Devil Take the Hindmost Read online

  On the way back to the building he sees ice cream with sticks of candied sugar and fancy pastries. Carcasses of heifers so big they look like skiffs hanging on hooks.

  Once he’s back at the building, he sits down on the steps. He’s hoping to catch Rupert, or, even better, Silas. But for the next four hours he has no luck.

  He stumbles upstairs and on the lumpy mattress he thinks about getting on the train back to his father’s farm. To trudge all the way back, this time without a bike, and grovel. To apologise and to be hitched to the yoke again. He can’t do it, even if he had the money for the train fare. He tries to listen out for Silas or Rupert entering the building, but despite trying his hardest he drifts off. When he wakes up in the morning he’s so thirsty and hungry that he can’t think straight.

  He tries to speak to the neighbours again. He knocks on the door to Rupert’s office, and sits on the doorstep. Drinks from the tap David showed him. But essentially the day is spent waiting in vain. Wasting more money on apples.

  Chapter 3

  We’re standing in the sun on Copenhagen Street. I can tell Paul has lost weight in the two weeks since I saw him last. I enjoy assessing size, leg length, inseam, chest width, girth, that sort of thing. I could have become a master tailor, had I been inclined.

  From what I understand, from speaking to other cyclists and coaches, weight loss is not a bad thing. The trick seems to be to find a racer who can pedal for hours. Not a showman or circus act, but one who won’t give up. The more weight this racer carts around, the more energy he has to spend doing it. Elementary physics, really. With the amount of training and racing these boys are required to do there isn’t much time to eat, and whatever they eat, dissipates into energy. Runs off as steam from the engines they have turned themselves into.

  Paul has told me he’s so happy I’m back a hundred times already, and though I should really tell him to stop, it’s nice to hear. This puppylike devotion, however much it is based on the treats I get him, might prove useful in the future.

  ‘Well, let’s have a look at this bike then,’ I say.

  ‘It’s great isn’t it?’ He smiles.

  ‘It’s not a toy, you realise. It’s an investment.’

  He turns to me, earnest, ‘Hopefully I can make us some money.’

  ‘You better make some money quickly.’

  ‘Well, with this machine I think we have a chance.’ He runs a finger along the frame.

  ‘What’s so special about it?’ I ask, not that I’m all that interested, but he’s nice to talk to and if this is my new investment, at least I should know something about it. Same as chatting with a jockey I suppose. Or patting a greyhound.

  ‘It’s a 1921 Iver Johnson Special, The man in the shop told me it was once owned by Dusty Chalmers.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Eric “Dusty” Chalmers, an American racer. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. The man in the shop told me Eric came over here for the 1920 Olympics in Antwerp. There’s a sticker on the seat tube: “Vélodrome d’Anvers Zuremborg”. He didn’t do too well in the games, and afterward, he came to London. He brought a team of people and two bikes, can you imagine? Two bikes! Both this bright yellow. This is one he left behind.’

  ‘Well it’s a nice colour.’

  ‘Eric sold it to someone to pay for his hotel. It’s light too. Feel it, lift it.’

  I lift it, and raise my eyebrows for effect. ‘Well I don’t know what to compare it to but I suppose that’s quite light, but you won’t be carrying it will you? You’ll be cycling on it mostly, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes. It’d be a shame not to. Look it came with laminated wooden rims, adjustable stem. Look here, the bars are made-to-measure by Mr Lauterwasser himself.’

  ‘Mr Lauter… who is that?’

  ‘The man who runs the shop of course.’

  ‘That’s fine. Where is it?’ I say, looking at him; a boy by the Christmas tree, the biggest gift ripped open.

  ‘On Holloway Road.’

  ‘I’ll make a point of popping in to see them.’ I want to know Paul got a good price.

  ‘Speak to Jack if you do. He’s the guy who owns the shop. It was nice of Rupert to go with me. He took Jack off to the pub, to do a bit of haggling. When they came back, Jack’s face was quite flushed, and the price had dropped considerably,’ he says, the manchild.

  ‘That’s good. Makes it easier for you to pay back.’ I shuffle my feet a little. I’m not that interested in bikes, but his enthusiasm is quite contagious. I light a cigarette and allow him to indulge a little more.

  ‘You know Iver Johnson Company sponsored Marshall “Major” Taylor?’ he continues.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You’re kidding?’ he says.

  ‘Almost never.’ I blow smoke out of the side of my mouth.

  ‘Only one of the greatest cyclists ever,’ Paul’s even taken his eyes off the bike in astonishment at my ignorance.

  ‘Was he in the army?’ I ask, looking at the sun. It feels like it has been a century since I saw it last.

  ‘No, he was black.’ he says.

  ‘Dressed in black?’ I say, closing my eyes and feeling the warmth of the weather.

  ‘No, black skin.’

  ‘In the army?’

  ‘No. When Iver first started sponsoring him he was mostly doing tricks outside the bicycle shop to attract customers, and for some reason, maybe he was lent one, or maybe it was the closest to a suit he could find, he wore a uniform.’ Paul taps his finger along the top tube of the bike, listening intently for something. Then he goes on, ‘Anyway, he went on to be a legendary racer, but people found it very hard to see him win, because of the colour of his skin, and he retired early.’

  ‘Well lucky you’re ginger. People mind that less, I believe.’

  ‘I think I’ll wear a cap just in case,’ he nods seriously and wheels the bike back and forward a couple of inches.

  ‘I can never tell if you’re actually quite funny, or just a child.’ I say.

  ‘I think maybe neither.’

  ‘I think maybe both.’

  Chapter 4

  I have decided to treat the whole episode like an outing to the Zoo. The best way to run this new branch of my enterprise is to see the cyclists as horses, dogs, cocks – animals, plain and simple. Speaking animals.

  I’ve set Paul up for a trial, with the three famous brothers: Harry, Leonard, and Percy Wyld. The Wyld Bunch, as they’re advertised. They grumble a bit but when it transpires that their manager owes a considerable amount of money to Mr Morton, they stop. They gather around Paul’s bike, and nod approvingly, feel the handlebars, lift it once or twice, hold it by the saddle and spin the back wheel. These men are like dogs; I’m expecting them to sniff each other’s crotches, and pee in the banked corners.

  It turns out Harry has had a fall. He’ll be coaching from the side of the track instead, something he seems quite happy with.

  As Paul, Leonard and Percy warm up. I go and stand to one side. I am the only person on the stands apart from a caretaker, who is picking up litter from the night before. Judging by the size of his sack it was a successful evening. When I ask him about it he shrugs his shoulders, says it was quite average. About eight, eight-and-a-half-thousand people. The financial cogs in my head turn a little faster. The man’s words, and my experience of drunk people betting and getting it wrong, make me smile. I know Saturdays and sometimes Sundays at Herne Hill are big, but a Tuesday night right after Easter? At Moorgate? At a small oval with rundown stalls? At a place with no glamour? Astonishing.

  The cyclists warm up at a blistering pace. It’s beautiful the way they fly. It makes my lungs hurt just watching them. I light a cigar while they do sprints and formations, pedalling too fast for me to see whose legs are whose. Afterwards they slow down, come high up on the banks, and swoop down – ballerinas on bikes.

  Harry shouts something about fifty laps and they come off the track. They stand in front of me; a crescent of m
en with slicked-back hair. The experts and the apprentice.

  ‘He goes too high up, comes too close, isn’t too sure of himself or how to handle the bike, can’t properly judge distances or speed,’ says Leonard. Paul hangs his head. He’s strong but has nowhere near the level of stamina the Wyld boys possess. Even I can see that.

  There is silence for a moment.

  ‘But for a first-timer, he’s not too bad,’ Leonard continues, and the surge of relief on Paul’s face is so obvious and childlike I can’t help but smile.

  ‘He’s obviously a quick learner,’ Leonard says ‘but, as he’ll tell you himself, he needs a lot of training to keep up with the big boys.’

  Paul nods.

  ‘He would be good in a team time trial. He’s so broad, he blocks a lot of the wind. And if he was fast enough and Percy could hide behind him, he could prove to be useful.’

  I send Paul out on the track for another few laps. Nothing too strenuous, just to get some exercise, more experience. In the meantime I speak with Harry, and arrange for him to meet me at the Rising Sun on Chalton Street later in the evening. I think he and I could strike up something quite interesting.

  ***

  After the trial I take Paul to the eel and pie house. He looks happy and exhausted at the same time.

  ‘I was hoping you’d be faster than them,’ I say winking to Belinda as she takes our order.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘But I will be. Just need to get to know the tricks and the pace.’

  ‘And how will you do that?’

  ‘By going to the races, by speaking to Mr Lauterwasser, by training and trying to get into the races myself.’

  ‘This offer of money has a time limit, you realise?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘And you need to start performing soon, or my patience will run out.’

  ‘I understand,’ he nods seriously.

  ‘I’m not sure if you do.’

  To do my job properly, to get the most out of him, I’m pretending to be angry with him. As it is I don’t mind what he does. It’s good if he stays in my house, it’s great if he starts winning races, and the combination would be fabulous. He looks at me, all earnest youth, and says, ‘I promise to do my best.’

  I wave his sincerity away like a bee. Then we order. Or at least he orders. I don’t like eel much.

  ‘Oh, I meant to tell you,’ he says once we get the food, ‘I’ve got a job.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Well, the fruitmonger on the corner came and saw me in the house. He’d heard I was looking for a job. Luckily his horse went lame on the same day, so I said I would deliver all his vegetables for the same price as the oats and straw he would have spent on the horse, till he sorted it out. I would even provide my own bike.’

  ‘That’s a terrible deal for you.’

  ‘I know. But that horse is not going to get any better soon. If it’s lame it’s headed for the knacker’s yard.’

  ‘So you hope that once he realises you’re cheaper than buying a new horse, feeding it, keeping it and so on, he’ll hire you properly?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘You’re an errand boy?’

  ‘The way I see it I’m being paid to train, and I like getting to know the streets anyway.

  ‘So you’re a professional? The fruit and veg man just happens to be your main sponsor?’

  ‘That’s a good way to describe it.’

  ‘You are peculiar.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he says, smiling.

  ‘It’s not a compliment. Not necessarily.’

  I watch him load mashed potato into his mouth. Don’t tell him the fruitmonger was so scared his teeth were chattering when I spoke to him. He would have offered Paul a job even if Paul was lame. But I won’t mention it. A man’s pride is more important than his hunger or money, in fact more important than anything. Besides I made sure the fruit man got a decent price for his old horse.

  ‘I worked all day today in fact. Deliveries from five to five,’ Paul says. ‘Went straight to the velodrome.’

  He moves his shoulders, as though there’s something sitting between his shoulder blades, and I think of the hundreds of kilos of potatoes and apples he must have carted around in the morning before the Wyld trial. He should have said something.

  I order more food for him and lean back in my seat. I like to sit and watch him regain his strength.

  ‘Have you been in to see Belinda?’ I ask, but he just shakes his head, mouth full.

  Once we’re done I tell him to go and rest or something. He lumbers off with the air of a dismissed employee. That’s not to be underestimated, but in fact I was pleasantly surprised by his form and his ability on the bike. I’m no expert, but I could tell there is potential in the boy.

  I walk over to the Rising Sun and sit so that I can see the people coming in. Turns out Harry is quite the drinker, but before he gets too incomprehensible, we agree to some kind of terms whereby he advises Paul on racing, but only gets paid once Paul starts winning. We also agree to enter Paul into a race sooner rather than later.

  ‘There’s only so much training you can do,’ Harry tells me. ‘Besides, you can’t really prepare for races. So we might as well push him in with both feet.’

  I nod and order more drinks.

  Harry continues, ‘There’s an easy one at Peckham in a couple of weeks. If you make sure he gets there, I’ll see him right.’

  Eventually I get up, but Harry stays on. I leave him a little bit of money and he looks up at me with the grateful eyes of a Spaniel. I like the man, he’s competent and knows a great deal about cycling and cyclists. He can bridge the gap in my knowledge until I’ve learned enough for this new venture. Once I know a little I can transfer my skills from horses and boxing and so on. Till then, I’ll use Harry as a teacher for Paul.

  I put on my hat and walk outside looking for a taxi. Not finding one I decide to walk for a while instead. Swinging my cane and whistling. I smile to myself, I’m either drunk, or excited about the future. Maybe both. It’s been a long time.

  Chapter 5

  Since coming to London almost a month ago and making that vow about alcohol, Paul has developed a taste for sarsaparilla. His favourite is Baldwin’s, which they serve at the eel house. Once or twice he has offered to pickup the vats of the stuff from the supplier on Walworth Road as a favour to Belinda. The sugary drink helps when he’s tired after cycling. Most people drink beer for lunch, but it just makes him sleepy.

  Dropping off the vats, Belinda often tells him there’s a man, in Fremantle, Australia, who writes to her about once a month. Long letters on thick paper, asking her to send him a case or two of the bottles. The man’s done well for himself, he’s a landowner, with his own herd of camels for rent. People use them when crossing the scorched plains. She tells Paul the man has enough money for dresses and meat on the table every day, but that he misses the eel and the drinks of England. Belinda has a way of leaning into him when he’s sitting down, her hip resting against him. She usually brings over more drinks than he has to pay for, always smiling. Most days he’s too tired to think properly about women, and anyway they’re too complicated.

  In the past few weeks he’s lost weight and gained speed. Silas has had Harry look him over and offer him tips a few times, but with all the work Paul’s not had a chance to practise in a velodrome. But that’s about to change today, he’s been told. Silas has arranged for him to race in Peckham.

  Paul has gone past the small arena a few times doing deliveries, so it’s easy enough for him to find the way there today. By the looks of it, the little arena is about to be demolished, but there are still races. Posters scream of Daredevils and Prize Money. The faded colours of the flags on top of the stadium don’t inspire much confidence but it’s a welcome change from the deliveries.

  He looks at the signs and streamers, at the crowds and the stalls selling oysters and clams, at the colourful tricycles selling drinks. He walks pas
t the service entrance to the velodrome when someone runs out, shouting about how late he is. After a few stammered excuses, Paul realises Silas has given him the time the race starts, and not the time, about an hour earlier, he was supposed to turn up to register and warm up.

  Paul apologises and asks about prize money. The answer is pleasantly surprising. The sum is more generous than the velodrome suggests. He’s still not used to the inflated economy of the nation’s capital.

  He’s been told Harry will meet him and make sure everything runs smoothly, but since Silas got the time wrong Paul’s not counting on Harry being there.

  He rolls into the velodrome and warms up for a couple of laps, to get a feel for the gradient and the concrete surface. The oval is 1,175 feet. Just a distance to be broken down into laps, pedal strokes and breaths.

  At the sound of the starter gun Paul takes a chance on his legs and lungs. After just a few laps his thoughts are dreamy yet clear. The race seems to pass in front of him like a play at the theatre.

  It’s very different from practising with the Wyld boys. There was order, there. Commands shouted out by the team captain. A well-drilled line of men surging around him. This is dangerous. This is chaos. After a few laps, where he has been out front, smirking with the ease of cycling on a track as opposed to the streets, he is caught. Left behind. He looks up at the sign board by the finish line. His heart stops when he realises how many laps are left.

  He pushes hard. His breath rasps through his lungs as he catches up with the main group of riders. Spurred on by the jolt of happiness he feels when he passes another racer, he climbs up in the line of men, until he’s third. Then second. He stays there. Focusses on not losing an inch. Keeps his eyes on the man’s calves. Up, down, up, down.

  After what seems like an eternity, he hears a bell. He has just entered the last lap. He decides he will wait forty pedal strokes before launching an attack. Thirty-thirty-one-two-three-four… a violent tide of pain. Sawing on his handlebars, swinging his bike as if it was an axe, the man in front of him stands up and sets off. Paul assembles everything he’s got left, which isn’t much. With half a lap left he hasn’t caught up. With a quarter of a lap left – even in the last bend – he hasn’t caught up. Out on the home straight at last, he leaves the air stream behind the man and pulls out next to him. With twenty feet left they’re neck and neck, with ten no different. With five feet the man’s front wheel is in front of Paul’s. With three feet Paul pushes the bike out in front of him, as if he wanted to get rid of it, which is true at that moment, and that seals it. Paul wins by a tyre.