TOM WALSH: How the fun of the fair brought a pink lady into my life

Thoughts of the Big Wheel and dodgems: I remember on the latter with signs all round the ride ordering “NO BUMPING.” Fat chance: that was the big attraction, particularly for teenagers

On the Saturday of Fair Week I wait what seems an age for my cousin Kathleen who has been charged with accompanying me.

This task was usually undertaken by my sister Margaret but she had recently started a Saturday job at Grafton House (ladies’ fashion) situated at the bottom of Makinson’s Arcade, just across the road from the fairground.

I have it in mind to go to the shop and wave to her so she doesn’t feel left out. Kathleen scotches that idea immediately saying it would embarrass her and she might even get the sack. Another good idea hits the dust!

Aged about nine at that time, I go at a rate of knots with my cousin to the fair, money given by my Mam and Aunty Maggie burning a hole in my pocket.

After the usual rides and candy floss/toffee apple (you never had both - it seemed an unwritten rule), I have a go on the roll-a-penny: a game rolling a penny down a slot. If it landed on a square without touching the sides you’d win whatever the amount on that particular patch: tuppence, threepence, and so forth. The top amount was sixpence. This was on a much smaller square and obviously much harder to win.

If you were fortunate to land within the sixpenny zone the stallholder - usually a woman - would fire your winning at the speed on a machine gun and without the hint of a smile.

From memory I think there were only one or two of this value on each segment so it was unusual to have to cough up such an amount and she seemed to physically hurt if she had to.

You can imagine the scowl when I landed on the sixpenny square twice in succession. The chances of this are almost akin to winning The National Lottery!

This is where The Pink Lady comes in.

I take my ill-gotten gains, much to the annoyance of the roll-a-penny lady, to the next stall.

I think it was called All Press although I can’t be sure of that.

My cousin wanted to have go as she had her eye on dressing table set on the second shelf. I ought to explain there’s were different value prizes requiring more than one win: the higher the shelves the more wins required. For instance on the top shelf there might be tea sets and canteens of cutlery needing 10 wins.

The game worked like this: you bought a ticket with a film star’s name on it, then over the stall lights flashed on and off with the names of film stars. When it stoped flashing and stayed lit on a particular name, the holder of that name was the winner.

Fresh from success on the adjacent stall I’d bought a ticket. It was for Betty Grable. And, after pausing for a moment on Clark Gable, it finally stoped on - you’ve guessed it - Betty Grable. I’m on a roll.

The next job was to chose a prize: anything from the bottom shelf. There was nothing really for children although halfway up there was giant teddy and that was for I don’t know how many wins.

Anyway I wanted something for my Mam. There were cruet sets, sugar basins and milk jugs, plus fluted fruit spoons in a presentation box.

Then my eyes alighted on The Pink Lady: a figure of a woman in a long pink dress with each hand on two greyhounds obediently standing next to her.

I couldn’t believe that she was on the bottom shelf. Obviously the reason she was in such a lowly position was because figures like her had gone out with the ark.

However, my mind was made up and no amount of persuading from my cousin, six years older, would make me relent. The difference in age is key: she more in tune with modern trends, me wanting the the biggest thing I could get for one win.

The journey home was eventful. My cousin warned me that if I insisted on The Pink Lady I would have to carry her home myself; not any easy task for a nine-year-old as she was about 2ft tall.

With the warning from my now displeased cousin that my Mam would go “bananas” ringing in my ears, we left the Market Square for the 10-minute walk home.

On reaching the Royal Arcade I stop for a rest near The Bonnet Box. Disaster. I balance her on the window frame and when we resume our trek the unthinkable happens: I bang the figure against the window frame and her nose is no more.

No chance of retrieving the appendage as the figure is made out of chalk. Another reason why she was on the bottom shelf.

From then on my cousin relented and carried the injured figure the rest of the way home fearful of any further calamities, I imagine.

We reached our front door the figure was handed back to me with these words “you take her in and tell your Mam it was nothing to do with me.”

My Mam looked surprised with her new lodger, and looking back I realise she didn’t want hurt my feeling and did a good job at pretending to be pleased with our new centrepiece, moving the fruit bowl and placing Florrie (Mam give her that name on their first encounter) in pride of place.

The only drawback was the absence of the nose, I searched without success for some Plasticine to model a new one.

Then I remembered some putty in the shed and, hey presto - a new nose was in place!

It looked pale compared to the rest of her complexion and I remedied that with my sister’s lipstick.

This made her look decidedly the worst the wear after drink although I didn’t realise that at the time, and wondered what aunties meant when visiting and said things like “Florrie’s be at the bottle again.”

I must admit to being annoyed that they seem to being rude about MY prize .

What happened to Florrie? I can’t really tell you.

After a few weeks she was moved from the living room to the top of a cupboard in the kitchen. Mam said she was safer there.

I concurred with this decision as Mam said she’d be bleached by the sun if left on the sideboard.

I also concluded the heat was the reason her nose had dropped off several times during her brief reign on the dresser so her welfare was paramount.

I rather think her next move was near to or in the dustbin. Whatever her fate, I never saw her again.

Maybe my cousin was right after all: the fluted fruit spoons might have been the better choice!

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