Between Friends (10 page)

Martin appeared to have lost his voice and Meg and Tom were beyond speaking anyway so Mr Hale went on comfortably.

‘Not bad, eh, considerin’ not one piece belongs to another. I reckon there must be at least fifty machines in them two, if yer don’t count the spokes! Now get on ’em, the three of you and let me see what you make of ’em!’

THEY WERE NEVER
off them dratted machines Mrs Whitley grumbled and what about the scullery steps and them windows hadn’t been polished for two days and would you look at the state of the kitchen floor, she said, but secretly she was as proud of her three as if they had been of her own conceiving and was heard to boast quite openly to neighbouring servants of the vast distances they covered on their ‘machines’! Still, it did no harm to let them know where their place was and so she did, quite volubly, endlessly pointing out the slow deterioration of her ‘standards’ and her disapproval of it! It was as if the very house was falling in ruins about their ears as Meg and Tom and Martin spent every spare minute, very often as late as nine o’clock in the evening as the spring days drew out, ‘messing about’ on their bicycles. On most days they got no further than the end of the street which led into the Square, or even just once round the Square itself but they took to it like a duckling will take to its element, the water and for the first few weeks whenever they were free might be seen speeding about the surrounding streets of Great George Square.

But as the season for travellers began to reach it’s peak they had no time during the day to even think of their new passion. It was only at night when Meg was tucked up beside Emm that she could read the books she took from the lending library, searching for anything which would give her information on what was, now that she had the means to be about it, her consuming interest. Travel! It had seized her, hypnotised her like the flashing wheels of the bicycles and her young mind yearned endlessly towards it. Travel! That was it!

Of course those with money and time enough already moved about the country and across the channel to see what was on the other side but now, with the advent of the breath-taking machines Martin had devised for them with the sweat of his own endeavours in helping out Mr Hale in his workshop and yard, they were to
be
part of it! The idea overwhelmed her with it’s spellbinding possibilities and she fell asleep to dream about it.

She would never forget that first day they set out on a
real
ride!

It was almost the end of May and the last boatload of emigrants had been disposed of for the next week as Meg and Tom and Martin pedalled away, turning to wave as though they were royalty, Mrs Whitley observed proudly when they had swung round the corner. Of course by then they had cycled several times to Sefton Park in the lengthening evenings to travel sedately round and round the cricket pitch and review ground on the paths which formed a figure eight and though it had given them practice in handling their machines they had not really
seen
anything, Meg complained.

Stanley Park was better because it was further away and there were lots of intriguing paths to cycle along when they got there but then those who were out for an evening stroll often took exception to Martin and Tom who, in the manner of high spirited youth would race against one another, Martin’s legs forcing Meg’s to go faster and faster as she clung to the handlebars behind him, and the walkers objected to being forced from the path on to the grass verge and when the park-keeper told them angrily ‘Tweren’t made fer the likes of them great nasty machines,’ they gave up!

But before Mrs Whitley would let them go for a whole day there were bedrooms to be cleaned in readiness for the next batch of travellers, tables and floors to be scrubbed, furniture to be polished and mats to be taken up and beaten. The ‘masters machine’, the one used for sharpening knives must be taken apart and oiled – Martin’s job, the lamps cleaned and trimmed – Tom’s, and the brassware on them polished with a mixture of oil and rottenstone made into a paste.

And the laundry! Fires in the boiler to be lit, sheets to be soaked in water and soda, rinsed, rubbed and rinsed again and that was before they even began the starching! Not until the bed linen was alabaster white was it hung, snapping in the breeze, on the lines which stretched between the walls of the rear yard. Next, when it was dry it was the turn of the flat iron. It was back breaking work but Meg was used to it after three years and her routine, worked out and practised upon until it was second nature to her, cut out hours of unnecessary labour.

When the great day arrived the whole Square came out to watch as they rode round and round the railinged gardens, ringing
their
bicycle bells smartly. They were masters of balance by now and were swooping and diving like sea-birds, tearing along to the enthusiastic encouragement of every emigrant who was temporarily housed by the many shipping lines in the area. Everywhere there were men and women, many of them dressed in rough homespun, sturdy and made to last, dark-coloured shawls about the fair plaits and coronets of hair of the women, the men in furry caps, top boots and leathern waistcoats and the excitement and noise as support was shouted in half a dozen different languages was as joyful as anything Meg had ever known. Those who were here for merely a moment formed an alliance with their hosts in the delight of the lovely young girl and her two stalwart escorts, plunging in a mad dance of youth on their startlingly modern machines.

Meg was a joy to behold. Her straw boater was whipped away in the stiff breeze, retrieved and held by a shy Swedish lad who did not know what to do with it, nor the smile she bestowed upon him as she took it from his hand. Her copper hair flew out behind her as the pins which held it scattered and were lost. Men cheered and whistled for her breasts were clearly defined beneath the fine cotton of her shirt as she strained at the handlebars in an effort to keep up with Martin’s flying legs and Mrs Whitley, as she told Emm in the privacy of the kitchen later, quite literally did not know where to look and swore to have a word with her when she got home!

It was barely seven-thirty in the morning. Maidservants clustered on the small bow-fronted wrought iron balconies on the first floor of each house and at each area entrance, waving dust rags and admiring Martin’s broad shoulders, laughing as Tom bowed to them as he pedalled by. The park was green, freshly mowed and the last of the late daffodils were a brilliant dash of gold lining the pathway which surrounded it.

Meg had taken to heart the list put out by the ‘Cyclist Touring Club’, which she hoped one day to join and though she had not the money to buy and wear the ‘rationals’ or cycling dress for ladies recommended by the club – and should she have it was doubtful Mrs Whitley would have allowed
knickerbockers
– nevertheless she was sensibly dressed in the mandatory straw boater, a cool blouse and full skirt, a pair of fine cotton gloves and felt herself to be the epitome of what the ‘lady cyclist’ should be. Martin and Tom wore knee breeches and stockings, an open
necked
shirt and an old jacket, their caps perched jauntily at the back of their heads.

They turned left into Upper Pitt Street and headed in the direction of the Pier Head. They had considered which might be the best route to take on this, their first ‘proper’ ride and had decided on the Wirral Peninsula. They were to go across the Mersey on the ferry and strike out for Shotwick which was acknowledged as the Wirral’s oldest and most secluded village containing a lovely old manor, the Cyclist Touring Club list stated, and which Meg was determined to see. She wished longingly that she possessed one of those photographic cameras so that she might take pictures to keep forever but you couldn’t have everything, could you? and at least she was lucky enough to get there! Mrs Whitley had never been further than Bootle village on a day trip and that wasn’t even across the water!

They manoeuvered through traffic so thick and bustling in the streets of Liverpool which led down to the docks they were in distinct danger of being run down but they loved every thrill-packed minute of it! They were perfectly matched, the three of them, holding their heads high, riding with alert and easy carriage in the saddle and Meg’s grace, her neat ankle and daintily turned elbow drew admiring male glances at every corner. As she got on and off the tandem she did so with a tiny skip which delighted those who watched.

The river was wind ruffled as they took the ferry to the other side. It smelled of tar and salt. The gulls’ cries were harsh yet jubilant and the high, hazed early summer sky seemed to go on forever until it met the glistening smoothness of the water. The sun warmed Meg’s cheek and touched her back as they were put down on the pier at Rock Ferry and without thinking she undid the tiny buttons at her throat, unaware of the sudden stillness which affected the two young men as brown and blue eyes studied, as if for the first time the startling white smoothness of her skin. It was just as she had imagined it. It was her dream, the one she had studied each night since they had brought the bicycles home. The blue sky, the lark which swept the curve of it bursting his heart with song, the smells of the grass, of woodsmoke, the sharp but not unpleasant acidity of animal manure, the flowers, the sea and the ecstatic thrill to come of speeding like the very bird above her head along deserted, dusty lanes. A pulse beat in the soft curve of her neck and the two boys stared at it but her eyes were drawn
along
the pier to the lane they would take and their strange absorption, their curiously silent appraisal of her went unnoticed.

‘Look,’ she cried, ‘look at the cottages,’ and obediently they both turned, the moment gone as they followed her pointing finger. ‘What lovely gardens they have. I’ve never seen flowers like that before. I wonder what they’re called and where d’you think that lane leads to?’

‘Only one way to find out, Meggie,’ Tom answered cheerfully and began to push his bicycle along the wooden pier, his boots spilling echoes down to the water beneath.

They took the road through the village and turned left beyond a farm and meadowland in which cows raised their heads as Martin rang the bell on his handlebars and a couple of men working in a field turned to wave. They sped along a quiet lane until they were out in open countryside with nothing on either side but tall, blackthorn hedges and fields awash with wild flowers. The pedals flashed in the sunshine and the spokes of the wheels made shadowed patterns in the dust. It was warm and the boys stopped to take off their jackets and Tom said this was the life, wasn’t it? and didn’t you have to be quick to see everything? It all went by so rapidly it was gone before you had time to take it in and could they get off again, please and have a look at that sailing ship which was making its way up the river. He could feel his circulation quicken and his energies seemed to have become awakened and a feeling of such physical satisfaction came over him he threatened to sing but Martin begged him not to since they didn’t want it to rain, did they? Their laughter was high and pealing in the almost hysterical pleasure they had found and the wheels went faster and faster until they blurred and Meg felt as though she was flying, she said.

They met no traffic beyond a milk cart, it’s driver startled out of his drowsing contemplation of his horse’s ears by their swift descent upon him and a fruiterer’s van which almost ran into a hedge for the driver was of the opinion he had the lane to himself and the sudden appearance of the lightly skimming, attractive young people who seemed to have grown wheels made him pull violently on the reins!

When they reached Parkgate with its disorderly row of cottages looking out over the estuary of the River Dee they were singing the bicycle song made famous by the music hall performer, Lottie Collins.

‘Ta ra ra boom de ay,

Ta ra ra boom de ay,

Ta ra ra boom de ay,

Ta ra ra boom de ay,’ and Meg knew she had never been happier in her life!

The sun had turned her skin to rose and that of the boys to a golden brown when they arrived back at the ferry. She had lost her ladylike white gloves and her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. Her hair was carelessly tied with a strand of couch grass and both Tom and Martin had a crown of buttercups and daisies in their windblown hair

They were quiet as they stood in the bow of the ferryboat, reluctant to break the magical enchantment of the last moments of the day, reluctant to have it ended. Their shoulders touched in that instinctive way which had grown up with them though they were not consciously aware of it and when Martin finally spoke the other two turned dreaming faces towards him.

‘How about going the other way?’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘We’ve got a good hour before dark. We could ride down to the Jericho shore and have a paddle.’

Instantly alert the other two agreed enthusiastically and within half an hour they were giggling and splashing each other, chasing the lengthening shadows across the hard packed sand of the shoreline on their side of the river.

They grew quiet again as night began to creep across the water and they walked in silence, side by side, their bare feet slapping through the tiny pools that had formed as the tide dropped.

They came to the boat house, almost hidden amongst the stand of very old trees which leaned outwards to the beach, and across the smooth stretch of lawn which sloped away from the river they could see a fine house and lights beginning to illuminate its windows.

‘Electric!’ Martin said with awe and the others were silent for none of them had ever seen an electric light.