Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
Once upon a time there was man. Bob was his name. His job was the Lucky Dip at all the country Shows, all the little packages wrapped spotty pink for, starry blue for. Travelling with the show people he drove alone, his rattling Austin Cambridge, two-toned green, pulling the little covered trailer where he lived with the supplies.
Bob never knew what was in the packages. Prewrapped, they were, in starry blue. In spotted pink. The Boss showed up at the end of every Show, topping up the Lucky Dip supplies, collecting the money, doling out Bob’s pay.
Sometimes he saw the paper trampled on the ground.
His favourite time of day was early morning, the sun just arriving and the crowds not yet. When he put on his striped bow tie. His white shirt fresh pressed from under the mattress. Filled the stripy bags, pink for, blue for.
Every day. Every day. Same walk around the other stalls, past the laughing Clowns who sometimes smiled at him and sometimes sneered. Past the Test your Strength stand, listening for the sound of the bell that never came. Past the shooting gallery where the ducks, cheeky, waved at him covertly. Past fairy floss and ring toss.
One day, there was a new stall.
One day, his bow tie straight and shiny, his hair dark and stiff, there was a new stall, tucked between fairy floss and ring toss. Narrow and quite dark, no colour, just a flap of a door and a sign above. “Seeing is Believing,” it said.
He wanted, wanted to stop and see but the kiddies clamoured and his bags, blue and pink, were still full.
“Lucky Dip! Lucky Dip,” he cried as he looked back.
Because of that, that dark new stall, he could not sleep. Next morning, when the sun was just arriving, his white shirt was wrinkled, his bow tie dulled and his hair too pale and soft.
“Seeing is Believing,” the sign told him all day. But the kiddies clamoured and his stripy bags were too full.
He wanted to stop.
He wanted to stop and see.
The next day. And the next day and the next his shirt was more wrinkled, his hair softer still, his bow tie dulled and drooping.
He did not sleep
“Seeing is Believing,” the sign said and the kiddies clamoured and his bags were too full.
The morning arrived. The morning of the last day came and the clowns sneered at his faded tie, his floppy hair and the shooting range ducks looked away.
Until finally, he went to see what he believed.
The stall was gone.
Nothing left all but a square of pale, dead grass, a small scrap of the sign above the door.
“See,” it said, in neat black letters.
He picked it up, put it in his pocket and went to fill his lucky dip bags.