One Small Boy And a Bicycle

One Small Boy And A Bicycle

  Copyright 2014 Tim Candler

  One Small Boy and A Bicycle

  The officer's nurse had taken an interest in Philemon's kitchen. She'd introduced rules, she'd conduct the occasional inspection and had given detailed instructions on when and how often to use the flit gun, clean the oven and sweep the floor. These things Philemon could delegate, but when the officer's nurse chose to interfere with the weekly menu Philemon became irritable. Behind the staff quarters he discussed his concerns.

  "I have worked ten years in the officer's service. It was bad enough when we were first stationed here. I have much further to walk to the market, I had to learn running water and how to cook on a stove inside a house. It gets very hot in the kitchen. These were hard lessons. Now I am being told what to cook and how to cook it."

  "You should speak to the officer," one of the men suggested.

  "I will discuss it with the officer on payday."

  When payday came I was anxious. I waited on the back step under the mulberry tree, and when Philemon came out from the kitchen he was most somber and he said not a word to me. That night behind the staff quarters I heard his rumble of displeasure.

  "It's getting worse," he told the men. "The officer's nurse intends to accompany me to the market."

  "The officer's nurse is going to walk with you to the market." And there was laughter round the beer pot, they thought Philemon was joking, teasing them on the pay day.

  "No." Philemon answered. "She will drive me to the market and I am to teach her how to shop."

  In the silence that followed one of the men said, "The officer doesn't trust you."

  "I will have to quit," Philemon agreed.

  It was awful, awful news for me. I couldn't sleep, and worse in the night it started to rain, so I had to find shelter on the kitchen step, or the cold would have snapped me. And through the day I couldn't concentrate on the chickens, they kept wandering around to the front of the compound, and I found myself uncaring. Philemon too was grim. Then at noontime, when the officer returned for his midday meal and his afternoon rest, Philemon had no food for him. He was just sitting on his chair in the kitchen, staring at the stove. I was taken by a great fear, and I ran to hide beyond the staff quarters where the hard road became gravel and the wilderness begun. The rain had made puddles and mosquito were singing, when the night came they'd start feeding. And I must have stayed there a long time in a silence with myself, because the next thing I knew Philemon was calling for me. His voice, even though it was angry, cheered me and I ran back to the kitchen.

  "There are pans to clean." Philemon cuffed my ear. And it was sweet to feel his hand

  That night behind the staff quarters the men put leaves of sage on the coals to keep the mosquito at bay, and when they were all seated Philemon announce with much dignity that the officer's nurse had decided against learning how to shop.

  "So you'll not be going back north."

  "I'll be getting a bicycle," Philemon answered.

  There was muttering and some disbelief, because bicycles were valuable, they were well protected by their owners and not easy to happen upon.

  "It'll not be a new bicycle. But it'll be a good bicycle. It's care will be my responsibility. It will live next to my bed. And anyone who steals it or touches it, needs to remember that I have an iron spear head that was made especially for me by the northern chief of my clan."

  The men were impressed by Philemon's announcement, but I was much more impressed. I felt a settling in me. That night I slept well by the coals and was hardly bitten at all. And it was exciting through the following days as we waited for the bicycle. Behind the staff quarters there was much discussion about bicycle tires, bicycle pumps and the importance of knowing how to repair punctures. Yet Philemon was nervous, not from excitement, but from a particular worry.

  As we were cleaning up after the officer's evening meal, Philemon stood up from his chair and stared at the setting sun through the netting in the kitchen window. His huge feet were restless in their sandals. But strangely I wasn't worried. And when the public works lorry finally delivered the bicycle, I knew why Philemon was nervous. He pushed it gently from the front of the compound to the rear of the compound leant it against the trunk of the mulberry tree, slowly took a few paces back and he stared at it. It was big, its paint was in fine condition, it's wheels sparkled, its seat shone, it had a bell, its tires were new and its pedals were hardly worn.

  "It will be your responsibility to keep it clean." Philemon instructed me. "It will live by the kitchen door during the day, so that I might keep my eye on it. I do not wish to see chickens sitting upon it. And you will report any suspicious characters who might stare at it for too long. Tomorrow I will walk it to the market."

  "Why don't you ride it to the market." The words leapt from my mouth.

  "I will not risk injuring it by riding it to the market." Philemon stamped his way back into his kitchen. And true, the bicycle was a wonderful thing to look at, but it had just the two wheels and it could not stand by itself. I had seen people riding bicycles, and I was certain that Philemon too had seen people riding on bicycles. It looked so easy and yet how a person learned to ride a bicycle was a mystery.

  That night behind the staff quarters the men had a wealth of opinion for Philemon. Some agreed that the only way to learn how to ride a bicycle was to find a hard road with an incline. Point the machine downhill, run along beside it until a balancing speed was achieved and then leap onto it's seat. It was dark, so I couldn't tell from his expression what Philemon thought of this opinion, but I suspected he did not hold it in great esteem. Another opinion was 'Riding bicycles can be dangerous, they are for the dandy, and they can seriously damage the testicle.' And even though I couldn't see Philemon's expression, I suspected he agreed heartily.

  In the morning I waited under the mulberry tree for Philemon to go to the market. He had his baskets, he had on his good trousers and he had on his good shirt. He hung the baskets over the handlebars and he pushed his bicycle around the side of the sanatorium, down the driveway, onto the main road, where he paused and told me to be on about my business. I asked him if he wanted me to follow him, incase something happened to the bicycle or to him, but he'd hear none of it and he told me to check the chicken cage for signs of termite. Which I knew was an excuse from him, because despite the rain there was enough flit already applied around the chicken cage to prevent the ravage of insects for days into the future.

  Then as I turned to be on about my business I saw the European boy who could speak my language, and he was on a bicycle heading down the hill toward us and he was travelling with a degree of unsteadiness that made it seem to me as though at any minute he'd fall off. Not a big bicycle but a much smaller bicycle. The boy's bicycle was red in color, the shields on each of its wheels white. And it looked like the size of bicycle that I could ride, and it looked like the size of bicycle that might have been just a little bit large for the boy.

  The boy came to a dangerous looking stop and somewhat breathlessly he said hello to Philemon. Philemon nodded wisely and proceeded on his way to the market. The boy and I stared at each other. The silence was filled with difficulties. Then he rang his bicycle bell and smiled, so I smiled back.

  "It's easier on the hard road," he said.

  "I have heard tell."

  "Would you like to try it." He dismounted the bicycle, and held it for me.

  I could feel the thrill of such a possibility alight upon my heart as though it were sugar and I were an ant. Then we both heard the sound of a motorcar engine at high speed. Soon enough the motorcar was heading down the hill toward us. I was nervous and I looked at the boy, who shrugged.
The motorcar came to an abrupt halt and a furious European woman began to shout and gesticulate at the boy. She got out of the motorcar, and without even pausing for breath, she opened the motorcar's rear compartment, grabbed the small bicycle and she tossed it into the back. Then with the point of a cold finger she directed the boy to get himself into the rear seat, and she slammed the back door on him. And they must have been some very cruel words spoken by her.

  As she returned to her driving seat, the boy opened his window and said, "I'll see you again."

  "I hope to see you again too," I replied.

  The motorcar's big fat tires squealed as it turned to head back up the hill, and it was gone. I stared after it a while and that meeting lingered in my mind throughout the day as I went on about my business. In the night I thought hard about what it might be like to ride a bicycle. I dreamt about it, and they were good, good dreams.

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