Page 14 of The Midnight Carousel

The big idea appears early the next morning, soon after watching Mrs Papadopoulos’s sons playing a game of cowboys on the stationary carousel.

The two boys jump on and off the wooden horses, firing imaginary pistols.

Seeing their delight, Maisie finds her head beginning to spin.

Could she invite some of the local children here for a ride?

Though she doesn’t know many people well, Maisie feels confident enough to ask the neighbours, as well as the tradesmen supplying Fairweather House.

Two days pass before she decides to test the water.

As though he was suspended in a bubble of euphoria that popped the second that he dismounted from the horse, Sir Malcolm’s pleasant mood had lasted as long as the carousel ride.

But she needs his permission if the idea is going to be anything more than vague thoughts in her head.

Today she waits for Sir Malcolm to collect the daily newspapers from the hallway. This is the best hour to catch him– any hangover should be subsiding, and it’s too early for him to start drinking.

As Maisie has never asked Sir Malcolm for anything, he looks up from his newspaper with an expression of surprise when she stammers out the reason she wishes to talk to him. After an overlong silence, he scowls.

‘I’m past bothering with that sort of thing, Maisie. And the noise would get on my nerves.’

But as she tries swallowing the lump in her throat, he speaks again.

‘However, Hugo and I have a meeting in town with Mr Deveraux next Thursday. You may invite your people then. But only a small gathering, you hear?’ he says. ‘And Nancy must supervise. There needs to be a suitable adult present, and she’s a whizz at hosting parties.’

There’s no stopping Maisie after that. This is an opportunity to occupy her time with a meaningful task.

She’s often thought about Miss Catherine’s ambition to write novels.

Before Jesserton, Maisie was too busy surviving even to imagine the possibility of a career.

Then, when she arrived in America, all her time was taken up with the governess.

Now her whole life stretches out as an unpainted canvas.

Sir Malcolm hasn’t indicated that he expects anything of Maisie, but she feels a growing restlessness to achieve something for herself.

After pinning the carousel poster and a list of tasks to the inside of her wardrobe, she issues the invitations. She makes paper chains to string between trees. She gathers apples for the cook to turn into pies, orders extra cream from Mrs Papadopoulos and enlists the help of the servants.

It’s just like Arnold to volunteer to tame a patch of the grounds, suggesting a picnic. There’s no formal garden and no gardener at Fairweather House, so the vegetation has run wild. But he takes it in his stride, hacking away at undergrowth and pruning trees.

The enthusiasm must be infectious, because over the course of the next few days the ideas roll in thick and fast. Clara brings in a hoopla set.

Maisie adds ‘bobbing for apples’ to the list, a game Aunty Mabel once described playing with her siblings in childhood.

The cook decides to ‘try something new’.

Maisie fully expects Nancy to turn up and take over the proceedings, but, after agreeing to Sir Malcolm’s request to help out with a breezy Leave it with me, Malcolm darling, I’ll make sure the party lives up to the Randolph standards , there’s been no further sign of her, as though she was never really interested in such a small affair.

By the morning of the event, excitement has reached fever pitch. Maisie is woken early by a ball of nervous energy. She can barely eat breakfast, giving up when the staff join her in the kitchen. While the maid folds napkins, Maisie applauds the apple-meringue pie Peggy Mae parades in.

Rightly puffed up with pride, the cook beams. ‘It was as if I was inspired by the Lord himself,’ she explains, slapping away the hand of her youngest child, who is reaching for a piece.

Peggy Mae’s older two children are racing around the table when Arnold struts into the room, dressed in orange breeches and a purple shirt with a sparkly green bowler hat atop his bald head.

‘Roll up, roll up to have your ears rumbled and your eyes dazzled by the world’s most splendiferous, most yoddle-wabble-naferous, spinning carousel!

’ he booms in a strange accent that sounds like a cross between the dock workers on Canvey Island and the Irish lilt of the station hand from a few weeks ago.

It’s so unlike Arnold’s usual, quiet voice that everyone giggles.

Clara is wide-eyed. ‘Wherever did you get that outfit, Mr Arnold?’

He takes a bow. ‘Swell, isn’t it?’ he answers.

‘I always fancied myself as an actor. I’ve wanted to tread the boards since I was a boy, but my dad said going into service is a more reliable profession,’ he explains.

‘However, I still partake of amateur dramatics in my spare time. This here is the King of Bohemia’s outfit from The Winter’s Tale . ’

He produces three yellow balls and starts to juggle.

‘Aren’t you a revelation, Arnold?’ Maisie exclaims. ‘You can be the Grand Ringmaster of the carousel.’

She has no idea if such a title even exists, and doesn’t care, because there’s an unusual feeling of warmth around her heart, a gratitude for how much effort they have made. The Jesserton staff were never this nice.

The only one who views the festivities with anything less than enthusiasm is Eric, the footman. ‘Seems a lot of trouble for nothing,’ he grumbles, sloping off for a cigarette.

The five Hutton-Bellamy children arrive first, wearing matching sailor suits, accompanied by their nanny.

They are followed by the two youngest Janssens; and the offspring of the tailor, the coal man, the fish-seller and the grocer; and the Papadopoulos boys, all with a guardian and an offering of food.

Nancy breezes in last, making a big show of having brought along a bottle of champagne.

The guests make a beeline for the carousel.

Children race around the platform, while the adults stroll around the perimeter, nodding in approval.

‘Isn’t this grand?’ the Hutton-Bellamy nanny remarks to the tailor’s wife, and Maisie feels a surge of pride for this wonderful machine.

She watches Peggy Mae’s children make friends with the Papadopoulos boys beside the ginger stallion, and the Janssen daughters patting a little off-white pony with the Hutton-Bellamy clan.

It’s noticeable that the children have separated themselves into groups according to the wealth of their parents, and Maisie wonders if they will begin to mix over the course of the afternoon.

Eventually, everyone is encouraged off the platform with the promise of a ride later, and they swarm to an area of grass nearby, where the other entertainments are set up.

Clara is in charge of the hoopla, and soon a cluster of giggling children are tossing rings made of rope in the general direction of tall wooden pegs.

Even Eric has come around, and he organizes a game of hide-and-seek amongst the trees.

As Maisie explains the rules of bobbing apples– as described to her by Aunty Mabel several years ago– to three of the fish-seller’s children, she notices a familiar face approaching.

‘You organize well,’ Mrs Papadopoulos states, looking impressed. ‘Everyone have fun.’

‘I just did the spade-work,’ Maisie answers modestly. ‘Officially, this is Nancy’s event.’

Mrs Papadopoulos looks over her shoulder, surprised. ‘Then why she look so… grumpy?’

Maisie glances at Nancy standing alone near the house, her mouth downturned and her arms folded.

‘Perhaps she’s put out that the carousel is the centre of attention,’ she can’t resist saying.

As they laugh, Nancy looks at them and scowls at Maisie as though she can tell that she’s the object of their amusement.

The next forty minutes pass quickly, and it’s already approaching noon by the time the refreshments have been served. Maisie asks Arnold to start the ride. With a sense of purpose, he leaps on to the carousel’s platform, twirls on the spot, waits for silence.

‘Come, children, come, children, from far and near,’ Arnold shouts in his stage voice. ‘Come choose your steed, you galloping knights, to enjoy the fun of the carousel!’

There’s a rush of children appearing from behind trees and along the shore, jostling for a horse.

Maisie notices a little boy clinging to the skirts of Mrs Wadham, the tailor’s wife.

He’s six years old at a guess, with the same serious, wide-eyed expression as Tommy at that age, the same thin little legs poking out from baggy shorts. Maisie approaches him and bends down.

‘Don’t you want a ride?’ she asks him.

He shakes his head, sucks his thumb.

‘It’s fun,’ she promises. ‘Why don’t you have a go, and you can tell me all about it when you get back?’

He gives a small nod, his grip loosening from his mother’s skirt. Then he darts off, finds the last available horse, tucked away on the inner row, and hoists himself up on the golden saddle. Maisie can’t wait to see his sombre little face light up in delight when the carousel begins.

‘Thank you,’ Mrs Wadham says with a grateful smile. ‘Billy’s a little shy and sometimes needs encouragement.’

‘I used to know a little boy just like him,’ Maisie replies.

When every last child is settled, giggling and squirming, Arnold races to the control panel.

‘Are you ready?’ he calls.

‘Yes,’ the children chorus.

Arnold lifts one hand to cup his ear. ‘I didn’t hear you! I said are you ready?’

‘Yesssss,’ the children scream, and the adults join in this time.

‘In that case’– he pauses for dramatic effect– ‘hold on tight.’