Circus Shoes (2 page)

Peter nodded.

“Of course, sir. But I only said ‘supposing.’ You see, I want to know.”

Mr. Stibbings looked vaguely at the jewels. But Madame Tranchot, who understood money, was turning them over.

“If it should be that you ‘ad to sell them, Peter, it will be the weight of the gold you would get. No more.”

“Well Santa?” Mr. Stibbings smiled at her. “What do you choose?”

Santa looked at Peter.

“What would you have if you were I?”

Peter was still fingering the things. Suddenly he picked up the bracelet.

“This. You’ll be less likely to lose it.”

Santa tried not to show what she felt, but the bracelet really was very ugly. She took it and held it out to Mr. Stibbings.

“I’ll have this.”

It seemed before bedtime, when Santa could be alone with Peter. Mr. Stibbings stayed on and on in order to make last arrangements with Mrs. Ford, and it was clear he would be there until quite late. By half-past eight Mrs. Ford looked at the clock, and before she could say “Bedtime” Santa had jumped up. Peter got up, too.

“I think I’ll start my packing.”

Mrs. Ford gave Mr. Stibbings a knowing much as to say, “Want to be together their last night, the poor little things.” Then she kissed them both.

“Run along. Happy dreams.”

Peter and Santa went upstairs. At the top Peter said in a very loud voice, “Good night, Santa.” He and banged shut her bedroom door. Then he opened his and pulled her inside. He shut the door and beckoned her over to the bed. They sat side by side and talked in whispers.

Santa began.

“Have you a plan?”

“Yes. We’re going to run away.”

“Where to? “

“Our uncle. The one Aunt Rebecca had the card from every Christmas. We might stay with him.”

“We don’t know where he is, and we haven’t any money.”

“That’s what the watch and bracelet are for. We’ll sell them. And perhaps the card says where he is. I’ll get it.”

Santa looked doubtful.

“Don’t want them to hear you creeping about.”

Peter got up.

“They won’t.”

Luckily the door-handle turned very quietly. Peter stood passage and listened. Mr. Stibbings and Mrs. Ford were talking. Aunt Rebecca’s room was at the end of the passage. Very quietly he opened the door. Would Mrs. Ford have moved the card? He hoped not. Softly he crept across the room and felt round the mirror. There it was in the top left-hand corner. In a moment he had shut the door and was back in his room. Without a word he sat down beside Santa and read the card.

It was a Christmas postcard with a picture of a church covered in snow on it. On the back it said:

COB’S CIRCUS.

Just a line, old dear, for the festive season. Hoping this finds you in the pink. Doing a four weeks’ season and tenting with same April.

Love,

Gus.

Peter and Santa stared at each other. They hardly knew what the word “circus” meant. At some other they had seen a poster advertising one, vision of that had remained in the back of their minds.

“That’s where people stand on horses,” Santa said.

“And a man sits on a lion,” Peter added.

Santa studied the card.

“Do you suppose our uncle’s called Gus? What an awful name.”

“I don’t see how it can be our uncle,” Peter objected. “What would he be doing with a circus?”

Santa again read what was written.

“I wonder what ‘tenting’ means. That’s what doing now. It says April.”

Peter leaned over her shoulder.

“So it does. I hadn’t thought of that.” He got up. “Look. Go to your room. Pack as little as you can in your case. Get into bed with all your things on except your shoes. Whatever you do, don’t go to sleep. As soon as Mrs. Ford’s asleep, and she snores so loud, I’ll be sure to hear if I listen in the passage, I’ll come fetch you.”

Santa crept to the door.

“You’ll bring my bracelet?”

Peter nodded.

“Where’ll we go?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know where we’ll go tonight. Tomorrow we’ll find Cob’s Circus.”

Escape

Santa felt certain that with an important thing like running away hanging over her she would not feel a bit like going to sleep. But she was wrong. She had never been to bed in her clothes before, so she had idea how hot she would be. In spite of what Peter had said, she did not keep on all her clothes. She took off her dress. It was, after all, the only dress she was taking, and she had to go on wearing it at least until she found her Uncle Gus, and perhaps much longer; her aunt’s training had made her much too fussy to be seen about all over creases. In any case, it was scarcely the kind of dress to go to bed in. It was green to her coat and hat, and had pleats. Even with her dress off she was stifling. But she went to sleep.

She woke up to find Peter’s hand over her mouth.

“Ssh. Get up. Come on.”

Santa sat up and rubbed her eyes. Then she thought of Mrs. Ford.

“Is she asleep?”

“Yes, hours. It’s half-past three. Come on.”

Santa got out of bed and put on her dress.

“Why is it so late? I thought we were going as soon as she was asleep.”

“I’ll tell you when we get outside. Hurry.”

Santa tied her shoes and pulled on her coat. She could not comb her hair because she had packed her comb, but she pushed it back and shoved on her hat. Then she put on her gloves and picked up her brief case.

“All right. I’m ready.”

It’s queer how a house which seems quiet during the day gets full of noises at night. Santa’s door gave a little groan when she touched it. There was no need to have touched the door, since it was open already, but it never made noises in the daytime so she had not expected to do so now. She thought the pinch Peter gave her was a bit mean. After the groan they both stood a second to see if Mrs. Ford would wake up. They held their breaths. Her snores stopped. They could imagine her sitting up in bed, turning on the light, looking round for a weapon with which to hit a burglar. Then suddenly there was a sound. At first a gentle purr; then deep-throated snores. Mrs. Ford had gone to sleep again.

After such a devastating start the opening and shutting of the front door which Peter had thought would be the worst part, was as easy as anything. In half a minute they were outside and running up the road.

Perhaps it was relief at getting out safely, but before they had run far they began to giggle. Then the giggles turned to and in the end the laughs took away all their breath, so that had to lean against a wall simply doubled-up.

“Imagine her never waking!” Santa gasped.

“And imagine you being asleep when I came to fetch you!”

This annoyed Santa.

“I like that! What were you doing? You said you’d come for me as soon as she went to sleep. I bet she went to sleep before half-past three.”

Peter took a deep breath to stop the last quivers of his laughter. He held his diaphragm.

“Oh I do ache! Matter of fact, I thought of something after you’d gone. We didn’t want to get away too soon. One thing, we’ve nowhere to go, and another, a policeman might ask us what we were doing if he saw us hanging about at night. Now it’s getting light and it won’t matter.”

Santa was surprised. If anything, she would have said she was the more sensible of the two. At least she did not get angry and rude so quickly. But ever since they had heard about Saint Bernard’s and Saint Winifred’s, Peter had seemed different. The way he listened to the talk about the orphanages without saying a word and all the time scheming to run away. The way he had insisted on their having some of Aunt Rebecca’s jewelry. And, while she was asleep, remembering about it being dark, and policemen. She put her suitcase on the ground.

“You’ve had a lot of good ideas.”

Peter moved angrily.

“We had to do something. I wouldn’t have minded so much I wouldn’t have minded so much if I thought they’d tried to put us somewhere together, but they hadn’t.”

Santa lolled against the wall. She counted on her fingers: Four to Five. Five to six. Six to seven. In three hours or so Mrs. Ford will get up. I wonder what she’ll do when she finds we aren’t there.”

“I left a letter.” Peter tried not to sound proud. “I said we’d always wanted to see London and, as we were going away, I’d taken you, and we’d be back about twelve o’clock in time for lunch.”

“Goodness!” Santa’s voice was full of admiration. “You have become clever all of sudden.”

Peter said “Shut up,” but he said it in a pleased way. He fingered his watch. “Does seem a pity have to sell this.”

Santa felt sorry. After all, a watch was the kind of thing every person wanted to have. To get one have to sell it at once would make anybody miserable. It was then she had her good idea.

“Oh! I’ve thought of something!”

“What?”

“You can pawn it.”

“Pawn!” Peter was shocked. “We couldn’t go into a pawnshop.”

“I don’t see why not,” Santa argued. “They’re quite honest. Madame Tranchot told me about them. She said in England it was called ‘a visit to your uncle.’ She said that there were always three balls hung outside to show they’d give you money for things.”

“Would we get as much as we would selling them?”

Santa put her hands under her armpits because they were getting cold.

“As long as we get enough it won’t matter. How do we find out where the circus is?” Before he could answer she clutched his arm. “Somebody’s coming!”

They listened. There were footsteps a long way off; slow and rather heavy footsteps.

“It’s a policeman,” Peter whispered.

Santa’s heart began to thump.

“Shall we run?”

“No. Pick up your case and walk naturally. If he stops us, leave explaining to me.”

They picked up their cases and started up the road. Santa’s knees wobbled. With every step the policeman’s feet sounded louder. Presently they saw him. He had a lamp and was stopping at doors and looking at them. Peter started a rather breathless conversation: “An ostrich has no true nest. The eggs are deposited in a shallow excavation. The male bird incubates the egg during the night and . . .”

They were level with the policeman now and under the street lamp, so he could not help seeing them. The policeman paused.

“Up early, aren’t you?”

Santa agreed. Peter trod on her foot to remind her that he had said he would answer questions.

“Where are you off to?” asked the policeman.

“Covent Garden,” Peter said firmly. “We’re going to see the flowers.”

“Oh! Your family know where you’ve gone?”

“Yes,” said Peter.

“Well, hope you enjoy yourselves.” The policeman walked on and so did Santa.

When the policeman was quite out of Santa whispered, “That was two lies. We aren’t to Covent Garden, and our family don’t know.”

Peter was so angry his whisper was a hiss. “I like that! It was a jolly good answer, and all you do is say it was lies.”

“Well, so it was.”

“It needn’t be. We can go to Covent Garden. It’s open all night, I think.”

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know. But we can ask, can’t we? The policeman seemed to think it was an ordinary place go to.

Santa walked on in silence. Then she said, “Even if we go to Covent Garden it’s a lie about our knowing. They don’t.”

Peter stood still.

“Will you stop grumbling! We haven’t got a family, so how can they know? If Aunt Rebecca wasn’t dead it would be different; but she is, so now we haven’t a family.”

“You mean Mrs. Ford and Mr. Stibbings and Madame Tranchot and Miss Fane aren’t?”

“Of course not.”

Santa cheered up.

“Well, that’s different.” Suddenly she giggled.

“What made you say that about ostriches? The policeman must have thought it queer.”

Peter nodded.

“I bet he did. But it was all I could think of. It’s what Me. Stibbings told you yesterday when you asked about the egg in his hall. Come on. If we’re going to Covent Garden we’d better hurry. It may be miles.”

By the time Peter and Santa got to Covent Garden the sun was rising. They were tired, but in spite of that they loved it. They liked the porters with piles of baskets on their heads. It was all so bustling and smelt so good. But after wandering round for about three-quarters of an hour their legs began to give out. They looked round for somewhere to sit. Near them was a fruit merchant. He was selling tomatoes. Piled up outside his stall were some empty wooden boxes. Peter took off his cap and went up to a man who looked the owner.

“Excuse me. Would you allow my sister and me rest a moment on those boxes?”

“You won’t hurt me,” said the man.

“You mean we may?”

The man pushed back his hat and scratched head.

“I don’t know what they

Don’t you understand a bit of plain English? I said ‘You won’t hurt me.’ Well, then, sit and get with it.”

Santa saw by Peter’s back that he was cross. By Aunt Rebecca’s training he had been very polite, and his feelings were hurt. But she could see that, oddly enough, the man did not admire Peter in spite of politeness. She stepped forward.

“Thank you so much. I hope you’ve done today?”

“Not so bad. Like tomatoes?” Santa nodded.

“Very much.”

The man took two big ones out of the cork shavings in which they were packed. One he wiped on his coat and gave to Santa, the other he threw to Peter.

Peter was not expecting a tomato. Nor, since he had never played games, was he much of a catch. The tomato it him on the chest and fell on the pavement, where it burst open. The man gave a faint, scornful jerk of his head and turned away.

“Sorry, Lord Marmaduke. If I’d known your lordship was coming I’d have had a silver tray here to pass it on.”

Santa flushed.

“I didn’t know you were going to throw it.”

“Know! I’d like to see my kid, who’s just three, miss a catch like that!”

Santa was furious.

“Peter can do other things.”

The man looked over his shoulder.

“What things?”

“Well-“

Peter caught her arm.

“Come on.”

Santa hesitated. She hated leaving the conversation like that with a vague slur on Peter’s abilities. But the awful thing was that she did not have an answer. What could Peter do? If it came to that, what could she, except play
Art thou weary?
on the violin?

“Come on,” Peter urged.

Santa decided to retire with dignity.

“Good morning, and thank you for the tomato.”

They went round the corner and leaned against the wall. Santa started to pull the tomato in half, but stopped her.

“I won’t have any, thank you.”

Santa went on dividing.

“Don’t be silly. No good being hungry.”

“I’d much rather be hungry than eat anything of that horrible man’s.”

Santa had split the tomato fairly, if messily.

“I imagine he just got out of bed the wrong side. She took a bite of tomato. “I wouldn’t bother him.” She held out his half. “Eat that, then let’s and find a pawnshop.”

Neither Peter nor Santa knew that part of London and they walked a very long way before they found pawnbroker’s. They may have passed two or three cause, although they knew there would be three gold balls outside, they were not sure where to look them. They walked down Long Acre and Leicester Square, getting more and more tired. Suddenly in a side street Santa gripped Peter’s arm.

“Look!”

He looked. Just across the road was a shop closed in with dark green shutters. Over it was written “Samuel Aronson. Jeweler.” Above the door hung three golden balls. On the glass of the door it said: “Pledge Office.”

Peter put down his brief case.

“What shall we do till it opens?”

“Sit somewhere,” said Santa.

“Sit!” Peter sounded scornful. “Where?”

Santa looked up and down the street. It was the most shut-up looking road, all shops with shutters. Nobody was about except a black cat and, a long way off, a paper boy.

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t sit on a step,” she suggested. “There’s nobody to mind.”

Peter looked amazed.

“A step! People don’t sit on steps.”

Santa settled herself on the step, her brief case beside her. Peter looked at her. She did look most awfully comfortable. He felt self-conscious. He knew they were much too well dressed to be sitting on steps, but, on the other hand, at present there was only the cat to see them. He came and sat down beside her.

“I could never have believed a step could feel so lovely,” Santa sighed.

Peter had his head resting against the door. His eyes were shut.

“All suitcases are made that way,” he murmured.

Santa opened one eye. Such an idiotic reply could only mean one thing. Peter was going to sleep. In other three minutes she had followed his example.