Circus Shoes

  ‘Here’s us,’ said Ben. He made clicking sounds. The horses moved. The coach was in the procession.

  It felt queer riding on a coach. Santa was frightened at first. She was afraid Peter would fall off. She was glad he was on the outside because she was quite certain she would not have held on for a minute. She was afraid the horses would bolt. Four horses seemed a lot for one man to be driving, especially a man as old as Ben. But presently she got used to the feeling, and then she began to enjoy it.

  They came into the main streets. Everybody stopped what they were doing, to look. Everybody, no matter what they looked like before, began to smile. The children, in the streets and hanging out of the windows, roared with laughter. The police had to hold up the traffic. The people in their motor cars did not seem to mind; they hung out of the windows and laughed with everybody else. You could hear what was passing in front of people by the noises they made. There was conversation about the horses because everybody wanted to point out their good points to somebody else. There were roars of laughter for the clowns and augustes. There were cooing sounds of people saying: ‘Aren’t they sweet!’ for the ponies, and again for the poodles, who were on the float behind the coach. There was a long ‘Ooh!’ for the elephants.

  The excitement in the street was catching. Before long Peter and Santa were excited too. You could not help it. It was grand to be part of something which pleased such a lot of people. To be even a little bit of such a gay procession. To Peter and Santa it was lovely to see other children wishing they were them. To know they lived in the world where this sort of thing was always happening. That ahead of them, in Bolton and Oldham, children were reading the advertisements for next week. That in all the towns they were visiting between now and October, children were saying: ‘The circus is coming! The circus is coming!’

  13

  ‘Mis’

  It was in Sheffield in the third week in May that Mis got ill. The children heard of it when, with Fritzi and Hans, they went to fetch Fifi for school. Usually Fifi was dressed and ready, waiting to shake hands and say good morning in her polite way. Today there was not a sign of her, in spite of their knocking. Then suddenly she came running from the direction of the stables. Her face was white and her eyes red with crying.

  ‘Something wrong was?’ said Fritzi nervously. She gripped Peter’s arm.

  Usually Peter hated his arm held, but this time he was so worried he did not notice it.

  It was quite a time before they could find out what had happened. The moment Fifi began to tell them she cried, and all they could hear was ‘Mis’.

  At last Fritzi asked a direct question:

  ‘Mis was gone dead?’

  Fifi raised her head.

  ‘No, but she was very sick.’

  Santa was sorry about Mis, but she could not think it would help if they were all late for school. She took Fifi’s arm.

  ‘I expect she’ll get all right. Come on. Perhaps when we get back she’ll be better.’

  They were a very drooping procession going to school. Even Sasha and Olga, who joined them, had not the heart to do more than walk quietly. The illness of a dog of Mis’s ability took the spirit out of them all.

  ‘How did it start?’ asked Olga. ‘Santa and me and Peter was in front last night. Mr Cob passed us in. She wasn’t ill then.’

  ‘It must have started in the night. It was early in the morning that maman sat up. she woke papa. “Quick!” she said. “Mis is ill. I feel it here.”’ Fifi clasped the place where her heart was, to show what her mother had done.

  ‘How did she know?’ Peter asked. ‘Did she hear her whining?’

  Olga, Sasha, Fritzi, Hans, and Fifi looked at him. Their faces showed they thought that he had said something very silly.

  ‘With us,’ Olga explained severely, ‘our animals are the same as children. If a baby is put to bed its mother may go to sleep and not worry. But suddenly in the night she’ll wake up, and some little thing that was different will come to her. “My baby is ill,” she’ll say. Then she’ll run. So it is with us.’

  ‘Well, but Mis wasn’t different last night,’ Peter objected. ‘We saw her. She was just the same as usual.’

  ‘To you, yes,’ Fifi agreed. ‘But not to maman. And she was right.’ She lowered her voice dramatically. ‘Papa ran to the stables. He went to Mis’s kennel. She lay still. At first he thought she was sleeping. Then he laid his hand on her. She was stiff and cold. She was unconscious.’

  ‘Goodness!’ Santa was appalled at the thought of energetic, lively Mis lying unconscious. ‘What did your father do?’

  ‘Maman had followed him. They picked Mis up. They wrapped her in blankets. They pour water on her head. Presently she opened her eyes. Then maman fed her with the white of an egg beaten with brandy. They feel her to see if she has any pain. They think that perhaps she has been poisoned.’

  ‘Poisoned!’ all the children exclaimed.

  Fifi made a gesture to show that anything was possible.

  ‘Where there is so great an artiste there is always jealousy.’

  ‘Well, had she been?’ asked Peter.

  ‘No. That very day there had been new kennels. Better in front. It is impossible for anyone to pass anything through. Besides, Mis has no trouble inside. She has no fever. It is just that she’s unhappy. She cries and cries. My papa fetches a vet. A very good vet. He can find nothing. But today she’s no better. Her lovely coat doesn’t shine. She won’t eat. She won’t drink.’

  Sasha pulled her sleeve.

  ‘Will she be in the show today?’

  Fifi shrugged her shoulders and raised her hands.

  ‘Who knows? She cannot go on the parade this morning. She won’t leave her kennel.’

  ‘Perhaps the air of Sheffield disagrees with her,’ Santa suggested.

  Fifi shook her head.

  ‘It’s worse than that. Sometimes it may be the place doesn’t suit. But then a little powder and all is well. Maman says she remembers now that since Sunday when we arrived she has been quiet. Last night she thinks she was still more quiet.’

  ‘Nobody has brought a dog near her, have they?’ Olga asked. ‘Could she have caught anything? You know, she might have.’

  ‘Perfectly,’ Fifi agreed. ‘But if that was so she would have fever. Nor has she a chill. On Sunday, when the stables are built, there was a dip in the ground where the dogs are put to play when the menagerie is shown. So papa went to Monsieur Schmidt and asked if for this one week he will change places. So he puts his sea-lions at the end next to the elephants.’

  Fritzi and Hans had heard of this change. Mr and Mrs Schmidt had agreed to it, but at home they had sniffed and said the fuss the Moulins made about their dogs was ridiculous. There had been no rain for days to make the dip damp. However, this was no moment to say anything about being fussy. Fritzi and Hans just looked at each other and said nothing.

  After school they all hurried home. They followed Fifi to the stables. Both Mr Moulin and Lucille were sitting by Mis’s kennel. The other dogs were playing about in an enclosure in the sun outside, but Mis lay in her basket with lack-lustre eyes. The children looked expectantly at Mr Moulin and Lucille. Lucille got up and came to them. Even in a moment of extremis like this she could not forget her manners.

  ‘Good morning, Fritzi and Hans. Good morning, Peter and Santa.’

  They all spoke at once.

  ‘Good morning. How is Mis?’

  Lucille shrugged her shoulders and raised her hands. Her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Ill.’

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’ asked Santa.

  Lucille sighed. ‘Who can say? The vet can find nothing.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s a mood,’ Olga suggested.

  ‘That may be,’ Lucille agreed. ‘I have said I believe she is suffering here.’ She held her heart.

  ‘But why should she?’ Peter argued. ‘Nothing’s happened.’

  Lucille sighed again.

  ?
??Who can say? With a great artiste it may be a little thing. They are such children. Once we have a dog; she was a dog from Holland. A very clever dog, but to us she was quiet. “She has no temperament, that one,” I said. My husband said: “She has temperament, but she is a Hollander. Hollanders do not show how they feel.” He was right. One day that dog is ill. She cannot eat. We try her with everything. Still she will not eat. The next day it is the same. She takes nothing, but nothing at all. That night I wake up. I wake my husband. I say: “I know how it is that Gretchen will not eat. Come, I will show you.” We get up and go to the stables. The watchman brings us a light. Gretchen is asleep in her basket in her kennels. I have with me some bread in hot milk. I call “Vooruit Gretchen, vooruit!” Gretchen jumps up. She comes to me. She eats. You see how it was. We had that week finished teaching her to speak French. We taught her so well that we spoke it to her altogether. In the ring she would not mind, but now we were speaking it for her food. That made her homesick. She will not eat. After that we speak Hollander and she is not ill again.’

  Peter looked puzzled.

  ‘But you haven’t talked anything but French to Mis, have you?’

  ‘But no. But it may be some little thing has hurt her feelings. She is so sensitive, that one.’

  Fifi took her mother’s hand. ‘Will she work today, maman?’

  Lucille stooped and kissed Fifi’s anxious face.

  ‘Yes. She will work. She is the artiste born. It will be in the ring as if there was nothing wrong. Now you must smile, my little one. Come, I have a nice déjeuner waiting for you.’

  Mis was able to work at both shows. She gave her usual witty performance. Whatever her trouble, she never let the audience know anything was wrong.

  Early the next morning, when Peter went for his riding-lesson, he went to the kennels to inquire for her. Violette, Simone, and Marie were playing about in their enclosure outside. Mr Moulin was hanging their blankets up to air. There was no sign of Mis. Peter felt a sinking inside as if he was going down in a lift. No Mis. Had she died in the night? Mr Moulin saw what he was wondering.

  ‘It’s all right, Peter. We took her to sleep in the caravan.’

  ‘Is she better this morning?’

  Mr Moulin fastened leads on to Violette, Simone, and Marie. His face was sad.

  ‘No.’

  Nothing could take away Peter’s pleasure in his riding lesson, but inside he had that dull ache you get when something is wrong, even if you are not actually thinking about it.

  He was getting on well with his riding. He needed no help to mount Mustard now. Ben had taken away his stirrups. He did not believe you could make a rider unless you could trot without them.

  ‘Movin’ by slow ways, that’s my method,’ he said. ‘No stirrups now, not till August. Before then I’ll put you up on a lot of diff’rent ’osses. You got to ride ’em when they’re lively, and difficult to handle. When I can put you on any ’oss in the stables and you can make him know from the beginnin’ you’re not one he can take liberties with, then we’re getting somewhere.’

  ‘What’ll I do in August?’ Peter asked.

  Ben chewed his straw thoughtfully.

  ‘Maybe I’ll see how you shape at high-school.’

  Peter was so surprised he felt as if somebody had hit him in the wind. Haute école, of which Alexsis had said: ‘This is the most best work in riding.’

  ‘Do you mean what the Kenets and Paula do?’

  Ben nodded.

  ‘By the time I was second head of the stables I was teachin’ it. It’s pretty work for the ’osses, and fine control for the riders.’

  ‘But it’s proper circus riding. Could I?’

  Ben moved his straw across to the other side of his mouth.

  ‘From all I hear, it wasn’t always used in a circus. There was a gentleman come round once. Artist he was. Always paintin’ the ’osses. Tented with us one or two summers. He telled me that time of Oliver Cromwell, you know him in the history books, his special bodyguard like was all trained in it. The artist he tells me it was a right good idea. He says the passes left and right was just the thing for fightin’ with a sword.’

  Peter tried to picture himself fighting with a sword on horse-back. He saw a mental figure of himself dressed as a Roundhead, his sword thrusting left and right. And as he moved, he saw the horse moving with him.

  ‘It would be a good thing to do. It would be much better than an ordinary horse that only goes backwards and forwards.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Ben sucked his straw meditatively. ‘Mind you, it’s true. I heard tell there was a statue to King Charles what had a ’oss doin’ high-school work. So last time I was at the winter stables I takes a day off and goes up to see. I had the name of the place where it was wrote on a bit of paper.’

  ‘Did you find it all right?’

  Ben nodded.

  ‘Very nice it was, too. Nicely trained the ’oss seemed. Must ’ave come hard on him posin’ that long. It’s ’ard enough to get a ’oss to hold his position while his photo’s took. Shouldn’t care for the job of keepin’ ’im quiet while they made a statue of ’im.’

  ‘Can I start at the beginning of August? When my holidays begin?’

  ‘Maybe. We’ll see how you shape. You keep your legs down better. Sittin’ the way I often sees you, with your toes turned in, you couldn’t use a spur. I’d ’ave me ’osses ripped raw.’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’ Peter said indignantly.

  Ben never noticed when people were cross; his voice was as slow and mild as usual.

  ‘Couldn’t ’elp it, son. If your toes is turned in, then you forces the calves of your legs out. Sittin’ that way your ’oss won’t feel your leg before the spur like he should. And when you ’ave to use the spur, it won’t be a gentle touch like is proper, you’ll ’ave to jab. Sittin’ that way, you can’t do nothin’ else.’

  Peter longed to argue. He was certain Ben was wrong. If he only had some spurs on he would show him. But it was a waste of time arguing with Ben. He never seemed to notice you were arguing. He never supposed anyone would want to argue with him about horses or riding.

  After the lesson Peter went with Mustard to his stall. He gave him a pat and some carrots, and walked down the stables. He liked it in there. He knew most of the stable lads by name now. At this hour of the morning they were all about. Doing the stables. Cleaning the harness. Grooming the horses. The bereiters leading the different horses into the ring for exercise. There was a nice cheerful noise of hissing during the grooming. The horses stamped. There was a good smell of stables. Usually most of the men had a word to say, but this morning they were all gossiping among themselves. Peter stopped by the stable lad he knew best.

  ‘Has something happened, Nobby?’

  Nobby pretended to be intent on Magician’s hind-legs, which he was brushing. He spoke quietly.

  ‘There’s trouble with one of the elephants. Kundra’s in a rare takin’.’

  ‘Which elephant?’

  ‘Ranee. The little one on the end of the line.’

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’

  ‘Turned nasty-tempered. Got at one of the men this morning and threw him down. If Mr Cob hears he won’t let her won’t let her work. He’d never ’ave one you couldn’t trust in the ring.’

  ‘But all the elephants are good-tempered. I always feed them.’

  ‘Well, you better not get too near Ranee today, or you may get something you don’t expect.’

  ‘Funny her getting suddenly angry.’

  Nobby gave Magician a slap.

  ‘Get over, can’t you!’ He gave a glance in the direction of the elephants. ‘It all comes of keepin’ wild beasts. You give me ’orses. You knows where you are with them.’

  Peter walked towards the elephants. Kundra was there talking to the head keeper. From a cautious distance Peter had a look at Ranee. As far as he could see she was exactly as usual. She swayed from side to side. Her trunk was held out hopeful
ly on the chance that some passer-by might have a fragment to give away.

  ‘Well,’ Kundra was saying, ‘give her that with her food. Maybe the weather has upset her. These spring days are apt to get them a bit down.’

  ‘Right,’ the keeper agreed. He and Kundra went out of the tent. They were talking so hard they never noticed Peter.

  From his safe position Peter went on looking at Ranee. He felt sorry for her. Perhaps she was feeling as Ben said Mustard felt in the early autumn. Ben said Mustard missed the smell of falling leaves and would go off his food. Was Ranee missing the smell of new plants coming up? Peter had very vague ideas about what sort of country elephants were used to. Jungles, he supposed. He did not know what grew in jungles, but whatever it was probably got new leaves in the spring. Perhaps Ranee was missing the smell of them. He felt in his pocket. He had a few carrots. There were always carrots in the caravan and he took some to give Mustard. These were spare ones. It would be nice to give them to Ranee to cheer her up. But he did not at all want to be thrown on the ground. He took a few steps forward. Ranee did not look cross. He took another few steps. He got the carrots out. Perhaps if she saw he was bringing carrots she would know he meant to be nice. Three more steps and he could reach her. He looked round. Nobody was about. If he went back to the caravan now nobody would know he had meant to give Ranee carrots and had not because he was afraid. He stood irresolute for a second. Should he go home? Then he looked at Ranee. She must have seen the carrots. It would be mean to take them away now. He took the steps forward. He held out his hand.