The Doveston squinted through the shop-door glass. ‘Someone s coming,’ he said.
Norman’s face appeared before us, somewhat grey and mournful. ‘Piss off,’ it said.
‘Hello, Norman,’ said the Doveston. ‘Is your dad at home?’
‘He’s gone to the wholesalers. Same as he does every Wednesday afternoon and he told me not to let any kids in. Same as he does every Wednesday afternoon.
‘Very wise too,’ said the Doveston. ‘So, are you coming out, or what?’
‘I’m ill,’ said Norman. ‘I’ve got a headache.’
‘We’re going to the fair.’
‘What fair?’ asked Norman.
‘What fair?’ I asked too.
‘The one on the Common, of course.’
Norman shook his aching head. ‘It doesn’t open until Saturday. Everyone knows that.’
‘It opens for me,’ said the Doveston. ‘I have an uncle who runs one of the attractions.’
Norman’s eyes widened behind the door glass. ‘You have?’ he said slowly. ‘Which one?’
‘His name is Professor Merlin. He runs the Freak Show.’ My eyes too widened somewhat at this. The Freak Show was always a big attraction. Last year there had been an eight-legged lamb and a mermaid. Both had admittedly been stuffed, but there were live exhibits too. Giants and dwarves, a bearded lady and an alligator man.
‘You’re lying,’ said Norman. ‘Piss off.’
‘Please yourself,’ said the Doveston, ‘but we’re going. I just thought you might like to see the dog-faced boy. They say that he bites the heads off live chickens.’
‘I’ll get my coat,’ said Norman. ‘We’ll come inside and wait for you.’ ‘No you bloody won’t.’
Norman fetched his brown shopcoat, the new one he’d been given for his ninth birthday. He closed the shop door and, under the disguised scrutiny of the Doveston, locked it with his own set of keys. And then the three of us shuffled off towards the Common.
I did have my doubts about this. We all stayed well clear of the fair until it officially opened. The gypsies there had very large dogs and no love for casual callers.
‘Are you sure this is wise?’ I asked the Doveston as we approached the circle of caravans.
The Doveston sshed me to silence. He had been explaining to Norman about another uncle he had who was a lama in Tibet. This particular uncle was skilled in the art of levitation, an art that could prove useful in all manner of activities. The vaulting of gymnasium horses, for example. The Doveston felt certain that his lamaic uncle might be persuaded to pass on the secrets of this invaluable art to Norman, in exchange for nothing more than a carton of Strontium Nineties.
‘Piss off,’ said Norman.
Some very large dogs were beginning to bark and between the high-sided caravans we could make out the figures of Romany types. Big-boned burly bods were these, with walrus moustaches and rings through their ears. Tattooed and terrible, hairy and horrid.
The menfolk looked no better.
‘Just wait here while I have a word,’ said the Doveston, hurrying off.
We scuffed our shoes about on the grass and waited. Norman fished a jujube from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. I hoped he’d offer me one, but he didn’t.
‘Gypsies eat their young, you know,’ said he.
‘They never do.’
‘They do.’ Norman nodded. ‘My dad told me. There’s only ever nine hundred and ninety-nine gypsies ever alive at one time. It’s because they have magical powers, like being able to tell the future and knowing where to find hidden gold. The magic is only strong enough to go round between the nine hundred and ninety-nine of them. One more and they’d lose it. So a new gypsy isn’t allowed to be born before an old one dies. If one is, they kill it and eat it.’
‘How horrible,’ I said.
‘That’s nothing compared to other things they get up to. My dad’s told me all about them.’
‘Your dad certainly knows a lot about gypsies.’
‘He should,’ said Norman. ‘My mum ran off with one.
The Doveston returned and said, ‘Come on, it’s safe, you can follow me.’
We shuffled after him in between the high caravans and into the great circle where the attractions and rides were being assembled. The tattooed moustachioed women toiled away, singing songs in their native Esperanto as they hoisted the sections of the Pelt the Puppy stalls and Sniff the Cheese stands into place.
The menfolk lazed on their portable verandas. Dollied up in floral frocks and sling-back shoes, they sipped their Martinis and arranged cut flowers into pleasing compositions.
‘That’s the life for me,’ said Norman.
And who could argue with that?
5
They do not just eat their own young. As if that wasn’t bad enough, they grind up all the small bones and produce a kind of snuff, which they snort up their noses through bigger bones all hollowed out. The skull-caps of the murdered infants are fashioned into ashtrays that they hawk on their stalls to good Christian folk like us.
Gyppo bastards!
I have never, before nor since, seen a man quite like Professor Merlin. He wore a purple periwig upon a head so slim it made you shiver. His nose was the beak of a fabulous bird and his eyes were turquoise studs. Above a smiling mouth, which glittered with a treasury of golden teeth, sprang slender waxed moustachios. And beneath this mouth was a chin so long that, when the merry lips were closed, it all but touched his hooter.
He was dressed in the style of a Regency blade, with a high starched collar and white silk cravat. His waistcoat was red and a—twinkle with watch-chains. His tall-coat was green, with embroidered lapels. He was old and tall and skinny. He was weird and wonderful.
At our approach he extended a long, thin, pale and manicured hand to shake the grubby mitt belonging to the Doveston.
‘My dear little Berty,’ he said.
‘Berty?’ I whispered.
‘And this would be your brother?’
‘Edwin,’ said the Doveston. ‘And this is my good friend Norman.’
‘Berty?’ said Norman. ‘Edwin?’
‘Norman is the son of Brentford’s pre-eminent purveyor of tobacco and confectionery.’
‘Fiddle dee, fiddle dum,’ went the professor. ‘I am honoured indeed.’ He fished into his waistcoat pocket and brought to light a marvellous snuffbox, silver and shaped like a coffin. This he offered in Norman’s direction. ‘Would you care to partake?’ he enquired.
Norman shook his tousled head, which in profile resembled a pear drop. ‘No thanks,’ said he. ‘I find that stuff makes me sneeze.
‘As you will.’ The professor now grinned goldenly upon the Doveston. ‘Would you like a pinch?’ he asked.
‘Yes please, uncle,’ said the boy.
Professor Merlin leaned forward. ‘Then you shall have one,’ he said and pinched him hard upon the ear.
The Doveston howled and clutched at his lug-hole. Norman dissolved into foolish mirth and I just stood there, boggle-eyed and gaping.
‘Fairground humour,’ explained the professor. ‘What do you think of it?’
‘Most amusing,’ said I.
‘And what say you, Berty?’
The Doveston wiped away tears from his eyes and managed a lopsided smirk. ‘Most amusing,’ he agreed. ‘I must remember that one.
‘Good boy.’ Professor Merlin handed him the snuffbox. ‘Then take a little sample and tell me what you think.’
The boy gave the lid three solemn taps before he flipped it open.
‘Why do you do that?’ I asked.
‘Tradition,’ the Doveston told me. ‘For Father, Son and Holy Ghost.’
‘Born to the art,’ said the professor.
The boy took snuff and pinched it to his nose. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils and then made a thoughtfiil and satisfied face.