Carnival Day

©2004 Ian Hobson

I was prepared to listen to her advice about the cheese, but why was she dressed as Joan of Arc? 'Good idea, Mildred,' I said, taking the coolbox and icepacks from her and pointing to the two cardboard boxes of paperbacks on the hall floor. 'Will you have room in the car for these, as well?'

'I suppose so, Frank, but I'm not sure we'll have room on the stall. Wherever did you find them all?'

'Had a good root around in the attic. I thought fifty pence each, or a pound for the Wilbur Smiths; they're very good.'

I went to fetch the cheese from the fridge. We usually just sold bric-a-brac and homemade jam and cakes, but one of the Dairy farmers I know, from The Red Lion, had offered me a batch of cheese. He said it was something new he was working on; a kind of Yorkshire Brie, but with more of a Cheddar-like colour and slightly harder than a Gorgonzola. I'd had a slice on a cracker the night before, and it had tasted pretty good.

'How much cheese is there? Will the coolbox be big enough?' Mildred had followed me into the kitchen and was peering over the top of the fridge door.

'Yes, I think so… Err, that is a Joan of Ark costume you're wearing, isn't it?'

'Oh… yes… I was a bit late getting to the hire shop and it was all they had left. You'd think they'd know to save me my usual costume. I gave the manager a piece of my mind. Cheeky devil tried to charge me extra for the sword. I told him where he could stick it.'

'Ah!' I said, closing the fridge door, and feeling sympathy for the hire-shop manager. 'Well, I don't suppose anyone will notice… Right, let's be off then… Oh, but first can I have my fridge magnet back? It's stuck to your breastplate.'

Mildred took the cheese, and I struggled with the two boxes of paperbacks, grabbing my top hat on the way and then almost dropping everything down my front steps as I locked the door. Mildred's old Ford Fiesta was already pretty full, especially with Henry taking up most of the rear seat; so I ended up sitting with the coolbox between my legs and a cardboard box and my top hat on my lap. This made fastening the seatbelt very difficult, especially with my tennis elbow, so I pulled it across my chest and held it against my hip, just in case we should pass any policemen. Henry began to lick my right ear.

'Get down, Henry!' ordered Mildred.

She'd named the dog after her dear departed husband, apparently. I'd never met him, but I somehow suspected she'd ordered him about in a similar way. What breed of dog Henry was, she didn't know for sure; though he looked to me like a cross between a German Shepherd and a Saint Bernard.

As we passed a sign proclaiming that today was the day of the Edwardian Carnival, one of those new-style Minis overtook us; the driver giving us a blast of his motor horn and a rude hand-sign. Funny thing about Mildred; she is always bossy and sometimes downright aggressive, especially when faced with officialdom, yet she always drives as though she's carrying a pyramid of fresh eggs on the roof.

Finally, we arrived at the carnival field and turned left into it; allowing more cars to accelerate happily away; with or without rude hand signals, I didn't see. Soon we were stopped by an orange-jacketed steward, who made the mistake of trying to wave us into the main car parking area.

'We're Amnesty International!' shouted Mildred, having wound down her window. The steward was dumbstruck and looked as though he thought we'd arrived to arrest him for crimes against humanity. Meanwhile Henry had become excited, having spotted an Afghan Hound through the tailgate window, and was slapping the side of my head with his tail.

'Get down, Henry!' ordered Mildred.

'We're having a stall,' I explained, as best I could, between my top hat and Henry's wagging tail. I leaned across Mildred and peered up at the man. 'We're from the local Amnesty group.'

'Oh, sorry.' The man, at last, seemed to understand and allowed us to continue on to where other stallholders were unloading their wares. Mildred yanked on the handbrake and switched off the engine. And then in unison we opened our doors and tried to climb out, only to be instantly catapulted back into our seats, as unfortunately my seatbelt buckle had somehow got plugged into Mildred's empty scabbard.

'Oh, you idiot!' exclaimed Mildred. I wasn't sure if she was referring to me, the seatbelt, the scabbard, or the man from the hire-shop.

'Sorry, Mildred.' I unhooked us and clambered out of the car still holding the cardboard box and my top hat.

'You made it then, Frank?' It was Graham, our group chairman, resplendent in his Edwardian garb. 'Ah, Wilber Smith. I must look through those.'

'Morning, Graham!' I said. 'Have we got a good pitch?'

'Yes, same as last year; between Oxfam and the Chiropodists.'

'Soroptimists.' Mildred corrected him.

'Morning, Mildred… Good Lord!' Graham had just noticed Mildred's outfit.

'Morning, Graham,' replied Mildred. 'If you'd like to… Get down!' Henry had pushed his way between the front seats and was trying to follow his mistress out of the car. 'You can stay in the car for now!'

'It's very kind of you, but I thought I'd help you with the things,' said Graham. 'Err, what have you come as, exactly?'

Mildred gave Graham a disapproving look as she closed the driver's side door and opened the tailgate. I gave him the paperbacks, grabbed the coolbox, closed the passenger door and donned my top hat, wondering if Amnesty, and other organizations, really appreciated all that their local groups did for them.

'I was about to say,' began Mildred, 'if you would both like to start with the bric-a-brac and the books, I'll bring the cakes and the other things.'

'Okay,' we agreed, in unison. But it was then that a gust of wind sprang from nowhere and headed, tornado-like, towards where we were standing. I grabbed for my hat, but too late.

The gust took it and carried it away, as if it was a gas-filled balloon; leaving me to chase after it, foolishly still carrying the coolbox. As I reached the boundary fence, the wind died and my hat plummeted to earth in the next field, landing neatly in a fresh cowpat. Fortunately a passing rambler retrieved it for me and there was no permanent damage; just a yellowy-brown stain on the top, and a strong odour of, well, what my dear departed wife would have called 'a country smell.'
By the time I got back to the car, Graham and Mildred had finished the unloading and had carried the last of our goods and campaign literature away to our stall. Henry gave me a hopeful look as I passed then slumped back down on the rear seat. More people were arriving and beginning to browse, and I made my way through them, noticing that the local archery club had set up a target and were charging sixty pence for three arrows. I decided I'd have a go at that later.

'Are, there you are, Frank,' said Graham, as I approached our stall. 'Oh, good, you've recaptured your hat. Mildred was just telling me about the hire shop… She makes a good Joan of Ark, though, don't you think?'

'Splendid,' I agreed, putting down my hat and setting out some of the cheese on what little there was left of the stall. Mildred, who was busy sticking price tags to the cakes and bric-a-brac, handed me a cardboard sign that read 'Local Cheese £1.25/qtr'.

'Isn't it time we went metric?' I asked, propping the sign against my hat.

'That's what I said,' said Graham, comfortably ensconced in a folding chair and deep into Wilbur Smith's 'Birds of Prey.'

'I wondered about that,' said Mildred. 'But I think we'd only confuse the older generation. Everyone knows what a quarter of a pound is.'

'I thought we were the older generation,' I said.

'Morning, everyone.' Irene, our treasurer, had arrived.

'Morning, Irene,' we all replied. Graham looked up from page seven. 'Come to make sure we don't run off with the cash?'

Irene laughed, politely. 'I'm sure you wouldn't dream of it, Graham… Oh, is this the cheese? It looks a bit like Brie.' She leaned over my cheese display and wrinkled her nose. 'Oh, it's a bit whiffy.'

'Sorry!' I quickly retrieved my hat from behind the cheese sign. 'Try another sniff.'

'Oh yes, that's better. I'll certainly have a quarter. But shouldn't it be in kilos?'

'We've been through that,' answered Graham, still reading. 'But save me a quarter, will you, Frank. And how much for this book? It's very good.'

'A pound to you, sir.'

'A bargain.'

Mildred looked up from her labelling. 'If we're just going to sell to each other, we might as well have stayed at home and saved the cost of a pitch. Get on your feet, Graham, and attract some punters.'

'At once, milady.' Graham put down the paperback, jumped to his feet and took a deep breath. 'Fresh homemade cheese: one pound, twenty-five a quarter!' he shouted. 'Homemade cakes, individually priced! Assorted antiques and bric-a-brac. All proceeds to… bloody hell!' Graham ducked as one of the arrows from the archery club flew over his head and hit Mildred square in the middle of her breastplate before bouncing off and coming to rest between a carrot cake and a pack of six butterfly buns.

'That was a bit close for comfort,' I said. 'Are you alright, Mildred?'

Mildred looked at her breastplate then reached for the arrow, just as a man from the archery club hurried over to our stall. 'I'm very sorry,' he said. 'One of our younger enthusiasts, err, got a bit carried away, I'm afraid.'

'Carried away!' exclaimed Graham. 'You could have had someone's eye out.' Irene and I waited, expectantly. Wondering what Mildred would say. A small crowd of onlookers was gathering.
'Perhaps I could make a donation,' suggested the man, as he eyed our 'Campaign against Arms'

literature. He fumbled for his wallet and took out a five-pound note. Mildred glared, first at the note, and then at the man, until he reopened his wallet and pulled out a ten-pound note.

'No harm done, ' said Mildred, smiling and quickly relieving the man of his fifteen pounds. 'Thank you very much, but be more careful in future, please.' She handed the man his arrow, and he thanked her with a watery smile and walked back through the crowd of onlookers.

'Well, that's our pitch paid for,' said Mildred, as she folded the notes and stuffed them into one of our collection tins. 'From here on, it's all profit.' What a woman; Joan of Ark would have been proud of her.