‘What is it darling?’ asked Eleanor. ‘Not bad news, I hope.’
‘I can’t really believe what I’m reading. It’s from the dean. I hardly dare show it to you.’ A deep frown accompanied the letter as he passed it to Eleanor.
My dear Reverend Windle,
I regret that rather longer has elapsed between our meeting and this letter, but I have been particularly busy since taking up my appointment as dean. Following our conversation I made a written report to the bishop and he has instructed me to write to you.
This important matter concerns your wife’s activities with the Suffrage Movement which is clearly against the well-being of the nation and of the church. I was at least pleased to learn that you did not support your wife’s activities, but was alarmed you felt unable to press your views upon her. I hardly need to mention the group’s outrages that have been directed against the church, causing much damage and distress.
I trust that you will have now prevailed upon your wife to abandon such a wanton and criminal course. The bishop agrees with me that when we learn of such a change, we may continue our discussion regarding your future within our beloved church.
Arthur sat quietly whilst Eleanor read. She read it through again and, to Arthur’s surprise, broke into laughter. ‘What a man! How can anyone, least of all one who calls himself a man of God, write like that? Suppose we invite him to the vicarage so he and I can have a proper debate. Would that not be a good idea, Arthur?’
Arthur could not help giving a rueful smile. ‘Eleanor, my dear, I don’t think it would be a good idea at all; the poor man would never be the same again. Let’s just ignore it.’
‘I agree, Arthur. He seems a very embittered man. Maybe one day our paths will cross, but I agree with you, just ignore it.’
The unrelenting rain promoted many worries. The children at the Sunday school, almost all in the village, were looking forward to their annual fun day. Abraham Richards and his friends were eagerly anticipating the big athletics event at the Crystal Palace although with all the rain, Abraham was relieved to know that the grass track had been replaced by a cinder one. The clash of the Sunday school treat and athletics meeting was deeply felt by at least two villagers; Grace would love to have seen Abraham race and he would have been happy to help with the children on their special day.
Three days earlier Abraham, Tommy Bruce, Streaky Bacon and Dan Reynolds had excitedly gathered round a silver and blue motor car which appeared in the forecourt of Spinney Farm. ‘Well lads, what do you think?’ asked Jack Mansfield, giving them a broad smile and the silver bonnet of his latest acquisition a loving pat.
‘It’s amazing, sir,’ gasped Tommy. ‘Where did you get it from? It’s beautiful.’
‘It’s a new model, a Phoenix, and it has a powerful 11.9 horsepower engine. As you know, Mrs Mansfield and I went away last weekend. Well,’ continued the farmer, ‘we visited friends in Cambridge and they drove us down to Letchworth. You’ve probably heard about it; it’s been built in the latest fashion of a garden city. Well, there’s a small factory there producing these and the owner gave me a drive: I took over and that was that! Coming home and knowing there was so much mud and water lying on the village roads, I took the longer way in through Applewick, but it’s still got a lot of muddy splash marks. I’m going to drive it into the green barn. Dan, would you fill up some buckets and give me a hand washing it down, please?’
Two hours later while Abraham was stripping down an old harrow, a job that the steady rain did allow, Mr Mansfield came in. ‘Abraham, a word with you. I know that on Saturday you’ve got a really important race. I would like to see it and I suggest that I drive you to the track. It’s only seventy miles. What time does the meeting start?’
‘Well, the meeting starts at two o’clock and mine is the fourth event, which would make it around a quarter to three. But sir, are you sure? It’s really so kind of you and I would love it,’ answered the rather startled Abraham. ‘I was going with my parents, but they had already promised to help with the Sunday school treat. Anyway, I’m hoping to run next month at the Great Stadium on the other side of London, so they are going to that.’
‘Well. That’s settled then. You be here for eight o’clock. I can get Doris to put something together for us, but make sure you are wearing something warm and let’s hope it’s a dry day. That would certainly make a change.’
Later that evening he bumped into Willie Johnson and told him about his good fortune.
‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ responded his friend. ‘But you take care. You know that we’re all coming. Jammy is going straight there from Ilford and Boney, Jack, Fred and I are all leaving here together. We’re not sure how long it will take, but don’t worry; we’ll be there in good time.’ With a smile he added a parting comment: ‘And you had better win!’
‘Don’t expect too much,’ replied Racer, ‘there will be some really strong competition.’
Saturday came round, a rare dry day. Jack Mansfield drove well and while the road had some residual water lying on it, the conditions improved as they approached Colchester. From time to time, Mr Mansfield pulled to the side of the road to consult his map, but pointing out to Abraham the route, his young passenger was soon able to advise the way to take. Most of the roads were clear, but at Braintree there was a market and fair which half-blocked the main thoroughfare. Market stall owners, buyers, horses, carts and just a few motor cars made that part of the journey slow and Jack Mansfield needed to drive carefully. Later, Abraham found it especially thrilling when they went through the Blackwall Tunnel; it was difficult to believe they were passing under the river.
As they reached Lewisham there was a great buzz of activity, the number of motor vehicles increased and suddenly they were confronted with a tram coming towards them. Both realised that the tram tracks defined its route, but there seemed little agreement among other motorised vehicles as to which side of the road was the right one. A stubborn horse had come to a standstill with its load of hay, the anxious driver thoughtlessly stopping on the tram tracks, but amid the general cacophony of noise the carter gave his horse a stronger prod and it finally moved on.
A short while later, Abraham realised they were nearing their destination. They found the athletics track quite easily and both were dazzled by the impressive edifice which Abraham realised was rightly called the Crystal Palace. As they neared the track, Abraham could see it was built round a concrete construction which he realised was a cycle track. There were banked seats on all sides with people sitting and enjoying this first day of sunshine for several weeks. On one side of the track, which he could see was either gravel or cinder, Abraham saw a long, low wooden building which was clearly the major viewing place for spectators. Jack Mansfield drove towards a grassed area where a good number of motor cars and a large omnibus were parked.
‘That was absolutely amazing, Mr Mansfield. Thank you so much,’ Abraham said as he eased himself out of the car, glad to stretch his legs.
‘I’ve got you here and now I wish you all the very best for your race. But if you open the trunk you’ll see a food hamper which Doris put together. Let’s enjoy that first.’
Doris had certainly done well and they enjoyed an excellent picnic, although Abraham ate very modestly. He had seen a chalked sign on a large board with an arrow pointing towards a low brick-built construction, clearly stating “Competitors”. He had also seen Willy, Fred, Jack and Boney hovering near the building and was sure that Jammy would not be far away. He tried to think optimistically as he bade Mr Mansfield a brief farewell and clutching his much worn backpack, its most vital contents being his running vest, shorts and spiked track shoes, strode over towards the changing room. Within the shadow of the overhanging, ridged roof he was confronted by a balding man whose pockmarked face wore a sneering look: Froggy.
TWENTY-ONE
Afternoon, Saturday, 22 June
‘So,’ the wretched forty-year-old man spat out, ‘you’re still running t
hen; that’s a bit of a surprise. I’ve got your twenty-five quid and…’
As he spoke he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder and turning round saw the husky Jammy. ‘You can keep your money, mate. The man you’re talking to is going to win today.’
Froggy turned back towards Racer and was just about to say something when he realised that four other menacing figures completed the circle round him. ‘Eh, what’s going on? Who the hell are you lot?’
Jabbing the pockfaced Froggy with his forefinger, Boney, the tallest of the group, said, ‘Unlike you we go for fair play, we don’t like people who make unpleasant and stupid threats.’
Even under his ill-shaven features, the man seemed to pale and his shoulders drop a little. Boney and Jammy each took a short step forward, now sandwiching the man between them. ‘If I were you, I’d crawl back to wherever you came from.’
‘And’, added Jammy to his friend’s words, ‘don’t ever threaten anyone else.’ Resting his hand on Racer’s shoulder he added, ‘If my friend here ever tells me you’ve been anywhere near him keep a close watch over your shoulder. We know where you live, so now go.’ Boney took a slight step back, just room enough for the man to hurriedly slip out of the tight pack and, with just a quick look back, scamper away and disappear from sight.
‘I don’t think you’ll see him again, Racer,’ commented Boney. ‘But Jammy, how do you know where he lives?’
‘Well, to tell you the truth I don’t, but in the case of dealing with cheats it’s no bad thing to play them at their own game.’
Racer, still looking nonplussed, turned to his friends. ‘I had no idea what you had dreamt up, only that you told me you would deal with that wretched man. I can never thank you enough. You really looked a menacing bunch and I’m not surprised he was frightened off. Fred, I would never have thought you could look so threatening.’
The slightly-built Fred smiled. ‘Well, I must say I have been practising in front of the mirror at the smithy.’
‘Well, you were all marvellous,’ chipped in Willy. ‘I’m sure Froggy won’t come near us again. Racer, it’s all up to you now, so just get out there and run like the wind.’
With more heartfelt thanks to his friends, Racer turned, picked up his backpack and hurried off as he saw runners for the first event going on to the track. As he entered the building, he was confronted by clusters of young men, some fully changed and waiting for their call, others chatting with a confidence that Racer could not feel and a few sitting alone with their private thoughts. He moved towards the white card showing his event and, placing his backpack on the slatted bench was delighted to be greeted by another runner.
‘Why, it’s Abraham, isn’t it?’ asked a muscular young man whose hair was even fairer than Abraham’s. ‘We raced against each other last year in Cambridge, you remember?’
‘Of course,’ replied Abraham, with a warm smile for greeting. ‘It’s James, isn’t it? How are you?’
‘Fine, thank you; so we’re running for different teams today. I count as a Londoner as I’ve lived in Ealing since I started working in my father’s business. Well, the track looks good in spite of all the rain. Do you remember that track last time we raced? It was one of those with such tight bends that we actually had to slow down if we were on the inside.’
As the two young men opened their bags and changed, they chatted. Abraham recalled how he had been narrowly forced by James into second place, but felt his own fitness and running tactics had much improved since then. Changing into his shorts and running vest, Abraham slipped on a pair of old trousers and a warm jumper which he would leave by the side of the track minutes before the start.
‘Runners for the 440 yards, over here,’ called the bespectacled official. Racer had not recognised any of the other six athletes, but James had told him to be especially aware of one, a swarthy man who, according to James, was likely to go off at a cracking pace.
All the athletes had friends and supporters in the crowd, but a particularly loud explosion of sound came from his five faithful friends who were as near to the finish as they could get. He modestly raised his hand to acknowledge this support. Abraham and his three teammates wore short lengths of blue material pinned to their running tops, the London runners, similar-sized red markers. He followed his group, placing trousers and jumper in a neat pile and put on his running spikes, a present from Mr Meadows, his old master at school, and his wife. ‘I won’t always be there to watch you,’ Peter Meadows had said to his former pupil, ‘but every time you put them on remember I’m supporting you.’ Abraham remembered the exact words as he walked towards the starting line.
He picked up a small trowel from the box of tools by the side of the track and walked to the white line which ran straight across the track. He had drawn the small card bearing number five which meant he was towards the middle of the eight runners. He knew it was clearly an advantage to be on the inside of the track, so his start was essential. With the toe of his left running shoe as close to the line as possible, he made a mark to know where to carefully scoop out a small hole with the trowel for his right foot. Like the others, he knew the track circuit was nearly 500 yards round so the starting holes would be no risk to them.
‘Get to your places,’ called a grey-haired steward wearing a smart if rather worn green and purple striped blazer. The runners were pleased that a starting gun was to be used; a whistle occasionally produced a rather muted signal, creating confusion. Abraham went to his mark and took up his crouching position which he had adopted halfway through the previous athletics season. With the extra push that the starting hole gave him, he had a favoured start. He knew that he had trained hard and felt in good form, but the start and the final fifty yards were vital.
‘Get to your marks,’ called the starter, standing on a foot-high wooden platform just in front of the starting line. Abraham, left toe to the line, right spiked shoe in his starting hole, settled in to a comfortable position and lightly wriggled his shoulders, as much to relax his mind as his body.
‘Get yourselves set,’ came the instruction. Abraham made a final upper body adjustment, pushed his right toes more firmly into the starting hole, erased the other runners from his sight and set his whole mind on the cinder track spreading ahead. He was determined to get on the inside as soon as possible, but would prefer another runner to lead the way for the first 300 yards.
The crack of the gun caused spectators to flinch, the runners to fly forward. Eight athletes… a confused surge of colours in an increasingly jagged line as the first thirty yards were covered in what to spectators seemed no time at all. The cutting in towards the inside of the track, a slight jousting between two runners with one almost falling, picking up his stride again, but a couple of vital yards lost. Almost single file now as the first curve was reached, with the three front runners striving desperately to get into the best position; two now emerging in the lead and at least three runners suddenly too far behind to threaten the leaders. No difficulty in picking out Racer in his emerald green running vest. Now in second place to a white-topped London athlete with a fair-haired runner almost on Racer’s shoulder. The race down the straight towards the final curve showed an increase in pace and a growing distance between the first three and the rest of the field. As Willy said later, ‘Racer, I never thought I’d say this of you, but your running was something of beauty.’ In sight of the blue finishing tape, Racer’s stride appeared to lengthen slightly and his feet barely to touch the cinders. To the shoulder of the leader and then in a glorious final sprint, Racer drew level, passed so easily that with each stride he drew further ahead. Breasting the tape, Racer was clearly five or six yards in front, with the London runner and James fighting for second place.
Whether or not they were allowed on to the track, led by Fred the five friends came running to Racer. ‘That was amazing,’ Jammy burst out. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ The others gave out their praise as Racer stood, hands on hips and smiled.
‘Than
ks,’ he said.
As he spoke, the fair-haired James came to Racer and generously shook his hand. ‘You came past me like a steam engine and I couldn’t keep up. I wonder what your time was?’ Racer was soon to learn he had been recorded with 50.6 seconds; two seconds faster than his previous best time at the end of the 1911 season. He couldn’t believe it.
‘I guess old Froggy is miles away by now,’ smiled the ever-supportive Jack. ‘Come on Racer, here’s your clothes, don’t get cold. I can see you sweating, nearly as much as we are from watching you!’
Racer’s departure to change was delayed for a few minutes as Mr Mansfield joined the group. ‘That was a wonderful run, Abraham, and your time which I just heard is a tremendous start to the season. Well done, indeed. Now, as your good friends have said, go and change. I’m sorry I can’t take you all home in my motor; Abraham, I suggest that you and I leave as soon as you are ready. We can be home by mid evening and I’m sure your parents and brother will be dying to know how you got on.’ Abraham hoped that Grace would, as well.
TWENTY-TWO
Late Afternoon & Evening, Saturday, 22 June
Many pedestrians, but few vehicles, were to be seen as Jack Mansfield undertook the return drive. When they had left Braintree a few miles behind, he surprised Abraham by suggesting that they stop for a quick celebratory drink. ‘Let’s pull in here; this looks a good place.’
Jack Mansfield turned off the road on to the rough forecourt to the inn, advertised as The Royal Oak. It was clearly an old inn and as they went into the low-ceilinged room, both were surprised at the number of people already drinking. In addition to a group of cyclists, apparent by their smart cycling gear, there were half a dozen walkers clearly enjoying a drink after a warm ramble.
The overweight, but jovial publican soon provided both drinks. ‘Well,’ said the older man, lifting his glass, ‘let’s drink to your continuing success on the track. You’ll make Rusfield famous yet.’ Realising that more talk along these lines would further embarrass the young man, Jack Mansfield changed the topic of conversation. ‘Abraham, there are two things I would mention to you although I would ask that the first remains confidential between us.’ He picked up his half empty glass and took a long drink. He replaced it on the rather heavily-chipped table, Abraham greatly wondering what he was going to be told.
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