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Authors: Catriona McPherson
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around the arena.
‘A man of many talents,’ I said, and when a small child beside me looked up and fixed me with one of those quelling stares that little children can, I explained: ‘That man is the Burry Man, you know, my dear.’
The child sniffed a superior sniff, and said: ‘No he’s not. The Burry Man’s all green. And he’s away on his ghostie pony back to his swamp till next year.’ The child’s mother gave her a clip on the neck for cheek, but the others – me included – smiled indulgently.
‘Wheesht, Molly.’
‘They should hold him back a wee bit and let some o’ they other clowns gie us a laugh first,’ someone said, watching Robert Dudgeon taking off his coat and handing it to his wife. ‘It’ll all be over too soon, else.’
‘I’m not so sure aboot that,’ said a voice behind me. ‘Rubbert doesn’t look himself tonight, and he must be fu’ after the day he’s had.’
‘Och but he’s fu’ every year when he climbs the pole,’ said the first woman. ‘I reckon it’s the drink that gives him his edge.’
If Robert Dudgeon was drunk, I thought, it was the drunkenness of one well used to the condition. His expression, granted, was rather owlish and his movements were slow and deliberate, but he did not sway or stumble as he handed his coat to his wife and turned his cap to the side. The crowd continued to clap and cheer, but he did not play up to them, neither smiling nor grimacing as he grasped the pole high above his head and heaved himself up. He clasped his legs around the pole and twisted his feet together neatly. Thus secured, he freed first one hand and then the other, wiped them on his shirt shoulders, leaving dark marks of oil there, and took a fresh hold.
‘Mair washin’ fur ye, Chrissie,’ shouted one of the onlookers and several people turned to smile at Mrs Dudgeon. She gave a small tight smile in return but did not take her eyes from her husband, now halfway to the top, still clamping his legs and wiping his hands, pulling himself steadily upwards. Her tense concentration seemed quite at odds with the laughs and jokes of the crowd and I wondered for a moment whence arose this trait I was beginning to recognize in Queensferry to find portents in the blameless and shadows in the sunshine. Then a louder than ever whoop from the crowd drew my attention back to Robert Dudgeon.
He was nearing the top now, and it was quite dizzy-making to look at him. One last clamp with his legs, one last heave with his arms and he was there. He tugged a string on the bag of flour and it burst out in a cloud, covering his greasy clothes and drifting down over the onlookers, who stopped their clapping to swat it away.
‘Fling down the ham, Rubbert,’ voices cried. ‘Fling it down and I’ll catch it.’
But Robert Dudgeon made no move to touch the other parcel. He clung to the pole motionless for a long half minute and then began slowly to slide.
‘Ye’ve forgot yer –’ a woman in the crowd called with a cackling laugh, but she broke off as Robert Dudgeon slithered down faster and faster. He hit the ground with a thump, fell backwards, arms spread out, legs still twined around the base of the pole, and lay quite still.
For a moment there was silence, then a few awkward giggles and then, all at once, action. People rushed forward, one of them calling for a doctor. Others began to shoo off the children, still others – women – gathered around Mrs Dudgeon and bore her away.
It was only when I found myself kneeling beside him that I realized I was one of the ones who had surged forward to help. His face was dark and perspiration still ran from his brow, mingling with smears of oil and caked-in patches of flour. I could still smell the fairground smell of his breath, the sweet toffee apples he had been eating. Heat still wafted from him. His feet were still loosening their grip on the pole, his boots creaking. His half-open eyes, though, and his wide open mouth told the same
‘A man of many talents,’ I said, and when a small child beside me looked up and fixed me with one of those quelling stares that little children can, I explained: ‘That man is the Burry Man, you know, my dear.’
The child sniffed a superior sniff, and said: ‘No he’s not. The Burry Man’s all green. And he’s away on his ghostie pony back to his swamp till next year.’ The child’s mother gave her a clip on the neck for cheek, but the others – me included – smiled indulgently.
‘Wheesht, Molly.’
‘They should hold him back a wee bit and let some o’ they other clowns gie us a laugh first,’ someone said, watching Robert Dudgeon taking off his coat and handing it to his wife. ‘It’ll all be over too soon, else.’
‘I’m not so sure aboot that,’ said a voice behind me. ‘Rubbert doesn’t look himself tonight, and he must be fu’ after the day he’s had.’
‘Och but he’s fu’ every year when he climbs the pole,’ said the first woman. ‘I reckon it’s the drink that gives him his edge.’
If Robert Dudgeon was drunk, I thought, it was the drunkenness of one well used to the condition. His expression, granted, was rather owlish and his movements were slow and deliberate, but he did not sway or stumble as he handed his coat to his wife and turned his cap to the side. The crowd continued to clap and cheer, but he did not play up to them, neither smiling nor grimacing as he grasped the pole high above his head and heaved himself up. He clasped his legs around the pole and twisted his feet together neatly. Thus secured, he freed first one hand and then the other, wiped them on his shirt shoulders, leaving dark marks of oil there, and took a fresh hold.
‘Mair washin’ fur ye, Chrissie,’ shouted one of the onlookers and several people turned to smile at Mrs Dudgeon. She gave a small tight smile in return but did not take her eyes from her husband, now halfway to the top, still clamping his legs and wiping his hands, pulling himself steadily upwards. Her tense concentration seemed quite at odds with the laughs and jokes of the crowd and I wondered for a moment whence arose this trait I was beginning to recognize in Queensferry to find portents in the blameless and shadows in the sunshine. Then a louder than ever whoop from the crowd drew my attention back to Robert Dudgeon.
He was nearing the top now, and it was quite dizzy-making to look at him. One last clamp with his legs, one last heave with his arms and he was there. He tugged a string on the bag of flour and it burst out in a cloud, covering his greasy clothes and drifting down over the onlookers, who stopped their clapping to swat it away.
‘Fling down the ham, Rubbert,’ voices cried. ‘Fling it down and I’ll catch it.’
But Robert Dudgeon made no move to touch the other parcel. He clung to the pole motionless for a long half minute and then began slowly to slide.
‘Ye’ve forgot yer –’ a woman in the crowd called with a cackling laugh, but she broke off as Robert Dudgeon slithered down faster and faster. He hit the ground with a thump, fell backwards, arms spread out, legs still twined around the base of the pole, and lay quite still.
For a moment there was silence, then a few awkward giggles and then, all at once, action. People rushed forward, one of them calling for a doctor. Others began to shoo off the children, still others – women – gathered around Mrs Dudgeon and bore her away.
It was only when I found myself kneeling beside him that I realized I was one of the ones who had surged forward to help. His face was dark and perspiration still ran from his brow, mingling with smears of oil and caked-in patches of flour. I could still smell the fairground smell of his breath, the sweet toffee apples he had been eating. Heat still wafted from him. His feet were still loosening their grip on the pole, his boots creaking. His half-open eyes, though, and his wide open mouth told the same
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