Chapter: <CHAPTER>
13. BANK HOLIDAY.

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?




</CHAPTER>

 A band begins to play a lively tune as a crowd gathers around them. Eating oranges and bananas the young and the old feast as they walk together toward a hill in the distance. The music surrounds the crowd, joining them in celebration of the bank holiday. A few characters in the crowd stand out, like the young girl who has a handful of strawberries. She will not eat them because she thinks the pointed fruit is so beautiful and turns to an Australian solider who laughs at her and tells her to put them in her mouth. He secretly enjoys the frightened look in her eyes as she looks up at him. Old women in velvet bodices pass by young women in muslin and pointed shoes. Men of all kinds, sailors, clerks, young and old, are about. "The loud, bold music holds them together in one big knot for a moment". Ragged children are underfoot, some dancing to the music, others still. As the music breaks and finally dissolves the crowd moves on. Stalls are set up, each housing a vendor selling his or her particular ware. Feathers, toys, dolls, chewing gum, flowers, and hats are just some of the items for sale here but most of the crowd passes by, unable to afford the merchandise or unwilling to pay for such trinkets. The day is sunny and beginning to turn overly hot, the men and women feel it burning through their clothes and on the tops of their heads. The crowd surges forward to buy lemonade and ice cream. A fortuneteller from Italy promises to reveal the secrets of the future. She tells one young woman she will marry a redheaded man and to beware a blonde woman in a car. An auctioneer with sweaty palms stands nearby trying to sell a watch that no one will buy. An older man and woman rush past in a carriage, she is playfully holding a parasol, he is sucking the end of his cane like a baby. Their horse trudges onward, leaving piles of manure in its wake. Professor Leonard, or so he is called, is in his academic cap and gown. He has just returned from a successful tour in London, Paris, and Brussels. The professor promises the crowd he can tell their fortunes from the lines and contours of their faces and marks his observations by cutting notches into a card. Large men timidly hand their money over to him. The top of the hill is finally reached. The heat has driven the mothers to sit on the ground with their children while the fathers run into the public houses or taverns to buy ale. People comes in droves up the hill, carrying their trinkets and lemonade, having had their fortunes read, they continue on as if being pushed from behind by an unknown force into the bright radiance of the sun and beyond ... "to what?"

