3
Miriam flung down Tansley Street telling her news. Her conflict with the June dust and heat of the Euston Road had made her forget it. Back in her own world it leapt at her from every sunlit paving stone; drawing her on almost at a run. There was enough to carry her leaping steps right down through London, to the edge of some unfamiliar part and back again, but her room called her; she would go in and up to it and come out again.
... hopeless impossibility ... good reliable Budge-Whitlock at fifteen. You won’t get a Primus under twenty-five. Those other makes are not made to last; giving way inside somewhere where you could not see, suddenly; in the midst of the traffic; the man’s new bicycle, coming in two, in Cheapside ... smiling, I’ve got a message for you from Winthrop; well that’s not strictly true. The fact is he wants to advance the money without your knowing it; commissioned me to see what I can do. You needn’t hesitate; he’s got plenty of spare cash. I’ll buy the machine and you’ll owe the price to me. Kind kind Winthrop, talking in the workshop. It’s a ph-pity she shouldn’t av a ph-ph-machine if she wants one without waiting t-ph save up frit.... I say Miss Henderson here’s a chance for you; new machine going half-price. No bunkum. It’s Lady Slater’s. She’s off to India. I’ll overhaul it for you. Pay as you like, through her steward. My advice is you close. You won’t get a better chance ... reaping the benefit of Mr. Leyton’s eternal talk about bicycling ... no trouble; overhauled and reliable; coming out of space.
... Lifted off the earth, sitting at rest in the moving air, the London air turning into fresh moving air flowing through your head, the green squares and high houses moving, sheering smoothly along, sailing towards you changed, upright and alive, moving by, speaking, telescoping away behind unforgotten, still visible, staying in your forward-looking eyes, being added to in unbroken movement, a whole, moving silently to the sound of firm white tyres circling on smooth wood, echoing through endless future to the riding ring of the little bell, ground easily out by firm new cogs.... Country roads flowing by in sun and shadow; the ring of the bell making the hedges brilliant at empty turnings ... all there in your mind with dew and freshness as you threaded round and round and in and out of the maze of squares in evening light; consuming the evening time but leaving you careless and strong; even with the bad loose hired machine.
She let herself in and swept into the dining-room taking in while she said eagerly, crossing the room I’ve bought a machine. A Wolverhampton Humber. With Beeston tyres. B.S.A. fittings. Ball Bearings ... the doctors grouped about the mantelpiece. They gathered round her. She was going backwards; through a scene she recognised; in a dream. Dr. von Heber’s welcoming smile stood at the end of it. They could not be there idle at that time of day, she assured herself as she talked. She knew they were there before she came in, without even thinking of them. She sat down in their midst confidently saying the phrases of the scene as they came towards her, backwards unfolding. The doctors went back with her, brothers, supporting and following. Her bicycle led the way. Their bright world had made it for her.
They had seen the English country with her. It was more alive to them. They would remember. Dr. von Heber was taking it in, with his best ruminating smile, as a personal possession; seeing it with English eyes. Her last year’s ride through the counties was shared now. It would go to Canada.
“It’s coming all the way from Bakewell.”
“Where will that place be?”
“Oh I don’t know; somewhere; in the north I think. Yorkshire. No, the Peak. The Peak district. Peak Freane. They bake splendidly. The further north you get the better they bake.” The scene was swaying forward into newness. Dr. Winchester suddenly began talking about the historical interest of the neighbourhood. They had all been down to look at the Old Curiosity Shop ... there was something about it ... and there was a better local story of their kind. She told Mr. Leyton’s story of the passage in Little Gower Place, body snatchers carrying newly buried bodies through it by night from St. Pancras churchyard to the hospital.
“You don’t say so. To think we’ve gone along there this while and not known.”