So Long at the Fair

by Pat Herbert

  Bernard had laughed at that. “They had maids and things in those days. The rich ones, anyway.”

  “Yes, yes,” Robbie had seemed ruffled at Bernard’s observation, his train of thought interrupted. “What was I saying? You side-tracked me with all your talk of maids and hair and stuff.”

  “It was you who mentioned the hairdo, not me,” Bernard had pointed out, not unreasonably.

  Robbie’s glare had been frightening. “This is serious stuff, Bernie.”

  “Yes, I know. But I think you’ve told me it all now, anyway. About how she turned and looked at you and then you saw her fall.”

  “Like a stone. I was never so shocked. It seemed so real. And the look she gave me as if – as if I’d pushed her!”

  “Oh dear, but I presume she wasn’t there when you got off the Wheel?”

  “No, she damn well wasn’t.” Robbie had slumped in the chair at that point and lit his pipe. “Blasted woman.”

  “So, what do you intend to do about it?”

  Robbie had sucked on his pipe with ferocity at this question. “What can I do about it? That’s the whole problem. What the hell can I do?”

  His friend’s mood didn’t improve despite the comfort of tobacco, and Bernard had suggested he go home and cool down. The two men had been in danger of falling out, something that had rarely happened. Only once could Bernard recall a rift in their friendship, and that had been a long time ago. They had been solid ever since. Robbie’s temper had almost got the better of him that afternoon, but he had taken Bernard’s advice and left before they could actually come to blows.

  Bernard could understand Robbie’s irritability though, even if he had been irrational enough to take it out on his best friend. It must have been a frightening experience. Poor Alfie, too. How scared that little chap must have been to see the woman look at him and then drop from sight.

  It was very mysterious. The apparition, or whatever it was, obviously wanted to communicate something to someone. About the way she had died or something of that sort. That was usually the case. Something that hadn’t been resolved. A restless spirit. Just like those two little Norwegian children Robbie had helped all those years ago.

  Not for the first time, Bernard thought it must be quite disconcerting to have a psychic gift. Robbie probably felt responsible for this poor woman and was angry because he was impotent to do anything about it.

  His thoughts then turned to Albert and his dead grandmother. He was looking forward to finding out what happened to her. He had no doubt the newspapers would reveal something and set the young man’s mind at rest, or at least give him some answers. Then he could marry his sweetheart. He must ensure Albert came to church, not just for the wedding itself. His congregation was beginning to fall off lately. People were becoming so secular these days, he thought sadly.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  May 1959

  It was with more than a little relief that Bernard greeted the news that Mandy Fisher had been discharged from hospital the Tuesday after the two traumatic visits to the fair the previous Saturday. She was due to collect Alfie from Mrs Harper the next day. He said a mental ‘whoopee’ on being told that little Alfie Fisher would no longer be under his roof.

  Not that he had any real objections to the boy and had even grown to like him a little. Apart from a short altercation on the previous Sunday afternoon, when Alfie had accused him of ‘stealing’ his catapult, they had got on remarkably well.

  However, children en masse tended to frighten him, which he supposed was a bit of a drawback for a vicar and why he never attempted to take Sunday schools. Children often asked innocent but awkward questions, putting him on the spot over sticky points of theism. Added to that, they mucked about, made a noise and left chewing gum stuck to the pews. Thus, he had wisely allotted the taking of Sunday school to the curate.

  

  The good news that Alfie was going home the next day wasn’t the only thing that had cheered Bernard that morning. He had also received a letter which had made him smile uncontrollably for the rest of the day, and he couldn’t wait to tell Robbie what was in it. So, that evening, as soon as his friend was settled with his whisky in the vicarage study, he proceeded to do so.

  “Dorothy’s asked me to go and stay with her for a couple of weeks. A sort of holiday, I suppose,” grinned Bernard.

  Robbie smiled sadly, realising her invitation hadn’t been extended to him as well. “Well, that’s very good news for you, Bernie. It’s been a while since you heard from her, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Bernard, “I replied to her last letter six weeks ago. Have you heard from her yourself?”

  “Not for ages. I think she writes to you more than she does me,” he said, still looking sad.

  He had fallen for the talented clairvoyant when they had met just over ten years ago, only to be usurped by Bernard’s puppy dog eyes and a general air of needing looking after.

  “She says her father’s still unwell but not in any immediate danger, apparently. I think she’s quite lonely, stuck with him all the time. But she’s managing to hold séances and keep busy.”

  “When are you planning on going, old chap?”

  “Oh, in a couple of weeks when the weather’s a bit warmer. Why?”

  “I think you should tell her about the falling lady at the fair.”

  “I will, of course, although I’m not sure she can suggest anything, stuck down there in Exeter. She can’t get away easily.”

  “No, I suppose you’re right. Still, her input could be useful.”

  “Okay. I wish I’d seen the woman too. I wish I had your gift.”

  “I sometimes think it’s more of a curse than a gift to be psychic,” said Robbie thoughtfully. “You’re better off in blissful ignorance. You see, now I know this lady’s in trouble, I can’t forget her.”

  “Yes, I can understand how you feel, Robbie.”

  “Look, I’m sorry about the other day when I lost my temper,” said Robbie, sipping his Glenfiddich with relish. “I suppose I was frustrated, not being able to do anything to help her.”

  “Not at all. I completely understood,” smiled Bernard, sipping his modest sweet sherry with equal relish. “It must be very difficult to see something like that and know this woman – er, ghost – has a problem you can’t solve.”

  “Exactly. You’ve hit the nail on the head.”

  “Poor Alfie, though,” said Bernard thoughtfully. “He must be psychic too. Still, I suppose kids are more resilient than old men like us.”

  “Not so much of the ‘old’,” grinned Robbie.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do. But, although many kids are psychic, they tend to grow out of it when they get older.”

  “Except you didn’t,” Bernard pointed out.

  “Hmm, it’s a cross I have to bear. Anyway, you see what Dorothy thinks. I’m sure she’ll be able to suggest something.”

  “I hope so, Robbie. Another whisky?”

  

  Bernard woke up the next day to the sound of Mrs Harper’s flat feet and Alfie Fisher’s smaller, unflat ones clomping along the landing. He looked at the clock on his bedside table and saw that he had overslept by over an hour. He was relieved he didn’t have a service that morning but not relieved to find he had a headache. It must have been that third sherry he’d had last night with Robbie, he thought.

  He heard his housekeeper pause outside his door and a second later her rap on it. Without waiting to be invited in, as usual, she entered in full sail, followed closely by Alfie clasping his fire engine.

  “So, you’re awake then?” she observed with disapproval. “Your porridge is cold, and your bacon and eggs is congealed.”

  Oh dear, he thought, rubbing his aching head. For once, he wasn’t interested in food; all he wanted right now was an aspirin.

  “Never mind, Mrs Aitch,” he said. “I’ll be down directly.”

  “I’m taking the boy back to ’is mother,”
Mrs Harper informed him. “Say goodbye to the nice man, Alfie.”

  The little boy mumbled a goodbye and turned and ran out of the room. It seemed that a vicar in his night attire wasn’t entirely to his taste.

  “Don’t run, you little squirt,” Mrs Harper called after him. “Wait by the front door for me. Don’t you dare cross the road on your own.”

  Alfie didn’t reply and the next moment they heard the front door slam. Mrs Harper raised her eyes to the heavens.

  “One word from me and ’e does what he likes,” she said. “Can’t say I’m sorry to take the toe rag ’ome.”

  “You’d better see he doesn’t come to any harm,” encouraged Bernard, eager to see the back of her as his headache was getting worse.

  He hoped the aspirin was in the medicine cupboard where it ought to be. The last time he’d needed one he had found only some biscuits where the aspirin was usually kept. He had found the aspirin eventually in an empty biscuit tin in the larder.

  Mrs Harper gave one of her sniffs and told him she’d be back shortly. When she had gone, the vicarage seemed strangely quiet and empty. He thought he’d be glad to get some peace after a week of Alfie’s noise and disruption, but he found he was almost missing him. Climbing out of bed he went in search of the aspirins and thankfully found them in the right place this time. Once he had downed a couple, he proceeded to the kitchen. This room seemed the quietest of all without Alfie playing with his fire engine on the kitchen table.

  He looked around for the kettle, but his head ached so much he decided he couldn’t be bothered to make the tea. Mrs Aitch would do it when she got back. Returning to his study, he saw that Beelzebub was fast asleep in his chair and showing no signs of missing Alfie at all. Bernard smiled. He didn’t blame him. The poor cat had spent most of the week hiding from the boisterous boy’s attempts at friendship and now, at last, he had the place to himself. Bernard listened to his contented purr with pleasure as his headache began to ease.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  May 1959

  Bernard pushed down the window and scanned the platform as his train chugged into Exeter St David’s station. He had butterflies in the pit of his stomach, and his face had come out in nervous red blotches. He hadn’t seen Dorothy Plunkett for over ten years when she had moved to Wandsworth with every intention of making it her home. He had soon begun to feel a tentative affection towards her, and he’d had reason to believe then, and still had, that she returned that affection.

  Although he was never one to rail against fate, deeming that God had a higher plan, he had been distressed when she had to leave the borough within a few short months of their meeting. As they grew close, Dorothy’s mother was diagnosed with a terminal illness and the dutiful daughter had had no alternative but to return to her parental home in Exeter to look after her. Any hope Bernard might have had that she would return once her mother had died and a suitable period of mourning had passed were dashed, however, when she was obliged to remain with her now ailing father. Bernard, being the good Christian he was, tried not to wish Mr Plunkett in his grave and, so far, after ten years or more, he had managed to avoid it.

  Meanwhile, Bernard and Dorothy had kept up a desultory correspondence and now, at last, they were to meet face to face after their long separation. He stared out of the train window, hoping to catch a first glimpse of her as the train came to a standstill. His eyes eagerly scanned the busy platform, but he couldn’t pick her out. Where was she? She had promised to meet him.

  Then he saw her. A rather plump woman, more rounded than he last remembered, was waving at him. He had admired her curvaceous figure then, but it was all too evident that she had put on a lot of weight since he had last seen her. He fought down his disappointment as he humped his suitcase along the platform towards her.

  “Bernie!” she called. “How lovely to see you again after all this time!”

  “You too,” he cried.

  They embraced awkwardly as Bernard put his free arm around her ample waist, while still holding his suitcase in the other. They broke apart after a few seconds and looked uncertainly into each other’s eyes. Bernard could see the years hadn’t been kind to her. The crow’s feet around her once vivid dark eyes and the silver streaks in her chestnut hair bore witness to that. Overall, the extra weight made her look older than her years, even matronly. He tried not to mind, but he did. He was angry with himself for expecting her to have remained the same and angry with her for changing. The image he had kept in his mind for so long was an illusion.

  While Bernard was thinking these unkind thoughts, Dorothy was talking to him eagerly and happily, seemingly unaware of his distraction. “You still look the same, Bernie, dear,” he heard her say. “The years haven’t made an impression on you at all.” He only wished he could say the same of her.

  “I’ve hired a taxi to take us home,” she said, putting her arm through his, as they made their way out of the station.

  Inside the cab, they sat formally side by side, as though they were work colleagues on their way to a business meeting. Bernard wanted to put his arm around her shoulders but found himself hesitating. He liked to think it was because he was mindful that she might not welcome so intimate an action at this early stage in their re-acquaintance, but he knew that wasn’t the real reason.

  Dorothy broke the silence between them suddenly. “I know what you’re thinking, Bernie,” she said. “Oh, I know, don’t try and deny it. I’m a lot fatter than I used to be, and I look a lot older. While you don’t seem to have aged at all or put on much weight – apart from around your middle – I’ve changed from the woman you remembered.”

  He wanted to deny it to save her feelings, but he knew she wouldn’t be deceived. “You’re wrong, Dorothy,” he said slowly, taking her hand. “I’ve aged just as much as you. You don’t remember me as well as I remember you, that’s all. And I know you’ve had a hard time of it with your parents. It’s no wonder you’re – you’re – ” He realised he was going to say she was looking older but stopped himself just in time.

  “No wonder I’m looking older?” She squeezed his hand. “It’s all right, Bernie, I know. You don’t have to tread on eggshells with me. Let’s still be friends, though.”

  Bernard felt like a heel. “Of course, we’ll still be friends,” he cried. “Dear, close friends. We will always be that.”

  She looked sad for a moment, then smiled. Her smile transformed her features, and he saw at once the woman he had pictured to himself all those years. She was still there. Suddenly, he knew everything would be all right.

  

  “Daddy, this is my dear friend Bernard Paltoquet.”

  Bernard shook the old man’s outstretched, quivering hand. It felt like a dry twig, ready to snap at any moment. Everything about him seemed dried up, a mere skeleton of a human being. Dead, but not prepared to lie down, he thought uncharitably.

  “So, you’re the vicar my daughter talks about so much,” said Mr Plunkett without much enthusiasm. “Did you have a good journey?” The man was polite but frosty.

  “Yes, thank you,” replied Bernard with a little smile. It wasn’t returned.

  “Did you always want to be a vicar?”

  Bernard was taken aback by the directness of the question, one which he had been asked in the past and one which he had always been unable to answer. It had just sort of happened.

  “Now, Daddy, don’t badger the poor man as soon as he gets through the door,” admonished Dorothy, coming to his rescue. “He’s had a long journey and he needs his tea.”

  She led Bernard into the parlour where a substantial tea was laid out on a small table by the fireside chairs. It was a warm day and the window was wide open, the smell of honeysuckle pervading the room. Old Mr Plunkett took his customary seat in what was obviously the most comfortable chair, while Dorothy ushered Bernard to the seat opposite and began to pour the tea and hand around the sandwiches.

  He smiled at Dorothy as he listened to her fat
her pontificating on the role of the church in English society today, a subject he seemed to know absolutely nothing about. Bernard, soon realising he wasn’t required to contribute to the man’s monologue, began to relax. Feeling dog-tired, he struggled to pay attention to Mr Plunkett’s words, but they were becoming a drone, or was it the buzz of an early bee close to his ear?

  It was good to be here, after all, he thought drowsily. Dorothy’s company would more than compensate for her father’s, and he was due to stay for two whole weeks. More than enough time to relive the past together and, maybe, to think about the future.

  

  Bernard didn’t warm to Mr Plunkett over the coming days, but luckily, he wasn’t required to spend too much time in his company. Instead, he whiled away the hours and days wandering around the city of Exeter, sometimes accompanied by Dorothy, sometimes alone. It was a city to be admired, rather than loved, he decided. It had been a beautiful city before the War, but now it only showed glimpses here and there of its historic past. The grandeur of some of its buildings remained but many had gone and been replaced by architecture of an inferior type.

  It was towards the end of the second week that he and Dorothy found themselves in Cathedral Close, enjoying what would probably be their last secluded moments together before he returned home. A growing understanding of what they meant to each other had solidified into a bond that seemed unbreakable, even though suggestions of a deeper, more meaningful relationship were carefully avoided. Now they were sitting together in the sun, these suggestions could have become something more concrete, but Bernard had another purpose today.

  He proceeded to tell her all about the strange apparition Robbie had seen. “And not only Robbie saw her,” he finished. “A little boy did too. Twice.”