Free Bond Street Story by Norman Collins

First there was the pair of old grey trousers, the warm ones. Then the pair of long rubber Wellingtons into which they fitted. They were practically compulsory, the Wellingtons. Part of the uniform. And finally there was the blue, faintly nautical-looking jacket. The only thing that Mr. Privett drew a line at was the peaked cap.
    Because Mrs. Privett was still washing up the breakfast things, Mr. Privett was left helpless and unaided in the difficult task of getting trailer and bicycle backwards out of the narrow hall. Today it proved even more difficult than usual. The pedal of the bicycle was in the upright position and kept catching on things. It was one of the legs of the hat-stand that it finally got hold of. And having got hold it would not let go. In trying to shake it off, Mr. Privett very nearly brought the hat-stand down on top of himself.
    It was the noise that brought Mrs. Privett out of the scullery.
    â€œIt’s no good losing your temper like that,” she said as she came forward. “You’ll only smash something.”
    But she had spoken too late. The last jerk that Mr. Privett had given the bicycle dislodged the small potted palm that stood on the centre shelf of the hat-stand. It rolled along the floor, its leaves swishing.
    Mrs. Privett did not move. She stood there surveying the mess, and drew the corners of her mouth down as she looked.
    â€œI’m sorry ...” Mr. Privett began, and bent down to begin picking up the pieces.
    But Mrs. Privett would have none of it.
    â€œDon’t you start trying to tidy up,” she said, “or we’ll have everything else smashed. I’ll attend to this.”
    She pushed past while she was speaking, and held the front door open for him. Mr. Privett sidled carefully through, drawing the long awkward trailer after him. Then when he had got safely over the doorstep he paused and looked back.
    â€œIf Gus should turn up, tell him I’ve gone on, will you?” he asked.
    But there was no answer. Mrs. Privett simply slammed the door in his face.
    That was at 10.35.
    And less than half an hour later—at 10.57 to be precise—Mr. Privett had returned. He was on foot. He was torn. He was dusty. He was bloodstained. Beside him he supported a buckled bicycle. And in the partially demolished trailer behind rode the wrecked remains of
Daisy II.
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    At the sight of her husband, so badly damaged and so woebegone, Mrs. Privett’s anger vanished instantly. She became wife, nurse and mother. And Mr. Privett surrendered himself. Seated in the arm-chair in the kitchen and with his feet up on the fender he allowed her to bathe his poor bruised forehead, and tried manfully to tell her what had happened.
    The facts were certainly terrifying enough. Death, it was clear, had been avoided by inches. Possibly by as little as one inch. As far as the end of Fewkes Road, everything had been quiet and normal. Admittedly, Mr. Privett may have been pedalling a shade too fast, because all the way from No. 23 he had been haunted by fears of lateness, of missing the first heats. The road, however, had been empty and deserted. But there is a world of differencebetween the inner-suburban quietness of Fewkes Road and the arterial throb of the main thoroughfare that joins Camden Town to Highgate. The Kentish Town Road, though narrow, is important. The traffic in it is fast-flowing and imperious. Even on Sunday mornings there are motor cycles, cars, lorries, buses, trolley-buses, coaches. And it was a coach that had been Mr. Privett’s undoing.
    Enormous, stream-lined, decorated in white and chromium like an ice-cream parlour, it had borne down upon him from the King’s Cross direction, bound importantly north for Bradford. Mr. Privett had seen it coming. He had observed the lighthouse-like headlamps, the bizarre savagery of the frontal design, the driver perched high in his glass cubicle. Mr. Privett had seen all that. And there had still been time, he