The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [14]
“It’s much easier if you’re going,” she told him. “No one can balance at a standstill.”
Philip set off and fell off and set off and fell off and set off and pedalled halfway round the clearing, and fell off, and set off and rode, a little wobbly, right round the clearing. For the first time since he had come to Todefright, he laughed aloud. Tom was wheeling figures of eight. Phyllis appeared and executed some neat circles. Tom said Philip was now good enough to go out into the lanes, so they went out, Tom in the lead, then Philip, then Dorothy, then Phyllis. They pedalled along Frenches Lane, which was flat, between hawthorn hedges, and then turned up the wooded hillside, up Scarp Lane, between overarching trees which made deep wells of shadow, interspersed with dazzling blades of brightness. Philip had an idea for a dark, dark, cauldron-like pot, with shiny streaks on a matt surface. When he thought of the imaginary pot, and not of the metal construction that carried him, his balance improved, and he accelerated.
Behind him, Dorothy also went faster. She had the passion for speed which is strongest in girls of eleven or twelve. She dreamed of riding a racehorse along a beach, between sand and sea. Since she had had the bicycle she had dreamed frequently of flying, quite near the ground, skimming the flowerbeds, seated like a fakir on an invisible carpet.
At the brow of the hill they rode along a glade, and Tom said
“Shall we swoop down Bosk Hill?”
“It’s steep,” said Dorothy. “Will Philip be all right?”
“I’m doing finely,” said Philip, grinning.
So they turned into Boskill Lane, which had both a sharp gradient and crooked-elbow corners. Dorothy was now in front of Philip, behind Tom, who was speeding away from them. Dorothy felt the usual, delightful tightening in her insides. She looked back to see if Philip was all right. He was nearer than she thought, and she wobbled across his track. He shuddered, skidded, and went through the air, more or less over Dorothy. She fell over on the track, scraping her shins, wheels and pedals spinning. Phyllis sailed past, gripping her handlebars, primly upright.
Dorothy picked up Mona-Bona-Grona, and went to look at Philip. He was sprawled on his back under an oak tree, deep in a mass of wild garlic, crushed by his landing into extraordinary pungency. He was lying still, staring up through the leaves.
“My fault,” said Dorothy. “All my fault. Are you hurt?”
“Don’t think so, no. Winded.”
He began to laugh.
“What’s funny?”
“There are things in the country that smell quite as foul as things in the town. Only vegetable foul, not smoky. I’ve never smelt anything in the least—like this.”
“It’s wild garlic. It isn’t very nice.”
Philip could not stop laughing. “It’s horrible. But it’s new, you know.”
Dorothy crouched down beside him. “Can you get up?”
“Aye, in a minute. Gimme a minute. I’m out o’ puff, as we say. Is the machine damaged?”
Dorothy inspected it. It was unharmed.
Philip lay in the disgusting and fascinating smell, and let his muscles go, one by one, so that the earth was holding up his limp body, and he could feel all its roughness, the squashed stalks, the knotty roots of trees, pebbles, the cool mould under. He closed his eyes and dozed for an instant.
He woke because Dorothy was shaking him.
“You are all right? I could have killed you. You aren’t concussed or anything?”
“I’m quite happy,” Philip said. “Here.”
Dorothy said, taking it in,
“I could have killed you.”
“But you didn’t.”
“If you want,” said Dorothy, speaking out what had been going round in her mind for some hours, “just to send a postcard to your mother, just to say you’re all right and not to worry, you know—I could get you one, and post it for you.”
Philip was silent. Things turned over in his mind. He frowned.
“I’m sorry,” said Dorothy. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I wanted to help.”
She sat hunched, with her arms around her knees. “You didn’t. Upset me. An’ you’re right. I ought to write to our mum.