Rupert Thomson: Dreams of Leaving

The area between the fire and the eastern edge of the green bustled with stalls and sideshows. There were coconut-shies (the coconuts wore tiny blue helmets), bran tubs, dart-throwing contests, donkey-rides, hoop-la (very difficult to ring the policemen on account of the size of their boots), trestle-tables loaded with homemade pickles and preserves, a mulled-wine tent (run by Mustoe Junior), a GUESS THE WEIGHT OF THE CHIEF INSPECTOR AND WIN A SURPRISE GIFT competition (‘Thirty-five stone,’ Peach heard somebody say as he went by. Very funny), and a palm-reader (Mrs Latter from the post office, her face caked in lurid make-up).

‘It’s marvellous,’ Hilda cried. ‘You have done well, darling.’

He nodded. The unstable orange light of the fire made everyone look predatory, fiendish, medieval. The laughter, the smoke, the gaiety, exhausted him. He hated surrendering control like this.

They had reached the clearing in front of the pub. The stocks stood there as they had stood for centuries. Lanterns hung from poles. Garlands of coloured bulbs had been draped around the trees. The Pelting Day Illuminations.

‘So who’s in for it this year?’ Hilda asked in a whisper.

He had no time to answer. A roar went up. Somebody had glimpsed a movement on the hill. A suggestion of blue in the darkness. A wink of a silver button.

‘ They’re coming! They’re coming!’

People pressed towards the stocks from all directions. The Peaches were jostled, pinned from behind by the expanding crowd. Three policemen, accompanied by Sergeant Caution, arrived in the lit arena. Wolf-whistles, cat-calls, applause. Marlpit had drawn one of the unlucky numbers. Poor Marlpit. His eyes twitched in their sockets and dribble glistened on his quivering chin. Wragge trailed behind him, skin white like the inside of potatoes. Peach was rather glad that Wragge was going to be pelted; the boy needed taking down a peg or two. When invited to choose a third policeman, the villagers had settled on Sergeant Hazard. Unanimous decision, apparently. And a popular one, too. Everybody feared and hated Sergeant Hazard. He had terrorised the village for years. Only a month ago he had carried out another of his infamous (and unauthorised) dawn raids, this time on Mr Cawthorne, the postman.

Peach remembered Hazard’s report, delivered with brutal frankness and meticulous attention to detail in the privacy of Peach’s office:

‘I kicked Cawthorne’s door down at precisely five a.m. on the morning of November 19th,’ Hazard began. ‘Cawthorne appeared at the top of the stairs in his dressing-gown and slippers. He seemed frightened. “Who’s that?” he called out. “Come down here and find out,” I replied.’ Hazard chuckled, scratched the side of his great dented face. He enjoyed his work, no question of that. ‘I stamped on his radiogram, just to hurry him up a bit. Cawthorne shuffled downstairs. His face was greenish-grey, the colour of guilt, if you know what I mean, sir. “What are you doing in my house?” he asked me. I hit him in the mouth. Then, on second thoughts, I felled him with a chopped right hand to the kidneys.’ Hazard repeated the punch for Peach’s benefit. The air gasped. ‘I watched him groaning for a while. He had resoled his slippers with pieces of green carpet, I noticed. The cheap bastard. I went and stood over him. I pointed at him. “I suspect you,” I shouted, “of harbouring plans to escape.” “On what grounds?” the bastard said. “On what grounds?” I said. “I’ll give you on what grounds.” I stepped on his hand and twisted my boot. Like I was crushing out a cigarette, sir. He screamed. “That’s confidential,” I said, “isn’t it, Mr Cawthorne?” “Yes,” he whimpered. “That’s better,” I said. “Now then, I think I’ll just have a quick look round, if you don’t mind.”’ The ‘quick look round’ had lasted almost two hours, resulting in further damage both to the postman and to the postman’s house.

After listening to this report Peach leaned forwards and threaded his fingers together on the surface of his desk. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but why Cawthorne?’

Hazard seemed surprised by the question. Then he said, ‘He’s the postman, sir.’

‘The postman? I still don’t follow.’

‘So was Collingwood, sir.’

‘Ah, I see.’ And Peach nodded slowly, smiled to himself. A little farfetched, perhaps. A rather flimsy pretext, some might say, for such a violent attack. Still, there was no accounting for the mysterious workings of precedent, especially in a place like New Egypt. And he had been pleased to see an element of rationale creeping into Hazard’s brutalities. ‘Very good, sergeant. Very good.’

But now, of course, Hazard was paying for it.

Peach watched Sergeant Caution bolt the struggling Hazard into the stocks. Hazard was muttering. Curses, presumably. Obscenities. Death-threats. When all three policemen had been secured in position, Caution stepped aside and gave the signal for the pelting to begin. Pandemonium. A hail of soft missiles. The crowd broke into a raucous version of the famous ‘Pelting Day Song’:

Throw tomatoes

Throw a pear

At a policeman

If you dare

Throw some peaches (laughter)

From a tin

Watch them trickle

Down his chin —

A cabbage bounced off Hazard’s forehead. His face shook with volcanic fury. His eyes, bloodshot, scanned the crowd and noted names. There would be violence, Peach realised. There would be reprisals. He knew his Hazard.

He waited long enough to see a ripe tomato burst on Wragge’s cheek, he watched Wragge wriggle as a clot of seeds and juice slid down inside his tunic collar, then he turned away. He didn’t want to witness another second of his men’s humiliation.

Throw some apples

Throw some eggs

Hazard’s had it

Stop, he begs.

Just keep throwing

More and more

That’s what Pelting

Day is for —

Taking Hilda by the hand, he began to push his way through the crowd. Cheers scored the air as if to celebrate his departure. He found that he was trembling.

‘You look cold, John,’ Hilda said. ‘Perhaps a glass of mulled wine?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ He tucked his double chin into his collar.

‘A pretty good turn-out, wouldn’t you say, sir?’

He turned round to see Dolphin standing beside him. In Dolphin’s arms, the most enormous pink bear that he had ever seen.

‘Better than I expected.’ Peach’s eyes shuttled between Dolphin’s face and the monstrous bear. He had known all along that this winter fair was a mistake. Look at the effect it was having on his men.

‘I won it, sir. In the hoop-la.’ Dolphin bounced the bear in the crook of his arm. ‘My daughter’s going to love it.’

That may well be, Peach thought, but for Christ’s sake stop carrying it around like that. It’s bad for credibility.

Hilda tiptoed back with two glasses of mulled wine. ‘Oh, Sergeant Dolphin. If I’d known you were here I would’ve brought you a glass too. It’s very good.’

Dolphin sketched a bow. ‘Very kind of you, Mrs Peach. But I’m on duty.’

‘And that, I suppose,’ Hilda scintillated, ‘is your new partner.’

Dolphin became foolish. ‘My new partner? Oh yes. I see. Haha.’ He grinned down at his bear.

Peach now took his deputy aside. ‘Any trouble?’

‘Not really, sir. Mustoe’s in the pub. Pretty far gone, as usual. Telling everybody what he thinks of Pelting Day. Says it’s a put-up job. The police just pretending to be human for a few hours. That kind of thing.’