by James Hanley
‘Your judy’s got no drawers on,’ he shouted in Anthony’s face. ‘I can see all her leg. Up she comes. Down she goes. By heck, I’ll swing you into Paradise!’
The ropes seemed to swell, to screech—perhaps they would give way. The girls’ heads were now resting on Anthony’s breast. His head and face were lost to view behind clouds of brown and black hair. They giggled all over his tunic. He couldn’t see George, and they didn’t care. George himself seemed isolated. Out of the picture. And he was very well aware of it. All he was doing was exercising his great strength, and that fellow Fury was enjoying himself. Suddenly he gave them a vicious, a frantic desperate look as though to say, ‘and this time—well, I’ll swing you upside down.’
The three huddled together in the seat, neither saw his vicious look, nor cared in this moment where they were going. They were enjoying themselves.
But even the Postlethwaite muscles could not stand the strain, and all of a sudden the boat’s swing lessened, it lost its clean flush movement, began to rock, like a small boat suddenly tossed into the wake of a retreating steamer. George hung on the ropes, resting. He was hot, dry and sweating. The boat was slowing down. From behind the cloud of hair Anthony now looked at George.
‘Marvellous! Now you sit down and I’ll have a go,’ said Anthony.
‘I’ve lost me hat.’
‘So’ve I.’
‘Better get your hats, then,’ growled George, one look at whom convinced that he would not sit, or would not swing. He was a little jealous of Anthony. ‘All them Furys is the same,’ he was thinking. ‘You open the blinkin’ ball and they do the dancing.’ He listened to the chatter of the girls. They repeatedly called for their hats. The boat gave a few more gentle swings and then stopped. George sat down. ‘Better go and get your hats,’ he said, frowning at them. ‘Go on! Go and get your blasted hats!’ He looked at Anthony. ‘How’d they feel?’ he asked.
‘Grand! Grand,’ an answer that George did not expect. It was surprising especially from a chap like Anthony. Well, the Navy had altered him all right. Used to be as shy as the devil at one time.
‘Go and get your hats,’ he said.
Anthony broke away from their clinging hands, and went up to George. ‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘Got your shirt out about something, or what?’
George beamed, wiping his features with a large red handkerchief. ‘Lord bless you, no! Me? No, sirree! I told them to get their hats. And now you’ve had your swing I’m going for a drink. Look at me head?’
Anthony looked at his head. The forehead was studded with sweat drops. ‘Let’s get out then,’ said Anthony. ‘I’ve had enough of it. Coming on the horses?’
‘When I’ve had a drink,’ replied the other, now climbing awkwardly out of the boat.
‘What about them?’ asked Anthony, and then he said: ‘Come on, you two.’ He helped them out of the boat.
They dived underneath to retrieve their hats. George kept mopping his face.
‘How’d the swing go really?’ he asked.
‘Grand! It was fine. You can swing a boat, George. I’ve a damned good mind to treat you. Look here! Right opposite there’s a bar. Let’s go in. What about them?’ he asked, as George reached terra firma.
George looked at the girls. He put his hand in his pocket, took out a shilling, and flung it to the sand in front of the girls.
‘There!’ he said, ‘go and amuse yourselves. I know where you come from and who you are. I haven’t enough money for what you want. So-long,’ and linking an arm in Anthony’s they left the area of the swinging boats. ‘Wouldn’t believe it, Fury—they’re young, but a couple of pros. all the same. I’ve seen that kind before.’
‘Wait here,’ Anthony said.
The next moment he had vanished inside the marquee, leaving George standing isolated between two rival coco-nut booths. Anthony came back, carrying a Guinness bottle in each hand, froth streaming down the sides. ‘Guinness,’ he said. ‘All the best, George!’
‘Same to you, mate! And here’s a bloody good fanning for them Huns!’
Later they flung the bottles into the grass and strolled off leisurely. Anthony looked at his watch. Plenty of time. But he must not miss the Gelton train. Daren’t miss Jo. Daren’t forget his mother!
George became suggestive. ‘Let’s have a walk round. We’ll go right round the whole show. Have a smack at everything. Lumme! Them two were a pair. Hope you’re liking it, mate. It’s not too exciting yet.’
Anthony laughed. ‘Don’t tell me you weren’t mad with those two.’
‘’Course I was! Wasting money on that pair. I like a nice tart, a decent tart. There’s bags full of tarts hereabouts, but you have to look hard for a decent one, I tell you.’
‘Hang it, they’re out for a good time same as you and me! Same as the whole lot of us. If one of those Zeppelins came over now and dropped a bomb here, well, it’d get the decent tarts as well as the others. You talk daft, George. Daft! Let’s have a shot at the coco-nuts?’
Anthony went up and paid for a dozen tries, won one nut which he gave to the first child he saw.
George shied, won three nuts. Other children eyed him enviously. Anthony looked at them, and then at George. But George said: ‘No,’ and carried his coco-nuts well out of reach of expectant children. ‘If I win anything at the fair, Fury, if it’s only a boot button or a washstand stand, I take it home. Always take home what I win. Why not, sirree?’
To the left of them stood the hoop-la booth, and by this they stood watching people endeavouring to win cheap vases, useless knick-knacks, garishly coloured boxes of chocolate, alarm clocks. George smiled.
‘Lot a’ mugs,’ he said, ‘and the rubbish over there,’ he went on, ‘there’s them curio booths, and that. You know—peepshows, bearded women——Let’s go there, eh?’
‘Let’s,’ Anthony said.
A feast for the eyes. The Bearded Lady and the genuine article. The Nicaraguan Monster. What the Professor saw! What the Butler saw! The hooded Eagle of India. The Strongest Man in the World. The amazing Japanese contortionists. The female Sword-swallower from Brazil. Inside a Harem. Professor Jackson’s Team of Fleas.
George and Anthony stood before the line of booths, and right at the end a gypsy told fortunes for a small piece of silver. The more contemplative from the vast crowd seemed to hover round these booths. They stood staring at pictorial illustrations in all the colours of the rainbow. They leaned over and peeped, they wondered what was going on inside these mysterious huts and tents. But the others preferred the coco-nuts, the hoop-la, and the merry-go-rounds.
Anthony Fury stood with folded arms watching people of all ages, men and women going in and coming out, and some looked happier for the experience and some looked sad. It was Blacksea’s annual leap from the ordinary to the fantastic, from the drab to the bizarre. This was Blacksea’s day out. They felt one and all that the riches of wonder and curiosity were only their rightful dues. Judging by the thoroughness with which this side of the fair was examined, experienced and enjoyed they were having their due. The town girl came for romance and the yokel came to be astonished. Some came to hear their fortunes told, and quite a few to pick up what the less thoughtful happened to drop.
George and Anthony stood there on this bleak afternoon and watched. Once or twice George had suggested the Mysteries of the Harem, but Anthony was more interested in the fleas, which according to the programme composed a football eleven with ball complete. For only two pence they were out to show a few tricks to their human betters. Anthony was quite amused. To see fleas playing football was a rare treat.
But George Postlethwaite, one hand under his chin, and looking more solemn than he had any right to be, especially with such a large section of happy humanity around, was still trying to make up his mind on the Harem. And he thought also of all the ‘tarts.’ When you came to think of it, tarts beat everything, even fleas who played football. He leaned against Anthony.
‘I don’t know
how you feel, Fury,’ he said, ‘but I feel like picking up a judy. Now why can’t we have a tart apiece, instead of standing round here like a pair of mugs. Look at that one, there! Actually waving to us,’ and he cried: ‘Hello there! Hello! Hello!’ and waved his hand to the young girl with the red tam-o’-shanter. Anthony looked at the three large coco-nuts, and began to laugh.
‘How are you going to manage with them?’ he asked.
‘How d’you mean? Oh, her! Oh, I can manage her and the coco-nuts. Mate, pick up a tart and look like you’re alive! Look! Give that one the wink.’
‘But I’ve got a girl,’ Anthony stammered out at last. ‘I’ve got one, George.’
‘Then have two, Fury. Plenty of them! Have another one.’ He began throwing kisses to the girl in the red tam-o’-shanter, and then observed: ‘Blast it! Just look around, Fury. Now, would you think there was a bloody war on?’
‘Doesn’t look like war here,’ laughed Anthony. ‘But don’t stand gawping. Why don’t you pick her up if you’re all that hard up? S’thought we were going to have a nice time on our own, George! Instead of standing round here.’
‘So you’ve got a girl,’ said George. ‘Look who’s telling me he has a girl. Aw! get away with you! Anthony Fury with a tart! Why, your mother doesn’t believe in any of you fellers having girls. You can’t kid me, mate. I know.’
‘And so do I. I tell you I’ve got a very nice girl, and before you can say knife we’ll be married. Fact. Honest. Her name’s Lynch—Joan Lynch.’
George Postlethwaite looked more than surprised. ‘You’ve got a tart. You have?’
‘’Course I have, you bloody ass! Why shouldn’t I? But I never picked her up outside a booth. No, sir. She’s a real girl, George. Real.’
‘Aren’t these real? Well, I’m damned. You’re getting married. Hang me! Why, when your Peter gets out and he gets married your ma’ll have finished with the lot of you. But is that true, Anthony? You’re getting married! Gosh! I’m surprised.’
‘Come on,’ said Anthony. ‘Let’s see something.’ Dragging George by the arm they went to the end of the row of booths. They halted.
George went on a bit farther. ‘This isn’t the end,’ he said; ‘there’s something round the corner. Tents and things.’
‘Is there?’
‘Yes. Come and look. Here’s a funny name. Professor Doogle. Look at this table. Full of magazines. Buffalo Bills, Union Jacks, Wild Westerns. Magnet. Look at these. Books of sermons. And look——’ George lowered his voice. ‘Oh, I say, come and have a peep. Lumme! Just look! Aristotle’s work. I seen one of them once. Funny bloody book it is.’
They stood in front of the trestle table. Behind it was a tent over which hung a large card bearing the following announcement. Professor Doogle. Renowned philosopher from U.S.A. Appeared before the crowned heads of Europe. Seek his advice. Tell him your story. Tell him your troubles. All advice free.
Anthony read this and smiled. Well, if they hadn’t turned the corner they would never have seen it.
George rattled coins in his pocket.
‘You know, I’ve a bloody good mind to test this professor. What d’you say? Shall we go in? Just for a lark. Never know, do you? These Yankee professors are very funny. I’ll ask him what’s wrong with my mare. Coming?’
Anthony hesitated, then said rather sadly: ‘No! thought we were going to—but it doesn’t matter. I’ll wait. Try your luck, George,’ and he gave him a push.
‘Right,’ said George, and vanished inside the Professor’s tent.
Anthony looked at his watch. A quarter past three. It was growing dark. Suddenly it began to rain heavily and in five minutes the grounds became rivers of churned-up mud. The wind blew the rain upon Professor Doogle’s table. People made dashes for shelter. Many made for the booths. Anthony was on the point of following George, when that young man’s head peeped out of the tent, and lifted a frantically waving hand, and he shouted:
‘Hey, Fury! Here’s your Maury here. S’help me bob! Yow. Maury’s here.’
Then his head vanished. Anthony stood stock-still. George might have said that the whole of Blacksea was on fire. He could hear George laughing inside. He crossed the ground, peeped in through the flap, then fastening his oilskin up, went inside. He saw what he had hardly expected to see in Blacksea. In the darkest corner of the tent he saw his sister. He wasn’t quite sure at first, and he went right up to her. It was Maureen Kilkey, and in front of her, gabbling and gesticulating, was George.
‘Maureen!’ Anthony said. ‘Maureen!’
He couldn’t say another word—not yet. He was too surprised. He stood there looking at her, and then slowly his eyes wandered round the tent. In the other corner sat a man with a top hat, and rather shabby-looking evening dress. It was the Professor, but only for the occasion. Sometimes in order to carry on one’s legitimate business one fell back upon philosophy as a help. And Professor Doogle’s real business was confined to questionable books and holy pictures. Between Maureen and Doogle sat another man. Anthony looked at this man. It was Slye Esquire. He was reading a book. He had not moved or spoken. He remained silent. Anthony looked at Doogle. He might have been a stone statue, or a mummy. Mr. Doogle seemed for the moment non-human.
‘Maureen,’ Anthony said, and he rushed towards her and threw his arms round her neck. ‘But I say—I mean—Maury! What’s all this? What are you doing in Blacksea?’
‘Yes! Lumme, Mrs. Kilkey, we thought you’d got lost,’ said George Postlethwaite. He shook hands with her. The young woman looked at her brother.
‘Anthony!’ she said. ‘Oh, Anthony.’
At this Mr. Slye looked in her direction. The Professor came to life. He fixed his eye on George, who in spite of the overwhelming surprise had not forgotten what he wanted to ask the Professor. He went up to Mr. Doogle.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘according to that card you know everything. All right! What’s the matter with my mare? Won’t pull her load this last three days, not even with an empty lorry. What’s the matter with her? Bet you can’t say? Bet you.’
‘Maureen,’ said Anthony,‘come outside,’ and he dragged his sister from the tent.
They went round the corner, stood in the pouring rain against one of the caravans.
‘Maureen! What’s this? What are you doing here? Are you all right?’
‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘Is mother better?’
‘’Course she’s better,’ replied Anthony, ‘Why? Good Lord! Oh, Maury, it’s such a long time since I saw you.’
He took off his oilskin coat, and put it over her shoulders. He held her in his arms. He was so glad she was here.
‘Maury,’ he kept saying, ‘Maury! Why don’t you come home? Everything’s lousy. Mother’s on her own now. And it’s lousy. She cries over Peter every day. It’s awful, really. Won’t you come? You don’t realize, really you don’t. Even dad! Whenever he writes he always says: “Seen anything of Maureen lately?” What’s the matter?’
She was shaking in his arms.
At that moment George came out. He bawled loudly. ‘Fury! Where are you?’
‘Here, you ass! Right behind the caravan.’
George Postlethwaite rushed up. ‘Oh!’ he said, ‘I see.’
‘You are a stranger, Mrs. Kilkey,’ burst forth George. ‘Your husband’s gone to the war. Went off a week ago.’
‘Look here, George,’ said Anthony. ‘I’m trying to talk to my sister.’
‘I’m not stopping you. But you ought to talk somewhere out of the wet.’
Maureen’s expression was quite wooden. The words: ‘Gone to the war,’ were surging in her head.
‘Listen, Maury! You’ve got to come back. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing in this stinking place. And who are those men, anyhow? Maury, don’t you know that we all want you to come home, especially mother? If you saw her now, you would. Honest you would. Really you would. She’s changed. Gone old. And living in one room. And yet—oh, Maureen!’ he began
shaking her, holding her out at arms’ length, staring at her, then drawing her to him again. ‘Always mother asks about you. Honest she does. She’s so anxious to do things for us, Maury. Even silly things, I mean good things that look silly to some people, Maury. I’m not letting you stay here! Joe loves you. Really. Who are those men, anyhow?’
‘I can’t go back,’ she said, and then with sudden resolution: ‘I’m not going back!’
‘But you must, you must. Think of Joe and Dermod, and mother left to herself. You daren’t blame her. By God, you daren’t. She never did you any harm. Never.’
He became excited, angry and then, the next moment, pleading with her.
‘Maureen! Everything’ll come right again if you come back with me. Nobody’ll ever do you any harm. I promise it. Look how nice it would be if we were all friends again. And dad! He always liked you.’
‘Oh, God!’ she burst out,‘what are you talking about?’ and tried to break free, but he held on to her.
George was the faithful watcher here. So this was where Maureen Kilkey was. Working with a show? H’m! Nice come-down! What would his mother think of it? What she always thought of Catholics. They were queer.
Maureen buried her head on the oilskin. ‘Leave me alone,’ she said. What had he come for? Following her about. Why didn’t he go to the devil?
But Anthony didn’t want to go anywhere except on the six-fifteen express to Gelton and Joan. It was only now as he lifted up her head and looked into her eyes that he realized it was his sister. A moment ago it might have been anybody, not excepting the bearded lady.
‘By God,’ he said, under his breath, ‘what’s happening? you’ve changed too. Everybody’s changing! Maureen, it’s just sheer luck that we met. Come on, look at me, look me in the eye. And no crying either. I’ve done nothing to you. Hold your head up. If George here hadn’t gone into that tent, well, we would have just gone the round of stands and then caught the Gelton train. Maury, I am glad I’ve seen you. Honest I am.’ He looked at George.
George stood leaning against the front end of the caravan, head forward, shoulders slouched, hands flat on the wood behind him, heels dug into the mud. The torrent had now become a steady drizzle. It made little tapping sounds on the oilskin. Maureen’s face felt its coldness. Darkness was growing.