by Jess Foley
‘Ah,’ he countered, ‘but what if she’ve got out and is on the rampage? You ain’t thought of that, ’ave you?’
Beatie moved to the door, opened it and hesitated on the threshold.
‘What’s keepin’ you?’ Eddie said. ‘Losin’ your nerve?’
She turned to her father. ‘Father, make him stop, will you?’
Eddie added quickly, ‘All right, all right. I’m sorry. But just don’t forget to leave the door open.’
This last was a reference to the fact that when visiting the privy during the hours of darkness, neither Beatie nor her sisters, as children, would ever close the door when they were inside. Rather than be shut in they would take their chances with immodesty and sit there with the door open onto the garden.
‘Oh, shut up,’ Beatie said and, with a haughty glance at him over her shoulder, she went outside.
Eddie remained sitting at the table for a few seconds, then got up, and Abbie glanced around to see him opening the door and going out into the backyard.
She was just taking up her sewing basket when the sound of Beatie’s shriek came ringing out from the back garden. Then, as Abbie and her father got up and hurried towards the back door, Eddie came bursting in, carrying in his hands a sheet which, Abbie realized, he must have taken from the washing basket in the outhouse.
‘What have you done?’ Frank Morris asked, but Eddie was laughing so much he could not answer. Throwing the sheet down onto a chair, he snatched his hat from the hook and ran to the door. ‘I’m off to the Harp,’ he yelled and, still laughing, sped out into the night.
Beatie missed him by seconds. She came dashing in at the back door, hair and skirts flying, her expression a mixture of anger, outrage and lingering shock. ‘Where is he?’ she cried, spinning, looking around her. ‘Tell me where he is.’
‘What’s up?’ asked her father. ‘What did he do?’
‘What did he do! He just tried to scare me to death, that’s all. Where did he go?’
‘Out,’ Abbie said, trying not to laugh. ‘Said he was off to the Harp.’
‘Just as well for him.’ Beatie stood in the centre of the room, getting her breath back. ‘I’ll kill him,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll kill him.’
A couple of hours later it was Eddie’s white handkerchief that came in first when the door was opened. Tied to a stick like a white flag in a sign of surrender, the handkerchief appeared and waved about a couple of times before it was followed by Eddie himself. Beatie merely gave him a contemptuous glance and bent her head to her sewing again. Eddie came in, closing the door behind him. As he detached the handkerchief from the stick he burst out laughing.
‘Oh, my God, you should ’ave seen ’er. Sittin’ there like some young queen, the door wide open and the old lantern next to her on the seat. And then up comes the old ghost, all wrapped in white from ’ead to foot. “Whooo whooo,” he goes,’ and he waved his arms in the air. “Whooo whooo” – and she lets out a scream they must ’ave ’eard in Trowbridge.’ He opened his mouth wide, mimicking Beatie shrieking. ‘And her almost fell down the ’ole. I tell you, if she was constipated before, she wouldn’t ’ave been afterwards.’
While Beatie, all dignity, sat silently over her sewing, Abbie and her father couldn’t help but join in Eddie’s laughter, at the same time protesting at his cruelty.
‘And when I told ’em down at the pub,’ added Eddie, ‘I thought they’d laugh fit to die.’
‘So,’ Beatie said, ‘you had to go and tell them down at the Harp, did you?’
At the expression on her face Eddie’s laughter died. ‘Ah, come on, Beat,’ he said. ‘It was only a joke. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.’
‘You never do,’ she replied. ‘Everything’s a joke to you, that’s the trouble.’
Sitting up in bed, Abbie watched in the light of the candle as Beatie sat in front of the glass brushing her hair. When Lizzie and Iris had gone away the sleeping arrangements in the cottage had been changed. The two beds in the rear bedroom were now used by their father and Eddie, leaving the front bedroom with the double bed to Abbie. Tonight she would be sharing it with Beatie.
‘Honestly,’ Beatie said, smiling into the mirror at Abbie’s reflection, ‘I thought I’d die of fright. All that talk of ghosts, and then he goes and does that. Though I suppose I should have expected something. But the way he suddenly loomed up in the doorway, covered with the sheet – well, I thought I would die on the spot.’
Abbie was about to speak when Beatie whispered ‘Sshh!’ and waved her hairbrush in a gesture for silence. From the stairs came the sound of footfalls; either their father or brother was coming up to bed.
‘Listen,’ Beatie said. ‘That’s Eddie, isn’t it?’
‘Sounds like it.’
‘We’ll soon know for sure.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Just wait.’
Three or four minutes went by and then the quiet was broken by a howl coming from the other bedroom. Beatie burst into shrieks of laughter, one hand to her mouth while she sat rocking on the stool.
‘What’s up?’ Abbie asked, bewildered.
The door was flung open and Eddie was standing there in his nightshirt. In one hand he had some pieces of holly. He held them out to Beatie, his face dark with anger. ‘It was you, wunnit?’
I?’ Beatie’s expression was all innocence.
‘Ah – you put this bloody stuff in my bed, under the sheet.’
Beatie and Abbie exploded into laughter.
‘Well,’ Eddie said, ‘I reckon we’re even now, ain’t we?’ He looked from one to the other and slowly his mouth creased into a grin. ‘Ah.’ He gave a little nod of congratulation to Beatie. ‘I reckon the shock you give me more than equals the one I give you.’ He put the holly down on the dresser. ‘I won’t be needin’ these prickles no more tonight. I’ve had me fill of the buggers for now.’ He rubbed his right buttock. ‘You’ll be glad to know that they’re really murder on the arse.’
Later, lying in bed, Abbie and Beatie were still giggling over Eddie and the holly when they heard their father’s footsteps on the stairs. After that there came the sound of the bedroom door closing, then the house was silent.
‘Shall we go to the fair tomorrow?’ Abbie whispered. ‘It would be fun.’
‘It would,’ Beatie agreed. ‘Oh, yes, let’s.’
Chapter Seven
The weather that Sunday remained fine. The sky was a clear blue, just touched here and there with small, hazy drifts of slow-moving cloud. Setting off from Flaxdown soon after an early midday dinner, Abbie and Beatie walked for part of the journey along the dusty road, then left it to take a short cut along a footpath over the fields.
In the grass beside the track scarlet pimpernel and clover grew. In the hedgerows the pink trumpets of the bindweed twined among the brambles with their ripe blackberries, and on the fine boughs of the crab apple trees the fruit was clustered. In the surrounding pastures sheep and cattle grazed, while in other fields the dull gold of the stubble spoke of the end of the harvest.
Old Ford was a favourite venue for travelling fairs, and a couple of times a year one would arrive and its people would set up its accoutrements on the edge of the village, their numbers soon swelled by others who came to set up their own stalls and sell their produce and services.
The excitement generated by the fair would be enormous and on a Sunday, when many of the men were free from their work, the folk would flock from miles around. Today was no exception, and as the pair emerged onto the road again they found themselves joining a stream of people making their way to the fairground.
For some distance before they reached it they could hear the sound of its music drifting on the breeze. As the noise grew, so did the girls’ sense of excitement so that they hurried on, eager to be there. Then at last the fair was before them, and they left the road and moved over the grass towards the crowds and the colourful tents and marquees and sideshows. While a nearby barrel organ
played ‘Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes’ in a swinging, catchy rhythm, the two girls joined the throng of happy merrymakers, caught up in the thrill of it all before they had even drawn level with the first tent.
There were so many people there, among them several faces familiar from Flaxdown, and Abbie vainly cast her eyes about for Eddie who would surely be there with his friends. As usual, apart from the many poorly dressed farm labourers and their families who were there in abundance, there also were members of the gentry from various localities, the men looking uncomfortably hot in their suits and collars, the women dressed to kill in silks and ostrich feather boas, their sons running around in the constrictions of Eton suits and their daughters in embroidered white muslin. Vainly the adult gentry tried to enter into the spirit of the various amusements and pursuits, Abbie noticed, though rarely did they succeed in doing more than appear rather out of place, at the same time putting temporary dampeners on whatever proceedings they participated in.
Most strange of all the strangers there, though, were the gypsies, and the two young women eyed them warily, never allowing their glances to linger on the dark, swarthy faces with their black hair and flashing, arrogant eyes. And many were the children there that day who were told stories of babes being snatched by gypsies and never finding their way home again.
With their pennies, halfpennies and farthings in their purses, Abbie and Beatie wandered around, the air filled with the sounds of chatter and laughter, and the cries of the barkers – the pie sellers, the tinkers, the knife grinders, the cobblers. Briefly the girls hovered outside the tent of a fortune teller, but when the dark-haired gypsy woman pressed them to enter and learn their futures they took fright and, giggling, hurried on.
Moving from one sideshow to another, they watched the quoits-throwing, the horseshoe-tossing, the bowling for a pig. One man had tethered by a chain a dancing bear, a sad-looking creature with dusty, mangy-looking fur that took lumbering steps to the tune of a badly played fiddle. With Beatie crying, ‘Oh, it’s too sad,’ they turned from the sight. The next stand was that of a tooth puller who advertised his service as ‘painless’. The girls hovered on the sidelines for a few minutes, waiting vainly for some toothache sufferer to put the barker’s claims to the test and then, disappointed, moved on again.
After some deliberation they took a ride on the swing boats, their skirts tucked up under their thighs while they pulled rhythmically on the tasselled cords and swung out over the fringe of the passing crowd. ‘There’s our Eddie!’ cried Abbie as she was carried up into the air, and she called out, ‘Eddie! Eddie!’ but with the music and the general hubbub he did not hear and was soon lost to sight again in the crowd.
Afterwards, the girls stopped beside a coconut shy and watched a group of young blades hurling wooden balls at coconuts perched on the tops of poles. The young men, very much aware of the girls’ passing interest, swaggered up to the line one after the other, showing off as they went through exaggerated motions of flexing their muscles and limbering up. They appeared to have more power than accuracy, however, and none was successful until the last, the fifth young man, who, with his fourth and final missile, sent a coconut toppling onto the turf. Amid cheers from his friends he was handed his coconut prize, and as he clasped it he looked at the girls and smiled. When they turned away, their steps were followed by hoots and laughter from the group of young men.
After standing by the merry-go-round to watch the dancing, prancing horses swing past, they entered a marquee where they bought cups of tea served with milk – an unaccustomed treat – and scones spread with butter and jam. Then, the refreshments finished, they rejoined the crowds once more. Outside one particular booth a stout man beat on a drum and called out, ‘Walk up! Walk up! Come inside and see the tightrope dancers,’ while along a narrow apron of a small stage behind him two young girls in spangled tights strutted and danced. To Abbie and Beatie the magic of the invitation was too powerful to resist and after a brief conference they stepped forward and handed over their pennies.
At first the interior of the tent was gloomy after the bright sun, but soon their eyes became accustomed to the subdued light. They sat on a bench among the other spectators, their boots planted in the sawdust while their eyes took in the wire that was stretched six or seven feet above the ground between two stout poles like the masts of a ship.
As the rest of the audience filed in, filling up the benches, the lamps were lit and the show began, and the two bespangled young dancers, now wearing silver crowns on their heads, skimmed nimbly up rope ladders onto small platforms encircling the poles. Then, to the accompaniment of the beat of a drum, and music from an accordion player, they tripped with ease along the tightrope, turning, bowing, bending backwards and forwards, their curls dancing, their pink-painted mouths fixed in smiles. And then, all too soon, it was over and the tightrope dancers were taking their final bows. Thinking their money well spent, Abbie and Beatie joined the other spectators and trooped back outside.
Emerging into the sunlight, they turned in the direction of some lively music and came to where a small group of musicians stood playing, one man a hurdy-gurdy, another a fiddle, and a young woman who played a tambourine. They were playing ‘Love’s Golden Dream’ in a bright, rhythmic tempo. Several young people were dancing to the music, while some of the onlookers sang along with the instruments:
I hear tonight the old bells chime, their sweetest, softest strain;
They bring to me the olden time in visions once again.
Once more beside the meadow land, beside the flowing stream,
We wander, darling, hand in hand, and dream love’s golden dream.
‘Oh, come on,’ Abbie said, ‘let’s join the dancing.’
Beatie demurred for a moment but then, unable to resist, took Abbie’s hand and a second later they were dancing away, their feet skipping over the grass, their skirts swirling and bonnet strings flying.
As the dance came to an end a couple of minutes later, they saw on the edge of the crowd the familiar face of a red-haired young man, Manny, one of Eddie’s friends. Abbie called out to him and he waited as they moved towards him.
‘Your Eddie’s over there,’ he said, pointing, as they got to his side. ‘He’s tryin’ ‘is luck in the shooting gallery. Mebbe you should go and give ’im some encouragement.’
With Manny leading, the two girls moved through the crowd to where Eddie, his hat at a rakish angle, stood at the rifle range along with others of his friends. Nearby, watching, stood a young man holding a coconut, and Abbie realized that he was the one she had seen at the coconut shy, the one who had smiled at them.
As she and Beatie reached Eddie’s side he took a final shot with the rifle. The shot went just wide of the target, however, thudding into the wooden board. As he straightened, shaking his head, he caught sight of his sisters. ‘Come on!’ he bellowed at them. ‘Come and try your luck. You can’t do worse than I ’ave.’ He thrust the rifle towards Beatie, who shrank from it, laughing. ‘Come on,’ he repeated, ‘you’ll be wed soon and there might be a time when you needs to know ’ow to use one o’ these on your old man!’
While there was general laughter from the group, one of Eddie’s friends said, ‘Seein’ as your sister’s to be married, Eddie, I’d ’ave thought you might try to win a little weddin’ present for ’er.’
‘What d’you think I been tryin’ to do!’ Eddie said. ‘I can’t afford to buy ’er nothin’, that’s for sure!’ Then, bending closer to Beatie, he added, ‘Though after what you done last night I ain’t so sure you deserves anything.’ Straightening, he gestured towards the shelves that displayed the various prizes to be won – cheap china mugs and plates, little ornaments of dogs and cats, dolls and gold-coloured lockets on chains. ‘Matter of fact, our Beat, I was after gettin’ you somethin’ from that lot. But I’m afraid you’ll ’ave to be content with the thought; I can’t afford another try.’
‘Why not?’ Abbie asked. ‘You’ve got more money
in your pockets.’
‘Oh, ah,’ he answered. ‘But I needs that for a drink. You wouldn’t see a man die o’ thirst, would you? A chap’s sisters are all very well, but they mustn’t be allowed to come between ’im and a drop of good ale.’
Beatie said, ‘But I’m surprised at you, Eddie – missing like that. You’re so good when it comes to rabbits and rooks.’
‘Yes,’ Abbie added, ‘not to mention the odd suicidal pheasant that throws itself in front of your sights.’
He laughed loudly at this. ‘Ah, but that’s with a good gun, ennit? – one with a straight barrel!’ Contemptuously he set the rifle down, adding with a dark mutter, ‘These damn things are fixed. Ain’t nobody meant to win nothin’ with one o’ these.’
While the sideshow owner glared at the impugning of his rifles, Eddie turned to his companions again. ‘Anyway, let’s go and find the beer tent.’ As he moved away he called over his shoulder, ‘I’d ask you two along, but it ain’t no place for tender young things like you.’ Then, with a wave, he and his friends were disappearing into the crowd.
‘So,’ said a voice at Abbie’s elbow, ‘you’re to be married, are you?’
Turning, she saw that the words, directed at Beatie, had come from the young man holding the coconut.
‘Yes,’ Beatie replied. ‘On October the 14th to Mr Thomas Greening of Lullington. Do you know him?’
The young man shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. But there, I don’t know Lullington.’ He was in his mid-twenties, Abbie guessed. Dark-haired, he was smartly dressed in a crisp white shirt and brown corduroy suit with a pink in his buttonhole.
‘You’re not from round these parts, then,’ Abbie said.
‘No, my home’s in Gravesend.’
‘Gravesend? And where might that be?’
‘In Kent. On the edge of the Thames.’ He added, gesturing off, ‘I’ve been visiting a friend in Frome for a few days.’ He touched his cap. ‘My name’s Louis.’ He pronounced it ‘Lewis’. ‘Louis Randolph.’