Circus Shoes

  ‘Come on.’

  They were outside, standing beyond where the tent walls of the big top had been. They looked up to the top of the king-poles. Then suddenly, as if a giant pin had been dug in the tent, it collapsed and slid in a white heap on to the straw below.

  Even that was nowhere near the end. Every bit of the great tent was laced. The lorries with their lamps drew nearer and threw their light on the lacing. The tent-men knelt round, nimbly unhitching the ropes.

  Peter and Santa were chilled all through, and terribly sleepy, but they had stayed so long they had to see the end. They wanted to see the king-poles fall. But first the tent had to be packed. It was unlaced and the portions lay on the straw lead-like with water. There was not work for everybody now. Some of the men lit cigarettes. The others leant against the wagons talking. Then suddenly the tent-master gave an order. The effect was terrific. Many of the tent hands came from Wales and the North. They all seemed to be able to sing, as people from those parts usually do. They began now. Each piece of canvas had to be folded and refolded till it was a handlable bundle. The men lined up holding one side. Then they marched across dragging the weight behind them and put one side against the other, and so backwards and forwards till the folding was done. It was obviously a great strain to move that mass of sodden stuff. Each man leant forward, the rain shining on his face. They needed a swing to get themselves going and so they sang. Sea shanties and folk-songs, old stuff with simple melodies just right to pick up the rhythm of their united pulling.

  The canvas was folded. It was put on things like wooden stretchers. The stretchers were carried to the waiting lorries. The ground was almost empty now. Just the king-poles, the lorries with the lights, and in the distance the line of caravans. Peter and Santa had almost to hold their eyelids up, they were so sleepy. Then Mr Cob took them each by an arm.

  ‘Watch that,’ he said. ‘There it goes.’

  It was the first of the king-poles. It swayed. It was lowered to the ground. A few minutes later and the other one was down. As if it were an omen, with the pull-down of the king-poles, the rain stopped.

  ‘Go on, you two. Hop it,’ said Mr Cob.

  Peter and Santa fumbled their way across the dark ground to the caravan.

  ‘It seems so odd,’ said Santa sleepily, ‘to think that in quite a little time it’ll all begin again.’

  Peter felt the caravan steps.

  ‘Here we are,’ he whispered. ‘What seems to me so queer is that some of it’s there already. You know the other pair of king-poles. Like we saw at Bridlington before the circus came.’

  Gus stuck his head out of the window.

  ‘Haven’t you two had enough circus for one night? You’ve no need to stand around talking about it.’

  ‘I am sorry, Gus,’ said Santa. ‘Did we wake you?’

  Gus yawned.

  ‘I was sleeping with one eye open. I knew you two kids would come in half drowned without the sense to get yourselves a hot drink. Hop into bed, now, and I’ll give you both a mug of something to keep out the cold.’

  10

  Santa’s Violin

  It was Good Friday. A holiday for all the circus people. The weather was nice. Blue skies, and a small breeze. Just the weather to dry the tents.

  ‘Us for the station to fetch that box,’ said Gus. ‘The better the day the better the deed.’

  Gus went outside to start up his car. Hans and Fritzi came bustling up.

  ‘You go for a drive?’ Hans inquired.

  Gus shook his head.

  ‘No, old son. Me and Ted are working on the trapeze later on. We’re only off to the station to fetch Peter and Santa’s box.’

  Fritzi opened the car door.

  ‘We will also to the station.’

  Gus nodded and got into the driver’s seat. Fifi joined them. She came over to Gus and made a bob curtsy.

  ‘Good morning, Gus. Can I drive with you?’

  Gus looked over into the back of the car.

  ‘Squeeze up, kids. There’ll be four of you in there.’ He leant across and opened the other door and patted the seat beside him. ‘Hop in, Fifi. You sit here.’

  Peter and Santa were coming out of the caravan. They had just arranged that Santa should sit in front going, and Peter coming back. The first thing Santa saw was Fifi in her seat.

  ‘Good morning, Santa and Peter,’ said Fifi politely. ‘It is a beautiful day.’

  Fifi was wearing a smart little hat at a great angle over her left eye. There was something definitely annoying about her appearance. Santa did not like the way she wore her clothes, but all the same the effect was chic.

  ‘Hallo! I say, that’s my place. I’m sitting in front going and Peter coming back.’

  Fifi threw up her hands and eyebrows and got up.

  ‘I am so sorry.’ She turned to Gus. ‘That was you. You said to me: “Sit here.”’

  Gus caught at her skirts and pulled her back.

  ‘Sit down.’ He jerked his head at Peter and Santa. ‘Hop into the back, you two. Hot cross buns, whose car is this, anyway?’

  Peter and Santa got in. Santa was most hurt. Of course it was true the car was Gus’s. But they were his nephew and niece. If anyone had a right to choose where they would sit it should be a nephew and niece. She looked hard out of the window. She knew her eyes had tears in them and she did not want the others to see.

  Fritzi pulled at her arm.

  ‘Mine mother says she would not me permit to wear such hats. She says for a child they not suitable are.’

  Santa felt better. She did not altogether like Fritzi, who she thought much too cocksure about everything. But when it came to the right way to dress and behave they thought exactly alike. In fact, in her bad English Fritzi said lots of things the duchess had said, or at least things which meant the same. Santa had never cared for the things the duchess had said, but she had been brought up on them, and she felt on home ground when she heard other people saying them.

  They all went into the station to look for the box. They all saw it at once because it was the only box there. They all pointed to it and made exclamations in their three different languages, all, that is, except Santa. She saw something else which made her tongue-tied with horror. Lying on the ground beside the box was her violin. They hung over the counter while Gus signed for the box.

  ‘There’s this come, too,’ said the man.

  ‘But, Santa, your violin has come,’ said Hans.

  Fritzi clasped her arm.

  ‘But that is good. Yes? You will be able to us your music to play.’

  Fifi made a magnificent gesture with both hands.

  ‘For an artiste not to be able to work. That is terrible.’

  Peter giggled.

  ‘When you’ve heard Santa play you won’t say anything about artistes.’

  Santa flushed.

  ‘She isn’t going to hear me play, or anybody else. So sucks to you.’

  Hans looked at Peter in shocked surprise.

  ‘To tease one because they music love, that is not good.’

  Fritzi gave Santa a comforting smile.

  ‘Do not trouble, Santa. This very day we will all come to hear you play.’

  ‘Goodness, I hope you won’t!’ said Santa. ‘Because I can’t. At least only one tune.’

  Gus told a porter to bring out the box. He gave Santa her violin.

  ‘Didn’t know you played the fiddle.’

  ‘I don’t.’ Santa caught at his arm. ‘Honestly I don’t. Don’t let them think I do.’

  ‘But,’ Fifi said, ‘you told us in the school that you played.’

  She turned to Fritzi. ‘“I play the violin.” That was what she said. Olga was there too. She will remember.’

  Fritzi did not like siding with Fifi against Santa. Fifi was a good artiste; in other things she considered she should be kept in her place. All the same, this time in honesty she had to admit she was right.

  ‘That was how you say, Santa.’


  Gus helped the porter to tie the box on the back of the car.

  ‘Tomatoes and cheese! There’s a lot of talk about this playing. We’ll have the fiddle out tonight, Santa, and see how you shape.’

  ‘Perhaps at five o’clock,’ Fifi suggested. ‘Then all can be there.’

  ‘But I can’t,’ Santa said desperately. ‘I can only play one tune, and that’s Art thou weary, art thou languid?’

  Gus got into the car and put his foot on the self-starter.

  ‘And nothing nicer for a Good Friday.’

  Peter and Santa left unpacking the box until the afternoon. Santa was feeling in no mood to bother with boxes, she was so upset about the violin.

  ‘Do you really think they’ll make me play?’ she asked Peter.

  Peter could not cheer her up. He was perfectly certain they would. There was no false modesty about circus people. If they could do a thing they did it. Santa, having said she played the violin, would have to play it.

  ‘I wouldn’t fuss,’ he said. ‘Even if they do come to hear you, about two notes will be enough. Come in the big top and watch Gus and Ted Kenet working.’

  Santa followed him, but she did not feel comforted. It was not a bit cheering to feel nobody would stand more than two notes. That would mean they would laugh, and she felt she could not face being laughed at. How she wished she played beautifully, so that all the people in the circus came round to hear her. And she and Peter, instead of being just Gus’s nephew and niece, became important.

  Gus and Ted Kenet were working on the trapeze. It was something new they were trying. Peter and Santa could not see what, as they did not know anything about trapeze work, but they could see that, instead of being free on the bar, their ankles were held to it by wires. Presently they slid down to earth. Gus went off to talk to Maxim Petoff. Ted Kenet came and sat beside the children. He had pulled an overcoat over the tights he had been working in. He felt in the pockets and produced a bag of his usual sweets. Peter took one.

  ‘What was that you and Gus had holding you on to the trapeze?’

  Ted chewed at his sweet.

  ‘A lunge. That’s a safety thing. You use’m for all aerial work, and training kids for jockey acts and such.’

  Santa moved her sweet to the other side of her mouth.

  ‘Did you learn on a lunge?’

  ‘Me! There was no way I didn’t learn. You see, I was born in my grandfather’s circus. You’ll have heard of Kenet’s?’

  ‘No.’ Santa leant forward. Her voice was apologetic. ‘I expect everybody else has but us. This is the only circus we know about.’

  Ted did not seem to mind that they had not heard of Kenet’s. He leant back in his seat, sucking noisily.

  ‘Rare old chap was my grand-dad. He’d been ringmaster to old Pinker, who’d run a one-eyed circus, doing one-night stands in the small towns. Well, when old Pinker was dying he sends for my grand-dad. ‘Charlie,’ he says, ‘I’ve no one to leave the turn-out to. I’ve a mind to leave it to you. I’ve well-nigh starved for it the last fifty years. It’s time you had a bit of trouble.’

  Peter was interested.

  ‘Did he starve?’

  Ted helped himself to another sweet.

  ‘Him! No. Ambitious, he was. He looks round and he sees the turn-out wants improving. So he marries a lady lion tamer. She brought three fine beasts along with her. Then after a time there’s children. My father was the eldest. My word, he was put through it! Time he could stand he was working in a Risley act and augusteing, and doing some jockey work.’

  ‘Now that’s a thing I’ve always wanted to know,’ Santa broke in. ‘What’s the difference between being a clown and being an auguste?’

  ‘Not much. Your contract’s mostly for both. A clown, he wears clown’s get-up and does clowning. An auguste wears funny clothes, but not a clown’s dress. He does much the same work, but it’s augusteing. A good clown or a good auguste can work in any act, aerial, horses, all the lot.’

  Peter wanted to hear more about Kenet’s circus.

  ‘Then your father married and had all of you?’

  ‘Not for a while he didn’t. His dad, my grand-dad, kept him too busy. Time he was twenty he was seeing to the beast house. In it was a big monkey, two leopards, a wolf, two lionesses and one lion, four black Himalayan bears, and a llama. That’s down one side. Down the other he had seven camels.’

  ‘Goodness!’ said Santa. ‘What did he have to do with them?’

  ‘What didn’t he! Feed ’em. Clean ’em. Show some of ’em. Teach most of ’em. You may say, why did he do it? Why didn’t he get an easier job somewhere else? It was on account of the riding. Crazy on horses, my dad was. My grandfather knew that, and he let him have the run of the horses if he looked after the beasts.’

  Santa rested her elbows on her knees and put her chin in her hands.

  ‘To ride them, do you mean?’

  ‘Ride them! He had the rough stuff and had to try and make them for the ring. He used to tell us that sometimes he would ride as many as ten or twelve a day. And even that wasn’t the end. He was a good tent-man. When he wasn’t breaking horses, or acting teacher to his bears and that, he’d be sitting cross-legged on the tent putting in a patch, or splicing a lot of ropes.’

  Peter wanted to get to the Kenets themselves.

  ‘When you were born did you learn the same way?’

  Ted passed round his bag of sweets.

  ‘To start with. Then when we was still small kids my grand-dad dies. My father ran the circus a while, but there were bad seasons, and there never had been much money behind it. Then my father’s interest was all in the horses. So was my mother’s. She was from a riding family. My dad sold the whole outfit, only keeping the horses we needed, and we went off to America.’

  ‘Doing what?’ asked Santa.

  ‘Jockey, and high-school. My three brothers and dad and mum were all working. I did a bit sometimes.’

  Peter felt they were getting near what he wanted to know.

  ‘Did your father teach you?’

  ‘Did he! Wherever we went, and there wasn’t a fair-sized country we hadn’t tented in time I was fourteen. First thing he’d say after the build-up: ‘Off and change, boys, while I put up the lunge.’ Same when we were doing a season. We’d get to the place. Mother’d fix up our rooms. Dad wouldn’t work the horses. Not if it had been a bad voyage. He’d settle them in gently. But for us it was always the same: “Get your things, boys, and come down to the ring.”’

  ‘But you couldn’t work without the horses,’ Peter objected.

  ‘Couldn’t we!’ Ted gave a loud suck at his sweet. ‘Jockey acts are most tumbling.’

  Santa looked at Ted. He did not seem bruised.

  ‘Tumbling! Do you mean falling off?’

  Ted was not a man who was shocked at ignorance. He was quite placid.

  ‘No. It’s what you see the kids doing all the time. Those Petoffs are always at it. Fifi Moulin’s good.’

  ‘Do you mean somersaults and things?’

  Ted nodded.

  ‘Yes. You work a routine. The flip-flap that the kids are always practising is the connecting bit. Suppose you were wanting to do a set of tricks. That’s a routine. Well, something’s got to give you the impetus to get round, hasn’t it? Well, the flip-flap does that. This is the usual routine. Flip-flap; round-all; flip-flap; back somersault. You watch.’

  Ted stepped into the ring, throwing his coat and clogs on to the ring fence as he passed. He rubbed his hands on his tights. Then he began to turn over. It was quite easy to see which was the flip-flap. It came between the other tricks, just as he had said it would. It was what Olga was always doing. Throwing herself on to her hands, over, and finish standing upright. After it he did a sort of cartwheel with a half-turn to it. Then another flip-flap. Then the somersault. He came back to the children.

  ‘You see? Of course, you can change the combination. You can put in some back pirouettes. Anything
you fancy.’ He pulled on his things and sat down again.

  ‘Goodness!’ said Santa enviously. ‘I do wish I could do that.’

  Ted looked at her appraisingly.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  Ted took another sweet.

  ‘That’s late to start, but not too late. You’re a good build for it. I’ll come along and show you how some time, if Gus has no objection. It’s good exercise.’

  Peter gave Santa a glance out of the corner of his eye. Exercise! Ted had spun over so fast they hardly had been able to see him. It was not what he would call exercise. He turned to him.

  ‘Go on about the horses. You said when they were tired after a voyage, you still had to work at tumbling.’

  ‘That’s right. We worked when we were travelling, too. I remember that first time we went to America. I was sick the whole way over. I was only a nipper, but dad said: “Have him up on deck. I’ll just take him through a routine. Do him good.”’

  ‘Did it?’ asked Santa.

  Ted thought over the question.

  ‘Not that trip it didn’t. But maybe later. Fine teacher, my dad. Never believed in bringing kids up soft.’

  Peter wriggled more comfortably into his seat.

  ‘Then when did you learn to do things on a trapeze?’

  Ted gazed at the ceiling as if trying to remember.

  ‘We was over in Stockholm. We were working the jockey act. The horse went false. Dad was bearer. You know, like my brother does, holding the rest of us on his shoulders. Dad slipped. I was at the top of a pyramid. Down I came and broke my hip. They had to leave me in hospital. Well, while I was there they bring in another fellow from the circus. German he was. He’d been doing a flying trapeze act, and missed the catcher and broken his arm.’

  Santa hated to interrupt, but she hated more not understanding.

  ‘What’s a catcher?’

  ‘Someone who catches. If you look at an aerial act you’ll see there’s always one doing the catching.’

  Peter frowned at Santa for muddling the story.

  ‘Do go on.’

  ‘Well, us lying in bed with nothing to do, we got talking. The act he was with had got someone in his place. Nor was he crazy to go back to them. He had a trapeze, and he’d worked out a nice routine for a double act. He suggested I came in with him.’