directly at the cottage at the end of her driveway. Never directly. Only in reflection could she do that; knowing it was a totem, a juju, almost a voodoo fetish of her ill-fortune. If she looked directly at it, she would be cursed forever. She was too level-headed to believe in those things consciously, but somewhere down in the crocodile brain that had survived since man's ancestors had still infested the branches of trees, she firmly knew it to be true.

Charlotte feared it, but couldn't resist the need to watch and see whether it would become inhabited once again. She had no idea what she would do if it did, and equally had no clue what to do if it didn't. All she could do was watch. And hope.

In the mirror, two bikes -- big tourers with custom paintworks -- slowed and pulled to a halt on the verge outside the cottage. Charlotte's mouth suddenly felt filled with sand, and she swallowed hard. She recognised the nearer bike.

The rider of that sleek golden machine dismounted with effortless grace and removed his helmet. His blond hair fell free around his shoulders.

"Oh," she murmured to herself, her heart rate increasing. It was Gareth, which meant the other biker was Geraint. The Welsh twins always rode together, as if joined by an invisible cord even more robust than their shared blood.

Charlotte stared at the mirror. It was the first time they had returned since... since that day, and she didn't know what that augured. Eyes locked on the mirror, she scrabbled for her cigarettes and lit one up. Her hands shook so much it was hard to direct the tiny flame.

Her levels of anxiety and hope were soaring equally as another bike pulled up, this one with extended front forks. It was Hector, still riding that ridiculous machine that hated the narrow, winding British country lanes and kept trying on each bend to throw him into a ditch or oncoming traffic.

In a trice, the newcomer had his bike up on its main stand and was hugging the twins. His helmet came off, and even at that distance, Charlotte could see the bald head and long droopy moustache. She rose to her feet, walking to-and-fro restlessly, always ensuring that her gaze didn't fall directly on the newcomers. She dithered for a moment, and then, keeping herself obscured by the drape, opened the left window slightly. Immediately she heard the sound of more engines, the growls grating and tearing through the silence of the valley.

She turned back to the mirror to see four more motorcycles pull in, creating a line of shining, multicoloured metal mounts, like horses at a hitching post. Helmets off, the seven men clustered together to create a little knot of laughing, joking, oh-so-male friendship. Backs were slapped, laughing neck-locks imposed, and one-armed hugs traded in the traditional A-Frame posture that men adopted to ensure their groins never came too close together.

Hector did kiss K on the lips, but that wasn't new.

K was an immigrant from Kyrgyzstan, and his name was just about unpronounceable, so the club had shortened it to his initial. A well-muscled man, K had a quick temper and a propensity for using his fists on those who insulted him, the club, or most especially -- Hector. So it wasn't too huge a surprise when he'd declared that he and Hector had fallen in love and were going to marry. She remembered how everyone had looked to Lance when the pair made their official announcement. He had laughed, stood between them with his arms around their shoulders and said they were his brothers, so what difference did it make who they loved? Any insult to them would be an insult to all.

And that was the end of that.

Percy, Boris, and Lammy, the riders who had arrived with K, worked together at Her Majesty's Customs and Excise and were decent, upright family men. However, they were periodically tempted into confiscating some weed from miscreants trying to smuggle it into the country -- for club use. They never took much, just enough to take the pressure off club members looking to buy supplies from random dealers who might have grassed them up.

Charlotte felt the tension in her stomach rising. Could it be? Was the club getting back together? If so... would he be there?

That question, that thought, that possibility gripped her so hard, she felt faint.

Shaking it off, she tried to think about how best she should react if he turned up. What would be the best way to approach him, what could she say, and how might he respond?

Her mind was whirling, a tempest of half-forgotten longings and ne'er forgotten love, and almost in self-defence, it took her back to the beginning.

"Boy! What are you doing here, boy?" She was seven and full of righteous indignation at the trespass she had discovered.

"Exploring, girl," he replied, putting his hands in his pockets.

"You're not allowed here," she declared. "This is private property. I could have you whipped for being here."

"Bollocks to that!" He laughed openly at her, which made her blood boil. "Nobody is going to whip me. That's olden-days stuff. Besides I'm not doing any harm. I'm just exploring. There's all sorts of really cool stuff to explore here. I'm gonna be an explorer when I grow up. And don't call me boy! I've got an actual name, you know."

"Alright, what's your name, boy?" she called to his back as he wandered off behind a rank of rhododendron bushes.

"Ain't telling you. 'Cos then you'll tell on me and try and get me whipped. I ain't stupid."

Furious, she stomped around the bushes to find the complete absence of a small, handsome, infuriating boy.

Over the next months she found traces that he had been on the estate; a small figure carved in the trunk of an ash tree, a tiny, red toy bus dropped near the fountains, a small gap forced in a hedged wall in the maze. But she could never catch him. She'd told her father about the trespasser, but he hadn't taken much notice -- which was relatively normal. So it was all down to her to protect the family domain.

What really annoyed the young girl most was that the mysterious boy seemed to be having a whole lot more fun in her garden than she was.

After her ninth birthday party -- which had been a dull affair consisting mostly of jelly, sweets, stupid school friends, and an even more stupid clown -- she had taken a book to a distant part of the garden, looking for solitude to nurse her disappointment. She'd wanted several new books, and received none of them.

"Whatcha reading?"

She'd almost screamed at the sudden voice. It was him; older and bigger, but just as handsome and infuriating.

"A book. You should try one sometime. My mother always says it expands the mind."

"Well, my mum says it expands your arse if you spend all day sitting on it, reading."

"That's stupid."

"My mum ain't stupid. You're stupid!"

"You're stupid!"

There was silence for a while until she just couldn't bear it any more.

"What's your name? I won't tell on you."

The look he gave her could only be described as 'old-fashioned'; one raised eyebrow, a slight tilt of the head, and a mocking grin.

"Yeah, you will. But I don't care. They ain't allowed to whip kids no more. I asked. My name's Lance Moore. What's yours?"

"I am Lady Charlotte Annabelle Diana Evans," she announced. She wondered if he would kiss her hand if she put it out. Men kissed her mother's hand.

"Lady? That's a funny name."

All thoughts of genteel introduction vanished.

"It's not a name; it's a title, stupid! I am a Lady. My father is a Marquess, the Marquess Wilfred of..."

"Ooh, so la-di-da," he interrupted. "Excuse me for breathing the same air."

Charlotte was almost red in the face, fighting tears. He didn't seem to notice, looking up into the trees nearby.

"That'd be a smashin' place for a treehouse."

A year later she invited Lance to her birthday party. He turned up, his clothes neat, his face washed and hair combed, and, red-faced, gave her a nerf-gun as a present. She thanked him politely, feeling almost alive with excitement. The next day, hiding in a patch of lavender and sage while her heart pounded with fear and adrenaline, she shot him three times and then sang as she danced a little war dance of triumph.

On her thirteenth birthday, she kissed him for the first time. He looked outraged, almost crimson with embarrassment.

When they were sixteen, they declared a never-ending love for each other, swearing their troth and their faith, each to the other.

Fourteen months later, he bought a motorcycle with money he had worked for throughout the year. Charlotte immediately petitioned for one from her parents, who instructed her in no uncertain terms that Ladies did not ride motorcycles. She told them that ladies might not, but she did. She spent the next year riding pillion behind Lance.

A year later, when her grandfather's will kicked in, she drew money from her trust fund and bought a second-hand Moto Guzzi 350cc Imola. It was ugly, but it was lower to the ground than most bikes and therefore more comfortable to handle when stationary. She loved it. Lance, who had upgraded to a Guzzi 750 and inspired her love of Italian motorcycles, taught her to ride it, and after a few formal lessons, she got her licence, and they roamed Britain and the Continent at will. That was also the year they met Boris, Gal, Artie, Tris, and the twins at a rally outside Guildford. Under Artie's leadership, they created something they simply called The Club -- Charlotte and Gal representing the whole of womankind.

Over the next two years, the club drew in more and more members. But then, as suddenly as a bullet strike, Artie was dead -- diving headfirst into a staunch English Oak tree when a tractor pulled out from a side road, and his bike hit it head-on. The biker he'd been racing -- the Claws Club president -- didn't even slow down.

The members drifted aimlessly, in mourning and uncertainty, unsure whether Artie had been forced into colliding with the tractor. The atmosphere between the two clubs had always been rancid -- and from then on, it became toxic. There were cudgel- and chain-wielding fights, sabotages, and night raids on each other's turf. Lance, whose barn had become their grand meeting hall after his parents retired and moved up to Yorkshire to run a small B&B, equipped it to provide beds, hot food, cold alcohol, weed, and even showers. He installed an alarm and a sprinkler system, trying to plan for all contingencies. His dogs, who slept in the cottage where he and Charlotte shared a bed, could get in and out quickly, and they patrolled the area -- twice chasing off Claw night raiders and leaving them to retreat with severe bite wounds.

Lance and Charlotte, who had by that stage enthusiastically put aside their oath of chastity and lived and loved together -- much to her parents' chagrin -- took the lead. Her idea was to tie the club to a charity, helping to lift the stigma they wore as 'filthy bikers' and raise their reputation in the area to a new height. She designed their club logo, a circular design with a central red rose in a black and white sunburst, and made sure all sixty or so members wore it on their jacket.

If nothing else, it helped the club's image in the eyes of the law, the children they collected money and Christmas presents for, and her parents, who were both board members of the charity.

Then she had taken on a project that would prove to be the genesis of her downfall. She decided to call a halt to the feud between The Club and the Claws. She made dozens of phone calls to the Claw members, trying to see what they needed to enable cessation of hostilities. She worked on Lance and used his influence to do the same on their home ground.

Finally, she had all the pieces in place. They declared peace in a moving ceremony, where knife blades were symbolically broken and brotherhood sworn. Then the two clubs together got roaring drunk, the party extending late into the morning.

When she awoke, Lance stood staring at her as she lay abed. She smiled, raised her arms to welcome him into her body, despite a discomfort within her. At that moment, she suddenly realised that a naked man was lying asleep next to her. Worst of all, it was Mortie, president of the Claws. Horrified, she tried to deny the newly-awakened, drunken memories that threatened to tear out her soul, but could only see heartbreak writ large across his beautiful features.

He'd smiled gently, raised his hand in a half salute and half-wave, and walked out of her life.

Seven years later, Charlotte watched the mirror with wide-eyed eagerness. She could possibly, with luck and the passing of time, achieve redemption and forgiveness. When Lance had walked away, he'd disappeared from all their lives. The other members started to drift away one by one until, in the end, only a staunch few were left. One day, distantly watched by Charlotte and her mirror in self-imposed exile, they had ritually locked up the barn and ridden away two by two.

More bikes arrived, and she hurried to her bedroom to open a special drawer. For a moment, she was lost in memory, stroking the black leathers with the sunburst across its back.

She burst into action. Within a few minutes, frustrated by the time it took, she was dressed and drawing on boots and gloves. She raced down to the garage, plucked her key from the board, kissed it lovingly, and gazed upon The Lady Charlotte for the first time in years. Devotedly tended by a mechanic who came to the estate thrice a year, there was no doubt that it would start the first time.

With its swept-back fairing and windscreen, a torque converter which did away with the need for a clutch and gears, capacious panniers, and platform footpegs, the Moto Guzzi California trike was a dream in luxury riding. All pale blue with gold and white pin-striping, she was unique. Lance had spent a whole day creating a stencil and spray-painting the name on both sides of the tank.

At last, she was ready. The Lady rumbled beneath her, with its quietly explosive power reined in beneath her hands. And finally, she heard it. Lance had modified his bike almost entirely over the years they were together, and when he had finished, the exhaust sang an almost triumphant song as it ran -- a uniquely joyful ode.

The sound thrilled her. He would come, they would be together, and her heart could be whole once more. In answer to the roar of his bike, she stepped on the brake, twisted the throttle and widened the veins of The Lady's petrol-fuelled heart. It rocked against the brakes as it responded to the call of his machine, a wild creature responding to its mate, eager and ready to fly.

In front of Charlotte, the garage door rose silently, and, heart pounding fiercely, she readied her helmet.

For the first time in seven years, she gazed directly at the cottage -- Lance's home where he grew up, and for two years, her home, hearth and heart as well. At least it was until she made that series of stumblingly stupid decisions.