Someone Special (34 page)

But she did what she could. When Hester was being the Snake Woman, wearing a new costume now, though she still had her sparkly cloak, Nell was there to help. She stopped the kids from climbing the barrier, took the money, blacked up for big gaffs, wore her raffia skirt and a raffia frill round her flat little chest, and trekked into town once a week with some of the takings to buy butcher’s offal for Phillips.

There were a lot of Gullivers; Ugly Jack had four brothers and a sister and they all worked somewhere on the fair. Tom Gulliver didn’t pay Hester much for battling with Phillips, any more than the Allinghams had, but he fed Hester and Nell morning and evening and at first he had let them sleep in his trailer. Only Mrs Gulliver had got nasty one night and had made what Hester afterwards described as ‘wild accusations’, and someone had found the Makerfields another little tent and they had taken up temporary residence in its smelly folds.

‘Why don’t you get another job, the sort of job you had before?’ Nell had asked Hester when they had first taken up with the Allingham fair. She had hated the tent, the flies which buzzed under its canvas roof in summer, and had feared the terrible chill of winter. ‘I could go to school and things, then.’

‘Oh sweetheart, don’t! I have to keep moving, I’m so afraid of … of someone finding out where I am and trying to take you away from me, so the fair’s ideal. Folk don’t even know our names, we’re just Hester and Nell – Snake Woman is for the flatties. Do you mind this sort of life very much?’

Nell had been scarcely more than eight then, but she had
thought seriously about their wandering, unsettled lives. She wanted somewhere she could call her own, but night after night for the first few months of their exile she had lain in her makeshift bed listening as Hester sobbed herself to sleep, and by day had seen the pain and worry increase in her mother’s eyes. If she said she did mind, which was the truth, Hester would not feel able to continue her life as the Snake Woman. She would have to move on, they would be caught … Nell could not imagine a worse fate than being torn from her mother’s loving arms.

‘No, I don’t mind very much,’ Nell had said. ‘I like the fair all right, but I miss my old school friends. It would be nice to go to school and have a house again.’

‘One day we’ll have a trailer of our own,’ Hester had promised recklessly. ‘I’m doing my very best, darling, and I’ve got some money saved. One day we’ll have a trailer just like everyone else. That’s as good as a house, isn’t it?’

‘Better,’ the young Nell had said stoutly. ‘Much better, Mum.’ But her conventional soul had longed for bricks and mortar, regular schooling, a life in one place. After that, of course, she had settled in, as Hester had, and become happy and satisfied, but with the move to the new fair – and the loss of her friends and status – dreary unhappiness had set in again. She had disliked the fair and all its works until, in the winter before her tenth birthday, she met Snip.

Snip’s father, Abel Morris, was a hard man; he’d married and buried two wives before the present Mrs Morris, an anaemic, yellow-haired girl who flinched whenever he spoke and couldn’t cope with the clutch of kids her predecessors had produced. Abel had little time for women, children or anyone weaker than himself. But he was a showman through and through. His junior scenic was always freshly painted, the engines worked without trouble, his lorry was one of the few which didn’t break
down now and then. And the Gullivers wanted a big fair, so they needed Abel Morris and his clutch of kids, especially the older ones, Sunny Ray and Blinky. Snip, who was thirteen, was a ragamuffin, but promised to become as useful as his elder brothers. So they were accepted immediately on to the gaff and the kids crowded round the Morris junior scenic, the Morris swingboats and the Morris penny joints, envying the owner of such riches.

Gullivers travelled the east of England, which might not have suited the Morrises, who had always worked the Midlands, but something had happened to Abel in their last gaff and he was eager to work with someone else instead of alone.

‘Reckon he’ve killed a man,’ Mrs Gulliver opined darkly, but Fat Tom said he was a first-rate showman and the matter was allowed to drop. Nell, fond of asking questions, hung around by the junior scenic when the Morrises were taking it down one day and actually had the cheek to address Mr Morris, asking him why he wanted to travel into the eastern counties.

‘There’s good money in East Anglia, better weather, bigger audiences,’ Abel said, reefing the tilt with practised ease. ‘Eastern fair folk stick together, so they say. Me an’ the missus could do wi’ a change from all them tightfisted Midlanders.’

Nell hadn’t really believed him, but she said nothing, because by then she was already fond of Snip, not just because he had forced the others to accept her, but for himself. He was older but he had time for her. Snip was dark-haired and dark-skinned, usually dirty, muscular and tough; gypsy-looking, Hester said disapprovingly. But he was clever enough to keep ahead of the pack and made sure that Nell was included in their doings. In return, Nell helped him with his schoolwork and tried to make sure that the flatties – the teachers and kids – at their winter school looked beneath the dirt and toughness to
the warm-hearted, humorous person who was Snip Morris.

Flatties were foreigners to fair folk. You might like some of them and dislike others, but by and large they simply didn’t count. Before Snip came along, Nell had not dared to mix with flatties or become friendly with them in school, because it would have meant automatic exclusion. Until Snip came into her life, that was; once he made it clear that Nell was under his protection and could be friendly with anyone she pleased, everything became much more fun. When school was over for another year, she could say goodbye to her flattie friends, secure in the knowledge that the fairground girls would talk to her, include her in their games, link arms with her and walk around the summer meadows, heads together, just as though she had been born on the gaff.

The boys teased her, took her side in arguments sometimes, shared the fairground grub with her. In Snip’s company Nell tasted a great many things of which Hester disapproved: candy floss, stick-jaw, salted peanuts, the harsh gingerbeer which burned the back of your throat, the fizzy lemonade in bottles with a marble in the neck instead of a cork.

So since Snip, Nell’s life had been good and had recently got better. In the summer, Cissie Barnweather’s feller had run off, leaving Cissie and her daughter, Fleur, to manage as best they could on their own. Cissie was Ugly Jack Gulliver’s cousin and she and her husband, Alf, had run a small cake-walk between them. Alf had taken the cake-walk when he left, which meant Cissie had to help with other rides, having none of her own. What was more, she had to give an eye to Fleur, who suffered from bad colds in winter and wheezes in summer and was generally thought to be delicate, so she couldn’t work all hours and was finding it difficult to make the money go round. Then it occurred to her that she had one asset which her feller
hadn’t been able to pinch from her: the trailer. Now that Hester and the kid looked like a permanency, who better to share her trailer? Both young women had a daughter, though Nell was ten and Fleur only six, Nell was a sensible kid, and Hester seemed to have little or no interest in men. Cissie thought she would never trust a man again, but a young woman her own age, who could help in the trailer and contribute something for rent … it seemed the ideal arrangement.

‘I’ll charge you for livin’ in and we’ll muck in for meals and that,’ she told Hester. ‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t get along great.’ Hester had agreed at once, and she and Nell had moved in that same day.

It wasn’t a huge trailer. Fleur and Nell shared a narrow bed, Hester and Cissie a rather larger one, but it seemed wonderful to the Makerfields after three years of hand-to-mouthing it the length and breadth of Great Britain. They had somewhere to keep their clothes, a cupboard for food, a table to eat on and comfortable padded benches where they could sit while Hester knitted and Nell read anything she could lay hands on. They could cook on the small paraffin stove when it was too dark or too inclement for a fire outside and, best of all, they feared neither rain nor wind. To Nell it was permanency, a place to call her own, not quite as good as a house perhaps, but getting that way.

‘Come to supper in your trailer?’ Snip said now, a wide grin spread across his face. ‘Will it be all right wi’ your Mum and Cissie though? Didn’t you oughter ask ’em first?’

‘It’ll be fine with them, they’ll be happy to feed us both,’ Nell said at once. She knew it was true; her mother would never deny a child food. ‘Hey-up, Snip, someone’s coming!’

A man, thickset and dark-haired, strolled into the circle of light around the hoopla. He jingled his money
in his pocket, staring around him, whistling tunelessly between his teeth. Snip saw him and moved back a bit, out of the circle of light. Flatties didn’t appreciate being crowded when they were deciding whether to honour a joint with their custom.

‘Have a go, sir? Wouldn’t you like to win your wife a chicken for Sunday dinner? There’s no competition tonight, you may as well have a go,’ Nell wheedled. If she could interest this feller, you never knew, more might follow; it was a well-known fact that one customer drew others. ‘Come on, sir, you’ve got a lucky face!’ But he of the lucky face, having tried and failed to win a chicken, wandered off without anyone else so much as strolling by. Nell slid the pennies into the box Joe had given her and leaned across between the tall wooden stands over which the hoops could just about fit to continue her chat with Snip.

‘Well, Snip, what do you say? Want to come to supper wi’ me and my Mum?’

‘And Cissie Barnweather, and Fleur,’ Snip reminded her, unnecessarily, for another good thing about the trailer was having a built-in baby sister. Nell loved Fleur dearly. ‘How d’you know they’ll want me?’

Nell smiled at him. ‘Everyone wants you, Snip,’ she said. ‘Everyone likes you.’

She might have added, ‘everyone but your pa, that is’, because it was common knowledge that Abel Morris often hit his unfortunate son. This was unusual, because most showmen appreciated their kids and wanted the best for them, but Abel seemed to dislike Snip for no obvious reason, and the boy generally kept out of his father’s way. But right now, Snip was looking gratified. He leaned over the stall and lowered his voice, but not too much, because of the thrum and crash of the music coming from the organ which played for the galloper, just behind the junior scenic.

‘Well, if you’re sure. Tell you what, come to the flicks when Chicken Joe comes back, jest for an hour, say. Your Mum needn’t know; she’s on with Phillips tonight, ain’t she?’

Nell shook her head. ‘No, they aren’t opening up the side-shows; Mrs Gulliver says when you’re moving on there’s no point setting up. Not when it’s raining, anyway. My Mum’s giving an eye to your Dad’s galloper for an hour, just like me and this place.’

A couple, entwined beneath an umbrella, strolled past. The girl was grumbling that her shoes were sinking into the mud, that the noise hurt her head. She’d rather go up the King’s Arms for a small gin and orange … her querulous voice faded into the distance just as Chicken Joe arrived back at the hoopla. He grinned at Nell and feinted a cuff at Snip’s untidy head; he was a tall, yellow-haired young man whose bright idea to give dressed chickens as prizes had earned him his nickname. On a good day you could hear his battle-cry a mile off: ‘Have a Go with Chicken Joe – the bird you win will make you grin!’

Now he thanked Nell, handed over two pennies, and began to close up the joint.

‘Too wet, luv,’ he said when Nell asked him why he was closing so early. ‘It’ll be a tough day tomorrow, pulling down in this weather. I’m going to get me some kip.’

‘We’re going to the flicks,’ Nell said. ‘Will we reach King’s Lynn tomorrow, Joe? I want to earn some money to buy my Mum a Christmas present.’

‘It’ll be late when we arrive,’ Joe said. ‘You walkin’ into town in this rain? Oh well, it takes all sorts. Enjoy!’

It was still raining when the two youngsters reached the small town. There was a damp, dispirited queue outside the picture house.

‘The big fillum will be finishin’ any minute, an’ they’ll
all be mekin’ their way out,’ Snip remarked, having given the queue a judicious look. ‘Let’s git round the back.’

‘Yes, all right,’ Nell agreed, then stopped short, pointing. ‘Snip! D’you see that?’

‘Fly sheets,’ Snip said laconically. ‘What’s strange about that?’

‘It’s what’s on ’em! Have you got a penny? We’d best buy a paper.’

‘Us, buy a paper? I’d nick one, only the feller’s still awake,’ Snip said. ‘I can’t hardly read that flysheet, the rain’s washed the writin’ out, almost … what d’you reckon it says?’

‘King Edward ab-abdic- abdicates,’ Nell read. ‘I’ve got tuppence. I’m going to get one.’

The two children huddled in a nearby doorway, perusing their purchase. ‘We’re going to have a new king,’ Snip said at last, having digested the huge banner headlines and most of what lay beneath them. ‘It’s that married feller, ain’t it? The one with two little gels?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Nell said slowly. ‘One of ’em, Princess Elizabeth, was born the same day as me; we’re both ten. Does this mean she’ll be queen one day?’

‘Nah,’ Snip said condescendingly. ‘Women can’t be queen unless they marry a king. Cor, what a go, eh? Now let’s get into the picture house before they closes the exit doors.’

But Nell shook her head. ‘No, Snip, let’s go back to the gaff and tell everyone the king’s gone and stood down or whatever they call it. No one else knows and it may be important.’

‘Important? For us? There was goin’ to be a coronation anyroad, now all it means is they’ll put the crown on the ’ead of a different feller,’ Snip pointed out. ‘Still an’ all, you bought that paper; I reckon if it’s what you want …’

‘We ought,’ Nell insisted. ‘My Mum will want to know; she’s been talking about the coronation for ages. We can
go to a matinee another day, when we get to King’s Lynn, if you like.’