New Beginnings Revive

'Never made it.' He grinned. 'But I'm still turning out for the Bees. I'll be able to play at that level for another fifteen years or more.'

The rest of my lunch "hour" passed swiftly as we discussed old pals from the sixth form (he was far more up to speed on that than I was, particularly when we discussed the girls). Only too soon it was time for me to make a move.

'Got to split,' I said, gathering my things together.

'It's been good seeing you,' he assured me. 'I don't suppose you fancy a drink sometime?' Then, taking in my meaningful glance at his ring finger: 'That's an old one. It won't come off. Here, you have a go.'

No way was I going to try to remove a guy's wedding band in a canteen full of gossipy factory hands and office workers.

'A drink sounds like fun,' I said, 'but I'm sort of seeing somebody at the moment.'

Tommy shrugged good-naturedly. 'Will you remember me when you're not sort of seeing somebody?'

'Of course I will,' I lied.

*****

The rest of Wednesday and most of the next day passed busily but uneventfully. Before I knew it, it was late Thursday afternoon and I was due for tea at my mum's (to my mum "tea" means the early evening meal rather than cups of cha).

My parents live in Bingley, albeit at the opposite end of town to me. They are down by Myrtle Park, in a warren of terraces that has become quite a trendy place to be. Not that I thought it was so trendy growing up there. There again, how many teenage girls think their mum's home is cool?

As usual, I caught a train back from Keighley, admiring the Worth Valley platforms yet again. Walking from the station to Mum's took perhaps ten minutes and, I must admit, I felt a twinge of nostalgia as I opened the gate into her backyard (visitors use the front door, but I wouldn't dream of doing that). Opening the gate invited a volley of aggressive barking from Duchess, Mum's half-tamed Border Collie. Duchess is knocking on these days, she's fourteen or so, and hasn't the eyesight or sense of smell she used to have. I had to tell the daft old thing it was me three times before she took notice. Then she dropped the aggression and became overly affectionate.

'Mikki,' Mum called. 'How nice to see you.'

I extracted myself from Duchess's front paws and avidly licking tongue. Mum had opened the kitchen door and was standing on the doorstep, smiling her welcome.

'Hiya, Mum,' I called back. 'Where's Dad?'

'It's summer and the sun is shining. Take a guess.'

'St Ives golf course?'

'Got it in one.' Then, her eyes narrowing as they only too often do, 'is something the matter, Mikki?'

Trust Mum. She's always been able to see through me, happy face on or not. 'No,' I fibbed, 'I was just wishing we were having a barbie out here. Like in the old days.'

'Like when Duchess used to eat all the burgers, you mean?' Mum's quizzical expression had not gone away. 'Come in,' she said, 'let's have an aperitif.'

Oho, that meant trouble. Mum wasn't a big drinker and the sun wasn't over the yardarm yet. I went inside and sat at the kitchen table while she produced glasses.

'Sweet or dry?' she enquired.

I didn't hesitate. Mum only ever drinks sherry. "Sweet" means Harvey's Bristol Cream; "dry" means Tio Pepe. More to the point, "sweet" means a wine glass while "dry" means a titchy, curvy thing that holds hardly any sherry at all.

'Sweet, please,' I said, sticking to time-honoured tradition.

Mum poured us both generous rations then took a seat opposite me. 'Is it work?' she began. Then, quickly correcting herself,' no, work wouldn't get you so upset. And you're too smart to get into trouble at work, anyway. It has to be a relationship. Has some snake-in-the-grass of a boy let you down?'

I had to laugh at that. Mum was imminently about to be fifty (her birthday's on the longest day, so I've always got that date in pub quizzes!). To her, anyone younger than forty is a "boy" or a "girl". "Men" and "women" don't come into it. Of course it hasn't always been that way; when she was going up forty, "boys" and "girls" were under the age of thirty . . .

'Come on, Mikki,' she said. 'Tell me all about it.'

I hadn't meant for it to come out like this . . . hadn't meant for me to come out like this! . . . but I couldn't help myself. Staring into my hardly-touched sherry, I mumbled the words.

'Sorry Mum, it's a snake-in-the-grass of a girl.'

A minute of silence ensued with me still staring into my glass. Now a whole minute of silence is a long, long time amid a conversation. Try it yourself if you don't believe me. You'll find ten seconds seem like a decade. Ice ages happen in whole minutes.

Eventually I'd had enough. 'Please don't hate me,' I said, eyes rooted on the amber meniscus (meniscus, huh! Who says I can't be scientific?).

'Hate you?' Mum's laugh was as warm as ever. 'I love you, Mikki. Always have, always will.'

I teared up at that and, practical as ever, she handed me a Kleenex tissue.

'I've suspected for years,' she told me as I mopped up and sniffled.

'You're ahead of me then,' I said. 'I've only known for a month. Before then I didn't have the vaguest.'

Gently, tactfully, Mum coaxed me into telling her about Dave. Caring about her sensitivities, I told her about our courtship and long weekend in the Lakes. And, while I made it plain we'd had sex, I went into zero detail at all. Needless to report, I didn't even mention Joyce; at that stage Joyce was several bridges too far.

'It sounds like a flash-in-the-pan affair to me,' Mum concluded. Then, holding up a hand to stay my protests: 'Not that flashes in pans can't be passionate and sincere. You will let me know what happens on Monday, won't you?'

I promised I would before asking Mum why she'd "suspected for years".

'You were never really interested in boys,' she said. 'I know you went out in a mixed crowd, but you never committed to any of your admirers. And you never asked my advice. Unlike your brother.'

Again, I had to laugh. My brother has never asked me for "big sisterly" advice. He's asked me for dozens and dozens of my friends' phone numbers, but never once for advice. I was glad to hear Mum has been pointing him in the right direction.

'Thank you,' I said, smiling at her. 'For being my friend.'

'And thank you,' she replied, 'for confiding in me so soon after you confided in yourself. It isn't easy, I know that for a fact.'

'Oh yes?' I queried as she topped up our glasses.

'I never dared go as far as you seem to have,' Mum told me. 'But I had several crushes . . . on girls, I mean. The furthest we ever went was kissing. "Practicing for boys", we called it. We did a lot of that. And boys never kissed as well as us girls doing our practice.'

'Not even Dad?' I wondered, my last traces of anxiety fading, feeling inquisitive.

'Your dad is the best kisser I've ever known,' Mum said seriously. Then spoilt the effect by adding: 'For a man.'

We giggled together and Mum re-topped our drinks. Again! Two minutes ago I was staring at a meniscus, now I was two glasses down the road. Much more amazingly, so was Mum!

'Between you, me and these four walls,' she went on, 'Dot is the best kisser I've ever known. Auntie Dorothy, I mean.'

I nodded soberly (well, more or less soberly). Dorothy was one of Mum's oldest friends and, in the absence of real aunties, has long since assumed the role.

'Don't tell anyone,' Mum continued, 'but she dropped out and lived in a commune,'

'Not in Cornwall,' I exclaimed.

'No. It was somewhere up by Lindisfarne.' Mum's eyes narrowed once more. 'I can't tell you how confidential this is . . .'

'You know my middle name . . .' I prompted.

Not biting, Mum enlarged. 'Dot has four boys, yes? And do they look alike?'

'Well,' I said, 'vaguely . . .'

'Do they heckers like,' said Mum. 'They've got Dot in common and Fanny Adams else.'

'What about Karl?'

'He might be dad to number four. And possibly number two. Or maybe none of them.'

'And he knows this?' I said, incredulously.

'Ownership wasn't a big deal up there,' Mum said simply. 'Neither was the sex of your lover. Dot reckons she only ever had five men in all of her life.'

'Three more than me,' I blurted. Then, putting a hand to my mouth, 'Oops, that slipped out!'

Mum only laughed.

'Thank you,' I said sincerely. 'For being so considerate.'

'You're my daughter and I love you,' she said. 'And it's not as if you've confessed to being the Ripper or supporting Leeds United, is it? Compared to that, you're still a saint.

*****

And so to Friday. POETS day. Rupen's invite to "lunch in the pub" came as a surprise, but only mildly. We'd lunched in the pub before, and it seemed like a good idea.

(Quick aside about Rupes. I don't have a clue as to his ethnic origins, and neither does he. If pressed in a corner, he always says "Chinese" . . . which is about the only group he isn't too clearly associated with. He is, however, the nicest guy you could ever meet. He's also straight as a die. He's happily married and would never make a move on me as a single girl, wouldn't even think of it. But woe betide a stranger who tried to hit on me in his presence.)

'Big problem, Rupes,' I reluctantly observed. 'We're on different shifts this week.'

'Not so,' he said gleefully. 'Toni's working through, aren't you, my dear?'

Toni was Rupen's next-desk neighbour on the other side to me. 'I've a dental appointment,' she confirmed glumly. 'It involves a local anaesthetic. That's why I only had a slice of toast for breakfast and just two glasses of water ever since.'

'Sounds awful,' I said sympathetically.

'Sounds expensive,' Rupen chuckled. 'I'd offer to bring you a couple of packets of pork scratchings, but . . .'

A well-aimed rubber band shut him up but didn't stop us from visiting The Boltmakers Arms.

Now, I don't want to turn this tale into a must-see guide to West Yorkshire pubs, but at this point I have to digress a moment. By Keighley's (admittedly sketchy) standards, "The Bolts" is iconic. Apart from having the full array of Timothy Taylor's ales, the place has been endorsed by no less than Oasis. Back in the day . . . when the Gallagher brothers were second only to The Beatles in the all-time charts . . . they were also shirt sponsors of the pub's slightly less famous football team. That was thanks to the nagging of one of Oasis's roadies, an East Morton lad who was, if nothing else, persistent.

Seen from outside, The Bolts is tiny. And it isn't a TARDIS; it's no larger as seen from inside. For all that it is one heck of a boozing venue. We hustled our way in and, after acknowledging both barmaids, Rupes asked me as to my poison.

'Hmmm,' I went, conscious it was early in the day, 'maybe Golden Best . . .'

'My god, don't listen to her, Rupen said to the barmaids. 'Two pints of Landlord and don't spare the horses.'

After a couple of drinks my boozing buddy mentioned the dreaded Katrina. 'She starts again on Monday,' he said. 'Haven't you heard?'

The simple answer was no. Having failed to come up with a realistic sabotage bid, I'd blocked my ears, mentally at least.

'No,' I confirmed, begrudgingly.

'Hey, tell me to shut up.' Rupen was a hundred percent sincere. 'I know it's not . . . well, not so easy for you . . .'

I sighed and swigged beer. Rupen was a good guy but he was also a gossip. And a world-class one at that. Yorkshire is as big as a lot of small countries (like, say, Scotland), but you just try having an affair there without Rupes being aware!

'We're cooling off,' I told him. 'Me and Dave. And yes, it is because of Katrina.'

'She's a bitch.' Rupes surprised me yet again. 'She looks like sugar and spice, but she isn't all sweet and nice.'

'Rupey-baby,' I said. 'Don't tell me you're not a fan.'

'She's drop-dead-gorgeous,' he replied, 'but her only interest is saving up enough to jet off again.'

'That's how I see her!' I cried excitedly. 'That's exactly how I see her!'

'Trouble is,' Rupen went on, 'everyone thinks she's the bee's knees. She can go and come back at will. So she does.'

'Yeah,' I said, 'she's a drop-dead-gorgeous whore.'

'So what are you going to do about her?'

'Me?' I was momentarily bewildered. Then, recovering myself, 'I'm going to take Dave off her for keeps. Or am I being unrealistic? Have I really no chance?'

'Course you've a chance, Mikki,' Rupes said in response, 'how can you ask?'

'So tell me more about Katrina.' My eyes probably glinted as I seized the opportunity. 'They met at the Christmas Party in 2012, didn't they?'

I could see straightaway from Rupes's expression that I wasn't going to like his answer.

'They knew each other from before.' His voice was low, apologetic, almost. 'They were at Skipton Building Society together.'

Sinking-in time. I knew Dave had left school "early", at eighteen, and had done her degree in night classes, but I knew next to nothing about her working history.

How could that be? We were lovers and in love. How could we be everything yet know next to nothing?

*****

Because I start work early I usually get to finish early. But not that Friday. On a Friday, while everyone else swans off at four o'clock, one poor credit controller has to man or woman the phones until the branches close at half five. And guess what? It was my turn to be "it" again.

I didn't really mind stopping behind. It was a couple more hours of overtime on top of the five I'd clocked up the previous Saturday. And Joyce had told me to claim another six hours for Monday, seeing as I'd been "working for the company every waking moment". I liked that a lot. Assuming the six hours came at the end of my day, I was effectively being paid time and a half for eating, drinking and making out in gay bars. And the eating and drinking had been at the company's expense. Hard work, obviously, but I suppose somebody has to do it!

I only decided to go out during my short train ride home. Dining on fish and chips yet again, I began to get ready almost as soon as I'd eaten. After a lengthy session of masturbating in the shower, naturally.

There was no apprehension that evening and no blanking of my mind. There was no danger of me thinking about Dave, either. I had successfully compartmentalized her. She was safely locked away in a box marked "not to be opened until Monday".

It seems strange admitting this, but I focused on a nameless girl as I diddled myself. A girl who is nameless but does exist. I had only ever seen her once, last Sunday, during my long and bitter trek home from East Morton. Having downed three pints in Crossflatts I was, by the time I reached Bingley, desperate for a pee. Consequently I dived into the first pub I came to. And, having used the facilities, I felt obliged to buy a drink . . .

I can't tell you what beer I chose. To tell the truth, I didn't look at the brands and logos on the pump clips, I looked at the strengths and went for the strongest. I only noticed the girl who was serving me when she said, 'Cheer up, love, it may never happen.'

Moving my eyes from the 4.8% promise on the nearest clip, I noticed a shapely bare arm, small muscles flexing as it pulled my drink. There were lots of tattoos on that arm but one stood out: it depicted two naked women, their bodies entwined. Intrigued, I took in a face with the finest bone structure I have ever seen. And the girl's hair . . .

I'm not an expert when it comes to hair, but it seemed to me that she'd trimmed with three or four different guards. Most strikingly, a patch on the right side of her head had been shaved as good as bald. And she had a Mohican-like strip of longer hair on top . . . that is to say, it had probably been cut with a number 3, so it wasn't excessively Mohican-like. Elsewhere . . .

Well, as I said, I'm not an expert when it comes to hairstyles. Hers was exceptional, though.

'Wow,' I said, 'great impact. With the hair, I mean.'

She thanked me with a smile and asked for £3.40 for my pint. As I handed her a fiver I noticed the tattoo on her other arm: two female symbols in rainbow colours, the circles interlocked. If I hadn't been so down after arguing with Dave . . .

Back to Friday evening. I'm quite predictable when it comes to bringing myself off under the shower. I usually begin by frigging two-fingered until I cum. Then I concentrate on my clit, rubbing away fiendishly until I cum again. And again.

I have an exceptionally low sex drive? Not anymore. Oh no, since I opened my eyes, since I re-orientated myself, I've been as horny as hell. Gone are the days when I believed two or three orgasms in one night was excessive.

Temporarily sated, I towelled myself dry and got dressed in my usual going out gear. To give you an idea as to "usual", think The Fonz. I strongly favour blue jeans, white T-shirts and leather jackets. Being female I do, of course, vary the wardrobe just a little. In my case the jeans are figure-hugging and the T-shirts all look tight over my slightly-too-big tits. Also the jacket is brown, to complement my eyes and hair, and the matching brown fuck-me boots would be well out of place in Fonzie's auto repair shop.

Pleased with my appearance, I set off for a night on the tiles. And no, I wasn't in the least bit bothered about doing a pub crawl on my lonesome. I worked in a busy Cornish pub for three seasons, remember? I regularly opened up and called last orders on my own. I like pubs and anyway, this was Bingley, not Afghanistan. I wasn't going to accidentally stray into a boozer full of drugs and illegal firearms.

One final sales pitch for a West Yorkshire watering hole. When I left for university The Fleece was a bit run-down and catered for serious ale drinkers. "Spartan" is probably an accurate enough description. It had bare wooden floorboards and the gents' was outside, across a small backyard (it was rumoured people had died of exposure in those toilets during winter). I actually liked the pub, but most of my peers wouldn't give it time of day.

What a different place it is now. Rebranded as "The Potting Shed", it has been opened out and extended, the floor space at least doubled. The small backyard has gone, replaced by a terrace and a landscaped beer garden. The theme is . . . unsurprisingly . . . gardening, both inside and out. At first glance the furniture and fittings seem mismatched. That's because they are mismatched, and deliberately so. All the materials used have been "upcycled", giving the clientele the feel of being in a giant, cobbled-together shed on an allotment. Not that it's been cobbled together on the cheap. Apparently the owners spent over half a million on the refurb, and their gamble has paid off spectacularly. Every time I've been in there it's been standing room only.

Sadly, the nameless barmaid of my dreams was nowhere to be seen. I bought myself a pint of sensible-strength Moorhouse's and checked the time. Just after half past. Maybe there'd be a change of shift at eight.

As I moved away from the bar I spotted Tommy, who was deep in conversation with a long-haired blonde. Good on him, he'd got over my rejection of the other day! Smiling to myself, I went out onto the terrace.

Now, please don't get me wrong, but I see flaws in this "no smoking in public buildings" lark. Okay, I'm too young to remember what it was like before the law came in, but what does a girl have to do to get a lungful of fresh air these days? Go live in the Lake District? It's certainly impossible outside a typical West Yorkshire pub.

Edging as far away from the nearest smokers as I could, I sipped my beer and took in the ambiance of my surroundings. It was chocka indoors and more of the same out there. All of the tables were taken and so too were all of the multi-coloured garden sheds/picnicking areas around the lawn. Not eight o'clock and rammed already!