Circus Shoes

  Santa was just going to answer that she certainly would when they heard a rumble behind them. A large wagon was coming towards them. It was painted white and green. When it turned they saw COB’S CIRCUS painted in great letters across its side.

  ‘Here they come,’ said the man. ‘You can watch the build-up, but don’t get in the way.’ He went back into his caravan and shut the door.

  From that moment it was as if magic were possible. It seemed to the children a whole town grew under their eyes. The wagon was followed by a stream of lorries, all painted green and white, all mysteriously knowing exactly where they ought to go. All over the lorries men were sitting who, the moment they arrived, tumbled off like leaves blowing from a tree. In what seemed only a few minutes a great mess-tent was put up beside the wagon which had just arrived. All the men helped to put up the tent. Then out of the lorry they pulled trestle-tables and benches which they erected inside the tent. While they worked a glorious smell of frying bacon came from the wagon.

  Even though Peter and Santa had eaten enormous breakfasts, they could not help wishing the bacon was for them.

  Meanwhile more wagons and lorries were arriving every minute. The lorries bundled across the grass dropping men off them all the way, but seeming to know where they wanted to be and why. The wagons were attached to caterpillar tractors which manoeuvred them at enormous speed and with great accuracy to exactly where they were to stand.

  By now the sun was right up. The sea below was getting more and more blue. There had been a little mist hanging about the grass and hedges, but it was fading away. An air of bustle and gaiety was everywhere.

  There was a tap of water outside the mess-tent. A man came out with a cake of soap and a towel to have a wash. He grinned at Peter and Santa.

  ‘Come to see the build-up?’

  They agreed. Then Peter asked:

  ‘Could you tell me if Mr Possit is here yet?’

  The man soaped behind his ears.

  ‘Gus!’ He looked round the ground. ‘No. None of the artistes are here yet. Be along soon now.’ He put his head under the tap, washed off the soap, and walked off drying himself.

  Peter frowned after him.

  ‘I think it’s a bit odd of a man like that to call our uncle “Gus”.’

  Santa picked a buttercup.

  ‘I wonder why he called him an artist. Artists paint.’

  ‘Whatever he does,’ Peter argued, ‘he shouldn’t call him Gus. It’s what Aunt Rebecca called a familiarity.’

  Santa held the buttercup under his chin to see whether he liked butter. It was hard on so springlike a day, with the smell of the sea in your nose, to remember dull things that a duchess had said. But a sentence floated back to her.

  ‘Only those who permit familiarities receive them.’ She glanced up. Then gripped Peter’s arm. ‘Look, aren’t they pretty?’

  A string of caravans had arrived. One by one they climbed the hill and turned on to the ground. Each caravan was painted green sprinkled with white stars. Each was towed by a car. Each car seemed bursting with people, men, women, and children. As they arrived they called cheerful ‘good mornings’ to each other and the tent-men.

  Like everything else in Cob’s Circus the caravans knew just where they had to go. Each car backed its caravan into its proper place, then, first disgorging its passengers, moved off behind to park. In a steady stream caravans kept on arriving. Side by side they stood, a little way off from the big wagons. When they were all in place they looked like a fairy-tale street.

  Such a noise and laughing came from the caravan dwellers. The great topic was by which route they had come, and how those that had got there first managed it.

  The moment the caravan street was built, cattles were produced and a somebody run for water.

  ‘I wish our uncle would come,’ said Satan. ‘All this making breakfast is getting me hungry again.’

  Peter nodded at the caravans.

  ‘Perhaps he’s in one of those.’

  ‘Goodness!’ Santa’s face lit at the thought. ‘I wish he was. Perhaps we’d live in it, too. Wouldn’t it be lovely? Do go and ask if he’s here.’

  But Peter hung back. Asking a passing man was one thing. But going up to those chattering groups, half of whom did not speak proper English, was quite another. He had an awful feeling they might not understand what he said, and perhaps they would laugh when his back was turned.

  ‘Let’s wait a minute. Just look what they’re doing over there.’

  An extraordinary change was coming over the scene. What had looked like a scattered town had suddenly become a focal point.

  Round the masts a lorry had deposited bundles of canvas. The children had watched the men throw them down, but at the time it had meant nothing to them; there was so much to wonder at they had not time to puzzle over details. But now they saw what they meant. The men had finished breakfast and like ants they were swarming over the ground. The bundles were unpacked, and proved to be parts of an enormous tent. With rope all these parts were laced together. Peter and Santa gasped.

  ‘My word, it’ll be as large as Convent Garden Market when it’s up,’ said Peter. ‘Look at it all.’

  Santa stared up at the top of the masts.

  ‘Do you think it’s going to go up there?’

  Peter nodded.

  ‘Yes. I think those are the things that hold it up. I …’

  He broke off, hearing laughing.

  A boy and a girl were standing by them. There was something unusual about them. The boy was about eight and the girl ten. But they had older faces than their bodies. Both had large brown eyes, high check-bones, and a mass of curly hair. They were wearing heavy coats of a rather queer cut, and wellingtons. They spoke English, but, by putting emphasis on peculiar words and syllables, it sounded wrong.

  ‘Haven’t you never seen the big top go up before?’ the boy asked Santa.

  ‘No. As a matter of fact we’ve never seen a circus.’

  The boy and girl stared at Peter and Santa as if they had just said they came from Mars.

  ‘Never seen a circus?’ As the girl spoke she bent slowly backwards until her hands touched the ground and she stood in a hoop. She went on talking in that position. ‘Can you do this?’

  ‘No.’ Santa looked at her anxiously. ‘Doesn’t it hurt?’

  ‘Hurt!’ The girl straightened herself. ‘’Course not. It’s only a back-bend. My name’s Olga. What’s yours?’

  ‘Santa.’

  The boy turned a cart-wheel.

  ‘That’s like mine. It’s Sasha. What’s his?’

  Peter did not like being talked about as if he were a statue or something.

  ‘Peter.’

  Sasha did not seem to realize he had spoken, because he answered Santa.

  ‘We’ve a brother as big as him. His name is Alexsis. He’s going into the act next winter.’

  Olga turned a somersault.

  ‘Not if he doesn’t work he isn’t. Father says he’s lazy. We’ve a big sister called Paula. She works with the Kenets.’

  Santa made a face towards the caravans to suggest to Peter this was the moment to ask about Uncle Gus. Peter made an agreeing face back.

  ‘Do you know if Mr Possit has arrived yet?’

  Olga and Sasha stood still for a moment. They looked at Peter, then at each other. They giggled.

  ‘He does speak,’ Sasha said.

  Peter frowned.

  ‘Of course I do! Why did you think I didn’t?’

  Olga lifted one of her legs above her head.

  ‘We thought you were out of a shop. One of those things they put clothes on in a window.’

  Santa saw Peter hated this so she said quickly:

  ‘Do you think Mr Possit’s here?’

  Olga put down her leg and raised the other one.

  ‘Don’t know him.’

  Sasha did a hand-stand.

  ‘He means Gus.’

  Olga stared up at her foot over he
r head.

  ‘I never did know that Gus’s name was Possit.’

  ‘’Tis though.’ Sasha did the splits. ‘He got here before we did.’

  Peter found it very difficult to talk to people who were always upside down.

  ‘Could you show us where he is?’

  Olga turned a somersault, then took his hand.

  ‘Come on.’

  Peter was embarrassed. He could not feel that holding a girl’s hand was a suitable way to appear before his uncle.

  Sasha put his arm through Santa’s.

  ‘Why do you want Gus?’

  ‘Well – you see he’s our uncle.’

  ‘What!’ Sasha stood still and stared at her. Then he dropped her arm and began to run. He raced to a caravan at the end of the line and beat on it with his fists.

  ‘Gus! Gus!’

  A window opened and a man’s head looked out.

  ‘What is it?’

  Sasha was absolutely dancing with excitement.

  ‘How is it you call it when you are an uncle?’

  ‘Stand still,’ Gus growled, ‘and tell us what’s the trouble. Who’s an uncle?’

  Olga brought Peter and Santa to the caravan.

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Me! Why?’

  Peter lifted his cap politely.

  ‘Good morning, sir. We are Peter and Santa.’

  ‘Kedgeree and rum!’ said Uncle Gus. It was plain that he was not speaking of Peter and Santa. ‘Kedgeree and rum’ was obviously an expression to show surprise. He looked very startled. As he had the kind of face which shows everything the owner is feeling, his was a very startled face indeed. Then he drew in his head. ‘Wait there. I’ll come down.’

  If Uncle Gus brought anything specially to mind, it was a churchwarden. If ever a man looked born to hand round a plate in church, he did. He had sandy hair parted in the middle. Eyebrows that always had a faintly shocked lift to them as if he were about to say: ‘What, only a penny again this Sunday! I had hoped you would make it threepence.’ He wore a very neat dark suit and a dark tie. In fact, a more respectable-looking man you could not find.

  He ran down the steps of his caravan and examined Peter and Santa in silence. Then he said:

  ‘What made Rebecca let you come? She doesn’t hold with me.’

  Santa stepped forward.

  ‘We don’t know that she holds with you now. You see she’s dead.’

  ‘Dead!’ Uncle Gus raised his right hand to take his hat off. Then he remembered he had not got one on so he saluted instead. ‘Dead,’ he repeated in a very deep voice. Then he added cheerfully, ‘Never speak ill of the dead. But that woman was a fool.’ He gazed at the sky for a moment as if remembering what a fool Aunt Rebecca had been. Then suddenly he looked back at the children. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Peter knelt down and unpacked his attaché-case. He got out the Christmas card.

  ‘We found this, sir.’

  ‘Don’t call me sir. Gus to all, I am.’ He turned the card over and looked at the picture. He sighed. ‘Very choice. Pity your poor aunt didn’t live to enjoy it.’ He put the card in his pocket. ‘But why come here?’

  ‘Well, you see …’ Peter and Santa began together.

  Gus held up his hand.

  ‘Cabbages and cheese, one at a time.’ He nodded at Santa. ‘Ladies first. You tell me.’

  Santa took a deep breath and began at the beginning. She told everything. About their lessons. About Saint Bernard’s and Saint Winifred’s, Mr Stibbings, Mrs Ford, Madame Tranchot, and Miss Fane. The watch and the bracelet. Covent Garden and the tomato man, Bill. The pawn ticket. Where they had slept last night. She could not help thinking while she told the story how impressive it sounded. She was glad Olga and Sasha were there, for even though they did keep turning somersaults and things, part of it must have sunk in and been admired. When she finished she felt quite like an actress at the end of a big scene, and almost expected a round of applause.

  She did not get it. Olga stopped practising flip-flaps for a moment. She rested on the steps of Gus’s caravan.

  ‘When we were tenting in Sweden,’ she said, ‘Alexsis and me was lost. I was only five then and Alexsis was eight. We had no watch and no bracelet. We had nothing so Alexsis takes me in a field and we work a little floor act. Then we go to the inn and we make the money for the railway back to the circus.’ She got up and did a neat flip-flap. At the end she looked severely at Peter. ‘That was a better way. It isn’t nice to pawn things.’

  The statement seemed to penetrate the almost comatose state in which Santa’s story had put Gus.

  ‘Pawn!’ he exclaimed. ‘Couple of children! Never heard anything like it.’

  Peter was hurt. All the time Santa was telling the story he had felt impressed at their cleverness. He had particularly admired the way he himself had figured in it.

  ‘What else could we have done?’ he asked angrily.

  ‘You acted very silly from the start,’ Gus said severely. ‘Mind you,’ he added in a kinder voice, ‘I’m not altogether blaming you. Brought up by Rebecca nobody could be anything but silly. But all the same, for down-right silliness you two beat the band.’

  Santa flushed.

  ‘Why?’

  Gus sat down on his step. He held up his finger.

  ‘First, knowing you had an uncle, why not go to this reverend gentleman name of Stibbings and say: “Reverend, we’ve go an uncle. Will you send him a telegram and he’ll decide what’s right to be done.”’

  ‘But …’ Peter broke in.

  Gus eyed him severely.

  ‘Don’t interrupt.’ He held up a second finger. ‘Second. Why all this fuss about the orphanage? You’ve never seen Saint Bernard’s and Saint Winifred’s. You’d no call to make all this commotion previous to finding out what’s wrong.’

  Santa sat beside him.

  ‘We wouldn’t be sent to different places.’

  Gus shook his head.

  ‘Them as has the money for the piper calls the tune.’

  ‘But children never have any money,’ Peter said angrily.

  ‘Then they can’t call a tune.’ Gus got up and went into his caravan. He reappeared a moment later wearing a navy blue overcoat and a Homburg hat. He went to his car and got into the driver’s seat. He pressed the self-starter.

  Santa dashed over to him. She stood in front of the car.

  ‘You shan’t arrange to send us back. You can run me over first.’

  Gus looked out of the car window. His voice was tired.

  ‘Rebecca brought you up more silly even than I thought. I must telegraph the Reverend Stibbings you’re safe. Mr Cob won’t like a lot of police turning up here making inquiries.’

  ‘Telegraph!’ Santa clasped her hands. ‘Oh, will you wait? We’ve got a telegram to send, too.’ She went to Peter’s suitcase and rummaged through it till she found Bill’s card. She brought it over to Gus. ‘Will you send him a telegram, too? We said we would before eleven.’

  Gus opened the door of his car.

  ‘What’s stopping you sending it yourselves?’

  ‘Oh, may we?’ Peter and Santa jumped in. ‘You know,’ Santa explained, ‘we’ve never ridden in a motor car before.’

  Gus let out his clutch. He drove a moment in silence. Then he said:

  ‘Strikes me there are so many silly things you have learnt to do and so many sensible things you haven’t that I don’t know where we’ll start.’

  5

  Settling In

  When a circus is being built up, every minute the scene changes. The post office was not far from the ground, yet when Gus, Peter, and Santa came back everything looked different. The big top had been laced together and hauled up the kingpoles. The children had not noticed them, but a ring of staples had been driven into the ground before the circus arrived. Now guy-ropes were hitched to the top and a gang of men hammered the staples into place. Others attached the side curtains. Still more placed wooden props
in position inside to keep the whole tent taut. In fact, since the first wagon had appeared over the hill a great theater big enough to hold over two thousand people had gone up.

  ‘Goodness!’ said Peter. ‘They’ve finished making it while we were away.’

  Gus gave a disapproving snort.

  ‘Can’t you get your words right? You build it. Build-up, that’s what we call it. If you’re coming tenting, may as well get your words right.’

  Santa hung over from the back of the car.

  ‘Are we coming tenting? Oh, dear Gus, do let us.’

  Gus drove his car across the ground to its original parking place.

  ‘I don’t know yet. All depends on what the reverend says.’

  ‘But you’re our uncle, not him,’ Santa pointed out.

  Gus nodded.

  ‘I’m not forgetting. Maybe him and me’ll meet and have a little talk. We’ll see. Now out you get and you can go and have a look at what’s going on. But don’t get in the way, mind.’

  It’s very difficult not to get in the way when everybody is busy except you. Peter and Santa did just look in the big top where one of the side flaps was not yet in place. But at once they heard behind them:

  ‘If you don’t mind.’

  They jumped hurriedly out of the way. They were just in time. A man shot past them balancing an immense pole across his shoulder.

  ‘Do let’s stop outside,’ said Santa, ‘until it’s done. Somebody’s sure to be angry with us in a minute.’

  They moved on and, avoiding the staples and guy-ropes, came to the other side of the great tent. There, to their surprise, they found another tent of quite a different shape. It was lower than the big top, and long like a passage. Peter looked in. He beckoned to Santa.

  ‘There’s nobody there. Let’s go inside.’

  The tent was a stables. Even though Peter and Santa had never been in one, they guessed what it was at once.

  On their right were twenty stalls. Each stall was divided from the next by a wooden partition. Each was spread with deep, clean straw. On their left was a space. Farther down there were ten more stalls. Here the tent really came to an end, but another was laced on to it, which made a bend and helped give the passage effect.