Roll Up, Roll Over

It’s the noise of the carousel that’s so intoxicating. Don’t you just love the wheezy grinding of the music, the cheesy, age-old melodies that shout out “enjoy! This is as good as it’s going to get! Hang on tight and pretend you’re a kid again!” Well, that’s what it says to me anyway, even though it’s been so long since I was a kid I’ve forgotten it ever happened.

Fairgrounds – that chipped, garishly painted small cosmos full of desperate people flinging their cash around, sucking on poisonously coloured confections, yelling like maniacs and whooping into the night as if this false, manic half acre of muddy ground was heaven itself. Or perhaps not heaven at all. Perhaps the other place.

So many places to hide, here. Flapping tent openings, tiny wooden booths decorated with signs of the zodiac where, for a price, the gullible learn the secrets of the universe (a pound coin in the slot, a mass produced laminated card with some generic nonsense on request). There are the spaces under all the rides too, of course. Plenty of room there, up close and personal with wet grass, slick mud, snaking cables. Oh, and let’s not overlook behind the scenes of the Ghost Train. There are long, dark tunnels there, damp and claustrophobic, overhung with wobbly witch cutouts and dusty spiders that wouldn’t fool a blind man in a bucket. Still, it’s an interesting journey, bowling along in a mini carriage, clutching your partner, screaming unnecessarily loud and rocking the carriage side to side filled with bravado and testosterone. Not that I ever partook, but I have eyes and ears.

Nobody notices me, naturally. I mean, why would they? This is predominantly a place for young folk, teenagers with money to spend and girls to impress. Kids with parents who keep only half an eye on their charges, lured themselves by slot machines and the siren call of the carousel. I’m just a bloke, quite ordinary, not so shabby that the crowds eye me with suspicion or distaste. I’m spotlessly clean, I am. I thought I’d mention that, as I wouldn’t want you to think me a weirdo or anything. Sometimes I stand quite close to some woman or other, inhale her cheap perfume, and people must think we’re together. I like that, the thought of having someone of my own. I can’t stand there for long though, she always moves off or seeks out whoever she came with. I smile casually before she goes, as if our chance meeting was just that. Chance.

Here’s the thing though. I’m lonely. There, I confess it. Don’t think I’ve never had a relationship, as it’s now called. I have a cruder way of putting it, but you probably don’t want to hear that. I spend all my waking hours at the fairground, and when it moves on after a few weeks, so do I. I move onto wherever it turns up next. It’s the lights and the music, you see. And all the secret places it gives up. The hidey holes, the booths, the other world behind the façade of curtains and jolly cardboard figures, pirates, clowns, ghosts. It’s like a world within a world; there’s the night outside, with the real universe (no pound coin needed here, ha ha) and the jostling, over-the-top hysteria of the punters competing with the coarse cries of the stall holders and the mad, blaring cacophony of dozens of snatches of endlessly upbeat tunes.

Then there’s the much more exciting world, the secret space behind the false lake where the wooden ducks slide past waiting to be shot, the narrow deep alley at the back of the coconut shy, just behind the terrifying scarecrow dummies with chips knocked out of their imbecilic heads. The darkness, the feeling of invisibility is intoxicating back there.

She was about 15, couldn’t have been any older despite the make up slapped on inexpertly and the totally inappropriate high heels. High heels! At a fairground! What was she thinking? She tottered clumsily towards the waltzers, a can of some lager or other in one hand, a tiny glittery bag in the other, grinning at nobody in particular. Her eyes were wide as a baby being shown a balloon for the first time, her ankles thin and white as sapling shoots. I watched her for quite a while, dry mouthed and aching. She was on her own, not pretty enough to attract the feral advances of the stall holders and too unsteady on her feet to perform the flirting dance – in to tease and taunt, back off to show indifference, closer in, move away. I stood at the corner of one of the tents, half hidden by a washing line of grubby cloths and bided my time as she weaved her way towards me, pausing to slurp from her can and examine the heel of her shoe which had caught in something or other.

Really, it was no challenge at all. Piece of cake, if I’m honest. I can be surprisingly charming if pushed, and the uneven light and the late hour hides my face effectively enough. She seemed rather flattered but unsurprised when I offered to help her to somewhere quiet, to fix her shoe. She was wearing some sweet scent that reminded me for a minute of my mum, God rest her soul. Jasmine, was it? Perhaps violet? I ended up with it on my sleeve anyway.

I took her to one of my favourite places. I can’t tell you about it, but it’s the most secret place of all in the fairground. She’s there still, what’s left of her. I cherish the scent on my arm.

Re: Roll Up, Roll Over

Oooo-er
I was drawn into every word, wondering where it would take me - you've not missed yer calling have ya, you 'are' a writer.
I hope so ......

You took me back to me youth, I loved fairgrounds and especially the carousel.
Its been a joy to read your words .....

Re: Roll Up, Roll Over

I agree Patsy ... they remind me of the Roald Dahl "Tales of the Unexpected" that used to be on tv - I loved those.

Re: Roll Up, Roll Over

Yes me too Myrtle - those were the days ....

Re: Roll Up, Roll Over

good story, I still love fairs, even the sad excuse of one that comes to this market town that's forgotten it was market and has few shops left... I loved Hamstead heath fair, well both if them it was huge, a whole days entertainment, just looking, deciding where to spend the saved up money, the wall of death bikers got talked into being the stranger in the crowd, to ride pillion, can still smell the hot engine and the leather of his jacket

Re: Roll Up, Roll Over

Very talented writing. Bit of a deep thinker as well.

Re: Roll Up, Roll Over

'What's left of her'? Spooky.

Re: Roll Up, Roll Over

Exactly what I thought, creepy stuff KMJ . . .

Re: Roll Up, Roll Over

yes gone to those village fairs myself - sometimes in the rain when the wet grass underfoot had started getting boggy and more mud than grass but still we went. Drawn to those bright lights - mesmerized. Cravats were suddenly in fashion in those days and I walked in as a dandy looking for a quick chick! but never found one!

but still the music invaded our minds and mesmerized us and drew us around its circles and shows - outside seemed dark and uninviting - inside was our warm refuge and bed for the night - but we never got one. we were the outsiders and when it closed we all went home and they to their cosy caravans for the night - some chicks perhaps made it be we studs didn't!

it was a world of two peoples - those who traded illusions and those who wanted illusions and we all played the games for a while. communicating with false smiles that spelt money and nothing more.

but the village fairground was magic for a while and we went home dreaming of what might have been and as we trudged further and further - the rain came down and we were back home in reality again