Forty 2

Dearest reader

I hope you are well. This is a very long, very slow, slow-burn. (If you aren't in the mood for that, try this

list of stories

.) It will take a long time to get to any sexy stuff and, when you get there, it won't necessarily be the kind of sexy stuff you were expecting, especially if you've read my other work.

It's also my love letter to local radio and the Bristol music scene circa 2003-2008. I have taken lots of liberties with both. This is not an especially accurate representation of either. There's a link to a playlist of as much of the music as I could find on my profile.

For context and back story, you might want to read

I have seen love

,

I have touched love

and

I have made love

, but that's entirely optional. This will stand alone.

There is also a companion piece to this,

Twenty

, told from Poppy's point of view that covers much of the same time frame.

Happy reading.

Love t x

_______________________________

With Her Wheels, April 2005

"Well, er, it's basically like Trish said really. We was working together, the two of us like, at Kwikfit and customers, ladies 'specially, was asking us to do more than what we usually did there. More complex stuff than tyre changes and whatnot. So we 'ad this ideal of setting up on our own. Then Nicci found this place for us, an', er, decided she wanted a change, didn't you Nic?"

Leigh looks over my recorder to Nicci, who nods in agreement. I keep the inviting smile on my face, but inwardly wince. That kind of natural exchange, where non-verbals are crucial, will absolutely not work on the radio, sadly. Hopefully, I'll be able to edit out the question.

"An' actually we never meant to be, like, all women or nofin', it just turned out that way basically."

"It must be a lot politer around here, just women working, right?" I ask.

That got a laugh from all three of them.

"Oh no," breaks in Trish, "me and Leigh can curse a right blue streak an' all, especially when we bugger summat up."

Again, I despair inside. I can't use "bugger". While Leigh and Nicci concur, I mentally weigh up asking Trish to say that again, and switch "mess" for "bugger", but decide it'll make them all too self-conscious. I might be able to cut it out anyway.

The conversation carries on as they talk eagerly about their successful first three years as a women-centric garage. They have relaxed now, no longer really conscious of the microphone, just chatting easily in their office as they might at the end of a day, I suppose. This is going to make a great feature, exactly the kind of piece I love making: a good news success story, the antithesis of the usual doom and gloom of radio bulletins. Trish and Leigh speak in a beautiful Bristol burr, soft and littered with lilting els; Nicci, more elegant, more feminine, is slightly posher, as befits her front-of-house role and past experience as an estate agent. Her voice will be distinct for listeners, but it will be hard to tell the two mechanics apart. I'll need to record brief captions to distinguish them.

"Did you say there were three mechanics here?" I ask during a lull in the chat.

"Oh yeah, Ram been with us for a year now?" Trish side-eyes Nicci at this, who nods to confirm. "She's our sparky. These modern cars, with their computers an' all, not somefing I trained to deal wiv - did you Leigh?"

"Nah." Leigh crosses her arms over her ample chest and leans back in her chair. "I can 'andle ignition issues an' lights an' stuff like that, but basically Ram's the girl for the complex wiring jobs on these modern models."

"She's also the one who runs the course with the local college, for teens," Nicci leans into the microphone, her initial aversion to it long gone. "We do a basic vehicle maintenance course for girls, and in September we're taking on two young ladies as formal apprentices."

"That sounds wonderful!" I gush. "Can we get her in? Is that okay with you?" I wondered if the reason she wasn't here was because the three partners didn't want anyone else in the limelight.

There's an embarrassed silence, as the three shoot looks at each other.

"Well..." Leigh starts.

Nicci is quickly on her feet. "She

might

talk to you," she says, "let me go and ask her. Now we've met you and we can put in a good word for you. Just... hang on." With that enigmatic utterance she leaves the office. Through the glass partition she walks across the small workspace - they've only really got space for three cars to be worked on at once - and disappears behind a campervan. My curiosity is well and truly piqued. I look at Leigh willing her to go on.

"Basically, Ram don't like the media." She pronounces it more like "me de ya". "But, y'know, you seem sound to me... Nicci'll put in a good word for ya, don't worry."

Oh okay. So it wasn't a case of them not wanting this Ram to talk to me, but the other way around.

"Why not?" I ask, deeply intrigued. I can't imagine why a mechanic would dislike the media.

Leigh and Trish shift uncomfortably, clearing their throats and looking anywhere but at me. I know that they aren't related, but dressed in their blue, oil-stained overalls, with their dark, close-cropped hair, stocky, powerful-looking bodies, they could be sisters. And like sisters, they seem to have closed ranks.

"Lemme just..." Trish jerks her head towards the door Nicci left by, then stands and leaves.

"Er..." Leigh stands up hastily, "jus' gotta go to the loo."

Suddenly, I'm by myself in the office. I flick back to the beginning of the track on the mini-disc recorder, slip my headphones on; might as well double check the quality. Yep, levels are good, but as I suspected, telling the difference between Leigh and Trish's voices is going to be hard.

Pulling them off, I hear Nicci's voice, cajoling and calming, coming back over the forecourt, accompanied by the click of her heels and the steadier thump of a pair of boots.

I put on my softest smile, and try not to look intimidating, which isn't hard given I'm barely five foot and I'm sitting down.

The woman who walks in behind Nicci radiates resentment. She's also stunning, but is desperately trying to distract from it. Her head is shaved up the sides, with short, spiky dreadlocks on top, bars through her eyebrows, a big septum ring, and a vast array of metal in her ears. But none of these can distract from the gorgeousness of her dark skin, which glows, now with anger, her sharp cheekbones, or her dark eyes, which glower at me.

"Hi," I say brightly, "I'm Liz Bradford. Thanks so much for agreeing to talk to me." I stretch out my hand.

She seems to almost sneer in distaste, but then, grudgingly, gives me a firm if brief shake. She doesn't introduce herself.

I get the sense that this woman will not want to talk about herself. Everything about her posture and dress - collar turned up over a tight neck-scarf, sleeves rolled all the way down and buttoned up, huge DMs with the steel toes poking through the worn leather - scream her discomfort. I pick my words carefully.

"I was wondering if you could tell me something about what the girls do on the courses?"

There's a miniscule drop in the height of her shoulders. "Yeah, sure. Well, we start with the basics: how to check the oil, the water, the tyre pressure." Her voice is not what I was expecting at all. There is no trace of the Brizzle burr, rather RP, but flatter, betraying nothing of who she is or where she comes from. There's an almost musical, sing-song rhythm to it which I can't place at all. "Then the most common issues: how to deal with a flat battery, so we teach the participants how to jump start a car, and also how to change a wheel. We'll also cover road safety; how to behave if you break down and so on. If I get a really keen group, I'll also show them how to check and change brake pads." She's fluent and confident: I imagine she must make a great instructor, young girls instantly feeling at ease with her.

"And how do the participants take to it?"

"There's a lot of trepidation and nervousness at first - they are young women, so they've not often had the opportunity to look under the bonnet of a car before. There's a lot of learned helplessness to combat initially. Jump-starting a car is what I find gives them a lot of confidence. That moment of them realising that they have the power within them to fix a problem always brings a smile to their faces. It helps that it's a team effort too - helps with the bonding."

I nod encouragingly, hoping she'll go on. The contrast of her voice with Trish and Leigh's, and even Nicci's, is striking. It'll sound great on the feature. I am more and more intrigued by this woman Ram: her vocabulary screams University-level education, so what is she doing here?

"Whose idea was it to start these?"

"Mine."

I pause, hoping she'll say more. She doesn't.

"And I understand that you're offering apprenticeships this year. How long will it take for those young women to complete them?"

And she's off, talking about City & Guilds qualifications, schedules, release days, potential timescales. It seems that if she is not the focus of the question, she is more than willing to elaborate on her answers.

I try again. "You're incredibly well informed: did it take a lot to learn all of this?"

"No."

Bollocks.

I try to switch back to neutral topics. "What are some of the challenges that the new apprentices are likely to face with today's cars?"

"Well, it'll be interesting to see what impact hybrids have: they are so new to the market that most drivers will have service agreements with dealers, but we are starting to see a few. So, no doubt those young people we start training this year will deal with them at some point in the future. I also really hope that electric cars will soon become commercially viable. The challenge with them will be that there is less for us to do with them from a mechanical perspective, so it will all be down to our ability to service the electrical components and onboard computers: that will require a whole new set of skills for the future generation of mechanics."

From what Trish and Leigh said, this is Ram's area of expertise (and, from the sounds of it, enthusiasm). Not wanting to risk her shutting down again, I decide to ask more impersonal questions.

"Does With Her Wheels have the expertise to offer such guidance?"

"I'd like to think so," she says.

Inwardly I cross my fingers, and outwardly I smile and nod encouragingly. I've been told my smile is my best feature. The benefits of a wide mouth and good teeth.

"I mean, we go on courses whenever we can and keep up to date with the latest publications."

I'd be willing to bet that when she says "we" here she means "I", but I don't interrupt.

"We've built up a reputation locally, I think, for being a garage that can handle more complex electronic problems, so it would be great to continue to build on that. Certainly, when it comes to the apprenticeships, we've ensured that there is a focus on that area."

Okay, that'll do. I've got enough. I make a show of clicking off the microphone. "Thanks so much Ram! You were great. A natural even." I'm not even lying; she was really fluent and clear, no mumbling at all.

However, my praise just brings a frown from her. "Good? Great. Good luck with the piece." And at that, she strides off.

I try to inwardly shrug to myself as she marches across the forecourt. Not the first reluctant interviewee I've had, and almost certainly won't be the last. But it never feels good to make somebody uncomfortable. I hate it, in fact.

I bite my lip and breathe in deeply. This has been a good day on the whole, and the finished piece will be positive and uplifting.

But still.

Ashton Court Mansion

My skin starts to experience that tell-tale tingle, the warm buzz building inside. I flash a smile to Paula beside me as her hand trails down my arm, making me shiver deliciously. She's feeling it too.

I return the favour, stepping in close to trail my fingernails up the nape of her neck. She sighs, then turns towards me, lightly massaging my scalp with one hand, while the other traces circles near my elbow.

We're coming up.

My bestie and I rock slowly from side to side, face to face, enjoying the slow rush of the half we dropped twenty minutes ago over the gentle pulse of the trance music.

I don't know how long we stay swaying softly, before a blare of horns brings us from our reverie.

Blinking, I step sideways, as our hands drop away from each other. On stage, the eight piece party band named Babyhead, whom our friends Steve and Carol have booked for their wedding-slash-leaving party, have taken the stage.

As the music pumps up, my blood gets going, the drug starts working, especially when Paula offers me a bottle of water and the other half an E.

It's a great night.

Later, as Rick and I snuggle up, waiting for our pre-booked taxi, I see the band loading out. It's not just their amps and kit: it looks like they brought the entire PA with them. As they stack it into a long wheel-base van, I realise one of the crew seems familiar. Her name is on the tip of my tongue, when the taxi appears and the moment is past.

June 2005 - Redland

I'm doing a final check around the house, making sure that the windows are all closed, lights are off, and so on, when Rick comes back in.

"Van won't start."

"What?"

"The van won't start."

"Shit," I groan. "Do you think it's the battery?"

"Hopefully." He grabs the keys to the Honda. "I'll try and jump start it. If you're done here, come and give me a hand."

Glumly, I stick on my coat and follow him out.

Twenty minutes later, it's clear that whatever it is won't be fixed by jump leads.

"Bollocks." Rick looks at me sheepishly. It was his job to sort the van; I'd blagged him his ticket. "I guess we're in the tent."

I sigh. I'd been so looking forward to Glastonbury in the van. I'd managed to get a site vehicle pass so that we could actually drive in and camp backstage at the festival radio. They were like gold dust. I didn't fancy getting the Honda onsite - or rather trying to get it offsite through the inevitable mud. The T4 was at least four wheel drive. So we'd need to park in the carpark then trudge in with everything. Might mean multiple trips, unless we could beg for a ride from the radio quad and trailer.

"Oh, hang on!" I say, digging out my Nokia. "I'll try With Her Wheels."

Nicci is on it like Gromit. "Liz, for you, lover, we'll do a house call. We've had so much interest since that story you did, we're thinking of taking on another mechanic. What's the issue?"

"Not starting at all. We've tried a jump start, but it hasn't worked. It was fine last week, but we haven't used it since."

"Okay. I'll get Ram out to you."

"Great! Thanks so much!" Hmmmm, should be interesting!

Rick's a bit sceptical. "What if we get it going, but then it won't start once we want to come back?"

"The site will be full of engineers, and at worst, we'll call the RAC. We've both booked Monday off. It'll be fine."

Ram turns up shortly, wrapped up warm.

"Hey, Liz right?" She actually smiles at me.

"Hey Ram, thanks so much for coming, we really appreciate it." My smile is totally genuine. "This is Rick."

"Hiya, thanks so much."

"No problem." Ram shakes his hand firmly, then sticks her head straight into the engine. "Can you try turning her over for me?"

Rick jumps into the driver's seat and tries to start.

"Hmmm. Okay, leave it a minute." Ram pulls something - a voltmeter maybe, but what do I know? - out from her tool belt and starts measuring things. Then she goes and rummages in the boot of her car.

"Could be the solenoid," she says, "often is with T4s. Good vehicle though. Luckily, we had some in stock so I brought them. Let's try swapping a new one in."

She starts taking things out and makes easy conversation about the car.

"So you didn't fancy a splitty then?"

"Pshh!!" I exhale. "We'd love one, but we'd never afford it. Besides, I don't think we'd get one through the Glastonbury mud. There's a reason we went for a four wheel drive model."

"Oh, you're off to the festival are you? But I didn't think it started until Thursday?"

"Friday, actually, but gates open to the public tomorrow. We're on the crew at the festival radio, so we can get in earlier. That's why this means a lot, you coming out now."

"Ah, it's okay. Nice to be out. Kind of jealous of you being off to the festival."

"Have you ever been?"

"No. I tried to get tickets but no joy. One day. The line up this year looks great."

"Yeah? Who would you like to see?"

I don't know who I expect her to name - The White Stripes? M.I.A. maybe? - but I'm surprised by the list of names - Babel, Bucky, Big Joan, North Sea Navigator, The Dirty Whites, Whalebone Polly - whom I've never heard of. I say as much.

"Oh they're all local bands." Her voice sounds strained as she says this, her arms working to tighten something. "They are on the small stages, I think. I mean, I've seen them all before But I'd love to go and support."

My reaction is to feel both stunned and sheepish: I'm a local journalist and I've never heard of these bands. Okay, so music isn't my beat, and BBC Bristol rarely plays anything cutting edge, but still. When I think of the local scene, maybe Massive Attack, Portishead and Roni Size are who come to mind. I silently berate myself.

"Oh! Do you think any of them would be up for coming on the festival radio for a live session?"

"I don't know." She shrugs. "Here, Rick, try now."

He turns the key and the van splutters into life.

"Oh thank you." I offer a high five. She pauses a beat, but doesn't leave me hanging. "What do we owe you?" I've plenty of cash on me, ready for the festival.

"Nah, don't worry about it. Nicci would have my hide if she knew I'd charged you. The part doesn't cost much anyway."

I debate just stuffing a few twenties in her pocket, but decide it's not worth offending her. I'll get something delivered to the garage as a thank you.

"Aw, thanks Ram, you didn't need to do that."

"Yeah, thanks a million," Rick adds, coming round, as she closes up the hatch.

"Just doing my job!"

"Listen, how well do you know those bands?"

"Um, well pretty well with some of them."

"If I gave you my number, could you pass it on to some of them? If they are interested in a live session, they should give me a call. It's pretty low fi, but should be fun."

"Yeah, okay."

She takes my number and we offer more thank yous, before waving goodbye and heading off to Pilton.

One year later, June 2006 - The Junction

The noise coming from the pub sounds raw and grating. Woody and I smile at each other, then start to stuff our earplugs in. The bass is shaking my ribs.

Pulling open the door, I'm immediately struck by a fug of sweat, smoke and heat. A pile of pogoing bodies fills the small space between the stage and the bar. A woman stalks the raised platform, growling into a telephone while a drum and bass beat propels the guitarist along at screaming speed.

I'm mesmerised.

A tap on the shoulder brings me to myself. I hold up two fingers to the long-haired beardy bloke next to the table displaying handmade CDs. He accepts a tenner from me and stamps our proffered hands.