Peggy Powler had been to many grand fetes and outdoor festivals during her meanderings and she'd often been astonished
by the size and colourful decorations put on by those who wished to celebrate a chosen occasion. But as Stanley Dawes'
weathered buckboard turned off the leafy lane that paralleled Calder's Way, the little Witch could see that the Summertide
and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race was a hullabaloo deliberately meant to outshine all others.
There must've been a hundred marquees lining the main thoroughfare towards the actual course and as Marigold the mule
plodded her way down to where Stanley would be required to register his attendance in the steeplechase, Peggy couldn't-but
recall her younger days at the Carnival.
The smells of strange foods being cooked, aromatic spices for sale and the perfume of well-tanned leather wafted across the
nostrils of small group bumping across the grass-flattened midway and twice, Diabolus flinched at something he didn't like the
scent of. "Divna fret me-lad..." the Last Witch of Underhill said softly to the tethered horse behind her, "...it's just humans makin'
money" she offered and leaned back from her place in the freight-section of the wagon beside Jimmy Dougie and gently patted
Diabolus' quivering nose.
Steering Marigold towards the large grey tent where riders, equipment and horses were to be examined, Stanley murmured
from the side of his mouth to the two young men sitting beside him. "You're sure the saddle is in good-shape...?" he asked Farra
Combs and Pip Farnby and pulled the reins to halt the wagon. The noise of fairground excitement was behind them now, but it
still created the illusion of the inspection-area holding a carnival atmosphere. "...I just don't want that Tatem finding something
to nit-pick me out of this race with" he warned and kept his gaze from checking his query.
The two young men nodded, but it was Pip who spoke. "The saddle's fine, Boss, we heightened the stirrups for Peggy and we
checked Diabolus' bridle again this morning before we left". Stanley copied their gesture and then turned to the little bare-footed
woman sitting on an empty grain sack. "Well, this is it, Peggy... it's time to be inspected" he said and allowed the buckboard to
creak as he dismounted. "Aye" was all the would-be jockey offered and discreetly climbed out of the back of the stable-owner's
carriage. Passing the disinterested mule, she whispered "cheer me on, Marigold" and then quickly followed the big man into the
bigger tent.
...................................................
At first, Peggy thought the long trestle table would be where she'd be asked to lie upon and be physically checked over. Of course
it was ridiculous -she knew, but for moment, the serious faces of the four men -including Lord Archibald Tatem, hinted at such at
thorough examination. Farra stumbled in with Diabolus' tack and carefully and meekly placed them on the counter covered with
green felt. From the lad's trembling hands, Peggy guessed that the frightened ostler was only a few clutches away from wetting
his pants.
"You prepared these yourself?" growled a man with four strands on hair meticulously greased back on his bald pate, someone
Peggy heard later was titled Sir George Stills. Farra nodded, cleared his throat and replied "Yes Sir". Stills then prodded parts
of the saddle and strained his aristocratic muscles against the bridle's strength before signalling with a more-dignified nod to
his fellow judges.
Stanley Dawes lightly took hold of Peggy's shoulder and steered her closer to the table. "This is my rider and her name is Peggy
Powler, I declare this to be true and my warrant is for all to hear" he proclaimed and stared towards the long wooden pole that
kept the marquee from falling on this bunch of jumped-up blue-bloods.
A seated man garbed all in tweed and wore a matching fedora with a pheasant's feather sticking out of its band looked up at
Stanley, but pointed towards the petite poncho-wearing person who'd be aboard the black stallion tied behind the buckboard.
"I say Dawes, is this the one they call the Witch of Underhill?" Lord Grayson asked with a slight tone of suspicion and slowly
got to his feet. Peggy's pinky-finger itched to be wiggled, but the woman stayed her digit and waited for any possible insults.
Stanley breathed in deeply and answered in the affirmative, his ram-rod stance waned a little as the question implied possible
negative effects on his participation in the race. "She... she is, my Lord" he stammered softly and if she'd been a gambler, Peggy
would bet a whole numma that the man who had helpful Sprites living on his land and didn't believe in such superstitious mumbo
-jumbo, had crossed his fingers behind his back.
"Do you know who this is Nicholas...?" Lord Grayson asked the well-dressed corpse beside him and seemed to breathe animation
into the old man who looked a thousand years-old. "...This is Peggy Powler, Madam Powler's daughter" he exclaimed with a note
of friendliness that the woman in question noticed the warm altruism drew features of annoyance from Lord Tatem sitting at the
end of the line of his peers.
Baron Nicholas Alexander Kessler gazed around as if he'd been suddenly awaked from a deep sleep and then his bone-yellow
eyes set upon the little Witch in the big hat. "Powler -you say, the little girl who used to race between the Carnival tents...?, that
Peggy Powler?" the Baron asked and considering his age, Peggy silently congratulated the old bugger for his quick recall abilities
and her little-finger became still.
"Aye me-Lord..." the subject of question answered "...Ah' was that lassie who ran down the midway wiv' the breeze in me-hair"
Peggy proudly boasted. "But iffn' Ah' may be so bold, isn't a travellin' fairground a little below yer' normal place of wanderings'
Sire?" she asked and enjoyed the deep scarlet-hue of Lord Tatem's face listening to the parley between the elite and the unshod
peasant who hadn't even removed her mangy hat.
There are unique gracious moments in time when one wants to wallow in unearthed memories of folk one might not normally
encounter. Evocations that connect us all and yet, these trails are rarely trodden and often follow un-traipsed to the grave. But
this one had slipped the net as the two old men looked at each and smiled without a word. Peggy Powler, the girl in the green
dress and now the Witch in the green poncho, ignored everyone else in the tent and smiled with them.
"Surely you can't be serious?" Lord Tatem said loudly and suddenly standing up, angrily continued his pre-arranged protest.
"If she is the sorceress you suggest, then surely she will curse or poison her competitors! This is outrageous and I demand..."
but the rich rival of Stanley Dawes was cut-off by Lord Grayson's growling icy words. "Do not quickly equate one's social-stature
solely in the realms of eminent peerage, Lord Tatem... this is Peggy Powler and her word is beyond contestation."
Even though Grayson gave off a perception of a mild old man, he spat the words out as simple trues and whether one carries money
in one's pocket or in the case of the little Witch, a piece of string, everyone in the marquee knew what the preeminent gentleman said
was made of stone. And for the record, Peggy did not smirk at Lord Tatem, regardless what others may have told you.
...................................................
Exiting through another opening, Peggy's arrogance dropped like the buckshot-filled owner of the feather in Lord Grayson's hat as
she stepped out into the noisy paddock where the other riders awaited. "Good luck" Farra managed to say before Stanley urged her
on to where Pip waited with a wide-eyed Diabolus experiencing the bedlam around him.
"What the hell was all that about?" the relieved stable-owner hissed as they made their way to her mount and witnessing Pip dress
Diabolus in his racing-tack, Peggy decided that some things are best acquired naturally than merely given. "The futures me-old mutha'
told 'em must've come true" she replied flatly and felt the man suddenly grab her bottom.
"Up yer' go, Peggy and for Herne's sake, don't fall off" the tightly-curled-haired groper said and for the first time in a long time, Stanley
Dawes added seriously "Thank you for making my day". With Diabolus turning to get away from the noisy mayhem of the onlookers and
seek a more serene place in the open-space of the fields, Peggy wondered if her taking part in a race Stanley held so dear was what his
gratitude was for or was it that she'd made him feel better because he'd grabbed her ass?
Who knows?
by the size and colourful decorations put on by those who wished to celebrate a chosen occasion. But as Stanley Dawes'
weathered buckboard turned off the leafy lane that paralleled Calder's Way, the little Witch could see that the Summertide
and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race was a hullabaloo deliberately meant to outshine all others.
There must've been a hundred marquees lining the main thoroughfare towards the actual course and as Marigold the mule
plodded her way down to where Stanley would be required to register his attendance in the steeplechase, Peggy couldn't-but
recall her younger days at the Carnival.
The smells of strange foods being cooked, aromatic spices for sale and the perfume of well-tanned leather wafted across the
nostrils of small group bumping across the grass-flattened midway and twice, Diabolus flinched at something he didn't like the
scent of. "Divna fret me-lad..." the Last Witch of Underhill said softly to the tethered horse behind her, "...it's just humans makin'
money" she offered and leaned back from her place in the freight-section of the wagon beside Jimmy Dougie and gently patted
Diabolus' quivering nose.
Steering Marigold towards the large grey tent where riders, equipment and horses were to be examined, Stanley murmured
from the side of his mouth to the two young men sitting beside him. "You're sure the saddle is in good-shape...?" he asked Farra
Combs and Pip Farnby and pulled the reins to halt the wagon. The noise of fairground excitement was behind them now, but it
still created the illusion of the inspection-area holding a carnival atmosphere. "...I just don't want that Tatem finding something
to nit-pick me out of this race with" he warned and kept his gaze from checking his query.
The two young men nodded, but it was Pip who spoke. "The saddle's fine, Boss, we heightened the stirrups for Peggy and we
checked Diabolus' bridle again this morning before we left". Stanley copied their gesture and then turned to the little bare-footed
woman sitting on an empty grain sack. "Well, this is it, Peggy... it's time to be inspected" he said and allowed the buckboard to
creak as he dismounted. "Aye" was all the would-be jockey offered and discreetly climbed out of the back of the stable-owner's
carriage. Passing the disinterested mule, she whispered "cheer me on, Marigold" and then quickly followed the big man into the
bigger tent.
...................................................
At first, Peggy thought the long trestle table would be where she'd be asked to lie upon and be physically checked over. Of course
it was ridiculous -she knew, but for moment, the serious faces of the four men -including Lord Archibald Tatem, hinted at such at
thorough examination. Farra stumbled in with Diabolus' tack and carefully and meekly placed them on the counter covered with
green felt. From the lad's trembling hands, Peggy guessed that the frightened ostler was only a few clutches away from wetting
his pants.
"You prepared these yourself?" growled a man with four strands on hair meticulously greased back on his bald pate, someone
Peggy heard later was titled Sir George Stills. Farra nodded, cleared his throat and replied "Yes Sir". Stills then prodded parts
of the saddle and strained his aristocratic muscles against the bridle's strength before signalling with a more-dignified nod to
his fellow judges.
Stanley Dawes lightly took hold of Peggy's shoulder and steered her closer to the table. "This is my rider and her name is Peggy
Powler, I declare this to be true and my warrant is for all to hear" he proclaimed and stared towards the long wooden pole that
kept the marquee from falling on this bunch of jumped-up blue-bloods.
A seated man garbed all in tweed and wore a matching fedora with a pheasant's feather sticking out of its band looked up at
Stanley, but pointed towards the petite poncho-wearing person who'd be aboard the black stallion tied behind the buckboard.
"I say Dawes, is this the one they call the Witch of Underhill?" Lord Grayson asked with a slight tone of suspicion and slowly
got to his feet. Peggy's pinky-finger itched to be wiggled, but the woman stayed her digit and waited for any possible insults.
Stanley breathed in deeply and answered in the affirmative, his ram-rod stance waned a little as the question implied possible
negative effects on his participation in the race. "She... she is, my Lord" he stammered softly and if she'd been a gambler, Peggy
would bet a whole numma that the man who had helpful Sprites living on his land and didn't believe in such superstitious mumbo
-jumbo, had crossed his fingers behind his back.
"Do you know who this is Nicholas...?" Lord Grayson asked the well-dressed corpse beside him and seemed to breathe animation
into the old man who looked a thousand years-old. "...This is Peggy Powler, Madam Powler's daughter" he exclaimed with a note
of friendliness that the woman in question noticed the warm altruism drew features of annoyance from Lord Tatem sitting at the
end of the line of his peers.
Baron Nicholas Alexander Kessler gazed around as if he'd been suddenly awaked from a deep sleep and then his bone-yellow
eyes set upon the little Witch in the big hat. "Powler -you say, the little girl who used to race between the Carnival tents...?, that
Peggy Powler?" the Baron asked and considering his age, Peggy silently congratulated the old bugger for his quick recall abilities
and her little-finger became still.
"Aye me-Lord..." the subject of question answered "...Ah' was that lassie who ran down the midway wiv' the breeze in me-hair"
Peggy proudly boasted. "But iffn' Ah' may be so bold, isn't a travellin' fairground a little below yer' normal place of wanderings'
Sire?" she asked and enjoyed the deep scarlet-hue of Lord Tatem's face listening to the parley between the elite and the unshod
peasant who hadn't even removed her mangy hat.
There are unique gracious moments in time when one wants to wallow in unearthed memories of folk one might not normally
encounter. Evocations that connect us all and yet, these trails are rarely trodden and often follow un-traipsed to the grave. But
this one had slipped the net as the two old men looked at each and smiled without a word. Peggy Powler, the girl in the green
dress and now the Witch in the green poncho, ignored everyone else in the tent and smiled with them.
"Surely you can't be serious?" Lord Tatem said loudly and suddenly standing up, angrily continued his pre-arranged protest.
"If she is the sorceress you suggest, then surely she will curse or poison her competitors! This is outrageous and I demand..."
but the rich rival of Stanley Dawes was cut-off by Lord Grayson's growling icy words. "Do not quickly equate one's social-stature
solely in the realms of eminent peerage, Lord Tatem... this is Peggy Powler and her word is beyond contestation."
Even though Grayson gave off a perception of a mild old man, he spat the words out as simple trues and whether one carries money
in one's pocket or in the case of the little Witch, a piece of string, everyone in the marquee knew what the preeminent gentleman said
was made of stone. And for the record, Peggy did not smirk at Lord Tatem, regardless what others may have told you.
...................................................
Exiting through another opening, Peggy's arrogance dropped like the buckshot-filled owner of the feather in Lord Grayson's hat as
she stepped out into the noisy paddock where the other riders awaited. "Good luck" Farra managed to say before Stanley urged her
on to where Pip waited with a wide-eyed Diabolus experiencing the bedlam around him.
"What the hell was all that about?" the relieved stable-owner hissed as they made their way to her mount and witnessing Pip dress
Diabolus in his racing-tack, Peggy decided that some things are best acquired naturally than merely given. "The futures me-old mutha'
told 'em must've come true" she replied flatly and felt the man suddenly grab her bottom.
"Up yer' go, Peggy and for Herne's sake, don't fall off" the tightly-curled-haired groper said and for the first time in a long time, Stanley
Dawes added seriously "Thank you for making my day". With Diabolus turning to get away from the noisy mayhem of the onlookers and
seek a more serene place in the open-space of the fields, Peggy wondered if her taking part in a race Stanley held so dear was what his
gratitude was for or was it that she'd made him feel better because he'd grabbed her ass?
Who knows?
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.