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 tune out of
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.
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
velvet bodices, old dusty pink cushions, lean old hags like worn umbrellas with a quivering
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 him, if you want the doctor to yourself, fetch him, I says. And by the time they was
cooked there wasn't so much you could put in the palm of me, and... The only ones who
are quiet are the ragged children. They stand as close 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, it's
up and to tickler, all have a tickler, tickle them up boys. Little soft brooms on wire handles,
they are eagerly bought by the soldiers. Buy a jumping donkey, all alive, all. Superior
chewing gum, buy some to do boys. Buy a rose, give her a rose boy, roses lady. Feathers,
feathers, 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
hat, my dear, and 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's fiery. The men and women feel
it burning their 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 lemons like blunted fishes blob in the yellow water. It looks
solid like a 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
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 shriveled, 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 lovebirds 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 motorcar 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
buys a watch. Look out again. A huge barrache comes swinging down the hill with two old,
old bodies roll together as the cradle rocks, and the steaming horse leaves a trail of manure
as it amples down the hill. Under a tree, Professor Leonard in cap and gown stands beside
his banner. He is here for one day, from London, Paris and Brussels exhibition, to tell you
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
a forbidden garden by the owner, stepping from behind a tree.
father brings out a glass of dark, brownish stuff, and then savagely elbows his way in
The winter's dropped, and the sun burns more fiercely than ever. Outside the two swing
And up, up the hill come the people, with ticklers and gollywogs 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, drawing
