Circus Shoes

  Santa could not bear to think of the children being hungry.

  ‘Never mind. On Easter Day you ate it all for breakfast.

  The Petoffs laughed. Maxim shook his head.

  ‘Not for breakfast. No. In England, yes. There is the pull-down and we travel early. But when I was a little child it was at night.’ He dropped his voice and his eyes had a far-away look. ‘All the evening the table is set out. All the food and the vodka. Then at perhaps half past eleven my mother bring in the paska. Then we go to church. The church will be so full it is hard to get in. We kneel on the floor. On the floor is laid twigs of fir-tree. There is an image of the dead Christ. Then suddenly all the bells sound. The priests and choir come to the door. They have many banners, and lanterns. Then we follow. We have candles. They blow in the wind. There are many stars. The lanterns are on high poles. We march round the church, and sing the great hymn. Then quick like that’ – Maxim clicked his fingers to show the passing of a second – ‘all that is solemn is over. It is as if all had gone mad. The bells clash. All kiss each other. All cry “Christ is risen, Christos woss krese.”’

  Maxim’s voice tailed away. He sat holding his egg with the tears running down his cheeks. Peter and Santa looked round. All the Petoffs were crying. Very quietly they got up and left the caravan. Outside they looked at each other.

  ‘My goodness!’ said Santa. ‘How awful. Poor Mr Petoff. Fancy having to live in England when it makes him cry to think of Russia.’

  Peter had been thoroughly embarrassed by the tears.

  ‘Must be pretty bad to make him cry. I wonder he doesn’t try and go back. I expect he could. There must still be circuses in Russia.’

  Olga came bounding down the caravan steps, followed by Sasha. She stood on her hands.

  ‘Wasn’t that a lovely Easter?’

  Peter stared at her.

  ‘It was. But it seemed to make you all pretty miserable.’

  ‘Miserable!’ Sasha did a flip-flap and finished facing Peter. ‘We wasn’t miserable. It was beautiful.’

  Santa looked at him severely.

  ‘That’s not true, Sasha. Two minutes ago you were crying. We saw you.’

  Sasha turned to Olga. They were obviously puzzled.

  ‘Every Easter we cry,’ Olga explained. ‘So it should be. My father is an exile from Russia.’

  ‘I know,’ Peter agreed. ‘And it’s awful for him. That’s why, though everything was very nice to eat, you can’t say it was a lovely Easter when it made you all remember you were unhappy.’

  Olga walked a few steps on her hands.

  ‘But we was not unhappy.’

  ‘You may not be,’ Peter argued, ‘but your father is. He wants to go back to Russia.’

  This statement stopped both Olga and Sasha from practising tumbling. They stood upright, looking very earnest.

  ‘Never,’ said Olga, ‘would my father wish to return to Russia. He is naturalized English.’

  Sasha thumped his chest.

  ‘We was British.’

  Peter gave a despairing shrug. He would never understand.

  ‘Then why did you all cry?’

  Olga stamped her foot.

  ‘You can be stupid, Peter. It’s beautiful to cry. It’s a mood. If you never cry how can you enjoy it when you laugh?’

  Peter put his egg in his pocket.

  ‘Gus laughs a lot and he never cries.’

  Olga did a cartwheel.

  ‘For the English it’s wrong to cry. My father says they cannot feel.’

  ‘Then why’s he got naturalized?’ said Peter. ‘He oughtn’t to if he doesn’t like the English.’

  Olga skipped away.

  ‘You are stupid. He loves England. It isn’t not loving a country if you say the people don’t feel.’

  Peter did not like to say any more as they had just been to a party. He gave a nod to Olga and Sasha and went towards their own caravan. Santa hurried after him.

  ‘I think Russians are very odd, don’t you?’

  Peter kicked up the grass.

  ‘I don’t know what they’re talking about. But perhaps we shall later on.’

  The other thing that happened in Blackpool was Peter’s first riding lesson. He went by himself and found Ben. He hung about beside him while he looked at the horses. He knew exactly what he wanted to say, but he didn’t know how to start. Ben stopped suddenly and looked at him.

  ‘What’s the trouble, Peter?’

  ‘Well, I was wondering – I mean to say – well, you said—’

  Ben put up a hand to stop him. He picked up two straws and gave him one.

  ‘Either you got something to say, or you haven’t. If you have, speak out. I never could abide talk that had to go a mile round where it was gettin’ to.’

  Peter leant against the post between Halfpenny’s and Robin’s stalls. Ben leant against a tent prop.

  ‘You remember,’ said Peter, ‘that you said some time you’d see how I shaped at riding.’

  ‘That’s right. Come tomorrow, if you like.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t only that.’ Peter looked straight at Ben. ‘People here think I’m a fool.’

  Ben chewed at his straw thoughtfully.

  ‘Lot a people don’t see no more’n the outside. I say about people what I always say about ’osses. No good fixing everything on looks. What about the heart? That’s what I want to know.’

  Peter felt a bit discouraged. He would have liked Ben to have said: ‘Nobody thinks you’re a fool. How could you have imagined it?’ He kicked at the straw under his feet.

  ‘Why do they think I’m a fool?’

  Ben spat out his straw.

  ‘It’s not so much a fool as maybe soft. The day you come, and I sees you and Santa in the stable here, you remember, I sees you look soft. It was your way of walking careful in case you should tread in something, and the way you have of brushin’ bits of dust and that off your things. It’s more like a girl.’

  ‘Gus can’t bear me,’ Peter blurted out. ‘So I thought if I could come and ride early when he didn’t know, it would be a good idea. If he knew he’d come and laugh.’

  Ben carefully chose another straw. He put it in his mouth.

  ‘I always say to the lads in the stable here: “Don’t come grumblin’ to me. You knew what you ’ad to do when you signed on. If you don’t like it, sign off.”’

  ‘But I can’t sign off.’

  Ben gave him a shrewd look.

  ‘Wasn’t there talk of an orphanage?’

  ‘Oh, that!’ Peter thought the argument silly. Obviously nobody would want to go to an orphanage who could live in a circus. ‘I don’t mind being here as much as that.’

  ‘Then there ain’t no point in grumblin’. Gus has took you both in. A caravan ain’t all that big. Must ’a’ done away with most of ’is comfort havin’ you.’

  Peter stared at Ben. Aunt Rebecca had run her house for them, and they had always taken it for granted she liked doing it. They had come to Gus. They had thought that perhaps to please Mr Stibbings they would be sent to the orphanages, but they had never thought that it would have suited Gus. It was a new idea. Peter could not accept it right away. He felt he had a proper grievance, that he was being picked on unfairly. It was not easy to switch his mind to what Gus was putting up with on his account. He went back to the question of his riding.

  ‘Could I come early? I’d much rather.’

  Ben nodded.

  ‘Be along at seven. I’ll be exercisin’ Mustard. He’s just built to start you on.’

  Peter went to Mustard’s stall. He looked very like the other chestnuts, he thought.

  ‘Why’s he specially good?’

  Ben came slowly down the stables. He gave Mustard an affectionate pat.

  ‘Well, he’s slight. Must start you on something slight on account of the length of your legs.’ He went into the stall feeling in his pocket. He brought out some sugar and gave it to Mustard. He fondled him. ‘He’s a gran
d ’oss. Ain’t you, old fellow? He was a hunter when Mr Cob bought him. Intelligent! This ’oss is almost ’uman. Eighteen months after his last hunt he was workin’ in the ring. Bit of a change for ’im, but he took to it like he’d been born in a circus.’

  ‘Do you think he misses his hunting?’

  Ben came out of the stall.

  ‘Sometimes I think he does. ’Course, all ’osses has their moods, same as ’umans. Mustard here, he does get a bit down at times. There’s mornin’s, especially at the end of tentin’, when it’s sharp, and you get a smell of dropped leaves like. Then Mustard, ’e’ll go off ’is feed. And I’ll see a look in ’is eye as if he were rememberin’.’

  ‘Poor Mustard.’ Peter went into the stall and gave him a pat. ‘Poor old boy.’ He turned to Ben. ‘Couldn’t you take him out when he feels like that?’

  Ben shook his head.

  ‘Once a ’oss is trained to the ring, he’s got to stop there.’

  Ben and Peter walked slowly up the stables.

  ‘Must be pretty dull for all the horses,’ said Peter. ‘Just standing here all day. It isn’t as if they could talk.’

  ‘Can’t talk!’ Ben stood still. He tapped Peter with his straw.

  ‘’Osses talk just as good as you and me. They’ve all got their pals that they chats to. Mustard don’t make the close friends some do. He’s on his own, like. But if he didn’t find himself alongside Vinegar and Tapioca there’d be trouble. They was here when he came. They was trainin’ too. They gave Mustard a helpin’ ’and, and he hasn’t forgotten.’

  Peter was not sure Ben was not pulling his leg.

  ‘Do you really think they mind which horse they stand next to? And they can’t really talk?’

  ‘Can’t they! You come along here.’ Ben led the way across to the four creams. ‘These are a funny mix-up. Two years back Mr Cob wanted four creams special on account of a tableau he was puttin’ on for a season at Christmas. He did it with four of the girls. Pretty it was, but too fancified for me. Well, near a year beforehand we was looking for these cream-coloured ’osses. They ’ad to match nice, and they weren’t easy to get on account of another circus having matched up ten recent. In the end he gets two from Scandinavia, and one from a greengrocer’s cart, and one from a titled lady. Well, the one from the greengrocer hadn’t a name. The two Scandinavians ’ad names, but no one could get their tongues round ’em. So, seeing the one from the titled lady was called “President”, we called the others the same way. The greengrocer’s ’oss we called King, and the other two Rajah and Emperor. Naturally we puts the two foreigners together and King and President alongside each other. Then the fun began.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘All on account of President bein’ above hisself. He thought, comin’ from where he did, he was too good to stand alongside a ’oss what come out of a greengrocer’s cart. He started the mischief. Straight away he was savaging King. We didn’t give in at once, but we ’ad to in the end. President ’ad us beat. You see now we ’ave ’em separated. King’s up this end, where he can say a word now and then to Wisher and Pie-crust. The two Scandinavians only speak to each other, that’s on account of their never ’avin’ learnt English.’

  ‘Then who does President talk to?’

  ‘No one. Not unless it’s Satan’s lions. They say they’re the king of beasts so maybe they’re good enough for ’im. Mind you, you got to understand a ’oss. Every one ’as ’is little ways, and all different. But ’osses is like ’umans. Now and then you comes across one you can’t do nothin’ with. President’s like that. I tried all ways, all the boys ’as tried, but he thinks hisself too good for us, and that’s a fact.’

  Peter looked carefully at President. When you knew about him he had got rather a proud face.

  Ben took out his watch.

  ‘Dinner-time, I reckon. See you tomorrow at seven.’

  Peter told Santa he was to ride the next morning. They always had done things together, so he was quite fair and asked her if she would like to come and watch. She would have liked to, but she thought Peter would like to go alone, it was less annoying to fall off if nobody was watching, and besides it would please Gus if he did something by himself. But all she said was:

  ‘Thank you for nothing. I wasn’t thinking of getting up early just to watch you kicked off.’

  Ben did not think either the shorts Gus had bought Peter, or his own suits, the right clothes to ride in, so Alexsis was confided in. He lent an old pair of jodhpurs. Peter had been worried about how he would wake up, but Alexsis solved that too. He had to go to early exercise anyway. he was called by an alarum clock. he offered to give Santa a shake as he went by, and she said she would wake Peter.

  ‘But you said you didn’t want to be woken up,’ Peter objected, quite fussed by her generosity.

  ‘I don’t mind waking. It’s going over to that cold big top I don’t want. As a matter of fact, as I’ll be awake I’ll cook the breakfast. It’ll be a surprise for Gus.’

  Peter was leaning against the caravan door. he ran his finger up and down the woodwork.

  ‘D’ you suppose he likes having us?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Santa. ‘It must have been lonely for him living all alone.’

  ‘Ben said today that a caravan wasn’t very big, and that Gus must have done away with a lot of comfort to have us.’

  ‘Did he?’ Santa was undressing. She put on her dressing-gown and joined Peter in the doorway. ‘You mean he’s only having us because he’s got to?’

  ‘He hasn’t. He could have sent us to Saint Winifred’s and Saint Bernard’s.’

  Santa began combing her hair.

  ‘Not very well, he couldn’t. It would look a bit mean for an uncle to put his nephew and niece into an orphanage.’

  ‘Ben didn’t think so. He seemed to think it was awfully nice of him to look after us.’

  Santa struggled with a knot.

  ‘But people always look after children. I mean, if you’ve only an uncle then he has to.’

  ‘Ben didn’t think that. And Ben’s the most sensible person we know.’

  Santa groaned as her comb fought its way through a tangle.

  ‘Well, what are you going to do about it? We can’t say we’ll go to orphanages, because we wouldn’t, and there’s nowhere else.’

  Peter shut the door and went into the other room. He did not know exactly what he did want to say. Only things like one of them cooking the breakfast seemed fair.

  ‘I just thought I’d tell you. Good night.’

  Santa thought about Gus for a minute. It was quite a new idea that he might not want them. Suddenly she had a plan. She banged on Peter’s door.

  ‘I say.’

  Peter opened the door and looked in.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘We might make him want us. I mean, want us so much we always stayed with him. He only said we could stay for the tenting tour. I thought that meant always, but perhaps it doesn’t. Perhaps he means to send us to Saint Winifred’s and Saint Bernard’s after that.’

  ‘How could we make him want us?’

  Santa dragged at another knot and considered.

  ‘Well, one of us could always cook the breakfast. And then I could do his mending. I suppose there’s lots of things we could think of.’

  ‘Whatever we do I expect he’ll say we do it wrong.’ Peter grumbled. ‘I did try and help with that tyre on Sunday, and all he said was: “Get back in the car. I’ll be quicker alone.”’

  ‘Well, you did drop those screw things from the wheel.’

  ‘It’s not my fault I don’t know about cars.’

  Santa divided her hair in half and began plaiting it.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t learn on Gus’s. Perhaps Ted Kenet would tell you things. He’s awfully nice.’

  Peter watched Santa fasten the end of a plait with wool.

  ‘Why don’t you always wear it like that? It gets in a terrible mess loose.’

  Santa exam
ined her head in the glass.

  ‘Wouldn’t Gus mind?’

  ‘Why should he? It’s still there, even if it’s plaited. It’s only cutting it off he doesn’t like.’

  ‘I haven’t any ribbon or anything to tie it up with.’

  ‘That wool looks all right.’

  ‘Does it?’ Santa once more stared in the glass. It did look neat. The part round her face curled, so it would keep tidy. The back part had been very straight ever since she came to the circus. Nobody who was not mad was going to curl their hair in rags every night unless they had an Aunt Rebecca who made them. ‘It doesn’t look bad. And if wool would do I’ve heaps.’

  ‘Good,’ said Peter, and shut the door.

  Santa got into bed. She thought about the comfort of not having a lot of hair to get in her eyes and mouth. Really Peter did have good ideas. Why hadn’t she thought of wearing it plaited?

  The big top was cold at seven in the morning. Peter had not put on his jodhpurs in the caravan in case Gus woke up and saw them. He went under the seating and changed. He felt terribly self-conscious when he came out. He had never worn jodhpurs before, but he had heard so much about Lord Bronedin wearing them that it was rather like putting on Puss’s boots or Red Riding Hood’s cloak. Something you had heard of always, but known you would never wear.

  He need not have worried. There were only four people about: Ben, a groom holding Mustard, Alexsis just getting on to Vinegar, and a bereiter already exercising Salt. Ben beckoned to Peter and they sat down in two of the ringside seats.

  ‘There’s a right way and a wrong way of doin’ everythin’,’ said Ben. ‘You could sit on old Mustard same as if you was sittin’ in a arm-chair. He’d carry you round and round the ring takin’ no more notice of you than if you wasn’t there. But that ain’t ridin’. The first thing you’ve got to think of is how you’re goin’ to sit. And the answer is, just as natural as you know how. There’s some no sooner see a ’oss than they stiffen up. That’s all wrong. You want to keep yourself easy, your head up, but all your neck muscles loose so you can see what’s comin’. Can’t expect the ’oss to do everything. Ridin’ ’s a job for two. You want your neck muscles loose and your eyes easy, so you can tell old Mustard if there’s anything unusual about so he can watch his step. Then you want your shoulders down. Funny what a lot of people hunch them up ridin’. Looks terrible. Then your arms have got to hang natural just as far as your elbows. Then you’ve got something to do. You’ve got to keep them close to your sides. If you turn them out you’ll never have good hands. We ain’t comin’ to hands today, but they’re what make the good rider.’