The Sweet Far Thing

Felicity returns from her second go on the bicycle. Inspector Kent is helping Ann with her turn.

“Oh, Gemma,” Felicity says, breathless and pink-cheeked. “You must have a ride! It’s simply marvelous! Here, I’ll help you.”

She places my hands upon the unwieldy handlebars. My arms shake as I straddle the bicycle. It is the most awkward thing I have ever attempted.

“Now, sit,” Felicity instructs.

I struggle to perch on the high seat and lose my balance, splaying out over the handlebars in a most unladylike fashion.

“Oh, Gemma!” Felicity laughs, doubled over.

I grab the handlebars with renewed determination. “Right. All I need is a proper push and I’ll be off,” I say with a sniff. “Steady the beast, if you please.”

“Do you speak of the bicycle or of your behind?”

“Felicity!” I hiss.

She rolls her eyes. “Get on, then.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and hoist myself onto the spectacularly uncomfortable seat. I grip the handlebars so tightly my knuckles ache. I lift one foot. The iron beast sways, and I put my foot down again quickly, my heart beating fast.

“You won’t get far that way,” Felicity scolds. “You have to let go.”

“But how…,” I say, alarmed.

“Just. Let. Go.”

With a solid push, Felicity launches me across the grass and down the slight hill, toward the dirt path. Time seems to stand still. I am terrified and exhilarated all at once.

“Pedal, Gemma!” Felicity screams. “Just keep pedaling!”

My feet push jerkily against the pedals, propelling me forward, but the handlebars have a mind of their own. I cannot control them.

You will behave, bicycle!

A rush of power surges through my veins. Suddenly, the bicycle is very light. It’s no trouble at all to keep it moving.

“Ha!” I shout in exultation. Magic! I am saved! I descend a small hill and come round the other side, the picture of Gibson Girl grace. The crowd on the lawn cheers. Cecily stares at me, openmouthed.

“There’s a good girl!” Inspector Kent calls. “Like she was born to it!”

Felicity’s mouth hangs open too. “Gemma!” she scolds, knowing my secret.

But I don’t care. I am mad for bicycling! It is a most marvelous sport! The wind rips my hat from my head. It rolls down the hill, and three workmen run after it. Laughing, they fight amongst themselves over who will be the one to return it to me. This is freedom. I feel the turning of the wheels deep in my belly, as if we are one machine, and I cannot fall. It makes me bold. Picking up speed, I race up the hill and whoosh down the other side, toward the road, pushing harder and faster with each enchanted pedal stroke. The wheels leave the ground, and for one brief, glorious moment, I am airborne. My stomach tickles me from the inside. Laughing, I lift my hands from the handlebars, tempting fate and gravity.

“Gemma! Come back!” the girls yell, but it’s their hard luck. I turn to offer them a cheery wave, watching as they grow smaller with distance.

When I face front again, there’s someone in the road. I don’t know where he’s come from, but I’m headed straight for him.

“Look out!” I shout.

He ducks out of the way. I lose concentration. The beast is no longer within my control. It weaves frantically from side to side before pitching me to the grass.

“Let me help you.” He offers his hand and I take it, standing on shaky legs. “Are you hurt?”

I’m scraped and bruised. I’ve a tear in my bloomers, and under it, where my stocking shows, is a stain of grass and blood.

“You might have been more careful, sir,” I scold.

“You might have been looking out, Miss Doyle,” he answers in a voice I know, though it has grown huskier.

My head snaps up, and I take in the sight of him: the long, dark curls peeking out from beneath a fisherman’s cap. The rucksack on his back. He wears a pair of dusty trousers, suspenders, and a simple shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. That is all familiar. But he’s not the boy I left at Christmas. He has grown into a man these past months. His shoulders are broader, the planes of his face sharper. And there is something else changed about him that I cannot name. We stand facing each other, my hands tight on the handlebars, a thing of iron between us.

I choose my words as carefully as knives. “How good it is to see you again.”

He offers me a small smile. “You’ve taken up bicycling, I see.”

“Yes, much has happened these months,” I snap.