‘Okey dokey. And I’d get some rest yourself, if I were you. You’ve spent a long time lazing around. The first few days are sure to take it out of you. Goodnight, Max, and . . . congratulations.’
‘Er . . . thank you.’
Within moments she had gone back to sleep and was snoring contentedly. I walked quietly back to the other side of the paddock. I had the distinct impression that somebody had just got one over on me, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how they had done it.
I settled down on the ground and quickly fell into a deep, dreamless slumber. I seemed to be asleep for only moments; then I heard the sound of Alexander ’s footsteps approaching the paddock and I knew it was time for my new life to begin.
I wolfed down some food and took a good long drink of water from the trough. Alexander led me out of the paddock and buckled me into the unfamiliar harness that connected me to the caravan. When all was ready, he gave the reins a gentle twitch and I tested the weight of the caravan, remembering Betty’s tip about pulling to the right. The caravan moved easily and we started for the track that led to the gate. As we moved past the paddock, I stole a glance at Betty.
She was lying in her familiar sleeping pose, but, as we went by, I thought I saw that her eyes were half open and she was watching us go. And . . . I could have been wrong, but it seemed to me that her eyes were sparkling unnaturally, as though they were heavy with tears.
But I could not think about that now. I was taking my master to his next engagement and there was a great distance to travel before we reached our destination. We were a team and now we had to work together to make Alexander a success.
Chapter 14
That’s Entertainment
I don’t wish to blow my own trumpet or anything, but it worked like a dream. Alexander ’s act had needed just one more element to make it different from all the other jesters’ acts out there; I was that element.
Within just a few weeks of the two of us teaming up, his act was going down a storm, wherever he appeared. And I like to think that I played a major part in achieving this transformation.
Picture the scene if you will. A small market town, somewhere in the vastness of the great plains. A bustle of people moving around the various stalls in the town square, going through the monotonous routines of their everyday lives. Suddenly, heads lift in curiosity, as a brightly painted caravan trundles into the square, pulled along by a magnificent buffalope in his prime. (Me, naturally.) At the reins, sits a mysterious figure in multi-coloured clothing. And then, wonder of wonders, the buffalope lifts his handsome head and begins to proclaim in a voice that booms across the square.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Step right this way for the performance of a lifetime! Fresh from his triumphs in the palaces of Jerebim’ (completely fictitious, this bit, but that’s Show Business for you) ‘I give you the Lord of Laughter, the Sovereign of Silliness, the Monarch of Mirth . . . yes, it’s Alexander Darke, Prrrrrrrince of Fools!’
The title was my idea. Before that, he’d just been plain old Alexander Darke, but I had pointed out that his biggest rival in this field, the celebrated jester, Jonathan Jolly, billed himself as King of Comics, so we needed to give Alexander an equally regal title; it was I who urged him to have this title painted onto the side of the caravan, as a kind of travelling advertisement.
You see, if I have learned one thing about show business, it is this: you can’t beat a big entrance. Alexander ’s routines weren’t much different than they’d been before . . . oh, I’d honed them a bit, told him to dump a few jokes that, frankly, weren’t up to scratch, but, other than that, his material was the same as it had been before.
But now, the arrival of the caravan was causing such a stir that people came to the performances in a more receptive state of mind, ready and eager to be entertained and, in that, my master did not disappoint them. When it came time to pass around the hat, he was finding to his delight that he was getting twice or even three times as much as before.
I, for my part, was enjoying this new life. I felt that I was doing much more than your average beast of burden; that I was, in fact, an integral part of the act. Of course, I had to play all this down when I returned to the paddock every evening and found Betty waiting for me, ready to hear about the latest adventure. Having taken her ease all day, she would be wide awake and now it was I who was desperate to get some rest; but I always made a point of telling her what had transpired that day, before turning in for the night. I thought it was the least I could do.
Of course, things didn’t always go as smoothly as they might. I well remember the day that we pulled into the square of a grubby little village called Rotherpike and we were astonished to see another caravan, entering from the far side of it.
Alexander gave a groan of despair.
‘It’s Jonathan Jolly,’ he said.
The caravan was pulled by a rather skinny grey horse and seated at the reins was a dark-haired, bearded fellow who was so fat, he was almost bursting out of the red and yellow jester ’s outfit he was wearing. He was strumming a mandolin and singing in a deep, fruity baritone.
Greetings all you people Please step along this way The reigning King of Comedy Is visiting today
With jokes and japes aplenty To brighten up your day So stop your toil and hurry It’s time for us to play.
I’m Jonathan!
I’m Jolly!
So give me all your lolly I’ll make you laugh and cheer And shout hurray!
‘Hmph!’ I muttered. ‘He’s not what you’d call a gifted singer, is he?’ ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Alexander gloomily. ‘Look at them running to his caravan!’
This was true enough. The populace was crowding around the Jolly caravan, as though their very lives depended upon it.
‘It’s just the song,’ I protested. ‘Anyone can have a song. Let’s set up at the other side of the square and I’ll introduce you. We’ll soon see who can draw the biggest crowd.’
But the master shook his head.
‘No sense in even trying,’ he said. ‘He’s been pleasing crowds for years; he’d wipe the floor with us.’
‘Well, there’s nothing like confidence, is there?’ I muttered. ‘With an attitude like that, you’ll never get to the top.’
But he wouldn’t be pushed into a contest.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’ll put this one down to ex - perience. Let’s move closer and watch his act. You never know, we might learn something.’
Reluctantly, I did as Alexander suggested, moving as close to the jester as the eager crowd would allow me. By the time we had found a suitable position, the big man was standing on the steps of the village fountain and was beaming down at his audience. I took an instant dislike to the man. There was something course and brutish about his demeanour and his costume looked as though it hadn’t had a good wash in years. His tiny blue eyes were cold and crafty and I got the impression that behind the image of the knockabout fool, there actually lurked a rather unpleasant individual, who only had his own best interests at heart.
‘Good to be back in Rotherpike,’ he announced in a deep, rumbling voice that seemed to fill the entire square. ‘Of course, this village has always had a special place in my heart, because this is where I met my wife all those years ago. You know, it’s a wonderful thing to have the love of a good woman for twenty years . . . let’s hope she doesn’t find out about it!’
Much to my surprise, this poor opening joke was met with a chorus of hearty guffaws. He continued in a similar vein.
‘You know, I still hold her hand wherever we go. That way, she can’t do any shopping!’
He winked outrageously at the crowd and there was more laughter.
‘Seriously though, it was our anniversary the other day. She said to me, “I’d like to go somewhere I’ve never been before.” I said, “How about the kitchen?”’
More laughter. I looked around in astonishment.
‘Master, he’s just slaggin
g off his poor wife,’ I observed. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
‘Well, look at the audience,’ said Alexander. ‘They’re lapping it up.’
This was true enough. The thing is, it wasn’t just the menfolk who were finding this amusing; many of the ladies were nudging each other and having a cackle too.
‘I decided to buy the wife something nice,’ continued Jonathan Jolly, ‘So I got her one of those new-fangled mud-packs. She looked great for two days. Then the mud fell off.’
Pause for breath.
‘She complained of feeling ill so I took her to a doctor. He said, “I don’t like the look of her.” I said, “Neither do I, but she’s good with the kids.”’
Now the crowd was positively roaring with laughter and, I noticed, so was Jonathan Jolly. I didn’t think it was good policy to be laughing at his own jokes, but the crowd didn’t seem to mind. At last, he decided to switch subjects.
‘A man wakes up one morning and discovers that his mutt has gone cross-eyed. He takes him to a vet. The vet picks up the dog, looks into his eyes and says, “I’m going to have to put him down.” “Why?” cries the man. “Because he’s cross-eyed?” “No,” says the vet. “Because he’s too bloody heavy!”’
Bellows and shrieks came from the audience now.
‘By the way, what do you call a mutt with no legs? It doesn’t matter; he won’t come when you call him, anyway.’
Another brief pause and then he was off again.
‘I met a pirate the other day. He had a peg-leg, a hook for a hand and an eye patch. I asked him what had happened. He said, “I was swimming and a kelfer bit off my leg, so I had the peg-leg put on. Another time, I was reaching down into the water and another kelfer bit off my hand. So I had the hook put on.” “What about the eye patch?” I asked him. “Well,” he said, “I was on deck one day and a seagull pooed in my eye.” I was amazed. “You lost an eye because of seagull poo?” I cried. “Not exactly,” he said. “It was the day after I had the hook put on . . .”’
A brief pause ensued while the slow-witted audience thought about the joke . . . and then the laughter emerged, louder than before.
‘A vampire bat comes back to his cave covered in fresh blood. All his mates want to know where he got it. So he takes them to the cave entrance and says, “See that big tree over there?” “Yes,” they say. “Well, unfortunately, I didn’t!”’
And so it went on, the seemingly inexhaustible supply of jokes being fired thick and fast to a very receptive audience. When he took his final bow, the applause was heartfelt and, when he came around with the hat, plenty of coins were flung into it. I noticed, however, that he left our caravan until the very last. When he finally approached us, Alexander dropped some croats into the hat.
‘A masterly performance, Mr Jolly,’ he said. ‘You are indeed, the King of Comedy.’
Jolly gave a bow, but there was something decidedly mocking in the way he did it. As he straightened up, he paused to look at the words painted on the side of the caravan, and he raised his bushy eyebrows in mock surprise.
‘A fellow comedian,’ he observed. ‘Prince of Fools, indeed! It would seem I have some competition.’
‘Oh, not at all,’ Alexander assured him. ‘I am but a beginner in this line of work. Your reputation is known throughout the land, I would not even try to put myself at your level. But, everybody must start somewhere.’
Jolly gave Alexander a sly look.
‘I suppose a prince is somewhat lower down the scale than a king,’ he observed. ‘You’re admitting your inferiority in your very title. Little wonder you didn’t dare to take me on.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t so much that I didn’t dare,’ Alexander assured him. ‘It just seemed pointless to be adversaries, when there’s the whole world to perform in. And, while a little healthy competition can be a good thing, there’s no point in trying to shout each other down. That would be a pointless exercise.’
Jolly smirked.
‘It seems to me that I have heard of you, Mr Darke.’ ‘Really?’ Alexander smiled. ‘Good things, I hope.’ Jolly examined his fingernails.
‘Depends on your definition of good,’ he said. ‘I believe I was told that there was a new pretender travelling the country trying to pass off some of my old material as his own.’
‘I can assure you, you are misinformed,’ Alexander told him. ‘I perform only my own jokes, Mr Jolly. Ones I have written myself.’
‘Really? That’s not what I was told.’ Jolly laughed unpleasantly. ‘A chancer from Jerebim, they said. Somebody who didn’t have the first idea of how to tell a joke, yet determined to keep on trying to make a living out of it.’
I could hold my tongue no longer.
‘How dare you suggest that my master would do such a thing?’ I complained. ‘His material is totally original, which is more than I can say for the sorry collection of wife-hating jokes I just heard you deliver.’
Jolly’s eyes bulged and his mouth fell open. He stared up at Alexander.
‘You’re . . . a ventriloquist?’ he asked.
‘No, sir,’ said Alexander, still trying hard to be civil. ‘I have a buffalope with a quick tongue and an opinion, nothing more.’
Jolly’s face turned a deep shade of red.
‘Well, you ought to teach it to mind its manners and keep its opinion to itself. The ruddy cheek of it!’
He glared up at Alexander.
‘You take my advice, son, and look for another line of work. There’s only room for one jester in these parts and the post is already taken. I’ve been civil to you today but, if I see you again, I won’t be anything like as nice. You got that?’
Alexander stared resolutely back at Jolly.
‘I hear what you’re saying,’ he said. ‘But there’s room for more than one jester in the world, and I would rather we were friends than enemies.’
‘Tough,’ snarled Jolly. ‘I don’t need any more friends. You’ve been warned. Don’t let me see you again.’
And, with that, he spun around on his heel and stalked back to his own caravan.
‘What a charmer,’ I observed. ‘Honestly, Master, you should go and demand back the coins you just gave him.’
Alexander chuckled.
‘I doubt that would do anything to improve his mood,’ he said. ‘He may be Jolly by name, but he’s certainly not jolly by nature. A pity, it would have been better to be friends.’
He sighed.
‘Come on, Shaggy, there’s no point in trying to work this crowd; they must be all laughed out. Let’s head for home.’
He clicked the reins and I started moving out of the square.
‘You’re not going to take any notice of him, are you?’ I asked, as we headed back along the road that led onto the plains.
‘Certainly not,’ he assured me. ‘A man cannot claim exclusive rights to all the humour in the world. That’s a ridiculous notion if ever I heard one.’
‘If you can call it humour,’ I said. ‘I found a lot of it rather distasteful. You wouldn’t make nasty remarks about Mistress Sarah, would you?’
‘Well, no, but that kind of comedy can be very popular. You saw the way the crowd reacted . . . and lots of the audience were women.’
‘Yes, Master, that’s what makes it seem worse. How could they laugh when their whole species is being got at? It seems to me that humour of that kind is just plain nasty. I think you’d be well advised to steer away from jokes that attack.’
‘Most comedy attacks something,’ said Alexander. ‘What about all the jokes I do regarding merchants?’
‘Oh well, that’s different,’ I said. ‘They deserve everything you can heap on them!’
Alexander chuckled.
‘Hmm. I don’t suppose this view is influenced by the bad treatment you experienced at the hands of a certain Berundian oil seller?’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Possibly,’ I admitted. ‘But wives are precious things, Master. If I’m ever luck
y enough to have one, I can assure you I won’t go round saying bad things about her.’
This seemed to amuse him.
‘Do buffalope take wives, then?’
‘Of course they do. But I’m a bit young to be thinking about something like that.’
We walked along in silence for a while. All around us lay the barren wastes of the great plains – and I found myself thinking wistfully of the green, lush plains of Neruvia, where I was born. Not that I was unhappy where I was, but I would have liked to visit it again and of course, to see Mama, safe and well. But I didn’t want to dwell on that; besides, the first stirrings of a great idea were forming in my mind.
‘Master?’ I said.
‘Yes?’
‘You know the way Jonathan Jolly arrived, just now? Singing that song?’
‘What of it?’
‘Supposing you had a song . . . a really brilliant one? Funny, witty, full of tongue-twisters. You can play the mandolin, can’t you?’
‘Yes . . . but I don’t know about writing lyrics. That’s not really my strong point.’
‘No problem,’ I assured him. ‘I’ll take care of that little matter.’
‘You . . . you can write songs?’
‘Well, I’ve never really had occasion to try. But I feel sure that if I apply myself, I could come up with something suitably clever. Better than that fat oaf’s caterwauling, that’s for sure.’
‘Hmm. Well, there’s no harm in having a go, I suppose. But even if you can write a song, there’s a more fundamental problem.’
‘Which is?’
‘My voice,’ he said. ‘I’m tone deaf, I’m afraid. Have been ever since I was a child.’
‘Hmm. That’s not the end of the world, either. Not when I have a very well modulated baritone, myself.’
‘You . . . you can sing?’
‘Oh, back in the herd, I was renowned for my renditions of the old buffalope songs. You should have heard my version of Drifting On The Plains . . . or the Big Muddy Wallow . . . though of course they would just sound like an unintelligible series of moos and grunts to you. I’m sure singing in the human tongue can’t be any more difficult than that.’
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