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BANK HOLIDAY.
A stout man with a pink face wears dingy white flannel trousers,
a blue
coat with a pink handkerchief showing, and a straw hat much too
small for
him, perched at the back of his head. He plays the guitar. A little
chap
in white canvas shoes, his face hidden under a felt hat like a broken
wing,
breathes into a flute; and a tall thin fellow, with bursting over-ripe
button boots, draws ribbons--long, twisted, streaming ribbons--of
tune out
of a fiddle. They stand, unsmiling, but not serious, in the broad
sunlight
opposite the fruit-shop; the pink spider of a hand beats the guitar,
the
little squat hand, with a brass-and-turquoise ring, forces the reluctant
flute, and the fiddler's arm tries to saw the fiddle in two.
A crowd collects, eating oranges and bananas, tearing off the skins,
dividing, sharing. One young girl has even a basket of strawberries,
but
she does not eat them. "Aren't they dear!" She stares
at the tiny pointed
fruits as if she were afraid of them. The Australian soldier laughs.
"Here, go on, there's not more than a mouthful." But he
doesn't want her
to eat them, either. He likes to watch her little frightened face,
and her
puzzled eyes lifted to his: "Aren't they a price!" He
pushes out his
chest and grins. Old fat women in velvet bodices--old dusty pin-cushions--
lean old hags like worn umbrellas with a quivering bonnet on top;
young
women, in muslins, with hats that might have grown on hedges, and
high
pointed shoes; men in khaki, sailors, shabby clerks, young Jews
in fine
cloth suits with padded shoulders and wide trousers, "hospital
boys" in
blue--the sun discovers them--the loud, bold music holds them together
in
one big knot for a moment. The young ones are larking, pushing each
other
on and off the pavement, dodging, nudging; the old ones are talking:
"So I
said to 'im, if you wants the doctor to yourself, fetch 'im, says
I."
"An' by the time they was cooked there wasn't so much as you
could put in
the palm of me 'and!"
The only ones who are quiet are the ragged children. They stand,
as close
up to the musicians as they can get, their hands behind their backs,
their
eyes big. Occasionally a leg hops, an arm wags. A tiny staggerer,
overcome, turns round twice, sits down solemn, and then gets up
again.
"Ain't it lovely?" whispers a small girl behind her hand.
And the music breaks into bright pieces, and joins together again,
and
again breaks, and is dissolved, and the crowd scatters, moving slowly
up
the hill.
At the corner of the road the stalls begin.
"Ticklers! Tuppence a tickler! 'Ool 'ave a tickler? Tickle
'em up,
boys." Little soft brooms on wire handles. They are eagerly
bought by the
soldiers.
"Buy a golliwog! Tuppence a golliwog!"
"Buy a jumping donkey! All alive-oh!"
"Su-perior chewing gum. Buy something to do, boys."
"Buy a rose. Give 'er a rose, boy. Roses, lady?"
"Fevvers! Fevvers!" They are hard to resist. Lovely,
streaming feathers,
emerald green, scarlet, bright blue, canary yellow. Even the babies
wear
feathers threaded through their bonnets.
And an old woman in a three-cornered paper hat cries as if it were
her
final parting advice, the only way of saving yourself or of bringing
him to
his senses: "Buy a three-cornered 'at, my dear, an' put it
on!"
It is a flying day, half sun, half wind. When the sun goes in a
shadow
flies over; when it comes out again it is fiery. The men and women
feel it
burning their backs, their breasts and their arms; they feel their
bodies
expanding, coming alive...so that they make large embracing gestures,
lift
up their arms, for nothing, swoop down on a girl, blurt into laughter.
Lemonade! A whole tank of it stands on a table covered with a cloth;
and
lemons like blunted fishes blob in the yellow water. It looks solid,
like
a jelly, in the thick glasses. Why can't they drink it without spilling
it? Everybody spills it, and before the glass is handed back the
last
drops are thrown in a ring.
Round the ice-cream cart, with its striped awning and bright brass
cover,
the children cluster. Little tongues lick, lick round the cream
trumpets,
round the squares. The cover is lifted, the wooden spoon plunges
in; one
shuts one's eyes to feel it, silently scrunching.
"Let these little birds tell you your future!" She stands
beside the cage,
a shrivelled ageless Italian, clasping and unclasping her dark claws.
Her
face, a treasure of delicate carving, is tied in a green-and-gold
scarf.
And inside their prison the love-birds flutter towards the papers
in the
seed-tray.
"You have great strength of character. You will marry a red-haired
man and
have three children. Beware of a blonde woman." Look out! Look
out! A
motor-car driven by a fat chauffeur comes rushing down the hill.
Inside
there a blonde woman, pouting, leaning forward--rushing through
your life--
beware! beware!
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am an auctioneer by profession, and
if what I tell
you is not the truth I am liable to have my licence taken away from
me and
a heavy imprisonment." He holds the licence across his chest;
the sweat
pours down his face into his paper collar; his eyes look glazed.
When he
takes off his hat there is a deep pucker of angry flesh on his forehead.
Nobody buys a watch.
Look out again! A huge barouche comes swinging down the hill with
two old,
old babies inside. She holds up a lace parasol; he sucks the knob
of his
cane, and the fat old bodies roll together as the cradle rocks,
and the
steaming horse leaves a trail of manure as it ambles down the hill.
Under a tree, Professor Leonard, in cap and gown, stands beside
his banner.
He is here "for one day," from the London, Paris and Brussels
Exhibition,
to tell your fortune from your face. And he stands, smiling encouragement,
like a clumsy dentist. When the big men, romping and swearing a
moment
before, hand across their sixpence, and stand before him, they are
suddenly
serious, dumb, timid, almost blushing as the Professor's quick hand
notches
the printed card. They are like little children caught playing in
a
forbidden garden by the owner, stepping from behind a tree.
The top of the hill is reached. How hot it is! How fine it is!
The
public-house is open, and the crowd presses in. The mother sits
on the
pavement edge with her baby, and the father brings her out a glass
of dark,
brownish stuff, and then savagely elbows his way in again. A reek
of beer
floats from the public-house, and a loud clatter and rattle of voices.
The wind has dropped, and the sun burns more fiercely than ever.
Outside
the two swing-doors there is a thick mass of children like flies
at the
mouth of a sweet-jar.
And up, up the hill come the people, with ticklers and golliwogs,
and roses
and feathers. Up, up they thrust into the light and heat, shouting,
laughing, squealing, as though they were being pushed by something,
far
below, and by the sun, far ahead of them--drawn up into the full,
bright,
dazzling radiance to...what?
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