AUNT JANE’S TREAT
WILLIAM was blest with many relations, though “blest” is not quite the word he would have used himself. They seemed to appear and disappear and reappear in spasmodic succession throughout the year. He never could keep count of them. Most of them he despised, some he actually disliked. The latter class reciprocated his feelings fervently. Great-Aunt Jane was one he had never seen, and so he suspended judgment on her. But he rather liked the sound of her name. He received the news that she was coming to stay over Christmas with indifference.
“All right,” he said, “I don’t care. She can come if she wants to.”
She came.
She was tall and angular and precise. She received William’s scowling greeting with a smile.
“Best wishes of the festive season, William,” she murmured.
William looked at her scornfully.
“All right,” he murmured.
However, his opinion of her rose the next morning.
“I’d like to give you some treat, William dear,” she said at breakfast, “to mark the festive season—something quiet and orderly—as I don’t approve of merry-making.”
William looked at her kind, weak face, with the spectacles and scraped-back hair, and sighed. He thought that Aunt Jane would be enough to dispel the hilarity of any treat. Great-Aunt Jane’s father had been a Plymouth Brother, and Great-Aunt Jane had been brought up to disbelieve in pleasure except as a potent aid of the devil.
William asked for a day in which to choose the treat. He discussed it with his friends.
“Well,” advised Ginger, “you jolly well oughter choose something she can’t muck up like when my aunt took me to a messy ole museum and showed me stones and things—no animals nor nuffin’.”
“What about the Zoo?” said Henry.
The Zoo was suggested to Great-Aunt Jane, but she shuddered slightly. “I don’t think I could,” she said. “It’s so dangerous, I always feel. Those bars look so fragile. I should never forgive myself if little William were mangled by wild beasts when in my care.”
William sighed and called his friends together again.
“She won’t go to the Zoo,” said William. “Somethin’ or other about bars an’ mangles.”
“Well, what about Maskelyne’s and Devant’s?” said Henry. “My uncle took me once. It’s all magic.”
William, much cheered at the prospect, suggested Maskelyne’s that evening. Aunt Jane thought it over for some time, then shook her head.
“No, dear,” she said. “I feel that these illusions aren’t quite honest. They pretend to do something they really couldn’t do, and it practically amounts to falsehood. They deceive the eye, and all deceit is wrong.”
William groaned and returned to his advisory council.
“She’s awful,” he said gloomily. “She’s cracky, I think.”
They discussed the matter again. Douglas had seen a notice of a fair as he came along.
“Try that,” he said. “There’s merry-go-rounds an’ shows an’ cocoanut-shies an’ all sorts. It oughter be all right.”
That evening William suggested a fair. Aunt Jane looked frightened. “What exactly happens in a fair?” she said earnestly.
William had learnt tact.
“Oh,” he said, “you just walk round and look at things.”
“What sort of things do you look at?” said Aunt Jane.
“Oh, just stalls of gingerbreads an’ lemonade.”
It sounded harmless. Aunt Jane’s face cleared.
“Very well,” she said. “Of course, I could stand outside while you walked round....”
But upon investigation it appeared that William’s parents had not that perfect trust in William that William seemed to think was his due, and objected strongly to William’s walking round by himself. So Aunt Jane steeled herself to dally openly with the evil power of Pleasure-making.
“We can be quite quick,” she said, “and it doesn’t sound very bad.”
William reported progress to his council.
“It’s all right,” he said cheerfully. “The ole luny’s going to the fair.”
Then his cheerfulness departed.
“Though, when you come to think of it,” he said, “it jolly well won’t be much fun for me.”
“Well,” said Ginger, “s’pose we all try to go there the same time. We can leave your ole Aunt Jane somewhere an’ go off, can’t we?”
William brightened.
“That sounds better,” he said. “I guess she’ll be quite easy to leave.”
*****
Aunt Jane was so nervous that she did not sleep at all on the night before the day arranged for the treat. Never before in her blameless life had Aunt Jane deliberately entered a place of entertainment.
“I do hope,” she murmured on the threshold, holding William firmly by the hand, “that there’s nothing really wrong in it.”
She was dressed in a long and voluminous black skirt, a long and voluminous black coat, and a small black hat, adorned with black ears of wheat, perched upon her prim little head.
Inside she stopped, bewildered. The glaring lights, the noise, the shouting, seemed to be drawing Aunt Jane’s eyes out of her sockets and through her large, round spectacles.
“It isn’t a bit what I thought, William,” she said. “I imagined just stalls—just quiet, plain stalls. Why are they throwing balls about, William?”
“It’s a cocoanut-shy,” said William.
“Can—can anyone do it?” said Aunt Jane.
“Anyone can try,” said William, “if they pay twopence.”
“And what happens if they knock it off?”
“They get the cocoanut,” explained William loftily.
“I—I wonder if it’s very difficult,” mused Aunt Jane.
At this moment a well-aimed ball sent a cocoanut rolling in the sawdust. Aunt Jane gave a little scream.
“Oh, he did it! He did it!” she cried. “I—I’d love to try. There—there can’t be anything wrong in it.”
AT THE FIRST THROW AUNT JANE SHOOK HER HAT
CROOKED.... THE BYSTANDERS CHEERED HER
LOUDLY.
With trembling fingers she handed the man twopence and took the three wooden balls. A sudden hush of astonishment fell on the crowd when Aunt Jane’s curious figure came to the fore. At the first throw she shook her hat crooked, at the second she shook a tail of hair down, at the third she shook off her spectacles. The third ball went wider of the mark than all the others, and hit a young man on the shoulder. Seeing Aunt Jane, however, he only smiled. She demanded another two-pennyworth. The bystanders cheered her loudly. The crowd round the cocoanut-shy stall grew. People from afar thought it was an accident, and crowded up to watch. Then they saw Aunt Jane and stayed.
At last, after her sixth shot, Aunt Jane, flushed and panting and dishevelled, turned to William.
“It’s much more difficult than it looks, William,” she said regretfully, as she straightened her hat and hair. “I would have liked to have knocked one off.”
“What about me?” said William coldly.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “You must try, too.” So she paid another twopence, and William tried, too. But the crowd began to melt away at once, and even the proprietor began to look bored. William realised that he was an anticlimax and felt dispirited.
“You should use more force, I think, William,” said Aunt Jane, “and more directness of aim.”
William growled.
“Well, you didn’t do it,” he said aggressively.
“No,” said Aunt Jane, “but I think with practice——”
Here William was cheered by the sight of Henry and Douglas and Ginger, who had all managed to evade lawful authority, and come to the help of William. They had decided to hide from Aunt Jane and then abscond with William. But Aunt Jane hardly saw them. She hurried on ahead, her cheeks flushed, her eyes alight, and her prim little hat awry.
“It has,” she said, “a decidedly inspiriting effect, the light and music and crowds—decidedly inspiriting.”
She halted before a roundabout.
“I wonder if it’s enjoyable,” she said musingly. “The circular motion, of course, might be monotonous.”
However, she decided to try it. She paid for William and Douglas, and Henry, and Ginger, and herself, and mounted a giant cock. It began. She clung on for dear life. It went faster and faster. There came a gleam into her eyes, a smile of rapture to her lips. Again the crowd gathered to watch her. She looked at the people as the roundabout slowed down.
“How happy they all look,” she said innocently. “It’s—it’s quite a pleasant motion, isn’t it? It seems a pity to get off.”
She stayed on, clinging convulsively to the pole, with one elastic-sided boot waving wildly. She stayed on yet again. She seemed to find the circular motion anything but monotonous. It seemed to give her a joy that all her blameless life had so far failed to produce.
William and Ginger had to climb down, pale and rather unsteady. Henry and Douglas followed their example the next time it stopped. But still Aunt Jane stayed on, smiling blissfully, her hat dangling over one ear. And still the crowd at the roundabout grew. The rest of the fair ground was comparatively empty. All the fun of the fair was centred on Aunt Jane.
At last she descended from her mount and joined the rather depressed-looking group of boys who were her escort.
“It’s curious,” she said, “how much pleasanter is a circular motion than a straight one. This is much more exhilarating than, say, a train journey. And, of course, the music adds to the pleasantness.”
“Well,” said William, “you jolly well stayed on.”
“It seemed,” she said, “such a pity to get off.”
CLINGING CONVULSIVELY TO THE POLE WITH ONE
ELASTIC-SIDED BOOT WAVING WILDLY.
The little party moved from the roundabout followed by most of the crowd. The crowd liked Aunt Jane. They wouldn’t have lost sight of her for anything. Aunt Jane, for the first time in her life, appealed to the British Public. William and his friends felt themselves to be in a curious position. They had meant to leave Aunt Jane to her fate and go off to their own devices. But it did not seem possible to leave Aunt Jane, because everything seemed to centre round Aunt Jane, and they would only have been at the back of the crowd instead of at the front. But they felt that their position as escort of Aunt Jane was not a dignified one. Moreover, their feats drew forth none of the applause which Aunt Jane’s feats drew forth. They felt neglected by the world in general.
Aunt Jane was next attracted by the poster of the Fat Woman outside one of the tents. She fixed her spectacles sternly, and approached the man who was crying the charms of the damsel.
“Surely that picture is a gross exaggeration, my good man?” she said.
“Hexaggeration?” he repeated. “It isn’t ’arf the truth. That’s wot it isn’t. It isn’t ’arf the truth. We—we couldn’t get ’er on the picture if we made ’er as big as wot she is. Hexaggeration? Why—she’s a walkin’ mountain, that’s wot she is. A reg’lar walkin’ mountain. Come in and see ’er. Come in and judge for yerselves. Jus’ come in and see if wot I’m tellin’ yer isn’t gospel.”
Somehow or other they were swept in. Aunt Jane sat on the front seat. She gazed intently upon the Fat Woman, who sat at her ease upon a small platform.
“She seems,” said Aunt Jane, “unnaturally large, certainly.”
The showman discoursed upon the size of the Fat Woman, and then invited the audience to draw near.
“Touch ’er if yer want,” he said. “Touch ’er and see she’s reel. No decepshun.”
Aunt Jane drew near with the rest and accosted the showman.
“Has she ever tried any of those fat-reducing foods?” she said.
The man looked at William.
“Is she batty?” he said simply.
“If you’ll give me her address I’ll talk to my doctor about her. I think something might be done to make her less abnormal.”
At this the walking mountain rose threateningly from her gilded couch.
“’Ere,” she said, “’oo yer a-callin’ nimes of? You tell me that. ’Oo yer a-givin’ of yer sauce to? You talk ter me strite art if yer wants to an’ I’ll talk ter yer back—not ’arf. Don’t go a ’urlin’ of yer hinsults at me through ’im. My young man—’e’ll talk ter yer, nah, if yer wants.”
“’Er young man, he’s the Strong Man in the next tent,” explained the man. “They’re fiancies, they are. An’ ’e’s the divil an’ all to tackle, ’e is. I’d advise yer, as friend to friend, to clear, afore she calls of ’im.”
But Aunt Jane, the imitation wheat in her hat trembling with emotion, was already “clearing.”
“They quite misunderstood,” she said, as soon as she had “cleared.” “The word ‘abnormal’ conveys no insult, surely. I think I’ll return and explain. I’ll refer them to the dictionary and the derivation of the word. It simply means something outside the usual rule. If——”
She was returning eagerly to the tent to explain, but found the entrance blocked by a crowd, so she was persuaded to postpone her explanation. Moreover, she had caught sight of the Hoop-la, and was anxious to have the system explained to her. William wearily explained it.
“Oh, I see,” said Aunt Jane, “a test of dexterity and accuracy of aim. Shall we—shall we try?”
They tried. They tried till William was tired. She had determined to “get something” or die. The crowd was gathering again. They applauded her efforts. Aunt Jane was too short-sighted to notice the crowd, but she heard its shouts.
“Isn’t everyone encouraging?” she murmured to William. “It’s most gratifying. It’s really a very pleasant place.”
She actually did get something. One of her wildly-flung hoops fell over a tie-pin of the extremely flashy variety, which she received with glowing pride and handed to William. The crowd cheered, but Aunt Jane was quite oblivious of the crowd.
“Come along,” she said. “Let’s do something else.”
Ginger disconsolately announced his intention of going home. Henry and Douglas followed his example, and William was left alone to escort Aunt Jane through the mazes of the Land of Pleasure. It was at this point that things really seemed to go to Aunt Jane’s head. She went down the Helter Skelter four or five times—sailing down on her little mat with squeaks of joy. She forgot now to straighten her hat or her hair. Her eye gleamed with a strange light, her cheeks were flushed.
“There’s something quite rejuvenating about it all, William,” she murmured. She had her fortune told by a Gipsy Queen, who prophesied an early marriage with one of her many suitors.
She went again on the Roundabout, she had another cocoanut-shy, she went on the Switchback, the Fairy Boat, and the Wild Sea Waves. William trailed along behind her. He refused to venture on the Wild Sea Waves, and watched her on them with a certain grudging admiration.
“Crumbs!” he murmured, “she must have gotter inside of iron!”
WILLIAM WAS LEFT ALONE TO ESCORT AUNT JANE
THROUGH THE MAZES OF THE LAND OF PLEASURE.
Finally Aunt Jane espied a stall at a distance. Under a flaring gas-flame a man in a white coat was pulling out long strings of soft candy. Aunt Jane approached.
“What an appetising odour!” commented Aunt Jane. “Do you think he’s selling it?” William thought he was.
And the glorious climax of that strange night was the sight of Aunt Jane standing under the flaring gas-jet devouring soft pull-out candy.
“’Ullo! ’Ere’s the gime old bird,” said a man passing.
“I don’t see any bird, do you?” said Aunt Jane to William, peering round with her short-sighted eyes, “but this is a very palatable confection, is it not?”
Then a clock struck, and into Aunt Jane’s face came the look that Cinderella’s face must have worn when the clock struck twelve.
“William,” she said, “that surely was not ten?”
“Sounded like ten,” said William.
Aunt Jane put down her last stick of pull-out candy unfinished.
“We—we ought to go,” she said weakly.
*****
“Well,” said William’s mother when they returned. “I do hope it wasn’t too tiring for you.”
Aunt Jane sat down on a chair and thought. She thought over the evening. No, she couldn’t really have done all that—have seen all that. It was impossible—quite impossible. It must be imagination. She must have seen someone else doing all those things. She must have gone quietly round with William and watched him enjoy himself. Of course that was all she’d done. It must have been. The other was unthinkable.
So she smiled, a patient, weary little smile.
“Well, of course,” she said, “I’m a little tired but I think William enjoyed it.”