Becky’s Bike

Sylvia’s daughter had loved it, and now it was someone else’s turn . . .

CAN’T we keep some of these?” Sylvia asked. “We’ve had some of this stuff for years.” “It’s no use holding on to old toys.” Frank sighed. “None of our grandchildren has shown an interest in train sets or dolls.”

“It just seems a shame. It’s as if we’re getting rid of all our memories.”

“We won’t have the space in our new place. We discussed this when we bought it.”

“I know, but . . .” Sylvia realised that Frank was talking sense.

The bungalow on the other side of town would meet their needs now they were slowing down, while this family home would suit the young couple who’d put a bid in for it within days of it going on the market.

There would be no room for all the knick-knacks she had collected over the years. Nor would they be able to keep all their furniture.

All the large items had been sold, but Sylvia had decided that the toys and bric-à-brac would go to a good cause.

The vicar’s jumble sale had been scheduled at just the right time.

“I’ll pack it all into boxes and pile it in the garage,” Frank said. “It’ll be ready to take down to the church hall at the weekend.”

By the time Saturday arrived, Sylvia had come to terms with the need to dispose of their unwanted items. She carefully laid out her stall and waited for the doors to open.

At least it should all find a good home, she thought. And the proceeds would go to the church youth club.

The collection of dolls sat at the back of the table with picture books and annuals displayed in front.

Toy cars, soldiers and other miscellaneous figures were placed along the side. Boxes of games and more books lay on the floor.

Under the table Sylvia put the old metal tricycle that both her son and daughter had used at one time.

She had forgotten about the little bike with its blue frame and red seat until Frank had carried it down from the loft.

It had brought back memories of afternoon walks through the park, first with their son Robert and, a few years later, with Becky.

Their little legs would pedal furiously away as they strove to get up speed. There was never any trouble getting them to bed after an hour or two in the fresh air.

That thing must be ancient, Sylvia thought. It was second-hand when they bought it.

They had discovered it on a market stall and paid just a pound. It didn’t even have its front tyre, but Frank managed to find one at a scrapyard.

Sylvia could identify every mark on that bike. The dent on the frame when Robert had ridden down the garden steps. He had executed a complete somersault and split his chin.

That had resulted in two stitches and a gallon of tears from both Robert and his mum.

The scratch on the handlebars had resulted from Becky speeding down their sloping drive and hitting the garage door.

The grazed knuckles and bruised bottom were nothing when compared to her four-year-old pride.

Sylvia had smiled when Frank stood it on the kitchen table and began wiping off the dust from its faded paintwork.

“I’m not sure anyone will want this, Frank,” she had remarked. “All the modern bikes are plastic with fancy logos and comfy seats.”

Frank had to admit that Sylvia might be right. He had seen children’s bikes lined up in a shop window a few weeks ago. This bike had the pedals attached to the front wheel. It didn’t even need a chain.

“At least there’s nothing much that can go wrong with these simple types,” he said. “You might get someone who’s interested.”

Sylvia’s thoughts were interrupted when the crowds were allowed inside and she was made busy. The board games at fifty pence each were soon snapped up and the rest disappeared steadily over the following two hours.

By the end of the afternoon Sylvia only had a couple of dolls, some battered Dinky cars and a few books left. The bike also remained under the table.

“I’ll give the books to the church playgroup, but it looks like the rest will end up in the skip,” Sylvia remarked to the adjacent stall-holder as they packed up to go home.

She scooped the small items into an empty cardboard box and bent down to lift up the bike by the handlebars.

“Mummy, look! It’s my bike!”

Sylvia spun round to see a little girl dancing excitedly and pointing at the bike. The child seemed to be fixated on something

on the underneath of the seat as Sylvia held it in the air.

She twisted it round so that she could see what the fuss was about. A large, silver letter B glinted under the fluorescent lights.

I’d forgotten all about that, Sylvia thought.

She remembered that someone had bought their daughter a book of stickers. Becky had plastered them all over the house, but she and Frank hadn’t minded.

When Becky insisted on putting a letter B on her bike, they’d tried to explain it should be R for Rebecca, but she wouldn’t listen.

Stubborn little madam, Sylvia thought with a smile.

As soon as she placed the bike on the floor, the little girl grabbed the handlebars and straddled the seat.

“But Beth, sweetheart,” her mum said. “Your daddy promised you a new bike for your birthday.”

“I want this one. It’s got my name on it.”

Sylvia watched the girl stretch her tiny legs to reach the pedals. It took her a while to get going but, once on the move, the little trike zoomed along the aisle.

“Looks like you have a sale,” the woman said. “How much for the bike?”

“Oh, it’s so old,” Sylvia said, remembering how little it had cost them. “I couldn’t possibly take any money for it.”

“Nonsense. It’s for a good cause, isn’t it? Take five pounds as a donation.”

The little girl was now on her way back up the aisle. Sylvia blinked back a tear as she recalled her own children’s first attempts at riding the bike.

“Bye!” Sylvia said as the woman struggled to keep up with her daughter. “Enjoy your new bike.”

“She will!” the woman called back.

Those memories were precious to her and she felt that her joy at watching the efforts of her two to learn how to pedal must be comparable to that of the children themselves.

If this child got as much pleasure from it as Robert and Becky, she couldn’t feel sad at letting the bike go. n