by John Moore
“Take Charles the First,” said Mr. Oxford. “There’s tradition for you!”
“They cut his bleeding head off,” said Timms.
“Ah,” Mr. Oxford sighed. “There was, indeed, a breach of tradition there. But take Charles the Second, ’iding in a hoak-tree. The hoak, symbolic, as they say, of England. ‘Earts of hoak, old man! There’s tradition for you!”
“’Dition.” Timms’ squeak was becoming very faint indeed; it must be getting late, thought Stephen, and looking at the clock above Florrie’s head, which was decorated with a big bunch of balloons, he was horrified to see that it was a quarter to two. And the official opening was at three! Nevertheless, he decided he just had time to smoke one cigarette and drink the gin which Mr. Gurney had bought for him. He put his hand into his pocket, searching for the cigarette packet, and discovered the forgotten bundle of telegrams. He opened one, finding unaccustomed difficulty in slitting the envelope, and read:
Daisy delighted deputise Toto very quiet aged shall I send road or rail Smythe. …
He read it again, and it meant nothing to him. He opened another telegram.
Will gladly lend little girl’s pet dark tan unusual markings Railton. …
Stephen took a third telegram at random. Fortunately for his sanity this one was more explicit. It said:
Am sending substitute donkey in horse-box no charge Brown. …
He finished his gin, and for an uncomfortable moment the comical and extravagant world seemed to revolve about him, nebulous as a dream. Then he heard Lance saying: “Have one for the road, Stephen,” and with a great effort he collected his wits; though his voice, as he thanked Lance, seemed even more alien to himself than it had done before.
“Alas, no,” he said gravely. “I have to see a girl about a donkey.” And with no more difficulty than might have been ascribed to his wounded knee he contrived to make his way to the door.
A fleet of red charabancs was passing through the town. They were full of fishermen and the wives and intendeds of fishermen, but Stephen associated them vaguely with the Festival because most of the women were wearing comic paper-hats. They lent colour to the streets as they went by, matching the flags which had broken out all over the town like bunting on a ship’s mast when she suddenly makes a long signal. How strange, thought Stephen, that he had not noticed those flags when he walked up the street on his way to the Red Lion, and that he had paid no attention to the roses either, which filled the window-boxes outside almost every house and shop. Why, the Town Hall, with red and white ramblers growing in tubs on each side of the door, and more ramblers hanging from mossy baskets, was a very bower, an arbour of roses. What a purblind miserable wretch he must have been not to see them; and by contrast what an impressionable, responsive, cheerful Matthew Merrygreek he felt now, as he daringly dodged the charabancs and waved his hat gaily in response to the banter of the paper-hatted women! He gazed about him like a sightseer, craning his neck to look at the flags of all the nations which were hung across the street. Remnants of old coronations and jubilees, they fluttered with a sad defiance in the wind, the blue, black and white of Esthonia, the black, white and red of Germany before Hitler, Albania’s eagle, the forgotten flags of Latvia, Lithuania, Czechoslovakia, Serbia, Hungary and Montenegro. They came out of the rag-bag of a dead Europe, they were the attic-rubbish of a departed age.
But certainly they brightened the town. It had been quite transformed by the flags and the roses; and Stephen was troubled by a sense of unfamiliarity with the street which he walked along every day: an odd feeling, dreamlike and disconcerting. But here, at any rate, was a homely figure: that of Mr. Handiman with his fishing-rod over his shoulder and an old wicker creel on his back. Stephen remembered that he was responsible for the roses and hastened to congratulate him.
“Mr. Handiman,” he said, shaking him warmly by the hand, “you are like the Goddess Flora!”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Handiman, looking strangely at him.
“Roses and raptures!” exclaimed Stephen, making a sweeping gesture towards the window-boxes and tubs outside the Town Hall; but Mr. Handiman had already fled, leaving Stephen with his arm upraised like a bishop giving a blessing. From time to time, as he hurried up the street, Mr. Handiman glanced back over his shoulder in a puzzled and rather furtive way, which made Stephen feel extremely uncomfortable; and he was also worried about the behaviour of his lame leg, for it seemed even stifler than usual and caused him to walk with a sort of goose-step which felt quite as ridiculous as he was sure it must appear to the passers-by. After a few paces he paused to rest it, leaning upon his stick, and in that moment it was borne upon him that he was drunk. Drunk, by God, within less than an hour of the official opening! Simultaneously there emerged from the Town Hall the Mayor himself, in his robes and chain of office. He waved to Stephen and hastened towards him.
“My poor chap,” said the Mayor kindly. “Your leg’s giving you trouble, I’m afraid.”
“A mere twinge,” Stephen managed to say.
“Ah, you make light of it, I know.” The Mayor put a hand upon his shoulder. He looked ridiculous in his robes, yet curiously engaging, like a well-loved uncle dressed up as Father Christmas. Eager as a schoolboy, be burst out:
“I’ve got some news for you, Stephen. Foreign visitors are beginning to arrive!”
Stephen thought it best to say nothing. He fixed his eyes upon the heavy medallion at the end of the Mayor’s gold chain and orientated himself by that fixed point as by a star.
“To be precise,” said Jno. Wilkes, “one foreign visitor; but we hope—like the first swallow, eh—that he’s the forerunner of many. I met him in the street as I came to the Town Hall to change: an obvious foreigner, you could tell by his clothes. And he was smoking a large cigar. I said to myself, as soon as I caught sight of him, ‘Dollars,’ I said. Even our little town is doing its bit!”
The Mayor chattered happily on, but Stephen was not listening. He was wondering how long it would take the Mayor to perceive what must be obvious to everybody: that his Festival Organiser was drunk at midday on the opening day.
“Stephen,” said the Mayor, with sudden gravity. And Stephen thought: He’s twigged at last. He’s going to tell me to go and lie down, and on no account to show myself till I am sober. He liked Jno. Wilkes and felt sorry that he had disgraced him.
“Stephen, have you ever considered taking any active part in public life?”
Stephen stared at him helplessly.
“You’ve done a great deal for this town in the last few months. I only want to assure you it hasn’t passed unnoticed. Noakes and I were talking about you only yesterday. The Council will have to elect a new Alderman shortly.” Becoming aware of Stephen’s blank and bewildered look, he added:
“You mustn’t think of Aldermen as city fathers with watch-chains stretching across their tummies. Not a bit of it! What the Council needs is a bit of young blood to liven it up. So if you’ll allow us to put your name forward— well, there it is. Think about it, my boy, when your present anxieties are over, give it a little thought.”
When the Mayor had gone, whisked off in a hired car to fetch the Mayoress to the opening ceremony, Stephen was able to collect himself sufficiently to walk the hundred yards or so from the Town Hall to his shop. A most improbable picture of himself as Alderman tickled his fancy and reawakened his feeling that the spirit of comedy was stirring, that some large jest was in the making, that Dionysus had mischievously chosen the town’s little Festival as his theme for a piece of improvised sport. This feeling was fortified as he approached his shop and saw in the street outside it that which at first he took to be a circus but which resolved itself into a herd of donkeys, at least a dozen of them, all sorts and sizes, little ones such as children ride at the seaside, big raw-boned asses which hucksters drive in carts, donkeys of every shade from pale beige to dark brown! Thus was manifest the Power of the Press; but Stephen with his head full of furious fancies preferr
ed to ascribe the whole thing to that ancient president of the amphitheatre and the grape-gathering, the boisterous son of Zeus and Semele whose immanent presence he had been conscious of all the morning. The satyr’s unexacting master, the beloved of the nymphs, the charioteer of the swift panthers, the wearer of the crown of vine—let him now take charge. He who lords it alike over feast, fiesta, fête and festival, thought Stephen—wildly rejoicing now in his drunkenness which only a few minutes ago had appalled him—he who presided long ago over the orgies of Thrace and who now broods kindly over the Vicar in charge of bowling for the pig—let him take as his tribute our balloons and our donkeys, our flags and our roses, our Odo and Dodo and even our chinchilla rabbits ! Let him mix them up together and make what he will of them !
Having performed this strange act of dedication, Stephen patted the nearest donkey heartily on the rump and strode somewhat unsteadily into his shop.
Faith came out into the front to meet him. Whatever turmoils she had been through during the morning had left her unmoved. Wherever she stood or sat, thought Stephen, she carried about with her that oasis of quietude! She regarded him now with calm and untroubled eyes and gently took his arm. Thus had her mother and her grandmother, thus had some six generations of farmers’ wives, welcomed their wayward men back from market.
Leading Stephen towards the back room, she pronounced the single word:
“Peart.”
“What?”
“What we call market-peart,” she explained, patiently and without reproof. “We used to say father was peart if he could just climb into the trap and let the old horse bring him home after market; but nowadays with the motor-car he has to be more careful. Hot black coffee’ll put you right.”
She paused outside the door of the back shop.
“There’s nothing to worry about. Bloody Mary hasn’t got measles, it was too many strawberries. The modesty of the elocutionists will be preserved; we are running up slips for them. The chinchilla rabbits have been found, all except one which was eaten by a greyhound. We have thirteen donkeys here at the moment and forty-three offers of donkeys by phone and wire.”
She put her hand on the door-knob.
“One more thing. Your many-seeded gentleman has arrived. He’s peart too.”
She opened the door, and Stephen’s heart gave a great and glorious bound, for it seemed to him as if his prayer had been miraculously answered. There sat at Faith’s untidy desk, with a steaming cup of coffee in front of him, if not Dionysus, at any rate his emissary, his chief of staff, his plenipotentiary upon earth. An enormous brick-red Westerner was balanced precariously on the back of his head. In his hand he clutched, as if it were a talisman, one of the balloons which had been sent off to advertise the Festival. He was gently snoring.
“Polly!”
His eyes opened, those lazy laughing eyes, and for a moment he looked about him in bewilderment; then, as he jumped up, the whole office seemed to contract until it was about the size of a rabbit-hutch. The tall crown of his hat just touched the ceiling.
“Stevie!”
He seized Stephen’s hand in his great hairy one, and with his other hand bounced the balloon on Stephen’s head. Thus they performed a foolish sort of jig together, while Faith quietly pulled the chairs out of their way. When they had stopped for lack of breath Polly said contritely:
“Oh, Stevie, your knee! I forgot about your knee.”
“It’s all right when I’m sober,” said Stephen.
“I feel kinda bad about that knee.”
“Forget it,” said Stephen. “You got my letter, then?”
“Sure I got your letter. It caught up with me in a place called Magnolia, Alabama. I was there with my circus. I’ve gotten a circus now, Stevie, five elephants, two lions, a grizzly bear called Theodore Roosevelt, the only duckbilled platypus in the United States, forty-eight horses, ten clowns, some performing fleas, and six ecdysiast dancers. Ecdysiast’s strip-tease. And I left that circus in Magnolia, and came over in the Lizz. No more flying for me, Stevie! And then I got your balloon.”
“You got my balloon?”
“I-got-your-balloon. I went to see about a zebra at Clifton Zoo. That’s Bristol—you know. I want to buy six zebras, Stevie, for the ecdysiasts, because they’re kinda graceful things, the zebras, I mean (but you ought to see those dames), and I reckoned they’d match the dames just swell. Nobody’s ever thought of teaming up a strip-tease act with riding on a zebra. Get this, Stevie—I’d have those girls in black and yellow striped dresses and as they cantered round the ring on the zebras they’d strip-tease. Can you beat it? Trouble is the man at Clifton says you can’t really train a zebra so’s to make it a nice quiet ride for a young lady. Anyhow, there I was looking at the sea-lions and suddenly a balloon comes down out of the sky and falls in the pond, and the sea-lions start poking it with their noses. I saw some writing on the balloon, so I hooked it out with a stick. And here it is, and here I am.”
Faith had gone upstairs to fetch another cup of coffee. She put it on the desk and said to Stephen: “Drink that.” Polly went on:
“I’ve had that balloon on my mind for a week. I went back to London and tried to find out how to feed a duckbilled platypus: ours is on hunger-strike. And all the time I was worrying about that goddam balloon. It dropped into the pond right at my feet; it was as if you’d sent it me. I didn’t mean to come down before the end of the week; but I jest couldn’t wait. So I got on a train which took me seven times round England before I got here. It’s a swell little island, Stevie, but all the railway stations look alike and by the time I’d seen each of ’em seven times I’d had enough. There was no diner and no bar; but luckily I had a flask.”
“He had a flask,” said Faith softly. “You two had better drink your coffee. It’s half-past two.”
“My God!” said Stephen suddenly. “The Beauty Competition! Did you tell the Mayor?”
For once Faith was startled out of her customary calm.
“Oh, Stephen! How awful. I meant to ring him up and I put the M.P.’s telegram on my desk, but I suppose it got mixed up with the donkeys. How awful What shall we do now?”
Stephen glanced at Polly. The spirit of comedy was on the march. Let Dionysus have his head!
“Polly.”
“Yes, Stevie?”
“Do you think you’d be capable of judging the final of a Beauty Competition?”
Polly threw back his great head and laughed.
“Could I judge a Beauty Contest? Could I? Stevie, I’ve been judging Beauty Contests all my life. I started when I was about fourteen. There were ten little girls in my class at school and I placed them one, two, three, four, all the way down to number ten. I’ve been judging my private Beauty Contest ever since. Could /judge?” He gulped his coffee. “Let’s go.”
Part Five
I
A Small boy, one of those numerous alley ragamuffins who obtained hooks from Mr. Handiman on indefinite tick, had taken it upon himself to give an unofficial commentary upon the Fishing Match. He trotted along the banks of the Bloody Meadow shrilly crying the latest catches; and now for the third time he returned to Mr. Handiman’s peg and announced:
“Number Two-eight-nine’s got another roach. That makes seven. ‘E pulls ’em out as easy as shellin’ peas.”
This didn’t mean, of course, that Number Two-eight-nine was necessarily winning; for nearly a thousand competitors lined both banks of the river for several miles. Who could say but that downstream or upstream someone beloved of fortune had drawn out Leviathan with an hook? However, if Number Two-eight-nine had really caught seven roach already it was probable that he had been lucky enough to find a whole shoal on the feed, and would catch a good many more before the contest was over. Mr. Handiman’s chances began to look very slight indeed; for he had caught nothing at all. He hadn’t even had a bite.
The positions, marked by numbered pegs, had been drawn for some days ago; and it happened that Mr. Handiman’s peg wa
s close to the spot where Lance and Edna had been lying on that Sunday afternoon. Even before he put his tackle together his hopes had begun to fade, for a gravelly ledge ran far out into the river and he could see that he would have to make a long and difficult cast to reach the deeper water. Moreover, immediately downstream was a big patch of yellow brandy-bottles; and it was clear that the current would carry his line towards them and that at the end of every cast their stems would entangle his hook. There was no shade or cover where a good fish might lie save for a single willow-tree twenty yards away; and besides being practically out of reach, this tree was guarded by a phalanx of brandy-bottles. Mr. Handiman, who was accustomed to wandering along the bank in search of likely eddies—who stalked his fish, indeed, like a big-game hunter—felt helpless and frustrated because the rules compelled him to remain in this one unpromising spot. He felt as if he were tethered to his peg, like a gipsy’s pony on a common which sees delectable grazing all around but cannot reach it.
His sense of constriction, of lacking elbow-room for his fishing, was increased by the proximity of the competitors on either side of him. His immediate neighbour upstream was accompanied by a girl, and the one downstream had brought no less than three women to give him encouragement. From time to time these women cried loudly:
“Eow, ’e’s got a boite!”
“’Is float’s gone deown!”
“Neow, it in’t a boite. ‘E’s caught up on the bottom!”
Mr. Handiman, dragging up a long water-lily stem every few minutes, was conscious of a feeling of malicious satisfaction each time he heard of his neighbours’ misfortune; but he sternly reproved himself for an emotion so unbecoming to a follower of gentle Izaak Walton, who had written that all anglers were brothers. This, he reflected, was what fishing competitions did to you; they engendered jealousy and envy. Never would Mr. Handiman take part in one again!
