Bank Holiday
K. Mansfield

     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 tunes 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 i{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 i{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!"
     "i{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 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 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?