Devil Take the Hindmost

by Martin Cathcart Froden

  ‘Paul, you don’t understand. Throughout my life, men have been the enemy. Even from before I was born my father was the enemy. Mr Morton is the enemy. Every man who has ever tried to charm me has done so for their own selfish reasons. I can spot it at a hundred yards. And in the same way, I saw you coming and knew straight away that you were different. You’re incapable of lying or hiding anything. You are the first man who’s ever been genuinely nice to me, without wanting anything in return. I feel safe with you. I feel free with you. For the first time.’

  He moves closer to her. Puts an arm behind her head. Side by side, on their backs they look at the ceiling. ‘Miriam,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry all those things happened to you. It makes me so angry. I just want to protect you.’

  ‘Oh Paul,’ Miriam laughs, her eyes lighting up briefly for the first time since the conversation began, ‘if only it was that simple. But you’re too kind, too gentle to take on Mr Morton.’

  ‘Maybe you can train me up to be more like you,’ says Paul with a wry smile, continuing, ‘I thought you looked fantastic that day on the tram when I had the accident, and you sort of took me in.’

  She props herself up on one elbow and looks down on him. ‘And you don’t think I look fantastic now?’

  ‘You look even better now.’

  ‘Flattery will get you nowhere.’

  ‘It got me here.’

  ‘True.’ She smiles and eases out of the bed to open the curtains slightly. A low light comes in through the window. It’s December and the sun won’t be up properly for a few more hours. Paul looks at her and smiles. Puts her pillow behind his head and says, ‘What I mean is that I never thought that a beautiful London woman would ever lay her eyes on me.’

  ‘There’s something I have to tell you about that day,’ she says from the other side of the room.

  Paul motions for her to come back to bed, but she’s looking for a glass to have a drink of water. ‘Did you put something in my tea to make me like you more?’ he says.

  ‘If I remember correctly you never finished your tea, you ungrateful creature.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She comes over and sits on the bed next to him. Tucks her legs in underneath, smooths her nightgown, erasing nonexistent creases, looks straight at him.

  ‘Paul. Look at me.’ He smiles and tries to pull her closer. But she frowns and shakes him off. ‘Paul, it wasn’t a coincidence that I met you.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ He sits up in bed.

  ‘Well, Mr Morton knew that Silas was up to something, that he was bringing someone new in.’ She looks down, then up at Paul again, his mouth wide open. Then she continues, ‘Mr Morton keeps a keen eye on all his employees. And I’m his most trusted set of eyes.’

  Paul thinks for a second, then he says, ‘So you followed me? For how long?’

  ‘Not every day, but I checked in on you every now and then. And if it wasn’t me, it was one of the boys.’

  His face darkens and he clenches his fists, then he says, ‘And you watched me nearly crippling myself on Southwark Bridge?’

  Miriam now moves closer to him, but he’s sitting absolutely still. She says, putting both hands on his chest, ‘Paul, it wasn’t like that. You were a mark. Mr Morton doesn’t like new faces. He’s terrified of infiltrators, says the whole operation is too sensitive.’

  ‘It sounds like you’re defending him,’ he says in a monotone.

  ‘And I hate it,’ she says vehemently, drying her eyes on a corner of a pillowcase. ‘I didn’t know you were going to fall. I didn’t know you were going to be so nice. I didn’t know I would like you. Love you in fact. There, I have said it.’

  Paul frowns.

  ‘Remember that in all of this, from when I took you in and bandaged your leg, up until now, right now sitting here in this bed, I am risking my life.’

  ‘So what other marks, what other men did you have, or do you have in your life? Is this how you keep an eye on us all? Up close?’

  ‘Don’t be crude,’ she says, her voice hard, her eyes soft.

  Paul takes a deep breath. Tries to look composed. Then says, ‘It’s a straightforward question.’

  ‘And I’ll give you an adult answer,’ Miriam says. ‘You are not the first. I have had other men. But believe me when I say this, you’re the only one I have chosen entirely for myself. You are the one I want to spend all my time with. It’s just that I can’t.’

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ he says.

  ‘Look at me,’ she says, steel in her voice.

  ‘I am,’ he says turning to her.

  ‘Not like that. Look properly. What do you see?’

  ‘I see you. I see Miriam. I see someone I thought I knew.’

  ‘You do know me Paul,’ she says, ‘You do know me.’

  ‘I don’t,’ he says and shakes his head. Breaks eye contact.

  She takes his head in her hands, turns him to her, and says, ‘You don’t know everything about my past, or some parts of my present. That’s because I want to protect you, and because I don’t enjoy talking about my past, or my present. I want you before, beside, and after all that.’

  He looks past her. Bites his lips. He looks at her and it’s too much. He wants to be angry with her. He wants to make her feel wretched. He wants to walk away and find a timid girl from the countryside. But not really. Not at all. He nods and says, ‘I slept terribly, if at all. I’m here to work. I have a race in a couple of hours. I think it’s best if we continue this some other time.’

  ‘Paul, look at me. It’s still me. Remember? Miriam. Your Miriam. Can I still be your Miriam?’

  ‘I think so.’

  She kisses him on the cheek, doesn’t ask for a kiss in return, and they go back to sleep. Soon she is breathing deeply next to him.

  ***

  Later on, racing, he feels absolutely rotten, and it’s only by sheer force of will he manages to come third, which coupled with yesterday’s result means he places second overall.

  Back at the hotel he has a long bath and she sits on a stool next to the tub, writing in her book. They don’t talk about that morning’s revelations. Late in the evening they go and see a play, and despite the fact that she has to wake him up three or four times, both due to the exhaustion from the race and the tedious nature of the play itself, he tells her he’d like to go again sometime. They behave like a normal couple. Smile and kiss, walk like they’re just anyone.

  Chapter 31

  Their train from Coventry leaves at eleven in the morning on the Sunday and they spend the morning reading the papers and eating breakfast. He toys with the idea of trying to find a bicycle shop or going to the works where his uncle got his first racing bike from. But looking at Miriam, at her relaxed reading pose, so unlike the tightly wound spring she is in London, he decides against it. He decides against doing anything else than just sitting next to her, walking next to her, for the coming hours. He doesn’t ask her if she wants to go and see the cathedral, the Coombe Abbey Park, the canal. All he does is to put a hand on her shoulder and smile at her when she looks up. He nods at their two empty cups, singing, ‘You’re the cream in my coffee’, off key. She joins in, until they run out of lyrics.

  ‘Another coffee?’ She smiles and nods, takes his hand and kisses it, then returns to the crossword puzzle in her Pearson’s Magazine.

  He feels so normal, so happy that he almost forgets what he’s coming home to. At one point she puts down the magazine and leans close to him. Tells him, and this is the only time after the Saturday night that she brings it up, that giving him some of the story has lightened her load. ‘Even if you decide to leave me, I’m happier for having at least one person about know some of my past,’ she says. He just nods and orders another cup of tea for her.

  Once she finishes the crossword she turns to Paul, motions for him to come in closer. He thinks it’s for a kiss, but she shakes her head. She just wants to speak to him in a whisper.

  ‘Paul. I’ve not wanted t
o say this, but I feel like I’m being watched. Like we’re being watched.’

  He leans back, looks around and says, ‘Don’t be silly. We are. You’re beautiful. People see you, look at you.’

  ‘I don’t mean like that.’

  ‘I did quite well yesterday, have done well all year in fact. People might recognize me.’

  ‘I’m only telling you because I feel it’s a different kind of looking.’ She still keeps her voice low. ‘I know men look at me, unless they’re cycling fans, then they look at you. I know women look at you. I don’t like it but they do. This is not the same though.’

  ‘Relax, we’re far away from home. No one knows where you are. Only Silas knows I’m here racing. You’re just being paranoid.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Maybe it’s just a bad habit.’ Then she sits back in her seat and pulls her hat lower.

  Paul looks around but can’t see anything out of the ordinary. Families, men, workers, newspaper boys. Same as in London. Only slower, on a smaller scale. A woman drops a bag of apples. A couple of tables over a man writes something in the margin of his newspaper and gets up. An old lady speaks to no one and everyone about the last days.

  Paul moves his seat closer to Miriam’s and puts a hand on her shoulder. Closes his eyes for a second and lets his mind drift.

  At eleven they board their train, and Miriam tells him she’s got plans to slowly nod off. Once underway, she smiles up at him and snuggles in, looking out over the fields.

  ‘Sorry about all the fuss,’ she says, ‘about the things we talked about.’

  He doesn’t say anything, but kisses her forehead.

  She looks up at him, and says, ‘Happy Christmas.’

  ‘Still a couple of days to go is it not?’ he asks.

  ‘It is, but I won’t be able to see you before then. The club gets very busy this time of year. Mr Morton’s away over in Ireland, something with a casino. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to go, never in a million years. Also, this weekend is usually quiet, the last for a while. People are saving up, preparing for Christmas I suppose. That, and a thousand favours cashed with the girls, is how I managed to sneak away with you.’

  ‘Are you not even able to see me for a minute?’

  ‘Not even a second I’m afraid. Most nights I’ll be staying in my flat in Elephant and Castle. Just sleeping for three or four hours between shifts and other jobs. There’s a lot of debts and money flying around at Christmas. A lot of collections.’

  ‘That’s one way to look at it. Never mind the baby in the manger. Or me.’

  ‘Please don’t be cross with me. We spoke about this. It’s just a couple of days, don’t worry pretty boy.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not cross, you know that.’

  ‘You’re a darling,’ she says and kisses him on the cheek. Then she falls asleep, like a cat in a sunlit alcove.

  Being away frees up space in his head. His body is tired but his head swirls with thoughts other than those of immediate survival. The jostlings of the capital crowds. Mr Morton’s all-seeing eye. This trip up north, even by about a third to where he came from, triggers emotions he can’t contain.

  For a brief second he feels a twinge of guilt, thinking about his father who is probably out with the cows. Paul wonders how his father is managing, but the memory of the bread tin still smarts and dragging a hand across his face he puts the feeling aside. He tries to revisit the few shreds he has of his mother but he can’t bring her into focus. He can’t say he misses her. He never knew her enough.

  Some things he thinks about more often than others. The hills just above Lennoxtown. The weather coming down onto him like it just doesn’t in England. The air, which at home felt purer, less used. The things he used to know. The simpler life he could have had. The other farmhands and the banter they shared. The music, the dances, the connection to the land he can’t feel here. But then he thinks of the real life he would have had, his father owning him. The cold, the terrible lack of food, the hard work until broken or spent. Being reduced to a pack horse on two legs.

  He looks at the refined, but flint-hard girl next to him, thinks of the races he’s been in, the money he’s won. The kisses and warm mornings in bed with her. All things that would never have happened if he hadn’t punched his father in the mouth.

  A long time later, just as the train pulls into Berkswell, he wakes her up. This is his stop. He kisses her in public one last time before they get back to London, and she gives him sandwiches to eat while he waits for the next train. After another, longer kiss he carries the bike off the train and goes to look for somewhere to sit. The hissing train heaves and breathes while passengers start to board. With a smattering of flags and whistles the train starts to leave.

  Paul stands on the platform watching Miriam through the window. She can’t see him, and the sensation of looking at someone so beautiful who has allowed him into her life is enough to make him dizzy.

  As the train passes by him Paul sees a face he thinks he recognizes. In the compartment behind them, a man in black is tugging at his goatee. At first Paul thinks it’s the man from the café who stood up to leave, then he thinks it’s one of Mr Morton’s many men. Then he can’t be sure. But by then, the train has left the station.

  Chapter 32

  It’s Boxing Day and Paul stands shivering in the entrance tunnel to the Kensal Rise velodrome. It’s an early race and it’s cold, not that the time of day will do much to improve the temperature of the air.

  ‘Perk up,’ Silas says, at his shoulder. ‘You know full well cyclists don’t have holidays. And that applies to Christmas too.’ Silas shrugs into his overcoat, and rubs his hands, ensconced in sheepskin gloves. ‘I have a little something like the traditional Christmas Box for you. But the way you’re going, our roles could be reversed next year.’

  Paul smiles. Shakes some of the nerves out of his legs. Tilts his head to the right, then the left.

  ‘We’ve had a pretty good season, you and I,’ Silas says and hands Paul an expensive-looking box, which Paul opens. Under a layer of tissue paper is Paul’s old worn out race sweater, the one with number 34 on the ripped back. Paul left it in Silas’ apartment when he stayed over on the evening of his near overdose. Silas has had it washed and darned.

  ‘Thanks. You know this is my lucky garment don’t you? I thought I had lost it,’ Paul says.

  ‘You’ve used that other one for ages. I don’t like it half as much.’

  ‘Me neither. Thanks. I didn’t get you anything.’

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ Silas says and pats Paul’s broad back. Then he continues, ‘Well, actually that’s not true. I want you to win today.’

  And with that Paul takes off his back-up sweater and worms his way into his real one. The tight one. The winning one.

  ‘Happy Christmas Paul,’ Silas says and kisses each cheek twice. Paul lets it pass as Greek tradition. Then Silas sends Paul off into centre field. As a mother sends her son to sea for the first time.

  Paul asks around to see if anyone’s seen Harry, but the only information he gets is that Harry’s been drinking for a couple of days and that no one knows where he is. This is worrying for Paul but he doesn’t have time to think about it. As the race starts he doesn’t have any space for anything but breathe, breathe, attack, attack.

  Today, Paul wins. But it’s a very close race, and the second man, Cyril Horn, the notable vegetarian, is less than half a bicycle-length behind him. When Paul rolls back into the midfield after the race there’s a man standing next to his bags of things. It’s a big boxy man in a black overcoat, a man whose hair is plastered across his head like forgotten stucco. Paul thinks he’s in trouble, as the man looks official somehow. A police man in mufti, or a bailiff, maybe a lawyer of some kind? Paul slows down to let his tired brain place the man. Then he sighs with recognition.

  It’s the man from the Sunday Times. Paul walks over and out of the corner of his eye he can see Silas sauntering over towards th
em. As Paul comes close the journalist extends his hand, ‘Paul. Good to see you again, I’m Morgan Lindsey, remember we spoke a while ago?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You did well today.’

  ‘It’s was a bit hairy in the middle, but luckily some of the other boys seemed to tire off, so yes, I suppose.’

  ‘Look I’m not here to do an interview or anything. In fact I’m not even working.’

  ‘If you’re after tickets for next week, I’m sure I can sort something out,’ Silas says.

  ‘No, no it’s not that. My press pass gets me in almost everywhere. It’s this.’ Here Morgan takes an envelope out of his pocket. ‘It was sent to the paper, you know care of, so to me really. But it’s for you Paul, from your uncle.’

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘I looked you up, you’re having a great season. I worked out where you’d be so I could deliver this to you.’

  Silas tries to slip Morgan some money, but he shakes his head and says, ‘The note for me explained the content of the letter. So for this I won’t take any money.’

  Paul looks at Morgan and eventually accepts the letter he’s holding out to him.

  ‘Good luck with the rest of the season son.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Paul says before he opens the envelope.

  Dear Paul,

  I am sorry to inform you that your father was received into the hands of the Lord on Thursday the 23rd of November...

  Despite himself, how he left it and how’s he’s felt about his father for many years, the death of the old man comes down on him like a bucket of cold water. Or boiling oil, he can’t decide which.

  The words of his uncle Stephen are too quick to brace or duck for. He sits down, puts the letter on a chair beside him. It flutters a little. Silas sits down on a chair next to the letter. Puts a hand on it to keep it from flying off.

  Paul looks over at Silas. Then drags a palm across his face. The hand comes away wet with a mixture of sweat and tears. Then he reaches over for the letter. Gently touching Silas’ hand Paul removes the letter from under the paperweight of the Greek’s palm.