The Lesson

Boxing Day 1955

I had walked the bike up and down Moorgreen Road to the cricket field several times, due to the fact I was unable to ride it, in the hope I might solicit admiring glances at my new shiny bicycle from passers-by but none had been forthcoming.

Today was Monday, Boxing Day, and everyone I met was excited and in high spirits, wishing one and all a happy Christmas and of course a happy new year as it was fast approaching. The cold morning air was hanging on the trees as the sun splintered prisms of jewelled lights into the frosty air. A dancing cloud of mist rolled over the icy river Medina as the old floating bridge rattled towards me, the metallic grinding ring of chains and metal bridge gates opening heralded me and my Hercules Artisan’s crossing from West Cowes to East Cowes.

It was nearly eleven thirty when I reached 9 Adelaide Grove, the home of my father. Opening the tall wooden gate that lead into a small back yard, I stood my bicycle up against a blackened coal bunker and entered the house through the ever-opened back door. Passing the small scullery, I stood looking around the little sitting room which was bedecked with Christmas cards and dressed for the yuletide in faded paper chains that had seen better days, a sad drooping Christmas tree flickered a welcome with its meagre string of lights. The sad ensemble smiled back at me in comfortable disarray. The heavy air of yesterday’s Christmas lunch was imbued into every nook and cranny. A meagre coal fire flickered in the hearth, fighting to heat the small room, it’s dancing light brightening the tired tinsel decoration which was wrapped around the brass coal scuttle. The quiet serenity was suddenly broken by voices and loud barking from the scullery as my grandmother Hilda and Tic arguing the merits of winter gardening burst into the room with the ever-yapping Sandy dancing excitedly around their feet.

Grandmother Hilda smiled broadly and her bright blue eyes twinkled when she spotted me sitting on the small brass fender beside the fireplace. ‘Well, bugger me look what the cat’s brought in’ said Grandmother Hilda clapping her hands in delight, ‘it’s our Stan’s nipper’.

You won’t find your dad here nipper he’s gone down the Vic early with your uncle Roy, the Vics have got a bit of do on today.

Midst the chaos of the moment I bumble mumbled seasonal greetings proffering a small gift for Tic which I knew to be cigarettes and a gift box of talc and fancy soap for Grandmother Hilda.

Tic nodded back his appreciation for the gift and pushing back his cap he pointed to the window growling loudly ‘is that your new bike your dad got you for Christmas out there nipper, leaning on the coal bunker in the rain’?

‘Well, if you want to see him you know where he is now, you’ll probably catch him up on your new bike, if you’re quick.

I nodded in agreement and left, thankful at leaving the discomforting atmosphere and looking back I thought saw the front room curtains twitch just for a second as I pushed my bicycle in the pouring rain down Falcon Road towards Clarence Road and the Victoria Tavern.

It had stopped raining when I reached the Vic at one o’clock and leaning my bike up against the wall i looked down the passage of the main entrance into the tavern. Soon after Mrs Myram the landlady came out to ask me who I wanted. I explained to her who I was and she seemed to recall me and of course there was no doubt she knew my father. She returned shortly with a message from my father saying he would not be too long he was just finishing a quick game of darts and in the meantime a bottle of lemonade and a bag of crisps would need to suffice. Mrs Myram smiled at me sweetly and asked if I’d had a lovely Christmas with lots of toys and then she gave me a mince pie. I told her, pointing to my bicycle leaning on the pub wall, that dad had bought me it for Christmas gift but sadly I was unable to ride it and that I really needed him to teach me. ‘Well dear, when he finishes his game of darts I shall go and have a word with him’ she said turning back through the door and into the pub. Mrs Myram soon returned bringing me another mince pie. ‘He’ll be out to see you very soon dear, I’m sure’, she said.

In one respect Mrs Myram was correct my father did come out of the pub albeit well over an hour or so later to find me sitting on an upturned beer crate with my coat pulled tight under my chin and my teeth chattering. My first and lasting impression of father as he barrelled noisily through the doorway spilling out onto the pavement was that of his round red grinning countenance and wearing a red garish jumper banded by white dancing snowmen.

The next minute I was hoisted high into the air and swung around until I was giddy as my father lathered wet embraces, that smelt of beer and tobacco, upon me whilst wishing me the most merry of Christmas wishes, finally gasping for breath he put me down. Panting and sweating profusely he leaned against the tavern wall with both hands to regain his breath as I excitedly explained to him my dilemma with my bike.

‘You mean you want me, to teach you, to ride the bugger’, he said, at which point he lost his balance resulting in him dancing little sideways steps into the road. Then stopping suddenly, he looked about him in a surprised manner and burst out laughing.

His movements were still unsteady when he approached the bicycle, took hold of the saddle and the handlebars and lifted it off the ground.

‘It’s a big heavy bugger nipper’ he said re-placing the bike onto the ground and patting the saddle as you might a horse.

He began tucking his trousers bottoms into his socks saying, ‘been a few years since I had a ride on a bike, but they say once you learn to ride you never forget’.

At that he took hold of the handlebars steering it out onto the road and hurrying alongside he attempted to foot the nearside pedal and swing his right his leg over the crossbar. The sight of my father blurred into a cacophony of expletives and metallic clatter showering gravel, man and bicycle.

Unbeknown to either of us, his brother Roy and some other men had been stood watching as events unfolded from the open door at the ‘Vic’. All at once the men were helping to lift my still cursing father out of the tangle of bike, still laughing the men helped my bleeding and limping father back into the pub.

My uncle Roy had remained and walking over towards me shook his head saying, ‘could have killed himself, stupid old sod!’ he stooped helping pick up my bike.

‘’Silly old bugger said Roy, your dad has made a real mess of your new bike nipper its scratched to buggery, and he’s bent and scratched the mudguards.

Just look at those handlebars he’s bent the buggers and broken the shopping basket, you’ll need to twist those handlebars straight before you try and ride it again.

At which point my father appeared again at the doorway together with Mrs Myram, he was sporting a bandaged hand and a nasty looking red gash across his nose.

Walking towards me it was noticeably clear that my father was still somewhat unsteady made worse by his hoppity limp. Mrs Myram was holding his arm and saying, ‘well I don’t think you’ll be doing that again in a hurry Stan.’

My poor father cut a very dishevelled and sad figure as he stood shaking his head and apologising, looking over at me and my twisted bike.

‘I think it would be better if you on your way now Nip he said, it’ll be dark before you get up home and we’ll be sure to get an hour or so sometime next week, if I can manage it.’

Then all at once my father stopped and put his finger into the air and almost as an afterthought said, ‘Oh Bugger! I almost forgot nipper, its New Year next week and we are all going to be busy I expect, better leave it for a week or two.

Fighting back the tears I agreed and turned around, beginning the long push back to Moorgreen Road in West Cowes.

The light was dying, and Clarence Road looked cold and grey in the drizzling fret that was drifting in from the Solent. I turned still waving as I watched the last of the small group of men go back through the Tavern doors into the jolly yuletide warmth of the tap room.

The desolation and complete despair that I felt at that moment as I pushed my broken Hercules Artisan bicycle into the dying light was amplified a thousand times over when the bright lights of Mr French’s Bicycle shop came into view displaying in the centre of his window was a brand new Jack Taylor drop handle bar sports bike in bright azure blue and a saddle as narrow as pencil. Standing there dreaming into Mr Frenches shop, I became aware that the pathetic image of myself was being reflected straight back at me. Stood shivering in the rain with my broken bike, my self-pity immediately turned into furious rage.

The rage was not just aimed at my father and his drunken tedious antics, it was me, only me, that was far more deserved of rage. It was entirely my fault that I could not ride a bicycle. How long had I pretended, I had lied and lied and lied and at that moment in that cold grey light, I made myself a promise. I vowed that I would somehow fix and ride that damn bike proficiently before I would ever contact my father again.