Devil Take the Hindmost

by Martin Cathcart Froden

  Chapter 28

  In the morning Paul can tell she’s worried. Or at least not as comfortable as she could be. He realises the risk they are taking, whether Silas and Rupert are away or not. She asks him to come to the Heath later in the evening as she has to go to work. Miriam’s coat and general look is more unremarkable than usual and she slips away from the house unnoticed.

  Paul spends the morning slowly clearing up. Enjoying the space and the heavy feeling in his bones from the night before. After lunch he cycles over to Jack’s to celebrate. The snow didn’t lie. The only evidence it was ever there are tiny banks of sleet gathered in places the sun hasn’t reached.

  He chats a little to Jack, who is apologetic, but the shop is busy. Christmas isn’t too far off. Paul is glad to have gone out and glad to come back home. Glad to put his bike up and clean it properly, put new grease in the headset, put the new chain on. Glad to fill his mind with safe, tangible, predictable machinery.

  He potters around for ages in his shirtsleeves, with cups of tea on the go, with tools and bits spread around him like water lilies on a pond. Then one of Mr Morton’s runner boys comes to the door and tells him he’s needed for a delivery.

  Paul fears it’s going to be something connected with Ilya, but it turns out to be the birthday of one of Mr Morton’s mistresses and Paul has to go to various florists and boutiques to pick up parcels going to an address off Regent Street. It takes Paul most of the afternoon to sort out Mr Morton’s love life, but he doesn’t mind. Anything is better than carpets or even the same runs of numbers to the same places week after week.

  After the last delivery Paul goes out to the Carousel to report, and to check if there’s anything else he needs to do. He’s relieved to speak only to Drago and not to Mr Morton himself. Paul’s let off the hook for the rest of evening, and goes out to Hampstead Heath, Miriam waits for him in the lobby, and, when he arrives home, sweeps him upstairs and straight into bed. A polite knock on the door a while later tells them that dinner is standing on a tray outside the door. Paul puts on a bathrobe and gets the food, and they eat in silence. Then he gets back into bed. He puts another pillow behind his head. He’s warm, sleepy and waiting for her to come back from the bathroom. They could have stayed at his, the evening before was near perfect, he thinks, although she had fallen asleep in his bed before he had even cleared the table. But they couldn’t risk it. Just in case the horses weren’t working out for Silas, or in case they really had come up trumps, and he came back early to celebrate.

  When she comes back, her hair unpinned, she picks up her Family Tree book. She opens it for him, folds back the covers and comes wriggling up to him. Really close, with one leg over his. Her feet blocks of ice. Then she looks up at him. Her eyes are big and childlike, but her commanding nod would scare a furious Angus bull.

  So he starts:

  No. 36

  As a python coils around its prey

  As a starling sings at the break of day

  Two sides compete in me for space

  Violence and deceit, beauty and grace

  He reads it twice, then looks down at her. Fully expecting she will be asleep, her breathing slow since he started reading. But she’s not, and she mouths ‘Thank you’, and kisses him on the hand.

  ‘These verses aren’t very good,’ she says.

  ‘I think they’re lovely.’

  ‘It’s alright Paul. They’re mine and that matters more.’

  He bends down to kiss her. She kisses him back, slowly, slowly. Her feet are soon warm and her legs too.

  They sleep close.

  In the morning she is up well before him. He lies in bed, eyes half-closed. Then she comes back to bed and properly wakes him up with kisses.

  Putting an arm behind her head, he asks, ‘Have you ever been to Coventry?’

  ‘No, but I’ve been in that part of the country more than I care to remember,’ she says with a frown.

  ‘I see. Would you like to go? Maybe this time it will be better?’

  ‘Why Coventry? Oh let me guess, some bloody velodrome?’

  ‘It’s my job. It’s not that bad surely?’

  ‘Oh, and here’s me thinking you had planned something romantic. Whisking me off to a seaside hotel or a Scottish castle, and all you’ve got to offer is Coventry. You think I’m going to ride through the city naked with you on the bike. Like Godiva and you the peeping Tom?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Never mind,’ she smiles.

  ‘If you let me finish, I would really like your company, both on the trip and after the race. I’ve told Silas it’s a three-day affair, but in reality it’s only two. The third day is a race for this cup I’ve already qualified for.’

  ‘You are becoming quite sneaky.’

  ‘Maybe. Even if I wanted to race on the Sunday I wouldn’t be allowed.’

  ‘Get to the romantic bit. I’m not too interested in the inner workings of the league tables of cyclists,’ she says and gets out of bed wrapped in the covers.

  ‘My, you’re in some mood today. Have you had your coffee?’ he smiles, left bare on the bed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you had your tobacco?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you had your breakfast?’

  ‘I have, thank you very much. But I could do with a proper kiss. Not a peck or friendly, Hello, I’m your second cousin kind of kiss. A real kiss from a real man. A crusher, I haven’t had that today. I think that might help.’

  He jumps out of bed and kisses her until, giggling, she asks him to stop. ‘In essence I’ve earned myself a day off’, he says, ‘and I don’t know what you had planned for Sunday, but I doubt it was church, so I was wondering if you would want to go on a little trip with me. I’ll find us somewhere to stay. Maybe even a castle?’

  ‘Yes my prince.’

  ‘Do you want to come just for the Sunday?’

  ‘When are you going up?’

  ‘Quite early on the Friday. The race starts just after lunch. It’s one of these long ones that will run into the night. It will get busier and busier as first offices, then factories, then pubs clear out. And by the end of it, I think about ten at night, we should be ready for the final. I mean if you’re able to come you could come in the afternoon, or to be honest, the last train of the day is probably fine, you’d still get there in time. Then it’s the same on the Saturday.’

  ‘Or, I could come up with you and then stroll around looking in shops, sipping tea in the botanic garden, if there is one. Is there?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never been.’

  ‘And then I’ll come over to the race, with hundreds of bags and hat boxes.’

  ‘I’ll see about getting you a good seat. A row of seats,’ he smiles.

  ‘Sounds nice. I’ll speak to the girls and see if any of them can cover, while I’m off, deadly ill,’ she says.

  ‘Seems like the kisses worked, you’re in a better mood already.’

  ‘Don’t try your luck. But yes, kissing usually works. Remember that.’

  ‘You’re funny. We can either leave at the same time, but go on different trains, meeting up somewhere outside London. Or we can go on the same line at different times. Which would you prefer?’

  ‘I don’t fancy sitting in a carriage on my own all the way to Coventry. So if you can find two trains that leave London one after the other, meaning you’ll wait for me at some platform somewhere in Godforsaken-Hole-On-Sea, and then jump on to find me.’

  ‘Sounds grand.’

  ‘Don’t book us into the Station Hotel, try a little harder. I don’t mind taking a taxi to the better bits. If there are better bits of Coventry?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. I’m not quite sure where the stadium is. It’s called Butts, but I don’t know if that’s a man’s name or an area. Should be a good fast race, the track is made from asphalt, which is great. I don’t fancy racing on shale ever again. Once you get used to the speed of woode
n boards, cement, asphalt, even some of the quicker gravel tracks, it’s hard to go back.’

  Miriam mimics a yawn, then smiles. ‘What should I pack?’ she says. ‘Will there be a ball in your honour? Are you expecting to win? Will they hand you the keys to the city?’

  ‘I’m hoping to do quite well in the race, at least a medal, but other than free water, I’d be surprised if they even gave me a fish supper. But don’t you worry, I’ll look out for a nice restaurant for us to go to on the Saturday evening. On the Friday night I think I’ll have to take it easy, maybe just stay in.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll bring a book and my knitting. You can read for me and I’ll make you a scarf. Like we were an old couple.’

  ‘Easy does it.’ Now it’s his turn to smile.

  ‘Only kidding, don’t count your chickens. I might not come along after all. In fact I might not even like you,’ she says.

  ‘But you will, and you do,’ he replies.

  ‘What chance do I have in this world if I’m that bad a liar?’ She lies back on the bed. Her back on a pile of pillows, her arm draped dramatically over her forehead.

  ‘Against me? None,’ he smiles smugly.

  ***

  He’s told whoever wants to know that he’s going to Coventry for a big race. A three-day affair, pulling the absolute elite of cyclists from the North and Scotland, and even some of the bigger names from the South and London itself. In addition, the Belgians have started sending very young, very talented riders to a lot of smaller races. Something for them to cut their teeth on. They’re usually well behaved, tall, but not powerful in the same way that he is. Though they are gifted and used to pain, used to riding the flat marshlands in what they have told him is always a headwind, their enthusiasm and youthful panache can’t match his experience.

  Paul makes sure to speak to Harry before he leaves. He finds him at the grandstand on Herne Hill watching his brothers practise.

  First they talk about the weather and Harry’s leg, which isn’t healing quick enough to be of any use to Harry this season, then they talk about women, in particular and in general, but Paul doesn’t mention Miriam, never does.

  Harry’s raced at the quick Coventry track before. Now he sits down with a groan and says, ‘Paul, when you wake up in the morning after a race like that you will ache. You will be on fire, and it’s a fire no baths, liniments, cold towels, creams or potions can put out. You’ve torn your muscles to shreds and now they will speak up. Your body, the more reasonable of the two entities you are – body and mind – is trying to come back to life. It’s trying to reconstruct itself.’

  ‘I’m getting used to it,’ Paul says.

  Harry continues, ‘Your kneecaps will crack like kindling. Your thighs will be numb. Lying, sitting, standing, walking: it doesn’t matter, it’s all agony. Cramps will come and go in spasms. Every now and then, if there’s a lull in the contracting of muscles, your shoulder blades will come alive with pain. This can be slightly subdued, by drink, some drugs, some massage, but you can’t escape it. It’s part of the bargain.’

  ‘Makes you wonder why we do this to ourselves, doesn’t it Harry?’

  ‘You know this about the pain, but you can’t stop racing. In some sense it’s about money and fame. But it is bigger than that. If you’re just in it for the cash you won’t last long. It’s too much for you, for anyone. For any payment.’

  ‘I know,’ Paul nods.

  ‘You’re here because you can’t stop yourself racing. And this pain is the portal you pass through, the ritual you live with. This is the rent you’re paying to your body, for letting you use it to win.’

  Paul looks at Harry’s profile. It’s dominated by a bulbous nose that Paul thinks wasn’t always that way. Paul reaches out and shakes Harry’s hand. Tells him to take care of himself. Almost tells him to switch to water, but doesn’t.

  ‘Good luck, son,’ Harry says. ‘Don’t let this old man put you off. You and I know it’s the most beautiful sport in the world. We’re artists, dealing in pain and glory.’ Paul nods and smiles. ‘You’re young, you’re going to go far,’ Harry says. ‘Now off you go, I’ve got things to do. Can’t sit here all day, chatting like an old fishwife.’

  Paul nods and waves down to the brothers standing in the midfield, probably discussing tactics. Paul says goodbye to Harry who grunts and fishes a hipflask from the inner pocket of his jacket. Paul gets on his bike and rolls home, to get ready for the trip.

  Once he’s packed he descends the stairs with the bike over one shoulder and a haversack over the other. It’s packed with his shoes and his special race shirt, the number 34 shining on its back, as well as shorts for racing and long johns for the warm-up. His pillbox – the private apothecary he can’t race without. A book, not for him, for her, and a pair of pants and the bottle of Stephenson’s Hair Pomade, in case they go out for a meal or dance, or if there’s a photographer after the race.

  He makes his way over to Euston. Not quickly, not slowly, just meandering on the bike. He’s got plenty of time and although it’s cold it’s not unbearable. A lot of shops on the streets have put up their Christmas displays, and though he knows he won’t be getting anything today, he likes to whittle away his time this way rather than go and sit in the station. The smell of roasting chestnuts propels him forward. As does the excitement of the secret holiday.

  By separate means of transport, by separate paths Paul and Miriam will travel towards each other. They have agreed that she will come to the station after him, looking out for a seat on the 1.11 train. By then he will already be underway on the 12.11 train for Coventry. He will disembark and wait for her in Berkswell. Bike and everything no doubt causing annoyance. But today nothing can wipe the smile from his face.

  The image of the man inside the carpet hasn’t faded, but he makes sure to keep it locked up in a dark place in his mind. He couldn’t stand the thought of going on holiday with one of Mr Morton’s employees, otherwise.

  Chapter 29

  I’m sitting in one of my favourite cafés on Moscow Road, on the corner across from Pembridge Square Garden, not far from my house. It’s a known haunt of mine, and I’m well received, but not fussed over. I’m a bit worse for wear. Cheltenham was good to me this year, and the way I marked the success was to drink lots of champagne. Blanc de noirs, blanc de blancs, ending on a couple of bottles of doux. All roads lead to Rome. All drinks to a hangover.

  I’m glad to be back, and my head is thanking me for the coffee and the simple poached egg. In the paper in front of me, the Washington Post – imported at great cost by a friendly newsagent – I read about the big land to the west. In general and particular. Despite the absurd amount of money and the fact that the actual news is about ten or more days old by the time I get the paper, I make sure to read most of it.

  Apart from the articles and letters I see several British firms advertise. Radios, trips, bloody paint again, but mostly fashion. Clothes for men and women. Some cuts, some brands, some houses I know. Some I don’t, but I could learn quickly. I’ve got a good eye for what looks good, I’ve got an eye for lines and fabric. Maybe I should leave all this and move to America, become a tailor? Start with a men’s shop, then move into women’s. Women are harder to please, but happier to pay, purchase things more often. Many small rivers of Crêpe de Chine could pay my bills. And if I settled on the East Coast I could import Harris Tweed and woollen jumpers from here.

  I read on: Flapper Step-in underwear, Combination underwear, Slip-on bloused dress, Slip-on evening dress, Kimono, Square Yoke, House dress, Bungalow apron, Empire dress, Porch & Morning dress, Frock, Bolero jacket, Beach Negligée. It’s wonderful. This could be my homework. I sit and think that I can re-invent myself somewhere new. I would stay within the – quite frankly – reasonable limits of the law. Pay tax, vote, get a little dog maybe. A friend. Someone people would think of as my lodger, and I as my lover.

  Paul would like America. I know from the press that velodrome cycling is as b
ig in America as it is here. And knowing the Yanks they probably pay better, and race harder. That could suit him. He would like it. Maybe I could go one day? Leave?

  Then one of the little grimy boys comes up to me and tells me I’m to go to Mr Morton’s damned club at my earliest convenience. ‘My earliest convenience,’ that’s some nerve from the fat Elephant. He knows I’ll be scurrying there as fast as a rat smelling peanut butter.

  Suddenly my thoughts seem like insubstantial dreams; the candy floss of a young girl’s head. I slap my own cheeks, to bring out the man, the killer in me. Putting away what could have been.

  Walking out of the café I put the Washington Post in a bin. Who am I kidding? I can’t leave. I am trapped here. I make a living here. I am part of London, a worker bee locked to its hive, to its Queen, as much as I am a part of Mr Morton’s family. However awful I think that is, that’s still the conclusion life has drawn for me. The sum of my actions and choices. At the beck and call of a psychopath in white.

  I slip the boy a coin, and he runs off to find me a taxi. As soon as I am in the car I regret throwing the paper away. With the traffic it will be a tedious journey across town. The driver, though I’m sure he’s competent at what he does, doesn’t look like the kind of man to take any interest in the political field across the great big pond.

  I put my hands in my pockets. Get my folding razor out and try the edge on my thumb. It’s still sharp. I like that. I try to take it in to be sharpened by this old man in China Town every Wednesday, but this week has been too busy to allow that. Despite this I’m pleased to see a small bead of blood bubbling up from the line I easily drew on my thumb.