Apart from that, the news disquieted me for two other reasons. As a young man, my brother had been in trouble for trying to dig up corpses in a churchyard. He said he wanted to raise the devil and that a corpse was needed for this. The other point was that the Landgraves' story has helped to convince me that Ward really is my brother and, as such, has a right to more than his board, lodging and pocket-money, as Nigel and I agreed. It is true that the estate eats up more than it brings in, nevertheless, although the heir cannot sell or otherwise dispose of it, there is nothing to prevent him from developing the place, say, as a guest-house or private hotel.
The grounds, too-they are extensive and the soil is fertile-could be developed agriculturally and made to pay, and there is a large covered market in the nearby town which I am sure could and would take the produce.
However, if Ward has become mentally unstable, as the Landgraves' evidence, given factually and without any show of indignation which, under the circumstances, I could scarcely have quibbled at, most definitely suggests, any attempt on his part at running the estate as a business proposition would be out of the question.
Another complication mentioned by Mrs Landgrave is that she has two young children staying next door with the grandfather and a widowed sister and taking all their meals with the Landgraves. This brings them into daily contact with Ward, so the Landgraves feel a natural anxiety on their account if Ward is becoming what they termed at our interview as 'peculiar'. Incidentally, as Lionel has struck up an acquaintance with these children, I am anxious on his behalf also. I have met the little pair and they seem well-mannered and intelligent and speak better than the village children do. I would not wish (apart from offending the Landgraves, on whose goodwill I am dependent) to forbid Lionel to go down to the village, but if Ward's mind is defective I wonder how safe my little grandson will be if Ward discovers (as well he may, for you know how children chatter) that he is Ward's dispossessor.
Ward has said that he does not want the property, but that was five years ago when I am sure that he was of sound mind. In view of what the Landgraves have told me, I am not able to adhere to that conviction. I am writing to say that I think the first step is for him to see a reputable psychiatrist. I shall be glad and relieved to welcome you to Hill House, therefore, at your very earliest convenience. I trust that, from what I have told you in this letter, you will appreciate that it will not be possible-practicable, perhaps I should say-to bring the patient to your London clinic.
You may still wonder why I gave in to Ward's demands. Of course I would have fought him on the occasion of his first visit to myself and my lawyers, in spite of advice that the odds were against me, for I am not the person to give in at all easily, but the fact is that there was something about his voice and manner-although not in his appearance-which made me almost certain that he was speaking the truth in claiming to be my brother. There was only a faint doubt in my mind. Something in me reached out to something in him, some fugitive memory, I suppose, of our childhood together, although I cannot remember ever really liking him.
I have, as I say, given in about the thirty thousand to be paid him at my death. I still feel that he ought to be compensated for giving up the estate and even with that substantial bite out of my fortune there will still be plenty left, as I say, for little Lionel. However, I have no intention of leaving thirty thousand pounds to a madman. I have discussed matters with Nigel by letter and he fully agrees with me that we should send for a psychiatrist, so do please come soon.
Chapter 6
All The Fun Of The Fair
The fair had its roots in the dim and distant Middle Ages, but the only remaining vestiges of its original function, which was annual trading in goods brought by merchants from miles around and even from foreign parts, were the small booths and stalls on the outskirts of the space occupied by roundabouts and swings and all the other exciting and noisy pleasures on which most of the people (and especially the children) had come to spend their money.
Kenneth and I were in a fever all day. We had hoped to set off immediately after breakfast and spend the whole day at the fair, but Uncle Arthur thought otherwise. After tea was the time to go, he said, so Aunt Kirstie made us rest after the mid-day dinner and when, at last, we were ready to set off, she made us wear our overcoats and told Uncle Arthur on no account to keep us out late.
It was a long way to the bus stop and a long way from the bus terminus to the fair, or so it seemed to me at the age of ten. However, we could hear the raucous music as soon as we turned into Broad Street and I know our steps quickened at the sound of it.
St Swithin's Fair had nothing to do with St Swithin's legendary rain-making. It was so called because it was held in St Swithin's market-place, a large open square behind the covered market where we were taken for an occasional treat to eat Tardy-cakes and look at the puppies, kittens, cage-birds, Angora rabbits, Belgian hares and Flemish giants in the petshop. I can still remember the mingled odours and scents of the covered market-the sour smells of small animals, the heavenly smells of baking, flowers and fruit, the sweaty smell of people and the moist, earthy smell of freshly-watered ferns and plants in pots.
The fair was entirely different from the covered market. It was far more exciting. At any rate, it wildly excited Kenneth and me. We had expected much, but I am bound to say that St Swithin's Fair was no disappointment. Looking back now, after all these years, I realise that few things to which young children (after all, I was only ten years old and Kenneth eight) look forward, do turn out to be disappointing. Youthful imagination coupled with a desperate desire for wish-fulfilment sees to that, and therefore St Swithin's Fair stands out in my mind as one of the high spots in a moderately happy life. We did not need to seek for any kind of compensation. We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
For one thing, Uncle Arthur was to our minds an ideal companion, an easy-going, simple-minded, very indulgent sort of man. He was not native to the village, but came of Cockney ancestors. His mother was a virago who was accustomed literally to throw her husband and sons into the street when they came home drunk, and she had bestowed her thews and sinews and her generous, single-minded outlook, but not her flaming temper, upon Uncle Arthur. He had boxed in the East End for small purses, so was technically a professional, but he was a kindly man who lacked the killer instinct which brings a boxer fame and the big money.
At the fair he soon gave a taste of his muscular quality. He banged with a mallet on a sort of anvil and a weight shot up and rang a bell. He was given a cigar for that. Then he smashed a coconut and was given a whole one in exchange. We were thrilled and delighted, so much so that 'a penn'orth on the mat,' which he urged us to try, made me forget my fears of this sort of feat. I cascaded round the bends with some enjoyment and returned slightly dizzy but undoubtedly triumphant to Kenneth and Uncle Arthur after I and my mat had been fielded by a sweating man in a dirty singlet who stood at the foot of the tower.
After all these years, some of my impressions of the fair are rather blurred, like the reflections of brilliant lights on wet pavements while the rain is still pouring down. I remember that, although it was not yet dark when we arrived, the naked naphtha flares which lit up the scene were already hissing and windblown. I remember the jostling, shoving, good-humoured crowds, the gaily-painted swing-boats, and the raucous, heady, intoxicating music blaring from the roundabouts.
I remember that I nearly (but not quite) ringed a most desirable box of chocolates at the hoop-la stall and that Kenneth tried his luck with an airgun but failed to hit one of the ping-pong balls which were dancing up and down on jets of water, and I remember arguing with him as to whether or not you got a longer ride on the roundabout by taking one of the outside horses rather than one nearer the centre where the machinery and the music were.
'It stands to reason,' he said. 'It's a case of concentric circles. The outside one has the longest perimeter.'
'But it travels slower,' I said, 'so the actual length of the ride
is the same.'
We tried a swing-boat with Uncle Arthur at one end and the two of us at the other. I did not like this very much because, as the boat swung higher, it seemed quite possible that at a certain point we could go clean over the top and loop the loop, so I was relieved when our time was up and the man in charge grounded us with a long wooden plank which jarred the boat uncomfortably and alarmingly but soon brought us to a standstill.
Uncle Arthur bought us bullseyes, brandy snaps and lardy-cakes and we drank so-called lemonade. Later on we had sausage rolls and ice cream. (Ice cream was a rare treat in those days and we seldom bought it for ourselves because it disappeared so quickly.) Soon after this, a clock on St Swithin's church struck ten and Uncle Arthur decided that it was time to think about going home.
We pleaded that there were several alleyways among the stalls which, so far, we had not explored and Kenneth (always much more generous and thoughtful than myself) said that he wanted to buy a present for Aunt Kirstie but had not seen anything he fancied she would like.
In one of the quieter by-ways there were stalls selling fancy goods such as sachets of lavender, garish pincushions covered in bead-work, boxes ornamented with sea-shells, fancy handkerchiefs and brightly-coloured hair-ribbons. The prices seemed high, so Kenneth and I (rather grudgingly on my part, I must admit) went shares in a pale-blue handkerchief which had a knot of pink flowers in one corner surrounding the letter K. Uncle Arthur put it in his pocket so that we should not lose it and a moment or so later we found ourselves on the edge of the fairground opposite a large marquee.
Behind it a narrow thoroughfare had been left so that traffic could still flow. On the other side of the thoroughfare was a pavement for foot-passengers and abutting on to this stood one of the several pubs which supplied the farmers and their men with food and beer on market days.
Outside the marquee a large board lit by two swinging lanterns on iron uprights advertised that there was a prize of five pounds for anyone who could wrestle successfully for five minutes against Tiger-Cat Bellamy Smith using catch-as-catch-can, Cornish style, Westmorland style, Japanese or lumberjack style, no holds barred, admission sixpence. Exhibition bouts would take place between challengers' efforts, it stated. It concluded, Roll up, roll up! All the fun of the fair.
Beside the board, vociferating at the top of his lungs, stood a fat man in a tight-fitting evening suit which had seen better days. For the benefit, apparently of those who could not read, he was declaiming the information printed on the board and emphasising the importance of the prize.
As we paused to watch and listen, a group of young men, noisy and somewhat drunk, came out of the public house and, after some bucolic argument punctuated by laughter and a few slurred oaths, they paid their sixpences and entered the marquee.
'Well now,' said Uncle Arthur, 'time we looked for that bus.' But he seemed in no hurry to move on, and while we waited and Kenneth squeezed my arm hopefully, several other customers went in to see the show. The busker outside redoubled his efforts and added to his repertoire.
'Roll up! Roll up! Only a few seats left. Roll up! Here's your chance! Five lovely thick uns to the winner. Roll up, gen'lemen sportsmen.' Then his eye picked us out although we stood in the gloom. 'Ladies and children half price,' he bellowed. 'Don't miss an educational treat! See the greatest wrestler on earth! Try your luck for five beautiful nicker! Come on! Roll up! Roll up! Next exhibition bout in a coupla minutes from Now.'
Two or three more men went in. I could tell that Kenneth was in agony lest all the seats should be gone before Uncle Arthur had made up his obviously vacillating mind.
'Couldn't we just pop in, Uncle?' he said at last. 'It's only threepence for children and I've got that left. Couldn't we?'
'Oh, it's not for children,' said Uncle Arthur, but he still lingered.
'The man said it was educational, and it's only wrestling. It's not as though they're going to knock each other out,' I said.
'Wrestling's worse nor boxing,' said Uncle Arthur. 'Oh, well, all right, just for a few minutes, then.' Kenneth darted for the tent-flap, his threepence already in his hand, and Uncle Arthur and I followed. The marquee was full of noise, tobacco smoke and the smell of sweaty, beery men. There were still a number of unoccupied backless wooden benches. We sat down, Kenneth in the gangway seat, myself next to him and Uncle Arthur between me and a sleazy drunk who was singing sadly to himself and hiccupping now and then.
Instead of the usual ring, there was a stage, a small, square platform covered with coarse green matting. Some wooden steps led up to this from the auditorium. The fat man mounted these and announced in a voice gone husky from his previous open-air efforts:
'Presentin' a three-round, catch-as-catch-can exhibition contest between, on my right, Jacques Collins, on my left, Tiger-Cat Bellamy Smith. Gen'lemen will kindly stop smokin' while this important exhibition bout is in progress.'
No notice whatever was taken of this suggestion. He retired and the two wrestlers rose from the knees of their seconds, who had been kneeling on one knee and accommodating their principals on the other thigh.
The Tiger-Cat was lean and had black hair, long legs and thin, muscular arms. He was dressed in a black, long-sleeved vest and black tights. His opponent was shorter and more thick-set, with a bulging bull-neck and an eyebrow-length fringe of red hair. He wore sky-blue breeches which fastened under the knee; his chest, except for a menacing tangle of red hair, was bare to the waist. The two men advanced to the centre of the stage and danced about in a manner which was obviously only for show and hardly looked like business. Some of the audience lit such clay pipes as had gone out or any noisome cigars they had won at the fair. Others got out cheap cigarettes abstracted from battered packets, and we all settled down to enjoy the fun.
There was one more announcement before the exhibition bout really got under way.
'You are advised, gen'lemen sportsmen,' bellowed the fat man, advancing to the top of the steps again, 'to study the contest closely so as to pick up pointers as to FORM. The gen'lemen sportsmen contestants for our prize-money of five pounds will be matched against the loser of this exhibition contest. The loser, not the winner, gen'lemen sportsmen. Thank you.'
He then retreated to the centre of the stage and the contestants went back to their corners, but not to the knees of their seconds, for these had retired. Somebody rang a bell, the fat man (who was going to referee the bout) skipped out of the way and the wrestlers, bending forward from the waist, held their hands and arms at the ready as they began to circle round one another, looking for a hold.
The contest enthralled me, although Uncle Arthur muttered that it was rigged and that the winner knew he was booked to win and the loser knew he was to lose, and both knew exactly when the dénouement would come and the lambs (if any) among the audience be enticed to the slaughter. Tor there won't be no five-pound given, you can bet your bottom dollar,' said our cynical but knowledgeable uncle.
The contestants circled, feinted, rolled together on the matting, grunted, clutched and appeared to do everything short of strangling one another. The audience shouted and stamped and the affair went three rounds, but even by the end of the second round the thin fellow appeared to be getting the worst of it. At the beginning of the fourth round it was all over, and in the most sensational manner. The bulkier man suddenly, thrillingly and theatrically caught up his opponent bodily and literally flung him into the auditorium, where, true to his tiger-cat title, he landed miraculously on his feet in the clear space between the front of the stage and the first row of the backless benches. He climbed back on to the stage, shook his head as his opponent came forward and slouched off into the wings.
The victor bowed to the sporadic applause and the fat impresario came to the front of the stage again.
'See 'ow easy, gen'lemen sportsmen! Who's for winnin' five pounds? Don't all roll up at once. Come on, now. Who's goin' to try his luck? We'll just give the Cat time to get his breath back, and then...'
Before he had time to finish, a thickset young countryman, propelled by the willing hands of his friends, was thrust, stumbling and protesting, to the foot of the wooden steps. The fat man stretched out a welcoming hand. 'Good for you, sir,' he said, as the youth was pulled and pushed up on to the stage.
There were preliminaries. The lad was taken behind the scenes and re-appeared, looking sheepish, stripped to his shirt, trousers and socks. Then the Tiger-Cat came on and they shook hands.
'Go it, Breezer!' shouted those in the audience who knew the unwilling challenger.
'Go it, Tiger-Cat!' yelled Kenneth, springing to his feet and leaping into the gangway.
'Interducin' Breezer Ben Trucket,' bellowed the fat man. 'Challengin' Tiger-Cat Bellamy Smith for the MAGNIFICENT purse of five jimmy o' goblins! Place your bets, gen'lemen sportsmen. Who'll have half-a-dollar on the Breezer?'
'Dollar and an'arf on the Cat,' shouted a voice from the back. The fat man smiled indulgently, shook his head, thanked the audience for their kind appreciation and gave a signal. A bell rang and the contest was on.
'Uncle Arthur,' I remember saying, 'has the Tiger-Cat changed his suit? He looks all shiny.'
'Greased all over,' Uncle Arthur replied. 'It's an old trick. That lad won't ever get a grip of him.'
The drunk, who had managed to get up, must have overheard this. Having risen to his feet, he wobbled uncertainly, supported himself by holding on to the shoulders of a small man in the row in front, gave a terrific belch and shouted out:
'He'sh oiled! The Cat'sh oiled! Drown that (hic!) Cat. He'sh oiled!'
'You're oiled!' called out someone near the front, turning round.
'Siddown, yer fool!' shouted others.
'Gen'lemen, please!' yelled the fat man, advancing once again to the front of the stage. 'Keep your seats, gen'lemen, please! Kindly keep your SEATS!'
[Mrs Bradley 50] - Late, Late in the Evening Page 6