Bonnie wasn’t playing while she sang, but holding her mandolin away, her other hand on my shoulder bedam — never mind, Minna had one on my knee, and some of that was to make a romantic picture for the crowd that was increasing out there in the road, but most of it was real. Bonnie somewhere had learned to sing without too much distorting the charm of her rounded, heart-shaped face — well, with nice teeth, ravishing complexion and brilliant eyes, who’d care if she did have to let the daylight in on her tonsils for some of the big notes? And by the prettiest accident, that day she was wearing a green blouse with long sleeves — you’d have thought the whole show had been planned a month in advance, and I’m sure the yucks believed it was.
When the song was done, and she’d waved and blown a kiss to the crowd, which was stomping and clapping, even a few of them snuffling — why, didn’t she grab my shirt to pull me on my feet? “C’m’ on, kid!” she said — “they love you too.”
There was a dizzying pleasure in it, not spoiled by my knowledge that most of the excitement was for Bonnie and ought to be. Yes, I liked it, and I was growing up, I wasn’t too demarbleized—
Nickie and Dion still quarrel occasionally about correcting the places where I goof the spelling. I can’t interfere much, because I did ask them to, away back when I started this book. The last time I heard them beating away at it was very recently, in fact only a few minutes ago, I can’t think why. I had dozed off in the sunshine or appeared to, and I heard Nickie ask Dion how he could be sure I hadn’t meant to write it that way. “Can’t,” he admitted, “and even if I could, why should I be elected to defend the mother tongue against the assaults of a redheaded songbird, politician, hornplayer and drunken sailor? Hasn’t she been raped by experts for centuries past counting, ever since Chaucer made such a bitched-up mess of trying to spell her, and doesn’t she still perk?”
“A heartless, mean and lazy brute,” said Nickie. “I hate you, Di-yon, the way you can’t even come to the aid of Euterpe who lieth bleeding in the dust.”
“Euterpe — who she?”
“What! You calling me a twirp?”
“No, but—”
“I ’stinctly heard you say ‘You twirp!’ ”
“Miranda — Euterpe was not the God-damn Muse of Spelling.”
“Oh, that’s right. That was Melpomene.”
“Sorry-sorry, she was the Muse of Tragedy.”
“So all right! So English spelling always was a tragedy, so what other girl could handle it, so don’t give me all that back talk or you’ll wake up Davy.”
I’d just perfected a theory of the origins of English spelling, so I woke up officially to share it with them. You see, there was this ancient gandyshank in the dawn of history who had a nagging wife and an acid stomach and chilblains, but English hadn’t been invented, which left him in the demarvelizing position of being unable to cuss. However, the people in charge of politics had passed a revelation to make the alphabet and then chopped it into sticky chunks and passed them around so there’d be enough letters for everybody; so when the old jo’s wife yakked or his feet hurt or his convictions rifted up on him, he’d snatch the alphabet chunks and heave them at the side of a cliff, the only form of cussing adapted to those early days. Centuries later some scholar with a large punkin head and very small bowels of compassion discovered the cliff and invented English right off whiz-pop just like that. But by then all the combinations a decent man would spell had washed off in the rain or the crows had et them.
Nickie asked: “How’d old Cliffbottom’s wife come to nag and yak so if English hadn’t been invented?”
Not a bit demongrelized, I told my wife: “She was slightly ahead of her time.”
20
While “Greensleeves” was still being applauded I heard the black-beard rumble at us: “Put the lid on, kids. They look ripe for Mother.” And as I was wishing I had a clue to what he meant, he said to me carelessly, pleasantly — I might have been underfoot for years and he so used to me he hardly saw me — “Stick around, Red.”
I gulped and nodded. He slouched over to that wagon that held the boxes. The banjo girl pulled me down to sit beside her again and slid a friendly arm around me. “That’s Pa Rumley,” she said. “Next time he speaks to you you say ‘Uhha, Pa.’ ’S the way he wants to hear it is all. And don’t worry, I think he likes you. I’m Minna Selig, so what’s your name, dear?”
Hoy! That was demortalizing if you like. I found out soon enough that Rambler people call each other “dear” all the time, and it doesn’t necessarily mean sweethearting, but I didn’t know it then, and she knew I didn’t. Close to my other ear, the little devil with the mandolin said: “And don’t worry, I think Minna likes you. I’m Bonnie Sharpe, so tell me your name too — dear.”
“Davy,” says I.
“Oh, we think that’s nice, don’t we, Minna?”
Yes, they really worked me over. Well, but for the girls and their mild mischief and warmth and good humor, the end of “Greensleeves” might have been the end of my courage: I might have gathered the rags of my dignity around my shoulders and fled back over the fence with no more word even to Sam about what I wanted most in the world, which was to be accepted by these people and stay with them on their travels as long as they’d have me.
Pa Rumley standing in the back of that wagon flung up his arms. “Friends, I hadn’t meant for to give you this here message of good tidings till later in the day, but you being drawed by our music — and our kids love you for the nice hand you give ’em — why, I’ll take it as a sign to speak a few words, and you pass ’em on to your dear ones. Open up that gate and gether round, for lo, I bring hope to the sick and lorn and suffering — draw nigh!”
It was a pleasant custom in practically all villages and middle-sized towns that had no bigger park, to lend the Ramblers the town green for the duration of their stay, as a camp-site and show area; townfolk wouldn’t normally intrude unless specially invited. I’d broken the rule. I think the reason why the girls said nothing about it was my natural-born goofy look, which often does wonders for me. The yucks opened the gate now at Pa Rumley’s invitation, and drifted in, shy, and with the yuck’s invariable anxiety to watch out against swindling — much good it does him. There were twenty-odd men and half again as many women gathered around the wagon, aggressively doughfaced, wanting to be convinced of something, it didn’t much matter what. I saw Sam had strolled in with them. He stayed in the rear; when he caught my eye over a flock of bonnets and broad straw hats he shook his head slightly, which I took to mean that he had something cooking I’d better not disturb.
“There you are, friends, step right close!” A man would give a lot to own a voice like Pa Rumley’s, big as a church bell but able to go soft as a little boy whispering in the dark. “This here is going to be a blessed day you’ll long remember. You seem to me like fine intelligent souls, responsible citizens, men and women who’ve kept the fear of God in their hearts and evermore prayed and done their share. That’s what I’ll say to myself whenever I think of Humber Town, and good Mayor Bunwick who let us have these fine accommodations, and done so much for us — no sir, folks, Ramblers don’t forget, never believe it if you hear they do. My friendship with your Mayor Bunwick, and the Progress Club, and the Ladies’ Murcan Temperance Union — this is a memory I’m about to cherish all my days.” As for Bunwick, the old fart certainly wasn’t there at that time in the morning, but a number of his ratty cousins undoubtedly were, to say nothing of the ladies — besides, Pa always said that if you set out to kiss an ass you might just as well kiss it good. “Now, friends, you must have seen how this world is a vale of tears and mis’ry. 0 Lord, Lord, don’t Death on his white charger go day and night raging and stomping up and down amongst our midst? — well, gentlemen hark! Why, it might be there a’n’t a one of you except the children, God bless ’em, and maybe even some of them, that a’n’t been bereavered already by the grim reaper. And sickness — yes, I’m a-mind to talk to you about the common sorrows, them that must come soon or late to one and all. They a’n’t fancy things — step in a little closer now, will you? — oh no, nobody makes up stories about ’em, nor sad songs, but I say to you a man laid low by sickness, he’s gone, folks, just as sure as a hero done to death in battle for his b’loved fatherland, amen, it’s a fact.”