Ever since Dolores and me joined Jolly Jumbo’s Carnival, there was a run of bad luck. At Immersham, there was a cloudburst; Jumbo had took Grote’s Meadow – we was two foot under water. The weather cleared at Athelboro’ and they all came to see Pollux, the Strong Man, because, do you see, the blacksmith at Athelboro’ could lift an anvil over his head, and there was a fi’-pun prize for anybody who could out-lift Pollux (his name was really Michaels).
Well, as luck would have it, at Athelboro’ Pollux sprained his wrist. The blacksmith out-lifted him, and Jolly Jumbo told him to come back next morning for his fiver. We pulled out about midnight: Jumbo will never go to Athelboro’ again. Then, in Pettydene, something happened to Gorgon, the man that eats bricks and swallows glass. His act was to bite lumps out of a brick, chew them up, wash them down with a glass of water, and crunch up and swallow the glass. We took the Drill Hall at Pettydene, and had a good house. And what happens, but Gorgon breaks a tooth!
I tell you, sir, we had no luck. After that, at Firestone, something went wrong with the Mermaid. She was my property, you know – an animal they call a manatee – I bought her for a round sum from a man who caught her in South America. A kind of seal, but with breasts like a woman, and almost a human voice. She got a cough, and passed away.
There never was such a round. Worst of all, just here, Dolores caught a cold.
I dare say you’ve heard of my act, Alpha, Beta and Dot? … Oh, a stranger here; are you, sir? I wish you could have seen it. Dolores is the genius – her and Dot. I’m only the under-stander. I would come rolling and somersaulting in, and stand. Then Dolores’d come dancing in and take what looked like a standing jump – I gave her a hand-up – on to my shoulders, so we stood balanced. Then, in comes poor little Dot, and jumps; first on to my shoulder, then on to Dolores’ shoulder from mine, and so on to Dolores’ head where Dot stands on her hind legs and dances….
The rain comes down, sir. Dolores has got a cold in the chest. I beg her: ‘Don’t go on, Dolores – don’t do it!’ But nothing will satisfy her, bless her heart: the show must go on. And when we come on, she was burning like a fire. Couldn’t do the jump. I twist sidewise to take the weight, but her weight is kind of a deadweight, poor girl! My ankle snaps, and we tumbles.
Tried to make it part of the act – making funny business, carrying the girl in my arms, hopping on one foot, with good old Dot dancing after us.
That was the end of us in Wettendene. Jolly Jumbo says to us: ‘Never was such luck. The brick-eater’s bust a tooth. The mermaid’s good and dead. The strong-man has strained hisself … and I’m not sure but that blacksmith won’t be on my trail, with a few pals, for that fi’-pun note. I’ve got to leave you to it, Alph, old feller. I’m off to Portsmouth.’
I said: ‘And what about my girl? I’ve only got one hand and one foot, and she’s got a fever.’
He said: ‘Wait a bit, Alph, just wait a bit. My word of honour, and my Bible oath, I’ll send a sawbones up from Wettendene.’
‘And what about our pay?’ I ask.
Jolly Jumbo says: ‘I swear on my mother’s grave, Alph, I haven’t got it. But I’ll have it in Portsmouth, on my Bible oath. You know me. Sacred word of honour! I’ll be at The Hope and Anchor for a matter of weeks, and you’ll be paid in full. And I’ll send you a doctor, by my father’s life I will. Honour bright! In the meantime, Alph, I’ll look after Dot for you.’
And so he picked up the dog – I hadn’t the strength to prevent him – and went out, and I heard the whips cracking and the vans squelching in the mud.
But little Dot got away and come back….
I’ve been talking too much, sir. I thought you was the doctor. Get one for the girl, if you’ve a heart in you – and a bit of meat for the dog. I’ve got a few shillings on me.
I said: ‘Keep still. I’ll be right back.’ And I ran in the rain, closely followed by the dog Dot, down through that dripping green tunnel into Wettendene, and rang long and loud at a black door to which was affixed the brass plate, well worn, of one Dr MacVitie, M.R.C.S., L.R.C.P.
The old doctor came out, brushing crumbs from his waistcoat. There was an air of decrepitude about him. He led me into his surgery. I saw a dusty old copy of Gray’s Anatomy, two fishing rods, four volumes of the Badminton Library – all unused these past twenty years. There were also some glass-stoppered bottles that seemed to contain nothing but sediment; a spirit lamp without spirit; some cracked test-tubes; and an ancient case-book into the cover of which was stuck a rusty scalpel.
He was one of the cantankerous old Scotch school of doctors that seem incapable of graciousness, and grudging even of a civil word. He growled: ‘I’m in luck this evening. It’s six months since I sat down to my bit of dinner without the bell going before I had the first spoonful of soup half-way to my mouth. Well, you’ve let me finish my evening meal. Thank ye.’
He was ponderously ironic, this side offensiveness. ‘Well, out with it. What ails ye? Nothing, I’ll wager. Nothing ever ails ’em hereabout that a dose of castor oil or an aspirin tablet will not cure – excepting always rheumatism. Speak up, man!’
I said: ‘There’s nothing wrong with me at all. I’ve come to fetch you to treat two other people up at Wagnall’s Barn. There’s a man with a broken ankle and a girl with a congestion of the lungs. So get your bag and come along.’
He snapped at me like a turtle, and said: ‘And since when, may I ask, were you a diagnostician? And who are you to be giving a name to symptoms? In any case, young fellow, I’m not practising. I’m retired. My son runs the practice, and he’s out on a child-bed case…. Damn that dog – he’s barking again!’
The poodle, Dot, was indeed barking hysterically and scratching at the front door.
I said: ‘Doctor, these poor people are in desperate straits.’
‘Aye, poor people always are. And who’s to pay the bill?’
‘I’ll pay,’ I said, taking out my wallet.
‘Put it up, man, put it up! Put your hand in your pocket for all the riffraff that lie about in barns and ye’ll end in the workhouse.’
He got up laboriously, sighing: ‘Alex is over Iddlesworth way with the car. God give us strength to bear it. I swore my oath and so I’m bound to come, Lord preserve us!’
‘If—’ I said, ‘if you happen to have a bit of meat in the house for the dog, I’d be glad to pay for it——’
‘– And what do you take this surgery for? A butcher’s shop?’ Then he paused. ‘What sort of a dog, as a matter of curiosity would ye say it was?’
‘A little grey French poodle.’
‘Oh, aye? Very odd. Ah well, there’s a bit of meat on the chop bones, so I’ll put ’em in my pocket for the dog, if you like … Wagnall’s Barn, did ye say? A man and a girl, is that it? They’ll be some kind of vagrant romanies, or gyppos, no doubt?’
I said: ‘I believe they are some kind of travelling performers. They are desperately in need of help. Please hurry, Doctor.’
His face was sour and his voice harsh, but his eyes were bewildered, as he said: ‘Aye, no doubt. I dare say, very likely. A congestion of the lungs, ye said? And a fractured ankle, is that it? Very well.’ He was throwing drugs and bandages into his disreputable-looking black bag. I helped him into his immense black mackintosh.