Part of the fair had already arrived at Guiseley by the time the Whites Wonders had puffed and pulled itself to the site. Mr White quickly bargained for a place which could be easily seen by the crowd. The situation settled, the unloading began in reverse to the mornings efforts. Within three hours the marquee was raised, the benches fixed in place, horses fed and hobbled, and a hot meal made ready. They all had a routine and an order of action, even Mrs White with her culinary expertise. With the hot meal reviving tired legs and aching backs, Jon was told he was to perform on the punchbags with Duncan.
"Cum arn, Flamer," teased Duncan. "ave a bit of a flurry. Nobudyll look at yer if There's no flurry. Watch that blond behind me. Shes just ri fer me. Bet I lay er tenight. What abo yer, Flamer? Goin te get between legs tenight?" All this monologue came creeping through the corner of Duncans mouth.
"Shut up," said Jon. "Let me get on with things my own way."
"Cor, wha a prissy. Yerll soon change." Bored with the proceedings Duncan turned away. Jon stayed longer demonstrating his strength, but from time to time he cast his eyes over the crowd in eager longing for Miranda.
Just to hear her again, just to see her, he gave the bag an extra hard thump with his frustration.
"Youre first on, laddie," Jon heard Jocks voice through his thoughts. "Best stop now and get yourself together."
"O.K," Jon said cheerfully, though disappointed that he had not yet seen the girl. "Wont be a tick."
Mr White appeared resplendent as before and made the usual announcement with great aplomb and experience. Standing by the ringside Jon felt his stomach contract with apprehension. The crowd in the marquee were passive, consisting mainly of middle aged men with caps and cotton scarves round their necks. They looked sullen and aggressive. A few women were sitting quietly, no chatting and laughing together. There was no sign of Miranda. Mr White sensed the atmosphere.
"Don like this yer lo. Looks like trubble. Seen em before. Get nasty if their mates don win." Mr White had turned his back on the crowd and muttered to Jon, Duncan and Art. "Yer do yer best te win, sonny, Dunc yer let crowd win, and Art yer draw blood. Get em wild. Then Oill offer flaggon ale free to winner of last bout with Jock. Make em stay till end." It was a long speech for Mr White.
He climbed into the ring and in his loud and carrying voice he announced, "ose fer our Flamer? Boxed mighty fine in Bramope. Flamerll take on any one. ose fer Flamer?"
"WHere's his muscles? Still being fed with mothers milk? Got no marks, es phoney. We wan proper boxers." These jibes were coming from all quarters of the crowd.
"Frightend are yer?" Mr White was getting riled. "Think es too good for yer. Chicken, the lot of yer."
With that a man stood up. "Chicken, am I? Lets see if youngster can old is own. Give im a florin if e can last alf way." Jons heart plummeted. The man was angry as well as being physically enormous.. His shaven head seemed stuck on his shoulders with no neck apparent at all. His hugeness and strength would be a better match for Jumbo, but the mild and slow witted Jumbos mind had been so battered that he was no match for a quick thinker.
"Got no one beer for me? Yon Flamer ll be pulp in minute. Cum arn, lud, git movin"
Talking all the time the visitor climbed into the ring. The smell of stale beer followed him around.
"Get him puffed. Hes got no wind, as well as being beer choked. Take it easy, sonny, dont clinch." Whispered words of advice from an anxious Jock. The crowd had become silent. Jon searched the crowd, but still no Miranda. He had felt sure she would have managed to come.
Preliminaries over the fight began. The beer drinker had an exaggerated sense of his abilities and strode from one corner to the other wildly hitting at where Jon was, he always managed to duck and weave away. The big man never bothered to cover up, and scarcely bent his back. He was a sitting target for Jon when the appropriate moment arrived. Round one passed with no threats to either boxer. Round two was the same, Jon working the older ø-(: - man round and round and making him sweat. Twice the visitor skidded in the drips that fell from his head and chest. He was getting angrier and angrier and more and more out of control. In the pause after the third round Jon looked around and there she was. Pale faced and flustered Miranda had a gangway seat in the second row. Jon inclined his head and she smiled. Now, I'm going to show whose boss, Jon thought. Get this fat slug surprised.
Those thoughts were Jons undoing. He thought he saw his chance and went in close with a left upper cut, but walked straight into a fist on his face. His head reverberated, and blood spurted from his nose. Bloody hell, thats torn it. Now its survival. With these thoughts in his mind, Jon smeared the blood as much round his face as possible, and back pedalled, the visitor slipping and sliding on the blood and sweat. Fourth round over and a welcome wipe over and mouth rinse of cold water. The blood from his nose was temporarily halted with the cold and blobs of vaseline. Again he looked for Miranda, she held her head in her hands. The last two rounds passed in a survival dream, neither man had been floored. The final bell was sweet heaven to both contestors.
"Yer git yer florin, lad," puffed the visitor. "Dont matter o wun. Good boxer, thas fer sure." Mr White once again called the visitor a winner on points, a political decision bending to the mood of the crowd. But Jon was past caring. Formalities done, florin in pocket, Jon went to find Miranda. She was waiting by the door.
"Thanks for coming," Jon said, smiling through his bloodstained face.
"Go and clean up," Miranda said solemnly. "Ill wait by the bobbing ducks."
"Anything wrong? Youre so serious." Jon was quick to feel her mood. "I'ved been waiting for this moment."
"Just go quickly," the girl replied.
Washed and tidy, Jon found Miranda watching the children trying to hook a bobbing duck on a rod.
"We've got to walk somewhere quiet," Miranda turned and led the way to an avenue of chestnut trees with benches interspersed between the trunks. They were well away from the noise.
"Its so lovely to see you, I've been thinking all day of all the things I've got to say. Were here for three days, think of that. Three evenings to talk and talk." Jon prattled on not ø-(: - realising that Miranda was sitting straight and tense.
"Stop it, Jon, do stop it," she said tersely.
"Stop what? I can't stop talking when I'm happy and have someone to talk to. Doesnt happen often."
"Its not three evenings. Its not even this one evening. Oh, Jon. Its no good. I'm not coming again, and I'm going straight off soon."
"Why? Whats wrong. We were so good together at Bramhope. Thought we could be friends, proper friends. Youre so special."
"Why?" Miranda repeated. "Why? Its because we dont fit. Youre only a booth boy, and I am a student with a career."
"But that shouldnt make ..." Jon tried to intersperse his feelings with her words.
Miranda continued looking straight ahead. "..shouldnt make any difference, thats what you're going to say. But it does. Were poles apart, and it would never work. We dont know the same people, or live the same kind of life. What have you to offer me? Travel in a caravan?" She snorted, a very different girl from the gentle understanding momentary friend of Bramhope. "And look at your face. I dont want a boyfriend who looks like a thug. Boxings a horrid sport."
"But this is so sudden? It was alright last night. Whats happened?" Jon felt his heart thumping and sinking, it was like a a heavy stone in a balloon, bang, bang.
"They said at home I was crazy. Didnt want me to come tonight, but I felt I had to. Got to get back soon. Told them I was going to the flix and then to some friends. So, Flamer, or Jon if you like it better, I'm off. Sorry I let you even kiss me. Youre so horribly different I forgot myself. And dont make a fuss and start arguing. Its sad, but there it is." Miranda stood up, and with an affectionate pat on Jons head she turned and walked away. She never even looked back.
"Shitbag," Jon reacted angrily, angry with himself for letting his emotions and thoughts flow freely, and angry with Mirandas view of himself and his environment. If thats how I'm to be treated, then I'll get what I want out of them. Shivering with the sudden change of events, Jon went to the caravan which acted as a bar. He downed three double scotches as quickly as he could, and then staggered back back to the marquee and was in time to see Jock ø-(: - climb in to the ring for the final bout. He shouted himself silly in support of his one and only understanding friend, not caring who was winning or losing. A middle aged woman caught hold of his arm as he was about to leave and led him off. That evening Jon vented his hurt and anger and lost his sense of decency in the company of a dirty elderly woman who smelt of stale sweat. When dawn broke he woke up in his unaccustomed foul smelling conditions and felt ashamed and unclean. Quickly and quietly he left his snoring unpleasing partner of the night and crept back to the top bunk in his own caravan, the familiar snores of Art making a homelike feeling of security.
"You look awful," laughed Jock as Jon staggered to the table for his morning cup of tea. "Whats happened to the girl? Wasnt her bed you slept in last night, I'll be sure."
"Shut up," snapped Jon. "No it wasnt, and it Won't be. Taken for a sucker, taken for a ride. Not good enough for her. Spose thatll be my lot." He held his swimming head in his hands.
"Take wot cums," chipped in Duncan. "No wuns no beer or no worse than other. All either go cocks or cunts. Jus let thins appen."
"O.K, O.K," muttered Jon, feeling that words were tumbling around too fast. "Whatve we got to do this morning? Feel like bed, I do."
"Put your head under the shower, then come to the marquee when you feel right. Plenty of stitching and painting. Itll be in shade, so thats not too bad." Jock took on a paternal role. "We've all been where you are now. Gets worse sometimes, I'll tell you."
"Couldnt be worse. I liked the girl, then she tells me I'm not good enough," John moaned sorely.
"Stuff it," Jock said unsympathetically. "Its mighty worse when you've been with a dame, had some bairns, and then told you're no good. Stop griping, and get to the shower, or I'll put you to work straight away."
"O.K, O.K," Jon eased himself out of the door, and off to the shower.
Heard nuns saying, Once bitten, twice shy, Jon thought to himself as the cold water bought sanity and reason back to his senses. I'll just go for sex and be damned. All this not being good enough. Damned silly. Someday someone will think I'm O.K, orphanage background and the lot. Now I'm going to paint the world in red and gold. Use people, hurt people, but take care of myself. Wonder if I can do it? What about all the hours I spent looking at the birds and trees. What about all my attempts to put things down on paper? Do I have to change away from all that too? Suppose when I'm as old as Art and Jumbo and I'm as stupid as them from all the blows on the head then no one will want me. Suppose I get as ugly as them? I dunno. Praps what Dunc said was right, just to let things happen.
"Here I am," laughed Jon as he joined the others in the marquee. "Right state I was in. Sorry, blokes. Ready for anything, now." Turning to Duncan he added, "and I mean anything."
"Well, ose te know," replied Duncan, still stitching with his canvas needle.
The weeks and months flew by. Whites Wonders travelled all around the Midlands. The glamour of the lights, the smells, the adorations of the crowds made an exciting mode of living. The winter months were hard and cruel, but there were ways and means of coping with adverse conditions, and as a young and extremely fit man, cold and wet were minor troubles. Good money was coming in, and Jon assiduously added to his Post Office account. None of the booth boys took holidays or had a regular day off, none of them had anywhere to go. Flattering admirers and delightful females seemed to fulfill moments of relaxation, and Jon being the youngest and least damaged of the troup attracted the most followers.
There was one cloud that seemed to overshadow the peace of mind of many people during the spring and summer of 1939. The strange and unpredictable actions of a man called Hitler were dominating the political scene. Try as they could to believe that whatever happened could not affect Whites Wonders there was an undercurrent of unease. Even the crowds behaved more wildly and madly than before as if they were having a final fling before an unknown catastrophe.
On Saturday September 2nd l939 the atmosphere in the marquee was so muted, so heavy, that Mr White had to burst himself to raise any enthusiasm.
"Them all been lisening to wireless. Plenty trouble, them all says. But, lads, we gotta go on. Nuffink else we can do." Mr White talked solemly to the booth boys as they tidied up after the evenings performance. "Cant think wot im itler is oop to. es got is cuntry, why dus e want more?"
"You wait and see," warned Jock, who was very much more aware of the undercurrents of political affairs. "Maybe well all be crossing bloody channel again. Fanatics like Hitler know no bounds. So what'll it be, sonny? Up in the sky, on the sea, or boot-slogging on land?"
"Dont know what you mean," Jon muttered. "I'm happy where I am for the time. Won't stay too long. Dont want to get punchdrunk. Not got the feel yet to move on."
"Maybe you Won't have the chance to choose. Maybe it'll all be done for you." Jock was determined to put the seriousness of the situation before Jon. Bert, Art and Jumbo would not be able to assimulate the problem, and Duncan, Jock knew, would land on his feet under any circumstances.
"Lets go for a pint," Jon suggested, trying to hide the influence that Jocks words were having. That Saturday night all the booth boys went drinking together, something that happened only occasionally.
At 10.30 on the Sunday morning, Mr White called them all into his caravan. Mrs White had brewed a hot toddy.
"Ol Chamberlain, e be talkin. Best ear wot e as ter say." Sitting quietly round the long table and hugging their hot drinks they all heard the solemn words over the wireless. Britain had declared war on Germany. Jons throat constricted, Jock went pale and the three big men put their heads in their hands. Only Duncan looked chirpy.
"Plenty of skirts in wartime. Well ave no ..." Duncan started, but was rudely shouted down by Mr White. "Jest listen will yer."
The wireless went on in solemn tones giving out immediate instructions for the public. The point that was a blow right below the belt for Whites Wonders was that there was to be no lights allowed to be seen after dark, and that an immediate black out was to be put into effect.
"Thats dun it," cried Mrs White. She pulled out a large handkerchief and unashamedly wept, her large shoulders heaving up and down. "My boys. My boys. Where will you all go? I'll ave no one ter look after. No more Whites Wonders. Oh, dear, oh dear, wha shall we do?"
"Best yer all go noaw. Cum agin supper time." Mr White put his arms round his wifes broad shoulders. Heads together they consoled each other at the loss of their livelihood for with a black out all fairs and outside engagements were automatically cancelled.
The booth boys went their own ways, each deep in their own thoughts. Art, Bertie and Jumbo were speechless. In their numbed state they could not realise a future for themselves. Duncan was singing quietly.
"Whatll you do, Jon,?" asked Jock. Not waiting for an immediate answer he turned to the three big silent men. "Cheer up, me boys. Army has work for all sorts, after a bit of squarebashing. You Won't be jobless during the war, its afterwards thats the problem. Now, Jonno, what about you?"
"Damned news has answered my own problems. Didnt want to stay for ever on the booth, dont like what it does to the head. When Whitey pays us off I'll go and sign up in the army. Dont fancy aeroplanes, and certainly dont fancy bobbing around in an iron cage. Havent much to offer, but I'm fit." The meal that night was a solemn affair. Mrs White was tearstained and still sobbing, but her food was as good as ever.
"Well pay you all for a month, and you can stay till then if you like. Or you can be orf temorra. We dont mind..." At this moment the tears flowed fast and unashamedly. "My boys, my lovely boys. I'll miss me lovely boys. Youre all so good to me, like me own, you are."
"Best yer leave caravan naow," Mr White put his arms round his wifes ample shoulders. "Cum an see us when yerve decided. Remember tho, no lights. Diffcult, but try."
Jon waited with the booth for two more days. Thoughts were flooding through his mind. I'm right glad to escape from this profession. Living by violence is against all I believe in, even controlled violence like boxing. I know I'm basically gentle and that the truly gentle walk alone. I'm lucky to have got this far in life. What will this war bring to me? Hassle, death, glory, triumph? I dunno. Will I have the time or feelings to write any poetry? Not done much of that on the booth. No privacy, thats why. And what about our poor old country? Bad and hard times There's been in the thirties, but still the old bulldog breed seems to have international respect. Hope we dont lose it all, and that we dont go under as a nation. Never seem able to talk to people about all this, just goes round in my head. believe I'm getting quite excited! Something new, different. Oh dear, I'll be just another number again like in Orphanage. Wonder if I'll be brave? Dont like the idea of having to kill - maybe that Won't come my way. Still in my teens and off to see the world. Wonderful!
These thoughts bouyed him up as he explained his plans to the Whites, his plans to go to London and join up. Mrs White fought back her tears bravely, Mr White gave him a huge bear hug and never said a word. With his battered suitcase, and his Post Office Savings book which now had #300 in it, he turned and walked away from the animals, his friends, and his security. He had a lump in the back of his throat when he saw pain in Mrs Whites eyes and the grimness on Jocks face.
The journey to London was bewildering. Leeds was the biggest city Jon remembered, and London seemed never ending. So many people, so many hotels, so many parks, buses and taxis. A friendly policeman in a tall helmet guided him to a nearby recruitment centre, and within minutes Jon had signed on. With his lack of education and lack of enthusiasm for actual battle Jon found himself drafted into the Pioneer Corps. After an initial period of squarebashing with many other recruits who had never lived communally before he felt like an old hand. He acted as father figure to the lonely and homesick, he also acted as chief advisor to skiving when he thought something was unnecessary. Damn stupid rules, and the officers are wet behind their ears. Bet I could do better, but I dont look the part. Never mind, There's food, a roof and companionship. Todays bearable but dull. Who know what tomorrow will bring?
The news that they were to be sent to an Embarkation Centre near Southampton came as an exciting alternative to army drill, and added a welcome spice to life. It could only mean one thing. A journey overseas - But to where?