A Small Victory

It was a fine spring day in the Garrett Maryland of nineteen ninety-two. The snow at low levels had just thawed and the only snow remaining was at high altitudes or on the mountain tops. The roads were now far more traversable for those on two wheels. A lone rider on a shiny red machine weaved their way down from the interstate to Garrett proper. The stranger's motorcycle bore out of place New York Plates. Passing the famed sights of Garrett. The Feed N Breed, the Chat N Chew. Then weaving down Main Street past the town hall on a busy Saturday afternoon. Eventually stopping at Ping’s fine Chinese dining.

There were other motorcycles in the Pings lot. A well-cared-for customised mid-seventies Harley Davidson next to a couple of less well-cared-for Dirt Bikes.

Our rider removes her full-face helmet. She’s a lithe seventeen-year-old girl with auburn hair with shaved sides and piercing violet eyes. Her eye make-up is heavily applied and makes her unique eyes stand out even more.

“I like the Ducati”

The clunk of a payphone being returned to its receiver accompanies a voice calling from the other side of the lot. A girl perhaps a little older with wayward dark hair over a motorcycle jacket. Bundled up against the cold of the spring to make the best of the weather for riding.

“Thanks, you from round here?” I could do with directions.

The newcomer asks with a New York twang to her voice. Clocking the other girl's motorcycle clothing and the Maryland plates on the other bikes.

“Yeah, for my sins.”

The dark-haired girl nods.

“Not for much longer, heading to Boston in the fall.”

She felt the need to add that she had higher aspirations than this small town.

“I just rode her from New York. Looking for a Journalist she writes about bikes, maybe you’ve heard of her SH Pevenise.”

The newcomer grabs a notebook from her jacket pocket flipping it out to a page of dense shorthand.

“Lives at a place called Queen Lake Manor.”

Recollection crosses the dark-haired girls face

“That’s Susan MacLoud, I know her, Queen Lake Manor is just north of town. Follow the signs for the Equestrian Centre.”

Heather Jones Aunt Susan attracted all sorts of interesting people.

“I hope she doesn't mind unannounced visitors.”

The newcomer looked nervous

“Adores them, she’ll probably make you tea. My name is Shannon by the way.”

Shannon waves a gloved hand casually.

“I’m Loyce, Loyce Street.”

The newcomer introduced herself

“That’s a cool name, German for a renowned warrior.”

You could meet all sorts of people just on Main Street. Garrett was a weird little town that way.

“And yours means having ancient wisdom, which you apparently do.”

Shannon takes a little bow, more than just a pretty face.

“Is the coffee here good?”

Loyce enquired

“Not by New York standards, but by Maryland standards, it’s the best on Main Street.”

Shannon was honest, and Loyce likes that. Even in the big city, there weren't many girls into bikes her age.

“As long as it's warm. I’m not used to riding in the mountains.”

Two teenage boys left Pings.

“I hope you find Susan, she should be breaking for lunch after dealing with the stables, so try the main house. Anyway, I gotta go, these two lunkheads are with me.”

Shannon gives one of the boys a kiss

“Hi I’m Dutch and this is Knee.”

They do breed them civil up here in the mountains, Loyce thought.

“Hi I’m Loyce and I’ve frozen my arse of riding here from New York this morning.”

She smiled

“That’s extremely cool.”

Dutch and Knee grin.

“You guys go enjoy your ride. I’ll leave my address with er Susan in case you ever feel like riding six hours into the big apple.”

It seemed odd to refer to her writing idol by her first name and not initials.

“Wow, I’ve never been to New York.”

Knee interjects

“We might just take you up on that. Nice to meet you.”

The Shannon Dutch and Knee mount up and head out. As Loyce finally works out how to remove herself from the saddle of her Ducati with any decorum after the long frigid ride. Getting a couple of decent cups of coffee and some egg rolls into her, in the restaurant.

Then after warming up following Shannon’s directions out towards Queen Lake. Finding a perfect asphalt road that served as a driveway which wouldn’t seem out of place as the pit lane at Goodwood. This must be the place.

Loyce rolled down the driveway in low gear. With a small farm to the right of her, then she arrived in front of a large home that looks as if it would serve as the Lord of the manors' stately pile in a quintessential English village. There were various stable blocks and agricultural buildings to one side and formal gardens beyond. It was easily a grander place than anything Loyce had seen in the exclusive Hamptons. When she’d been dragged house hunting with her social-climbing parents. Wanting to weekend with their powerful business contacts.

Loyce stopped the bike as a tall, somewhat gangly, girl with long brown hair and glasses, was walking around the side of the house. Dressed for stable work. She looked a lot like her Great Aunt. The pictures that were run at the side of her articles and were with her collective writings.

“Hi, can I help you?”

She asked

“I’m looking for SH Pevensie, the writer.”

Loyce asked, warming her hands on the still-warm tank of her trusty Ducatti.

“Then you’re in the right place. I’m her great-niece, Heather. She’ll be inside making lunch. Would you like to join us? You seem to have come a long way.”

The teenager explained. Such a small-town welcome. If you doorstepped someone who lived in a house like this in Long Island they were likely to release the hounds or send for security.

My name is Loyce Street. I sent a letter to your Great Aunts Solicitors in the UK Trewartha, Gregory and Doidge.”

Loyce got off her bike.

“I have a copy actually. I’m writing an article on my writing heroine for my Columbia application. I want to become a journalist like her.”

Heather nodded along with a look of understanding on her face

“Well, you’d better come in then.”

She indicated for Loyce to follow. Loyce tried to look unphased by the small-town hospitality. In through the back of the house by the stable yard. Beyond the boot room, and in a large well-appointed country kitchen, there she was just as people described her. SH Pevensie. Just like in the photos of her from over twenty years ago.

“Well, what do we have here? A guest. Would you join us for lunch?”

She smiled disarmingly. Loyce found herself at a loss for words.

“This is Loyce Street, she wants to interview you for an article, that’s part of her application for Columbia Journalism School.”

Heather sat and busied herself with a very fine tea set.

“I Am honoured. A Journalist, welcome. Do make yourself comfortable and feel free to ask me anything. Might I first ask why me?”

Her gentle British voice washed over Loyce. Why her?

“I’ve loved your work, as soon as I picked up your articles and collected essays. Also, you live far closer to me than Hunter S Thompson.”

Susan laughed a guttural laugh.

“Either funny or honest, I can tell I’m going to like you.”

Susan smiled, her perfect white teeth showing.

“I’ve always dreamt of the freedom you describe. My parents demand a lot, but aren’t very present. So the freedom of just getting on my bike and riding appeals, to get away from my expensive schools and the person they want me to be. You wrote about it when so few women dared to.”

Loyce tried her best to speak from the heart. Of the reality of escapism from the every day that Susan's work had offered her. Still offered to her. Those words of gentile encouragement that uplifted her and motivated her to be herself, seek out her own adventure.

“You’re far too kind, you do me such an honour.”

Susan had paused but continued to prepare a simple ploughman's style lunch.

“I’m not exactly the easiest person to find.”

Susan admitted. There was certainly something more to her than just a simple motoring journalist. Even a legendary motoring journalist.

“Oh, I sent a letter...”

Loyce looked a little abashed and grabbed a copy of a formal-looking letter addressed to the Pevenise family solicitors in Belgravia London

“It was months ago and I had no reply. So I started to do some digging. I knew you had lived outside DC, so I had to do a lot of searching through property records. Then eventually I found a good lead, and decided to take a chance and ride out here.”

Loyce explained feeling simultaneously like both a proper journalist and a bit of a stalker in the same instance. Her essay was going to get her into the Columbia School of Journalism, on her own merit. Her parents wouldn’t have to donate a new building to the department. Not like some of the other affluent families on the Upper West side.

“I have to applaud your tenacity.”

Susan admitted. As she with Heather’s assistance placed heaped serving dishes on the large old kitchen table.

Susan knew that this property deal had been done in the name of Queen Equity. A shell company run for the use of the Pevensie Family Trust. Loyce must have done a lot of investigating and research to tie those things together. Admirable, Susan though. She was just glad that the other side didn’t seem as tenacious.

Far worse people would like to find Susan Pevensie, though they knew her by other names. Compared to a few enemies still withstanding in this universe. The visit from the quite charming teenager from New York City was far more preferable. Susan made a mental note to check Loyce’s work and ensure that no one was able to track her or Heather down in the same manner again. Her great-niece had enough powerful enemies without her great Aunt's old adversaries from another life resurfacing.

This was it for Loyce, mission accomplished. Her portfolio for Columbia would be unrivalled. She would be a proper journalist one day. In fact, the way her idol looked at her now, made her feel that she’d arrived. No wonder SH Pevensie hadn’t written much in recent years. She had a busy life here and a teenage ward who needed her.

Loyce did her best to bury the pangs of misplaced envy she felt towards Heather. Loyce was ordinarily great with words, but she couldn’t describe how awesome it would be to have someone like Susan looking after you. It looked like there were no staff in this whole great house. Taking this all in, all the while knowing that she would have to take the long ride back home.

The Punk girl didn’t look as if she would live in a Gilded Age Mansion overlooking Central Park West. Yet looks could be deceptive. The leading partners of *Street Slate Merriweather Attorneys at Law*, New York Cities leading law firm didn’t exactly live in a walk-up in Queens. Loyce was close to counting the seconds until her Columbia acceptance when she didn’t have to live with her parents anymore.

Focus on the story, the interview on your pre-prepared questions she told herself. You're a professional.