The horses were being ridden off to the station. Ben was supervising in the other half of the tent. Owing to the show being stopped his system had broken down. The bereiters were not back from the station yet to fetch the liberties. He was getting the greys away, but the chestnuts were still waiting.
Peter and Santa stood looking sadly at the bareness: at the place where the lions had stood; at the stalls that had held President, Rajah, Emperor, King, Rainbow, Whisky, Forrest, Magician, Piecrust, Wisher, Allah, Jupiter, Ferdinand, Biscuit, Halfpenny, Robin, Pennybun, and Masterman. Ben’s voice came drifting with the wind:
‘Don’t hustle ’em. But if you pass the other boys on the road send ’em back as quick as you can. That’s right, Alexsis, ride Carter. He’ll be easier when you’re leadin’.’
It was hard to hear even at that short distance because the wind was driving down to Ben. It was hard to stand up. With the big top down the gale was raging through the stables. Something came with it that for a moment Peter and Santa did not see. Somebody had thrown down a lighted cigarette. It blew in at the door glowing red. It buried itself in the straw in Soda’s stall.
With a draught like that it did not take a second for the straw to catch. Nor a second for Peter and Santa to see what was happening. Nor a second for Soda to lose his head. He reared and kicked. Peter could not be afraid of a horse even when he was panicking. He raced into the stall and untied Soda. Santa screamed for help, but her scream was part of the screaming of the wind. Ben outside, seeing off the rosin-backs, never heard it. It was no easy job leading out Soda. The flames were getting a hold on the straw. He did not want to go past them, but Peter saw how quickly the flames could blow into Rice’s stall, and so up the line. It was no time to wait for help. Using every ounce of strength and every soothing noise he knew he dragged Soda out.
‘Hold him,’ he said to Santa, ‘then lead him into the other half of the tent. Tell Ben what’s happened.’ He pulled off his coat.
‘What are you doing?’ Santa gasped.
‘Putting out the fire, of course.’
All the straw in the stall was now flaming or smoking. Santa could see that one boy could not deal with it all. Scared though she was of horses she dragged Soda over to President’s stall. She tied him up. As she turned back she saw Peter throw his coat on the blazing straw and roll on it. In a second she had hers off and was doing the same.
Ben came into the other half of the tent with two of the grooms. They stood sniffing. Then they all ran.
There was no need for the hurry. Peter had seen that the danger lay in the straw of the other horses catching, for that was the way the wind was going. It was the straw nearest Rice he put out first. When Santa joined him she rolled on the rest. When Ben and the grooms arrived the fire was out. Peter and Santa were standing holding their charred overcoats stamping on anything that smoked.
Quickly they told Ben what had happened.
‘You burnt?’ he asked. Peter had a small blister on his thumb. ‘Back you go to the caravan,’ he said. ‘Shove on some tea-leaves. That’ll keep out the air.’ He went over to soothe Soda. He gave him a pat. ‘You’re lucky, old man. If there was always people about who could keep their heads, we’d do fine.’
There was almost a party in Gus’s caravan that night. Everything which could be saved from the wreckage had been saved. Ted Kenet came along, and Ben, and presently Maxim and Alexsis, and much later the Moulins and the Schmidts. Santa was kept busy. She made bacon and eggs for them all. Everybody said she was a good cook. Then suddenly there was a knock on the door.
‘Marrow-bones and gravy, who’s that?’ said Gus. ‘I thought the rest had dossed down.’
Ted Kenet, who was nearest, opened the door. It was Mr Cob.
‘I smelt bacon and eggs,’ he said. ‘Can I come in?’
At once a place was found for him. Santa looked round from the stove.
‘How many eggs, Mr Cob?’
‘Three, Santa.’ He looked at her. Then he looked at Peter. ‘What are you doing with these kids, Gus? I hear they saved what might have been nasty trouble in the stables.’
Gus explained about Mrs Ford, and the technical schools later on. Mr Cobb nodded.
‘That’s fine. But there’s all sorts of education, Gus. It strikes me on the showing of tonight they’ve learned a good piece travelling with us. Can’t you keep ’em with us?’
Gus shook his head.
‘I would, but there’s no future for them here. You got to think of the future.’
‘Who says there’s no future?’ Ted sucked at a sweet. ‘I reckon that by the time she’s old enough I’ll have Santa better than any of your dancing butterflies. She’s got a natural aptitude’ – he winked at Santa – ‘when she works.’
Ben leant across the table, not to Mr Cob but to Maxim:
‘If I can keep this boy, Maxim, you can let your boy go. It’ll work right all round. I got Peter coming on nicely. He’s born to it. Takes to it natural. Your Alexsis is sore. You’re draggin’ at ’is mouth. That’s liable to spoil any young thing. Peter’s fourteen by Christmas year. If you need ’im by then, I’ll ’ave ’im ready.’
Mr Cob turned to Gus.
‘I’d like it, Gus. I owe the kids something. They can go to the quarters with you and go to school near by. Then Santa can work with Ted and later practise with the girls, and Peter can keep on under Ben. It’s a big chance, really.’
‘It is a big chance.’ Maxim looked at Alexsis. ‘You wish to go with the Elgins?’
Alexsis did not need to answer; his face was enough.
Maxim turned to Ben. ‘Peter has real talent?’
Ben nodded.
‘I said so. I don’t make no mistakes about ’osses nor riders.’
Everybody looked at Gus. Gus looked at Peter and Santa.
‘Kedgeree and rum! Don’t stare at me as if I had to do anything. There’s your offer, kids. Will you take it?’
Would they! Peter looked at Santa. They saw the years ahead. Long hours working in the ring for Peter. Long hours of training for Santa. They saw summers spent tenting. The lines of caravans travelling up dusty lanes. They saw green stars pointing the way. They saw flaring posters – THE CIRCUS IS COMING. They were so happy it hurt.
‘They don’t need to answer,’ said Mr Cob. ‘’Course they’re stopping with us. They belong.’
About the Author
Noel Streatfeild (1895–1986) was born in Sussex. Her father, a clergyman, was vicar of St. Leonards-on-Sea and then of Eastbourne during her childhood. She was one of five children and found vicarage life very restricting. At a young age, Streatfeild began to show a talent for acting and was sent to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London, after which she acted professionally for a number of years before turning to writing. After working through the blitz of the Second World War, Noel devoted herself to the field of children’s literature. She won the Carnegie Medal for her book Ballet Shoes, and was awarded an OBE in 1983. A vicarage daughter, factory girl, actress, model, social worker, writer, and crusader for good books, Streatfeild led a full life. Her experiences enriched her stories, which were so popular that, by her eightieth birthday, she had earned herself the title of a “national monument.”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1938, 1956 by Noel Streatfeild
Cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2106-7
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Noel Streatfeild, Circus Shoes
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