The handsome boys and pretty girls with sixpences clutched in their hands ran around excitedly in herds, chattering from stall to stall. All the stalls and side-shows were arranged beautifully by Billy on the village green and at the centre of the fair was his pride and joy: the shining carrousel.
The people buzzed about on the glorious summer Sunday afternoon. The daffodils swayed to the carrousel’s pipe music as it revolved merrily to its own tune; the soft village lawn beneath Billy’s feet was glowing green and brimming with buttercups; and furry bumblebees droned about from flower to flower. This was peak season for the fair. Not a cloud was visible and Billy felt fantastic.
He pulled a trinket from his waistcoat pocket and started to examine it carefully. It was a small, silver carrousel horse about three inches tall. His father had given it to him along with the fair when he died. Billy had been fascinated by the ornament ever since his father removed it from his own waistcoat pocket. He was intrigued by the craftsman’s immense attention to detail and obvious effort. It was perfect. That was how he had always tried to keep his fair.
Times had changed since then and things now were radically different. Decimalisation was the most noticeable; it was more like decimation for Billy. He gave up properly looking after the fair after the children were no longer innocent and handsome, but ugly yobs. It was the end of the day and the end of another failed fair season. The December dusk was drawing in and the wind was picking up, flapping the coconut shy’s tent about like a sail at sea. Being dark and damp outside, Billy had hidden himself between the coconuts at the far end of the tent, sheltering from the bombardment of the storm.
Howls of irresponsible youths faded into the hissing of the rain as Billy looked out on his fair through the rips in his treasured tent. He couldn’t call it a fair anymore, could he? The letters on the coconut shy sign had been rearranged to make a disgusting word; the shining carrousel was dirty: the pipes had rusted with age; and the beautifully kept village lawn was now the town playing field. He could see the tip of the rollercoaster at the nearby theme-park boastfully silhouetting itself against the moon. Hauling himself up and wincing at the cramp, Billy left the mouth of the tent and began to walk among his memories in the creeping cold.
The poor ground was muddy and the carrousel had subsided into it. Grass was barely visible and most of it was covered in black mud. Finding his way by the streetlights, Billy battled his way through the cold rain and searing wind to reach his long lost source of pleasure. He stopped at the edge and stared at the ring of ghost-like horses. The horses stared back empathically with chipped paint and torn reins.
Looking around in desperation, Billy tried to find a horse that wasn’t chipped or torn. He frantically rushed about and attempted to salvage one undamaged horse from the dilapidated carrousel. Alas, there were none. They all had eyes or saddles missing; they were all rough and stripped of their dignity. Billy slumped against one of them, shut his eyes and covered his ears. Then he remembered he still had one horse left. Fumbling hastily in his sodden jacket he managed to pull out his silver treasure once more. Carefully checking it over again, he realised something he had never realised before. Right in the middle of the horses back he saw a thin, deep scratch. It was a scar in his most prized possession.
The noise of the hissing rain increased; distant thunder began its low rumbles. Billy stood up in disgust and pulled his coat closer. He drew his arm back behind his head, paused, grimaced in fury and then whipped his arm forward and banished the small horse into the wet, sticky mud. Without looking back, he paced away towards the bright lights of the town leaving the horse sinking and struggling for breath as the mud consumed its flawed body.