Bicycles

Basil Cheney bought his freshly-acquired wife a brand-new bicycle for Christmas. It shone bright red beneath the light when he held it up straight-armed in the hallway. He gazed at it beaming. She for her part had one leg bent a little at the knee, and clasped her hands at her chest - I think she had to because of the excitement. Anyway she became pregnant that year.

The following Christmas Basil sprung open the door, leaped into the same hallway and swayed aloft another brand-new bicycle - blue this time. For her recreational pursuits. Mrs Cheney, more surprised than anything else, clung to his arm and wondered. There was a child now.

The following year the child sat bolt-upright when daddy burst into the hallway stretching aloft a brand-new bicycle for his wife. Mrs Cheney scowled.

Another child arrived next year. Bright. Mad-eyed. The following year another. All of them father-worshipers. And each year a new bicycle. These kiddies eagerly awaited dad's practical Christmas token to his wife, and would jump up and down beneath the light in the hallway.

Some years Mrs Cheney grew taciturn before Christmas-present-day, stood outside in the December cold, and had to be dragged in forcibly by the children. Sometimes she even wriggled to get away.

And all the while the shed grew heavy with unused bicycles in mint condition.

It was only Basil's death which stopped the collection. And fortunately he was of a robust stock famous for its longevity, and he lived to be one-hundred-and-two. 

Though Mrs Cheney raised her face to the sun and brightly set off for the wide yonder, on foot, she died the day after her husband.