by Dennis Rink
The Grey Man suppressed a laugh. The Leader had, after all, come a long way from the bicycle thieving reprobate that he and Icarus had met a year earlier. Although they weren’t quite sure what the business actually entailed, The Leader’s activities seemed to earn enough money to feed and clothe him, and appeared to be legitimate, even if at times they bordered on the shadier side of the road of commerce. The Leader had, they could not deny, developed a remarkable ability as a bicycle mechanic, while showing himself to have an adept sense of organisation.
“So,” said Icarus, “it seems that all has been decided. Now all that I have to do is to tell my mother.”
Persuading Mrs Smith that he was doing the right thing was never going to be easy. Icarus knew that it was his decision to go, but he did not want his mother to be unhappy about it. He sat in the gloom of the basement, puzzling over how to persuade her that he was doing the right thing. “How can I convince her?” he asked The Leader, “especially when she has already decided that I shouldn’t go. Also, she’s still worrying about losing the flat, even though the landlord hasn’t made any mention of it.”
“This might help her to decide,” said the Grey Man. He had in his hand a big white envelope and on his face a wide smile. “I think we need to go and tell her right now.”
The trio traipsed upstairs to the flat, where Mrs Smith met them with some alarm. “What on earth is going on? It’s the middle of the week – what are you all doing here?”
With a flourish and a bow – yes, he actually bowed – the Grey Man presented the large white envelope to Mrs Smith. “What is this?” she asked.
“Just open it and see.”
Mrs Smith went to the kitchen drawer and found her paper knife and sliced open the envelope. She drew out a letter, with a cheque stapled to it. She stared at it for some time, then said: “No, no, no. This can’t be right. It must be a mistake, a miscalculation, an error.”
The Grey Man grasped the cheque from her hand and studied it, concerned. “What’s wrong with it. Isn’t this enough money to buy your flat?”
“I’m sure that it’s more than enough. That’s what’s wrong. Surely it’s too much money. It can’t possibly be right.”
“I can assure you that it is right,” he laughed. “And if it’s more than enough for you to buy your flat, then you can take yourself off on a lovely holiday.”
“A holiday? I suppose that would be quite nice. We’ve never been on a holiday. Not a proper one. Wouldn’t you like to take a holiday, Icarus?”
“Well, that’s what we’ve been planning, Mum, but I think what George means is that you take yourself off on a holiday. You can take yourself somewhere special and treat yourself.”
Mrs Smith had always devoted herself to her son’s well-being and happiness. Indeed, she had carried with her, ever since his birth, the guilt that by being a single parent she had been unable to provide the boy with all the little luxuries of life that most middle-class children could expect to enjoy. On the other hand, she consoled herself with the thought that Icarus was thus spared the malign influences that such little luxuries would expose him to.
Mrs Smith may well have objected to Icarus’s proposed holiday were it not for the fact that it had been couched in terms that it was a pilgrimage, even if it was a rather secular pilgrimage. Also, she had faith in the Grey Man – or George, as she knew him – and the fact that he seemed to take an almost fatherly interest in Icarus’s well-being. So she decided that, even if she did not take a holiday (you never knew when we might need a bit of extra money, she explained) she was happy to help and encourage man and boy (she thought of Icarus still as a boy) in their preparations, and insisted that the pair – along with this friend (who she was sure was now living in the basement) – dine with her on Sunday, the eve of their departure. They could hardly refuse, and The Leader, on receiving the invitation, was doubly pleased when he heard that they would be dining on a leg of lamb.
Over the next three days Icarus, the Grey Man and The Leader spent all the time they could preparing for the trip. The Grey Man and Icarus went shopping for sleeping bags, bike panniers, waterproofs in case of rain, sunscreen in case the sun shone, as well as maps, guidebooks and spares. The Leader, meanwhile, concentrated on making sure the bikes were in the best condition, panniers fitted, tyres pumped, chains oiled. There was one niggle that he could not fix – a slight wobble in Icarus’s front wheel, a consequence of his collision with the van.
“Don’t worry too much about that,” the Grey Man said. “I know of an excellent bike shop on Grey’s Inn Road that can sort that out. We’ll go there in the morning.”
The next morning the three cycled into the City, to Greys Inn Road. The Leader and Icarus stopped outside, studying the window display. “This is bleeding paradise,” said The Leader. “Just look at all of that stuff. They’ve got everything here.”
“Yes, and just look at the price tags,” said Icarus. “I think I’ll stick to Freecycle.” His eye, caught by a particularly elegant single-speed, caused him to add: “But by gosh, they’ve got some beautiful stuff here.”
The Grey Man led them inside and summed up the emporium in two words: “Bike porn.” For this certainly was the type of shop generally loved by men and hated by women. Customers spent hours drooling over bits of pressed metal, moulded carbon fibre, and hand-shaped leather. The staff, too, were the epitome of cycle chic, displaying perfectly shaped and shaven calves, and dressed in expensive branded cyclewear that matched the beautiful machines. They reminded Icarus vaguely of some of his more stylish colleagues at the International Cycle Courier Company (Hackney Branch), except that they seemed to know what they were doing.
The Grey Man asked at the counter for someone to have a look at Icarus’s irksome front wheel. They were ushered to the workshop and introduced Sam, who would look after them. Sam was busy when they entered, bent double over a set of spokes that seemed to have a mind of their own. The Grey Man, the Leader and Icarus waited. Sam had short-cropped hair, wide shoulders and baggy shorts that displayed the mandatory moulded calves.
To break the silence, and to attract Sam’s attention, Icarus said: “So, you must be the company spokesman.”
Sam looked up, stared straight at Icarus, and spat: “Spokeswoman, if you please.”
Icarus mumbled an apology while behind him the Grey Man and The Leader had to stifle their laughter. “I should have told you before,” the Grey Man whispered into Icarus’s ear, “that is Samantha, Jo’s other half.”
Icarus felt a bolt strike his heart. He had forgotten Jo. He hadn’t thought about her for days, maybe weeks – well, at least since they had decided on the pilgrimage. Suddenly Jo was back in his heart and mind. He pictured her face, her infectious smile. He thought really hard about Jo, and he smiled. At that moment Sam finished what she was doing and looked back up at Icarus. But it wasn’t Icarus that she saw in front of her, it was Jo. She stood up, cupped Icarus’s cheeks with her big, strong hands, and kissed him full and passionately on the mouth. Icarus’s eyes widened. He tried to pull back, but was held firm.
Then Sam opened her eyes, she saw it wasn’t Jo, but Icarus in her arms. “So, so, so sorry,” she stammered, in confusion, “I don’t know what came over me. I thought you were someone else.”
The Grey Man and The Leader were bent double in the corner, they could no longer stifle their laughter. They had no idea what Sam had seen, they had no idea why she had kissed Icarus, and Icarus, for sure wasn’t telling them. That, he decided quite firmly, was the last time he would ever make use of that particular talent. Clearly no good could come of it.
By late on Sunday afternoon Icarus, the Grey Man and The Leader had completed all their preparations. The Leader had insisted, twice, that they check all their bikes and equipment. He wanted to make sure that everything was perfect, every eventuality covered, every nut and bolt and spoke tightened, before he was happy to release them for the last supper. Together they trooped into Mrs Smith’s parlou
r to await her summons to eat. It was the first time that The Leader had been inside the flat, so he noticed nothing unusual, but Icarus and the Grey Man were acutely aware of the bare wooden floor in the parlour.
“The magic carpet has flown,” said Icarus, quietly. The Grey Man nodded. The Leader studied the tiny apartment intently, the bay window overlooking the park, the worn leather sofa, book-lined walls, all with a slightly shabby out-of-date aura. “This place is a palace,” he said, finally. “Some day I’m gonna to have a lovely place like this.”
Before Icarus and the Grey Man could ask The Leader why he so liked the small flat, Mrs Smith called them through for dinner. The Leader amazed Icarus and the Grey Man with his elegant table manners and his eloquent praise for Mrs Smith’s culinary skills. From the size of the limb, the roast that they were eating appeared to be the other leg of that poor little creature of which they had previously partaken. Icarus and the Grey Man were subdued throughout the meal but The Leader kept up a running conversation on his own, swaying this way and that between praising the delights of the day’s meal and the adventures that awaited the intrepid travellers.
Finally, when the meal was finished and The Leader’s monologue had run dry, Mrs Smith pushed her chair back and said: “I’m going to miss you … both of you … all of you.”
For a moment The Leader felt a tear in his eye. It was, after all, the first time that he had ever been consciously included in some kind of familial bond.
Mrs Smith rose from her seat and left the room. She returned carrying two yellow cycling jerseys. “For you,” she said, handing one to the Grey Man, “and for you,” giving the other to Icarus. As she did so, she pulled his head into her bosom, what there was of it, and held him there until he struggled free. “It’s the right colour, I hope,” said Mrs Smith.
“The maillot jaune,” said Icarus, studying the jersey.
“The what?” asked The Leader.
“It’s the yellow jersey,” said the Grey Man.
“Oh, I can see that. I just didn’t understand what Icarus was saying just now.”
The Grey Man fingered the jersey, as if appreciating the texture. It seemed new, but was not made of modern fabric, rather an older, heavier knit that was becoming popular with trendy riders who sought the so-called retro look.
Mrs Smith noticed the Grey Man’s inquiring look. “They belonged to Icarus’s father,” she said. “He was a cyclist too. He never wore these two jerseys. And I don’t see any point in hanging on to them any longer. Now they can be put to good use.”
The Grey Man’s fingers fumbled across an irregularity in the fabric, and he looked down. On the neckline of the jersey was embroidered, in cream cotton, a scallop no bigger than his thumb. “Ah, the sign of the pilgrim,” he said. And then to Mrs Smith: “Thank you, ma’am. For your hospitality, and especially for this jersey.”
Mrs Smith turned to The Leader and said: “I didn’t know that you too were going, so I don’t have a jersey for you. But I hope that you’ll accept this.” In her hand she had a thin silver chain, and on the chain was a tiny silver scallop. The Leader burst into tears. He tried to say thank-you but couldn’t find the words, so he simply hugged Mrs Smith. And she hugged him back, in a way that he had never been hugged by his own mother.
23. BANDS OF BROTHERS
For Mrs Smith the following morning’s farewells were all too brief. She hugged Icarus as if she would never let him go, she shook hands embarrassedly with the Grey Man, and said: “Well, good luck George, and look after my boy. Goodbye, farewell, adieu …” and finally she gave The Leader a pat on the shoulder and a peck on the cheek. As the trio pedalled off in the Monday morning traffic she wished that just once more she could fling her arms around her dear, dear Icarus, but instead she stood on the bottom steps of the flats, her hand over her mouth, covering the sadness that wrinkled her face, as tears trickled slowly down her cheeks. Long after they had disappeared from sight down the High Street she went back inside the flat. She made herself a cup of tea and sat down in the front room. For a while she simply stared at the bare floorboards. She felt totally drained, and more bereft than when she realised, seventeen years earlier, that Dedalus would not be returning, that he had gone, fled, absconded.
Finally she lifted her eyes from the uncarpeted floor to the window. The sun outside reflected off the window. Mrs Smith looked up and saw a sea of green leaves flooding the park, a symphony of green that danced and swayed, leaving her feeling a little giddy. She looked down at the floor again, and realised that she actually missed the old carpet. It had been Dedalus’s carpet, and it had been his final gift, after the gift of Icarus. And then she thought: all my little birds have gone, taken flight … and for a while her mind went blank, empty … It was a good half hour before her tears had run dry, and by then so too had her font of synonyms. Disconsolate, she stared at the bare floorboards, as a sense of nothingness enveloped her. It seemed as if she would sit there all morning, just staring at the empty floor.
Outside the rumble of traffic subsided to a simple murmur. But if she listened carefully, there was another sound there too, almost imperceptible. Mrs Smith strained her ear to hear. She placed her teacup on the lace doily on the side table, crossed the room and opened the window.
On a branch just beyond the window a blackbird was perched, singing its throaty song. Close by, on another branch, sat a robin. In the background Mrs Smith caught the cawing of crows. Two swallows swooped by, chasing one another before disappearing in the thick foliage. As Mrs Smith stood by the open window she saw more birds than ever could have populated her precious magic carpet, all swooping and swerving across the sky above the park. For a moment a faint flicker of a smile flitted across her face, and she thought: the silent birds on my parlour floor have been liberated, set free to sing their hearts out. I suppose it was time to let them go. If I had not released them, they would never have learnt to fly free, to sing sweetly, to explore the great wide world just outside this window. Not for one moment did she relate these thoughts to Icarus and his adventure. She could not yet see that, like her birds, he would have remained a silent, two-dimensional cipher if he was not released from her grasp.
So she sat there by the window, for the first time in many years passing the day by doing nothing. About mid-morning she fetched herself another cup of tea. When she came back to the window she noticed someone sitting on the bench in the park, with a bicycle beside him. For just a moment she thought it was Icarus, that he had decided not to go on his pilgrimage, and her heart quickened. But then she saw the hints of grey in the black hair, and she realised that the man was older than Icarus. Besides, he must have been waiting for someone, a woman, because he had a bunch of flowers besides him on the bench. The bicycle beside him was a strange-looking one, a bicycle that she was sure she had seen somewhere before.
Icarus had feared that his mother’s tears would somehow dissolve his resolve and make him change his mind about the expedition. He had had to carefully extricate himself from her motherly embrace, mount his bike and wave a cheery goodbye as the threesome headed down the High Street. But the memory of his mother’s tears evaporated faster than the morning mists were dissolved by the choking fumes of the traffic. The Grey Man led the way through Islington, with Icarus at his rear wheel like a sprinter being led out for the final burst down the finishing straight. The Leader pedalled further back, less sure of the traffic and the other cyclists along the way, who they seemed to be passing at an alarming rate. They sped along City Road, and then Commercial Road, so that they reached Tower Bridge which, to The Leader’s relief, was being raised to allow some megabucks Russian yacht to pass beneath it.
“Are we trying to get there by lunchtime?” The Leader panted. He had no idea where “there” was but he certainly was not in quite so much of a hurry to reach that point as his travelling companions seemed to be.
“Sorry,” said the Gray Man, “it’s just that feeling of freedom on the first day of a holiday.”<
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“Well, feel free to slow down any time you want to,” The Leader replied.
When the bridge was once again in the horizontal position the procession proceeded, this time at a rather more leisurely pace.
The journey through southeast London was, for Icarus and The Leader, already an adventure. Neither had ever travelled through the concrete canyons and leafy suburbs that formed the corridor that led them out of the city. The Grey Man knew where he was going, and led them like a seasoned tour guide, commenting on the areas that they passed through and pointing out places of note. Icarus took in all that the Grey Man was saying, looking around as they cycled and enjoying the ever-changing vista. The Leader kept his head down and pedalled furiously, simply trying to keep pace with his fitter friends. It was somewhere past Bromley town that Icarus finally managed to leave behind – in his mind, that is – his mother, and her hold over him. The three were riding along Sevenoaks Road when, had you been listening very carefully, you would have heard the proverbial apron strings snap. Suddenly Icarus was released, to ride, to fly, to pedal as far as the horizon, and when that point on the horizon became the road beneath his wheels, to continue on to the next horizon, and the next, until all horizons merged into a single ever-shifting landscape that was all-reachable, all within his sight and grasp.
They passed Orpington, a place of no note other than that the houses, buildings, and even cars and people appeared to be less populous than in central London, while the trees appeared to be bigger, the fields larger, and dare one say it, the grass greener.