Apricot Press

Mick Shawyer

‘It’s definitely here,’ Michael said, trying to convince himself. ‘Somewhere. . .’

He pushed further along the overgrown verge, jumping at sudden movement and losing his balance when a rabbit scuttled through the long grass. He tumbled, outstretched hands sinking in squelchy mud at the bottom of a ditch.

It definitely isn’t Pete thought, watching as his best mate scrambled up, hands raised and covered in black mud.

The mud released a long-trapped odour of rotten eggs and Pete backed away.

‘Phew mate, you proper whiff,’ he exclaimed, covering his nose while Michael wiped his hands on the grass verge.

Michael searched as he wiped, something was shining through the bramble. Dull chrome covered in bird droppings and he leapt up, wiping and rotten eggs forgotten. ‘There it is, Pete!’ he yelled, pointing at the brambles. ‘Come on! A bit of bird poo’s not gonna hurt.’

He grabbed a handful of brambles, ignoring the thorns and pulling. Pete watched for a moment before jumping in the ditch and tearing at the undergrowth.

‘Watch out for rabbits,’ he said with a laugh as they uncovered the abandoned Lambretta.

With the handlebars exposed they both took hold.

‘Put your back into it, Heave. . .’

The Lambretta was having none of it and after two attempts they stood back.

‘We’ll have to get rid of all the roots,’ Michael said. ‘They’ve grown over the wheels.’

The teenagers grabbed handfuls, ripping enthusiastically and ten minutes later the dull and dirty scooter was uncovered.

‘It’ll surely move now’ Pete declared and it did, all of six inches.

‘Hang on,’ Michael said, backtracking along the ditch. There’d been some four by two fencing rails in the long grass and he pulled one free, ‘Here we go. Pete let’s use this, lever it out.’

The scooter screeched in protest as the boys heaved at the timber, adjusting their grip and grunting like weightlifters. The two-wheeler sprung free and the rescuers collapsed on the tarmac, their red faces alight with victory.

‘Let’s get it back to my place,’ Pete said, gazing at the nearby houses.

The residents and their Neighbourhood Watch scheme were notorious – fingers permanently poised to dial up reinforcements. They would gather afterwards at Nosy Norma’s house, gossiping about the blue lights and bells for hours on end.

*

There was a sprawl of outbuildings at Pete’s home, timber skeletons perched on brick walls. Two had tin roofs and wooden doors. Pete’s brother, Spike, was inside the larger of the two.

He spent every spare minute rejuvenating American muscle cars, his latest project a burnt-orange Ford Falcon with fat wheels and the bonnet propped open with a broom handle.

He was delving under the engine and muttering, ‘Bloody Americans and their two-bob wiring.’

‘Spike’ll get it going,’ a familiar voice declared from outside.

Oh will he, Spike thought, sliding from under the bonnet. There were two boys in the drive struggling with a weed covered scooter, his brother and a mate rabbiting like neighbours over the garden fence. The boys covered in brambles and mud, thinking they’d won the lottery.

The boys looked like they had climbed from a swamp, reminding Spike of a childhood book, Stig of The Dump and his mate, Barney.

‘Here,’ Spike suggested, pointing at a patch of hard packed earth. ‘It’s flat. Does the stand work?’

Get it going, he thought, more chance of Cilla Black returning my calls but he knew he would try. His younger brother didn’t have it easy, poor sod getting regular slaps from their stepfather whenever he’d been at the bottle.

‘Can you fix it bruv?’

‘You’ve lost your marbles. Fix it? It’s a wreck.’

‘It’ll clean up, you’ve gotta see past the dirt. It’s well tidy underneath,’ Pete’s mate grinned. ‘I’m Michael.’

The fourteen-year-old shook Spike’s hand. ‘Would you show us?’ He asked.

‘I can get it going, the rest is up to you.’

Michael nodded, ‘What’s first?’

‘Clean it, take the panels off, get the battery out.’

Michael twisted the side panel levers and eased the panels free. ‘Got any rags?’ He asked and Pete threw him a handful.

‘Wipe the loose stuff off then spray it with this,’ Pete holding up a can of WD40.

‘Where did you find it?’ Spike asked, patting the seat. ‘It’s an LD150. I learned to drive on one of these.’

‘Dean Down Drive, in a ditch near the top end.’

‘It must belong to someone, was there a body next to it?’

‘No, Jesus. No.’

‘Anyway. . .’

‘Anyway what?’

‘Finders keepers!’

The elder brother shook his head adult style, as he went in search of tools. ‘Spanners, these should do you. Use this to get the spark plug out, you’ll need a new one, I expect I’ve got one somewhere.’

*

Two hours later and the boys had transformed two-wheeler. They stood back, admiring their handiwork, the LD150 sparkling in the spring sunshine.

‘Pretty good – for beginners,’ Spike praised, while replacing the ignition switch. ‘Here we go.’

Go? It all went south, five minutes of pumping at the kickstart and not so much as a smoker’s cough. Pete voiced their thoughts. ‘It’s knackered.’

‘Take that lead off the plug,’ Spike instructed. ’Let’s see if it’s sparking.’

Pete attached the lead to a spare plug and they worked the kickstart. ‘It’s sparking right enough,’ Spike announced, scratching his head and mentally ticking the first item on a list.

Michael was looking all over the scooter, not understanding much but wanting to know. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, pointing at a chrome lever engraved “Choke.”

‘It’s for cold starts. It’s turned to “ON.”’

‘What about this one?’ A similar control, marked OFF, ON, RES.

‘That’s the petrol tap.’

‘It’s on? Looks like off to me.’

Spike frowned and gave the tap a twist. He had an idea. ‘Come here you two, look at this, the carburettor.’

His knees ached and he paused before dragging the tool box near and sitting on it. ‘The carburettor mixes air and petrol. Sometimes air gets in the fuel line and prevents petrol getting through.’

The boys nodded.

‘Is that what’s called air-lock?’ Michael asked. He’d heard the term, his elder brother had a motor bike that needed constant tinkering.

Spike nodded, ‘It is,’ and he touched a slotted brass screw with knurled edges. ‘Release this a couple of turns and pump this button. It’s called the bleed screw – tighten it up when there’s no bubbles.’

He demonstrated. ‘That’s it,’ he announced when a jet of clean petrol spurted from the screw.

‘Right, let’s try again,’ he said, checking the screw was tight and wiping.

There was nothing for two kicks, a cough on the third and a pop p’pop from the exhaust pipe. They all jumped and Spike kicked again.

Nothing.

‘Come on,’ he urged, catching Michael’s expectant face.’We’re getting there, scooter boy,’ and he gave the pedal a mighty kick.

The two-stroke engine farted like a loose-bowelled pensioner and Spike worked the throttle, releasing a wowww – WOWWW – WAWAWOWWWW and a cloud of black smoke from the tailpipe.

The scooter boy and Pete yelled with laughter and danced. No one had noticed the blue light flashing at the bottom of the drive. Nosy Norma’s Neighbourhood Watch team had struck again.

James Shawyer has two sons and is a special dad. He has a weakness for McDonald’s and Liverpool Football Club.

Photo credit: Elisa Stone