The Hercules Artisan

Early every Sunday morning, on my way to carry out my Labour of Love for Tic’s birds, which was to dig and fill small sacks of shingle from the beach at East Cowes, I would stop to press my nose against Mr French’s bicycle shop window, and dream.

I had gone through the longing for a brand-new bicycle.

Due to the lack of money generally very few of my friends were being bought these amazing machines. Those that had acquired them won additional admiration for sporting and discussing in matter of fact terms to one another the ‘knowledge’. Knowledge that separated the discerning from those that could only dream and envy.

The knowledge was the wherewithal to discuss and compare with ease the lightweight handmade frames from manufacturers named Jack Taylor, Holdsworth, and Claud Butler. The broad plethora of this elitist knowledge also included an array of bicycle speak, such as the various selection of Deralia gears available, dropped handlebars, fixed gear wheels, sport drinking bottle holders, rat trap and caged racing pedals and leather racing saddles that were as thin as pencils.

On rare occasions one of my fortunate friends would offer me a trial or try out on his marvellous machine. I had always declined, although I could do the bicycle speak quite convincingly, no one knew my deeply held secret that I held clasped to my beating breast.

I had never learned.

I was unable to ride a bike.

One warm, stormy late summer evening the air was heavy, sweet with the smell of Russet apple, plum and pear. I was sat in the long cool grass watching my father, he was attempting to ride my grandma Hilda’s old bicycle down Tic’s garden, the wicker basket on the front filled to the brim with gooseberries. Gooseberries were spilling out like green bullets in all directions as he sped bumping and wobbling his way down the narrow garden path, he cut a very comic figure his long legs splayed out wide each side of the little black bike as he slewed to a dusty stop beside Tic’s shed. As I helped my father tip the gooseberries into a large chipped enamel bowl ready for grandma Hilda to make jam, the conversation turned to that of bicycles.

It was growing dark before we had finished talking, my father crunching through apple after apple as I expounded the advantages of owning a bicycle outlining the pros and cons of the various types, styles, and manufacturers. I had never enjoyed an evening with my father, not that there had been many, as much as I had that balmy summers evening, and although I was sure that I had convinced him that I had a broad and confident knowledge of bicycles I did not divulge my secret to him.

That I was still unable to ride a bicycle.

Summer was a distant memory as autumn gave way to the chill of winter heralding the fact that the festive season was imminent. Midst the neat rows of boys in the choir stalls to the strains of Oh Holy Night I silently prayed to God to gift me, in the event that he loved me and also for the fact that I was singing my heart out like an angel, a bicycle. A super, a splendid racer, it would be the envy of my peer group, a bicycle like no other.

Christmas right through to New Year were always spent at Moorgreen Road, in my grandmother’s house in West Cowes, in the company of my mother, aunties, uncles and of course my grandmother.

The pungent smell of stored apple and floor polish filled the air of the rarely opened front room. Homemade paper chains bedecked the small room made cosy by a bright coal fire blazing in the hearth. The atmosphere was exciting and busy, my thoughts turned once again to that of a bicycle, might there be one waiting, bright and chromed and French racing saddle. I had completely buried my inadequacy.

The family was in high spirits, acting, I felt, a little strangely.

Uncle Don kept winking at me with slow knowing nods,

‘’Wonder what Santa is going to be bringing you this year Nip’?

‘Hope you’ve been good’, chuckling came another wink, followed by my auntie Min slapping him lightly and bidding him to hush.’

‘That’s enough, you silly old bugger’, she gasped, coughing acrid clouds of Wild Woodbine in all directions.

Later in the darkness of my small bedroom the enchantment, the wonder of Christmas Eve magic and holiness spiralled all about me as I listened, for as long as could, to the distant rattle of kitchen, to the merriment and laughter. Came then the long dark silent night the holy night that is Christmas Eve before dawn bid me awake to a Five Boys chocolate bar, a packet of white handkerchiefs and the smell of tangerine. At long last Christmas Morning had arrived.

An hour or so later after fighting the desperate urge to fly down the stairs, which I knew was forbidden, I heard hushed whispers and then my name being called.

A greeting of ‘Merry Christmas’ was being given by everyone to everyone, a breakfast of tea and toast was being taken by uncles whilst the ladies continued with the steaming labour of the Christmas Dinner. The crackling radio in the corner of the back room was playing Christmas carols, my grandmother suddenly looked up from preparing a tray of vegetables.

‘It’s time we all went to the front room and started Christmas’…. placing her hand on my shoulder she whispered …‘and you young man, should close your eyes till I tell you to open them’.

I was beside myself with excited anticipation, was this it? My mind was spinning, was this the moment that my dreams and prayers were to be answered, immediately I did as I had been told. With my eyes shut tight I could hear my mother’s voice together with that of my uncle Don and the rustling of paper.

‘Careful Don’ I heard her say.

‘Bloody hell Brenda, I am being careful, the bugger’s bloody heavy’, hissed Donald.

Shush, scolded my grandmother. ‘Right sweetheart you can open your eyes now’.

‘Happy Christmas’!

The rejoinder of Happy Christmas together with the loud smacking of kisses and exclamations of joy resounded from everyone echoing down the long-polished passage of the hallway.

‘See my love, wishes do come true, what do you think of that, isn’t it a beautiful bike’ giggled both my mother and auntie Min.

Leaning against the wall of the passage was a bicycle, and although there had been a meagre attempt at Christmas decoration, a sad silver string of tinsel looped around its crossbar. At first glance it took on the look of an abandoned errand boys bike waiting to be packed with parcels and bread.

My heart sank, my mouth was as dry as sand as I croaked my thanks to my gathered and jubilant family. I smiled as best I could to one and all and kissed my mother with dusty parched lips.

I will never be completely sure if it was the large black saddle bag or the front affixed woven cane shopping basket that first caught my eye or it may have been the large sensible bell or the white bicycle pump.

The bicycle was a black Hercules Artisan, evidently the pump had been mislaid in transit and Mr French at the bicycle shop had loaned Uncle Don the ‘white’ one until it could be replaced in a week or two.

My Uncle had been correct when announcing earlier that the bike was heavy, it weighed a ton.

My imitation of giddy delight in front of my family passed muster, and everyone was overjoyed at my supposed pleasure to be at long last the proud owner of my very own bicycle.

Several days prior to Christmas Eve my father had arranged with Mr French to deliver the Hercules to my grandmother’s house to be sure it was there for Christmas morning. There was a message that he would like me to ride over on Boxing Day to East Cowes and visit him to show off my new bike to Tic and grandmother Hilda. So here I was, aged eleven years old unable to ride my Hercules Artisan facing the prospect of embarrassment and ridicule once I had explained the fact to one and all that I was not able to ride the bike.

What a dilemma a quandary of my own making, my stomach was a mass of dancing butterflies.

The morning progressed and the family exchange of gifts had taken place and I was now standing resplendent in my new Christmas jumper, garish green had never suited me, but no matter it was Christmas. I was also sporting a leather gun belt, silver six shooter and holster and a far too large black cowboy hat with gold tassels.

Christmas lunch had been served and my appetite was diminished so much so that I had declined Christmas Pudding and the usual desperate search for sixpences.

My grandmother was clearly worried, thinking I was ailing and coming down with some sort of Christmas cold or sniffle.

‘Whatever’s wrong sweetheart’?

‘He hasn’t looked at all well since he got up’, said my mother.

‘He’s probably got something’ said auntie Min, taking another sip of her brandy.

I suddenly stood up sobbing and blurted out my confession.

I can’t ride a bike I heard my self-saying.

‘What, you’ve never been able to ride a bike? said auntie Min, well they say you will never forget once you’ve learnt’.

Uncle Don removed his glasses, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘He can’t ride a bike’. His words hung in the air. ‘What does he mean, he can’t ride a bike, everyone can ride a bloody bike. Never heard of such a thing’.

My grandmother and mother were aghast, their mouths wide open in clear disbelief at what they had just heard.

‘No such word as can’t said auntie Min coughing loudly into another cigarette’.

Finally, my mother spoke.

‘He does nothing but talk bikes when he comes back from his father’s. Well, I was sure his father had taught him, for all the time he spends there’ continued.my mother in growing consternation and annoyance.

Shaking his head in bewilderment my uncle said ‘Why on earth would Stan buy him a bloody bike if he couldn’t ride the bugger?

Following much consternation and discussion, my uncle, having finished his second bottle of stout, took me to one side.

‘Tell you what Nipper’, suggested uncle Don, tomorrow me and you are going to push your bike over to your fathers at East Cowes, just like he asked and you’re going to thank him for his Christmas present to you but you’re going to have to be honest and tell him you can’t ride the bugger’.

My grandmother interjected ‘Yes indeed, your father will need to teach you how to ride a bicycle’!

Sleeping was particularly difficult that Christmas night, half dreams and visions of sleek beautiful racing bikes filled my mind. I laid in the darkness imagining the expressions on the faces of my father and my cousins and my friends when they all learnt that I was unable to ride a bicycle. I listened to the imagined contemptuous giggles and remarks of my father’s hideous coven of sisters.

My shallow courage and outrageous self-bicycling boasting had me turning once again to prayer. Insofar as God had divinely answered my initial prayer and had, I was sure, had a hand in procuring my bicycle, surely he would have gifted me the ability to sit astride the machine and pedal forth confidently.

I finally trembled into sleep; having been told so many times that tomorrow never comes, but sadly I knew this one would.