|
Attractions
The
overly enthusiastic music blares out over the
fairground lilting and gay, though sounding
slightly metallic as it crackles through
gramophonic speakers. Buoyant voices of the side
stall callers shouting their exhibits and games
to the crowds intermingle with the high shrieks
and excited yells and chatterings of the
animated children.
This was the Carnival. The only thing apart from
Christmas that made the year worthwhile in the
eyes of the local children.
The Carousel horses pirouette, never tiring
heads held high and proud, with wooden painted
smiles, and cheery glint of eye. A trio of
bright gaudy feathers topping each of their
noble heads which bob and rise as though in the
lilt of a canter. Real leather harness, damp
with the sweat of eager hands releasing the
pungent aroma of worn leather. Proper stirrups
jangle against the horse’s flank urging it on
ever faster and hard wooden saddles polished and
shiny by countless skirt and britches. The
undulating wood beneath them smoothed and worn
by a multitude of pounding feet. A million
sparkling eyed children with one face. Pin
points of coloured excitement on cherubic
cheekbones. Eyes shining with a deep love for
“their” horse.
The
dizzying swell,
of the carousel
as it tosses and turns,
lurches and churns.
Prancing, and dancing,
as children are glancing,
at parents, as they fly,
catching the eye.
A smile and a wave,
some shrieking, some Brave.
A pat of the neck,
a peer just to check,
that mummy and daddy are there,
and they care,
safe boys and girls,
the horse unfurls,
now faster than fast,
the ride doesn’t last,
it’s slowing and stopping,
it’s time to be offing.
Goodbye little horse,
I’ll see you of course.
next year here,
I’ll ride you my dear.
The
monied folk move amongst the stalls and rides as
the urchins run between them begging for coins.
The dirty children pick up the discarded scraps
of food thrown as if to hungry dogs. These
little ones have no interest in the gaudy rides,
their only interest is one of survival. The
Carnival is rich in pickings. Plenty to
pickpocket and steal and a good place for
begging. They are adept at avoiding the feet of
the gentlemen who often heft a swift kick at the
filthy lice ridden children scrabbling at ground
level between their feet.
The Ladies strut in their bustles and bows, hats
trimmed with ostrich feathers and tulle, gowns
of rich brocade and velvet trailing in the mud.
Their waists pulled by string so tight that the
diaphragm heaves with the effort of drawn
breath, feet forced into button -up-boots that
are too small. A strange sight these women with
ram rod straight back, heaving bust, tiny waist,
huge bulge to the rear and too-small feet. And
the men aren’t much better, with their
monocled eye and tailed suit making them look
like awkward penguins.
My sister and I sit in our tent, high up on the
podium. We sit close not through choice but
fused by the skin and organs that we share. We
watch as the freaks line up and walk slowly
passed us laughing and pointing at our
discomfort and pain. They pay for our
humiliation. We used to giggle back at them but
now we usually just huddle stroking each other
for comfort, aware of the evening beating that
will surely follow this degradation if the
coffers aren’t pleasing to our master. Day and
night the freaks walk past us, stream after
never ending stream. Occasionally we might meet
the eye of a sympathetic looking lady, but
invariably she casts her eyes downwards
disturbed almost to the point of a faint because
one of us looked her square in the eye. What
strange people they are! How they mock us for
being different, before going to their opulent
homes while we are thrown a few rotting scraps
by our master. My sister and I are con-joined by
more than our shared body. We are also bound
together by love. For what do we have except
each other? |
