Mrs. Tim of the Regiment

by D. E. Stevenson

  ‘I hope they are real,’ Tony says gravely. This is considered a splendid joke by the khaki man and indeed by all who hear it.

  ‘Oh, they’re real enough,’ he says, winking slyly. ‘This is Bond Street, this is. You won’t find no sham julry on my tray.’

  Tony chooses one with two gold hearts transfixed by an arrow, and hands it to me with great solemnity.

  By this time Guthrie has had enough of it he has been shooting farther down the gallery he returns to us, and says it is just as he thought, the rifles are all doctored, and the whole thing is an absolute fraud. I conclude that he has not been so successful as Tony in his shooting. He eyes my brooch which I have pinned on to my coat with scorn and disgust (it might be a black beetle from the way he looks at it), and suggests that we should have a go at the coconut shies.

  I feel that it is Guthrie’s turn for a little consideration now, so we make our way in that direction. Here Guthrie displays tremendous prowess, and sends coconuts flying in all directions, much to the disgust of the coconut man and to the delight of all the onlookers. Tony and I are completely out-classed at this sport, but we share in his reflected glory, and back him up loyally in his argument with the owner of the stall, who tries to do him out of his hardly earned spoils. We leave the place in triumph, Guthrie carrying four large coconuts which are a perfect nuisance to him for the rest of the evening.

  So far we have seen nothing the least different from any other fair. In fact most of the people in the booths have undoubtedly come from south of the Tweed. Guthrie points this out to Tony in a somewhat sarcastic tone of voice. Tony replies that we are only just starting, and the night is yet young. He seizes hold of a hurrying man, and asks what that crowd is ‘over there’.

  ‘If you’re quick you’ll see Jock Sprott,’ replies the man. ‘He’s at it now.’

  ‘And what is he at?’ asks Tony in dulcet tones.

  The man glares at him indignantly. ‘Have ye never seen Jock Sprott throwing the hammer?’ he enquires, and is gone before his rhetorical question can be answered.

  ‘Come on, we must see Jock Sprott,’ Tony says, dragging us along at a tremendous pace. ‘Here’s your chance to see something really Highland at last.’

  I demand breathlessly who he is, and why he throws hammers about.

  ‘Oh, he’s a Scotch relation of the man who could eat no fat,’ replies Tony glibly, ‘and he throws hammers about for a living it’s quite different from throwing them into the corner because they have hit you on the thumb when you were trying to knock in a nail.’

  We push through the crowd and arrive just in time to see the contest. A huge hammer is lying on the ground it is the sort of hammer that a giant in a fairy tale might be proud to own. It is such an enormous hammer that to me it does not look like a hammer at all.

  Jock Sprott now appears from a small tent – Tony whispers that he has been in there, eating beefsteaks to make him strong, but I don’t believe all Tony says. He is a huge Highlander in a kilt. He strides up to the hammer, spits on his hands, and takes the shaft in a firm grip – a whisper like the sound of rustling trees goes through the crowd. The moment has come; he lifts the hammer (his muscles bulging beneath his cotton shirt) and twirls round and round, and at every twirl the hammer rises higher and higher in the air. At last, when it is level with his outstretched arms, he lets go of it and away it goes down the field . . .

  The throw is evidently a good one, for the crowd applauds loudly, and two solemn-faced umpires appear with tape measures, and discuss its merits. Jock seems to have a number of staunch backers in the crowd, and these push forward and question the umpires’ decision, and make themselves disagreeable in various ways.

  We watch several other broad and hefty men trying their skill and strength with the hammer, but they have not the same air of confidence as Jock, and have therefore fewer admirers and nobody to tackle the umpires on their behalf. Jock Sprott is proclaimed the victor amidst loud applause.

  Guthrie says this is poor sport compared with tossing the caber, but, of course, we shan’t see them tossing the caber at a rotten little fair like this.

  We are pushing our way out of the crowd when suddenly we are confronted by a tall man in Highland dress it is MacArbin. My first instinct is flight, and I believe that Tony feels the same almost overpowering impulse; but Guthrie who, of course, has no reason to avoid him presses forward and shakes him by the hand, and we are involved in talk with the unhappy man. I am quite shocked at the difference in him, which, I suppose, is due to distress over his sister’s elopement. He seems years older, and his glossy self-confidence has completely gone.

  ‘Have you heard from your sister, sir?’ asks Guthrie, rushing in where angels might fear to tread.

  ‘I have no sister,’ he replies not dramatically, but just as if he were stating a sad fact. ‘No sister,’ he repeats, and, bowing to us with something of his old-time grace, he passes from us and is lost in the crowd.

  ‘Good Lord!’ Guthrie says. ‘I seem to have put my foot in it with the old chap. Who would have thought he would have taken Deirdre’s marriage so much to heart? Hector’s one of the best fellows going I suppose he’s still chewing away at his silly old feud.’

  Tony and I say nothing – perhaps he is as shocked as I am at the change in the proud Highlander – at any rate he lets Guthrie’s tactlessness pass without comment, which shows that he is not feeling quite his usual self.

  The roundabout is encompassed by a crowd of gaping children, the horses prance gaily in their red and gold trappings, and the organ blares forth a potpourri of popular tunes. All around is the darkness of the night and the silent hills, but here there is light and gaiety and noise.

  ‘In eleven more months and ten more days I’ll be out of the calaboose,’ shouts Tony, elbowing his way through the crowd. He has suddenly gone quite crazy, and his mood is infectious. I feel on for anything that’s going, and squeeze after him through the lane he has made. We have lost Guthrie by this time, but perhaps it is just as well – I have already decided that it is a frightful mistake to come to a fair with two swains in attendance.

  We mount two fiery-looking steeds and prance round and round – I have no idea how many turns we have. The flaring lights, the rhythm of the organ, and the hot happy faces of the riders melt into a sort of blur. Just in front of us is a fat woman who screams delightedly and waves to various friends in the crowd of watchers. Behind us a farm boy and his sweetheart hold hands and smile at each other in excited bliss. Tony’s eyes are shining with a strange light, he has lost his hat, and his fair hair is standing on end. I can’t believe that this is really the reserved and cynical Tony Morley. Surely there is some madness abroad in the June night that has got into his blood!

  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 ava
lanche 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 thin
k 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.’