would like a look at the dog-faced boy.’
‘I would,’ said Norman. ‘I want to see him biting the heads off live chickens.’
‘Well you can’t,’ said the professor. ‘Doggart has been taken to the vet’s.’
‘As if,’ said Norman.
‘No, he truly has. And you’re wrong about the description, Berty. He’s not a dog-faced boy. He’s a boy-faced dog.’
‘As if’ said Norman once more.
‘I kid thee not.’ Professor Merlin crossed his heart. ‘The body of an Alsatian dog and the head of a boy. I purchased him several months ago in this very borough, from a chap called Jon Peru Joans.’
I looked at the Doveston.
And he looked back at me.
‘So why’s he at the vet’s?’ asked Norman.
‘Ah,’ said the professor. ‘An embarrassing incident occurred today. We had been invited to lunch by the lady mayoress, who’d expressed a desire to meet Doggart. We arrived at her house somewhat early and her secretary informed us that she was still upstairs taking a shower. We were sent to wait in the lounge, but Doggart somehow got off his lead and ran upstairs. The bathroom door had been left open and the lady mayoress was still in the shower. She was just bending down to pick up the soap when Doggart entered. He must have misunderstood the situation, because the next thing you know he—’
‘No!’ said Norman. ‘He never did!’
‘He did. It’s the nature of dogs, you see. He couldn’t help himself. The lady mayoress demanded that Doggart be taken off to the vet.’
‘To be destroyed?’
‘No,’ said the professor. ‘To have his paw-nails clipped. We’ve been invited back again for supper.’
We all looked at each other and then began to laugh. These were, after all, the 1950s and Political Correctness was still many years away.
No-one, of course, would dare to tell a joke like that nowadays.
‘So, what
have
you got?’ asked Norman. ‘Anything worth seeing?’ Professor Merlin golden-grinned. ‘You really are a very rude little boy, aren’t you?’ he said.
Norman nodded. ‘Very. That’s one of the benefits of having a dad who runs a sweetie shop.’
‘Ah, privilege.’ Professor Merlin made a wistful face. ‘So, what can I show you? Ah yes, indeedy-do. I know just the very thing.’
And with that said he turned upon a merry heel and led us across the great circle towards his caravan. We shuffled after the curious gent, the Doveston whistling and grinning away, Norman secretively unwrapping Gooble’s Gob Gums in the pocket of his brown shopkeeper’s coat and sneaking them into his mouth and me scratching at the family of ticks that had recently made their nest in my navel.
Perhaps this had me thinking about families, because, I chanced to wonder whether one of the straining hirsute gypsy women might be Norman’s wayward mum.
‘Here we go,’ said the professor as we approached a particularly grand caravan. It was a glorious antique affair, its sides decorated with the swirls and flourishes of the Romany persuasion in golds and silvers and pearly pastels. The words ‘PROFESSOR MERLIN’S GREATEST SHOW OFF EARTH’ were writ in letters big, and elephants and ostriches and dancing girls and jugglers were painted on in rich and dashing fashion.
‘Gaudy,’ said Norman, munching on a sweetie.
‘Inside now, come on.’ We pressed together up the steps and I pushed open the door. As I looked inside, I recalled the words of Howard Carter, who, having chiselled a little hole into the tomb of the boy king and shone his torch through it, was asked what he could see. ‘Wonderful things,’ said Howard. ‘I see wonderful things.’
We bundled into the professor’s caravan.
‘Sit down. Sit down.’ And we sat.
On the walls were many posters of circuses and sideshows. Adverts for incredible performances and impossible feats. But these were not the wonderful things. The wonderful things were brass contraptions. Inexplicable Victorian mechanisms consisting of whirling ball
‘I would,’ said Norman. ‘I want to see him biting the heads off live chickens.’
‘Well you can’t,’ said the professor. ‘Doggart has been taken to the vet’s.’
‘As if,’ said Norman.
‘No, he truly has. And you’re wrong about the description, Berty. He’s not a dog-faced boy. He’s a boy-faced dog.’
‘As if’ said Norman once more.
‘I kid thee not.’ Professor Merlin crossed his heart. ‘The body of an Alsatian dog and the head of a boy. I purchased him several months ago in this very borough, from a chap called Jon Peru Joans.’
I looked at the Doveston.
And he looked back at me.
‘So why’s he at the vet’s?’ asked Norman.
‘Ah,’ said the professor. ‘An embarrassing incident occurred today. We had been invited to lunch by the lady mayoress, who’d expressed a desire to meet Doggart. We arrived at her house somewhat early and her secretary informed us that she was still upstairs taking a shower. We were sent to wait in the lounge, but Doggart somehow got off his lead and ran upstairs. The bathroom door had been left open and the lady mayoress was still in the shower. She was just bending down to pick up the soap when Doggart entered. He must have misunderstood the situation, because the next thing you know he—’
‘No!’ said Norman. ‘He never did!’
‘He did. It’s the nature of dogs, you see. He couldn’t help himself. The lady mayoress demanded that Doggart be taken off to the vet.’
‘To be destroyed?’
‘No,’ said the professor. ‘To have his paw-nails clipped. We’ve been invited back again for supper.’
We all looked at each other and then began to laugh. These were, after all, the 1950s and Political Correctness was still many years away.
No-one, of course, would dare to tell a joke like that nowadays.
‘So, what
have
you got?’ asked Norman. ‘Anything worth seeing?’ Professor Merlin golden-grinned. ‘You really are a very rude little boy, aren’t you?’ he said.
Norman nodded. ‘Very. That’s one of the benefits of having a dad who runs a sweetie shop.’
‘Ah, privilege.’ Professor Merlin made a wistful face. ‘So, what can I show you? Ah yes, indeedy-do. I know just the very thing.’
And with that said he turned upon a merry heel and led us across the great circle towards his caravan. We shuffled after the curious gent, the Doveston whistling and grinning away, Norman secretively unwrapping Gooble’s Gob Gums in the pocket of his brown shopkeeper’s coat and sneaking them into his mouth and me scratching at the family of ticks that had recently made their nest in my navel.
Perhaps this had me thinking about families, because, I chanced to wonder whether one of the straining hirsute gypsy women might be Norman’s wayward mum.
‘Here we go,’ said the professor as we approached a particularly grand caravan. It was a glorious antique affair, its sides decorated with the swirls and flourishes of the Romany persuasion in golds and silvers and pearly pastels. The words ‘PROFESSOR MERLIN’S GREATEST SHOW OFF EARTH’ were writ in letters big, and elephants and ostriches and dancing girls and jugglers were painted on in rich and dashing fashion.
‘Gaudy,’ said Norman, munching on a sweetie.
‘Inside now, come on.’ We pressed together up the steps and I pushed open the door. As I looked inside, I recalled the words of Howard Carter, who, having chiselled a little hole into the tomb of the boy king and shone his torch through it, was asked what he could see. ‘Wonderful things,’ said Howard. ‘I see wonderful things.’
We bundled into the professor’s caravan.
‘Sit down. Sit down.’ And we sat.
On the walls were many posters of circuses and sideshows. Adverts for incredible performances and impossible feats. But these were not the wonderful things. The wonderful things were brass contraptions. Inexplicable Victorian mechanisms consisting of whirling ball
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