Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (48 page)

At last we decide that we have had enough, and climb down. I can hardly stand, and cling to Tony's solid arm like a drowning man.

‘Giddy?' he enquires, looking down at me with smiling eyes. ‘I'm a bit giddy myself – feel as if I wanted to do something silly. Look here, Hester, I've got a grand idea – let's treat all these kids to a ride – shall we?'

I realise afresh how lovely it must be to be rich, and nod my head emphatically.

The owner of the roundabout – who is of a suitable build for his profession and possesses a shining red face – is delighted with Tony's offer, and agrees that ten shillings will give all the children a good ride. He therefore climbs on to a convenient tub and announces through a megaphone that a kind gentleman is giving a free ride to all the children present. ‘Come along all of ye,' he shouts. ‘Walk up, children free ride for every one of ye.'

For about half a minute nobody moves. The children are utterly incredulous of their good fortune . . . and then there is an absolute stampede. We are almost swept off our feet by the rush, and the roundabout man only saves himself from disaster by jumping nimbly off the tub and clutching Tony's arm.

‘We've done it now, sir,' he says, looking at the juvenile avalanche in dismay. ‘There'll be murder done and 'ow on earth 'ull I ever get them children off those 'orses again?'

Tony evidently shares the fat man's views. He presses a pound note into the grubby hand and drags me away.

‘For God's sake let's get out of this, Hester,' he says. ‘I had no idea we were going to let Bedlam loose in the place.'

Bedlam is loose indeed. The children have stormed the roundabout, and are fighting like demons over the horses. The air is rent with the battle cries of the victorious, and the shrieks of the fallen. A few fond parents are pushing through the throng and calling wildly for their young.

We fly from the scene, hand in hand, pursued by the noise and the commotion – from afar we hear the fat man shouting through his megaphone in despairing tones, and beseeching his young patrons to refrain from dragging each other off the horses and hitting each other on the nose.

‘You'll
hall
get a free ride if you comes quiet,' he bellows. ‘Hevery one of ye – stop it now, do. 'Ow can I start the 'orses if ye keeps on fighting?'

The booths are almost deserted, everyone having been drawn to the roundabout by the noise. Tony and I have ample leisure to stroll round and make our purchases. The booths are lighted with flares, as all booths should be; there is something mysterious and exciting about flares. The wind plays with them, blowing them this way and that, so that they almost vanish, and then leap up with renewed energy. The shadows dance and waver on the eager faces of the stallholders as they bend forward over their wares; so that at one moment a man's face seems all nose, with two dark caverns below his temples for eyes, and the next moment he seems quite an ordinary little man with nothing remarkable about him. Two girls lean together, whispering, and the dancing red light makes them beautiful and hideous by turns. One of them laughs, throwing up her head, and her hair is like a red nimbus round her pallid face. I catch Tony's arm and tell him to look.

‘It's queer, isn't it?' he says. ‘They live in their own world, just as important to them as ours is to us. We have never seen them before, and we shall never see them again, but tonight, just for a moment, our two worlds touch.'

‘Let's speak to them.'

‘No, it would spoil it,' says Tony. ‘It's perfect as it is, and they probably drop their aitches – I wish I could paint.'

I feel it would not matter if they dropped their aitches, it is the girls that interest me, not so much the picture they make. How do they live? What are they talking about? But at the same time I realise they couldn't tell me what I want to know, even if they would; so we leave them and stroll on.

‘I want a gingerbread man,' Tony says suddenly. ‘I simply must buy a gingerbread man. Do you mean to tell me you haven't got a gingerbread man?' he says to the girl at the sweet stall. ‘With gilt on the outside that you can lick off – no? Hester, I'm sorry, this isn't a real fair at all. They haven't got a gingerbread man.'

The girl is quite frightened and offers him a gingerbread horse, but it has no gilt and Tony looks at it with scorn.

‘How can we go on saying
“That
has taken the gilt off the gingerbread” if there never was any gilt on it?' he demands. ‘You see my point, don't you? Unless, of course, this horse was covered with gilt, and someone has licked it off already – '

The girl indignantly repudiates the suggestion.

‘Oh well!' says Tony sadly. ‘Another illusion gone west . . . '

At the toy stall I buy a doll for Betty, and Tony buys her a monkey on a stick. I also invest in fairings for Mrs. Loudon, Mrs. Falconer and Annie. Tony shows me a small india-rubber frog – green, with goggling yellow eyes – and says he is going to give it to ‘our dear Guthrie' and don't I think it is a speaking likeness. I reply quite frankly that I can't see the smallest resemblance, which damps Tony's spirits for about twenty seconds.

We are passing a tent, covered with mystic signs and black cats, when the flap is suddenly thrown back, and a tall burly figure emerges from the gloom. It is the long-lost Guthrie, and he looks somewhat sheepish when he sees us.

‘I've been looking everywhere for you,' he announces.

‘Have you really?' says Tony kindly. ‘What bad luck! But you'll know another time not to look for us in the fortune teller's mystic abode. Hester and I make a point of never having our fortunes told.'

‘You probably do something far sillier,' replies Guthrie, guessing right for once. The effect of his pronouncement is marred by the wretched coconuts, which escape from his clutches and roll in all directions. We collect three of them with some difficulty, owing to the darkness, but the fourth has gone forever.

‘Never mind,' Guthrie says. ‘Three is enough to make all the birds at Burnside thoroughly ill.'

I feel we have been rather neglectful of Guthrie, so I enquire in my friendliest manner what the fortune teller said to him. He responds at once to slight encouragement, and replies:

‘Oh, just the usual rot. I am going a long journey over the sea, and I must beware of a girl with golden hair; and a brunette is going to save me from danger, and alter my whole life – what
is
a brunette?' asks Guthrie.

‘Hester is,' says Tony wickedly. ‘By the way, Loudon, the sybil didn't tell you that a tall man with a kind face was going to give you a frog, did she? Well, I don't think much of her then,' and so saying he takes the frog out of his pocket and presents it to Guthrie with a low bow.

Guthrie looks at it with suspicion. He cannot make up his mind whether it is some new and deadly insult, or whether it is merely a joke.

‘What on earth is
this
for?' he asks.

‘For your bath,' says Tony gravely. ‘And to remind you of me when we are far apart and the seas divide us.'

‘I think I had better give it to Betty,' Guthrie says. ‘When I'm in my bath there's not much room for frogs.'

I feel relieved and pleased at the way in which Guthrie has taken the joke, and congratulate myself upon the fact that they have actually spoken to each other without being rude.

‘There seems to be the devil of a row going on at the roundabout,' Guthrie says suddenly. ‘Let's push on, and see what's happening.'

Tony and I refuse firmly, with one accord, to go near the place.

‘It looks like a free fight,' Guthrie continues, turning round and gazing at the roundabout with interest and animation. ‘Let's go over and have a look at it. We needn't get mixed up in it if Hester is nervous.'

‘It's nothing, absolutely nothing,' Tony assures him. ‘They always go on like that at roundabouts.'

‘Rot,' says Guthrie. ‘There's a row on, and I'm going over to see what it's about – you needn't come if you're frightened.'

‘I'm simply terrified,' Tony replies. ‘But I'll try to be brave if Hester will stay with me, and hold my hand. Give my love to the roundabout man,' he calls out to Guthrie's retreating back, ‘and meet us at the car if you get out of it alive.'

The whole place is now beginning to close down. At some of the booths the flares have been extinguished, and the occupants are busy packing up their wares and taking down their tents and wooden stalls. Huge vans have appeared upon the scene, and men in shirt sleeves are busily engaged in packing them. We accost a small dirty youth and ask him if the fair is moving.

‘We'll be on the road in twa hours,' he replies briefly.

‘What a life!' ejaculates Tony.

‘Aye, it's a fine life,' echoes the boy. ‘Ye get seeing the wurrld in a fair.'

All mystery has departed from the fortune teller's tent; it is merely a heap of dirty canvas. A large, fat woman with greasy black hair, and a red shawl pinned across her inadequately clad bosom, is dancing about with a flaming torch in her hand, directing operations in a shrill shrewish voice.

‘Guthrie's sybil!' says Tony sadly. ‘I'm afraid we've stayed too long at the party.'

‘I think it is rather fun,' I reply. ‘I like seeing things that I'm not meant to see – besides, it's not really very late.'

‘Mother said I was to be home at six to have my hair washed,' says Tony in an absurd treble.

I tell him he's a perfect idiot and we walk on laughing.

‘Here you are!' exclaims Guthrie, pouncing on us suddenly so suddenly that we both nearly jump out of our skins. ‘Look here, you simply must come over and see the fun – people are knocking each other down – there's a funny little fat man with a megaphone I want to get hold of him and find out all about it.'

‘I'm sure he knows nothing,' says Tony untruthfully, ‘and if he did he wouldn't tell you. We're going home now, Hester's tired.' ‘But surely you can wait ten minutes.'

‘Not one minute. Do come on, Loudon. The show is all over now; Hester wants to get home.'

‘I don't know why you're in such a hurry all of a sudden,' says Guthrie pettishly. We take no notice – neither Tony nor I have the slightest desire to renew our acquaintance with the roundabout man.

Guthrie follows us reluctantly, murmuring at intervals that he doesn't know why we are in such a hurry all of a sudden.

The Bentley is now reposing in the car park in solitary state. We pack in, and soon we are buzzing homewards through the darkness, with two bright shafts of light streaming out before us like the beams of a lighthouse. The trees and hedges look a peculiar artificial shade of green in the glare of the lamps, and the white road runs smoothly backwards beneath our wheels.

Tony sets us down at the gate. ‘Good-bye, Hester,' he says, ‘and thank you for being such a dear. Give my love to old Tim when he rolls up, won't you?'

‘But you'll be coming over to see him,' I point out. ‘We'll be here until Tuesday, you know.'

‘I may – or I may not. It all depends how strong I feel,' replies Tony cryptically. ‘But tell him from me he's a lucky devil.'

‘Do come on, Hester,' says Guthrie impatiently. ‘I thought you were in such a terrific hurry to get home.'

‘But now she
is
home, so there's no need to hurry any more,' explains Tony kindly.

‘I don't know what you're talking about, and what's more you don't know yourself,' exclaims Guthrie furiously. ‘You seem to think I'm half-witted – ' ‘No, no – not half-witted.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Think it over when you get into bed,' Tony advises him in a soothing voice. ‘You are bound to understand it in time if you persevere. Just lie flat on your back, and breathe easily through the nose–'

Guthrie turns on his heel with a muttered curse and strides up the drive like a grenadier. I am thankful to see him go without bloodshed.

‘What a peppery little fellow he is, to be sure!' exclaims Tony. ‘Always taking the huff about something, isn't he?'

‘It's entirely your fault and you know it,' I tell him sternly. ‘You could wind Guthrie round your finger if you liked – why can't you be nice to him, like you are to me?'

‘I'm nice to you, am I?' he enquires in a strange voice.

‘Frightfully nice,' I reply.

‘Well!' he says, ‘I suppose that's something,' and, so saying, he lets in his gear and is gone in a flash.

I follow Guthrie up the drive, and we let ourselves into the quiet house as silently as we can. I can't help smiling to myself, for the darkness and silence of the house remind me of that night when Guthrie and I laid our plans to capture the burglars, and discovered the treasure seekers instead. Guthrie remembers it too, for I see him glance at the warming pan on the wall with a strange expression on his face.

‘What are you thinking of ?' I whisper as we creep up the uncarpeted stair.