Forbidden Humbugs

"Now don't go buying any of those Humbugs; they say that the fairground people spit on their hands when they make them".

How well I remember our Mother's words as we scrambled down from the table after bolting our evening meal, en-route for the wonderland awaiting.

For on an intoxicating three nights the fair came to the meadow behind the Hare & Hounds, and from where we lived, if the wind was in the right direction, we could hear tantalising snatches of melody from the organ, and the occasional breathy whistle from the steam-engine which motivated the roundabout.

On the way our ears were titillated by the music as it was wafted first clearly, then perhaps fading altogether, as though there would really be no fair at all when we reached the end of our journey.

Then came the first beckoning lure of the lights glimpsed through a break in the high hedgerows, then further on between the first few houses in the village street, followed by a momentary but complete picture across the meadow before disappearing behind more houses.

Oh, the exquisite excitement of not seeing those lights but knowing that they were there, waiting. The final stage of the journey was nothing but a succession of inanimate objects conspiring against us to retain the elusiveness of the fair to the very last.

First there arose a brick wall of formidable aspect, then came the Hare & Hounds itself, whose rear yard was well ensconsed within the confines of assorted out-buildings and yet another brick wall, wherein was set the magic door!

Oh, the anticipation before it was opened; letting out the joyous clamour and bustle of the fair. How terrible to be left on the quiet side of that door. How the lights bathed us in a warm glow, an oasis of brightness keeping the blackness of the night at bay.

After gaping in fascinated awe at the majestically canopied showman's locomotive with its impressive smoke stack, shining brasses and pulsing dynamo which supplied the electrical power for the fairground, we would begin to wander from attraction to attraction, absorbing the colour of it.

Ah, those luscious brown and white forbidden Humbugs, glistening under the lights; those unyielding skittles and coconuts targeted at six wooden balls for tuppence by the young men of the village, straight from the bar parlour and eager to demonstrate their masculinity to the giggling female onlookers.

Then the satisfying feel of the fat, furry, be-tasselled grips on the ropes of the swinging boats as we strove to ascend ever higher; the staccato sound of the rifles being fired at the cascading ping-pong balls.

Naive as we were, it did not take us long to notice that what with obstinate coconuts, askew rifle-sights, and hoop-la pedestals only marginally smaller than the quoits, to win would usually cost much more than the prize was worth.

So, it was not surprising that at the "roll the penny down" stall we would watch with ill concealed glee as the more audacious amongst us gave the coin a helping hand on to a winning square when the fairman's back was turned.

When Mr. Charlie Bell, the Baker, (whom I always thought looked like Father Christmas should look) shouted, "free rides on the roundabout for all the children", we would leap astride the flaring nostrilled horses, our fingers clutching the beautifully spiralled brass rails.

Marvelling at the mechanical precision of the little figures on the organ, and regarding with apprehension the black, hissing, slightly menacing steam engine with its mysterious looking attendant, we were headily delighted by the quickly successive contract of being whirled first on the sombre, darkened meadow side then on the animated brightly lit side, where stood the stalls and their glittering prizes.

And how we admired (and afterwards tried to emulate) the traditional leaning-back stance of the man who so deftly collected our pennies.

All too soon came the stark tragedy of having to leave "before the finish" owing to strict parental instructions.

Oh, the wistful glances back at the lights through those very same vantage points which earlier in the evening had so hastened our steps. How our feet dragged now in comparison as we made our way to what seemed to be an exceptionally dark part of the village, before going excitedly to bed to re-live in our minds the magic of it all.

Old-age nostalgia? Boyhood re-visited sentimentality? Maybe. But I shall never forget the sound of a fairground organ borne on the wind, or the whirling lights of a roundabout glimpsed through the hedgerows of a village meadow.

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