On October the 11th, the Irish Political representatives met the British delegation at a massive round table that included Lloyd George, Lord Birkenhead, Winston Churchill, Austen Chamberlain, Sir Worthington, Sir Gordon Hewart, and Sir Hamar Greenwood.
Because they’d met in past days over the many dinners, teas, and talks of the weather that I’d taken such care to host, it seemed a silent camaraderie existed between the men. Michael later told me that when Lloyd George waved the gents to their seats, they instead stood to shake hands and greet each other, saying what a lovely time they had at my house.
Michael’s days became a vicious round of Mass with me, negotiations at Downing Street and then tea or late supper at my home.
Following morning service, we exited the church shaking hands with the priest who wished us a blessed day. As we moved from the Oratory, I chose small talk as the autumn leaves rustled around our ankles in colors of gold and brown. “It’s due to a lack of sunshine and much precipitation,” I explained, “London just doesn’t deliver the tones of orange and red the way they might in Chicago.”
“Not to sound cliché,” said Michael, running his hand through his bangs, “but we have to stop meeting like this.”
“Why?” I asked, with a sudden flirtatious tone, as we hastened to a row of parked bicycles.
“They’ll think you’re a double spy and shoot ye!”
“Oh Michael, you’ve been watching too many movies at the picture palace.”
“And all this time I thought I had you fooled that I was the head of the IRA, but instead I’ve been enjoying matinees at the picture house,” he said with sarcasm as he headed toward a row of bicycles. He removed his bike from the rack.
“Shall we cycle together?” I asked.
“Are ye riding on my handlebars?”
“No, I’ve my own bicycle. Just over there,” I said, pointing with a giggle, and then securing a pin in my furry-plumed velvet hat.
“Where?” he asked, confused.
I pointed to the side of the church where a Roadster lady’s safety bicycle stood, having bought it a few days prior to impress him. “It’s your mode of transport, so now it is mine.”
“Bloody brilliant!” he said, sounding sarcastically English, hopping on his bike, and circling effortlessly around me. “Let’s make a go of it!”
Moving to my bicycle, I lifted the hem of my dress and attempted to mount the step-through frame while grabbing onto its very upright handlebars. As I began to pedal, my feet ready to engage the coaster brakes, I jerked the bike frame left and right, more crooked by the moment, until all balance was utterly lost.
“I can see they taught you cycling in that American boarding school,” he chuckled. “Right up there with French and Latin lessons.”
“No, they didn’t,” I snapped. “I taught myself, thank you very much.” Forcing the bicycle left and right, my jerky movements were hideous. I attempted to keep my dress hem from the chain.
“You’re pathetic, yeah?” he joked.
“Pathetic, no. I beg your pardon.”
“Pardoned, indeed,” he chuckled. “And note that I’m working on my ‘ye’ and ‘yer’s’ but it’s hard to break a habit.”
“Good on you!” I stood up straight, juggling the weight of the bicycle straddled between my legs. Michael guffawed. “Michael, you asked me if I possessed a bicycle. Which I do. You didn’t ask me if I could ride it.”
“Ha! Yer taking the piss out of me!”
“What on earth?!”
“Oh, sorry. Irish, slang. For being comical, yeah?”
“Yeah, nothing. If you want to give me a riding lesson...”
“I’d love to give you a riding lesson,” he said, suggesting more than a bike ride.
The moment hung in the air, and my senses scrambled, turning my complexion into a deep rose blush from neck to my forehead.
“I’ll manage just fine,” I said, again trying to coordinate the pedals with the handlebars and practically crashing onto the curb.
Michael cringed. “Look, Lass, don’t be stubborn. If I don’t help ye, you’ll have an accident with that nearby lamppost.”
“Fine.” At that I stopped and straddled the bicycle beside him.
“I’m glad to see you here every morning, Lady Hazel,” he said.
“You make me happy and frankly I don’t recall the last time I laughed so hard or laughed at all.”
“Well, I’m glad to provide comedy at my foolish expense,” I said, patting down the ruffles on my dress into place.
He winked at me. “Shall I walk you and your bicycle home, and then I’ll come back to fetch mine?”
“Yes, that would be quite chivalrous,” I said, flustered and gathering my composure.
He took my arm with one hand, escorting me from my bicycle, then taking the handlebars with the other. As we walked toward Thurloe Square, a traditional garden square in South Kensington and only moments from my house, he stopped to take in the foliage, smelling the air.
Thank you so much for hosting Lois Cahall today on your lovely blog, with her intriguing novel, The Many Lives & Loves of Hazel Lavery.
ReplyDeleteTake care,
Cathie xx
The Coffee Pot Book Club