The illusionist’s pitch is in the same spot every year, in the northwest corner of Mr Herdwick’s field, where the fair is always held (that is, it’s Mr Herdwick’s now; when I was a girl it was owned by another man, Mr Knight), between the coconut shy and the win-a-goldfish booth. He uses few props: just a trestle table and a collection of odds and ends stored in a medium-sized wicker chest. Behind him stands a tall pole, with a sign in vibrant hues of lime and fuschia nailed to it announcing:

This is the only promotion he needs.

He does have an assistant, however. She used to be a beautiful, flaxen-haired princess, scantily clad in a sequinned bra and a G-string. She was presumably his daughter, but we thought she was a princess. She could have been. You never know. We used to imagine Mikuláš the Marvel-Maker had rescued her from a castle in the Carpathians, where she had been kept prisoner by a cruel stepfather. She made the boys blush when she smiled alluringly down at us as we sat cross-legged on the grass. She was always on hand to lend assistance, but it wasn’t her job to advertise; she did not look as if her voice would have carried across a hedge, let alone a field.

Whereas this woman went about almost bare (you’d have thought the vicar would have had something to say about this, but no; far from it), Mikuláš the Marvel-Maker himself appeared –and still does– in a long, billowing white silk robe with gold trim and a striking burgundy hat, whichmy friend Lucy told me was a stovepipe. It is a truly opulent costume, and, being a tall and –how can I put it?– portly man, he cuts an imposing figure.