Myra

‘Who’s she?’ Jimmy jerked his head towards the snoring Paula.

‘That’s Paula. I’ll introduce you when she wakes up.,

He looked at me. ‘Are you and her – ‘

‘No.’ We were once, but that was a long time ago.

‘Can I have a look at the engine.’

Anything mechanical was John’s passion – after all, he used to be an engineer. On the oil rigs – the only reason he gave it up was because alcohol was banned on the rig. He thought this was both unnecessary and uncivilised.

I opened the hatch. The sight of the 1.8 BMC diesel practically made Jimmy drool. I think he would have jumped into the tight space to have a fiddle, but just then the sound of another engine grabbed his attention. It was the unmistakable throaty roar of a Harley Davidson.

Myra had arrived.

It was a Thursday evening, the start of a new term when I first met her. She was sitting alone in the front row when I came into the classroom. I said Hi and introduced myself. She got up out of her chair – unusual politeness for my students – and said ‘I’m Myra’. There was a trace of Liverpool in her accent, not Scouse but if the Liver Birds had made a sound she would have been born within earshot. A pale, not unattractive face, glasses with thick lenses and frizzy ginger hair she looked to be in her late twenties. I automatically glanced at her left hand; no wedding ring.

I asked why she had joined my counselling group and she said she hoped to go on the university and become a professional counsellor. This was about as far as we got before the other students began to drift in.

One of the first things I always did on the opening session, after introducing myself and finding out their names, was to ask the group to consider personality: is it something you have? or is it something you are? I put the question to the students and asked for a show of hands. About two thirds of the group thought it was something you had, and the rest something you are. This was about the usual ratio.

I then ask those who said it was something you have, who do you think it is who owns the personality?

This usually stumps them and makes them think. But tonight Myra’s voice came loud and clear; the spirit.

This caught me off balance and before I could say anything, the big lad sitting directly behind her who had introduced himself as Carl, snorted with derision. ‘What spirit? There are no spirits – when you dead you dead.’

I cleared my throat. I now had to try to make both students feel they each had a valid point.

‘Well, we don’t normally talk about spirits, they are outside the remit of the course, but from a religious or spiritual perspective if a spirit did indeed exist, then it it could be said to own the personality. But, as I say, this course does not go into spiritual matters.’

‘Perhaps it should’ said Myra.

‘Okay, but we shall have to leave it there and continue with the syllabus’.

‘Thank God for that.’ Said Carl.

A few titters greeted this remark, although I don’t think Carl saw the irony.

I pushed on, and the rest of the lesson went quite smoothly.

It was the following Thursday when Myra upped the ante. Luckily it was not in the classroom but the refectory and there were only the two of us.

I was just thinking of that night as we reached the car park.

‘Beautiful.’ Jimmy was referring to the gleaming mass of machinery not the diminutive figure standing by its side. I gave Myra a hug; it was the first time I had hugged someone completely clad in leather.

I disentangled myself and introduced her to Jimmy.

Myra looked at him steadily, just the hint of a smile on her pale face. She hadn’t changed much : same frizzy hair – flattened a bit by the crash helmet; same earnest look in those grey eyes. Her eyes, there was something wrong – no glasses! She must have switched to contacts.

She said hello to Jimmy who was by now squatting down by the bike running his eyes over the two monstrous cylinders. ”Marvelous bike.’ enthused Jimmy. ‘They haven’t changed the design in years, but why should they.’

‘Well, this 1250 model has a few electronics, the carburetors for instance, they’re –

‘Can I carry some of your stuff? i interrupted. I could see this conversation going on for hours.

We headed for the wooden steps, me carrying two enormous leather panniers, Myra and Jimmy carrying on a lively conversation a couple of yards behind me. I could catch the occasional word: piston…bore…stroke, but I wasn’t interested. I began to wonder – not for the first time – what I was thinking of, organizing this weekend. Look at me: I was already doing the donkey work, taking responsibility – story of my life. One psychotherapist had said I was ‘the fall guy’; she meant for the family (which I questioned) but what if it had spread to other areas of my life? I had organized the weekend for my own benefit and already I could see it spiraling out of control. I was looking for answers; would I like the answers?

I stopped myself. We were going to have a lively, stimulating and pleasurable weekend.

And I looked forward to greeting my next guest.