7
Saturday, 23 April 1966
She stood up on the pedals and made them go faster. The wind in the chestnut tree filled her ears and everything flew by. Her dad said it was the wrong time for conkers when Michael asked. Michael was stupid for not knowing and she had been right to tell him that. It had not been right to be told off. Mary did not say that she did not know when conkers were. She did not care about conkers.
She whizzed around the bend in the path and skidded to a stop, her brakes squealing. She looked behind her and saw Michael and her dad huddled by the flower bed. Perhaps they were hiding from her. She grew hot. They had not noticed she was missing.
‘Crocuses!’ Michael had shouted when they got to the park and he had pointed at the hyacinths. Daddy did not say he was wrong because he was unscrewing the stabilizers from Michael’s birthday bike. Michael was trying to stop him taking them off by saying flower names.
Now Daddy was doing something at the back of Michael’s birthday bike, but she could not see from here. Michael had got back on and was wobbling on the saddle, which was set too high, making his frog-legs stick out. Mary held her breath; she knew her brother was scared without the extra wheels. It made her tummy ache and she let out a squeak when the wobbling got worse. Daddy was tall in his brown weekend trousers and his blue and white chequered shirt blew out like a balloon in the wind. She decided he was more like a cowboy with his sleeves rolled up and she wished that he was a cowboy so they could canter off together on horses as if he were her real daddy.
They hadn’t seen her do her skid. Mary twisted the bike around and mooched over the handlebars, her chin on her fists. Daddy was teaching Michael to ride his bike properly the way she could, although he hadn’t said that. It was a secret, one she had decided to keep, that Michael did not like his new present. He’d told her he had wanted a microscope. She actually did think that would have been a nicer present for him and was sorry for him, especially as the bike was too big. All Michael’s things were too big: his trousers, his new blazer, even his shoes. He was supposed to grow into them. What if he didn’t?
Michael had refused to have lessons off her, so now he was being punished because lessons with Daddy were worse. He had to pretend to be big and brave, which he wasn’t. He was too scared to tell Mummy and Daddy that he was frightened stiff of falling off. To them Michael was brave and courageous: their little soldier. They didn’t know he was terrified of everything.
Mary Thornton had tried to prevent Bob and Jean Thornton knowing how frightened their son was of climbing trees, playing football or riding a bicycle. At six that morning he had sneaked into her bedroom and asked her to finish the bedtime story their mother had been reading to them. Mary agreed because she knew he lived in fear of the rattling attic door in the corner of his new room. Then he annoyed her with questions about her new name, so she had sent him packing. When Bob Thornton announced he was taking Michael round to the square to get him used to his bike without the stabilizers, Mary had ignored Michael’s pleading stare and said nothing.
At the park she had ridden around with no hands partly to take Daddy’s mind off unscrewing the wheels and partly to show him she was highly skilled on her bike. But the plan had not worked because he carried on as if she were invisible. He ignored her suggestion that she do things on her bike to show Michael how to do it. He did not see her lift up her front wheel and mount the hump on the path like a cowgirl on a horse and now he had missed the best skid she had ever done. Mary eyed them dolefully from across the grass.
After a bit, she let the wheels meander along the slope to the statue of the Greek Runner.
The statue had no clothes on. Mary was not interested in penises – Michael had one – so she didn’t bother with the nude man and scooted her bike around and around the base. On the last lap she stole another look at her father and brother. Their heads were still close together. Secrets. She was inflamed. Michael was helping her daddy with the wheels. Traitor! Boys will be boys, her mum said. ‘Leave them to it, Mary.’
Her dad arched backwards and stretched. Michael was like a statue. He was staring at the ground, which wouldn’t help him balance. Mary was startled by her dad’s shout: ‘Ready, steady… go!’
Michael tried to stand in his seat as she had done. Despite her worry for him Mary was outraged that her daddy was keeping his hand on the bike rack and running along with Michael, help he had not given her. It meant Michael would never learn to ride by himself.
As if he could read his daughter’s mind, Bob Thornton let go of the rack and ran on for a few more paces beside the bike, his hand out as if still gripping the rack. He dropped back and slowed to a stop and, hands on hips, watched Michael cycle away along the path.
Michael had seen Mary and was coming right at her, his eyes fixed on her as he had done when he was learning to walk and was made to cross the room to her. She felt panic. He did not know Daddy had let go and he was going too fast. She started to climb off her bike. She must reach him before he realized this. He was treading too hard on each pedal, making the bike sway. The front wheel went first one way then the other; each time it got closer to the grass.
Mary dropped her bike and hurtled towards Michael. She was the Greek Runner. It was like running in a dream; her legs would not work properly. Michael seemed to get no closer.
The little girl would never forget this fleeting impression.
Michael Thornton looked back to where his father’s face had been. It was like flying, he was going to say, but there was only sky. He kept going. His sister was watching him. He was like her; he was just as good.
The front wheel jack-knifed and the boy truly took off in flight. He landed belly first on the tarmac.
An aeroplane droned above, a momentary gleam of sunlight flashed off the colours of British European Airways. A pigeon flying much lower might have been crossing the flight path. It alighted on the topmost branch of the chestnut tree that cast a thin shadow over the two children.
Mary got to Michael before her father and dragged him to his feet. Her baby brother was not crying, but he would not look at her, which was a bad sign. She followed his eyes to where he was looking and saw white houses with ravens above their doors.
‘You stopped holding,’ she accused her father. She smacked dirt off the front of Michael’s jumper. A trickle of blood came out of one of his nostrils.
‘I dropped this.’ Their father pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Here, lad, use this. Buck up!’ He handed it to his son. Mary snatched it and clamped it to Michael’s nose.
‘The main thing, Michael, is you went by yourself.’ Bob Thornton folded his arms. ‘Keep practising, son, you’ll soon be the best.’
‘Did you see?’ Michael’s voice was muffled through the fabric now stained crimson.
‘Not properly,’ Mary scowled. ‘Tip your face back.’ She wanted to tell her daddy that she was the best.
Bob Thornton went back across the park and Mary saw him pick up her bike. He did not need to; she would have got it. He knew where to find it: perhaps he had seen her do the skid.
‘He didn’t drop his hankie.’ She kept her voice low.
‘Yes he did.’ Michael eyed her warily.
‘He let go.’ She stepped away from him as if he were a bomb set to explode.
‘You said you didn’t see.’
‘I saw him let go.’ Mary was firm.
‘So did you see?’
‘You shouldn’t have stood up.’ She persisted: ‘He lied to you.’
‘He didn’t.’
‘He did.’
‘You’re not Mary!’ Michael’s widening eyes betrayed that he was aware he had plunged into treacherous waters. He snuffled into his father’s handkerchief although the bleeding had stopped.
The sun went behind a cloud and a chill fell like a mantle over St Peter’s Square. The breeze intensified pushing the branches of the chestnut tree violently.
Rooted to the spot, Michael Thornton watched with growing panic his sister stalk off along the path.
Mary took her bike from her father and scooted it, standing on one pedal; then she swung her leg over the saddle, like a cowboy. She rode around the park and out of the gate.
‘He didn’t lie,’ Michael repeated to himself, with less certainty.