by Euan McAllen
A mute turned up with his deaf mate. Both had a good time: one had lots to say to his friend, but couldn’t; the other kept wanting to ask questions, but knew not to bother.
Fete Day was a day of non-work; a time to stroll, relax, chat, gossip, judge, make the point, mock, meddle, conspire, detest. The festivities provided the perfect opportunity to shout at the small, suffocating world; and the Elders who ran it; and that miserable Maze which kept them locked away, ignorant and poor throughout their lives, as it had done to their parents, and would do to their children and grandchildren. The Villagers made the fete. Fete Day might make a villager, but it could not unmake one once made. There were vulgar villagers, bored villagers, slightly bemused villagers, silly villagers – all sorts, but rarely truly rational, restrained, resolute villagers.
Today, on Fete Day, The Village people were bold. Some were even rude to Farmer Giles, to his face, even before they had begun drinking; desperate to offload outstanding resentments. But he was too busy to absorb it or respond. He would just laugh it off and move on. He didn’t have time for piss-taking peasants today. Some thought he had put on weight.
Most children wanted to explode. Some were bullies and wanted to be in the lead. Most were happy to be led. Some lost their heads, some their parents. Some cried. Some screamed. Some flew off the handle. Some ran around in circles. A few adults did much the same. Some children needed – and sought – reassurance, especially those for whom Fete Day was their first time.
Pumped up kids, soaked in the sweat of their own joy, sat on barrels and tried not to roll off, and always failed, some sooner than others: thin kids had the advantage over fat ones; some were pushed rather than slipped. Some played with hoops and hollered. Some shouted obscenities. Of those who told their kids to shut up, some were told to stop being miserable gits by other parents – parents proud that their kids were making the most noise. The babies and most toddlers were clueless as to what was going on, but they knew something big was happening and tried to join in as best they could; even if it was only with a gurgle, or a giggle, or a manic, agitated waving of the arms and thumping of the feet; all with a broad smile. Whatever it was, it was enough to make a mother happy.
For the grownups, there was the usual, traditional game of ‘wall-dismantling’ where two teams had to compete to see which could remove ten stone blocks first. This year, the winners would receive free tickets to see the Bear Baiting.
Another set tradition was the tug of war between villagers: those from the north side versus those from the south. It was popular with the crowd: a break in encroaching boredom for some; the chance to cheer on relatives for others; the stirring of old memories for many. It was popular with the contestants: the chance to let out a lot of frustration; the chance to burn a lot of unwanted energy and yet still feel good afterward. This year the Southside pulled the Northside across the line and half-cheered, and half-booed.
Volunteers had erected the traditional ‘builder’ scarecrow suspects, to be knocked down by the act of stone-throwing: a challenge meant for both kids and adults, all wishing to attack the myths. The big ‘King’ scarecrow had been erected on top of the official Fete bonfire, which by tradition was always built on the same spot, by the duck pond. King Scarecrow was covered in armour made from thin tin plating. He looked like a demonic king, smug under his crown. He was there to scare the kids, to warn them never to try to leave The Village. He would be set on fire to start the bonfire.
There was dancing – for want of a better word – to be had: dancing to tunes played badly by part-time minstrels on badly-tuned instruments. But at least they were loud. Some called it square dancing. Some called it line-dancing. Some called it devil-dancing. Some called it ridiculous. Some wives were forced to dance without their husbands. Some were happy to, preferring to dance with their young children, while their men sulked. Later, when the beer and cider began to flow, the dancing would get better despite the music and sense of balance getting worse.,
On Fete Day, you could let your hair down, forget your worries and troubles, be an equal amongst so-called equals. On Fete Day, you could do the most stupid, reckless things without being labelled as immature, brainless. If you were a kid, you could dump your parents for the day, who in turn could dump theirs if they were lucky. Time to let the hair down.
It was time to get over-excited; get the wife over-excited; become ambitious for a lifestyle change; think about leaving the wife for the mistress. It was time to forget who you were, and your place in the limited, limiting world of The Village; or where, or why. But few achieved this, for forgetting a whole life, even for one whole day, was just too hard to do. Instead, they faked smiles as they faced the fun and forced it to enter their bloodstream like a dirty, addictive drug; and out again when they took a piss or a dump, or threw up the excess of food and alcohol; pretending to play along with the games their kids had sucked them into. For the grandparents, it was more a case of lacking the energy than lacking the will. The excitement was for the younger generations.
Tassilo arrived sulking. Only a few most loyal parishioners had made a contribution to the ‘church street party’ collection box. He had not been prepared to make up the vast shortfall, so had cancelled the event. If The Village people wanted church-funded events then the church had to be repaired first: that was his rule now. Ricardo was at his side, trying to cheer him up, wanting to hold his hand.
Only those same few parishioners made an effort to speak to him, to try and console him. He was shunned by most others: they resented his bingo ban, his bloody stupid bingo ban, but were pleasantly surprised to see that Farmer Giles had organised one. Perhaps he wasn’t such a bad chap after all.
Grimble had to almost drag his girl by the scruff of the neck to the Fete: ‘the Skunks always went to the Fete,’ he said; ‘he was their leader,’ he said; ‘she had to go,’ he said. Sinead pretended to concede to his wishes: today was his day. He demanded she have a good time. She promised though the concept of just having fun and wasting valuable time was a difficult one for her to come to terms with.
Sinead tried to recruit for her church, but this was definitely not the time and place: she was booed and hissed, and even accused of starting the fire – an accusation she vehemently denied. Villagers did their best to ignore ‘the crazy bitch’. Teenage girls stared, took measurements, and moved on quickly. Small boys and girls stopped and stared as if entranced, before running on to the next distraction.
She soon caught the attention of Tassilo who tried to interrupt her recruitment drive by shouting his own message louder than her, so making them both look ridiculous. But at least the boos and hisses turned to laughter. The crazy bitch and the crazy vicar: together they looked like village idiots, as the true Village Idiot could not help but notice, as he crept up to see what all the fuss was about. Religious warfare, thought Mutz as he looked on in bewilderment. The Chief Monk would love to see this. Memories of the monastery made him walk away fast. He needed to escape.
When Sinead gave up the preaching and switched to petitioning – her anti-village hall, anti-tax, anti-old church petition – things really turned nasty. The knives came out, and God was nowhere to be seen. Tassilo tried to wrestle the petition from her grasp. She fought back like her life depended on it; spitting, inciting God to strike him down; calling him the devil in disguise. They drew a crowd: some cheered and clapped, and egged them on; some disapproved for this was not how their vicar was supposed to behave.
‘Floor her!’ shouted one man.
‘Punch the obnoxious prat!’ shouted another, his target being unclear.
‘Leave her alone, you foul man!’ shouted one of the few women who were on the side of the crazy bitch.
‘You’re not fit to run a church!’ shouted another woman. Again the target was unclear.
The petition fell to the ground and was threatened with being trampled into the mud. The
crazy vicar held the crazy bitch in a vice-like grip, preventing her from reaching down to retrieve it. She snatched at his collar and tried to ripped away the hair on his head, shouting ‘you beast!’ She was saved by The Village Idiot: he snatched up her petition and held it safe, tight to his chest until his new friend was in a position to reclaim it, and herself hold it secure. He had not expected Fete Day to be so action-packed.
Ricardo stepped in to cool his lover down with calming words and persuade him to release his hostage.
‘Tassilo, please, act like a vicar. You are looking ridiculous.’
It worked, and Tassilo backed away, but he gave no apology. In his eyes, none was required.
Grimble did much the same: calming his lover and urging her to walk away, head held high.
‘Let’s get the bastard another time,’ he said.
It worked, and Sinead backed away, demanding no apology: in her eyes, an apology from a dysfunctional, disgusting, immoral vicar of a worthless, decaying shell of a church was worth nothing.
Like knackered boxers after a match stopped short by the referee, they threw each other final, piercing looks of hatred and poisonous promises to come, as they walked away in opposite directions; each body involved in its own internal battle as the bottom half wanted to turn round and reengage with the enemy of God. God was on both sides, and neither. Whereas the Devil simply didn’t give a damn. The audience though, had enjoyed every thrilling moment. Time out. Time to heal. Time to pray. Time to build bridges. Time to forgive? Time to forget?
‘Never!’ said the vicar when his partner suggested such.
‘Never!’ said the crazy bitch when a string of similar questions entered her head.
After regaining her composure and absolute self-belief, Sinead had better luck with her petition. Farmer Giles signed it, seeing it as an opportunity to weaken the power of the Elders, and ordered his men to do likewise.
To celebrate, Sinead was tempted by a toffee apple – harmless in her eyes, not too much sugar – and it was wonderful. The toffee shot up into her brain and gave her pleasure second only to good sex. She wanted a second, but dared not ask for it: that would be greedy, and the second would never taste as good as the first.
Later, Sinead was approached by her brother, who wanted to build bridges. She sent him packing, threatening to set her Grimble on him. For the rest of the day, he mostly kept his distance, except for those times when overcome by concern, he tried to confront her about the state of her mind and body: each time she repelled him, threatening to set ‘her gang’ on him. My gang thought Grimble. She never said the word, but Ricardo knew full well that she wanted to say it, shout it. She might despise him, but she would always be his little sister. At times, Sinead could not take her eyes off the two sodomites who wandered around within the crowd; at leisure, like a plague; an infestation of diseased souls. Grimble had to keep dragging her back into his world: a world of high jinks, laughter, and confrontation with the other gang.
Like the Skunks, the Skinned Heads arrived with attitude, turned out in their newly adopted uniform of red shirts – or anything as long as it was red – and black neck scarves, and thick leather belts. When the Skunks saw them, they heckled and took the piss. The Skinned Heads gave as good as they got: mocking the long, greasy hair and smelly clothes.
‘Get your hair cut, you twats!’
‘Only if you take your clothes off and show us your tits!’
That confused the leader of the Skinned Heads.
‘We don’t have tits, stupid!’
That made the Skunks laugh even more.
‘Stupid tosser!’ shouted Grimble.
‘Go toss yourself!’ shouted his opposite number.
They circled around each other; telling each other to fuck off; not wishing to fight but sensing it was coming; wishing for it to arrive sooner rather than later, rather than having to keep thinking about it. Thinking hard usually resulted in a harsh headache for some of them, Grimble especially. And today was supposed to be fun, fun, fun, and, when the bar opened, serious fun.
Esmeralda had tempted Lady Agnes to come with her to the Fete. She had nothing to fear. They were all here: Mutz, Doc, Aunt Rosamund, the girls, even Stevie. She was surrounded by friends. Lady Agnes agreed to it only because two girls disguised her burn. They used their secret invention: face makeup, intended to impress the clients. They lent her their best clothes and turned her into a respectable Brothel Girl. Lady Agnes was impressed, and when she stepped out on to the street, she felt like she was in command again.
Doc arrived early, before the others, with two girls from the brothel. With their help, he set up a table and two chairs, and proud as punch opened his ‘portable surgery’.
‘I’m here to offer free medical advice and assistance when I can,’ he explained to them.
They giggled. They loved their Doc.
His queue was slow to form, but when it did, it grew quickly as The Village people cottoned on to the fact that there was something for free. Some saw him as a medicine man. Some saw him as a witch doctor, but free at the point of use. Some were willing to trust him, take him at face value. Some remained wary, cautious, and even rude when he asked impertinent questions. Some were outright hostile: long division being the long-running grievance. Some abandoned the queue: too afraid to face the music, or not wishing to be seen as sick, or not wishing to wait. Whatever the reaction, Doc didn’t mind. This was what doctors did: feel the suffering as well as heal the suffering. He just wanted to improve their bodies; he explained to suspicious patients. He was not looking to improve their minds. He would leave that to others.
The Village Witch and her idiot were there, to make a killing. She had paid for a trading licence with a love potion: Farmer Giles just had to get a girl to drink it in front of him and she was his, forever; her heart tied to his for as long as she lived, even if he tired of her. Giles could be sold any idea if it smelt right and looked good, and felt heavy when he picked it up. The phial of love potion satisfied all these criteria, and he kept it hidden away in his trouser pocket, and kept touching it to make sure it was still there; the opportunity to use it constantly bugging him like an incomplete harvest, or a pay bonus he had granted to his workers whilst drunk. When he saw Lady Agnes turn up with her friends – looking like a girl from the brothel, a brothel he wanted as his own – he was impressed. The bitch had definitely made an effort. And armed now with his love potion, he no longer had to smack her. He decided to make a peace offering.
When she saw him approaching, a plate in his hand, a smile on his face, Lady Agnes grabbed Esmeralda’s hand and froze, expecting a nasty confrontation. What she got was a miserable, lame excuse for his previous behaviour and the offer of a pork pie. A pork pie: this sad man was offering her, a lady – almost royalty – a pork pie. Lady Agnes was in two minds: laugh or cry. She managed to neutralize herself with a forced smile, and politely declined the offer.
Farmer Giles was not put off. Determined that she take something from him, and so in his mind be in his debt, he insisted she and her friend come and see the Bear Baiting scheduled for later that day. He pushed two tickets at her, almost into her face, until she accepted them, which she did; for which she was forced to say thank you, if only under her breath. He walked away, thinking of the next encounter to come, the one that would change everything.
Some objected to the presence of The Village Witch. Some threw insults her way, and at her prices, to receive the same back. The Village Idiot would just wave and smile, and shout ‘come see what we have to sell today!’ His outbursts scared some off more than the witch’s foul language. He was in his element, though his over-exuberance did not always go down well with The Village Witch. Nor did it rub off well on those he brushed up against, as he tried to share his happiness for the day or persuade them to buy something from her stall. He had too much happiness inside a
nd needed to get rid of some to keep his sanity.
At Simple Simon’s infantile insistence, Sinead grudgingly approached the witch and pretended to take an interest in what was for sale. The tension was clear, and Sinead quickly backed away. She did not need medicine, just God.
The Village Witch drew good custom from those with toothache, or bad skin, or too many spots, or smelly feet, or bad wind. Quite by accident, she and Doc were in a competition. At one point Doc invited her to join him, to combine forces. She declined but was happy to accept referrals. But they would have to pay. They always had to pay.
‘I owe them nothing,’ she said. ‘They forced my mother’s shop to close. They call me a witch. They owe me. So they must pay.’
Some had been coming to the Fete since childhood, and so, on this day, would try to escape back into childhood – Esmeralda included. She would not allow it to be any other way. Aunt Rosamund knew that and positively encouraged it: wishing to do the same, but now just too old, too battle-scarred, too wary. Her guard had to stay up to protect her girls, all of whom were here today (to embarrass some husbands and annoy some wives). They would be avoided by some, spat at by others, endorsed by a few; and wherever they stood space would open up around them, like magic, like bodies repelling anti-bodies. Today, with her flock surrounded by foxes, Aunt Rosamund was the no-nonsense gamekeeper. She often expected trouble but rarely got it. ‘Best prepare for the worst’, she had often told her sister, but her sister had never taken her advice, and now her sister was dead.
Lady Agnes watched Esmeralda having a good time, without a care in the world; and Mutz, he looked relaxed; and Doc was in his element. But she struggled to feel good herself and did not join in. Her initial boldness had evaporated. She felt the crowd pressing in around her: too many peasants; too much noise; too many kids; too much bad behaviour. She kept looking around to see if she was drawing attention, who was watching, who was interested; whether Giles was tracking her. Esmeralda squeezed her hand as and when required, sometimes so hard that Lady Agnes had to tell her to stop.