Circus Shoes

  ‘I’m going to be a groom.’

  ‘A groom! What, like one of the men in the stables?’

  Peter nodded.

  ‘There’s no need to sound grand about it. Our father was. Anyway, it’s a jolly good job. You can ride the horses when you like.’

  Santa just stared at him. In the old days she had known what he was thinking about things, even though they never talked about them. But now Peter seemed changed and she never knew. Fancy him thinking he would be a groom. It was only a little time ago that he had been angry to find their father had been one. She was changing too, she knew. But all the same not enough to make her think being a cook like her grandmother would be a good thing to do; when Ted had spoken of it she had taken it for granted he was joking.

  ‘Would you try to be one in the circus?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No. Not to begin with. They don’t have boys of fifteen. I’ve talked to some of them. Nobby and some of the others. They say the best chance for a boy would be in private work, where somebody keeps hunters.’

  ‘Could you get that?’

  Peter picked a grass. He put it in his mouth.

  ‘I think it’s the thing I’d get easiest. All those people, the duchess and that Lady Vansittart, are just the sort of people who keep grooms.’

  Santa stared in front of her. She saw the sitting-room in London, just after Aunt Rebecca died, when they were so miserable.

  ‘Do you remember our lessons?’

  ‘It was lucky we came away. We were awful fools.’

  Santa thought of school.

  ‘Are you getting cocky? We aren’t all that bright now.’

  Peter threw himself on her. He rolled her over and tickled her.

  ‘Pax!’ she screamed. ‘Pax!’

  ‘Not till you say you’re sorry for calling me cocky.’

  ‘I am,’ she wheezed. Peter let her go. She sat up. ‘Fancy me calling any one cocky who only wanted to be a groom.’ Peter made a move to roll her over once more. She stopped him. ‘No. I won’t say it again. How are you going to get to them as a groom? Will you write to that Lord Bronedin?’

  ‘When I get a chance I’m going to ask Gus to write. That Mr Stibbings asked if the annuity could go on is all they know about us. But they might remember Gus. At least the old ones would.’

  ‘Is it because you want to be a groom you’re always in the stables?’

  Peter got up.

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘It’s the horses. They’re much more interesting than people, and much easier. They aren’t different every day.’

  They began strolling back towards the caravan. Santa stopped to pick a daisy.

  ‘Nor are people.’

  ‘Yes, they are. When they have a mood they feel angry inside and then they’re angry with somebody else to work it off. When a horse has a mood he’s just miserable. He doesn’t get angry with other people.’

  Santa stuck the daisy through the wool of her practice dress.

  ‘Well, you can have them. I like horses all right, but I can’t tell them apart. Their faces are so alike,’

  Peter snorted with disgust at such a silly statement. Then he stopped and sniffed.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’

  ‘It’s chicken. I’d forgotten. Goodness, I’m hungry. Let’s run.’ On the Sunday at Taunton directly the build-up was finished Peter went to find Ben. He found him in the stables. He was leaning against a post staring at Canada. He was chewing his usual straw. He did not look up, but Peter knew that he realized he was there.

  ‘Mr Cob’s gettin’ rid of old Canada here.’

  Peter was horrified. He had come to feel getting rid of a horse was like getting rid of a child.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s going to America. We had six other greys we sold there.’

  ‘But why? He’s very good in the liberty act. He does a decapo.’

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

  ‘One of the other ’osses can do that, son. We’re breaking in a whole lot more greys before next tenting. Maxim and Mr Cob, they want sixteen of them.’

  ‘Well, then, they’ll need Canada.’

  ‘No. He’s not as good a match as the others. Matchin’ up well is a lot to do with smartness in the ring.’

  ‘When’s he going?’

  ‘Couple of weeks. I’ll be sending one of my boys with him.’

  Peter looked at Canada with pity.

  ‘I do hope he won’t hate it.’

  Ben nodded.

  ‘So do I. Never could bear to sell a ’oss I’d had any time.’

  ‘But what’s Lorenzo going to do without him?’

  ‘Or ’im without Lorenzo. That’s what I’ve been tellin’ Mr Cob. He says they’ll settle, but I says I doubts it. I broke both of them. Never been parted, they haven’t.’

  ‘Poor Canada!’

  ‘It’s more Lorenzo what’s troublin’ me. Seems like the one that’s left always feels it most. Canada, he’ll ’ave strange people and all that. Lorenzo will jus’ stand and look at Canada’s stall. I don’t like it.’

  ‘Couldn’t they both go?’

  Ben nodded.

  ‘They could. They was wantin’ a pair for America, but Mr Cob, ’e says “No.” ’E’s a wonderful waltzer, is Lorenzo, and he won’t part with ’im.’

  Peter gave Lorenzo a pat. He felt in his pockets for some sugar for him and Canada. He went into Canada’s stall and fondled him while he fed him. He looked at Ben over his shoulder.

  ‘Do you know it’s August this week?’

  ‘I’aven’t forgotten.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t think I said beginnin’ of August, did I?’

  ‘No. You said you’d see how I shaped. Am I shaping better?’

  Ben spat out his straw.

  ‘Yes. We’ll start tomorrow. I’m going to have a doss down now. Didn’t get much sleep. Seemed to be shuntin’ us all last night.’

  Peter looked after him. He felt swollen with happiness. Tomorrow he would start haute école. He would be allowed to try if he could make a horse obey every little movement that he made. To take a horse through that difficult routine must be the grandest feeling in the world.

  He looked at President. He went across and gave him a friendly pat.

  ‘It must be awful to be him,’ he thought. ‘Too proud to have a friend in the world.’ Careful to keep well away from his heels, he sidled up the stall and gave him a lump of sugar. President ate the lump. Peter thought he looked surprised. As a matter of fact he was. It was a long time since anybody had singled him out for special attention. Not knowing Peter was starting to learn high-school riding in the morning, he wondered what he was celebrating.

  What with Peter not having wanted her at his early riding lessons, and afterwards because she had other things to do Santa had never watched one. But at Exeter she was there by accident. Since Ted Kenet’s talk on work she got up at half past seven and did her exercises before breakfast. There was an alarm clock which woke her. It was in a drawer in the caravan doing nothing and Gus said she could borrow it for her tent. This morning it went off as usual. She yawned and stretched and got out of bed. She poured some water into her basin. Washing was one of the few things about tenting she did not like. Even in the middle of August she hated cold water. She shivered as it ran down her. Having washed, she brushed and plaited her hair. She put on her practice dress. It was then she heard the pit-a-pat on the canvas. She went to the tent flap and looked out. It was raining, Not just a few drops but a hard, steady downpour. Much too wet to practise outside. She pulled her mackintosh off its hook and put on her wellingtons. She went out and across to the big top. At this hour she would find somewhere where nobody was working. As she splashed along she had become sufficiently fond of the circus to feel sorry it was a pull-down day. If this went on the men would have a bad time getting out.

  The weather had kept most people away from early wo
rk. There was nobody in sight except Ben, who was leaning against one of the king-poles chewing his usual straw, and Peter, who was riding. Santa chose a place in the main entrance to work. She took off her mackintosh and boots. She went into the big top to put them on a seat. Then she stood staring at Peter.

  ‘Make him change now, Peter.’ Ben spoke clearly in spite of the straw. ‘’E’s cantered enough on that fore … Stop ’im … That’s right. Now start ’im on the near fore … Circle to the right … That’s it. Now start again … Keep doin’ it over and over till you’ve got ’im nice and light to ’andle … Stop … Make ’im start clean at the first pressure of your leg. Remember ’osses is like children. They don’t want more orderin’ about than they must ’ave, but if you do give one see it’s obeyed instant … That’s nice an’ clean … Don’t let ’im ’urry … ’Urrying, ’e gets ’is aunches out of line.’

  In the shadow in the entrance Santa was not seen. In any case both Ben and Peter were too absorbed to notice any one. To say Santa was startled was to put it mildly. If she had thought about Peter’s riding lessons at all she had pictured him just sitting quietly on a horse which walked slowly round the ring. But all this cantering was startling. Besides, even to her ignorant eye Peter had a good seat. He looked part of the horse. Besides, he was so calm and confident carrying out Ben’s orders. She made a face at herself. Look at him! Why hadn’t he told her how good he was getting? No wonder he thought he had better be a groom.

  She went back to the entrance and began her exercises. She worked especially hard. If Peter could ride like that it was time she did something well. She sat down and held her toes. She straightened her knees. She bent forward. She would get her forehead right down to her knees today. Peter wasn’t going to be the only one who could do things.

  It was while she was working that something made her remember what day it was. Saturday! Goodness, they’d be at Torquay tomorrow! Then it would only be three days to Gus’s birthday. She must catch Peter after his lesson. Nobody had said anything more about fireworks. Perhaps they could risk buying the driving gloves that morning. Exeter was a big town. Just the sort of place to buy them.

  She found Peter in the stables. He was feeding Mustard and talking to Ben.

  ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘It’s raining. I couldn’t practise outside.’ She came up to Peter. She whispered although she knew it was rude, but really there was nothing else to do. ‘Do you think we could get the gloves today? It’s next Wednesday.’

  Peter hated her whispering. It looked, he thought, as if they were saying something about Ben.

  ‘Don’t whisper in my ear,’ he grumbled. ‘It tickles. Why can’t you speak up? There’s nothing Ben can’t hear.’

  Santa was indignant. They had kept all their plans for Gus’s birthday secret. Peter was a fool. He might have thought what she was whispering. Very well, she would teach him. She raised her voice to a positive roar.

  ‘I was saying it’s Gus’s birthday next Wednesday and shall we get the gloves today?’

  Ben spat out his straw.

  ‘Gus got a birthday next week?’

  ‘Yes.’ Peter suddenly thought what a good idea it would be to ask Ben’s advice. He always knew things. ‘We asked all the others what we’d do about it. We thought of asking some people to tea and a cake. Then we want to give him some new driving gloves.’

  Ben picked up another straw.

  ‘If you asked the kids what to do I reckon they’ll ’ave fixed a fancy dress party or some such.’

  Santa looked at Peter.

  ‘I wish we’d asked him before.’

  Peter gave Mustard another carrot.

  ‘They want a picnic, and then to give him a concert afterwards. Not Santa and me, of course, because we can’t do anything, but they will. And then they did say fireworks. But if we buy the fireworks we shan’t have enough for the gloves.’

  Ben chewed thoughtfully.

  ‘You don’t want to go payin’ much attention to what the kids say,’ he said after a bit. ‘Full of plans, they are. Most of ’em won’t come off. This one won’t. For why? Gus, ’e wouldn’t turn out for no picnic, not if you dragged ’im. You can’t ’ave fireworks. One, on account the law don’t allow it. Can’t have a lot of folks sending off fireworks in the middle of the town. Second, Mr Cob wouldn’t ’ave it. Not on account of upsetting the animals he wouldn’t. They ought to ’ave thought of that.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Santa, ‘they haven’t said anything more about them.’

  ‘Nor will.’ Ben gave Tapioca a friendly smack. ‘Like as not they spoke of them at home. They’d soon be told it was foolishness.’

  Santa looked worried.

  ‘But if we don’t have a picnic what’ll we do about the cakes? Mrs Schmidt has made a proper birthday one, or at least she’s bought the things for it, and Mrs Moulin is making little ones.’

  ‘Well, eat ’em.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Out or in. All accordin’ to how the weather is.’

  ‘Will Gus like that?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Well’ – Ben sucked his straw –‘’course as you’re gettin’ on you don’t care for birthdays like you did. More especial a man in Gus’s profession. Don’t want to be too old, doing the work he does. Mind you, when you get as old as me you don’t mind. I have my birthday round Christmas. They ’ave a bit of supper for me now. Mr Cob, ’e proposes my health. “Here’s to Mr Willis,” ’e says. ‘May ’e live to be a hundred and still with us.’ Then all the artistes and my boys they drinks to me. ‘Mr Willis,’ they says. Just as if they always called me that. I reckon Gus’ll like a cake and that. He’s not had much fussin’ over, Gus hasn’t. A little won’t do him no harm.’

  It was fine on the Wednesday at Torquay. Peter told Santa as he went off to his riding lesson.

  ‘It’s fine, Santa.’

  Santa came outside to do her practice. The Schmidt twins came flying up to her.

  ‘It’s fine, Santa. It was a beautiful day.’

  Fifi looked out of her caravan window at the Schmidt twins walking by.

  ‘Good morning, Hans. Good morning, Fritzi. It’s fine.’

  They gave Gus his gloves at breakfast. They put the parcel by his plate. Gus picked it up.

  ‘What’s this?’

  At that moment Hans and Fritzi came and stood outside and sang.

  ‘It’s for you, Gus,’ Santa said anxiously. ‘It’s for your birthday. You must listen.’

  Gus did listen. He stood on the steps of the caravan and heard the song right through to the end. Hans and Fritzi sang it nicely. When they had finished Gus grinned at them.

  ‘Fancy you making a song for me. Very nice, thank you. Well, my breakfast will be getting cold. So long.’ He came in and sat down and opened his parcel. ‘Funny, these foreigners,’ he said as he cut the string. ‘Singing for my birthday!’ But he seemed rather pleased.

  He was quite stunned by the gloves.

  ‘Cabbages and cheese, look at them! We shan’t know ourselves on Sunday mornings.’ He grinned at Peter. ‘I’ll have to clean up the car to live up to them.’ Then he turned them over. ‘Where did you kids get money? Thought you hadn’t any.’

  Peter expected that question.

  ‘I earned it. I can’t tell you how. But it’s all right.’

  Gus nodded.

  ‘That’s fine.’ He looked at the gloves. ‘Very handsome. Well, how about these bacon and eggs?’

  The party was a great success. Directly Gus heard about the cake he asked the parent Moulins, Schmidts, and Petoffs, as well as the children. The grown-ups sat on chairs and had plates on their knees. The children sat on the ground. Gus even liked the concert. He grumbled about the way the Petoffs slurred their movements, and he told Hans he looked too solemn while he was working. Peter and Santa were worried that Olga, Sasha, and Hans would not like being criticized, seeing they were doing it specially for Gus’s pa
rty. But nobody minded. In fact, it started a very good discussion on hand-stands. The party finished by Gus, Maxim Petoff, Mr Schmidt, Mr Moulin, Hans, Fritzi, Fifi, Olga, and Sasha all doing hand-stands at once. They were quite startled when Lucille looked at her watch and said she must go and make up.

  ‘That’s the worst of a good time,’ said Gus. ‘It goes so quick.’

  Santa dug her elbow into Peter. He dug her back. Nobody could want a nicer compliment than that about a party.

  16

  Gus Speaks

  It was not easy to swim, even after weeks of doing it on a box, as Syd had hoped. Every day at Torquay and Bourne-mouth they struggled, Syd, up to his waist in water, walking beside first one and then the other with a hand under their chins, saying: ‘One, two. One, two.’ Then at Portsmouth Peter did six strokes alone, and was too worried to be pleased about it.

  On the Thursday night at Bournemouth Canada was boxed and sent with one of the bereiters over to Southampton to sail to America. Early on Friday Peter went to call Lorenzo to see how he was feeling and to bring him some carrots. He seemed quite cheerful. The same thing happened on Saturday morning. On Sunday he was waiting in the stables when Lorenzo was ridden up from the station. He was still all right. On the Monday morning Peter had only time to give him a pat and a lump of sugar after his riding lesson, as school had begun again. He had meant to run down and see him after afternoon school, but Syd was waiting to take them swimming.

  ‘Have to make it snappy,’ he said. ‘We’re not so near the sea, and I must be here by half past five sharp.’

  Directly they came back from the bathing Peter got some lumps of sugar and hurried to the stables. Mr Cob, Ben, and two of the stable hands were standing round Lorenzo’s stall. Lorenzo was looking wretched. He dropped all over. All the brushing he had received had not made his coat shine.

  ‘I gave him a bran mash ’stead of his oats ration,’ Ben was saying. ‘He didn’t finish it. There’s nothing really wrong with him, except ’e’s pinin’.’

  Mr Cob shook his head.

  ‘Looks like you were right, Ben. I shouldn’t have separated him and Canada. Seems queer, though. He was all right at first after he went.’