Write Her Name - a new story for International Women's Day

In 1962, Beryl Swain became the first woman to compete in the Isle of Man TT motorcycle races. After finishing 22nd, her licence to race was revoked under new rules about minimum weight for riders.

Write Her Name

You expect to begin among Manx hills and driving rain; sea wind lifting the long hair fringing the collar of her leathers. You expect to hear idling motorcycle engines, muffled and hushed by the interior of her helmet, and to see her slender legs astride her 50cc Itom. You expect stray looks from other riders, from red-coated marshals, from the road-lined crowd. You expect her to focus on the man with the damp flag in his hand, checking the time on his pocket watch; to close her eyes, briefly, just for a second, and for her to mutter a sectarian prayer. 

You expect then to slip into interior thought. You expect to know it all: her drive and determination; her fear and pride; the compromises and convictions that have brought her here: a lone woman amongst men, goggled and helmeted, a gloved hand on the throttle. You expect access. You expect to know it all. You expect from there to go backward, to unravel time.

You expect to be present at the first meeting with her future husband: an older man, the owner of a motorcycle repair shop. You expect to glide through their swift courtship and marriage, his initial encouragement of her ‘hobby’, and, later, its slow curdling. You expect tension and argument, an ultimatum. You expect him to say it’s me or the bike, and for him to know as soon as he has spoken that he has lost. You expect him to say he is only thinking of her safety and for her to say, no, you’re only thinking of yourself. You expect him to refuse to attend the Isle of Man TT races, and as she waits for the flag, him to fiddle the wireless dial in search of commentary. You expect him to pray that she does not die; to secretly hope she wins.

You expect, then, to return to her, running through her tactics: to hit the corners hard; to punish the hills; to respect but not fear the descents. You expect her to smile at the rider to her left, a man called Archie with whom she has been flirting. You expect him to salute and mouth the words good luck, and for her to blow him a kiss and mouth the words, eat my dust. In the rain and in the wind, you expect the starter to raise the flag, then let it fall. You expect to feel the adrenaline, the lurch of the bike forward. You expect her to crouch, aerodynamic and purposeful; to weave left and right, already overtaking men and youths.

You expect, then, a further reaching past-wards. A story from her schooldays, illustrating her independence, her singularity. You expect a teacher to tell her there are things women cannot do, and for her to say: pray tell, name me anything a woman can’t do? You expect the schoolmistress who canes her to say her arrogance, hubris and lack of respect will one day see her at the end of a rope. You expect her, arse-lashed and holding back tears, to refuse to believe there is anything a woman can’t do. You expect her to stick with that belief. For it to be the formative event in her life. This you expect her to think as the gradient steepens.

You expect to find her in the leading pack as they complete the first circuit. You expect her to settle into her ride, to feel every lean into every bend, to follow the giddy sensation of descent, to stare through her goggles’ steam. You expect panic on a stretch of flat as she changes up and realises top gear will not mesh. As she is overtaken by the men and youths, you expect her to turn the grey air blue, to curse and shout conspiracy. You expect her to tell herself to forget it. To concentrate on finishing. You expect to cheer as she crosses the finishing line: twenty-second, but always first.

In the afterward glimmer, you expect rush and joy. Rush and joy quickly, too quickly, swallowed by rage. You expect her to hunt for likely saboteurs; to accuse anyone and everyone of tampering with the bike. You expect her to leave the scene, escorted by marshals, shouting that she will be back; she will be back and she’ll beat the lot of them.

You expect resignation and anger in the aftermath. You expect her vitriol as she sees the picture of her in the next edition of the motorcycle magazine she reads; not on her bike but beside it, not in leathers but in a dress and court shoes. You expect her disgust as she reads the article’s patronising words. You expect her to stifle tears as she reads the last paragraph. The news of a rule change. That for safety reasons a minimum weight for each rider has been introduced: a weight that no woman will be able to make. You expect her to walk out the door as her husband says it is for her own good. You expect him to say I am proud of you to a still-slamming door.

From that day on, you expect the race to plague her days and nights; for her sleep to be interrupted by dreams of Manx hills, twice traversed. You expect her to be taken there by any available stimulus: a motorcycle speeding past, any mention of the TT race, the showing of the film Girl on a Motorcycle on a late-night television channel. You expect her life pivot around her laps of the mountain course, her adult life cleaved by it.

You expect a battle with mental health, with depression and anxiety, with alcoholism. You expect a messy divorce. You expect her husband to shout home truths at her, and for her to tell him she does not care. You expect her to disappear into normal, ordinary life; changed though, unlike those around her. All of this you expect. No. You demand all of this.

You demand all of this and you expect her to be pleased. But she is not pleased. She is not pleased and will not give you any of what you want.

She will not meet your expectations. She will not give in to your demands. She has no interest in rehabilitation. She has no desire to be thought of as a heroine. She does not want your sympathy, empathy or understanding. You expect her to want this, but she does not.

If she were here, she’d tell you herself.

But she is not here. Has not been for years. You would not have known of her existence had it not been for a portrait, one of a series graffitied on boards cladding a new housing development, up the road from your house. Beside local-hero musicians, sportsmen, a politician and a celebrity chef, she is depicted in her leathers: helmet on, face set in determination, name and one line of achievement below it. It is the first time you see her name. The first time you read of her story. You look her up online. You read her single obituary from a national paper of record. A short elegy. The first woman to compete in the Isle of Man TT road race. No children. Divorced. Taken by Alzheimer’s. A career, post-race, working in supermarkets.  

You expect to be able to use these cues. You expect something from them. You know what that is. You expect to use her Alzheimer’s as a reversal at the end of the story. For the memory of the race and its aftermath to be one she is constantly reliving. A once-great woman, caught in a memory loop she cannot escape. You expect this will add a further layer of emotional engagement. You expect this will resonate. You expect this to perfectly end her story.

She is sorry to disappoint you.

You argue with her. You tell her that her story has everything. You tell her she is a character that will inspire. You tell her this is a story for the ages. You tell her such stories go untold all the time. You tell her women need stories such as hers. You tell her the trash-can world we live in now is ready for her story. You tell her all the elements are there. What a story! What a life! What an opportunity to bring her in from the cold!

She says there are enough stories like that. She says there are enough stories about against-the-odds battlers, about women’s buried achievements, about lives defined by one pivotal moment. She says she is not interested in heading back to the track. She says you should respect her decision. She says you should respect her memory and her achievements. She says, let me tell you a different story.

You plead and you beg. You ask about how she felt before the race. After it. How it felt for the gears to break. You ask her, please, to tell you her story. You beg again.

She will not be dissuaded. She says again, let me tell you a different story. This is the only story. This is the only story you can have.

You say nothing. You sit and you wait and you expect. And you listen.  

There was a motorcycle, she says, a 50cc; a black one, I couldn’t tell the model.

You take cautious hope in this; hope soon dismissed. It is not a bike her husband sold or repaired, but a motorbike with binbags obscuring the licence plate, ridden by a young man in an all-black helmet. She says that the year is 2002, and your interest declines further. Before the onset of dementia, just after her retirement. A dead space, rent of drama.

You listen as she describes walking down the high street on the way to the Women’s Institute, as she did every Tuesday and Thursday. You try to interrupt, but she talks for some time about her WI activities. It clearly kept her busy.

She says, I’d retired by then and it was the same route I walked to the supermarket when I was working.

You imagine her at the checkout, punching in the price of Heinz Tomato Soup and frozen haddock fillets, weighing bananas and taking change, the ache of her back at the end of shift.

Don’t think I was on the checkouts, she says, don’t you think that. I was a store manager. A good one. Respected around the east of London. A career that. Not pin money. Not keying in prices and weighing bananas. Checking sales figures. Suggesting changes to the store layout. Organising rosters and attending divisional meetings. I met the J himself once. The chairman, you know. He told me, were all his managers as good as me, we’d be the only supermarket in the country.

You try to interrupt. You want to know whether those at the supermarket knew her past. She ignores you and continues to talk supermarkets. It clearly kept her busy.

She says, I was the fourth, no fifth, female area manager. I oversaw all those innovations you now take for granted. Mine was the first store in the country to get a barcode scanner. I pushed and pushed for that. Others were sceptical. Not me. I always saw the future. I was always looking for the next thing. We were the first store to have Polish food on the aisles; the first store to actively recruit retirees. We were the first store to trial the premium range and the first to trial the economy brand.

You try to ask her if determination on the track influenced her work ethic at the supermarket, but she wants to talk about fair pay for dairy farmers, the profit margins on organic fruit and vegetables, the vexed problem of a minimum price for alcohol. You feel she could bruise the night with talk of retail conditions and footfall. You listen, but you are still trying for an angle to bring her back to the race. 

You no longer expect to succeed.

She says, they made me retire. I would have gone on another five years, same as the men, but they made me such an offer I couldn’t say no. A big party we had. The biggest retirement party I’ve ever seen. Champagne and canapes from the premium range. Faces from the past gathered, and a long speech I delivered without notes.

You ask her if she mentioned the motorcycle race in her speech. She ignores you.

She says, supermarkets were my world. They are the world. Not just to me, but to everyone who comes in to a supermarket. You can see the whole world in a supermarket, and fill your basket too. Who wouldn’t want to do that every day? Who wouldn’t want to feel at the centre of the world?

A pause here. And again a chink of hope. You know this is the perfect moment. When else would she say she was at the centre of the world? On the bike, surely. Surely, that the true moment: the world condensed to woman and bike and road and wind.

The pause continues. It is unclear to you whether she is considering this. Unclear as to whether she is weighing the more distant past against more anecdotes about groceries.

Eventually she speaks. She says, so I was on the way to the WI. I had money to deposit at the bank. I didn’t often do that. Usually Hettie did that. She made the best Victoria Sponge you’ve ever eaten, Hettie. Always a kind word, always laughing and making you feel like life was just one quick step to a Broadway show tune. Oh, Hettie, she says. I miss her. Anyone who ever met Hettie missed her when she was gone.

You try to hurry up the story. She does not listen.

I was walking to the WI, she says, same as I do each morning. And I saw the motorcycle. A 50cc, couldn’t make out the model. It was leaning against a wall and a young man was standing by it. I’ve got good eyesight, always have. I watched him as he flicked down his visor. Watched him as he turned the throttle and weaved out into the road. He could have been killed, I suppose. I thought that as I saw him coming towards me: you’re lucky to be alive, son; your days are numbered on that thing.

I was thinking that, she says, and then I noticed the bike was heading for me. Wrong side of the road and heading for me. I didn’t know what to do. I just froze, I expect. The bike came towards me and quick as you like, he grabbed the handbag from my shoulder. Fluid motion it was. Snatched the handbag and pushed me to the ground. I heard the bike speed away and the sound of his top gear as I tried to get back up.

You want to say I am sorry, but you do not say anything. You wait for her to say something more. You wait for a good, long time.

She says, pretty soon after a woman came to help me up. She got me to my feet. Men from the café came out and stood in a pack smoking, but they did nothing. I dusted myself down. I coughed and the woman gave me a sip from her bottle of water, offered to call the police. They came quickly, the police. They took me to the station. Gave me tea. The policeman opened his notebook. He asked if he could take my statement.

I said I couldn’t remember anything. They said they’d been a lot of it about of late. That they were doing everything they could. Everything they could? The lying hounds. I was furious. All that WI money. It was quite a lot, you know. I knew I’d never see it again.

She pauses. If she could, she would lean in closer.

As we were leaving, the policeman stopped me by the interview-room door. He looked down at his notebook. He shook his head. He said, excuse me, Mrs Williams, but your address is awfully familiar. 

Wasn’t that where the motorcycle shop was on Forest Road?

I nodded. I nodded and he told me all about the bike he bought there. How he’d had to give it up when he had kids. He asked me to remind him to my husband. I nodded again. And then I told him I’d be sure to do that.

A pause. You wait.

This is my story, she says. This is the one you can have.

You say nothing.

Are you disappointed? she says. Is it not what you expected? Is it not the story you wanted?

You say nothing.

Well, she says, it’s the only story I have. The only story you can have. You can take it or leave it. Either way, you leave me alone. I will not talk to you again.

You read her story again. Her only story. All the stories she could tell, but this the only story. The only one she will give you. You read it back one more time, looking for meaning, parsing her sentences for import and for resonance. You are disappointed.

You want to bring her back to the Manx hills. You want her young and lithe, ready to kick against the pricks. But you have nothing. You have a story about a woman’s purse being snatched. A story any number of women could have told. You had a story. What a story. You could have done something with that. You could have made something special from that. You expected you’d write something that would resonate. And now all you have is silence.

You have one line. The opening line. The soft lift of the wind splayed her hair, distracting the riders. You think of that line in her silence. You think of the disapproval in that quiet. You think of what she has told you and what she would not tell you. You think about what that means.

You write the line anyway. A day or a week or a month later. You write that line and you write several more. It is silent as you write. You wonder if she will break her promise and speak to you again. Tell you to stop. She does not. She is silent and you write more in that silence. You take it for complicity.

You write a page, a further page. You consult books and newspapers, technical manuals, maps of the route, old Pathé newsreels. You write line after line. You fill further pages. You try to talk to people who knew her, but they will not speak to you. Most are dead anyway. You save your documents and back them up to a flash drive. You decide to visit the Isle of Man.

In the wind and squall, in the rain and temper, you hire a 50cc and an all-black helmet and retrace her tyre-tracks. You stay at the same inn she did. You edit your pages sitting with a pint of beer in the window seat of an unfriendly pub. And she says nothing. Not a word. You write her name and hope to hear her, but you only hear the chatter at the bar, the low tin of the radio. You write the last line there. 

You write the end of your story and she doesn’t say a word.

You have finished. You are elated. You go to the bar and order another drink and ask the locals if they’ve heard of her. If they have any stories, any recollections. Every one of them does. The barman, the woman drinking gin, the man necking Guinness, the pot-washer and the man with the dog. They tell you stories you have already heard, stories you have already written. And each one of them has your voice.

They all talk in your voice. It is your accent, your cadence, your word-order and syntax that you hear. Your words, even. You listen and hope to hear her voice just one more time, over your voice, correcting the untruths, setting straight the record. You listen but all you hear is your own voice, telling these old, old stories that do not belong to you.

You expect that to be a triumph. You expect that to be the moment of victory. You sit and you listen and you expect to hear her, but only ever hear yourself. You leave the bar. Every one you pass is telling stories of her. Every one of them has your voice. Every one of them uses your words. In the wind you walk and hear your voice and know you will only ever hear yourself.

You had expected better.