Circus Shoes

Santa was just going to say that she would not be glad at being hurt however great the training might be, when the Martini family ran into the ring.

  The Martinis were followed by the elephants. The six beasts marched into the ring holding each other by the tail. Kundra gave a signal and a great table and four chairs were trundled in. Four of the elephants sat down, the other two acted as waiters. It was a very funny act. Peter and Santa enjoyed every minute of it, but Peter felt a little uncomfortable at finding them so funny. They seemed such magnificent creatures, too grand somehow to be laughed at.

  The clowns and augustes did a water act. There can be nobody who would not have liked at some time or other to have buckets and buckets of water and slosh it all over people. The next best thing to doing it yourself is to see somebody else do it. There never could be a better opportunity of seeing someone else do it than there was with Cob’s Circus. The only concession made to the ordinary laws about not getting wet was a waterproof sheet stretched across the ring before the act began. After that nobody cared at all. In spite of the fact that the augustes were fully dressed, or at least they wore clothes, if unusual ones, they poured entire buckets of water down each other’s necks, they threw buckets of water all over each other, they skidded in the water and sat down in it, they lay down in it. It was an orgy of getting wet and everybody in the audience adored it.

  By the time the Kenets and Paula came on to show high-school riding Peter and Santa were dazed. They had had a tremendous day, and all this being thrilled and clapping and laughing had about finished them. That any horse could be trained to do what those horses did was unbelievable, but then everything was unbelievable. They were almost past marvelling. Alexsis was disappointed in them.

  ‘You do not like the haute école? That is the most best work in riding.’

  ‘You can’t say most best,’ Santa reproved him. ‘And we did like it.’

  Peter nodded.

  ‘I believe it was the most interesting; only we’ve seen such a lot.’

  Alexsis was satisfied.

  ‘That is so. There is just Satan and that is the end.’

  During the reprisal an immense iron cage was hooked together. From one side of it a cage tunnel led through the artistes’ entrance. Suddenly yellow forms streaked along it. Satan dressed as the devil, pitchfork and all, entered from the other side. The doors clanged shut. He was alone with his lions.

  Satan was a superb trainer of wild animals; he was also a great showman. He knew what the public liked was to feel he was in danger. To get this atmosphere he taught his lions to roar, to claw at him as he passed, to look as if at the slightest excuse they would spring. No wild animal act is safe, but Satan loved his lions, whom he had known since they were cubs. Some nights they were difficult to handle, bad-tempered, temperamental; but this was not one of them. But Peter and Santa did not know that. They were frankly terrified. They expected every second to see Satan eaten. They could only dig their fingers into the palms of their hands and wish it was over.

  Then suddenly it was over. The band played God Save the Queen. They pushed their way out into the cold night. The audience hurried down the hill back to the town. Peter, Santa, and Alexsis went through the wicket gate fencing round the big top. They crossed the rough grass and fumbled their way to Gus’s caravan.

  ‘Good night,’ said Alexsis. ‘Sleep well.’

  Gus had left a note on the table.

  ‘Help yourselves to what you want for supper, and go to bed quick.’

  Santa blinked.

  ‘I don’t believe I want anything. Do you?’

  Peter did not really want anything either, but he thought Santa looked as if some supper would be good for her.

  ‘You get on undressing. I’ll make us some bread and milk.’

  Santa had her bread and milk in bed. Peter sat on the end of it eating his. Suddenly they both looked up. Peter opened the door.

  ‘It’s the band. They’re beginning again.’

  They listened. The band blared. There were voices talking and laughing from the crowd waiting to get in. A horse whinnied. Someone called out something in German. A lion roared. Peter shut the door. He smiled at Santa as he took her empty bowl. It was too queer to be true. Could this really be them?

  8

  School

  Hans and Fritzi called for Peter and Santa. It was a cold damp morning. Hans and Fritzi had on big mackintoshes and wellington-boots. They had large scarves wound round their necks. Hans had no hat but Fritzi had on a queer little blue felt with a pom-pom on the top. They did not look smart but they seemed sensibly dressed.

  Fritzi liked worried when she saw that Santa had on the same clothes that she had arrived in.

  ‘You have no other clothes arrive yet?’

  ‘No.’ Santa glanced down at herself. ‘I’ve got a mackintosh coming.’

  Hans nodded at their feet.

  ‘And you have boots?’

  ‘What, like those?’ Peter shook his head. ‘No, we never wear them.’

  Gus came to the caravan door. He was wearing a pullover and slippers. He was smoking. It was his time for reading the paper and he hated to be disturbed.

  ‘Kedgeree and rum! You kids are making a fuss getting off! What’s the trouble?’

  Fritzi pointed dramatically at Santa’s feet.

  ‘Such shoes for her to wear.’

  Hans broke in.

  ‘So it is with Peter. The wet will come through.’

  Gus looked at Peter’s and Santa’s feet.

  ‘Turn your soles up both of you.’ Peter and Santa turned them up. Gus nodded at Hans and Fritzi. ‘They’re no good. I’ll have a talk with your mother later. Maybe she’ll take them shopping.’

  Fritzi moved off.

  ‘That will my mother do.’

  Hans beckoned to Peter and Santa.

  ‘Come. We go for Fifi.’

  Fifi was sitting on the steps of the Moulin caravan. She was small, olive-skinned, with black, straight hair cut in a fringe. She, too, was dressed for the weather. But she looked quite different. Worn right over her left eye was a blue beret. She had on a smart reefer coat, and over it a dark blue mackintosh cape. She too had gum-boots, but hers were not big and clumsy like Hans and Fritzi’s, but well-fitting. She got up as she saw the four of them arriving.

  ‘Good morning, Hans. Good morning, Fritizi.’ She came down the steps and politely held out her hand to Santa. ‘Good morning.’

  Santa was just going to shake hands when the black-haired woman they had seen making the wreath of roses looked out of the caravan door.

  ‘Are the little nephew and niece of Gus there?’

  Fifi with a gesture presented Peter and Santa.

  ‘Yes, maman. See!’ She turned to Peter and Santa and made another gesture towards her mother. ‘This is my mother, Madame Moulin.’

  Madame Moulin smiled.

  ‘Fifi is very excited that you have come. It is more for games.’

  Santa was so puzzled about the hair she forgot her manners.

  ‘But when you were with the poodles in the circus your hair was fair.’

  Peter turned red. He kicked Santa on the ankle.

  ‘Shut up, you fool!’

  But Madame Moulin was not a bit angry. She laughed.

  ‘That is a wig. In the ring it is better for hair to be gold.’

  Fifi caught at Santa’s hand.

  ‘Quickly, quickly. We shall be late.’

  ‘But what about Olga and Sasha?’ Santa asked. ‘Aren’t they coming?’

  Fifi gave a magnificent shrug and gesture with her hands. With it she expressed the complete inability of herself or anybody else to say what Olga and Sasha might do. She seemed to consider this unspoken comment quite enough, for she said nothing.

  Fritzi was evidently quite used to Fifi’s ways, for she answered exactly as if she had spoken:

  ‘That is so. They have no sense of time. Come. We shall be late.’ She caught hold of Peter’s arm and hust
led him along.

  Hans hurried after them. He came up on Peter’s other side.

  ‘They are Russian. Russians keep not the time.’

  They walked past the line of caravans and through the wicket gate in the fence round the big top. Hans was just shutting the gate when they heard a shout behind them. Olga and Sasha were dashing after them. They waited. Olga and Sasha panted up.

  ‘Good morning, Olga. Good morning, Sasha,’ said Fifi.

  Fritzi looked at them reprovingly.

  ‘Such children always to be late!’

  Olga skipped along the path.

  ‘It’s not late, and if we are it’s because Alexsis and my father have a terrible argument and the breakfast is not cooked.’

  Santa was interested.

  ‘Doesn’t your mother cook the breakfast?’

  They were on the pavement by now, and the surface, though wet, was not muddy. Sasha turned a cartwheel.

  ‘But of course. But not when Alexsis and my father have an argument.’

  Peter took the opportunity, while speaking to Sasha, to get his arm free of Fritzi’s. He hated being hurried along as if he were a naughty small child who would run home if he were not held.

  ‘Why not? Did she argue too?’

  Olga shot forward on to her hands, spun over, and came back on her feet.

  ‘How can she cook if there is an argument?’

  Fritzi pursed up her mouth.

  ‘Such a show to make, Olga. You should not make the flip-flap in the street when your trousers have not your dress match.’

  Olga turned a cartwheel.

  ‘Why should they match?’

  Fritzi gave Santa a despairing glance, which Santa returned. They two, at least, knew, if nobody else did, that when a person is wearing fawn knickers under a navy-blue skirt, it is better to remain the right way up.

  Fifi caught hold of Sasha.

  ‘Tell me, Sasha, did your father agree about Alexsis?’

  Sasha and Olga at once stopped spinning about. Hans and Fritzi looked serious. All of them hung on Sasha’s answer.

  ‘No. My father says we have always been with horses and Alexsis must do the same.’

  ‘But there is Paula?’ said Fifi.

  Olga put her arm round Fifi’s shoulder.

  ‘But she is a girl. She may marry.’

  ‘But certainly she will marry,’ Fifi agreed. ‘But there is Sasha.’

  They all looked at Sasha consideringly. Hans shook his head.

  ‘Mine father say how Mr Petoff right is. Alexsis is the eldest son. To him must the horses go.’

  Fifi threw up her hands and eyebrows.

  ‘But why? Alexsis is an artiste. But his talent is not with horses. My papa says it is wrong to force him to that which he does not wish.’

  Sasha hopped along on one leg.

  ‘But I have talent with riding. Ben says so as well as my father. I am eight. In six years I can go into the act.’

  Hans made a face.

  ‘Six years! Your father wish it now.’

  ‘What does Alexsis want to do if he doesn’t do the horses?’ Santa asked.

  The other children looked surprised. Obviously Alexsis and his future was such a common subject for discussion in Cob’s Circus that they had not supposed anybody did not know about it.

  ‘He wishes to be an acrobat,’ Olga explained. ‘He has always said so.’

  ‘He’s very good,’ Sasha added.

  Fifi nodded. She spoke with authority. She evidently knew what she was talking about.

  ‘But superb!’

  They were nearing the school. Sasha lowered his voice.

  ‘He works every day with the Elgins.’

  Olga held up a finger.

  ‘But it’s a secret. My father doesn’t know. And Gus mustn’t know or he might tell our father.’

  ‘So,’ Hans agreed. ‘Come, Peter. Here is the school.’

  Naturally children who lived in a circus were objects of interest in the schools. The whole place buzzed with excitement when they arrived. Not only were they circus children, but foreign. They had, too, other charms beside being foreign. They could do the most astounding things in the playgrounds. Their handstands and flip-flaps, which were common as the daisies in the circus world, were considered brilliantly clever by the local children in the towns they visited.

  If the teachers felt a sinking of their hearts when two Russian, two German, and one French child arrived suddenly, expecting to be taught for three days, they showed no sign of it. The children had cards to show what stage their education had reached, and one glance at them proved that their nationalities were no hindrance to them. They were all ahead of the average English child of their own age.

  Peter and Santa had, of course, no cards. They were put as a start to work with children of their own ages. Peter’s first lesson was arithmetic, Santa’s geography. It took neither of them five minutes to realize how appallingly backward they were. It was a nasty shock. If there was one thing that they knew for certain it was that they were far better educated than ordinary school children. All the morning, as the subjects for the lessons changed, they said to themselves: ‘Well, anyway I’ll shine at this.’ But they did not. After all, Mrs Ford was not a teacher herself, and the fact that her husband was had not made her able to teach. Even before the recreation break Peter and Santa had sunk to depths of humiliation, taking the exaggerated view that they knew nothing at all. Peter was at least humiliated by himself, but Santa had Fritzi in her standard, and Fritzi had eyes which very easily looked as if they were marvelling at the lack of qualities of people who were not German.

  In the recreation ground further shame was waiting for them. The boys, having seen what Hans and Sasha could do, supposed that every boy who lived in a circus was as happy one way up as another. They could not believe Peter could not stand on his hands.

  ‘Then what can tha do?’ one of the boys asked. He was a boy in Peter’s standard, so he knew a good many things Peter could not do.

  Peter felt desperate. After all, he had been brought up as nearly as possible in imitation of Lord Bronedin. Up till now he had thought Lord Bronedin a bore, but a sense of inferiority turned him into a snob.

  ‘I don’t belong to the circus. I’ve had a tutor at home.’

  There was a roar of laughter from the boys in his standard.

  ‘A tutor!’

  ‘Must ’a’ been a fine teacher.’

  ‘What did he teach tha?’

  ‘Latin.’

  There was a slight pause, then the boys rolled about with laughing.

  ‘He’s had a tutor.’

  ‘And he taught him nowt but Latin.’

  They fell against each other. Then Hans created a diversion. He leapt in the air, caught his ankles, turned over, and came down again on his feet. Admiringly the boys drew round.

  ‘Did tha see that?’

  ‘Do it again, Hans.’

  Peter leant against the wall loathing himself. Why had he made such a silly answer? He might have known they would laugh. Why had he and Santa been brought up like that? It had been all wrong. They knew nothing, and nobody wanted them. Lolling there against the wall he indulged in an orgy of self-pity. The bell rang for school to start again. Hans came up. He felt in his pocket and brought out a sweet. He held it out to Peter.

  ‘For you.’

  Peter was not in the mood for sweets. What he wanted was somebody to say: ‘Don’t mind them. It’s just jealousy.’ He moved away.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Hans looked after him with a puzzled face. Then he gave a philosophic shrug of his shoulders and ate the sweet himself.

  Santa had the same troubles in a minor degree.

  ‘Stand on tha hands, Santa,’ somebody said the moment she came out.

  Santa looked shy.

  ‘I can’t.’

  Olga, Fifi, and Fritzi came to her rescue.

  ‘She can’t,’ Olga explained. ‘They have been broug
ht up by an aunt who taught them nothing at all.’

  Fifi picked up one leg and held it over her head.

  ‘But nothing. Their uncle says they are like two babies just born.’

  Fritzi nodded.

  ‘My mother says to bring up to such ignorance is cruel.’

  Santa stood by looking a fool while all this went on. She would have liked to say that at least she knew French. But with Fifi there she could not. It was obvious one sentence from Fifi would floor her. She fell back on something she had never expected to brag about.

  ‘I play the violin.’

  Olga, Fifi, and Fritzi were impressed.

  ‘Have you got your violin with you?’

  ‘It a wonderful instrument is.’

  Fifi shrugged her shoulders and raised her hands. The gesture said plainly: ‘If she can play the violin, what more do you want?’

  After that the girls moved away. Fifi gave a small acrobatic display and they gathered round to marvel.

  Santa, left alone, inwardly called herself an idiot. What on earth made her mention the violin? They would expect her to play it. She could just imagine their faces when she started Art thou weary, art thou languid. Then, just as the bell went, she remembered something that cheered her up. She had not asked Mrs Ford to send her violin. She would not be able to play.

  ‘Early bed tonight,’ said Gus. ‘We’re starting round about six tomorrow.’

  Santa was sitting on the steps of the caravan working at some sums.

  ‘Can’t we see the pull-down? Hans says it’s more exciting than the build-up.’

  Gus nodded.

  ‘So ’tis, too. But you’ve got your schooling just now, and you don’t want late nights. It’ll be your holidays next week; you can see it then.’

  Peter was studying an atlas.

  ‘I don’t suppose I’ll want to.’

  Santa looked up from her sum, then quickly looked back again. What was the matter with Peter? He had been as excited about the circus as she was to begin with. But ever since school yesterday he had sulked. Of course it was sickening for him to be moved down to work with Hans, who was a year and a half younger, especially as Hans was so much more clever than he was. But it was no worse for him than it was for her. She had been moved out of Fritzi’s standard into the one with Fifi and Olga in it, which, seeing Fifi and Olga were only ten, wasn’t much fun. She thought probably it was much worse for her. Peter did not have to work with someone who curtsied to all the teachers like Fifi did, and so made other people, who, of course, would not dream of doing a showing-off thing like curtsying, look awkward. Then Peter had not to work with Olga, who never seemed to be attending, who made all the class laugh, and then did better than anybody else.