Carnival Day (standard:humor, 1854 words)
Author: Ian Hobson	Added: Sep 15 2004	Views/Reads: 3959/2540	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
This started life as a 1000 word competition entry. The story had to begin with the words 'I was prepared to listen to her advice about the cheese, but why was she dressed as Joan of Arc?'

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Henry had become excited, having spotted an Afghan Hound through the 
tailgate window, and was slapping the side of my head with his tail. 

'Get down, Henry!' ordered Mildred. 

'We're having a stall,' I explained, as best I could, between my top hat
and Henry's wagging tail.  I leaned across Mildred and peered up at the 
man.  'We're from the local Amnesty group.' 

'Oh, sorry.'  The man, at last, seemed to understand and allowed us to
continue on to where other stallholders were unloading their wares.  
Mildred yanked on the handbrake and switched off the engine.  And then 
in unison we opened our doors and tried to climb out, only to be 
instantly catapulted back into our seats, as unfortunately my seatbelt 
buckle had somehow got plugged into Mildred's empty scabbard. 

'Oh, you idiot!' exclaimed Mildred.  I wasn't sure if she was referring
to me, the seatbelt, the scabbard, or the man from the hire-shop. 

'Sorry, Mildred.'   I unhooked us and clambered out of the car still
holding the cardboard box and my top hat. 

'You made it then, Frank?'  It was Graham, our group chairman,
resplendent in his Edwardian garb. 'Ah, Wilber Smith.  I must look 
through those.' 

'Morning, Graham!' I said.  'Have we got a good pitch?' 

'Yes, same as last year; between Oxfam and the Chiropodists.' 

'Soroptimists.'  Mildred corrected him. 

'Morning, Mildred... Good Lord!' Graham had just noticed Mildred's
outfit. 

'Morning, Graham,' replied Mildred.  'If you'd like to...  Get down!' 
Henry had pushed his way between the front seats and was trying to 
follow his mistress out of the car.  'You can stay in the car for now!' 


'It's very kind of you, but I thought I'd help you with the things,'
said Graham.  'Err, what have you come as, exactly?' 

Mildred gave Graham a disapproving look as she closed the driver's side
door and opened the tailgate.  I gave him the paperbacks, grabbed the 
coolbox, closed the passenger door and donned my top hat, wondering if 
Amnesty, and other organisations, really appreciated all that their 
local groups did for them. 

'I was about to say,' began Mildred, 'if you would both like to start
with the bric-a-brac and the books, I'll bring the cakes and the other 
things.' 

'Okay,' we agreed, in unison.  But it was then that a gust of wind
sprang from nowhere and headed, tornado-like, towards where we were 
standing.  I grabbed for my hat, but too late.  The gust took it and 
carried it away, as if it was a gas-filled balloon; leaving me to chase 
after it, foolishly still carrying the coolbox.  As I reached the 
boundary fence, the wind died and my hat plummeted to earth in the next 
field, landing neatly in a fresh cowpat.  Fortunately a passing rambler 
retrieved it for me and there was no permanent damage; just a 
yellowy-brown stain on the top, and a strong odour of, well, what my 
dear departed wife would have called 'a country smell.' 

By the time I got back to the car, Graham and Mildred had finished the
unloading and had carried the last of our goods and campaign literature 
away to our stall.  Henry gave me a hopeful look as I passed then 
slumped back down on the rear seat.  More people were arriving and 
beginning to browse, and I made my way through them, noticing that the 
local archery club had set up a target and were charging sixty pence 
for three arrows.  I decided I'd have a go at that later. 

'Are, there you are, Frank,' said Graham, as I approached our stall. 
'Oh, good, you've recaptured your hat.  Mildred was just telling me 
about the hire shop...  She makes a good Joan of Ark, though, don't you 
think?' 

'Splendid,' I agreed, putting down my hat and setting out some of the
cheese on what little there was left of the stall.  Mildred, who was 
busy sticking price tags to the cakes and bric-a-brac, handed me a 
cardboard sign that read 'Local Cheese £1.25/qtr'. 

'Isn't it time we went metric?' I asked, propping the sign against my
hat. 

'That's what I said,' said Graham, comfortably ensconced in a folding
chair and deep into Wilbur Smith's 'Birds of Prey.' 

'I wondered about that,' said Mildred.  'But I think we'd only confuse
the older generation.  Everyone knows what a quarter of a pound is.' 

'I thought we were the older generation,' I said. 

'Morning, everyone.'  Irene, our treasurer, had arrived. 

'Morning, Irene,' we all replied.  Graham looked up from page seven. 
'Come to make sure we don't run off with the cash?' 

Irene laughed, politely.  'I'm sure you wouldn't dream of it, Graham... 
Oh, is this the cheese?  It looks a bit like Brie.'  She leaned over my 
cheese display and wrinkled her nose.  'Oh, it's a bit whiffy.' 

'Sorry!'  I quickly retrieved my hat from behind the cheese sign.  'Try
another sniff.' 

'Oh yes, that's better.  I'll certainly have a quarter.  But shouldn't
it be in kilos?' 

'We've been through that,' answered Graham, still reading.  'But save me
a quarter, will you, Frank.  And how much for this book?  It's very 
good.' 

'A pound to you, sir.' 

'A bargain.' 

Mildred looked up from her labelling.  'If we're just going to sell to
each other, we might as well have stayed at home and saved the cost of 
a pitch.  Get on your feet, Graham, and attract some punters.' 

'At once, milady.'  Graham put down the paperback, jumped to his feet
and took a deep breath.  'Fresh homemade cheese: one pound, twenty-five 
a quarter!' he shouted.  'Homemade cakes, individually priced!  
Assorted antiques and bric-a-brac.  All proceeds to... bloody hell!'  
Graham ducked as one of the arrows from the archery club flew over his 
head and hit Mildred square in the middle of her breastplate before 
bouncing off and coming to rest between a carrot cake and a pack of six 
butterfly buns. 

'That was a bit close for comfort,' I said.  'Are you alright, Mildred?'


Mildred looked at her breastplate then reached for the arrow, just as a
man from the archery club hurried over to our stall.  'I'm very sorry,' 
he said.  'One of our younger enthusiasts, err, got a bit carried away, 
I'm afraid.' 

'Carried away!' exclaimed Graham.  'You could have had someone's eye
out.'  Irene and I waited, expectantly.  Wondering what Mildred would 
say.  A small crowd of onlookers was gathering. 

'Perhaps I could make a donation,' suggested the man, as he eyed our
'Campaign against Arms' literature.  He fumbled for his wallet and took 
out a five-pound note.  Mildred glared, first at the note, and then at 
the man, until he reopened his wallet and pulled out a ten-pound note. 

'No harm done, ' said Mildred, smiling and quickly relieving the man of
his fifteen pounds.  'Thank you very much, but be more careful in 
future, please.'  She handed the man his arrow, and he thanked her with 
a watery smile and walked back through the crowd of onlookers. 

'Well, that's our pitch paid for,' said Mildred, as she folded the notes
and stuffed them into one of our collection tins.  'From here on, it's 
all profit.'  What a woman; Joan of Ark would have been proud of her. 


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