Bank Holiday

by Katherine Mansfield

　　

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A stout man with a pink face wears dingy white flannel trousers, a blue coatwith 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 whitecanvas shoes, his face hidden under a felt hat like a broken wing, breathes intoa flute; and a tall thin fellow, with bursting over-ripe button boots, drawsribbons - long, twisted, streaming ribbons - of tune out of a fiddle. Theystand, 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 abrass-and-turquoise ring, forces the reluctant flute, and the fiddler's armtries 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 eatthem. "Aren't they dear!" She stares at the tiny pointed fruits as if she wereafraid of them. The Australian soldier laughs. "Here, go on, there's not morethan a mouthful." But he doesn't want her to eat them, either. He likes towatch her little frightened face, and her puzzled eyes lifted to his: "Aren'tthey a price!" He pushes out his chest and grins. Old fat women in velvetbodices - old dusty pin-cushions - lean old hags like worn umbrellas with aquivering bonnet on top; young women, in muslins, with hats that might havegrown 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 holdsthem together in one big knot for a moment. The young ones are larking, pushingeach 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 thepalm of me 'and!"The only ones who are quiet are the ragged children. They stand, as close up tothe 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 roundtwice, 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 againbreaks, 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 wearfeathers threaded through their bonnets.And an old woman in a three-cornered paper hat cries as if it were her finalparting advice, the only way of saving yourself or of bringing him to hissenses: "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 fliesover; when it comes out again it is fiery. The men and women feel it burningtheir 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 lemonslike blunted fishes blob in the yellow water. It looks solid, like a jelly, inthe thick glasses. Why can't they drink it without spilling it? Everybodyspills it, and before the glass is handed back the last drops are thrown in aring.Round the ice-cream cart, with its striped awning and bright brass cover, thechildren cluster. Little tongues lick, lick round the cream trumpets, round thesquares. The cover is lifted, the wooden spoon plunges in; one shuts one's eyesto feel it, silently scrunching."Let these little birds tell you your future!" She stands beside the cage, ashrivelled ageless Italian, clasping and unclasping her dark claws. Her face, atreasure of delicate carving, is tied in a green-and-gold scarf. And insidetheir 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 havethree children. Beware of a blonde woman." Look out! Look out! A motor-cardriven by a fat chauffeur comes rushing down the hill. Inside there a blondewoman, pouting, leaning forward - rushing through your life - beware! beware!"Ladies and gentlemen, I am an auctioneer by profession, and if what I tell youis not the truth I am liable to have my licence taken away from me and a heavyimprisonment." He holds the licence across his chest; the sweat pours down hisface into his paper collar; his eyes look glazed. When he takes off his hatthere 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, oldbabies inside. She holds up a lace parasol; he sucks the knob of his cane, andthe fat old bodies roll together as the cradle rocks, and the steaming horseleaves a trail of manure as it ambles down the hill.Under a tree, Professor Leonard, in cap and gown, stands beside his banner. Heis here "for one day," from the London, Paris and Brussels Exhibition, to tellyour fortune from your face. And he stands, smiling encouragement, like aclumsy dentist. When the big men, romping and swearing a moment before, handacross 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 edgewith 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 thepublic-house, and a loud clatter and rattle of voices.The wind has dropped, and the sun burns more fiercely than ever. Outside thetwo swing-doors there is a thick mass of children like flies at the mouth of asweet-jar.And up, up the hill come the people, with ticklers and golliwogs, and roses andfeathers. Up, up they thrust into the light and heat, shouting, laughing,squealing, as though they were being pushed by something, far below, and by thesun, far ahead of them - drawn up into the full, bright, dazzling radiance to... what?

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