And he strode off, swinging his bat and his rose, his white trousers riding up from his ankles as though they had shrunk in the wash.
The Park Keeper did not understand. Who would be disappointed, and why? What was so special about tonight – except the fact that everyone seemed to be breaking the Bye-laws; using the Public Park as though it were their own back yard? And who could that be, he asked himself, as a curious figure, walking backwards, feet uncertainly feeling their way, came staggering through the Lane Gate?
It was Ellen from Number Seventeen, Cherry Tree Lane, moving like a sleep-walker, eyes closed, arms outstretched before her, meandering over the newly turfed lawn that he had mown this morning.
The Park Keeper braced himself. He would not stand meekly by while the Rules were not only not being Observed but illegally flouted. Come what might, this was something he would have to deal with, even without a hat. His eyes fell on a small object lying limply beside the fountain. It was the Prime Minister’s cricketing cap, left behind, apparently, when he hurried off to change his trousers. The Park Keeper seized it gratefully. At least his head would be covered.
“Look where you’re going! Be careful, Miss Ellen! Beware of swings and see-saws and such. Steer clear of benches, borders and baskets.” He strode towards her shouting his warnings.
Slowly, carefully, sometimes sneezing, Ellen came backing in his direction. Then, just as she was almost upon him, the Policeman, suddenly spying her, neatly inserted himself between them and Ellen landed with a bump against his blue serge jacket.
“Oh!” she cried joyfully, as she turned about and opened her eyes. “I hoped it might be you– and it is! What if I had made a mistake and bumped into the wrong one!”
“What, indeed!” The Policeman beamed. “But you didn’t. And I’m the right one, see, and no mistake about it.”
“It is a mistake to do things like that. You might have knocked someone over or got yourself a broken leg. And then who’d be to blame? Me! No Backing allowed in a Public Park!” the Park Keeper warned her sternly.
“But I have to. It’s Midsummer’s Eve – atishoo! And if you walk backwards on Midsummer’s Eve, after putting a herb or two under your pillow – Marjoram, Sweet Basil, no matter what – you’ll back into your own true love as sure as nuts are nuts. Unless it’s a gooseberry bush – atishoo! If it is, you have to wait till next year. To try again, I mean.”
“Well, I’m no gooseberry bush, am I?”The Policeman took her hand in his. “So you won’t have to wait till next year, will you?” He tucked his arm through hers.
“But what if you never bump into someone? What if it’s always a gooseberry bush?” the Park Keeper demanded. It might be an Old Wives’ Tale she was telling. But with these, he knew, you had to be careful. Unwise to make a mock of them: they were apt to turn out to be true.
“Oh, it’s got to be someone someday – atishoo! There aren’t all that many gooseberry bushes. And then there’s the cucumber, don’t forget!”
“What cucumber?” Was this some further silliness? Were they trying to make a fool of him?
“You don’t know anything, do you?” said Ellen. “Didn’t your Grandmother tell you nothing? Mine told it to me and hers told her. And her Grandmother told it to her, and away and away, right back to Adam.”
He had been right, the Park Keeper thought. It was an Old Wives’ Tale!
“Well, this is what you do,” said Ellen. “You rub the juice behind your ears, close your eyes, put out your arms and then start walking backwards. It might be a long time or a short. Atishoo!” She paused to blow her nose. “But at last, if you’re lucky, you meet your True Love.”
She gave the Policeman a blushing glance. “It’s witchy,” she added, “very witchy. But – you’ll see! – it’s worth it.”
“Nothing like cucumber!” the Policeman grinned. “Luckiest vegetable in the world! Well, you’ve met yours and I’ve met mine. So the next thing is to name the day. How about next Thursday?”
He took Ellen firmly by the hand and led her away across the grass, tossing aside, as he did so, a spill of toffee paper.
The Park Keeper sighed as he picked it up and gazed after the lovers.
What was to be his lot, he wondered. The world went strolling past in pairs, two by two, hand in hand. Would such a thing ever happen to him? Had herbs been tucked under someone’s pillow in the hope of meeting Frederick Smith, the Park Keeper? Would anyone – Snow White, say, or Cinderella – hide her face in his serge jacket?
The sun had now laggardly slipped away, leaving behind the long blue twilight – not day, not night, but something in between – the hour that is thronged with fate.
The Prime Minister had disappeared and was even now, very likely, taking his top hat out of its hat box. Everyone else, apparently, was bent on their own affairs, even if those very affairs were ruining the Park. No one, as far as the Park Keeper could see, was looking in his direction.
What if – it was nonsense, of course – but what if he gave the thing a try? It certainly wouldn’t do any harm. And it might, oh it might—! He crossed his fingers.
Straightening his blue flannel cap, the Park Keeper glanced furtively round, slipped a hand into his pocket and brought out the crumbling remains of his lunch – a scrap of cucumber sandwich. Cautiously, stealthily, he rubbed the scrap behind each ear and felt the juice of the cucumber as it trickled down into his collar. He summoned up his determination and drew a long, deep breath.
“Good luck, Fred!” he said to himself. Then he closed his eyes, stretched out his arms in front of him and began to walk slowly backwards. Easy now! Step by step. He gave himself to the twilight.
He seemed to be in another world. The Park he knew had dissolved itself into the darkness behind his eyes. Voices that had been near and lively grew faint and faded away. Distant music was wafted to him by people singing in chorus – old songs he seemed to have known as a boy, dreamy, gentle as lullabies. And somewhere a hurdy-gurdy was playing. Bert, the Match Man, of course!
Tch, tch! NO MUSICIANS OR HAWKERS ALLOWED IN THE PARK! But now the Bye-laws would have to wait. He had something else to do. From the right – or was it the left of him? – came the sound of splashing water. Oh, why wouldn’t people look at the notice? NO SWIMMING PERMITTED IN THE LAKE. But perhaps it was just the fish rising, which was what they did at this hour of the day. You couldn’t really blame them for that. Fish, after all, can’t read.
On, on. His feet felt the bending grass beneath them and the spreading roots of trees. The scent of dandelions rose to his nose, something like dandelions brushed his boots. Where was he? In the Wild Garden? He could not tell and dared not look. If he opened his eyes, he might break the spell. On, on. Backward, backward. His destiny was leading him.
And now about him were whispering voices, rustlings and stirrings and stifled laughter.
“Hurry, you boys!” urged a man’s deep voice that seemed to come from far above him. “We haven’t got much time!”
Good Heavens, thought the Park Keeper. Were people actually up in the trees, breaking the branches as well as the Bye-laws? Never mind. He had to go on.