The Man and His Bike by Wilfried de Jong

Author:Wilfried de Jong
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ebury Publishing

FLAT

Netherlands

FRENZIED BARKING ERUPTED on the other side of the door. Then came the scrabbling of sharp nails on wood. I took my finger off the bell and backed away.

A woman’s voice.

‘Spanky!’

The barking grew louder.

‘Down, Spanky! Down!’

The door of the wooden chalet swung open to reveal a woman on a coconut doormat straining to hold back a wild-eyed mutt. Her tangle of blonde hair had been pulled back into a ponytail and a tight pink jogging suit was struggling to contain her ample curves. She straightened up and the word LOVE spangled across her breasts.

‘What d’you want?’ she asked, fixing me with enquiring blue eyes and tightening her grip on the dog’s collar. It was a bull terrier. I’d recognise those piggish features anywhere.

Once, at a high school party, I had been bitten by an exact replica of the dog I was facing. It had bounded over and leapt up at me just as I was about to tuck into a meat-paste sandwich. When I tried to fend it off, it sank its teeth into my hand. Ever since, I’d walk a mile to avoid a bull terrier. Pretty much any dog, come to that.

‘Uh, I’m doing a spot of cycling,’ I said.

‘You don’t say,’ the woman answered, eyeing up my wet cycling shorts and bare shins without a hint of embarrassment. My bike was leaning against the garden fence behind me, rain bouncing off the saddle.

‘I’ve got a flat tyre. I have a repair kit with me but I was wondering if you have a bicycle pump I could borrow?’

The woman puffed out her cheeks and exhaled slowly. ‘Let me take a look.’

The floor in the hallway was covered in yellow linoleum that curled up at the skirting boards. Through an open door, I caught sight of a bed and two sleeping bags.

The woman dragged the dog into the bedroom by its collar and slammed the door. The barking reached a new crescendo.

‘He was vicious when we got him,’ she shrugged. ‘Anyone else would’ve had him put down by now.’

I nodded.

She opened a cupboard next to the coat stand and reached in past a couple of bin bags that were overflowing with clothes. Her exertions exposed a strip of white flesh above her waistline.

‘Well, whaddaya know,’ she exclaimed triumphantly, re-emerging with a bicycle pump held aloft. It was mounted on a little wooden plank.

‘Great!’ I smiled. ‘Just what I was looking for.’

I set the pump down on the floor and had a go at the plunger. A few little balls of fluff rolled along the skirting board.

‘Bring your bike inside. It’s really pissing it down out there.’

‘That’s very kind of you. I’ll be 15 minutes, tops.’

‘Don’t rush on my account,’ she answered. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

•  •  •

Resting on the saddle and handlebars, my upturned bike was a tight fit in the hallway. I started feeling my way along the profile of the tyre in search of a splinter of glass or a sharp stone. Find that and I’d found my puncture.

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