“Lenaaa, Leen!” A lad on a bike yells up at the windows of a five-story block of flats, its entrance door hanging loose on its hinges. He tilts his head back, shouting for someone inside.
“Lenaaa, Len!”
“I swear Ill throttle someone in a minute,” growls a burly bloke in a blue vest, sticking his head out. “Clear off!”
“Wasnt calling *you*! Lenkaaa!”
“For heavens sake,” a woman in a nightgown and curlers leans out another window. “Its Saturdaypeople are trying to sleep!”
“Shut it, the lot of you!” snaps a tall, bald man from a third window. “I was up all night, just nodded off, and now this racket”
“Lenkaaa, you coming or what?”
The creaky door groans open, and out steps a girl in a light summer dress, carrying a tote bag with something wrapped in parchment.
“Hey, took you long enough. Oversleep?”
“Nah, was making sandwiches,” she says calmly, stuffing the bag into the bikes rear rack before perching on the crossbar. The boy kicks off, spinning the pedals hard as they zip away.
“Bloody hooligan!” shouts the sleepless man.
“Let us *sleep*!” drifts from another window.
“Sleep, then!” the lad shouts back, laughing as they loop past the building again. “Its Saturday morningwhats *wrong* with you lot?”
Giggling, they leave the estate behind. The boy pedals like mad, past the edge of town, onto a dirt track through the fields.
“Len, you alright?”
“Fine. You?”
“Never better.” He pumps the pedals harder.
They collapse laughing into the grass when the bike swervesa flat tire.
“Oof. Now what, Al?”
“Dunno,” he says, sprawled in the clover. “Might live here forever.”
“*Al*.”
“What? Well build a hut by the river. Ill fish; well cook it over a fire.”
“And the firewood?”
“Well gather sticks.”
“Matches, Al?”
“Who needs em? Well rub sticks togetheror borrow from the fishermen.”
“Right.” They snort, rolling in the grass.
“Al, that cloudlooks like a teapot.”
“Yeah, now its a dog.” They lie there, naming shapes till the sky shifts.
“Fancy a swim?”
“Go on, then.”
They race to the river, dry off on sun-warmed sand.
“Len whatll you do when youre grown?”
“Finish school, maybe uni, then work. You?”
“Marry you. Get rich. Or the other way round. Eitherll do.”
“Prat.”
“Fair. Might squeeze in the army and a trade before you run off with someone else.”
“Who, *Vic*?” She laughs. “We were editing the school paper!”
“Saw you leaning in, all whispery.”
“Whatever. Youre stuck with me, anyway.”
***
Years later, a motorbikes roar splits another Saturday dawn.
“Lenaaa!”
“Hooligan!” a woman shrieks from a window.
“Let us *sleep*!”
“Not *you*! Its *Saturday*!”
The same wobbly door thuds open. Lena steps out, helmet hair ruffled.
“Hey. Oversleep?”
“Hey. Nahpacked us lunch.”
“Keep it *down*!” someone yells.
Al hands her a helmet. She clings to his back as they speed off, past the town, onto country lanes.
“You holding up?” he shouts over the wind.
“Fine!” she yells back, tears whipped from her eyes.
They ditch the bike, flop into the grass.
“Lookthose clouds! Two cats sitting together.”
“Yeah, and that ones a bike. Swim?”
“Go on.”
After, sand sticking to their skin, they kiss till theyre dizzy.
“Len Ive been called up. Army. Tomorrow.”
“*What*? Why didnt you?”
“Just got the papers. Didnt know how to say it.”
She fists his shirt. “Thats why you deferred uni?”
“Hey Ill go after. Then marry you. You wont run off with Vic, yeah? *Len*?”
***
On the platform, Lena scans the crowd. Soldiers spill from the train.
“Al! *Son*!” His mum nearly crumples, hugging him. His dad grips his shoulder; his little sister sobs into his neck.
Then he spots *her*hands folded tight, eyes wet. He pushes through, pulls her close.
“Lenka crying?”
“Happy tears.”
“Plenty more where those came from.”
Let his sister pout, his mum sigh. Right now, its just herthe girl hes loved since they were kids.
***
“Son, its *too soon*,” his mum frets. “You just got back! What about uni?”
“Sorted, Mum. And Im marrying Lena.”
“That girls in a *rush* to tie you down”
“*Mum*. Shes nineteen. I dont *want* anyone else.”
“Al, *think*”
“Like *you* did when Dad came home?” He grins, kissing her cheek. “Doors shut on that argument.”
***
“Its a *boy*!” Al bursts into his parents house, beaming. “A *son*!”
His mum weeps; his dad swipes at his eyes. His sister shrieks, “Im an *auntie*!”
Five years later, a princess arrivestheir daughter.
***
“Son, you *quit*? How will you manage?”
“Had enough of working for peanuts, Mum. Well sort it.”
“And Lena agreed? This is *reckless*!”
“I want *better* for my kids. No splitting one chocolate bar three ways.”
“Alex, *we* never had”
“Different times.” He hugs her. “Well make it work.”
They do. Not smoothlytheres debt, doubt, nights he nearly cracks. But Lenas there, calmly buttering bread.
One evening, she hands him a guitar.
“*Now*?” He bites back a shout.
“Sing, Al,” she says softly. “Bad things hate a good tune.”
So they do, voices wobbly: *”Ill ride my bike through fields so wide”*
He pretends not to see her cry. She pretends not to see him sweat blood to keep them afloat.
Eventually, they thrivecountry house, city flat, kids set for life. They holiday in Spain, Italy, places his mum calls “posh.”
But lately, hes restless. Lifes stagnant.
Then a mate invites him to a club. “Not just *any* club, mate. Trust me.”
Al hesitates. “Len, weve got theatre tickets”
“Work thing,” he lies*first time ever*and hates himself for it.
The clubs all velvet and whispers. A woman slides over: polished, sharp.
“Lets leave. I hate it here too.”
“Why come?”
“Needed the money.”
Outside, she confesses: a deadbeat ex, a son to feed. “Saving up to disappear. Or find a decent bloke. Like you.”
Shes clever, funny. They talk till dawn.
He meets her again. And again.
A month in, he comes home to silence.
*Wheres Lena?* The kids havent seen her. His parents dont know.
He calls the other woman, meets her in the park.
“Im sorry. I love my wife.”
She smiles sadly. “Knew you would. Tell her the truthwe never even kissed.”
***
Lenas at her childhood home, making sandwiches.
“*Lenkaaa!*” A motorbike roars below.
“*Sleep*, you lunatic!” a neighbor yells.
Al sings under her window: *”Ill ride my bike through fields so wide”*
She grabs a helmet. They speed past the town, into flower-specked fields.
“Tired?” he asks later, grass tickling their arms.
“Nope.”
“Len forgive me?”
“For what?”
“You know.”
She laces their fingers. “Alright.”
“Never again.”
“Never what?”
“You singing alone. You *were* singing, yeah?”
“Course.”
“Me too. Lets do it proper.”
And they do.
