Fred Grover raced down the dark avenue turned into Market Street as fast as his legs would go and then into the Square. Alas he was too late, he leaned breathlessly on the War Memorial as he watched the old charabanc disappear in the distance.
Reader we are back in Suffolk in the 1920s. Fred worked on a farm at Redward, seven miles from Kettlemarket, the local market town where he was now located. Work finished early on the farm on Saturdays and after he had been paid he’d go home, present his mother his board payment, spruce himself up and with the few shillings he had left catch the local bus to town. After whiling away some time gazing in shop windows his usual routine was a cup of tea and a bun in the Cosy Corner Café and an evening at the Picture Palace. This week was rather special though.
This week he had finally plucked up courage to ask Rosy Mayhew to come to the Picture Palace with him. He’d almost been too late for that, for much as Rosy fancied him he’d been so backward in coming forward she’d started to smile at other prospects. After Rosy had dashed home from the High Street grocer’s where she worked changed into her best frock and added a touch of artwork to her face, she was off to the café to meet Fred. After cups of tea and cakes they were soon seated in the cinema.
They hooted with laughter at the comic antics of Harold Lloyd in Safety Last and Rosy gripped Fred’s hand tightly when it came to the melodramatic bits especially during the famous clock hanging finale. Naturally Fred offered to walk Rosy home to where she lived on the outskirts of the town and now she had got him Rosy saw no reason to release the tight grip on his hand. As they reached her home doorstep, although Fred was a little shy, with a mite of encouragement from Rosy they were soon locked in a tender embrace. What a wonderful embrace that was; neither wanted to leave the other, knowing it would be a week before they could meet again. Losing consciousness of time Fred lingered a little longer and a little longer.
Now those who dilly- dally for too long on doorsteps have a price to pay as Fred realised leaning against the War Memorial. It was going to cost him a seven mile walk home to Redward on a chilly night and after the exertion of his dash through the streets he now shivered a little. However fortunes were about to change again.
Round the corner came a young man dressed in a warm double breasted leather coat, his cap on back to front and goggles pushed up high on his forehead. It was Dick Furness whose father owned a large farm in Redward, not the one Fred worked on, but as boys Fred and Dick had attended the village school together. Although farming was in the doldrums Dick helped his father run a very profitable milk round that extended into Kettlemarket. On the strength of this Dick had been able to purchase a new BSA S26 motorcycle. Dick had been chasing up some milk round debtors explaining the best time to get them was Saturday before they spent all their pay.
Fred explained his predicament and felt his cheeks colour when Dick said, “Well I hope the gal was worth it.” Then Dick said that he’d left his motorbike in the Red Lion yard and Fred was welcome to a pillion ride home, thinking it would also be a chance to show off to Fred what the machine could do. Someone on an Indian Scout had recorded over a 100 mph on Daytona Beach and although his BSA could only achieve half that it was still impressive on Suffolk lanes.
At the Red Lion yard Dick appraised Fred’s attire. Fred’s jacket was a bit thin so Dick suggested he take it off, put in on back to front and so prevent the cold wind cutting into his chest. This Fred did and Dick stood behind him and did the buttons up at the back. Then Dick said, “Put your cap on back to front like I’m wearing mine or it will blow away over the hedgerows and you’ll never find it again.” So Fred complied.
Soon they were out of the town on the open road. Dick leant forward over the petrol tank and opened the throttle as far as it would go. Sitting high on the pillion seat behind him Fred felt the cold air blasting against his face and was glad his jacket was on back to front reducing some of the chill, and his cap on back to front remained firmly on his head.
Midway between Kettlemarket and Redward old Elijah Grant the shepherd and a few of his old farmworker pals were coming out of the Packhorse Inn having consumed a considerable amount of the amber liquid. It was called the Packhorse Inn because it was by the old humpback narrow packhorse bridge at the bottom of the valley. As the group emerged Elijah cocked his head on one side. “Hark,” he said ,”That sounds like young Dick Furness on that infernal contraption of his, best we stay off the road till he’s past.”
The motorbike raced toward the bridge the downhill stretch giving it added velocity. It seemed to rise in the air and bump to the road again as it crossed the bridge. Racing up the other side of the valley Dick hollered into the wind half turning, “Are you alright Fred.” He got no reply and slowing to a halt he realised he no longer had a pillion passenger.
Dick turned in the road and slowly drove back towards the Packhorse Inn. Arriving back at the bridge he saw Elija Grant and his pals grouped around a figure lying prone in the road. Getting off his motorbike Dick paled a little and gasped, “Is he alright?”
Old Elijah Grant, his speech a little slurred from the evenings imbibing replied, “Well it’s like this Master Dick. He were alright, until we turned his head round the right way.”
About the author
Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service.
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