Free The Undertow by Jo Baker Page A

paintwork. He can’t let that happen. Billy drops a foot off the pedal, and clatters his boot toe over the cobbles, slowing, dragging the bike round, finds his balance, and he’s got away with it. He’s back between the backyard walls, into the alleyway, all the world is good. The wet fog whips past him and whistles through his teeth, gritty and wet and sour, and he is happy.
    Mr. Cheeseman stands by his back gate, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his duster coat, his muffler pulled up over his chin. Billy slows down. He drops a foot and drags it bump bump bump over the cobbles, bringing him to a stop at Mr. Cheeseman’s side, in the edge of the backyard lamplight. He slips down off the pedals, stands astride the frame, not ready to get off yet. His face glows. His fingers throb with cold. He doesn’t want ever to get off.
    “Good chap,” Mr. Cheeseman says. “But watch those boots. Your ma will have both our hides.”
    Billy steps off and wheels the bike, following Mr. Cheeseman into the yard. He leans the bike up against the wall, and cranes to look at the slip of paper Mr. Cheeseman’s taken from his pocket. It’s an old Lifebuoy soap wrapper, still smelling of soap, with a list of addressespencilled on the inner side. Billy knows the addresses—they are the streets that crisscross between Westbridge Road and the railway. Mrs. Goldman is the lady that his ma doesn’t say hello to, though she always smiles at Billy. She has a blue overcoat. Mr. Clovis rides a Marston Sunbeam to work.
    “This all make sense to you?” Mr. Cheeseman asks.
    Billy nods.
    Mr. Cheeseman pockets the list and lifts the first package from the crate by the back door. He dips the package so that Billy can read the pencilled name and address.
    “Right,” Billy says.
    “Last one on your list,” Mr. Cheeseman says, brandishing Mrs. Goldman’s package of rolls, butter and cheese. “So it goes in first.”
    He places it carefully in the bottom of the box. Billy bends to help.
    “Next time you can load it up yourself,” Mr. Cheeseman says. “And Mrs. Cheeseman will give you a cup of tea and a bun when you get back.”
    Billy stops. Mr. Cheeseman continues loading. There is stubble on his chin, and his neck hangs loose above his collar. Mr. Cheeseman looks up from his work. Billy offers his hand to be shaken. Mr. Cheeseman’s hand is thick and warm around his.
    “Good chap,” Mr. Cheeseman says, bumping his hand up and down.
    Good chap. Billy likes this. He feels entirely happy. He doesn’t like being called son.
    Mrs. Goldman gives him an Everton Mint. She leans out into the street in her red satin wrap and asks how Freddy’s getting on down at Price’s. Billy hasn’t got a bleeding clue, but he grins at her, sweet bulging in his cheek, and says he’s doing famously, thanks for asking. Freddy’s day is over and it’s Billy’s day now, and the world is his lobster.
    He pushes off, one foot on the pedal, one on the pavement. Inside his mouth, the taste changes from bed-sour and porridge and plum jam to cold mintiness. He pedals hard, building speed. There’s a satisfying rasp at the edges of his breath, his chest just ever-so-slightly raw, and his legs faintly trembly. He’ll get strong. He’ll get great strong legs, strong chest, strong as a horse’s.
    The clock chimes seven forty-five, and he’s due back at Cheeseman’s at eight. Job done and fifteen minutes to himself. He rides in greatlooping curves, his breath puffing out into the foggy air. He is a locomotive. He pounds up the hill, ploughs slowing onto the crest, and then creeps up the final yards, his heart hammering, breath catching. He’s almost stopped, wavering, a foot about to meet the ground, but then the slope catches him, the bike begins to roll, the weight of it and the pull of gravity and then it’s downhill, in a long wondrous swoop, the cobbles rattling him, eyes wet, eyes streaming, the mist whipping past. His legs and his chest and his belly