Only people who work six days a week, all year long, understand what the first morning of a holiday truly feels like.
For months, life has been nothing but work.
Then, suddenly, it stops.
The routine disappears.
The pressure disappears.
For once, nobody is telling you what to do.
You can spend the whole day however you like. You don’t have to call anyone “Sir” or “Madam.” You can take off your miserable black work coat, wear whatever you want, and simply be yourself.
For ten wonderful days, Hoopdriver would not have to wake up before breakfast, throw on his old clothes, and hurry to the gloomy shop.
He would not have to dust shelves or stand behind the counter.
He would not have to listen to someone shouting:
“Come on, Hoopdriver! Move!”
There would be no rushed meals and no endless dealings with difficult customers.
Ten whole days.
The first morning was always the best.
There was no thought of the end yet.
Ten days felt almost endless.
Later, things would be different.
Every evening would bring the uncomfortable thought that the holiday was getting shorter.
Soon he would have to return to the shop.
Soon the black coat would be waiting for him again.
Soon he would be trapped in the same routine for another year.
But not today.
Today was the first morning.
Today, ten days felt like forever.
And the morning itself seemed determined to make him happy.
The sky was deep blue, with huge white clouds floating across it.
The grass and leaves were covered with drops of water from the night before.
Everything looked fresh and bright.
Birds were singing along Richmond Road.
A lark was calling high above Putney Heath.
Hoopdriver had eaten breakfast early, thanks to Mrs. Gunn’s kindness.
Then he wheeled his bicycle out of the house and started pushing it up Putney Hill.
His heart was singing.
Halfway up the hill, a scruffy-looking black cat suddenly ran across the road and disappeared under a gate.
The large red-brick houses along the road were still asleep behind their trees and bushes.
Their windows were covered with blinds.
Hoopdriver looked at them and thought there was nowhere else he would rather be.
Not even for a hundred pounds.
He was wearing his brand-new brown cycling suit.
It had cost him thirty shillings, and he thought it looked wonderful.
His poor legs, which had suffered so much during his bicycle training, were protected by thick checked stockings.
Behind the saddle was a small package containing a change of clothes.
The bicycle itself looked almost magnificent in the morning sunlight.
The bell shone.
The handlebars shone.
The wheels and hubs shone.
Even the lamp caught the sunlight.
Hoopdriver finally reached the top of the hill.
He tried to mount the bicycle.
He failed.
Somehow, he ended up on the grass.
But that did not discourage him.
He tried again.
This time, he managed it.
He was off.
His great cycling tour along the southern coast had begun.
Of course, he wasn’t exactly a graceful cyclist.
He didn’t ride fast.
He didn’t ride straight.
He certainly didn’t ride with much confidence.
His path wandered all over the road.
Sometimes he even drifted onto the edge of the pavement.
But he was having the time of his life.
So far, there was hardly any traffic.
That was a relief.
Hoopdriver was still nervous about steering, so he had made a simple rule.
Whenever he saw another vehicle approaching, he would get off.
It seemed like a perfectly sensible plan.
The morning sun spread long blue shadows across the road.
The light was warm and golden.
Everything seemed beautiful.
At the crossroads near the top of West Hill, Hoopdriver turned toward Kingston.
The road rose slightly ahead of him.
He struggled up the slope.
A heath-keeper wearing a brown work jacket stood nearby and watched him with considerable interest.
Hoopdriver continued climbing.
Then another danger appeared.
The head of a man driving a cart came into view over the top of the hill.
Hoopdriver immediately remembered his rule.
Another vehicle meant one thing.
Get off the bicycle.
He squeezed the brake.
The bicycle stopped.
Now came the difficult part.
How exactly was he supposed to get off?
Hoopdriver stood there, gripping the handlebars.
His left foot remained on the pedal.
His right leg moved uncertainly through the air.
He was trying desperately to remember what he was supposed to do.
The bicycle leaned to the right.
Hoopdriver hesitated.
The bicycle kept leaning.
And then—
Crash!
The machine fell over.
Hoopdriver landed on top of it.
He immediately felt a familiar pain in his shin.
“Oh, no…”
He didn’t even want to look.
The heath-keeper had seen everything.
“That ain’t the right way to get off,” he said.
Hoopdriver picked up the bicycle.
The handlebar had twisted sideways again.
He muttered something under his breath.
He would have to fix it.
The heath-keeper repeated himself.
“I said, that ain’t the right way to get off.”
“I know that,” Hoopdriver snapped.
He opened the little bag behind the saddle and took out his tool.
The heath-keeper watched him.
“If you know it ain’t the right way, why’d you do it?”
Hoopdriver frowned.
“That’s my business.”
His hands were shaking badly as he tried to loosen the screw.
The heath-keeper watched for another moment.
“Broken your handlebar, have you?”
The tool suddenly slipped.
Hoopdriver swore.
The heath-keeper smiled sympathetically.
“Those bicycles can be troublesome things.”
Hoopdriver tightened the screw angrily.
Then he stopped and looked up.
“Would you mind not staring at me?”
He put the tool away.
The heath-keeper didn’t move.
In fact, he seemed to be staring even harder.
“You’re a friendly one, aren’t you?” he said.
Hoopdriver grabbed the handlebars and waited for the cart to pass.
The heath-keeper wasn’t finished.
“What, nobody’s allowed to say anything to you?”
Hoopdriver said nothing.
“You want a private road all to yourself?”
Still nothing.
“Can’t ordinary people talk to you?”
Hoopdriver’s face became stiff with embarrassment and anger.
The heath-keeper turned toward the approaching carter.
“Don’t bother talking to him,” he said.
“He’s a bloomin’ duke!”
The carter looked over.
The heath-keeper continued.
“Doesn’t talk to anyone below an earl, does he?”
“He’s probably on his way to Windsor.”
“Look at the way he’s sitting there. Thinks he’s some grand gentleman.”
“Probably carries half his pride in that bag behind him.”
Hoopdriver had heard enough.
He jumped onto his bicycle.
Or at least, he tried to.
His foot missed the pedal.
“Damn!”
The heath-keeper burst out laughing.
“Not doing very well, are you?”
Hoopdriver tried again.
This time his foot found the pedal.
The bicycle lurched violently.
But somehow he stayed on.
He quickly rode away.
The heath-keeper’s voice faded behind him.
Hoopdriver wanted to turn around and glare at the man.
But he knew better.
Whenever he turned his head while riding, the bicycle usually went in the same direction as his head.
Straight toward disaster.
So he kept his eyes ahead.
Still, he imagined the heath-keeper standing there and telling the carter all about him.
Hoopdriver tried to make his back look as dignified as possible.
He wanted them to believe that none of it had bothered him.
Something strange happened as he continued down the road.
He began riding better.
The anger had distracted him from his fear.
Until then, he had been constantly thinking about falling.
Every movement had been controlled by fear.
Now he was too annoyed to be afraid.
And because he wasn’t thinking about falling, he stopped wobbling so much.
He rode straighter.
He rode more confidently.
Cycling, Hoopdriver discovered, was partly a matter of confidence.
If you believed you could stay upright, you probably could.
If you were convinced you were going to fall, you almost certainly would.
It was rather like falling in love.
You had to believe.
Hoopdriver rode down the road, through the dip beside the new pond, and then climbed toward the next hill.
By now, he had completely recovered his good mood.
In fact, he felt strangely grateful to the heath-keeper.
The man’s insults had reminded him just how free he was.
When he reached the top of the hill, Hoopdriver put his feet on the rests and started down the slope.
He was riding almost straight now.
The wind rushed past his face.
The morning air felt cool and sweet.
He reached out and rang the bell simply because he was happy.
“I’m a bloomin’ duke,” he whispered.
He laughed.
“I’m a bloomin’ duke!”
The idea delighted him.
The heath-keeper had actually noticed how important he looked.
That was proof enough.
For ten days, there would be no more drapery department.
No more black coat.
No more standing behind the counter.
No more customers.
Hoopdriver the shop assistant had disappeared.
In his place was a gentleman.
A man of leisure.
A man with money in his pocket.
He had a five-pound note, two sovereigns, and some silver coins.
Perhaps he wasn’t a real duke.
But he certainly felt like one.
He became so pleased with the thought that he took one hand off the handlebars and reached toward his breast pocket.
That was a mistake.
The bicycle immediately swerved toward the cemetery.
“Whoa!”
Hoopdriver grabbed the handlebars again.
The machine narrowly missed a broken brick lying in the road.
“What idiot put that there?”
He glared at the road.
“People really ought to be punished for leaving rubbish like this around.”
Something rattled behind him.
He guessed it was the tool in his bag knocking against the oil can.
He ignored it.
The bicycle rolled happily onward.
The cemetery was quiet and peaceful.
Kingston Vale, however, was beginning to wake.
Windows opened.
Doors creaked.
A white dog ran out of a house and started barking at him.
“Woof! Woof!”
Hoopdriver stopped at the bottom of Kingston Hill.
He was breathing heavily.
He got off and began pushing the bicycle uphill.
Halfway up, a milk cart rattled past him.
Then two dirty-looking men carrying bundles hurried down the road.
Hoopdriver watched them suspiciously.
“Burglars,” he decided.
They were probably carrying stolen goods home.
At least, that was how it looked to him.
When he reached the top of the hill, he noticed something else.
His knees were beginning to feel tight.
His calves were tired too.
But he also noticed that he was riding more smoothly than before.
The pleasure of riding straight was enough to make him forget the growing fatigue.
Then he saw a man on horseback.
Hoopdriver’s heart began pounding.
He was about to pass a horseman.
Could he really do it?
He tried.
He rode past.
He had done it!
Hoopdriver was thrilled.
He raced down the hill toward Kingston.
The tools rattled inside the bag behind him.
He passed a fruit seller’s cart.
Then he passed a slow wagon loaded with bricks.
And he didn’t fall.
That alone felt like a great achievement.
When he reached Kingston, he saw something that made him stop and stare.
A draper’s shop was just opening.
Two sleepy young assistants were removing the shutters.
They wore dusty black coats and dirty white scarves.
They were yawning as they dragged boxes and packing materials out of the window.
Hoopdriver knew exactly what their morning was going to be like.
Yesterday, he had been doing the same thing.
Yesterday, he had been one of them.
But today was different.
Today he was free.
He looked at the tired shop assistants and smiled to himself.
“I’m a bloomin’ duke,” he thought.
Then he turned the corner.
His bell rang furiously.
And he continued toward Surbiton.
Freedom!
Adventure!
For the first time in a long while, life seemed completely his own.
Every now and then, a house seemed to wake up as he passed.
Windows opened.
People appeared.
To his right, the Thames glittered brightly in the morning sunlight.
Hoopdriver breathed deeply.
This was what living was supposed to feel like.
The only problem was that his knees and calves were beginning to remind him that freedom could be exhausting too.