In the village where I grew up, there used to be a traveling fair that pitched up on the Green for a week every summer. This usually coincided with the end of the summer term, so it was always full of children who had been given some money for rides and candy by parents gleeful to have them out of their hair for the afternoon.
There were a variety of attractions including the usual dodgems, hook-a-duck, ring toss and merry-go-round. But what I enjoyed most of all was the band, specifically the trumpeter. The band included a drummer, guitarist, saxophonist and flautist, but my favourite, the trumpeter, he was the one in charge. He would always wear a gloriously yellow waistcoat, patchwork trousers, and a pristine white shirt with frilly paisley cuffs and collar, all capped off with a deep red top hat. This ensemble wouldn’t stay and play in one place, but instead would walk, skip, and dance all around the Green, often with a column of children following behind, dancing to whatever song they were playing. And when they finished a song, everyone in the band would stop still as statues, like a clockwork toy that had wound down, the trumpeter always with his top hat held upside down in his hand. Here they would stay until someone came up and dropped some money in the hat, whereupon, as if someone had flipped a switch, they would start up again. They were even known to take requests, as long as you whispered the song to the trumpeter before you put your coin in the hat. Age may be making me sentimental, but to my young ears they played the best music to be found anywhere. It vibrated through your bones and filled your soul.
So this was how I spent most of my time at the fair. While other kids spent their money on candy floss, soft drinks and rides, I would follow the band around, putting coin after coin in the trumpeter’s hat until I had run out, dancing behind them until mu feet were sore.
The year I turned eight was the year I decided that I didn’t just want to hear the band, I wanted to join them. So, to this end, for Christmas that year I asked for my very own trumpet. You have never seen such excitement as I was filled with that Christmas morning when I unwrapped my gift. All other toys were pushed to the side and I spent the whole day playing on my new toy trumpet. I’m sure I sounded terrible and that my parents immediately questioned the wisdom of this decision, but I didn’t care. I was blissfully happy, marching around the garden in my pyjamas, coat, and wellies, frightening off the neighbours cats with my joyful tootling.
For seven months I practised, even getting lessons at school, and by July when school finished for the summer, I was at least marginally competent. At least my parents had finally stopped grimacing whenever I started to play.
So that summer, when the fair came to town, I ran to the Green, trumpet in hand and coins jingling in my pocket. Almost immediately I heard the band and ran to find them. There he was, the trumpeter, dressed as usual in his patchwork trousers, yellow waistcoat and top hat. They were playing ‘When the Saints Come Marching Home,’ a song I knew! So I ran to the end of the line of kids trailing behind and began playing.
I was so happy that I completely lost myself in the music, my fingers flying over the valves in practised rhythm. As the song came to an end I froze with the rest of the band. The kids seemed a little confused, and one even knocked on my head and asked what I was doing. But I didn’t break character and stayed absolutely still, trumpet held to my lips. From up ahead I heard the familiar noise of coins being dropped into the hat, but rather than begin playing again I heard a voice.
“Oi, up here, look lively.” It was the trumpeter. It took a moment for me to realise that he was addressing me. I looked up at him and saw that he was beckoning me. I pointed at myself, wanting to make sure I was right.
“Yes, you, come on,” he waved more vigorously. I ran as fast as I could to the front to join him. He bent down to me and told me in a quiet voice to follow as best I could, but not to worry too much about it and just play. My heart skipped several beats as I put my trumpet to my mouth, trying not to smile so much as it made playing somewhat difficult.
That afternoon was, without a doubt, the best of my life. We went all over the fair, playing all kinds of songs. Sometimes I knew the tune and other times I picked up small pieces here and there, but it didn’t seem to matter. It felt like the whole band was behind me, cheering me on. I found freezing on the spot a little hard at first, and it took me a while to learn to finish playing in a pose I could actually hold, but I got the hang of it in the end.
We played until the setting sun turned the sky a luscious pink. I lost track of the number of songs we played, though we did ‘When the Saints Come Marching Home’ a couple of times. I knew that if I stayed much longer I would be in trouble at home, so reluctantly I dragged myself away from the band, saying thank you to the trumpeter and explaining that I had to go. They waved me off as I ran for home, clutching my trumpet as if I held the crown jewels.
Every evening for the rest of the week I joined the band dancing over the Green. It really was magical, and felt like we were casting spells of happiness over the crowds. And there was no better feeling than when you saw someone smile and shout as we played the song they asked for.
But, of course, the day came when the fair had to leave. I knew it was coming, but it was still hard to say goodbye. On that last day I got permission to stay out late and my parents came out to watch us. I played until I felt like my fingers would drop off in ecstatic exhaustion.
Finally the last note of the last song was played and it was all over. I couldn’t help crying a little. As I took my Mum’s hand and we started to leave, I felt a tap on my shoulder, it was the trumpeter. He smiled down at me and held out his trumpet. It took me a minute to understand that he was giving it to me.
“Really?” I said, when I realised what he was doing. In response he just put it in my hand.
“Keep playing,” he said. He lightly tousled my hair and with that he turned and left. I couldn’t quite process this turn of events, and he was almost out of earshot by the time I thought to shout out a thank you to him. He turned back and waved before he was swallowed up by the crowd.
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The next summer I was ready, and as soon as the fair rolled up again I went, trumpet in hand, ready to re-join the band. But I couldn’t find them, or hear them at all. I walked round and round the Green and tried asking a few people, but no one seemed to know anything about them. I couldn’t believe it. Eventually I sat down on an empty patch of grass and started playing to myself.
After a few minutes I became aware of someone watching me. I stopped playing and looked up. It was a boy, about the same age as me. He had piercing blue eyes, wavy brown hair, and an old acoustic guitar slung on a strap around his shoulders. Without a word he started to play. I recognised the tune and joined in, and for a few wonderfully confused moments we jammed together. Neither of us said anything, the music said it all, and as we finished I could feel a spark of that magic. I could also see a few people at the edges of the crowd who had stopped to listen to us.
I stood up and started to play another tune. He started strumming along, picking up the melody, and we made our way across the Green, spreading magic everywhere we went.
