Peter tried to attend properly. But being told how you sit was not his idea of riding. He tried to hurry Ben up by coming to the end of riding. He tried to hurry Ben up by coming to the end of the parts of him.
‘How about my legs?’
‘We’re coming to them. They want well stretchin’ down. Your thighs want keepin’ flat. Then there’s your knees. You want to take particular account of them. You’re ridin’ with a saddle to start with. If you keep your knees close to the flaps as you can, you’ll be right. You want to turn your toes a bit out. That’s particular important in high-school ridin’, ’cause that means the ’oss’ll feel the touch from your leg before he feels the spur, and same time your foot’s right for usin’ a spur.’ Ben stopped and smiled. ‘You won’t remember one ’alf of that. So come on. Up you go.’
Out of all the things Ben had said the only one which had stuck was the first thing: ‘You must sit just as natural as you know how.’ Peter was not a bit nervous. He did not look upon horses as things to be nervous of. The groom gave him a leg into the saddle. There was some rearrangement of the stirrups. He held the reins in a bunch in his hands. Then he sat down.
‘Keep hold of Mustard,’ said Ben to the groom. ‘Lead him into the ring so I can have a look.’ The groom made a clicking sound. Mustard obediently stepped forward.
Peter was thrilled. He did not worry at all how he was sitting. There was something about being on a horse which satisfied some bit of him that had never been satisfied before. He turned and grinned at Ben.
Ben came into the ring. From one of his pockets he picked a bent, scraggy piece of straw. He put it in his mouth. He walked thoughtfully round Peter and Mustard, sucking as he went.
‘Not so far out,’ he said at last. ‘Straighten that back. You don’t want no hollows. Keep your head up, your hands down, and your heels down. Keep those toes turned out a bit. Remember ’oss ridin’ is balance. You don’t want to hold on nowhere. When you do ’ave to your knees are there to do it. If you’ave to get a grip it’s from your knees to your ankles it’s got to come. If you tell me tomorrow you ache above the knees I’ll be wantin’ to know why. You’ll be grippin’ wrong. Now off you go. Walk him round.’
‘What about these? How do I hold them?’ Peter held up the reins.
‘You be here tomorrow same time and I’ll tell you. Just’ old them loose. Mustard knows what ’e’s got to do.’
It was lovely riding round the ring. It felt like being a real circus performer. Of course the seats were empty, but it was not very difficult to fill them with applauding people. Peter looked up at the band balcony. Of course the band was not there, but it’s easy to hum a tune in your head, and see a band playing it. Alexsis and the bereiter were going round too. It was simple to turn the three of them into a daring act. Ben sat peacefully chewing. Now and then he said: ‘Remember that back,’ or: ‘What’s happened to your head? Is your neck weak?’ The groom smoked. From the stables came champings and neighings and the hoarse barks of the sea-lions. Through the tent flap a smell of bacon and eggs blew in from the men’s mess. The circus smell of animals, rosin, sawdust, and earth came to the nose in a rich jumble.
‘Breakfast,’ said Ben. ‘Come on, Mustard.’
Peter slid to the ground. He looked up at Ben.
‘I say, thanks awfully.’
Ben signalled to the groom to lead Mustard to his stall.
‘There ain’t nothin’ to thank for, son. Mustard needed exercisin’. Must keep him from gettin’ a roll.’ He looked at Peter with a queer smile. It was as if he was not only seeing him, but somebody in his memory. ‘You was happy ridin’, wasn’t you?’ Peter nodded. Ben turned away. ‘I thought you was. See you seven tomorrow.’
Peter went under the seats and changed back into his shorts. He rolled the jodhpurs up in a bundle and hid them until he could find a minute when Gus was not about. He went outside.
The sun was shining. It was a gorgeous day. The air smelt of sea. High up above a lark was singing. Peter was so happy he had to let some of it out. He made a wild whooping sound. Then he dashed through the gate in the fence and went bounding back to breakfast.
12
Parade
It was not as easy doing things for Gus as it seemed as if it would be. He was the most independent man. The first day when Santa cooked his breakfast he seemed surprised to find it ready for him, but not a bit pleased or grateful. He did eat his bacon and eggs, but he turned every mouthful over suspiciously with his tongue.
‘Bacon crisp, eggs soft, that was my old mother’s, your grandmother’s, rule. Apple sauce, girl, you’ve got ’em the other way round!’
After breakfast he went outside and looked at his frying-pan. Santa had noticed he never washed it, but cleaned it out with paper. There was a bit of paper waiting in it, so he could see she was going to do it the way he liked. But all the same he did not look pleased. He just made a grunting noise and lit a cigarette and went off to the big top.
Santa was discouraged. She thought there were times when Gus was difficult to like as much as people ought to like an uncle. She did not say this to Peter because he was finding it difficult to be fond of Gus anyway, and certainly did not need any encouragement not to like him.
She did not try cooking the breakfast again for a bit. Her next effort to please was on Sunday afternoon. They were in Southport. Peter was away feeding the horses. Gus was talking to Ted Kenet. Santa decided to do the mending. She got all Gus’s socks and took them and her work-basket outside and sat on the caravan steps looking for holes. She hoped Gus would bring Ted Kenet back with him. Even if Gus could not see things for himself, Ted Kenet probably would. He would be almost sure to say Gus was lucky to have a niece to do his mending for him. But Gus came back alone and was not a bit pleased.
‘What are you up to?’
‘Mending your socks,’ said Santa, trying not to sound as smug as she felt.
Gus looked at his socks with a surprised air, as if he were wondering how they came to be out of doors.
‘They got holes in ’em?’
‘No.’ Santa gave a regretful sigh. That she had not found any holes so far was rather spoiling her gesture. ‘There aren’t, but I expect I’ll soon find some.’
Gus picked up the socks. He took the one off her hand which she was examining.
‘You’ll soon make some, poking your finger through the wool that way.’ He looked down at her. ‘I should have thought a kid like you could have found something to do round the ground. What do you want sitting around on the steps for? If my socks wanted mending I’d have mended them.’
Santa was hurt. Besides, he must be talking rubbish. The duchess had often said, and Aunt Rebecca repeated: ‘The home is made by the woman.’
‘I’ve plenty to do,’ she said crossly. ‘But I didn’t know you could sew. Most men can’t.’
Gus laughed.
‘How d’you think I’ve managed all these years?’
Santa had not thought. She was just determined to be useful. She still wanted to be.
‘I should have thought,’ she said with dignity, ‘you would be glad of a woman about the –’ She stopped there because a caravan is not a house. ‘Well, homes are made by women, you know.’
‘I don’t.’ Gus pulled one of her plaits. ‘My home’s always been made by me. Now you run along and play with the other kids. You don’t see Fifi and Olga sitting around with work-baskets.’
Santa got up.
‘Fritzi does.’
Gus yawned.
‘Well, you go and sew dolls’ clothes with Fritzi. I’m going to have a lay down.’
Santa glared at the shut caravan door. Sew dolls’ clothes, indeed! and she getting on for twelve. Gus really was a most annoying man. Then she heard Olga and Sasha laughing. It was a nice afternoon. Perhaps it was quite a good thing Gus did not want his socks mended.
Peter had no better luck with his effort. It was worse for him because the reason he tried to be useful
was different. Santa wanted to be so useful that Gus could not bear to part with them. Peter could not forget what Ben had said. He found himself looking at Gus when Gus was not looking at him. Didn’t he want them? Had he been much more comfortable before they came?
Peter cleaned the car. He spent all the time that the first evening performance was on doing it. He borrowed the right things from Alexsis, who showed him what cloths and polish to use. When Gus came back between the shows Peter was looking very hot and dirty, and the car very nice indeed. Gus blinked at his car in surprise.
‘Kedgeree and rum! look at the car! Mr Ford himself wouldn’t know her.’
Peter grinned.
‘She does look better, doesn’t she?’
Peter only said that because he had to say something. He had never driven in a car until he met Gus, and had no thought of suggesting it was not clean enough for him. But unfortunately Gus was touchy about his car. He never had kept it very well. Ted Kenet and Maxim Petoff were always making jokes about it. When they made jokes Gus did not exactly mind, but it made him make resolutions to clean it up, which he never kept. He gave it a lick and a polish now and again, and that had to do. But that Peter should hint the car was dirty was quite a different thing. He lost his temper before he had time to think.
‘Sorry it wasn’t good enough for you as it was.’
Peter was indignant. It had been nice of him to clean the car.
‘I never said it wasn’t good enough for me. I just thought you’d be pleased, that’s all.’
Gus walked round his car, examining it as if to see if Peter had hurt the paint. He felt ashamed of himself and did not know how to say something nice to make up.
‘If I’d wanted you to clean it I could have asked you.’
‘But you never do,’ Peter flared at him. ‘You always look as if you thought I couldn’t do anything.’
This was so exactly what Gus did think that he did not say any more. He was afraid if he did he would make things worse. Instead he went into the caravan and shut the door.
Peter stood staring a moment at the door. He would have liked to burst it open and shout something rude. But he did not. Angrily he stooped and collected all the cleaning things. He moved to take them back to Alexsis. Then suddenly he had an idea. He put the cleaning things on the ground and picked up a handful of dirt. The jug of water was standing outside the caravan. He poured some of it on the dirt and made some mud. Then he looked at the car. He had taken a lot of trouble with the wings, which were clean enough to eat a meal off. Savagely he rubbed his mud on them. It spoilt the look of the car but he felt a lot better.
It was at Southport Santa had her first lesson in tumbling. She was playing on the cloth used for the water act with Olga, Sasha, Fifi, and Fritzi. Peter and Hans were sitting nearby making catapults. Fifi and Fritzi had been practising quite seriously. Olga and Sasha had been throwing themselves about in the way they always did. Fifi was the first to stop working. She looked at her watch and put on her jersey.
‘I have completed my half an hour. Papa says that is all that I should do without him, or it may be that I will do wrong and make a bad habit.’
Olga turned three cartwheels.
‘Me and Sasha work all day and we never make bad habits.’
Fifi looked under her eyelashes at Fritzi. She said nothing, but the look expressed a lot. The rough and ready way in which the Petoff children were allowed to work was a constant topic of conversation between the Schmidt and Moulin mothers. In fact, without it they would not have had much to talk about, for they did not like each other very much although they were always polite. But Mrs Moulin considered that the Schmidt children were well brought up, and Mrs Schmidt, though she could not go as far as that about Fifi, at least thought she was being well trained for her profession. Neither of them thought the Petoffs either well brought up or trained, and they liked to put their heads together and click their tongues and say so. Of course things like that are catching, and Fritzi and Fifi put their heads together and clicked their tongues about the Petoffs too. Not because they did not like them, on the whole they did, but because their training really was very casual. Besides, seeing their mothers clicking and gossiping made them think it was a smart thing to do.
Fritzi was not so easily satisfied as Fifi with a look or gesture to express her feelings. She liked to put things into words. She looked at Olga severely.
‘But you and Sasha many bad habits have.’
Sasha was trying to walk on his hands. He fell over at Fritzi’s feet.
‘We have not. My father says we can do a floor act this Christmas.’
Fifi and Fritzi looked shocked.
‘Such a child to tell such lies,’ said Fritzi.
Fifi did not use words, but the way her eyebrows and shoulders and hands flew up expressed a lot.
Santa did not know what it was all about.
‘Are you, Sasha? Is it a lie?’
‘But of course it is a lie,’ Fritzi explained. ‘In England such children may not work. Sasha is only eight.’
Sasha took some strutting bragging steps.
‘I didn’t say we was going to work in England. Maybe we go to Russia.’
Olga was holding her right leg over her head. She took her eyes off her foot to glare at Sasha.
‘That’s stupid. We can’t go to Russia. We shouldn’t be permitted.’
Fifi patted the foot Olga had on the ground.
‘We know. It’s that naughty Sasha. Always he is telling lies.’ She turned to Sasha. ‘If you are British you must not be in the circus as a child. For me, I can if I wish.’
‘Are you going to at Christmas, Fifi?’ Santa asked.
Fifi shrugged her shoulders.
‘I do not know. Perhaps. It may be in a theatre.’
Fritzi pursed up her mouth.
‘Mine father would not let us work. He says it will be time when we fifteen are.’
‘But what are you going to work at?’ said Santa. ‘You haven’t any sea-lions.’
Fritzi moved back a little to get out of the way of Olga, who was doing a series of flip-flaps round the canvas.
‘Mine mother has a sister. She was good on the flying trapeze. She marries an American. He is a great artiste. They have with them a man to work. They are “The Flying Mistrals”.’ She looked at Fifi, who nodded to say she had heard of them. ‘When we was in Germany mine aunt she teach me. It may be I work with mine aunt’s husband. It is that she get fat.’
‘Goodness!’ Santa was enormously impressed. ‘You mean you’ll be like Ted Kenet and Gus?’
Fifi tapped Santa’s hand with her finger.
‘But no. That is not flying. To fly there are two trapeze. They are wide apart. You swing from one to the other.’
Santa had never seen a flying trapeze. That Fritzi was even training for something so difficult she found very impressive. She looked at Fifi. It was funny now she came to think of it that she was always watching them practise but she had never thought what they were going to do. Somehow she had thought vaguely that the Petoffs would ride, the Schmidts train sea-lions, and Fifi would help with the poodles.
‘What are you going to do, Fifi?’
‘Next year I shall not go tenting with papa and maman. I am to stay in France. I am to be the pupil of Mink.’
She said ‘Mink’ in the sort of voice that people use when they expect other people to say: ‘Really! Mink! Just fancy!’ But Santa, of course, looked blank.
Olga dropped panting on the canvas beside them.
‘It’s no good hoping Santa’ll know, she never knows anything.’
Sasha crouched down on to his ankles.
‘She’s better than Peter. He knows nothing and then looks grand, like as if it was good to know nothing.’
‘He doesn’t!’ said Santa indignantly. ‘It isn’t our fault we don’t know things.’
‘That is right,’ Fifi agreed. ‘It is the fault of their dead aunt.’ She turned to Santa. ?
??Mink is the greatest clown there has ever been.’
‘But you don’t want to be a clown,’ Santa objected.
Fifi spoke slowly, as if she was speaking to a rather small and stupid baby.
‘You mustn’t say “clown” like that. Mink is a great artiste.’
‘Kolossal,’ Fritzi agreed.
Olga lay on her back and raised her legs over her head.
‘When he was seven he could do a routine and play the violin.’
Fritzi breathed heavily at the thought of such artistry.
‘And never one time breaks he the tune.’
‘When he was ten,’ Olga went on, ‘he could play all the wind instruments, and while he plays he juggles.’
‘He is a great musician,’ Fritzi explained. ‘And while that is so he is also the great tumbler. There was never a clown like him. Never.’
Santa turned to Fifi.
‘Isn’t he being a clown any more?’
Fifi looked dramatic.
‘All the world over he was the greatest artiste. People ran in the streets in London and New York and Berlin, it didn’t matter where. Always they said: “Look, there is Mink.” Then when he was one time in France war came.’
Sasha wriggled towards Fifi.
‘It was in your country they put him in prison.’
‘But certainly,’ Fifi agreed with dignity. ‘When there is a war there is no place for artistes.’
Fritzi picked a daisy.
‘He was not long in prison. Soon they know who he is and he is free. But he is detained. When the war over is all say:
“Where is Mink?”’
Fifi took up the story.
‘And Mink said: “Here I am, but I cannot be a clown any more.”’
‘Why not?’ asked Santa.