The Transfiguration of Mister Punch (16 page)

It is in his attention to the personal that I think our dear Henry excelled, wouldn’t you agree? He was something of an ethnographer really. Take, for example, his albums of folk customs from across the country. Always there is the fascination with the theatrical, certainly, but what an archive of cultural history he has assembled. I mean, I should really have invited some others to peruse the collection; perhaps those museum curators, or even historical societies... Oh, now don’t be silly, I don’t intend for one moment to insinuate that!... I know you will offer a very reasonable price for the material here. I’m certain you’ll provide it with an excellent home. No, I merely felt a sudden sense of remorse—quite unlike me, I can assure you—for not having sought a means through which to make it more available to the public. You know, for the betterment of
all.

Anyway, forget about that, it was a foolish charitable urge—it has passed now. Let’s have a look at some of these little gems shall we, with a view to finalising things. Now the quality is mixed, I’ll grant you that. These are postcards, photographs and other ephemera clearly gathered over many years. Not all are perfect by any means, but it is their subject matter that interests us, I’m sure you will agree. It is that once common ritual of the Mummers’ play. Now along with these fine photographic albums we have a Jew costumes, mostly from the Midlands, of the colourful ragged variety—complete with original staves, and still with the original auction catalogues. There are a number of props in varying states of repair (and of particular interest is a Mari Lywd said, in Hawlings’ notes, to have come from a family in Machynlleth in whose possession it had been since the 1850s
).

You must understand that this tradition is one rooted in the common man, and there were no great impresarios or investors ready to gamble on a quick return. No, I think that Mr Hawling’s interest in the Mummers was one of social record, not of theatrical skill. That is not to say that there cannot be the most incredible and rewarding artistry produced by the humble man. Take a look at this photograph for example and I’m sure you can appreciate that there is much to be considered.

Now we see two figures don’t we? You see the taller one, holding the donkeys reins. I imagine he is the father of the other one, that I take to be a young girl, wouldn’t you agree? Why are they wearing those straw masks though? We shall never know I suppose, but its fun to imagine isn’t it. He’s holding a shortish stave and a griddle pan, blackened with age. She is dressed in a simple smock, with a pointed hat made perhaps from cardboard, with a veil half drawn across her face. He in his Sunday best. Why they are both barefoot, when the photograph is clearly taken somewhere out in the country, is also uncertain. On the back we read, ‘Off to Alderley Park, Christmas 1936’.

And so to our final little scene, with mysteries aplenty echoing in our heads.

What shall we have with this one? Ah, yes, a little mulled wine I think. Look here are a couple of bottles of Château Petrus 61 in the rack, they’ll do perfectly... What do you mean, it’s no trouble at all... I’ve got all the bits with me; oranges, brandy, and a special little spicy infusion. It won’t take a moment to rustle us up a little winter warmer. You relax and I’ll be back in two shakes of a baby’s rattle...

There you go, a steaming glass of winter cheer... Bottoms up!

Ah! Hits the spot doesn’t it? You’ll see why this one’s perfect for our last little scene, because we’re back in 1952, and it is Christmas. You just relax and let that warm glow nibble through your limbs... I’ll begin.

I’ve called it
,

I hope you’ll agree that that’s an apt title once you’ve heard it. I also took the opportunity to select some more choice words to start us off
,

Clown: Heigh Ho! What fun to be
A useless fellow just like me!

It’s Christmas Eve, 1952. We’re on a country road in Cheshire. Can you see it? It’s one of those charming, narrow roads with high hedges and pretty little gates every few hundred yards. It’s one of those
old
Christmases too. You know the ones, with the eight foot snow drifts and winds strong enough to strip your face to the bone in minutes. It’s the kind of Christmas your Grampy and Granma used to talk about, like the time they had to dig the sheep out or they’d have frozen to death; like the time they had to burn all the furniture, because the coalman had got lost in the drifts (they found him after the thaw—what a chilly grin upon his face!); like the time they had to eat the dogs or they’d have starved to death. You know the kind of times—
hard
times—when you really prayed for spring; I mean,
really
prayed! It’s when Christmas
meant
something, a proper celebration amidst the whispers of death and the bone-cracking cold.

So, it’s on just such a Christmas Eve that Charles Shepherd is making his way to Alderley Park, the Stanley Estate, to play his part in the traditional performance of the Alderley Mummers. He hated Lord and Lady Stanley. They could go to hell for all he cared, and deep within him he felt ashamed to lark and play before them like a performing bear. But something in the savagery of the ancient show called to him; there was a primitive aggression that really got him going—and of course there were always the little encounters with the other village’s Mummers out and about, and he always enjoyed a little ‘dustup’. He was a lovely man was PC Shepherd—a man of fists and ferocity.

Oh, sorry, I forgot to say, yes, he’s a
policeman.
They’re always the worst, don’t you find—cowardice loves some order, doesn’t it? Unsurprisingly he plays Beelzebub. It’s an easy part, and sounds important. He chose it because he gets to bang the tin at the end of each performance and can always pocket a few shillings when nobody’s looking. Shocking behaviour for a copper you might think—and you’d be right! But a little minor theft is not the half of it, not by a long shot. If I were to list all the terrible crimes committed by PC Shepherd I think you’d be quite appalled, and we’d be here all night. So to give you just a flavour, what would you think of a man of the law who blackmailed his landlady when he found out she’d done her husband in for the insurance money; now he pays no rent and has a special ‘little something’ when he fancies. He’s also got a lovely little racket going down at Mrs Rawlings house, where the girls are young and sweet. She gives him ‘first dibs’ and a few quid each month to keep his mouth shut. Local lock-ins get overlooked for free drinks, and his Friday suppers are free from Nick’s Fish Bar ’cause he knows he’s cooking the books. If you’re short of a few quid he’ll lend it to you, but watch you pay him back on time, with the interest, or you’ll be for it—like poor old Tommo, who still walks with a cane five years on (that was an expensive Anniversary present for the missus). So, that’s a little taster for you. We’re not talking just a bit of a take on the side here and there—our Charles is a right bent ’un, and that’s for sure. So don’t you go feeling sorry for him in our little morality tale. He gets what’s coming.

But times are changing and the tide is already turning. Sergeant Billings had retired in August. Not surprising really, he spent most of the afternoon asleep at the station desk. When he was awake it was mostly to brew a little Camp coffee with a generous measure of rum from his hipflask. He’d been in the navy during the war and spent most of his time reminiscing about implausible engagements with enemy ships and U-boats. Billings had always let Shepherd do as he pleased, and most Christmas Eves he’d been able to knock off duty early and spend the afternoon in the pub with the other boys, getting stoked before the show. Not this year. The new boss, Sergeant Henley, liked it by the book. So Shepherd finished his shift at the final strike of seven by the station clock, grimaced at Sergeant Henley and got set to trek to Alderley Park, which was a good three miles away. There was no point in taking a car, or even a motorbike. He’d never get through the snow. No, his sturdy boots and faithful policeman’s cape would have to see him through. Luckily he had little by way of costume for the performance and so tucked his battered bowler hat, complete with horns from a bullock, under the generous cape, stuffed his dripping pan and short club into a satchel, and headed off into the snows.

Until the outskirts of Chelford things weren’t that bad, but after only about a mile down the country lane the blizzard was becoming blinding and he was beginning to get very concerned. Then he passed the sign for the village of Marlington, and hoped he’d soon be enjoying a restorative pint in The Green Dragon. Perhaps he’d even have to stay there for the evening and let the rest of his troupe do their work without him this year.

If he’d have cared to look behind him once he’d passed the sign he’d have seen it rust, crack and disintegrate in the storm, leaving only two rotten posts as evidence that something once stood there to mark a place. And then, further in the distance he might have caught a glimpse of a ragged bunch of folk, making their way along the road. They were not huddled against the elements though, rather they danced and played in the snow as though the cold and wind were nothing to them. But soon enough Charles Shepherd would be hearing the song they sang; an old song, of mysteries and magic.

He pressed on through the storm, thinking of pints and pies. He thought it strange that he couldn’t make out any lights in the distance. The moon was full and bright and so, even with the snow, he should have seen some houses by now.

Then suddenly the bridge came into view, and just beyond it some shadowy shapes of buildings. He might even phone through from the pub to see how things were up on the Alderley Park road. He really didn’t like the idea of another couple of miles of this.

As he headed over the bridge he looked down and saw that the stream had dried up and only heaps of stone lay about, covered with snow. That’s very odd, he thought. He’d come through only a couple of days before and the stream was really raging. Old Bill Gannet, the landlord at The Green Dragon, had been saying they were concerned it might damage the bridge. How on earth could it have dried up in a couple of days?

He made his way on into the village feeling more uneasy with every step. It looked something like Marlington, the same short high street with the steep road heading off North to George’s Wood and Marlington Mere, on the corner of which stood (or used to stand) The Green Dragon. But, while all the buildings and the streets were in the right place nothing else seemed to be in any form of recognisable order at all. It was probably the weather, Charles Shepherd thought; the cold was numbing his brain and the snow storm playing tricks on his eyes. But how much can one blame distorted senses when reality is changed so dramatically? Not a light shone at any window, most of which were merely apertures in broken brickwork. At a few there hung ruined grey rags of curtains, or shards of glass jutting from ashen coloured frames. All was ruin, as though he walked the street a thousand years after any other human foot had trod there. Tall weeds sprouted through the road and swayed back and forth in the cruel, freezing wind.

As he surveyed the strange landscape of this
other
Marlington he heard the voices of our players behind him, singing a raucous song.

We’ll send him to some hisland that is so far away,

And ’ope they’ll keep ’im there for ever and a day;

And not let ’im return again to do as ’e did before,

Keep ’im in a prison strong, ’is days’ll soon be o’er.

Oh, I ’ad a little cow and ’e ad a little calf,

I thought I ’ad a bargain but I lost one half.

So I sold my little cow and bought a little dog,

A nasty little growler, to keep off all the mob.

So I sold my little dog, and bought a little goose,

’e walked so many miles that ’is legs got loose.

So I sold my little goose and bought a little cat,

A wicked little creature to keep of all the rats.

So I sold my little cat and bought a little mouse,

And ’is tail set light to the whole damned ’ouse.

The winter is a comin’ in, dark, dirty, wet and cold.

To try your cruel nature this night we do make bold,

To test your aching bones and brain with pain and fear,

Then we’ll come no more a’acting ’til another year.

It must be the Monks’ Heath boys, Charles thought. Last year they’d ambushed the Alderley Mummers on their way back from the Park. They had stolen the hobby horse and sent the skull back in splintered pieces over the following months to Chelford Police Station.

He turned and caught sight of figures approaching through the storm. One was very tall, perhaps even walking on stilts, and had an oddly hunched back and tall pointed hat. Another was stocky, with the snow it was difficult to make out but he seemed to be wearing amour. What was certain was that he was carrying a long sword across his shoulders. To Charles’ right he caught a glimpse of a smaller, wizened figure tapping her way cautiously through the snow with a long staff. Her head was covered in a long black shawl that hung down to her knees. Finally there was a hobby horse, but it seemed as though there were at least three men beneath it. He couldn’t make out all the legs, but a great thick pole stuck out from its front, on which was mounted a skull. Again, it must have been the howling wind, but he was sure he heard it whinny. Aside from the old woman the other figures seemed unhindered by the deep snow and they made their way towards him, as the tune of the song he had just heard seemed to echo around him from all directions. Perhaps they had more of their troupe creeping up on him. He’d better get to the pub immediately.

As he turned to run another figure appeared beside him, seemingly from nowhere. He was about seven feet tall and had a stiff black hat with a wide brim. Most startling was the long ivory mask he wore that looked like a stretched bird’s beak. The air seemed suddenly clouded with unusual scents; lavender, cinnamon, mint and rose mixed with camphor, vinegar and mould—it was a heady, herbal rottenness. The figure pointed at Charles Shepherd with a short black cane that had a sharp silver pointed end. In a booming melodic voice he intoned,