| Small Change (for Chris)
“Where shall we go today?” “Southport, I know a good café in Southport”. That café’s been closed for thirty years. But Chris remembers feats of strength on Southport beach –or was it Rhyl? Lads in woolen bathers make a human pyramid, Tease the girls; lark round. Off the bike, he’s dapper, Suited, hair slicked back –every inch the gentleman. Gaunt nobility; the five o’clock shadow a dim memory now. Taciturn, reserved – a private man, generous, humble. Without the bike, he’s like a fish… He yearns to escape to the rhythm of lanes. No more floundering. How many bikes did you say? Seven. Groaning and complaining, strangers to lubrication- They are tamed by an elegant energy. Shrunk inside his “Fibrax” shirt, Faded, pinned together at the neck, He launches into life’s traffic, Immune to bustle, immovable. He’s done “the knowledge” –every rutted lane And twisted track; an old companion. Our compass; our friend. When there’s deflation, he’s there –but silent. His, the hand that steadies the bike, proffers the pump And folds the tube, neatly -just good housekeeping, I suppose. Once in almost ten years -over `beans on white’- Spurred on by God knows what, He regales us with tales of youth. Colliers’ fortnight’s in ’53- a “Boy’s Own” adventure. Chris, Glynn and Dai; hobo’s sleeping in the goods-van. And nights under canvas; happy time –time flies. Aboard the DC 3 – “Silver City Airways”, then, “Where’s my bloody bike?” Colour draining from his face, he peers inside the fuselage. And sees… Nothing. By rail to Roma; eternal city, built on seven hills. Another episode unravels. “Get him, Taffy!” That’s all it needed; A girl, a bar, a quarrel and the carabineri. The American ducks –a new found friend. Arms that swung the hammer and hefted coal explode. ”La Dolce Vita”, is bartered for something harder. But faultless manners work their charm. The Colosseum holds his gaze- “nice when it’s finished.” He’d read about it in the Comic; crits and primes and palamares. Simpson’s flair for clowning or perhaps Coppi’s natural grace Drew him to Fat Albert’s, behind the Café den Engel, But a crash deflated continental aspirations. Returning to the colliery they gave him grief. Chris told the foreman he could stick his job… How many miles have we travelled now? A dull glint, hooded eyes flicker –quick as a school-kid he pockets the copper. He shadows us; spinning, and when we let up –as we must, He pulls alongside, mudguard rattling and chain rubbing. Looking straight ahead, he speaks, “Can’t hang about, Pal.” And then he’s down the road. Alun Jones |
1600x1200 PICT3085_edited-1.jpg 2004-10-27 00:00:00 |
