CELIA:  Crumbs. Everyone a killer.

FENTON: Mind you, there’s also the BSA Bantam.

He  pours out the  tea

CELIA:  Well, even they are fighting cocks, aren’t they?

FENTON: Messy little two-strokes. BSA.  Bits Stuck All-over!

He stirs in milk and sugar

CELIA:  What about Japanese bikes. They’re all the rage now aren’t they?

FENTON: (dismissive)   Oh, they’ve all just got bloody numbers. Like Z 900 and RD 400. I’ve put you one sugar  OK?

CELIA: Yep. (He carries over the cup and his mug and gives the cup to her.)  Ta. (she sips)   Mm, not bad. (He sits on the edge o the rostrum) You can see what fascinated Vincent about bikes can’t you. The names alone are enough to put him in a frenzy. (Slight pause)  He’s a puzzle as well.

FENTON: (wary)  How do you mean ‘as well’?

CELIA:  Well. (laughs) You’re a bit of a puzzle.

FENTON: (dismissive)   Don’t be daft man. Anyway, Vincent’s never had a bike. His van came in ‘andy though, if somebody crashed. Or broke down. Strange lad some ways.  Orphan or  summat.

CELIA: An orphan?

FENTON:  Yeh, well I were talkin’ to his uncle up at t’garage.  Said owd Vince ‘ad just arrived on his doorstep and said could ‘e stay ‘cos ‘e were fed up of foster homes. So he let him stop, if he found a job. Vince got that  job ‘imself  wi’ Bryn Garner up the quarry.

CELIA : What else did his uncle, say?  Is it his real uncle?

FENTON:   Dunno.  ‘Edidn’t say owt else ‘cos ‘e thought I knew. S’pect ‘e thought Vince ‘ad  told me.

CELIA : Didn’t you ask him,  you Bloomin’ man?

FENTON: Well, didn’t like to.

She shakes her head

CELIA:  Have they made him a sergeant-major yet then?

FENTON:   (laughs) Shouldn’t think so.  Mind you, last I ‘eard it was on the cards they might mek him a lance-corporal. PT  instructor. At Catterick.  He’s very fit you know. (Slight pause.)  ‘E’ll probably come steamin’ down the A.1 in a Churchill tank, an’ blow Garner’s quarry into the middle o’ next week.

CELIA: Pardon?

FENTON:    (smiles ruefully)    That’s why he joined up you know. Because Bryn Garner caught him in the caravan. Deeply  involved as you might say. An’ in walks Bryn. Talk about  ‘interruptus’!

CELIA: (incredulous)  Caught Vincent with the nurse.

FENTON: Yeh, that’s right.  Wendy. Bryn went bloody wild. He punched her in the face.

CELIA:  Oh, very nice.

FENTON: ‘E carried ‘em both out of the caravan, an’ dumped them in the middle of the main road. Starkers.

CELIA:   Honest?

FENTON:   ‘E did that. Know what Wendy did? Kicked Vince in the goolies and ran back to Bryn.

CELIA:  (laughs pityingly)  Aw, poor sod. How do I miss out on these things?

FENTON:   Well, Vince didn’t exactly tell the ‘ole village.

CELIA:  Phew!  Well you live any learn. (FENTON puts down his mug and starts to

connect the rear brake. CELIA watches) What’re doing?

FENTON:  Fixin’. up the brake. Adjusting  the rear chain.

CELIA:  Oh yeh? Is there more than one chain then?

FENTON:  Yes.   Two.

CELIA: (smiling) Oh. (She watches him work.)  Why is your other bike called Bonne Ville? (she pronounces this - bonne ville — as per the French)

FENTON: (guffaws.)  Bonn Vee? God, it’s Bonneville man! An’ that’s Bonneville – not Bourneville ‘cos that’s cocoa! Bonn Vee!! 

CELIA:  Well, that’s what’s written on your bike out there. (she picks up his helmet) It’s here, on your helmet.

FENTON: Bonneville  Salt Flats luv. Utah, USA. It’s a huge flat surface. Salt flats. They  do speed trials and tests there. A Six-Fifty Triumph got the world speed record there in 1962.  Two ‘undred an’ twenty-four odd miles an hour.

CELIA examines the helmet

CELIA: Mmm.

FENTON:    Nippin’ on a bit that yer know. Two ‘undred an’ twenny-four. Fastest I’ve done is a hundred an’ twenny-five on Doncaster by-pass. Wi  Charlie an’ Stuart, ant some o’ t’others.

CELIA: Silly sod.

FENTON:  Gerroff!  Goin’ like the clappers we were. (He stops what he is doing. Talks  fast.)    I’m behind Stuart right? He’s on his Six-fifty Matchless with a little Peel fibreglass fairin’ on it. We’re on our way back down the by-pass like,  doin’ about hundred an’ five an’ I see all this smoke from Stu’s bike.  First off, I thought it was oil smoke. Then I see the flames.

CELIA:    Oh, you’re out of yer minds.

FENTON: (grins)   So;  I get level with ‘im right,  which  isn’t easy  at that speed ‘cos you’re flat out,  and I’m pointing at the fire. He thinks I’m ‘avin’ a dice an’ tries to ease a bit more speed out of it.   I’m goin’ crazy, pointin’ an’ tryin’ to keep me bike straight.

CELIA: God!

FENTON: Anyway, he sees the flames an’ stops. The fairing’s rubbed the hot exhaust and the paint’s caught fire y’see?  So we’re all stood round it, wonderin’ what’s  best to do before the tank blows up.

CELIA:  Oh, take your time.

FENTO:  Know  what we did? (he mimes the scene). We all stood round, six of us on the hard shoulder in a semi-circle, an’ peed on it.

He chuckles at the memory

CELIA:  Mad! (She puts down the helmet and cup, and returns to the vac.

He returns to working.)  Are you going to marry Christine Green?

He is caught completely unawares

FENTON:  Yerwhat?

CELIA:     Christine. What are you going to do? She thinks the sun shines out yer bum, poor girl. She doesn’t know you. (She starts to pull more fluff from the vac.) You’ll have to decide what to do.

FENTON:  Oh there’s plenny o time. (pats pocket) Got any fags?

She hands him a cigarette but doesn’t have  one herself. He lights it.

CELIA:  There isn’t. You’re thirty Fenton. All your mates are married. Moved away an’ that.

FENTON:  That’s their busin…

CELIA: (cuts in) They are. Your real  mates. Charlie  an’ them. Chips is twelve years younger than you.  I know they all think you’re wonderful, and you fix their bikes, and give them somewhere to go, something to do; something to belong to…

FENTON:  Do they  ‘ell as think I’m…

CELIA:  You can’t stand still love.

Pause

FENTON: I’m not standin’ still.

CELIA: Well no, not at a hundred and twenty-five!  Oh; you’re my brother and I love you dearly, but you’re like me dad. You’ve reached a point and stuck. (She looks through the window towards the house.) He’s up there, playing around with out-dated herbal concoctions. You’re down here, patching up obsolete motorbikes.

FENTON: Ey, come on Celia.

CELIA: No. You must keep up Fent. You’re on some kind of… spooky speed trip at the moment. Into the past.

FENTON: What the hell’s got into you?

CELIA: You’re a good lad and a brilliant mechanic. You don’t want to be an oddity. Do you? And  Christine’s a sm…

FENTON:  Oh, wharrabout ‘er?

CELIA She’s a smashing girl.

Pause

FENTON:   I treat her OK.

CELIA:   I know, that’s not the point.

FENTON:   She’s too…  steady.  Won’t go on the bike for one thing. Me grandad reckoned if lasses didn’t like bikes, they weren’t worth knowin’.

CELIA:  Oh Fent, be serious a minute.

FENTON:    He reckoned they  ‘ave to weigh no more than four stone. Wet through. That way they’re ideal on yer pillion.

CELIA : Shut up. Listen, when grandad was a lad, bikes were a new thing.  Can’t you see what I mean? He was an innovator. (Slight pause)    And Christine’s no fool, you wouldn’t be trapping each other. Anyway, you’ve no need to get married, try living with her though or something.  Anything.  Just grow up a bit.

FENTON:  Look Celia …

CELIA:  I know, mind me own business. I’m sorry. (She pulls the brushes roughly out of the vac.)    Well. You’ll just have to hope that you find somebody like the granny then. Except grandad had probably built her into a myth by the time he told you, you know.

FENTON: Aye well, they were a great pair though. ‘E did everything. An’ me granny never hindered, she bloody encouraged ‘im. He went an’ lived wi’ me granny’s folks when they got married, on their farm. That’s how he got goin’ with animals.

CELIA:  Why did they come to live in Shelley Woodhouse then?

FENTON:  Escape the gossip. Granny was his first cousin.

Slight pause

CELIA:  Nothing wrong in that is there?

FENTON:  (smiling) No, not if you dare do it. He dared do owt.

Pause

CELIA:  Come on Fenton, You haven’t got any cousins, so that’s out. What about Christine, eh?  She’ll not stand for the pictures Monday, the pub Saturday for ever you know.

He moves to her

FENTON: Won’t she?

CELIA: (exasperated)  No, she won’t.

He tickles her waist

FENTON: Won’t she, Witchy?

CELIA: Get off.

FENTON:  I know what I’m doing Witchy.

CELIA:  Don’t call me that.

FENTON:  Just leave it to me, eh?

He lets her go.

CELIA: Yes, And nothing will happen.

FENTON:  You’re not a bad old sister Witchy.

He gives her a peck on the cheek

CELIA: Whatever’s made you remember bloomin’ ‘Witchy’?

FENTON:  Dunno.

He grins and suddenly kisses her on the lips quite swiftly.

They look at each other, CELIA is puzzled.  He grins, shrugs, and returns to the bike.

She goes back to working on the vac

CELIA: What are you going to do when they’ve flattened this shed?

FENTON: I don’t know.

CELIA: Build another?

FENTON:   Might do.

CELIA:  (suddenly angry)  Oh Christ!

FENTON:  Eh?

CELIA: What am I doing here?

FENTON:   What’ re yer on about?

CELIA:  Well, I could have gone to Switzerland when I left college you know. Or Germany. Then I thought I’d go to London. I’m a good teacher. I could have picked out my own job, well, within reason. And I thought   ‘No’.  I should use my education properly… thoughtfully…  for my own village. Jeez!  I wonder what grandad would have thought of me?

FENTON:   Erm… well, you’re doin’ alright aren’t you?

CELIA:  I tell you what, it makes me poorly, everybody seems to be asleep. Including  you. And we’ve got to be one jump ahead.

FENTON: (loudly)     Ahead of what?

CELIA: Oh!

She bangs the vac down on to the floor in exasperation

FENTON:   Hoi!

CELIA:  God. Do you remember, oh, ages ago, I had to do an essay, kind of a thesis, extended essay thing;  I kept comin home.

FENTON:   Yeh, goin’ daft like y’are now.

CELIA:  Thanks a lot.

FENTON:   Well, bloody stupid goin’ on like that!

CELIA:  Yes, OK.  But I was madly… rushing around in the past then, like you are now.

He stamps on his cigarette.

FENTON:  I hope you know what yer on about, ‘cos I don’t.

He carries on working.

CELIA:  Look, when I was at college Fent,  we all had to do this general course, education course…

FENTON: (mildly sarcastic) Oh yeh?

CELIA:  Listen a minute…  little bits of all sorts of stuff it was . . . er . . . child psychology,  phvsical development …  er…  different things, like… well, teaching methods  and…  anyway, and sociology.   And I really started to get interested when it came to that.

FENTON:   Mm?

CELIA:   Oh, what? Rushing about, collecting information,  processing it, drawing conclusions.  Pain in the arse I was.

FENTON: (quietly) Yeh.

CELIA:   I’m uncovering the lot. Social injustice.  Underprivileged people. Deprived kids. They all  made neat subject headings as well,  at the library. But, I wanted to know for real. So, off I go to  London, to look.

She is getting into her stride, very  matter of fact.

And it’s all there… education in a mess, housing in a mess, racial integration virtually non-existent. So I decide I must do my bit.  But it’s not Londoners I’m really bothered about.. They’ve  got lotsa folk looking out for them anyway. Or they’re supposed to have. Certainly should have. They’re at the centre. Who I’m bothered about is us lot. Bloomin’  Yorkshire folk.

FENTON:   OK. Right, well, you’re ‘ere.  Doin’ yer bit, at the school.

CELIA: Yes I know. But what’s so difficult, is to do something . . . real.

She is waving the rubber-ring, searching for the right words.

FENTON:  Yes, I can see that.

CELIA:   (not amused)   Oh Fent.

She returns to the vac.

FENTON: Hey, go on. I’m sorry.

CELIA:   We-ell… oh, it doesn’t matter.

FENTON:    No go on, man. I’m listening, honest.

Slight pause

CELIA:   See, college wasn’t real. Not real real. Oh, it was just a soft place where you talked and worried and cared;  only you didn’t really care very much about anything, except  eeking out your grant. Getting off with the bloke you fancied.

FENTON grins but thinks better of  interrupting.

CELIA:  And, London wasn’t real. I’d been there a lot, seen a lot. But it was all . . . like text-book stuff. The ‘teeming metropolis’ that we all talked and worried and cared about.  In debates. And discussions and… seminars. Tch. God   (He watches her.)  Do you see what I’m on about?

FENTON:  (non-committal)  Go on.

CELIA:  Anyway, I thought the only way for me to, sort of, get rid of the unreality, was to sort out what it was that…  I knew enough about and…  felt enough for, for it to be real to me. (Slight Pause.)   And that’s when I started that great long extended essay thing. When  I started nipping home a lot.  “Education in a Yorkshire Village Community”.

FENTON:  I remember.

CELIA:  All those old record books  I got.  Right back to the Dame school.

FENTON:  Yeh. I remember you fetchin’ ‘em.

CELIA:  Yep. And I was so proud of meself when I finished it. I got amazing marks for it.

FENTON:  Yeh?

CELIA:   Oh yes. Distinction.  For…  ‘originality of thought’, and, ‘forthright conclusions’.  Stupid buggers.

FENTON: Uh?

CELIA:  Oh, they’re worse than me ‘cos they encourage me . . . look, while I’m piddling around in my own little . . .  text book reality, some idiot politicians are destroying my patch.  My “Yorkshire Village Community”.  I come home, and it’s all gone. Bloody  Wankers!

FENTON:  Oi!

CELIA:  What’s matter? Language? Or the idea that politicians might masturbate?

FENTON:  Eee lass!  Bloody ‘ell fire.

CELIA:  Most of ‘em are…  inept  public relations men, Fent.  Doesn’t matter ‘what party they are. Sorta blokes who’d pump out telly commercials. But these lads have got into politics.  All sorts of potential power. Power, you know?  Power to change things.  But working from that same unreal base as I was. They’re insulated.  Dealing with labels.  And titles.  And  sub-headings. (Pause)    And there’s boundary markers across our garden.  Road-widening. They sanction plans for new roads to slice places up, villages… communities, and make ‘em into rows of houses on a trunk road . . . messing about in . . . theorising . . . about, to them, intangible geographical . . . Altering boundaries, enlarging, merging . (She runs out of steam and words and looks at Fenton.)   Eh?

Pause.

FENTON:   ‘Ow do you mean, ‘Eh?’?

CELIA:  Well, I mean, “Do you agree or do you disagree?”

FENTON:  Oh look Celia,  they know what they’re doin’.

CELIA:  Course they know what they’re doing. Do we know what they’re doing?

FENTON:  I mean, you’ve just gone against what you said to me. I mean that’s progress. You just said about not standing still.

CELIA:  I’m not against progress, far from it. (She moves nearer to him.) I just wish that… Look,  what I’m against is  people not being aware of and not having a say in what’s happening to them.

FENTON:    (rattled)  We’re not all bloody thick you know.

CELIA:   (unmoved)  That’s not what I’m talking about.  I  know you’re not thick.

FENTON: (at a loss)    W ell then…

Now she is teaching.

CELIA:  You know we don’t live in the West Riding any more.

FENTON:  I know. West Yorkshire.  Same thing.

CELIA:  Is it? What about Barnsley?

FENTON:  What about it?

CELIA:  They’re South Yorkshire all of a sudden.

FENTON:  Oh aye, that’s right. They’ve put a sign up.

CELIA:  Beverley belonged to the East Riding, now it’s Humberside.  And nobody ever left the front of the telly.

Pause.

FENTON:  Look, the places haven’t moved, have they?

CELIA:  This place is moving soon isn’t it?  Into the stratosphere!

FENTON:   Alright. The folk haven’t moved though.

CELIA:    (slowly) Yes, how are these folk supposed to keep their identity? Identify with each other and their surroundings… if their surroundings are being . . . mucked about with. Changed, overnight almost? (Pause.  She watches him.)    But we switch the telly on. We draw the curtains, lock the door. Telephone first next door if we want a cup of sugar.

FENTON:  Huh!  Nobody rings me. They’re always round ‘ere.

CELIA:  Aye that’s right. They are. Because  they identify with you. You can give ‘em what they need.

FENTON:  Eh?

CELIA :  Mm? No, I’m not against progress, but everything doesn’t have to be made huge. Everything, the places we work in, learn in… live in. (She returns to the vac.)  What’ll happen when we need each other?  There’ll be no little community here. No Shelley Woodhouse. It’ll be Woodhouse Town Houses, Shelley District, Kirklees Metropolis. And a list of numbers for a zip-code.    (She picks up the brush—roller and fits it in the vac with a shudder.)     Ugh! (She fits the rubber ring while she speaks.)    How many councils were swallowed into Kirklees, Fent?

FENTON:   (subdued)  What? Look, I’m fed up wi’ this. I’ve never known such feetmark.

CELIA:  Go on. How many?

FENTON:  Oh Christmas!  There were our council, Kirkburton. And there was Denby Dale. And Holmfirth.  And a bit of Huddersfield. Right?

CELIA: Yes?

FENTON: That’s it.

CELIA: There were eleven man. Our local district is now eleven times as big. A hundred  and fifty-eight square miles. Half as big as  Hong Kong.

FENTON:  Ooooh!  I’m not in your flamin’ class you know.

CELIA: All Huddersfield. All  Dewsbury. All  Batley. A quarter of West Yorkshire. From just one village to all that lot.

He points to the vac.

FENTON:   ‘Ave you fixed that?

CELIA:  But you didn’t know Fent. And it’s old news.  Three year old news.

FENTON  Is it fixed? (Pause.  CELIA flicks the rubber ring into place.)   Eh?

CELIA:   Think so, yeh.

She stands and plugs the vac into the socket by the door.

She switches on. It works for a second  then changes to a high pitched whine as the belt jumps off.

She switches off.  FENTON moves across.

FENTON: Whoops! You’ve got it wrong.

CELIA: Pardon?

FENTON:  Twisted it the wrong way, hang on.

He starts to put it right.

CELIA: Ta.

FENTON: (quietly) You’ve got to fasten the brushes in with this clip as well.

CELIA:  Oh’ yes, I know. I forgot.

He struggles with the clip. It goes into  place.

FENTON: There. S’better.

CELIA is holding her forehead looking out of the window.

He looks up.

FENTON: What’s matter?

CELIA:  Oh I dunno. Migraine coning on I think.

Slight pause.

FENTON:  Only brainy people get those don’t they?

CELIA: What?

FENTON:  Brainy folks’ ailment. We’ve got to mek do with headaches, an’ dizzy spells.

CELIA: Oh come on.

FENTON S’reight.

Slight pause.

CELIA:  Fent, I don’t mean to . . . I didn’t want to make you feel…

FENTON:  S’OK, you haven’t. (Slight pause.)   Anyway, I know what you mean about things getting too big. Coupla years ago, up at t’garage, boss give yer a job, an’ you fixed a blokes motor, an’ the bloke knew who’d done it. You’d ‘appen ‘ear sum’dy say - “Ey up, young Fenton’s breathed on this” – summat like that. Not now though.

CELIA: Mm?

FENTON:  Too many mechanics. Too many customers. Nobody knows you’ve done it now. They think a  machine does it most of the time. (Slight pause.) Dead ‘ard you know Witchy.

CELIA:  I’ll give you Witchy!  What’s ‘ard.

FENTON:  It’s ‘ard to be proud o’ what you’ve done if nobody else knows you’ve done it. (He plugs in the vac, switches on, it works.   He switches off.)   There you go

CELIA:  Thank you. (She throws him a cigarette.)   Here’s for your pains, sir.

FENTON:   Ta. (They each light their own cigarettes. CELIA  coils the flex up on the vac.)    Hey, where’d  they get that name from, anyway?

CELIA What,  Witchy?

FENTON: No man, I know that. How’s your head?

CELIA:  Could be worse. What name?

FENTON:  Kirklees?

CELIA:   Oh, that’s what brought the headache on, I think. (She leans on the bench.)   I’ll smoke this, then I’m off. (Takes a long pull’ on the cigarette.)     Kirklees gets its name from Kirklees Estate, near Brighouse. Half of Kirklees Estate isn’t even in Kirklees Metropolitan Borough, it’s in Calderdale Metropolitan Borough.

Slight pause.

FENTON:  (remembers)   Oh, I know. Robin Hood were supposed to ‘ave shot an arrow, an’ it landed in Kirklees Estate.

CELIA: Rubbish.

FENTON: There’s a wishin’ well in the woods.

CELIA : Tommyrot.

Slight pause.

FENTON: You’ll get filthy off that can.

CELIA:  What? (She moves slightly.)   It’s a sod. I mean, it takes hundreds o’ years to build up… no, for natural localities to evolve. With the same… hopes, and fears, and interests.   (Pulls on her cigarette.  Heavy sarcasm) Kirklees Metropolitan Borough. (She motions in the air.) That’s it!  Rub that lot out, and draw this in. That’s neater. Yeuch!

Pause.

FENTON: (meekly)    There used to be the Traccies, Yorkshire Traction. Yorkshire Woollen District, Yorkshire Motors.  County Motors, er…  Huddersfield Corporation.  (explains) Buses. T’ Drivers knew t’ district, knew t’ locals!  Now there’s National an’ Kirklees Metro.

There is the sound of a moped approaching.

CELIA : Yes. (She walks to the door and opens it wide.) Oh, stopped raining.

She throws her cigarette outside and picks up the vac.   The moped is louder.

FENTON:  Here’s Chips.

The moped is going too fast, there is a skidding sound on the grass outside. A

crash as the moped hits the shed.

CHIPS:   (voice off)   FUCK!

FENTON rushes outside, CELIA stays at the door.

Enter CHIPS and FENTON. CHIPS has dirty hands, torn jeans, grazed knee.

FENTON grabs the chair and. plonks it in front of CHIPS.

CHIPS looks at them.

CHIPS: Grass were wet!

FENTON laughs.

CELIA:  Here, sit down.

CHIPS does so, FENTON examines his knee.  CHIPS removes his helmet.

FENTON: Oh it’s OK. Nobbut  a bit of a graze.

CHIPS:   (bravely) Yeh, it’s nowt.

CELIA laughs. CHIPS looks up at her.

CELIA:  I’m sorry Chips. There’s no grit in it is there?

She looks.

CHIPS:   No. Soft ground,  like I fell on to t’ grass.

CELIA laughs again.  FENTON moves to the back of the shed and wets  a piece of clean rag at the sink.

CHIPS:   Ey, it’s not that funny.

CELIA I’m sorry.

FENTON  gives  the rag to CHIPS.

FENTON:  Wipe the shit out wi’ that.

CELIA:  Here, let me.

She wipes the knee carefully.

FENTON fishes a bottle of TCP out of the drawer and gives it to CELIA.

FENTON: Disinfectant.

CELIA:  Ta.

She uses it and the wet rag to clean the graze.  FENTON gets further first aid gear out of  the drawer.

CHIPS:  Phew!  Nivver expected that.

FENTON: (laughs)  You never do. Still, you can’t. ride a bike without dropping it now and again.  Part  an’ parcel.

CELIA :  Huh!  Some parcel.

FENTON: There’s some lint an’ stuff here, can you do it Celia’?  My ‘ands are filthy.

CELIA: Yep.

CELIA dresses the graze through the following.

FENTON:  I ‘ad this luvly little James One-Fifty Captain once.  I came off it on Priest’s corner so many times that old Joe Priest reckoned ‘e always ‘ad a kettle on so’s he could bring me a cup a’ tea when I fell off.

They laugh

CHIPS: ‘Ave you come off ‘t bike a lot, Fent?

FENTON: Course man. ‘Alf the fun.

CHIPS grins, CELIA groans.

CELIA : You’re mad. You should both get cars. (They moan.) You’ve got no sense, the tair of you.

CHIPS: (derisive) A car!

FENTON:  I can use your mini!

CELIA:  Oh yeh?

CHIPS: There’s no comparison. If you were feelin’ lousy,  an’ you went for a burn up the road an’ back in the car, you wouldn’t feel any better for it, would you?

CELIA:  I wouldn’t skin me knee, would I? I’d get back in one piece.

CHIPS: Well…

FENTON: Bikes aren’t just for ettin’ there an’ back. They’re not just for goin’ to work on or… nippin’ to t‘ shops!

CELIA:  No, they’re for falling off and breaking your leg.

They groan. FENTON winks at CHIPS

FENTON: I once came off me old Tiger-Hundred in Normanton – sharp right ‘ander. Went straight through this newsagent’s window. It were about midnight an’ all. I were perfectly OK…  well, cut me nose a bit.

CELIA: You broke it.

FENTON:   (pinches and waggles it)    S’OK now!  Anyway, I’m just gettin’ on me feet, an the shopkeeper trails in an’ switches t’ light on.  I’m  theer,  wi’ brokken glass an’ owd comics all over. He sez, “ Nay lad, thar a bit early,  we’re not oppen yit!

They laugh.

FENTON  examines the knee. CELIA  is completing the dressing.

FENTON:  ‘Ow yer doin’?

CELIA:  He’ll live.

CHIPS:  It’s nowt.

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