No bicycle for Miss Blandish
In which Miss Blandish loses her bicycle and sterling efforts are made to restore it
For as long as we've lived here in Somerset I've observed a remarkable local character, an elderly lady with wild hair and wilder manner, who dashes about on an old-fashioned upright lady's bicycle with a wicker basket over the front mudguard. I've spoken to her a few times, but though friendly and pleasant, she is a little distant of manner, and she's never given her name. I've asked my neighbours, and they don't know it, either. It's not even known exactly where she lives.
In my dreadful manner I've built a fiction about her over the years. In that fiction her name is "Miss Blandish", because she'd never have anything to do with anything so pretentious as an orchid, and she's a spinster of this parish. Her bicycle has been named, too, as "Jane". Don't ask why, I don't know. I'm a poet. I do these things.
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But this morning an institution came to an end. I was walking along the road to the turn-off footpath that goes over the hill when I heard a frantic squeaking coming up behind me. I turned round to see, well, you do, don't you, and there was Miss Blandish, on foot, stepping it out at a rate of knots and trailing a disreputable old wicker shopping basket on wheels behind her. It was the basket that was doing the squeaking.
"Good morning," I said, "is the bicycle off the road today?"
"Oh dear me, no," she says, "it's off the road for good I'm afraid."
It transpired that the bicycle had creaked and groaned its last a few days back and had been condemned as unmendable by the local bike shop.
"And I cannot seem to get on with any of the newer models, so I shall have to walk into town from now on."
After exchanging sympathy and commenting on the weather, Miss Blandish squeaked furiously on her way and I turned off for my walk.
But, I was puzzled. What kind of wear and tear on an old-fashioned bicycle could render it unmendable? I'd have thought that no matter what may have broken it could be fixed. There are battleships that aren't built as well as Miss Blandish's old boneshaker of a bike.
So, when I went into town this afternoon to get my bits of groceries, I popped into "Bill's Bikes" and got to chatting with the guy who runs the place.
Miss Blandish's bicycle was leaning sadly against the wall in the back of the shop, and Jeffrey (no, his name isn't Bill) showed me where the frame had simply come apart, showing a great crack running the whole length of one member.
"I could get it welded, but there's more cracks here, and here, and the main joint's going, too. Just isn't worth it."
Jeffrey and I exchanged glum looks and a heavy sigh. That's the way of the world now. Good old things get broke and aren't worth fixing. Just isn't worth it.
So poor old Miss Blandish, refusing to take the bus, will have to go on walking to town and back every day. Seems sad, really.
The story could end there, on a poignant note. But it doesn't. Or, at least, not yet it doesn't. For, although that type of bicycle hasn't been made here for years and years, it's still being manufactured and used in India. Jeffrey has discovered the maker and has written explaining the problem and asking if they could supply and ship a replacement frame. If they can and if it doesn't cost a king's ransom, he's going to repaint it to match Miss Blandish's old one, call her, and say he was able to fix it after all. He reckons she could afford to pay £5 for the job, and he's going to foot the rest of the bill himself. I asked him to put me down for £5 if the project goes through. Anything to save having to endure those squeaky shopper wheels for the next few years.
March 4, 1999
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