’APPY ’AMSTEAD

Evening Star, Issue 19020, 15 August 1925, Page 10

’APPY ’AMSTEAD

THE REAL ’ARRIET ALL THE FUN AT THE FAIR (By Evadxe Price, in the ' Sunday Chronicle.’) To those who visit Hampstead Heath on a bank holiday expecting to be hustled and thrilled by a yelling, screaming, dancing, befeathered mob of costers, let me quote a little proverb: “Blessed is he who expecteth little.” Certainly the crowd is there, also the wild excitement; but the yelling and screaming and dancing and pearlies and feathers are conspicuous by their absence. It is the most orderly mob imaginable. It has its occasional lapses, but they are as few and far between as those of any London suburb on a Saturday night. The first feeling of the “rubber-neck” is one of acute disappointment. “Where.” I asked myself sadly, “ are the Arries and ’Arriets? Have they disappeared together with their huge rainbow-feathered hats, tight velvet bodices, pearl-sewn caps, and bellbottom trousers? Mayfair has stolen the coster scarf and the high-necked sweater, but what has happened to the good old Whitechapel tongue?” “Elf,” threatened a voice. “ Blimey, are ver askin’ fer a iick ear?” I turned sharply. A smart young woman in a cloche hat and plump, “ nude ” silk hose was standing, flushed and wrathful, hands on hips, facing a young man dressed in loud checks.^ “ Shut it.” he ordered sullenly. “ Jellis, Uilet?” mocked the Serpent, a bobbed-headed charmer in green. “Jellis?” shrilled Vilet. “Jellis! Gawdl” She laughed_ harshly. The young man winced visibly. _So did I. “ I’d want somethink ter be jellisahaht. Come on, Elf.” “Seven-thirty, Fridiy, Elf,” said the Serpent brazenly. “Wot’s ’at?” Vilet turned. “Tripe found, mikin’ meets under me very nose, yer skunk. I’ll- ” With a scream of rage the outraged Tigress sprang ' upon the unprepared Serpent. I walked hurriedly away. I am unable to relate the sequel to this particular eternal triangle. I sighed happily. Fowers or no lowers, ’Appy ’Amstead was still ’Appy ’Amstead after all. I am able to state definitely, for the benefit of the society columns, that winkles are not being eaten with a pin this season in the Best Circles. The winkle is firmly grasped between the forefinger and thumb, and placed well back on the tongue. I calculate roughly that the quantity of winkles consumed on the heath on Whit-Monday, placed end on end, would go twice round the earth and then to Wigan and back. The revellers apparently have digestions that would make the average ostrich die a death of despair in the nearest lonely oasis. Winkles, oranges, stewed and jellied eels, ice cream, fish and chips, ginger beer, baked potatoes —the thought alone of the tout ensemble is enough to take years off the life of any dyspeptic and send the bicarbonate of soda trade np by leaps and bounds. “ Seven shies a tanner, invited the Kokernut Lady,_ abstractedly handing me my ammunition. “ Serves er glad fer callin’ me the nimo she did, she continued to her friend. “ Carried orf he the ambulonts five minutes back. “ I would miss that,” said the friend bitterly. ' . . “ A judgment fer cifilm’ me the mine she did. I didn’t arf larf when that ambiilants took ’or. ’Er ole man e seen me larf.” . “Tike care ’e doan come back n g)t ver,” cautioned the other. <<’Jm?” The Kokernut Queen guffawed derisively. “It was ’ini wot laid ’er aht!” , , , “’Ere, missus,” interrupted the patron, “ wen I ’its a cokernut I oxpecks it ter bo a cokernut, not arf a cokernut. This ’ere’s only arf a cokernut. “Well, I carn’t mike cokernuts ole, kin IP” demanded the lady. “I ain’t no blinkin’ miracle, am IP” “Wen I ’its a cokernut Lexpecks it ter be a cokernut, not arf a cokernut,” persisted the customer stubbornly. “Wot am I ter do wiv arf a cokernut?” The lady in charge told him. “ Easy in a,” remonstrated her friend. * “ D’yer wanter git pinched?” It was at the hoopla that 1 won the red-and-pink vase trimmed with the gold horseshoes. Quite by accident. 1 had aimed at an alarm clock on the opposite side. I was filled with horfor. “The hoop isn’t quite over, 1 pleaded. “Fair’s fair,” stated the owner, firmly, and the red-and-pink monstrosity was mine to have and to hold. I shuddered. I will pass lightly over the small boy who demanded sixpence for restoring it after T had carefully lost it behind a stall, tho_ honest_policenia.il who saw me drop it (no, it did not break), the swingboat lady who minded it while I swung and hailed mo as I was sneaking off (“ Garn, yer careless •young ’ussy”), until a sailor won its twin and gladly purchased mine to match it for fourpence. The designer ought to he hanged, drawn, and quartered. That it was his revenge on tlnj world for some terrible personal wrong I have not the slightest doubt. “ Madam Lucia of the Follies Burgess, Paress, will give ’er famous exhibition of posin’ in the nood at tuppence per ’end. and remember, admonished the showman, “ that to the pewer all tilings is power.” Resisting his blandishments, I passed into the next tent—The Ugliest Woman in the World. “Gawd, wot a dial!” gmgled a young girl. “ Wotter clock!” The exhibit caught my eye, and smiled quietly. She was ugly, not grotesquely, not fearsomely, but just ugly—until she smiled. I wondered wfiat lay behind that smile; that sad, kind, whimsical, tolerant smile that lit up the faded bine eyes of poor Mary Ann Bovan and made her suddenly attractive. I felt a lump come into' my throat as I visualised the heartaches, the slights, and the insults that had always been her lot in life. I have seen many famous beauties whose faces I have forgotten, but I shall always remember the sad smile of The Ugliest Woman in the World. ■ “ I’ve never seen nothink to beat it.” The Cheap Jack addressed the crowd. “Mingy, God-forgotten lot you are. Only one discrimernatin’ gent ’as planked down ’is ten hob and as is beautiful watch and is satisfied.” “This ’ere ruddy watch amfo ruddy well gold,” announced the Discnraernatin’ Gent suddenly. ’ “ I never said it was.” blustered the auctioneer. “ Ooja think T am ter sell gold watchis for ten hob, eh ? A fi la nth roper?” “ This wash ain’t ruddy-well gold, repeated the purchaser nastily. Two policemen edged nearer. . “ I never said-—” The watch merchant looked uneasy. The D.G. rolled his sleeves up. “Yer”—in a moment the orderly crowd became a waving mass of arms and legs and police whistles. In an incredible short space the seller and buyer of stumer jewellery emerged handcuffed and were marched smartly down the hill towards Hampstead police station. “Lor, you got a fortune if ever!’ exclaimed the palmist flatteringly. “ Bookeepin’, that your fate. Two ehildcreu, one ’usbin, cross the water, beware of dark woman; one shilling please,' dearie, others is waitin’.” “ The warnin’ about the dark lady, though a trifle late, is sound advice,” I said pleasantly, counting out the change. “That’ll do, young woman,’ sho replied tartly. “ There’s the ’ole the carpenter made. ’Op it smart.”

I ’opped it smart. _ . I loitered among the joyous strings of balloons, past the plaintive goodtempered gent, with the weedy whiskers selling trick matchboxes; the jolly roundabouts with their loads or perspiring humanity; the baby’s penny ditto with its small boy who howled bitterly for the duration of the_ ride, complete with ma, who wiped his nose and remarked “ Shime, Archie,’ every time he revolved near her; the Inebriated One who offered me a three-penny-bit out of sheer love of a rosecolored world, the crowd of hungry human vultures waiting for blood near the ambulance corps enclosure, the pretty London girls, the cheeky London boys, the laughing children, the boisterous “mums” and “dads,” the ticklers, the Japanese Expanding-flower merchant, and all the other exciting things that go to make up the jolly holiday atmosphere of the Heath. I lingered until the acetylene lights began to flare and the babies fell asleep. ■Appy ’Amstead had somehow got into my blood.

'Hampstead may be minus its pearlies and feathers, the modern 1925 .’Arriet may powder her nose prior to allowuM the itinerant photographer to risk HI fens, but she is still ’Arriet of ’A?;v stead at heart, thank heaven. better still, ’Amstead is still ’AmstealH. jit is difficult to find a word .that a4.> quately expresses the atmosphsra. “Matey” is the nearest, perhaps. Long live Matey ’Amstead, say I.