It was red, with white handle grips and chipped lettering on the crossbar. George wheeled it through the back garden, whistling.
Geenie had never heard him whistle before. It reminded her of Dora, who’d whistled though it was unladylike. When she was washing up, or ironing, Dora had whistled, and Geenie had tried to whistle, too, but her lips were too soft to get the shape, somehow.
They watched him from the library window, mother and daughter leaning together on Ellen’s desk, stretching their necks. George’s shirt sleeves were folded up close to his armpits, the way Arthur’s often were.
‘It’s broken,’ said Ellen. ‘He’s brought a broken bicycle home.’
The brake cables clattered against the spokes, raining ticks across the garden.
Ellen marched out of the house, and, after giving it a second or two, Geenie followed behind, quietly. She knew that if she stayed in the shadow of her mother’s skirt, she wouldn’t get in much trouble. There was a certain position she could take behind her mother which usually meant that people didn’t seem to notice her.
‘What are you doing with that?’
George had leant the bike against the wall of his studio and stepped back to admire it. He didn’t look at Ellen. Instead, he ran a hand over the saddle.
‘Lovely, isn’t she?’
‘Broken, Crane. It is broken.’
Geenie noticed that her mother was pronouncing all her words very clearly.
He shrugged. ‘Not for long.’
Geenie grabbed one of the trailing cables in her fist and gave it a tug. ‘What’s this, George?’
‘That’s a broken bit,’ muttered her mother, prising the cable from her.
George took the cable from Ellen. ‘It’s fixable, though.’ He crouched down and held the end of the cable before Geenie’s face. ‘Perfectly fixable.’
‘Really, Crane, you look quite proletarian.’
George bit his lip. ‘Ellen—’
‘I’m joking. You couldn’t look proletarian if you tried.’
He bit his lip again. Then he said, ‘I happen to like bikes.’
‘How many do you need? You already have one, which you never use, and I’ve offered you a car of your own. Besides which, there’s the Lanchester, which you’re free to use any time.’
George smiled at Geenie. ‘But I like bikes,’ he said again, sending a pedal spinning with one hand. ‘And anyway. It’s not for me.’
He looked up at Ellen, who was standing with her hands on her hips. ‘Can Geenie ride?’ he asked. ‘Diana can. And since she’ll be here soon, I thought it only fair that Geenie has her own bicycle. Then they can ride together.’
‘Why would Geenie want to ride a bike? She doesn’t need to. She can ride a horse. What good’s a bike on the Downs? A bike’s only any good on a road, where a car’s much better.’
George straightened up and folded his arms. He looked into Ellen’s face and she looked back at him.
‘And that thing is far too big for her. Really, Crane. For an intellectual you’re awfully slow sometimes.’
‘Why are you so set against this?’
Ellen shifted her gaze to the willows at the bottom of the garden. She tapped her foot. For a few moments, all three of them listened to the leaves swishing in the breeze, and waited.
‘Ellen?’
‘I’m not against it.’
‘Oh?’ George laughed. ‘It sounded like you were. But if you’re not…’
‘Not entirely.’ She traced a semicircle in the wet grass with her shoe.
‘I could give you a backie.’
‘What on earth is that?’ Ellen smiled a little. ‘It sounds slightly obscene. I might like it.’
‘It means I cycle and you sit.’
‘I’d much rather have a horse between my thighs.’
‘Have you ever tried?’
‘A horse?’
‘A bicycle.’
Geenie stepped out from behind her mother. This was her chance. ‘Ellen can’t ride a bicycle.’
Ellen’s hand landed on her daughter’s shoulder and pressed down, hard. There was a long silence.
Geenie persisted. ‘She’s never learned to ride a bicycle. Have you, Ellen?’
George’s eyes flickered towards Ellen. ‘Really?’
‘You can give me a backie, George,’ said Geenie.
‘Shut up, Geenie. That’s enough.’ Through her thin cardigan, Geenie could feel her mother’s nails.
George drew a hand slowly across his mouth. ‘You can’t ride a bike?’
Ellen let go of her daughter and threw her hands in the air. ‘Not really.’
‘Not really? Can you, or not?’
‘No! All right? No! I cannot ride a bicycle. Who cares about riding a damn bicycle? There’s more to life than pedalling along roads. More to my life, anyway.’
‘I’m just a bit surprised. I thought everyone—’
‘Everyone what?’
‘Could cycle.’
‘Well, I can’t. It’s just one of those useless things I never learned, like ancient Greek and cricket.’
‘But, riding a bike. It’s, ah, well…’
‘It may have escaped your notice, Crane, but I was brought up by a family of New York millionaires. No one in my family rides a bicycle. NO ONE. It’s just not something you do if you’re a Steinberg.’
‘All right, all right.’ He reached out to touch her hand, but she pulled away. Geenie wondered if she should step into that place behind her mother which would make her invisible again.
‘James never rode a bicycle.’
George didn’t reply. Geenie tried to remember if she’d ever seen Jimmy on a bicycle. Cars were more his thing. She remembered him letting her rest her head on his thighs during long journeys, when she would gaze at his hands on the steering wheel, marvelling at how he could touch the sides quite lightly, it seemed, and the car would move this way or that.
‘He never rode a bicycle. Ever.’ Ellen’s eyes were very wide, and her chin was jutting forward.
‘No,’ said George. ‘Of course not.’
There was another long silence.
After a while, George said, ‘Look. None of that means that Geenie shouldn’t learn, does it?’
‘It’s not up for discussion.’ Ellen turned and began to walk back to the house.
Geenie decided not to step into that place behind her mother. Instead, she stood beside George and watched Ellen stride away. George sighed and patted the saddle again, as if it were a faithful dog. Geenie gazed at his lopsided face, and saw that his cheeks had hollowed.
‘But I’m not a Steinberg.’
Ellen stopped. Very slowly, she turned around. ‘What did you say?’
George covered his eyes. Geenie looked at her mother. Ellen’s chin was tucked tightly into her chest, and she knew she may as well carry on. It would be as bad either way. ‘My name’s Floyd,’ she said. ‘Regina Eleanor Floyd and I want to ride a bike with Diana.’
Ellen charged towards her daughter and grabbed her by the upper arm. ‘And where’s Charles Floyd now? Do you see him?’
Geenie did what she always did when her mother got mad: she went silent.
‘Do you see him?’
Geenie looked down at the grass and shook her head.
‘No. That’s because he’s not here. He left. Charles Floyd, your illustrious father, abandoned us before you were two years old. But I am here, Ellen Steinberg, your mother, is here. And that makes you a Steinberg too, do you hear me?’
Geenie looked at George.
‘I said, do you hear me?’
Geenie swallowed hard. If she kept her head completely still, if she concentrated on the individual blades of grass and the way some of them were curved and some of them were straight, the tears might not start.
George cleared his throat. ‘Now then. Ah. Look. Might it not be a good thing if Geenie here were to have a little go? What harm can it do?’
Ellen let go of Geenie’s arm.
Geenie held her breath. Some of the blades were twisted right round, so they looked like tiny tubes of grass.
‘Come on, Ellen. It’s just a bicycle. Geenie didn’t mean what she said, did you, Geenie?’
Like hollow green tubes. A few of the tubes had water in them.
‘She’s sorry. She’ll always be a Steinberg, won’t you, Geenie?’
Geenie looked up at George. His eyes were brown and soft, and she knew she could say yes and not mean it, and it would still be all right.
She nodded.
After a minute, her mother said, ‘She could fall off.’
‘Ellen.’
‘She could fall off and break a leg. Or an ankle. And whose fault would it be? Who’d be responsible?’
‘I would,’ said George. He put a hand on Geenie’s hair, and breathed out. ‘I’d be responsible.’
. . . .
The first time was terrible. The saddle was much harder than it looked, with lumps in the wrong places, and, just when she thought she’d got a good grip on them, the pedals kept whipping round and banging Geenie’s ankles. Her socks would be stained with black, her shins stained with bruise. The handle grips were hard, too; they were cold beneath her fingers, and slippery to touch. Like the pedals they could escape without warning, causing the whole thing to swerve and topple beneath her.
Her mother watched silently from the window as Geenie grappled with the bike and George tried to steady her. Geenie could see Ellen’s pale face beyond the glass. Her nose looked particularly large and pink that day. She said it reacted to the weather: any dampness caused a swell. The cottage was always damp, and the grass outside was wet after a thunderstorm in the night.
The wheel slipped again, and Geenie’s feet skidded on the grass, but she managed to keep the thing upright by gripping the crossbar between her knees. She looked up at the window and caught her mother’s eye, but Ellen did not move from her ringside position. She just stared out, nose glowing slightly, mouth drawn in a tight line.
Geenie realised her legs were shaking, and her fingers ached from gripping the handlebars. She stood still for a moment, allowing herself to breathe.
‘I don’t think I can,’ she said, looking at George, who was holding the back of the saddle.
‘You’ll get it. Right foot on pedal and push off. I’ve got you, so you won’t fall.’
‘I can’t.’
‘No such word as can’t. Only won’t.’
He wasn’t usually like this, his words coming fast and sounding like the truth. Normally he left gaps, sighed and hummed. But now he was telling her what to do, very clearly, and she found that she wanted to follow his instructions.
‘Both hands on the handlebars?’
She took hold of the tough white rubber again and squeezed.
‘Yes.’
‘All right.’ He paused. ‘Remember what I told you?’
‘Keep looking ahead.’
‘Good. And?’
‘Don’t look down.’
‘Good girl. And?’
‘Keep pedalling.’
‘Exactly.’
There was sweat on his forehead, and he had his sleeves rolled up again. His hair, usually greased back in place in a short wave, was sticking up in a peak above his forehead.
‘All right?’
‘Yes.’
She glanced at the library window, but her mother was gone.
‘Off we go, then. And push!’
At his command, she pressed her right foot on the pedal and lifted her left from the floor. This was the worst moment: one foot in the air, the other groping for the flat surface of the pedal, the bicycle’s balance depending on finding it. Everything wobbled as her foot floundered madly.
‘Steady.’
She found it. Pushed down. And the bicycle moved forward.
‘I’ve got you. Keep pedalling.’
She pushed down again and the spokes rattled. The grass sighed. The breeze was suddenly loud in her ears.
‘Very good. Keep going.’
His footsteps were behind her as she pedalled. She pedalled right across the grass and along the side of the house, past the garage and to the front gate.
‘Feel good?’
He sounded breathless, but she kept pedalling. If she kept pedalling, she could be on the road and away from the house and no one could stop her. She could pedal across the village and up the Downs, and over the top to the sea. She could keep going, her feet pushing down, pushing down, pushing down, her hands light on the handlebars, the saddle warm between her thighs. All she had to do was keep looking ahead.
She was out in the lane now. The may bushes were frothy with white and smelled of clean laundry. Cow parsley brushed her arms.
She pushed down. She looked ahead.
It wasn’t far to the end of the lane, where the road began. Geenie sat up straight and pedalled, letting her legs go light as the wheels gathered momentum and the pedals seemed to push themselves around. It was like swimming, only better: she was dry and warm, and she could go faster, right to the end. But there was that same feeling of weightlessness, of being borne up, held above the path by rubber and air.
The end of the path was near now, and she looked back. Just to check if he was still there, because she’d have to turn the bicycle, or stop, and she wasn’t sure how you did either of those things.
He was not holding on to the bike. He was not running behind her. Instead, he was standing at the beginning of the lane, and he was starting to clap. He was applauding her as if she had achieved this thing.
Then the bike swerved and there was cow parsley in her face and a branch scratching her arm in a long sharp line, but she kept pushing her feet down and looking ahead and somehow the bike straightened again and she was back on the path.
‘Brake!’ George was shouting. ‘Brake, Geenie! Pull the brakes!’
She squeezed the brakes and crashed her feet to the floor at the same time, so her shoes dragged along the stones and her bottom came right off the seat. She kept braking and dragging until the bicycle came to a stop, and only then was she able to unlock her fingers from the handlebars. The whole frame crashed to the side, and so did she.
There were small stones in her cheek and the back wheel was on her leg.
‘Good girl,’ she heard him shout. ‘What a journey!’
Geenie sat up. Brushing herself off, she gazed at the puffed clouds bubbling overhead, and she did not cry. When she got back to the cottage, she’d say nothing about this to her mother, she decided; she’d keep it all to herself.