‘I don’t care as long as we go somewhere.’ Meg executed a little jig, enjoying the feel of her brand new alpaca skirt swishing importantly about her ankles. ‘Where do you want to go, Martin?’
‘Well …’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been wanting to …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, you know I’ve been going to the bicycle shop for the last …’
‘Oh no!’ Meg whirled about, walking backwards in order to look into Martin’s face, completely forgetting her new, grown up state. She was thirteen now and quite the young lady, she believed, but at times her fledgling sophistication deserted her. ‘Not that place again. Not on a lovely day like this! Every time we have some time to spare all you want to do is go and look at the damn bicycles and talk to that old man. Not today, Martin, please. The sun’s shining and …’
‘Alright then, I’ll go alone … only there was … I wanted to show you something but if you’re not interested …’ Martin’s face became truculent but there was an expression in his eyes which made Tom put a warning hand on Meg’s arm. She tried to shake it off but he held on to her, still watching Martin’s face, his own guarded.
‘Shut up, our Meg, just for once. Was there something … special you wanted to see, Martin?’ he said carefully, but Meg turned away, flouncing along in front of them and Tom clicked his tongue impatiently.
‘Give over, Meg. If Martin wants to have a word or two with Mr Hale we can spare half an hour, surely and before that we go
we
can slip up and watch the fun at Lime Street. Go on! What d’you say?’
Meg turned again her face alive with excitement. ‘Oh can we, Tom?’ She looked at Martin. ‘Can we, Martin, can we? Just for an hour, then we’ll go to the bicycle shop. There’ll be music and dancing and games … oh please, please …’
They were all smiling, discord averted, as they crossed the junction of Ranelagh Place, picking their way through the crowds at Lime Street Railway Station. As they did so the customary sport which took place every year on this day had just begun. In imminent danger of being run down by the horse drawn trams which travelled the length of Lime Street in a placid amble to the Pier Head where the route terminated, hundreds of the city’s working class had gathered to watch the traditional sport which obliged young boys with their arms bound to catch a furious cock with either their legs, their feet or their mouths! The cocks darted about the area paced off, squawking with rage and terror. The boys fell and shouted in pain, the whole a meleé of bloodthirsty excitement and hysteria as bets were laid upon which scruffy urchin would catch the most birds or, as was more likely, would last the longer without a broken limb!
In another cruel arena, men, and a few women too, were attempting the dreadful, competitive pastime of eating as much scalding hot porridge, kept boiling in a cauldron on an open fire, as was possible without taking the skin from their lips or the roof of their mouths! It was excruciating work and those who took part were the poor who had not eaten that day!
The familiar adenoidal accent of Liverpool in which Ireland and Wales is mixed swirled about the great crowd as the spectators shouted on their favourite or poured scorn upon an opponent.
‘Gerrit in yer mouth, our Frankie, never mind bluddy feathers …’
‘Not like tha’, yer daft bugger! Kick it … kick it!’
‘Gerrup, yer daft sod! Yer’ll do nowt sittin’ on yer bum …’
‘Go on, Doll, gerrit down yer! It’s norras ’ot as yer old man on a …’
Shrieks of ribald laughter, grunts of pain, the high, wheeling cackle of the gulls which hung above the city and the river. Ships’ sirens, hooters, the crash of enormous hooves on cobblestones as the huge Clydesdales thundered by. Street musicians, fiddlers, a penny whistler, an organ grinder, a hurdy-gurdy man and all
toting
for farthings, aware as they did so there would be small pickings in this crowd unless they were fortunate enough to find a group of middle class young men out on a spree!
The three youngsters stopped to watch for, cruel though part of it was, the rich tapestry of northern humour and enjoyment, drew their excited curiosity. Meg did not like the cock-baiting nor the sight of the poor little boys with bloody knees and noses but the rollicking music of the organ grinder and the piercing sweetness with which the penny whistler played his tune made her want to stop and tap her feet and let the fresh spring breeze blow against her flushed face.
She turned to look for Tom. He had stopped to watch two men who danced a lively hornpipe to the tune of the penny whistle and his face was animated and his foot rapped out an enthusiastic accompaniment to the rhythm. He clapped his hands and those about him, especially the women, eyed him appreciatively and began to do the same. He was easy, natural, unrestrained and they responded to him with the gregariousness of those who have been friends for years.
A woman, old enough to be his granny nudged him, grinning gaptoothed and in a second he had her in his strong arms, jigging her round the centre of the growing crowd to the cordial delight of those about him.
‘Oh Lord, will you look at him now?’ Martin snorted impatiently, eager to be off to the bicycle shop and the masculine companionship and guidance of Mr Hale, resentful of anything which kept him from the evergrowing obsession which was the hub of his life. He never stopped talking about it to anyone who would listen, even Emm, as though the strict leash he had kept on his tongue for so long, now it was slipped, would not allow him to be still. Meg and Tom were patient and tried to show an interest but they barely understood half of what he tried to explain to them. His enthusiasm flowed from him with all the fervency of an undammed river, in full spate now it was free, heady and exhilarating, dashing headlong from it’s source across the shining rocks and boulders of his mind, flinging its ebullience into the air like spray from the water and carrying with it the message of his hope and excitement. His warm brown face would be charged with colour at his cheekbones and his deep, toffee brown eyes would become rich and glowing. He was intoxicated with his own dream, carried away with an uncontrollable passion which had
him
on a course of bewitchment in his almost, at times, senseless state of joy. It cascaded from him endlessly and in such a deluge Mrs Whitley asked him irritably if he could ‘find summat else to talk about for she was sick of it, really she was!’
He spent three evenings a week, with Mr Lloyd’s permission, at the Collegiate in Shaw Street where he was taught the basics of mechanical engineering and draughtsmanship and as many hours as he could manage in the Royal Institution in Colquitt Street. The late William Brown, one of its founders, had believed in the development of the young mind, and the building housed a library, a lecture room where interesting speakers might be heard propounding on the subject most dear to Martin Hunter’s mind, and a laboratory.
He found he was not the only young man in Liverpool to believe, not just in the ascendancy of the horseless carriage but of the flying machine! He began to spend every penny he could save on the motoring magazine,
The Autocar
and was quite astounded to learn that steam propulsion which he had thought peculiar only to the railway train and the iron steamships on the river, had been in use in several countries for more than a century, particularly in the big, agricultural engines, but the very first motor car which moved falteringly under its own power was undoubtedly that invented by a German, Carl Benz in 1885! Martin had seen picture slides of it, shown by an enthusiastic lecturer and had been enchanted to be amongst men with the same passion as himself. He was shown pictures of the first passenger carrying vehicle. Spindly wire wheels, one at the front, two at the back and with
electrical
ignition! It was like a tricycle with a seat wide enough for two with the engine at the back, all horizontal wheels, chains, belts and bright, canister-like receptacles, one of which held petrol, the other water.
He hung about many of the small workshops which had sprung up in Liverpool to service the bicycles which crowded the roads, earning Mrs Whitley’s wrath when he arrived late back from an errand she had sent him on. These were the only places available to the new motor cars should they go mechanically wrong, which happened quite frequently and by a ‘suck it and see’ method, the men who worked there, men who could by no stretch of the imagination be given the title of ‘mechanic’ for which Martin strived, learned the intricacies of the new machines, and Martin learned with them! He was not allowed to do more than watch,
mind
, for these were expensive vehicles put into their hands by their wealthy owners and a boy of his years could not expect to be allowed to do more than peek over their shoulders as they worked!
He read everything that had been written on the ‘internal combustion’ engine, haunting the reading room at the Institution whenever he had the time, poring over the accounts of the inventors and their inventions, from Germany, France and America. Gottleib Daimler, Edouard Sarazin, Emile Levassor, who it was said had shaped the present motor car, putting the engine in front of the driver with a ‘bonnet’ over it and the gearbox behind, and of his partner, René Panhard! There was Armand Peugot, a simple ironmonger and bicycle manufacturer, and in America, the Duryea brothers and their gas powered ‘buggy’, Alexander Winton who, in 1899 had managed an average speed of seventeen miles an hour between Cleveland and New York, a distance of eight hundred miles in eleven days, and Frederick William Lanchester, one of the Englishmen who were already producing a commercial automobile in this country!
They were his heroes now and those of his football days, his
young
days, were forgotten and he could not wait to become one of them though how this was to be done was not yet clear to him. But he would and he said so frequently until, exasperated, Tom asked him how?
‘I don’t know,’ Martin shrugged carelessly, ‘but I will, don’t you fret.’ His voice was confident, arrogant with the certainty of youth. ‘I understand them, Tom. They speak to me.’ He was not ashamed to say the words which sounded fanciful and made Tom smile. ‘They do! I’ve always known how the steam engine works. Times I’ve been down to Lime Street railway station and watched them get up steam, I could damn near do it myself and when I go to Mr Hale’s repair shop – he’s tackling a few motor cars now, did I tell you? – and see him stripping down an internal combustion engine I can put the thing back together quicker than he can. He stands there scratching his head, wondering what the hell to do with it but
I know
. Don’t ask me how but I do and he says I’ve … I’ve got a … a feeling …’
Martin was serious with an intensity within him which often irritated his two companions but today, in the carefree joyousness which infected Meg and Tom he forgot, for the moment, his own passionate concern with the future and he and Meg began to push
their
way back through the good natured crowd. Several others had taken courage from Tom’s camaraderie and were stepping out beside him. He saw Martin and Meg and lifted his hand to wave and on his face was an expression, laughing, which said quite plainly he had not the slightest notion of how he came to be in this situation, but
they
knew, for it was Tom’s nature to hold out the hand of good-fellowship and his gift to have it taken! He grinned, his mouth stretching over his white teeth. He looked down in to the face of the grandmother and said something to her, then placing her, cackling joyously into another’s arms, walked purposefully towards Meg. He stopped in front of her.
‘Meggie?’ he said airily, questioningly, holding out his arms. She did not hesitate but moved into them delightedly and in a moment they were whirling about the growing circle of admirers for indeed they made a handsome sight, her bright loveliness sharpened by his own golden good looks.
Feet stamping, hands clapping, men whistling, the sun brilliant in the pale washed blue of the spring sky and as they galloped by with more enthusiasm than grace for the third time, Martin, the bicycle shop forgotten in the unexpected pleasure of the moment, threw out a hand and grasped Meg’s arm and turning her about plucked her from Tom’s vigorous clasp.
‘My turn now, Meggie!’ he shouted above the din and his strong arm held her to him and his big workman’s hand, rough and brown and still stained with the deep grained oil with which they were everlastingly occupied, took hers and in a mad echo of a lively reel they jostled their way round and round the circle.
Tom, never one to hang back and wait his turn had found a pretty, flower bonneted young girl to partner him in the music and the amiable, hail-fellow-well-met atmosphere instilled into the assembly gathered momentum and smile was returned with smile and lovers exchanged a kiss or two under cover of the joyous dance.
Martin’s arm tightened about Meg and his long legs carried her even more rapidly through the sun-dappled crowd and his eyes beamed glowingly into hers and she was conscious only of how happy she felt and how wonderful the day was. She threw back her head and her boater fell to her shoulder blades held on by the ribbon beneath her chin beating in rhythm to the lively tune. The sunshine enveloped her and her vivid hair blazed in it. More than a few male glances fell about her as she danced by for
though
she was only thirteen she looked several years older. She was tall and as the months passed her breasts had ripened, rounded and thrusting. Her slender hips curved from a waist fined to a handswidth and she had long, shapely legs beneath the smooth alpaca of her new skirt. Her clear skin and eyes and the firm flesh of her throat were as glossy and magnificent as though she had been just newly polished with a chamois leather!