staring, her smile for everyone and for no one,
a faraway smile. Two dwarfs in neat suits shook hands with pass-ersby to entice them into the Hall of Freaks. They were either brother and sister or husband and wife, because they had the same name. Above a booth, the letters in scarlet, twinkling on and off, madam cassandra, and an assistant assuring us that if we went in, we would come out knowing who our husbands would be, because Madam could predict the very moment when we set eyes on him. We were all for it but Kitty intervened, said hordes of people were rooked, taken in by that bluff.
He stood out because of being so very tall and the fact of his wearing a heavy overcoat in the boiling heat. He looked aloof, like a preacher, his lean bearded face tilted, looking up at the figures on the Ferris wheel, going skywards, screaming with terror, their hands clutching the side chains, then dipping down and those that had been below sent up to face the music. Kitty tapped him from behind — “If it isn’t the Angel Gabriel himself” — and he turned and smiled, taking us all in, a bearded man with searching brownish eyes that seemed to listen as intently as to see.
“Are you afraid you’ll catch cold?” she said.
“I was just on my way,” he said, that bit awkward.
“Sure, you’re always on your way and here’s four lovely lassies for you to dance with.”
They bantered. Was he married yet? No. Was she married yet? No. Maybe he was married on the sly to some wild woman, an octoroon, out there in Minnesota or Wisconsin or wherever, with not even a priest to hear the vows. What happened to the words of the song that she was to send him? What happened to the dance he failed to show up at on St. Patrick’s night? The two of them scolding one another and Noreen, feeling the nap of his coat: “Aaragh, shure, isn’t it all marvelous.”
“Can I get ye a cup of tea?” he asked.
“We’d rather ices,” Kitty said, speaking for us all.
She linked his arm and they walked ahead, us lagging behind,
the crowds milling, as the next train and the next arrived, the ice cream sweet and thick like a custard deliciously cold and the biscuit taste of the cone.
It was from that to the open-air shooting gallery, men shooting like billy-o, some with caps, some without, their eyes looking down the barrels of the guns, so intent as if they were in a war.
The spare guns were tethered to the counter for anyone to join in, and Gabriel paid for us all to have a round. How we laughed, how we protested, him teaching us how to hold it, swivel it, and how to sight the targets, which were tiers of unflurried white ducks.
“Don’t forget to breathe,” he said laughing, and we were off.
The atmosphere so heady, what with us shooting and the spectators, mostly women egging on their husbands or their boyfriends, the muzzles of other guns maneuvering this way and that across the counter, the music from the carousel nearby, various bands and the slight ping as the bullets hit the wings of the falling ducks, so fast and furious, then a faint after-smell as of something having been singed.
“She’s a good shot,” I heard Gabriel say after I hit the target three times, flabbergasted that I had done it, and Mary Kate said tartly that it was because of my brother, one of the mad Fenian men.
Gabriel and another man a few guns away were such crack shots that the official called for an impromptu competition, knowing it would draw a crowd, and it did. That was the first time that I noticed he had a finger missing and only a stump for a thumb.
Such a sense of thrill, ducks on three levels came cascading down, their falls fast and free, that and the booming as one or other hit the gong that hung from a long swaying pendulum, spectators taking sides, caps thrown into the air, people jostling for a better look and sparring.
Yet the two men shook hands cordially when it was over.
Gabriel was given a cranberry jug as a prize, the gallery
a faraway smile. Two dwarfs in neat suits shook hands with pass-ersby to entice them into the Hall of Freaks. They were either brother and sister or husband and wife, because they had the same name. Above a booth, the letters in scarlet, twinkling on and off, madam cassandra, and an assistant assuring us that if we went in, we would come out knowing who our husbands would be, because Madam could predict the very moment when we set eyes on him. We were all for it but Kitty intervened, said hordes of people were rooked, taken in by that bluff.
He stood out because of being so very tall and the fact of his wearing a heavy overcoat in the boiling heat. He looked aloof, like a preacher, his lean bearded face tilted, looking up at the figures on the Ferris wheel, going skywards, screaming with terror, their hands clutching the side chains, then dipping down and those that had been below sent up to face the music. Kitty tapped him from behind — “If it isn’t the Angel Gabriel himself” — and he turned and smiled, taking us all in, a bearded man with searching brownish eyes that seemed to listen as intently as to see.
“Are you afraid you’ll catch cold?” she said.
“I was just on my way,” he said, that bit awkward.
“Sure, you’re always on your way and here’s four lovely lassies for you to dance with.”
They bantered. Was he married yet? No. Was she married yet? No. Maybe he was married on the sly to some wild woman, an octoroon, out there in Minnesota or Wisconsin or wherever, with not even a priest to hear the vows. What happened to the words of the song that she was to send him? What happened to the dance he failed to show up at on St. Patrick’s night? The two of them scolding one another and Noreen, feeling the nap of his coat: “Aaragh, shure, isn’t it all marvelous.”
“Can I get ye a cup of tea?” he asked.
“We’d rather ices,” Kitty said, speaking for us all.
She linked his arm and they walked ahead, us lagging behind,
the crowds milling, as the next train and the next arrived, the ice cream sweet and thick like a custard deliciously cold and the biscuit taste of the cone.
It was from that to the open-air shooting gallery, men shooting like billy-o, some with caps, some without, their eyes looking down the barrels of the guns, so intent as if they were in a war.
The spare guns were tethered to the counter for anyone to join in, and Gabriel paid for us all to have a round. How we laughed, how we protested, him teaching us how to hold it, swivel it, and how to sight the targets, which were tiers of unflurried white ducks.
“Don’t forget to breathe,” he said laughing, and we were off.
The atmosphere so heady, what with us shooting and the spectators, mostly women egging on their husbands or their boyfriends, the muzzles of other guns maneuvering this way and that across the counter, the music from the carousel nearby, various bands and the slight ping as the bullets hit the wings of the falling ducks, so fast and furious, then a faint after-smell as of something having been singed.
“She’s a good shot,” I heard Gabriel say after I hit the target three times, flabbergasted that I had done it, and Mary Kate said tartly that it was because of my brother, one of the mad Fenian men.
Gabriel and another man a few guns away were such crack shots that the official called for an impromptu competition, knowing it would draw a crowd, and it did. That was the first time that I noticed he had a finger missing and only a stump for a thumb.
Such a sense of thrill, ducks on three levels came cascading down, their falls fast and free, that and the booming as one or other hit the gong that hung from a long swaying pendulum, spectators taking sides, caps thrown into the air, people jostling for a better look and sparring.
Yet the two men shook hands cordially when it was over.
Gabriel was given a cranberry jug as a prize, the gallery
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