Birthday. Alan Sillitoe

biked that far before, and was soon worn out with pedalling.

      ‘It’s only another ten miles,’ Brian said to her in the market place at Ripley. ‘And there aren’t any hills.’ Except a big one on the way back which he didn’t mention. ‘It’s downhill to Ambergate, and flat along the valley the rest of the way. We’ll go slow. You’ll be all right.’

      ‘I know when I’m done in,’ she had said, and promised to wait in Ripley.

      Sharp winds blew from the west, metal blue clouds charging over the livid green hills. Matlock felt dead, the line of dismal shop fronts full of artefacts he didn’t want or couldn’t afford. Hiking parties toiled up a footpath out of the valley, and he envied their freedom and companionship. He didn’t feel like queuing for a boat on the river, or shinning up the Heights of Abraham, but stood bemused by the pavement, not knowing what to do.

      He turned the bike around, and every mile to where Jenny would be waiting seemed like ten, all strength necessary to pedal four miles up the hill to Ripley. The wish to see her bolstered him during the struggle, mulling on how good life would be if he could spend it with her, imagining a future of mutual comfort and support in that rhythmical pushing forward of his toecaps against the ever ascending road. In Ripley he would take her to a cafe?for tea and cake and, by the steam of the urn, tell her he wanted them to be engaged. After military service he would say, words she had been waiting for since their first meeting, we can get married. We love each other and will be together for good, the only way to go through life. I’ll find a better job than in the factory, so there’ll be no worry about us having money to live on.

      Beyond the houses of Ambergate and into open land towards the summit, trees with their spring shoots wished him well, still no view of the crest for which he was heading. A following wind laid chill hands at the small of his back but helped him to where Jenny would be waiting to greet him in Ripley market place with a kiss of relief and welcome. They would ride home side by side, the ups and downs of the road not so onerous when they were together, talking about how they were made for each other and what a marvellous life they would have.

      Drizzle settled on his jacket as he did three turns anticlockwise around the square. He looked into every shop, pub and cafe? A stray dog followed and tried to bite his back tyre. He kicked it away, landing a good one at its second attempt, thwarting the mongrel’s bid for friendship. Then he cycled three times clockwise around the square, but she had gone home and who could blame her? He should have had more sense than to abandon her. It had been the biggest mistake of his life, and even then he’d thought so. Matlock could have waited, such a place there forever, so what had driven him to go on alone?

      As more rain came he only hoped, though it was hardly a help, that she had set off home a few minutes after he had left. Working hard on piece work at the clothing factory, the fourteen miles to Ripley had worn her out. It was a marvel she had got even that far. He should have put his arms around her on hearing she couldn’t go on: ‘I can’t stand the thought of biking all that way, either. Let’s go back together.’ He ought to have cared for her as he liked to be looked after when exhausted and miserable – though he couldn’t remember a time when he had been. They should have cycled happily homewards, stopping at a cafe?in Eastwood for something to eat so that she would have enough energy to go on pedalling.