people hanging over the sills cat-calling to friends below. It was a long way from the vicarage lawns of my youth and, although there was nothing to put one’s finger on, it was faintly bawdy somehow.
I took a desultory look around the sideshows, then stood for a while on the terrace east of the Rosebery Hall to watch Daisy, with enormous satisfaction and a sweet smile for Mrs Turnbull, give first prize to a tot got up as Charlie Chaplin and second prize to a five-year-old Theda Bara style Cleopatra, who was practically naked. The local picture house clearly had a lot to answer for.
Presently, I began to sense another locus of noise and bustle somewhere behind me. People were funnelling into the mouth of a narrow lane giving on to the terrace and, making my way to the corner, I could see a steady trickle of others disappearing along one of the small side-streets which peeled off the steep street leading up the hill; clearly they were converging somewhere in the back lanes. Spying my expectorating chum of the morning as he passed I caught at his coat sleeve.
‘It’s yersel’,’ he cried in polite greeting and I was sure he had had a nip or two, for his old eyes were swimmier than they had been on our first meeting and his toothless grin was rather wet and shiny.
‘What’s going on up there?’ I asked him, pointing to the crowd, growing from a trickle to a flood now.
‘It’s the greasy pole,’ he said. ‘Come on with you, you’ll no want to miss that.’
‘No indeed.’ I had never seen a greasy pole competition before although I had often heard them described and I was sure neither Cad nor Buttercup would have seen enough to have tired of them, but I could not find either golden head amongst the crowd and since Daisy was busy on the town hall steps, trying to decide between three little pharaohs, and I was loath to miss my chance of a ringside seat, I hurried on alone.
The venue for the greasy pole seemed odd at first. Hill Square was a mean little opening between two closes with tenements all around, but it had the one redeeming feature of soft earth underfoot and, as I squinted up at the pole, I could see the point of that. It looked thirty feet high at least, a ship’s mast possibly, borrowed for the occasion, for it was polished quite smooth. Slippery enough at the best of times, I should have thought, even without the liberal coating of grease I could see glinting on its surface. At its summit two bulging lumps dangled and I asked someone standing beside me what they were.
‘A ham and a bag of flour, madam,’ I was told, and had it not been for that ‘madam’ I should have suspected the man of cheek. My face must have shown my puzzlement, for he chuckled.
‘The ham’s the prize,’ he said, ‘and the flour’s . . . you’ll see.’
Little boys were hurling themselves up a few feet and slithering back down again, chided by the grownups: ‘Come away now, the mess of you!’ but presently the first serious contender presented himself to clapping and jeers. He was a wiry youth dressed in very stout twill trousers, and made good progress to about halfway up before, for no obvious reason, he suddenly shot straight back to earth again and landed on his bottom grinning sheepishly to the roars of laughter from all around.
The next hopeful looked even less likely; he had huge hands to be sure but also a very round stomach and short little legs. The crowd began to laugh as soon as they saw him and sure enough he was hardly his own height from the ground when he let go. While yet another tried his luck, I drifted off into a daydream as I always do on these occasions. This daydream was of me, striding forward and launching myself at the pole. I tossed my head and laughed at those who would stop me, before hoisting myself effortlessly to the top and waving my hat in the air. Is it only me, I wonder, or does everyone do it? I know I have plunged (in my mind) into every circus, yacht race, steeplechase
I took a desultory look around the sideshows, then stood for a while on the terrace east of the Rosebery Hall to watch Daisy, with enormous satisfaction and a sweet smile for Mrs Turnbull, give first prize to a tot got up as Charlie Chaplin and second prize to a five-year-old Theda Bara style Cleopatra, who was practically naked. The local picture house clearly had a lot to answer for.
Presently, I began to sense another locus of noise and bustle somewhere behind me. People were funnelling into the mouth of a narrow lane giving on to the terrace and, making my way to the corner, I could see a steady trickle of others disappearing along one of the small side-streets which peeled off the steep street leading up the hill; clearly they were converging somewhere in the back lanes. Spying my expectorating chum of the morning as he passed I caught at his coat sleeve.
‘It’s yersel’,’ he cried in polite greeting and I was sure he had had a nip or two, for his old eyes were swimmier than they had been on our first meeting and his toothless grin was rather wet and shiny.
‘What’s going on up there?’ I asked him, pointing to the crowd, growing from a trickle to a flood now.
‘It’s the greasy pole,’ he said. ‘Come on with you, you’ll no want to miss that.’
‘No indeed.’ I had never seen a greasy pole competition before although I had often heard them described and I was sure neither Cad nor Buttercup would have seen enough to have tired of them, but I could not find either golden head amongst the crowd and since Daisy was busy on the town hall steps, trying to decide between three little pharaohs, and I was loath to miss my chance of a ringside seat, I hurried on alone.
The venue for the greasy pole seemed odd at first. Hill Square was a mean little opening between two closes with tenements all around, but it had the one redeeming feature of soft earth underfoot and, as I squinted up at the pole, I could see the point of that. It looked thirty feet high at least, a ship’s mast possibly, borrowed for the occasion, for it was polished quite smooth. Slippery enough at the best of times, I should have thought, even without the liberal coating of grease I could see glinting on its surface. At its summit two bulging lumps dangled and I asked someone standing beside me what they were.
‘A ham and a bag of flour, madam,’ I was told, and had it not been for that ‘madam’ I should have suspected the man of cheek. My face must have shown my puzzlement, for he chuckled.
‘The ham’s the prize,’ he said, ‘and the flour’s . . . you’ll see.’
Little boys were hurling themselves up a few feet and slithering back down again, chided by the grownups: ‘Come away now, the mess of you!’ but presently the first serious contender presented himself to clapping and jeers. He was a wiry youth dressed in very stout twill trousers, and made good progress to about halfway up before, for no obvious reason, he suddenly shot straight back to earth again and landed on his bottom grinning sheepishly to the roars of laughter from all around.
The next hopeful looked even less likely; he had huge hands to be sure but also a very round stomach and short little legs. The crowd began to laugh as soon as they saw him and sure enough he was hardly his own height from the ground when he let go. While yet another tried his luck, I drifted off into a daydream as I always do on these occasions. This daydream was of me, striding forward and launching myself at the pole. I tossed my head and laughed at those who would stop me, before hoisting myself effortlessly to the top and waving my hat in the air. Is it only me, I wonder, or does everyone do it? I know I have plunged (in my mind) into every circus, yacht race, steeplechase
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