Authors: Jenny Pattrick
Skylark (6 page)
As soon as he had me laughing with him he turned serious again. ‘Can you juggle?’
I didn’t understand the word and looked to Maria for help. She mimed for me. I shook my head.
‘High wire? Slack wire?’
I had learned the meaning of slack wire from Master Bird. Again I shook my head. ‘I think high wire I might …’
Mr Foley nodded sternly. ‘We are a small troupe, my dear. All
must have at least two skills. Sing? Do you sing?’
I knew the word. I nodded, hoping he would not ask for proof.
‘Sing, then. Sing for me.’
Sometimes I had sung for the crowds back in France: gay little folk songs, nothing dramatic or stirring. I thought of the songs the diggers sang in the evenings, but couldn’t remember the complicated words of those. I took a breath and sang a verse or two of ‘
Les Petits Amis d’Alsace
’, taking a little step this way and that, acting out the simple story, hoping that a smile and a gesture might disguise the frailty of my voice.
My piping was interrupted by a booming voice. A rather terrifying woman was advancing across the ring. She wore a beautifully cut and stitched dark green dress and jacket, a large, flowered hat, gloves and even carried a rolled parasol. Where Maria dressed in a flamboyant, circus style, this woman appeared almost aggressively fashionable. Her figure was tightly corseted, her waist tiny, her bosom generous and her bustle enormous.
Her voice was deep and pitched to carry across vast spaces. ‘Who is this singing? Whatever are you up to, Foley?’
I turned to Mr Foley. Maria had disappeared. Gone between one moment and the next. I felt a creeping despair. This woman would not welcome me. And who would interpret for me now?
Mr Foley explained that he was interested in hiring me; that with Maria unwell they had need of fresh blood; that I had potential. I noticed that the lady’s visage darkened at the mention of Maria, and that Mr Foley didn’t mention any suggestion that Maria should train me.
‘Singing,’ boomed the lady, ‘is my department.’
Mr Foley tapped her gently on the shoulder with his whip. ‘And mine, my dear, and mine. We sing together.’
‘We do. Please to remember that. We do not need fresh young blood in that department.’ She glared at me. Her eyes were beautiful and dangerous. ‘Well. Give her to Mr Rossiter. If she’s as good as you say, he can get her up on the high wire. That and the horses will do. No singing.’
‘Exactly my view,’ said Mr Foley, smiling. But I could see that
he was angry at her tone; his smile dropped the minute she turned and stalked away.
That was my first encounter with the great Mrs W.H. Foley. She was to be both my mentor and my enemy. No one much liked her in the circus. No one even knew her first name. She was that sort of person: too aware of her own talent, too self-absorbed to take an interest in other people. She always thought herself a cut above and let us know it.
[Archivist’s Note: All references in the journals have spelt the town or the river’s name Wanganui, as it often was in Lily’s day but, in the interests of the modern and enlightened reader, I have taken the liberty of changing this to Whanganui, except where the name of the
Wanganui Chronicle
is mentioned. E. de M.]
Here is the bareback artiste, fifteen years old, beautiful,
dark-haired
, adept on horseback and on the high wire, capable of riding two horses at once, one pretty foot on each, while twirling a parasol. She speaks fluent English now — has even changed the spelling of her name from Lili to Lily — and is known on billboards and in the ring as Miss Tournear.
[Archivist’s Note: I query the age Lily gives here, but the entry does clear up an old historical puzzle: why did the early newspaper advertisements sometimes refer to Miss Tournear and at others Madame Tournear? Sometimes the top billing is for Madame Tournear and sometimes for Miss. The answer is simple: there were two Tournears! Both Lily and Maria ‘borrowed’ the name from the famous French circus performer, Louise Tourniaire. Taking a stage name was as common a practice in those times as it is today: a practice which tends to muddy the waters for the researcher. E. de M.]
Those wonderful wide-eyed audiences! They loved both Tournears — Madame and Miss. After two years with the circus, travelling through New Zealand, to Australia, and back to New Zealand again, I was a seasoned performer earning top billing. In Wellington, Mr Foley, bless him, granted me a special benefit: my
first. That night still glows in my memory. Master Bird had had a couple, as of course had Mr Foley. And Madame Tournear. Then at last, a benefit for Miss Tournear! I performed on the horses, the high wire, and sang on my own and with Mr Foley himself! (Mrs W.H. was playing in the regular theatre that night.) On my benefit night the garrison officers from the Yorkshires came to the circus. The circle of kerosene lamps lit a sea of scarlet coats and gold frogging. The garrison band played an interlude. A colonel and various town dignitaries sat and applauded alongside the usual mechanicals. That night I collected a handsome extra purse (my benefit) from Mr Foley. Oh how I loved my new life! The circus was my family: all I had in the world.
But this night, summertime, at Castlecliff, Whanganui, my life would change in more ways than one. Picture me, in
rose-pink
bodice and wide, flounced skirt (which showed more than a little of my ankle), waiting outside the tent while Mr Foley warmed up the audience with some high-jinks incorporating a bucket and mop and a broken stool. I had seen it all before, of course, but the audience was captivated, roaring with laughter at his tumbling. Master Bird limbered up beside me, stretching and twisting his amazingly elastic limbs. He winked at me, making a rude imitation of the circus master. By this time we were good friends — if rivals for audience favours — and were often in trouble over our antics. We both giggled, earning a stern tap from Mrs Foley’s be-ringed hand. Soon the great Mrs W.H. Foley would grace the performance with a comic song or two between the circus acts. Feet solidly planted like a man, she sat on a little chair, just outside the entrance, so she could pass judgement on everything inside. (It was much more fun when Mrs Foley was away on one of her many trips ‘to perform in real theatre’.)
Tommy ran into the ring, leading Lucy, Mr Foley’s prize mare. She was snow-white and beautiful. We all loved the gentle creature but would never dare mount her. That privilege belonged to Mr Foley alone. For him, she would perform every trick in the book and more. He was a brilliant horseman, Mr Foley, kind to all animals, but possessing a special feeling for horses. He had even
tamed, to a certain degree, a pair of zebras, and claimed to be the only person in the world to have done so. Perhaps he was.
The hoarse shouts and hoots of laughter from the audience faded as Mr Foley made Lucy dance sideways, rear on her hind feet and paw the air, or weave complicated patterns across the ring, while he sat upright on her back with never a command or flick of his whip to show that he was controlling her.
‘Oi,’ whispered Tommy. ‘That fellow is here again tonight. Over there in the front row. See? That horseman from down the coast.’ He dug me in the ribs and snickered. ‘Is he after the horses or you I wonder?’
Last week the circus had stopped at Foxton Beach for a single open air performance. We were heading for Auckland after a long stay in Wellington. Travel was a long and difficult process for us. The steamer that transported the circus from Wellington had business at all the local ports. Sometimes they stopped for a day, sometimes for weeks. Clever Mr Foley arranged a performance whenever possible. At Foxton the local Maori crowded into the tent, blanketed against the cold, their dark eyes wide with excitement. This was the first time a circus had come to town — or any entertainment for that matter. To start with they’d sat in silence; the two-headed goat had them murmuring in fear. Mr Foley, for all his clowning, had a hard time getting a laugh out of them. Then suddenly, as beautiful Lucy trotted out her tricks, one of the English settlers shouted with amazed laughter and burst into applause. After that the tent was abuzz with applause and chatter.
The Englishman — he was Scottish, actually — stayed long after the others had left, chatting to Mr Foley about his horses. From time to time he glanced over to where I was brushing down the ponies and giving them their feed.
‘You’ve an admirer there,’ said Mr Foley later, smiling at me. ‘He knows his horses, I’ll say that for the lad.’ He winked. ‘And knows what he likes in a human filly.’ He paused then and looked at me sternly. ‘Watch your step, young miss, we don’t want to lose you.’
I laughed happily. There was nothing in the world that would induce me to leave my circus family. To hear Mr Foley say that he
needed me was music to my young ears.
At any rate the young man had galloped off into the night without a word to me. I had not thought about him since.
But here he was again, in Whanganui, sitting in the front row. I sneaked a look. He was dressed smartly enough: not as splendidly as the garrison officers last month in Wellington, but in frock coat and cravat, tall, clean-shaven and bare-headed. He was watching the horse and rider in the ring with great concentration.
‘Make sure you curtsey for him,’ whispered Tommy Bird. ‘He’s good for a shilling or two, I reckon.’
Mrs Foley frowned at us and cleared her throat. She motioned for Tommy to run out and bring Lucy off.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ trumpeted Mr Foley. ‘I have much honour in presenting, direct from the Royal Victoria Theatre in Wellington, the incomparable, the world-famous, the darling of Australian theatre — Mrs W.H. Foley!’
Mrs Foley sailed into the ring, her arms high and proud, casting her brilliant smile this way and that. I watched carefully. Mrs Foley could draw applause from the crowd as easy as milking a cow. Like her or not, she was a true performer. Mr Foley bent an arm to her and she took it graciously. An hour ago they had been shouting and clawing at each other like two cats, but none of that was allowed to show in the ring. They stood near the biggest lamp, so that Mrs Foley’s handsome face was well lit. As she burst into ‘Villikins and his Dinah’, sung in a rollicking Devon accent, the crowd shouted their pleasure. Mr Foley joined in the chorus, jigging his feet and arms comically. Mrs Foley stood firm as a rock, letting her voice sail high and clear. I watched and learned. One day … One day …
Then it was my turn. That night, Maria — Madame Tournear — was not well again. I performed alone. Mr Rossiter and Master Bird held the ponies while I mounted, one foot on each, and took the reins. At Mr Foley’s introduction, I set the two ponies gently moving, then, when my feet had the rhythm, urged them into a canter. I entered the ring smiling, reins in one hand, fringed parasol in the other, skirts swaying as my knees took the
pitch and roll of the moving beasts. I cantered around the ring, then shifted both feet to a single back, pointed my toe and
voilà
! Pretty Miss Tournear was balancing bareback on one foot! The audience gasped as I fell to the ground, feigning an accident, then cheered wildly to see me roll, leap to my feet, race after the gently trotting ponies and leap to their backs again. Oh, I was good, very good. I rode a circuit without reins, hands high in imitation of Mrs Foley. The audience clapped again.
Remembering the man in the front row and the possibility of a coin or a trophy, I turned and smiled at him as I rode past. The fellow was applauding madly. At my smile the silly man leaped to his feet to shout his bravos. One of my sweet ponies startled and checked its pace. At this moment of triumph I lost balance and fell, alas in earnest. The crowd cheered and waited for me to recover, but this time I was badly hurt. I felt the sickening crack of bone in my ankle. The dread of any circus performer, and the reason we must practise for hours every day. There I lay, skirt bunched, sawdust in my hair, clawing at my leg.
Mr Foley darted forward to bring the ponies to a stop and then came to my aid, but the tall man was already over the rail and at my side, his face as doleful as a hungry hound.
‘What have I done? Oh Lord, what a fool I am! Miss, dear Miss, let me help you up!’ He touched me lightly on the shoulder, and then in one quick move had me in his arms. Strong, as well as tall and handsome. My gasp of pain was covered by uncertain laughter and scattered applause from the audience. They could not be sure whether this manly rescue was part of the performance, or a real disaster.
‘Here.’ Mr Foley led the tall man from the ring, gave orders for the next act — Master Bird on the slack wire — to take over, then turned to the man. ‘Aha. I recognise you: the horseman at the Foxton performance.’ He frowned. ‘You startled my ponies. I would expect better from a horseman.’
‘Yes. Yes. I was carried away … foolish …’ The man smiled sadly. ‘How can I help?’
Mr Foley looked around for his wife but naturally — her part
in the performance over — she had disappeared. ‘Take her to Maria — Madame Tournear. She’ll know what to do.’ He chewed his moustache for a moment, still frowning. ‘If her foot is broken you’ll owe me for the damage. You’re a damn idiot, Sir.’
The tall man nodded seriously. ‘Indeed, yes. Of course. My name is Jack Lacey, I’m …’
But Mr Foley had returned to the glow of the ring, leaving me and Mr Jack Lacey in the dark outside.
The pain was wretched. But I moaned also for my lost livelihood. If my foot was ruined, would Mr Foley keep me in the circus? ‘Maria is at Brannigan’s boarding house,’ I whimpered. ‘Can you get me there? It hurts.’
Jack Lacey carried me to a bale of straw and laid me there. The two-headed goat stopped his endless munching to watch, four-eyed, as the stranger gently took off my shoe, then removed his cravat and carefully bound my foot. Supported in this way it felt better immediately, but Mr Lacey wouldn’t allow me to walk. His eyes were dark, the skin of his face pale and clear. He was as gentle as a woman in his ministrations. Close up I could see that he was not as old as his height might suggest.
‘Could you bear it,’ he asked, ‘if I took you on my horse to the doctor? His rooms are a little distant, but not too far.’
I nodded my thanks. I was prepared to suffer any pain to have the foot mended. A doctor might be able to set the bone.
Jack Lacey’s smile was a revelation. The solemn young man was suddenly astonishingly handsome, his cheeks dimpled, his eyes alight. ‘Well then, let us waste no time. My horse is close by.’ He carried me to a strapping bay stallion, lifted me to the saddle, then mounted awkwardly behind. Oh the searing pain as my foot was jolted this way and that! I gritted my teeth, but even so, little cries escaped. His strong arms around me and the warmth at my back were reassuring. Domino, the stallion, walked gently at his master’s command and off we set into the dark night, away from the noise of the crowded tent and the crash of the sea on the beach below, towards the home of Doctor Horatio Ingram.
Oh that foot was painful! I still feel the old ache on a cold night
or after a long walk. As Mr Lacey walked the horse up a dark drive, I could make out movement on the veranda ahead. A lamp hung above the door, lighting three or four figures, huddled together, talking quietly in their own tongue. One was coughing badly.
Mr Lacey dismounted, lifted me gently from the saddle, carried me up the steps and rang a large brass bell which hung beside the door. After a few moments we heard steps on the hallway inside and the door was flung open. A large, aproned woman stood in the lamplight, her hair in curling-rags, her arms full of blankets.
At the sight of Mr Lacey her face grew thunderous. ‘Jack Lacey, wherever have you been? Doctor Ingram is sorely in need of you.’ Without waiting to listen to any explanation she bustled over to the group on the veranda and handed them blankets. ‘Take these and wrap up warm. I’ll bring hot tea in a moment.’ Then she turned back to Mr Lacey. ‘What have you brought us now?’ she boomed. ‘As if we weren’t busy enough. Bring her in, bring her in then.’ And she stomped back inside, shutting the door on the group of natives. Evidently there were different rules for white patients.