Martin jumped. The sound which poured out at him, even over a telephone, made him yank the receiver away from his ear before putting it back to his ear again.
It sounded rather like Blackpool on August Bank Holiday. But-the crowd-noises were over-ridden by musk, in which Martin (too imaginatively, perhaps) thought he could detect one brass band, a panotrope with a bad needle, and the steam organ of a merry-go-round. High rose the strains of Waltzing Matilda, closely contested by Cherry-Ripe and The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze.
The strains were blotted away as Jenny closed the door.
"Did Grandmother," she asked, "tell you anything about a fair?"
"Well," Martin searched his memory, "she did say something about it, yes. I thought she meant some sort of rustic fair with a Maypole."
"So did she," Jenny answered in a weary voice. "But it's the biggest travelling fair in the British Isles. They took half the night to set it up. You see, they — they sent Grandmother some sort of paper, six months ago. She said solicitors cost too much money, when she knew all the law anyway. And she signed it"
For a moment hope began to stir in Martin. After all, six months ago! It had been Grandmother's own fault H.M. couldn't have had anything to do with this! He said as much.
"Yes," said Jenny. "But have you met a Mr. Solomon MacDougall?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"He's the owner or the man who manages it or something. Anyway, H.M. met him when he was looking over the ground yesterday…"