Circus Shoes (12 page)

The ponies were excited. Their grooms were putting on their harness, and the mere feel of it seemed to go to their heads. They stamped, they cavorted around, they tossed their heads. The grooms kept up a steady flow of soothing sounds, broken now and again by, “Quiet now, Diamond.” “Give over, Lucy.” “Stand still, Nixie.”

On the rosin-backs seemed unmoved. Except for the rosin rubbed into their coats, they needed no dressing-up. They looked alert. They too had heard the band, but did not believe in fussing. They were like yokels in a village inn at a time of national excitement. Just as interested as the rest of the world but seeing no need for a lot of words about it.

The elephants were dressed. Their keepers had put on the last of their velvet coats. They were still swaying from side to side, but with a difference. They carefully lifted first one leg and then another, they swung their trunks, not for begging but for rehearsal. They were like some stage actors and actresses who need to into their parts well before the cue comes for them to enter.

A voice behind Santa made her jump. “Where’s your brother tonight?”

Santa beamed at Ben. She leaned against one of the lent-props.

“He’s doing geography. We go to school now and we’re very bad at lessons.

“I thought you’d be at school. That was why you weren’t along yesterday.”

“Partly it was school,” agreed Santa. “Mostly it was because we had to go with Mrs. Schmidt to buy rubbers and jerseys. Then when we got back we did me lessons, because we are so backward, and we had to write to Bill, who is a man in London who was terribly kind to us. And then we had to go to bed.’

Ben moved his straw to the other side of his mouth.

“I napped most of yesterday. I had been the night. One of my ponies took sick.

“Was it Prissy?” Ben nodded.

“That’s right. She had a temperature.”

“Isn’t it awful,” said Santa, “when you think a person has told a lie and he hasn’t? Alexsis said Prissy looked ill when she came in the ring on Thursday, and I thought he’d just said it to show off.”

Ben spat out his straw.

“Not much showin’-off about Alexsis. If he says one of the ‘osses is sick, most likely he’s right.”

“If he knows such a lot about them why doesn’t he want to work in the act?”

Ben stooped and found another straw.

“Knowin’ about ‘osses comes natural when you’re brought up with ‘em. I was ridin’ a pony pannier time I was two. You’ll not have seen them. Baskets they were, hung across the pony’s back. Wonderful way to carry a baby. Time I was four I was ridin’. Time I was five there was nothin’ I wouldn’t go on. But that doesn’t mean I want to go doing a high-school or a jockey act in the ring.”

“Doesn’t Alexsis ride well?”

“The Petoff hasn’t been born who doesn’t ride. But you know how ‘tis when the dad’s a master at some thin’. If you can’t do as well as he does, may as well go into somethin’ different. That’s what I say when we’re trainin’ a new high-school ‘oss. Because a ‘oss doesn’t shape first-class at high-school, it’s not to say we’ll not make a good Liberty of him.”

“So Alexsis wants to do what the Elgins do?”

Ben nodded.

“It’s not so exciting as riding, is it?”

Ben chewed his straw thoughtfully.

“To me a circus is ‘osses. I don’t ever want to see another turn. But some like it. ‘Tisn’t for me to offer advice. But if young Alexsis was my boy I’d give him ‘is ‘ead. No good draggin’ at ‘is mouth, only sour ‘im that way.”

Santa was about to ask who was dragging at Alexsis’s mouth when Gus tapped her on the shoulder. He was dressed for the parade. He had on his sailor suit. He was holding up yards and yards of trousers which were meant to go over his stilts. Ted Kenet had on a real clown’s dress. Satin one-piece heavily embroidered with
diamanté.
A little pointed white felt hat, white socks, and patent leather shoes. His face was painted dead white and made up with squares and triangles in scarlet and black.

“Well?” said Gus. “How’s things? Is this true what I hear, that you and the Petoff kids went sucking lemons round the band?”

Santa got very red.

“Yes.”

Gus turned to Ben.

“What’re we going to do with her?”

Ben chuckled.

“First time I played that game the ring-master took a strap to me.”

Gus smiled reminiscently.

“Same here. Could that fellow lay it on!”

Ted felt in the pocket of his dress. He brought out his little bag of sulphur candies. He presented them to Santa.

“Better have one. Sounds like your blood’ll need keeping cool.”

Santa looked up at Gus. Was he really going to beat her? Perhaps they did beat you in circuses.

Gus laughed and pulled her hair.

“We’ve scared her.” He examined the strand of hair in his hand admiringly. He held it out to Ted.

“Fine hair, hasn’t she?”

“That reminds me.” Santa caught hold of his sleeve. “Might I have it cut short?”

“Cut short!” All three men spoke at once. Gus stared at her.

“Fried kippers, girl! What d’you want to cut it off for?”

“Well, it’s in the way. It’s awful to comb. It takes simply hours.”

Gus looked at her in shocked surprise.

“Never heard of such a thing. You leave it long. You never know when you may want it.”

“Hair’s a woman’s glory,” said Ted.

Santa did not like to be rude because her cheek was puffed out with his sulphur sweet, but she did think it a bit mean of him to take sides against her.

“That’s what my Aunt Rebecca always said. She said it because a duchess had said it to her. But I don’t why you need say it.”

There was the sound of horses’ feet. The grooms were leading them up for the parade.

“That’s us,” said Gus. “And no matter who said it you’ll keep your glory, my girl, or I really will take a strap to you. “

Santa watched Ted and Gus walk away. Then she turned to Ben.

“I would have thought circuses were not fussy places.”

But Ben was busy with his horses and did not answer.

Although Peter and Santa had gone to bed early, they seemed scarcely to have been asleep at all when Gus woke them. He was dressed. He had the kettle on to boil.

“Get your things on, and we’ll have a cup of tea before we start. I’ll go out and warm up the car.”

It is cold in April at six o’clock in the morning, especially on a cliff pitch with the wind blowing off the sea. Peter and Santa were glad of their new, thick jerseys. They drank their tea almost in a trance, still half asleep. While they drank it Gus walked round the caravan locking cupboards and making any movable object fast.

Peter sat in the front of the car.

“Better make it turn and turn about,” Gus said.

It did not much matter where they sat, for after a bit both Peter and Santa were asleep. They woke suddenly when Gus said, “Skin your eyes, you two, for the green stars. “

They were in a town. There were narrow streets. On the lamp posts hung green stars on a white ground.

“Is this Carlisle?” asked Santa.

Gus nodded.

“Done it in nice time. We’re nearly first. That’s the Kenets ahead of us.”

They looked out. Turning the corner just in front of them was another caravan. Santa gazed out of the window behind her. She could not see much because of the caravan. Then as they, too, turned the corner it swung out a little, and up the road behind them she could see a perfect stream of cars, each pulling its caravan.

Peter pointed to a lamp-post. “There’s another star.”

Gus drove a moment or two in silence. Then he said, “Here we are.”

They bumped over the rough grass. The king-poles stood out against the pale blue of the sky. The men’s mess-tent was up; from it came a lovely smell of frying eggs and bacon. A man was standing on the steps of the advance wagon; he called out “Good morning” to Gus. The Kenets’ caravan was in place. The car was being detached and backed into position. A stream of caravans, each painted green and white, was towed in.

There was much talking and laughing. People said Gus and the Kenets could not have been to bed or they would not have been there first. Gus gave Santa the kettle. She stood a moment looking round.

“It’s just like last Thursday at Bridlington,” she whispered to Peter.

Peter forgot that he had a grievance. It was all so gay it was difficult to feel cross
.
He took a big sniff of circus smell.

“Only this time we belong.”

The Pull-Down

IT WAS not very nice at Carlisle. It rained all the time. Peter was still in his bad mood and hated himself for being in it. Gus was worried because Peter seemed unhappy. Between being certain Peter was suffering from snobbishness because he did not like going to school, Gus had moments when he wondered if he himself were to blame. When he felt like that he tried to say something nice, which Peter answered in an off-hand manner; then Gus lost his temper and scolded him, and Peter sulked more than ever. Santa did not feel very cheerful; she never was when Peter was miserable.

It was a pity the three days turned out so badly, because Sunday had been nearly perfect. It was almost hot. Peter and Santa stood in the sun and watched every bit of the build-up. Then, when the horses arrived, Ben gave them bunches of carrots and they went round and fed them all.

Lunch was cheerful. The niceness of the day had got into them. The stew was especially good. Gus did not jump down Peter’s throat and Peter did not argue.

In the afternoon they went and played with the other children, who were practicing acrobatics on the cloth used for the water act, which had been laid out to dry in the sun. The others tried to teach them to turn cartwheels. Peter nearly did turn one. It was not a very good one, but they all clapped, and it made him feel better. Even to turn half a not very good cartwheel was something. Santa heard him whistle as he walked across the ground for tea.

They had tea with the Schmidts. Gus had gone to look at a car the Kenets thought of buying, and he had arranged with Mrs. Schmidt to give them something to eat. They had a lovely time. The Schmidts did not care for tea, and drank coffee instead. Since it was Sunday, Mrs. Schmidt had bought some cream, which she had whipped stiff and put in great spoonfuls on the top of each cup. There was some specially good bread, with caraway seed all over the crust. During tea they had a most interesting talk about sea-lions.

Mr. Schmidt explained the difficulties of bringing them up.

“When mine wife start she buy three sea-lion boys. Three year, eight year, twelve year. At first not one word of Germans do they speak.”

Mrs. Schmidt nodded.

“That is so. Not one word of Germans do they understand.”

“So every day mine wife talk to them. And every day understand they a little better like a child who is in school.”

“How long did that take?” Peter asked.

Mrs. Schmidt swallowed a mouthful of coffee, and wiped the cream off her lips.

“Three month. Four month.”

“Then when they speak she must learn them the little trick,” Mr. Schmidt explained.

Santa leaned on her elbows.

“Where did you teach them, Mrs. Schmidt?”

The whole Schmidt family looked at each other. It was obvious that question was one which meant a lot to them all.

“But where?” Mr. Schmidt leaned forward. “If you, Santa, or you, Peter, have four sea-lion and you have taught them English good, and you wish space for them a trick to teach, where would you take them?”

Neither Santa nor Peter had ever considered the problem before. But now that they thought it over it was difficult. You could have four sea-lions in a wagon somewhere. But if you wanted place as big as a ring, where would you go? You couldn’t take them into a park; they would attract far too much attention.

“Where?” asked Peter.

Mr. Schmidt held out his cup for more coffee.

“Sometimes it is impossible. Sometimes there is in winter a swimming-bath that empty is. Always it is a great question where to teach them. Will we find a place?”

“Well, you must have.” Santa spread another bit of bread with butter. “They’re awfully clever now.”

Mrs. Schmidt smiled.

“These are not the same ones. Those have no longer.”

“I speak,” Mr. Schmidt pointed out, “of many year ago. Those were mine wife’s first three. After she have teach them German three month, and then a room found to teach the trick, one he is stupid. He cannot learn. He must go. She buy another.”

“That new one I buy”-Mrs. Schmidt smiled at he memory-“he was the great artiste.”

Mr. Schmidt sighed.

“Kolossal!”

“He stay,” Mrs. Schmidt went on, “for many a year. I have him when the childrens is born. His name is. Hans. I call Hans after him. He play the trumpet as I have never heard a sea-lion. It was as if he the music could feel. We was in Germany. I teach him a German song to play. It begin
Du, du liegst mir im Herzen.
In Germany all know it and sing with him. Then it is that he begin to go blind.”

Her eyes filled with tears. She looked across at Mr. Schmidt to finish the story. He patted her hand.

“One day mine wife come to me. ‘Hans can no longer see,’ she said. ‘We must Willi put the trumpets to play.’ That night Willi play the trumpets. He is not so good, but all the audience sing. Always after that he play. Then one day mine wife say to me ‘Heinrich, you must come to the back. You must Han watch while Willi the trumpets play.’ That afternoon I do not stand in the middle of the ring, I go back to the artistes entrance. I see Hans.” He stirred his coffee in silence a moment. Then he looked up. “That old sea-lions head it go
Du, du liegst mir im Herzen.
The perfect time is keep. He raise and drop his head so he the right trumpet blow. When he have finish and all the audience clap he roll on his side laughing, and his flippers slap together. He is so glad he play so well.”

Santa laid down her knife.

“Do you mean he never knew that he wasn’t playing? That Willi was doing it instead?”

Mr. Schmidt nodded.

“He never knew. Till he go dead he never knew. He is blind, he cannot see. It is the kindness of the
lieber Gott.
I think if he knew Willi for him play, he break his heart.”

There was silence for a while after that. It was obviously not the moment to break in with more questions. Each Schmidt was, by his and her silence, paying a tribute to the dead sea-lion. Then Mrs. Schmidt looked up.

“It was as if Hans brought us the good luck. After he go dead things is not so good. We get an offer to England to go. That is good. We are pleased. But it is to us not lucky. Always plenty time sea-lions go dead.”

Peter leaned back in his chair. The coffee had been good, but three cups, with whipped cream on them all, gave a very full feeling.

“Do you mean they die easily?”

Mr. Schmidt lit a cigarette.

“So. When we to England come it is for the tenting. That year was very hot. It goes to their hearts. One morning I go to the wagon. One was dead. Another too was dead. In the end we have no sea-lion. Always it is so. You train them. They are clever. They are like your childrens. Then it is hot. They go dead.”

“Do they like going into the ring?” Santa asked. Mr. Schmidt puffed at his cigarette.

“In the beginnings they must be teach. You must to them give noise and light. Then when they are to it used they are the perfect artiste. They can as an actor say ‘feel’ their audience.”

Hans was still eating. He swallowed a mouthful.

“On Sundays they are bored. They do not eat their fish so good. There is no show.”

Mr. Schmidt got up.

“In the ring are they all excitement. You watch them and you will see they shake like a dog who is come out of the water. Each one say, ‘It is me next. To me that ball will come. I on my nose will balance it.’ Then perhaps something go wrong. One sea-lion miss the catch. I am a little slow. One lion he does not get the ball. He has been quiver with excitement. He wait to show what he to it can do. Then the ball does not come. The spirit is gone out of him. He has no heart to try more. He go to the side of the ring. He will not work in the act.”

“What never again?” said Santa, horrified.

“Oh yes tomorrow. All artiste are great children. A little thing go wrong it is an earthquake. One man give the extra clap and the sun shines.

Peter got up to shake down his cream.

“Do they know if they have done anything wrong. All the Schmidts smiled. It seemed to them a very funny question. You might as well ask Gus if he knew when he made a mistake in a comedy routine. Fritzi spoke severely.

“That is foolish. Of course they know.”

Her tone made Peter argumentative.

“I bet it’s only because they don’t get any fish.”

Mr. Schmidt patted his shoulder.

“No Peter. It is true. They miss a ball. They do not balance so good and they have no fish. But they themselves know when it is bad. They take a pride in their work. They with themselves angry are. It is so with an artiste. It may be that other people will them praise. They may say, ‘That is good.” But with an artiste they know what is good and what is bad. It is so pretend with mine lions. One may do bad. I may pretend I have not see, and give him his fish is if he had done good. But though he eat the fish he is not please. He has done bad and he know it here.” Mr. Schmidt tapped his heart. “When you know a thing there to have a fish will not the comfort make.”

The Schmidts took them to church in the evening. Gus said they must go once each Sunday but they could choose their own time. It was a nice service and they sang
Fight the good fight
as a last hymn, so they were quite glad they had gone.

When they came in Gus was back. He had supper ready for them. It was a good supper of welsh rabbit. Nobody else could make a better welsh rabbit than Gus. He was famous for it in Cob’s circus.

Gus went out after that and Peter and Santa washed up and then went to bed. Just before they put out the light they had a last look out of the window. The caravans were like a well-lighted village street. In the men’s mess-tent somebody was playing
Shenandoah
. One of the lions roared. A little wind blew and brought with it a faint smell of animals and sawdust.

Peter drew in his head.

“Well, good night.”

“Good night,” said Santa She did not say any more, but she knew that, for this night anyway, he was glad they lived in a circus.

They woke up on Monday to find it pouring. It poured off and on for the three days they were there. The circus was very different then. The ground that had looked so nice on Sunday slowly churned up into a bog. The grooms and tent-men hurried along wrapped in oilskins, and wearing great boots. In spite of the big wooden clogs that the artistes always wore to go from the dressing-tents to the big top they had to pick their way with the utmost care to save their ring shoes from getting splashed.

To add to the general depression, business was bad. It was the week before Easter. Mr. Cob counted on pulling an audience in mostly on the fact that he had first-class entertainment to offer, and the news that it was good soon got around. He also counted on stimulating interest by a fine street parade.

The day after the build-up there was always a call for all the animals and most of the artistes. They formed up, led by the band, outside the big top. The horses followed, ridden by Mr. Petoff, the Kenets, and Paula. Then would come the clowns and augustes, some on stilts and some on comic bicycles, and Gus driving a fearful old crock of a car. Then came the ponies drawing their coach. Then the elephants holding each other’s tails, with Kundra riding on the leader. Then Ben driving a four-in-hand with all the dancing-girls in crinolines sitting in the coach. That was followed by Lucille standing on a float with the poodles posed round her. Then the rest of the horses led by the grooms. Finally, another float, with the Martinis, Frasconis, and Elgins giving displays of balancing and acrobatics.

But that Monday in Carlisle there could be no thought of a parade. The rain came down in sheets. In a very discouraged mood the artistes hung about the big top, some gossiping and some working.

The children, of course, were at school at street parade time. They missed the general feeling of discouragement. But they had a miserable walk to and fro. They felt it a distinct hardship that they had to go to school in such weather. They all came back to their respective caravans prepared to grumble.

The trouble was that everyone felt they had a right to complain. Living in tents and caravans is hateful when it rains. The only question was, who was going to complain to whom?

By Wednesday night everything was sodden. Standing in the ring looking up at the canvas overhead every bit of ribbing was visible, a sure sign the tent was soaking wet. The tent-master stared at it gloomily. With all that weight of water in it they would have a fine time on the pull-down. He could see himself up to his knees in mud till two or three in the morning.

School was finished for that term. The children were starting their Easter holidays at Whitehaven. Santa reminded Gus of his promise that they should watch the pull-down. Gus laughed bitterly.

“You’ve picked a good night for it. But I don’t know why not. You may as well see tenting is not all beer and skittles.”

Peter and Santa saw the second “house” from the artistes’ entrance. They slipped through the curtain at the side and crawled under the seats and watched from d re. It was a lovely view, because they could see the artistes as they waited for their entrances. They had already learned from Gus that every artiste had been waiting to go into the ring two acts before his or her own; that they knew which act was on simply by listening to the music; that the music was the only means they had of knowing what was happening and it was considered quite sufficient. If an artiste did not hear it, and came late for his entrance, he was fined. But what they did not know was what went on in the artistes’ entrance. Most of the time they found it more enthralling than what was happening in the ring. It was the Frasconi sons who first caught their attention. “Look!” Santa pulled at Peter’s sleeve to make him take his eyes off the clowns. “Fancy, in those clothes!”