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?
