Rebel Without A Mask

Chapter 3

For months they made love like newlyweds, so many times that Beryl lost count. But still she didn’t move in, until he spied the camper van.

They were sauntering through the Barras, a marketplace in Glasgow, Beryl on the hunt for a good old-fashioned Nokia and Legless for something a little different, something to add a bit of spice to their lovemaking.

And there he saw it: a sixties VW camper van, complete with broken roof rack and more rust than paint.

Legless caught sight of the tiny run-down kitchen, the peeling walls, the ripped upholstery, and thought, How many hours could they spent together sorting the van?

How many hours could they spent together sorting the van?She might even move in.

She might even move in.Beryl didn’t notice it at first, nor the round, dark man under the bonnet; she was too busy rummaging through a box of vintage mobiles.

Legless did. He clocked the stall owner straight away. Feigning disinterest, he turned to catch Beryl lifting a grey Doro 7080.

She casually flipped it open.

“I’d stick to a Nokia,” said Legless, “if you really must connect.”

The round, dark man’s ears pricked up. He turned, caught sight of Beryl’s beehive, and assumed the “granny in leather” was a woman of the sixties: a woman who’d spent her youth on the back of a motorbike, braless, with a reefer in her mouth and probably had her first ride in a camper van . . .

He went for the hard sell.

“Nokia?” He said with a crisp slam of the bonnet. “I’ve a bucketful here in the van.”

The round, dark man sipped his 90p instant coffee.

“It’s vintage,” he said with a cough. “And a steal. Just needs a jump start . . .”

Silence.

“I’ll throw in a set of jump leads.”

The round, dark man eyed Legless’s skinny legs, skinny arse, skinny shoulders, and ancient leather jacket. He had the look of someone who slept with a motorbike . . . spent his days in the shed with a roll-up in the corner of his mouth and memories of the sixties through the haze of dope and s*x.

He pulled out the bed and, with a “good as new,” plonked himself on it.

The bed squeaked but held his weight.

“This could expand our repertoire,” Legless whispered in her ear.

Beryl, with no idea what he meant, ran her fingers along the cracked bench and creaked opened a cupboard. The door flopped to the ground.

“And I’ll throw in a box full of vintage Nokias,” said the stall owner.

They drove home to Dunoon, almost push-starting the van off the ferry.

Fixing up the van was a bonding experience almost on par with making love and collecting tea. They spent so much time together that Beryl finally gave up her sheltered accommodation.

Legless was ecstatic.

They rocked the van with their lovemaking, drank tea as the sun set, and for a while, Beryl forgot she had been a ruler, a woman in control. Until, that is, she became a driving instructor.

---

A year on Earth had changed things, and the tea cupboard hadn’t been opened for a while.

They rarely made love, and when they did, Beryl crashed out before he had time to boil a kettle.

Within months of becoming a driving instructor, she was too busy for him, and catching her attention was as hard as asking a football fan mid match what he wanted for tea.

In fact, that is how Legless now felt: forgotten, ignored, like the partner of said football fan mid World Cup.

She couldn’t wait to jump in her car and start the day, while Legless—who had “been there, done that, and bought the T-shirt”—was left behind. Beryl had discovered a way to make a living, and she loved it; a pay packet was something new to her, something she ripped open with glee, even though she never bought anything.

She started a taxi service for those in the sheltered accommodation, delivering for Pizza Hut and teaching nervous women drivers well past their eighteen years.

Soon she was so busy she was never in, and Legless began to miss their visits to the planetarium, their weekends away in the camper van. She was even too busy to visit the “Women through the Ages” exhibition, her favorite; it inspired her the most.

He missed pushing a co-op trolley with her, her chuckling at his “buy one get one free” banter with a checkout attendant. He suggested taking a break in her camper van to explore the Highlands, but before he’d even brought home a brochure, she was off, the camper van as redundant as his appendage.

He may as well have been back on Planet Hy Man peddling a stationary . . . at least then she looked at his arse.

---

He closed his book and smiled. Had they turned a corner? Had he finally conquered her?

He slid his memoir back in its hiding place. Or is this just a one-off?

Or is this just a one-off?He thought of the look on her face . . . and told himself they had turned a corner, that he had “reclaimed, pulled down the drawbridge, and conquered.” Then he slipped back into bed, wrapped his arms around Beryl, and was down for the count in minutes.

---

Hours later, as the sun rose, Beryl woke to gaze at Legless’s wrinkled face contorting with each snore.

He slept like he was an action man in an adventure film, writhing about like a worm on a hook, which Beryl found strangely erotic—not that he was aware. Beryl never told him.

She made her way downstairs, her head full of the day ahead.

She had no idea he wrote about her, that he had been up all night drinking coffee, thinking of her.

She didn’t even notice the coffee mess. She just poured herself one and headed out the door.