disappointments. This part of his life was perhaps the most important; the most precious; the most vulnerable to the scorn of others and he had been unusually secretive about it. That must be it, he reasoned with himself. That must be why. Because it was so fragile it could not be exposed to the gaze of even Meg and Tom. Not yet!
Turning out of Whitechapel into Victoria Street he heard his own footsteps quicken eagerly and his mind flew ahead, dashing forward to meet the excitement which always flooded him when he allowed it its way. There were shops on either side of the street. Shops of all kinds, but not grand like those in Dale Street or Bold Street. These were small, run down, crammed with all the commodities needed and purchased by the working man and his family. A butcher, the blinds drawn and nothing but the sign in the window to proclaim its business. A grocer, a greengrocer, a fish merchant, a cheese and butter shop and the inevitable pawnbroker! At the far end, on the corner, appearing to stand apart from its companions in its shining splendour was a double-fronted shop which declared itself to be ‘Hale’s Modern Bicycle Emporium’ and beneath this splendid title were printed the words ‘Albert Hale, prop.’
Martin’s footsteps slowed and the gas lamplight which shone from the evenly but distantly spaced lampholders along the street picked out the soft, almost lover-like gleam in his eyes. He turned to look into the dim window, a light from the back of the shop evidently shining from Mr Albert Hale’s own living quarters, outlining the silhouettes of the bicycles which were crammed there. He put out his hand, placing his fingers gently against the glass which separated them from him, then rubbed at the glaze of frost which coated it. He breathed on the window, rubbing again , this time with his coat sleeve, peering reverently through the small hole his breath had cleared.
For several minutes he stood there, gazing in dream-like fashion at the machines, his head on one side as though considering which one to choose for himself, then with an eager squaring of his shoulders he moved to the arched doorway and tapped gently on the door.
They were about the kitchen table on a bitterly cold evening at the end of January when Martin cleared his throat and as though at a signal they all raised their heads to look enquiringly at him. The room was slow and peaceful, the people in it lounging about in that last reluctant awareness that they should make a move and get to their beds. The fire was dying away to slumbering rosy embers, a tendril of pale grey smoke drifting from the falling ash to escape up the blackened chimney. The kitchen was lambent with pale gold and rose tinted reflections from the last flickering flames in the fireplace and the end of the day indolence gave the figures who lolled about a strange grace.
Emm was there curled up on a tuffet, her spindly legs to the coals for she felt the chill in her almost fleshless bones. Mrs Whitley dozed in the ‘best’ chair, as was her due, proclaiming at intervals that she really
must
get up them stairs but making no effort to do so.
‘Can I have a word, Mrs Whitley?’ Martin said gruffly and she turned, surprised, for could he not always have a word if he wanted and without asking her permission.
‘You what?’
‘I want to ask you something before I discuss it with Mr Lloyd.’
‘Oh yes!’
Tom and Meg looked from one face to the other, then at each other, blue eyes asking amber what on earth this was all about. Meg raised her eyebrows and shrugged. She had been sewing, absorbed in the fine tucking she was putting in a new muslin blouse she intended for the spring days to come. The lamplight touched her hair and the glow of it gilded her white skin to cream and put tawny shadows across her shoulders, following the sweet curve of her breasts but Martin was looking at Mrs Whitley and Tom at Martin and neither noticed. She had returned to being
Turning out of Whitechapel into Victoria Street he heard his own footsteps quicken eagerly and his mind flew ahead, dashing forward to meet the excitement which always flooded him when he allowed it its way. There were shops on either side of the street. Shops of all kinds, but not grand like those in Dale Street or Bold Street. These were small, run down, crammed with all the commodities needed and purchased by the working man and his family. A butcher, the blinds drawn and nothing but the sign in the window to proclaim its business. A grocer, a greengrocer, a fish merchant, a cheese and butter shop and the inevitable pawnbroker! At the far end, on the corner, appearing to stand apart from its companions in its shining splendour was a double-fronted shop which declared itself to be ‘Hale’s Modern Bicycle Emporium’ and beneath this splendid title were printed the words ‘Albert Hale, prop.’
Martin’s footsteps slowed and the gas lamplight which shone from the evenly but distantly spaced lampholders along the street picked out the soft, almost lover-like gleam in his eyes. He turned to look into the dim window, a light from the back of the shop evidently shining from Mr Albert Hale’s own living quarters, outlining the silhouettes of the bicycles which were crammed there. He put out his hand, placing his fingers gently against the glass which separated them from him, then rubbed at the glaze of frost which coated it. He breathed on the window, rubbing again , this time with his coat sleeve, peering reverently through the small hole his breath had cleared.
For several minutes he stood there, gazing in dream-like fashion at the machines, his head on one side as though considering which one to choose for himself, then with an eager squaring of his shoulders he moved to the arched doorway and tapped gently on the door.
They were about the kitchen table on a bitterly cold evening at the end of January when Martin cleared his throat and as though at a signal they all raised their heads to look enquiringly at him. The room was slow and peaceful, the people in it lounging about in that last reluctant awareness that they should make a move and get to their beds. The fire was dying away to slumbering rosy embers, a tendril of pale grey smoke drifting from the falling ash to escape up the blackened chimney. The kitchen was lambent with pale gold and rose tinted reflections from the last flickering flames in the fireplace and the end of the day indolence gave the figures who lolled about a strange grace.
Emm was there curled up on a tuffet, her spindly legs to the coals for she felt the chill in her almost fleshless bones. Mrs Whitley dozed in the ‘best’ chair, as was her due, proclaiming at intervals that she really
must
get up them stairs but making no effort to do so.
‘Can I have a word, Mrs Whitley?’ Martin said gruffly and she turned, surprised, for could he not always have a word if he wanted and without asking her permission.
‘You what?’
‘I want to ask you something before I discuss it with Mr Lloyd.’
‘Oh yes!’
Tom and Meg looked from one face to the other, then at each other, blue eyes asking amber what on earth this was all about. Meg raised her eyebrows and shrugged. She had been sewing, absorbed in the fine tucking she was putting in a new muslin blouse she intended for the spring days to come. The lamplight touched her hair and the glow of it gilded her white skin to cream and put tawny shadows across her shoulders, following the sweet curve of her breasts but Martin was looking at Mrs Whitley and Tom at Martin and neither noticed. She had returned to being
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