SPECTATRIX
Make Mine Andante
ByJOYCE GRENFELL IT is hardly an exaggeration today to say that speed is tantamount to standing still. You leave A and are at B —phwitt—like that. No time allowed for transit. I am not in favour of this. . Speed is not for me. Physical , speed, that is; journeying speed. Journeys should have growth and grace, time for savourings. Of course speed of wit is enviable and stimulating, and speed of service in shops is helpful. Speed of service in rttllway buffets when 'there are trains to catch is kindly and Unusual, but speed in restaurants where there is pleasant company and good foods is inconsiderate. As a general rule I am against speed.
I have never liked going fast on wheels. My scooter moved decorously up Sloane Street many years ago and my roller skates went as slowly as I could make them round the Holland Park rink. It wasn't only that I hid a coward's heart under my jersey, it was also because I liked it better that way.
In the holidays there were our cousins' ponies to ride,-and even though they lent me the slowest and solidest beast, a pinkish-blond called Christopher, it guessed about me without being told and I knew no happiness on its back after we'd moved from jog-trot to galumphetting canter. One of the reasons I didn't like riding, apart from the speed question, was that you had to concentrate on the job, and I was more interested in almost anything other than gripping with my knees and holding the reins in and out of my fingers in the correct way. To this moment I remember the horror of coming home from school down a dark wooded hill sitting on the handle bars of an Amazonian cousin's bicycle at what felt like a hundred miles an hour. Trees streaked by, the bright green lichen that hid some of the flints under our wheels caused sudden skids, and the sustained staccato jolting of the ride blurred the view. My cousin was brave as a lion. She was also a talented bicyclist and did it without holding on with either feet or hands, yelling for joy. Even at seven, there can be a desire to keep up with the Joneses, and the form it took with me was pretending I loved going as fast as the others. But there was no pleasure in the pretence. As a sort of belated honeymoon my husband took me to Switzerland where for many winters he had whizzed down mountains with his other friends. For the novice strips of fur with the hairs going the wrong way are put along the runners of skis to give them more grip going up icy hills. I believe even experts use them. When you arrive at the top of your hill, of course, you remove the skins so that the waxed and shiny surface of your skis may skim over the snow and carry you gracefully and swiftly down to the valley. I claim the distinc- tion of never having taken off my skins at all in two weeks' daily'ski-ing. While others flew by 'in varying states of grace, I descended slowly and with dignity, my skins still" on. I disturbed ,only the gentlest of winds in my passage and, though it took longer and my dear one had done the trip three .or four times to my one, that was my speed and I stuck to it. At Stratford-upon-Avon there is an annual outing called the Mop Fair. This event paralyses traffic and confuses tourists by allowing various forms of merry-go-rounds and side shows to establish themselves bang down the middle of the main streets. Elderly ladies shaped like skittles wear paper hats with invitations saying " Chase me Charley " and " Kiss me Cutie" on them, and a lot of disappointingly dull mauve and white froth called floss is eaten by nearly everybody. What once may have been a simple rustic frolic has turned into an Edgware Road-ised money-maker.
It was about three o'clock on a golden autumn afternoon that I was tempted to go on a revolving machine called the Waltzer. There it was, turning slowly, flashing its necklaces of lights while a seductive blup-blup of steam music floated out from its very middle. " Come on," I said, " Let's all go on the Waltzer." Out of a party of six only one, a strong man, thought it a good idea. We climbed up and found our- selves in a little round tub, made for two. There was a place to press our feet against and a metal bar that came down to fasten us in our seats. That should have warned me. When I'd seen the Waltzer as we wandered, up the High Street, it was moving harmlessly on its orbit and, after all, the name of the thing suggested nothing more than gaiety in three-four time.
' We paid our money and the machine began to turn. Almost at once I realised it was not what it had seemed. As well as going round, as merry-go-rounds go round, it also rose and sank in the manner of a switchback and in addition to this our little tub revolved on its own, usually in the opposite direction to everything else.
We gained speed. Real speed. People on the ground told us later that they feared it might unscrew itself and whirl away. . . . I tried not to cry out but involuntary appeals to the driver burst from me. " STOP I " I screamed. I remem- ber that the spiv who'd taken the money and who now lounged nonchalantly against an empty tub just laughed. My companion, whom I hardly knew, was an enormous man with a splendidly broad chest. I am a big girl. None of your fey Mary Roses who bury their tousled curls among waistcoat buttons in ordinary practice. Nevertheless I clung. Oh, how I clung ! The ride lasted six minutes. It seemed that business had been slack till we'd come along and the idea was to advertise the joys of the Waltzer with real victims on it, so they kepi us going round for three times the usual length of journey.
I crept out of the tub and down to earth. My strong man's face was a luminous grey. I heard later from a close friend that mine was the colour of boiled marrow. I think I can say for certain that never again will I go on anything that revolves at any Fair ever. In the Dordogne Valley there is, or was four years ago, a taxi for hire with a back seat like ,a hammock and a little cut-glass vase to hold carnations hung up between the strapontins. The body of the taxi is painted butterfly yellow and the driver is a long, lean charmer with a beret that looks as if it grew on his head. One beautiful late spring day we hired him to take us cave-hunting. I 'explained the situation to him before we started. " We are all very old," I said, and he had the decency to laugh at such a foolish statement. " We are all very lazy. We are here for peace and a holiday. We prefer to go very slowly. Very, very slowly." He said it was agreeable to him too, and we set off at fifteen kilometres an hour, I do not know whether you have ever tried travelling at this speed but I recommend it with all my heart. We saw the colours of birds' eyes as we rolled by; the very centres of flowers were revealed to us in detail. And, instead of flashing past vistas, we took them in gradually so that they fanned out before us in their full wonder. It was one of the most delightful afternoons I have ever spent on wheels. I like almost everything to go more slowly than it did.
Previous page
