Shame and Consciences
adapted by Mihangel
17. The fun of the fair
There were three days in the year when the market place was out of bounds, all but the pavement and the few shops around it. The rest was monopolised by the vans and booths of a travelling fair, which reached the town about the second week in March. The school took little notice of this crude and tawdry festival, but the relentless din of a steam merry-go-round filled the air, and made the night especially hideous in the town houses nearest the scene.
Nearest of all was Heriot's house, and the worst sufferers were the four boys in the little top room with the dormer window over the street. Jan was still one of them, and Toby Bingley another. The loud-mouthed Joyce had left and the red-headed Crabtree had taken over another of the dormitories, and their tishes were now occupied by Chips and a new boy. But Jan's was still the silent corner. Even to Chips he had little to say in front of the other two, for he was passing through another bad spell. As the merry-go-round battered him with raucous renderings of "Over the Garden Wall" and "Lardy-dah," it was not his work, nor a split hand or a supposedly weak heart, that troubled him. It was the first round of the All Ages Mile that kept Jan from sleeping until the steam tunes stopped.
On the strength of his performance the year before, and because he had grown several inches since, he had been seriously fancied for a place in the Mile. Such expectations, combined with too much unwise advice, had made him sadly self-conscious and over-anxious, and his race had proved a fiasco. In the very first heat he had the bad luck to meet the ultimate winner, who the year before had been down with eye-rot. As advised, Jan dogged him instead of making the running as his flesh and blood implored. And, having no spurt, he was not only badly beaten but failed even to come in third. He was out of the Mile.
That was bad enough. Enemies of the Shockley type took care to make it worse by accusing him of conceit in anticipation of victory. Jan was depressed enough to take such slander for once to heart. Still more he felt the silence of many who had believed in him, and even the cheery sympathy of a few only aggravated his sense of failure. As for Chips and his well-meant efforts to keep the dormitory talk to any other topic, they were as maddening as the merry-go-round and its infernal "Lardy-dah." That bloody tune had accompanied his hopes and fears the night before, it had run in his head throughout the fatal race today, and now it laughed at his idiotic and unpardonable failure.
Jan was usually robust enough. But he had grown a crop of sensitivities almost worthy of Chips, except that Jan agonised over his own in grim silence. He was sixteen now, an age of surprises. It took him in more ways than one. It made him long to do startling things, and it made him do some foolish ones instead -- hence his catastrophic performance in the Mile. It made him feel that he had done less than nothing so far, that he had made no mark in work or games, let alone with Evan. It made him feel that he was less than nobody, yet that there was more in him than anybody knew and he wanted them to know it. It made him feel that now he didn't care a damn what happened to him, or what chaps thought about him, at a school he had been sent to against his will. If he was a failure, if he went on failing, well, at least it would score off those who had sent him here, and never gave him enough pocket money or wrote him an unnecessary line.
So Jan came back to where he had been when he had first arrived, but trailing all the grievances accumulated over a year and a half. By the third and last night of the fair he had the whole collection of them to brood on, a monstrous array which seemed all the more monstrous because he could not and would not speak of them to a soul. And here was that fool Chips chattering away as usual about anything and everything except the sports.
"I shall be jolly glad when this beastly old fair moves on," Chips was saying after an interval of "Over the Garden Wall."
"I don't know that I shall," said the new boy in Crabtree's old corner. "It sounds rather jolly when you're dropping off."
Jan could have stripped every stitch off the little brute's bed, and off the little brute himself. But the remark was very properly ignored.
"I suppose you know," said Bingley, "that two fellows were once bunked for going to it?"
"Going to what?"
"The fair."
"They must've been fools!" said Jan, opening his mouth at last.
"I thought you were asleep," said the new boy, who had no sense.
"You keep your thoughts to yourself," growled Jan, "or I'll come and show you whether I am or not."
"They were fools," Bingley agreed, "but they were sportsmen too. They got out of one of the hill houses at night and came down in disguise, in bowlers and false beards. But they were spotted right enough, and had to go."
"And serve them jolly well right," said Jan cantankerously.
"I don't call it such a crime, Tiger."
"Who's talking about crimes? You've got 'em on the brain, Toby."
"I thought you said they deserved to be bunked."
"So they did -- for going and getting cobbed."
"Oh, I see! You'd've looked every master in the face, I suppose, without being recognised?"
"I wouldn't've made them look twice at me by sticking on a false beard," snorted Jan, stung by the tone. Chips understood his mood too well to join in, but Bingley had been longer in the school than either of them and was not going to knuckle under.
"It's a pity you weren't here, Tiger," he said, "to show them how to do it."
"It's a thing any fool could do if he tried. I'd back myself to get out of this house in five minutes."
"Not you, old chap!" said Chips, misguidedly entering the discussion after all.
"I would. I'd do it tomorrow if the fair wasn't going away."
Bingley began to jeer. "I like that, when you jolly well know it's going!"
"I'll go tonight if you say much more, you fool!"
Jan's bed-springs twanged as he sat bolt upright.
"You know you wouldn't be such an idiot," said Chips earnestly.
"Of course he does!" jeered Bingley. "Nobody knows it quite so well."
There was a moment's pause, filled by a blast of sound from the market place and then by the thud of bare feet on the floor.
"Surely you're not going to let him dare you --"
"Not he. Don't you worry!"
"Thank you, Toby," said Jan in a strange voice, sliding into his trousers in the dark.
There was a jingle of curtain-rings and, in defiance of all the rules, Chips was out of his tish. He appeared dimly at the foot of Jan's, and Bingley was already peering over the partition.
"Are you off your chump?" demanded Chips.
"Not he," said Bingley again. "He's only bunging us up!" He might have been an infant devil, but he was really only an incredulous, irritated and rather excited schoolboy.
"You'll see directly," muttered Jan, slipping his braces over his night-shirt.
"You're bound to be caught, and bunked if you're caught!" Chips was desperate now.
"And a good job too! I've had about enough of this place." This was the Jan of their very first term together.
"And it's raining like the very dickens!" That was the new boy, the little sinner, who seemed to take this enormity as a matter of course.
"So much the better. I'll take a brolly. Less chance of being seen. You see if I don't bring you all something from the fair."
"It's something he's gone and got today," whispered Bingley, to placate Chips. "It's all a swizzle, you'll see."
"You look out of the window in about five minutes," retorted Jan from the door, "and p'r'aps you'll see!"
Out he stole, boots in hand, leaving Chips in muzzled consternation in the doorway.
The rain pelted on the skylight over the stairs, and Jan was glad. He foresaw the complication of wet clothes, but as a mere umbrella among umbrellas he stood a fair chance of not being seen. It was still only a chance, but that was half the fun. And fun it was, though a terrifying form of fun, though he was already feeling a bit unsound about the knees. But he had to go on with it. There was no question about that, and no looking back at the ridiculous taunts and impulses which had led to this mad adventure. Conversation had ceased in the first of the two dormitories below, but still murmured from the second. The lead-lined stairs struck, through his socks, a chill to his marrow. He began to think he really was a fool, but he would look a bigger one if he went back now. The flags of the corridor were colder than the stairs, and the slate table on which he sat to put on his boots was colder than the flags.
His first idea had been to get out into the quad, as he had got out on his very first morning, through the hall windows. But the rain spoilt that plan. The umbrellas were kept in the lower study passage, which was locked -- how was he to break in? No, if he wanted an umbrella he must borrow Heriot's. That was a paralysing alternative, but the only one. The hat-stand was in the entrance hall, just on the other side of the green baize door. Dear old Bob notoriously sat up till all hours, and his study led off the dining room which led off the hall, so there were probably two closed doors between Jan and him. It was a risk to be taken.
But was it? The image of Robert Heriot suddenly loomed up in Jan's mind, of Heriot peaceably smoking his pipe in his inner sanctuary, of Heriot hearing a furtive footstep, of Heriot leaping out, beard bristling and spectacles flashing, to arrest the intruder. To be caught by Heriot of all men! The one master with whom the boldest boy never dared take a liberty, the one whose good opinion was best worth having and perhaps the hardest to win. Why had he not thought of Heriot before? To think of him now was to abandon the whole adventure in a panic. Better the scorn of fifty Bingleys for the rest of term than the wrath of one Heriot for a single minute.
Jan found himself creeping upstairs again. Through the door of the lower dormitory came the guttural voice of Shockley holding forth about something. It was Shockley who had said the hardest things about Jan's running, in just that hateful voice. It was Shockley who would have the most and worst to say if he heard that his pet hate had made a chicken-hearted fool of himself. And then life would be even worse than it was now, school a rottener place, himself a greater nonentity than ever. That was unthinkable too. A minute ago there had been some excitement in life, for once he had felt somebody.
"I'm blowed if I do," thought Jan, and crept down again to the green baize door. It opened without a sound. A light was burning in the entrance hall beyond. The dining room door was providentially shut. Here was Heriot's umbrella, and it was wet. Over it hung a soft felt hat and an Irish tweed cape that was wet about the hem. So old Bob Heriot had been out and had come in again. It was still short of eleven. Unless tradition lied, he was safe in his study for another hour.
Cold feet gave way to almost drunken impudence. In a twinkling Jan put on Heriot's coat and hat. It would give them something to talk about, whether he was caught or not. He would contribute to the annals of the school. The front door was still unlocked. Out in the rain, he opened the umbrella and held it low over his head. Thrusting a hand deep into a pocket, he encountered one of Heriot's many pipes. Next instant the pipe was between his teeth, and from the opposite pavement of a dripping and deserted street he was flourishing the umbrella and pointing out the pipe to three white faces at a window in the shiny roof.
He would not have cared, at that moment, if he had known he was going to be caught the next. And nobody was there to catch him, not in the street. But, no further away than he could have thrown a fives ball, the glare of the market place lit up the stone front and archway of the Red Lion, and the blare of the steam merry-go-round thundered out as Jan marched under Heriot's umbrella into the zone of light.
He wears a penny flower in his coat --
Lardy-dah --
And a penny paper collar round his throat --
Lardy-dah --
In his hand a penny stick,
In his tooth a penny pick,
And a penny in his pocket --
Lardy-dah, lardy-dah --
And a penny in his pocket --
Lardy-dah!
Jan had picked up the words from some fellow who used to sing such rubbish to a worse accompaniment on the hall piano, and they ran in his head with the outrageous tune. They reminded him that he had scarcely a penny in his own pocket, thanks to his generous people in Norfolk, and for once it was just as well. Otherwise he would certainly have taken a public ride, in Heriot's distinctive and well-known garb, on one of "Collinson's Royal Racing Thoroughbreds, the Greatest and Most Elaborate Machine Now Travelling."
Last nights are popular nights, and the fair was crowded in spite of the rain. Round and round went the little wooden horses, carrying half the young blood of the little town. Jan tilted his umbrella to have a look at them. Their shouts were drowned by the din of the steam organ, but as they whirled past him their flushed faces were illuminated by a great flare-light. One purple complexion he recognised as the pace slackened. It was Mulberry, that scoundrel of evil memory, swaying in his stirrups and whacking his wooden mount as though they were in the straight.
The deafening blare sank to a dying whine, the flare-light sputtered audibly in the rain, and Jan jerked his umbrella forward as the dizzy riders dismounted. He turned his back on them, contemplating the cobbles under his nose and the lighted puddles that ringed them like meshes of liquid gold. He watched for the unsteady corduroys of Mulberry, and withdrew as they came near. But there was no sure escape short of leaving altogether, for the market place was little larger than a tennis court, half of it covered with the merry-go-round and another quarter with stalls and vans.
One of the stalls displayed a sign which seemed to attract little custom.
WATCH-LA!
2 Rings 1d.
all you ring you have
The watches lay in open cardboard boxes on a sloping board behind a table. There was a supply of wooden rings that just fitted round the boxes. Jan watched one oaf run through several coppers, his rings always lying between the boxes or on top of one. Jan felt it was a case for a spin, and he longed to have a try with that cunning left hand of his. But he only had twopence on him, and his first need was twopence-worth of evidence that he really had been to the fair. Yet what trophy could compare with one of those cheap watches in its cardboard box?
It so happened that Jan had a watch of his own worth everything on sale at this shoddy fair, but he would almost have bartered it for one of these, to show the top dormitory the kind of chap he was. He did not normally see himself in heroic terms, but he was in abnormal mood tonight, and the need to seem heroic lay behind this whole escapade. With a sudden determination, and a quick glance to make sure that Mulberry was not dogging him, he produced a penny.
"Two rings," said the fur-hatted stallholder, handing them over. "An' wot you rings you 'aves."
The steam fiend broke out again with " Over the Garden Wall" as Jan poised his first ring. A back-handed spin sent it well among the watches, and it went on spinning until it settled at an angle over one of the boxes.
"Rings must lie flat to win," said the fellow in the fur cap, with a quick squint at Jan. "Try again, mister. You'd do better with less spin."
Jan grinned dryly and decided to put on a bit more. He had heard his father driving hard bargains in the Saturday market at Middlesbrough. Old Rutter had known how to take care of himself across any stall or barrow, even when he was as unsteady on his legs as Mulberry. Jan felt equally in command as he poised his second ring. It skimmed gracefully away, circled one of the square boxes, and was spinning down like a nut on its bolt when the man in the fur cap whipped a finger between the ring and the sloping board.
"That's a near one, mister!" he cried. "But it don't lie flat."
Nor did it. The ring had jammed obliquely on the box.
"It would've done if you'd left it alone!" shouted Jan above the steam fiend's roar.
"That it wouldn't! It's a bit of bad luck, that's wot it is. Never knew it to 'appen before, I didn't. But it don't lie straight, now do it?"
"It would've done," replied Jan through his teeth. "And the watch is mine, so let's have it."
What precisely happened next, Jan was never sure, for his head swam. He knew he was sprawling across the table, he had seized the watch that he had fairly won, and the ruffian had seized his wrist. That horny grip remained like the memory of a handcuff. The thing developed into a tug-of-war in which Jan more than held his own. The watches in the boxes came sliding down the board and the fur cap followed them. Jan kept on pulling until a rap on his back went through him like a stab from a knife.
It was a policeman in streaming leggings, and others had arrived with him. Jan let go of his prize, recoiling from their gaze. Yet the policeman was not looking at him. He was pointing at the fur-capped rascal, and adding to Jan's embarrassment.
"You give this young feller what he fairly won. I saw what you did. I've had my eye on you all night. You give him that watch, or you'll hear more about it!"
Jan went suddenly cowardly. He tried to say he did not want it, but his tongue would not work. The lights of the fair were going round and round him. The policeman, the rogue, and three or four more, had been joined by Mulberry, who was staring and pointing and trying to say something which nobody understood. The policeman cuffed him and pushed him away, and Jan began to breathe. He felt the watch being put into his unwilling hand. He heard a good-humoured little cheer. He saw the policeman looking at him strangely, and wondered if a tip was expected. He could only stutter his thanks, and slink from the scene like the beaten dog he felt.
Luckily his legs were in better shape than his head, and they carried him in the opposite direction to his house. He had not gone far when his mind rapidly recovered tone. It recovered more tone than it had lost. He was not only safe so far, he realised, but successful beyond his wildest dreams. Not only had he been to the fair, but thanks to the policeman he had come away with a silver watch to show for the adventure. What would they have to say to that in the little dormitory? They would never be able to keep it to themselves. It would get all round the school and make him somebody after all. He would go down in history as the fellow who got out at a moment's notice, and went to the fair in a master's hat and coat, and won a prize at a watch-la, and brought it back in triumph to the dormitory, at Heriot's of all houses in the school!
He would probably tell Heriot before he left. Old Bob was just the man to laugh over such an escapade. Better still, he would laugh more heartily if one kept it till one came down as an Old Boy. Jan felt ridiculously brave again under old Bob's umbrella, which he had dropped during the rumpus at the fair. That, of course, was why he had lost his head. But now he was bold as a lion, determined to do something at school after all, so that he could come down as an Old Boy to tell of this very adventure. Not that he was a boaster. But he was still in this abnormal mood which had only been interrupted by a minute of pure panic. The sodden pavement floated under his feet like air.
Jan never so much as heard the overtaking footsteps. A strong arm slid through his, and a voice that he heard every day addressed him in everyday tones.
"Do you mind my coming under your umbrella?"
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