The patched and painted canvas of the small tents clustering round the Big Top was beginning to smell damp as the sun went down. A guy-rope slackened off as the dew settled, and the passing soldier itched to tighten it properly; but the two sheilas and his new army buddy William were pulling him on, herding together and leaning into the lights of the main event.
‘C’mon Tom ya wowzer!’ He couldn’t recall the girl’s name; she had one arm linked round the second girl’s waist, her other arm slipped through William’s crooked elbow.
But … well, nah, he just didn’t seem to be in the mood. Something was prickling behind his concentration: a tap left dripping, a tune unfinished on a back-room piano. Tom peeled away, broke from the mob and headed back through the ambling crowds into the sideshow alley, turning at the end into a darker lane of tents and crates. One canvas doorway was lit brighter than the rest. This felt better tonight; this felt right.
The sound of birds roosting at dusk, half-light on dewy grass, the lingering perfume of the girl whose name he couldn’t recall, and a twinge at his right ankle. Tom smiled, puzzled, as he felt an anticipation, a memory of the flavour of chocolate.
‘Step right up step right up best show on Earth’ the monotone voice was as flat and disinterested as a bored sheep. There was no-one around; the thinning crowds had disappeared into the biggest tent, or gone to try out the collection of fruit-crate seats by the beer wagon out back, under a canopy of moths and swinging paraffin lanterns.
‘Step up. Step up. Step right up.’ This time it was more of an order. Tom responded with an automatic salute before breaking into a little self-conscious laugh, although there was still no-one else in sight. Ok, what’s to lose?
It felt good, going in the tent. It felt… comfortable. Like, well, like breakfast in the kitchen of his childhood home; or his mother when she was younger and in a good mood; or making a new friend on the first day of school —his friend Albert, who had been his mate since Grade One. Tom blinked in the haze of the gas lamps, squinted askance.
The canvas room was orderly with benches and trestle tables, separated by folding wooden screens to break the view of what came next. Each display, a machine of some sort. Each machine shiny and polished, a thing of metal and glass and ceramic, gauges, coils, and gleaming rivets. A small white card had been pinned to each table. Tom leaned over the nearest, the first table by the door.
‘Fabulator. Paraffin-driven, early model. Canada,’ said the copper-plate label. The machine seemed to be broken, there was a greasy build-up of dust in many of the loops and sprockets. It didn’t seem to do anything, so Tom wondered why he felt fondly towards the cat-sized object. Did he like cats? He’d never considered that before now but maybe he did. He moved to the next table.
‘Neanish-Pearson Modifier. One of only three surviving. UK.’ The Modifier glowed serenely under a spun-glass canopy. Tom’s belly was warmed by proximity to the device, and the warmth stayed with him as he moved on down the line of trestles.
‘Hugendoffler Mk III. Dalmatia’ was larger than the first two; a bronze fly-wheel revolved at a rate such that it was impossible to tell the speed or direction: fast forward or slowly backwards, Tom couldn’t decide. He thought of being small, and being kissed by someone in a shaded room of brown velvet furniture.
‘Sabrelk in B-flat (mixed origin)’ came in three ceramic pieces of a heartbreakingly beautiful blue, linked by a tangle of dull yellow and red wires, and a definite scent of sweet-pea and birthday cake. It cast a shadow that bore no relationship to its physical shape. Tom realised he was willing to protect the Sabrelk B♭ with his life.
The machines increased in size as he moved round the tent. The humming Mogson’s Tammip (Lichtenstein) filled Tom with sadness and a strong desire for action to redeem sadness. Both versions of the Deerdreg Accumulator (USA)—the High-top and the Dextrous Domestic —were going at such a rate he wondered how securely they were attached to their trestles, and he recalled the weathered planks of his father’s tool-shed door, and being allowed to sort the odd screws and nails into jam jars (the Dextrous Domestic was reputed to be a particularly effective model).
A left-geared bespoke edition of the Carpathian Format J (Hungary) moved through its erratic repeat cycle with a low whistle of steam, and Tom smiled at the thought of a small-town accountant negotiating his first tax-return. The varnished wood and brass of the Wasp Twelve-Button (Aus.) made him blush as his hands tingled with a secret memory. Madeline. Maddy, that was the sheila’s name, and she was what William called ‘a good sort’. A very good sort.
After the Wasp 12-B the trestle tables ended, and the final device stood on the grassy ground of the tent. Instead of a white card, it bore a nameplate of painted cast iron: The John-Hofer Magnifestorator.
The Magnifestorator was taller than Tom, and of a complexity that suggested not everything had been included in the original design, but much had been tacked on afterwards. If form followed function, then the Magnifestorator had a considerable number of interconnected functions—some of which seemed to require electromagnetism, or periodic inversion, or chocolate.
The Magnifestorator also had an open door and a welcoming seat in a small central cubicle. Tom was not at all afraid, and he was quite fond of chocolate. He sat down; the door closed behind him and lights came on inside.
Then those lights went out. Just like they had when he was put to sleep in the back of a wagon, coming home from the church one Christmas night. But, Tom thought, we didn’t have a wagon. He remembered being put to sleep in the back of a wagon. No, thought Tom, we never owned a. He remembered being put to sleep in the back of a wagon coming home from church. Oh, thought Tom, I see the wagon. I see Christmas night.
Tom longed for Christmas in a wagon again. For safe, happy Christmas. In a wagon. In the night. He would do anything to protect Christmases and wagons.
Then Tom remembered telling his best friend William about his Christmas. No, he told Albert, his best friend Albert when they were comparing the holidays, back at school. Tom remembered telling William who was his. No, Albert. Telling William. Telling William, who was … Albert, who was … William. Tom remembered telling William, his army buddy and best friend, about a childhood wagon ride.
Tom would die to protect his mate William who was his best friend. Tom longed to be home, at Christmas, reading a happy letter from his mate William.
Tom longed to be home, in the kitchen for breakfast, with his young happy mother, looking forward to the first day of Christmas school and reading a letter from his best mate William the soldier… who… died …
Tom could not have explained what happened next inside the machine. For in the warm dark, he saw unfamiliar memories, unremembered acts, too much of home and longing; he felt he was choking. As he began to tear at the collar of his uniform jacket and grab futilely at the binding puttees of his shivering legs he could smell cordite, and gas, and hot blood and shit and ozone; he could hear screams and shouted orders, and the whizz of projectiles falling around him. He needed to run. His body was incapable of action.
A voice, not directed at him, from above: ‘No, no, Too fast. Look what you’ve done for god’s sake! I said set it to 12, you’ve fried his brains on 18, you idiot.’
Another voice, also remote, an unfamiliar accent: ‘He was starting to resist, we need to break through that, or he’ll be no use at all. Trust me; I designed the bloody thing.’
‘I need functioning soldiers, man, not this cowardly wreck. Give him more of the home front nonsense, that should do it. More of the mother. Actually, can you go back to the older mother version, more vulnerable? Interesting that; a young parent doesn’t have the right impact it looks like. Have you tried adding muffins for supper? Do they have muffins where this chap comes from?’
‘They don’t have muffins where I come from, for Pete’s sake; what the hell is ‘muffins?’
‘We’re wasting time. Give him scones and cream to think about.’
‘He can hardly be expected to give his life for scones and cream. I don’t think scones and cream will get your lads to leap over the top at Gallipoli. I’m not giving up all credibility as a scientist for scones and fucking cream…’
‘Really. There’s no need for language. I just thought that scones and—as you so colourfully say—fucking cream might soothe him past this resistance you talk about. This is a delicate situation here, scrambling about in a young man’s memory, tangling up his emotions. For the future of The Empire certainly, but even so.’
‘Even so, you need these lads to be so full of the love of some mythical version of home, that the very sane terror of death under foreign fire is overwhelmed by the belief he’s defending his world, protecting his heart’s longing for his young—sorry, old—mother to seat him in her farm-dusty kitchen, make a fresh pot of tea, and serve him scones. With or without cream. Hell, let’s add some blackberry jam for good measure.’
‘Jam. Yes. Good. Add jam.’
‘Jam.’
‘… And, well, can we add more girlfriend? You know, to appeal to his, er, other needs?’
‘The doxy, Maddie? She’s a bit of a tart, but OK if you think that’ll help. Jam and a tart. Fine!’
‘Would it be best if we started over again, from the beginning?’
‘Fine, no problem.’
The Magnifestorator dispensed a small chocolate, which Tom unwrapped and ate as he walked out into the crowd.
The patched and painted canvas of the small tents clustering round the Big Top was beginning to smell damp as the sun went down. A guy-rope slackened off as the dew settled, and Tom itched to tighten it properly; but his girl Maddie and his best mate William were pulling him on, herding together and leaning into the lights of the main event.
‘C’mon Tom, love’ smiled Maddie.
But … well, nah, he just didn’t seem to be in the mood. Something was prickling behind his concentration: a half-written letter, a repair job not finished.
The sound of birds roosting at dusk, half-light on dewy grass, the lingering perfume of his girl, and a twinge at his right ankle. Tom smiled, puzzled, as he felt an anticipation…
Ahead, one canvas doorway was lit brighter than the rest.
Note: I wrote this in response to a prompt of ‘nostalgia’ for a themed anthology … while noodling around for ideas, I researched the word. The term was coined in 1688 by the Swiss scientist Johannes Hofer (the Magnifestorator was named in his honour) but existed long before and has always been linked to warfare and it’s negative impact on the morale of soldiers. Considered a disease for hundreds of years, a failing of nerve or cowardice, there is some evidence that the psychological effects of nostalgia were deliberately weaponised for political gain during the Great War… plus ça change, really
P A Swanborough 