Circus Shoes (4 page)

Olga turned a somersault.

“Not if he doesn’t work he isn’t. Father says lazy. We’ve a big sister called Paula. She works with the Kenets.”

Santa made a face toward the caravans to suggest Peter this was the moment to ask about Uncle Peter nodded in agreement, then asked, “Do know if Mr. Possit has arrived yet? “

Olga and Sasha stood still far a moment. They looked at Peter, then at each other. They giggled.

“He does speak,” Sasha said. Peter frowned.

“Of course I do! Why did you think I didn’t?”

Olga lifted one of her legs above her head. “We thought you were out of a shop. One of those things they put clothes on in a window.”

Santa saw Peter hated this so she said quickly, “Do you think Mr. Possit’s here?”

Olga put down her leg and raised the other one. “I don’t know him.”

Sasha did a hand-stand.

“He means Gus.”

Olga stared up at her foot over her head.

“I never did know that Gus’s name was Possit.”

“ ‘Tis though.” Sasha did the splits. “He got here before we did.”

Peter found it very difficult to talk to people who were always upside down.

“Could you show us where he is?”

Olga turned a somersault, then took his hand. “Come on.”

Peter was embarrassed. He could not feel that holding a girl’s hand was a suitable way to appear before his uncle.

Sasha put his arm through Santa’s. “Why do you want Gus?”

“Well-you see he’s our uncle.”

“What!” Sasha stood still and stared at her. Then he dropped her arm and began to run. He raced to a caravan at the end of the line and beat on it with his fists.

“Gus! Gus!”

A window opened and a man’s head looked out.

“What is it?”

Sasha was absolutely dancing with excitement.

“How is it you call it when you

“Stand still,” Gus growled, “and tell us what’s the trouble. Who’s an uncle?”

Olga brought Peter and Santa to the caravan.

“You are.”

“Me! Why?”

Peter took off his cap politely.

“Good morning, sir. We are Peter and Santa.”

“Kedgeree and rum!” said Uncle Gus. It was plain that he was not speaking of Peter and Santa. “Kedgeree and rum” was obviously an expression to show surprise. He looked very startled. As he had the kind of face which shows everything the owner is feeling, his was a very startled face indeed. Then he drew his head. “Wait there. I’ll come down.”

If Uncle Gus brought anything specially to mind it was a churchwarden. If ever a man looked born hand round a bag in church, he did. He had his hair parted in the middle. Eyebrows that always had faintly shocked lift to them as if he were about to “What, only a penny again this Sunday! I had ho you would make it threepence.” He wore a very dark suit and a dark tie. In fact, a more respectable looking man you could not find.

He ran down the steps of his caravan and examined Peter and Santa in silence. Then he said, “What made, Rebecca let you come? She didn’t hold with me.”

Santa stepped forward.

“We don’t know that she holds with you now. You see she’s dead.”

“Dead!” Uncle Gus raised his right hand to take his hat off. Then he remembered he did not have one and he saluted instead. “Dead,” he repeated in a very deep voice. Then added cheerfully, “Never speak ill of the dead. But that woman was a fool.” He gazed at the sky for a moment as if remembering what a fool Aunt Rebecca had been. Then suddenly he looked back at the children. “What are you doing here?”

Peter knelt down and unpacked his brief case. He took out the Christmas card.

“We found this, sir.”

Gus took the card.

“Don’t call me sir. Gus to all I am.” He turned the card over and looked at the picture. He sighed. “Very nice. Pity your poor aunt didn’t live to enjoy it.” He put the card in his pocket. “But why come here?”

“Well, you see-“ Peter and Santa began together.

Gus held up his hand.

“Cabbages and cheese, one at a time.” He nodded at Santa. “Ladies first. You tell me.”

Santa took a deep breath and began at the beginning. She told everything. About their lessons. Saint Bernard’s and Saint Winifred’s. Mr. Stibbings, Mrs. Ford. Madame Tranchot and Miss Fane. The watch and the bracelet. Covent Garden and the tomato man. Bill. The pawn ticket. Where they slept last night. She could not help thinking while told the story how impressive it sounded. She was glad Olga and Sasha were there, for even though they keep turning somersaults, part of her tale must sunk in and been admired. When she finished she felt quite like an actress at the end of a big scene, and almost expected a round of applause.

She did not get it. Olga stopped practicing flaps for a moment. She rested on the steps of Gus caravan.

“When we was tenting in Sweden,” she said, “Alexsis and me was lost. I was only five then and Alexsis was eight. We had no watch and no bracelet. We had nothing. So Alexsis takes me in a field and we work a little floor act. Then we go to the inn and we make the money for the railway back to the circus.” She got up and did a neat flip-flap. At the end she looked severely at Peter. “That was a better way. It isn’t nice to pawn things.”

This statement seemed to penetrate the almost comatose state in which Santa’s story had put Gus.

“Pawn!” he exclaimed! “Couple of children! Never heard anything like it.”

Peter was hurt. All the time Santa was telling the story he had felt impressed at their cleverness. He had particularly admired the way he himself had figured in it.

“What else could we have done?” he asked angrily.

“You acted very silly from the start,” Gus said severely. “Mind you,” he added in a kinder voice, “I’m not altogether blaming you. Brought up by Rebecca, nobody could be anything but silly. But all the same, for downright silliness you two beat the band.”

Santa flushed. “Why?”

Gus sat down on his step. He held up his first finger.

“First, knowing you had an uncle, why not go to this reverend gentleman name of Stibbings and say, ‘Reverend, we’ve got an uncle. Will you send him a telegram and he’ll decide what’s right to be done.’”

“But-“ Peter broke in. Gus eyed him severely.

“Don’t interrupt.” He held up a second finger. “Second. Why all this fuss about the orphanage? You’ve never seen Saint Bernard’s and Saint Winifred’s. You’d no call to make all this commotion previous to finding out what’s wrong.”

Santa sat beside him.

“We wouldn’t be sent to different places.”

Gus shook his head.

“Them that had the money for the piper call the tune.

“But children never have any money,” Peter said angrily.

“Then they can’t call a tune.” Gus got up and went into his caravan. He reappeared later wearing navy-blue overcoat and a Homburg hat. He went to his car and got into the driver’s seat. He pressed the self-starter.

Santa dashed over to him. She stood in front of the car.

“You shan’t arrange to send us back. You can run me over first.”

Gus looked out of the car window. His voice was tired.

“Rebecca brought you up even more silly than I thought. I must telegraph the Reverend Stibbings you’re safe. Mr. Cob won’t like a lot of police turning up here making inquiries.”

“Telegraph!” Santa clasped her hands. “Oh, will you wait? We’ve got a telegram to send, too.” She went to Peter’s suitcase and rummaged through it till she found Bill’s card. She brought it over to Gus. “Will you send him a telegram, too? We said we would before eleven.”

Gus opened the door of his car.

“What’s stopping you sending it yourselves?”

“Oh, may we?” Peter and Santa jumped in.

“You know,” Santa explained, “we’ve never ridden in a motor car before.”

Gus let out his clutch. He drove a moment in since. Then he said, “Strikes me there are so many silly things you have learned to do and so many sensible things you haven’t that I don’t know where we’ll start.”

V

Settling In

*

WHEN a circus is being built up, the scene every minute. The post office was not far from the circus ground, yet when Gus, Peter, and Santa came back everything looked different. The big top had been laced together and hauled up the king-poles. The children had not noticed them, but a ring of staples had been driven into the ground before the circus arrived. Now guy-ropes were hitched to the top and a gang of men hammered the staples into place. Others attached the side curtains. Still more placed wooden props in position inside to keep the whole tent taut. In fact, since the first wagon had appeared over the hill, a great theater big enough to hold over two thousand people had gone up.

“Goodness!” said Peter. “They finished making it while we were away.”

Gus gave a disapproving snort.

“Can’t you get your words right? You build it. Build-up, that’s what we call it. If you’re coming tenting, may as well get your words right.”

Santa hung over from the back of the car.

“Are we coming tenting? Oh, dear Gus, do let us.”

Gus drove his car across the ground to its original parking place.

“I don’t know yet. All depends on what the reverend says.”

“But you’re our uncle, not him,” Santa pointed out.

Gus nodded.

“I’m not forgetting. Maybe him and me’ll meet and have a little talk. We’ll see. Now out you get and u can go and have a look at what’s going on. But don’t get in the way, mind.”

It’s very difficult not to get in the way when everybody is busy except you. Peter and Santa looked in at he big top where one of the side-flaps was not yet in place.

They jumped hurriedly out of the way. They were just in time. A man shot past them balancing an immense pole across his shoulder.

“Do let’s stop outside,” said Santa, “until it’s done. Somebody’s sure to be angry with us in a minute.”

They moved on and, avoiding the staples and guy-ropes, came to the other side of the great tent. To their surprise, they found another tent of quite different shape. It was lower than the big top, and like a passage. Peter looked in. He beckoned to Santa. “There’s nobody there. Let’s go inside.”

The tent was a stables. Even though Peter and Santa had never been in one, they guessed what it was at once.

On their right were twenty stalls. Each stall was divided from the next by a wooden partition. Each was spread with deep clean straw. On their left was a space. Farther down there were ten more stalls. Here the tent really came to an end, but another was laced onto it, which made a bend and helped give the passage effect.

The second half of the tent was full of men. One group on the left was busy building more stalls. Others were erecting a wooden platform at the far end. Santa, who had never visualized there being more than one lion, one horse, and perhaps an elephant in the circus, was most impressed with all these preparations.

“There must be a lot of animals,” she whispered to Peter.

An old man was leaning against a tent-prop near them. He had a face like an apple that has been put away too long. It was brown and wrinkled by dozens of tiny lines. He was wearing a black coat, check breeches, and black gaiters and boots. A straw was sticking out of the corner of his mouth. His voice was low and quiet. He spoke as if all his life he had been careful not to speak roughly or quickly for fear he should startle some one or some thing.

“Well what are you two up to? If you’ve come to see the menagerie you’re too soon.”

“We haven’t, sir,” Peter explained politely. “We’re just looking round, if you don’t mind.”

The old man laughed.

“Me? I don’t mind. But don’t you let Mr. Cob catch you. He’s a mild man but he’s fair roused when folk come round too soon on build-up mornin’.”

Peter felt it was time they asserted themselves. “We’ve not come round.”

“No,” Santa added. “As a matter of fact we’re staying here.”

The old man looked surprised.

“Are you now! Whom do you belong to?”

In spite of what Gus had said, Peter could not fell that only a Christian name, and a short one at that, was enough for an uncle of his.

“Mr. Gus Possit. We’re his nephew and niece.”

The old man looked more surprised.

“Gus! Nephey and niece. Didn’t know ‘e ‘ad any.”

Santa leaned against the nearest tent pole.

“He hadn’t seen us till today. What does he do in the circus? A man said he was an artist. But means painting.”

The old man chuckled.

“Can’t see Gus painting. Does a bit of everything. Very useful artiste. Auguste ‘e is really. Then ‘e does a trapeze act.”

Santa tried not to show that she did not understand a word. She changed the subject.

“Are you an artist?”

“Me!” A gust of laughing shook the old man, “No. I been with Mr. Cob and ‘is dad before him. Ben’s my name. Nearest I ever got to being an artiste was when I was a nipper and stood on the ring fence to blow a ‘unting ‘orn. Never much of a hand at it, I wasn’t, so I soon give it up.”