A Ship's Tale (10 page)

I arranged the change of schedule with Mrs. Beasley, who was surprisingly cooperative, once I invoked the sacred name of the Orphanage. She did know that on Sunday the boys were going to Gravesend to make use of their free admission on the closing day of the circus, otherwise the tickets couldn't be used till spring. Apparently not quite
all
her maternal instincts were lavished on that obnoxious cat of hers. Still, she couldn't forbear grumbling over how long I was taking over everything, and that her young gardener etc., etc.…I had to wonder if he really intended returning at all, having escaped her this long. But I couldn't overly concern myself with her complaints. For the moment I was concentrating on enjoying the weekend to the fullest!

Chapter 8

CLOSING DOWN THE CIRCUS

Monday morning I rose in the chilly dark
before
the birds. I descended the stairs, wishing that I could have another glorious breakfast in the company of Katherine. But, alas, such was not to be. I helped myself to tea, bread, and a bit of cold meat, then went off to meet Harris. As I came round the front of the Inn, Mrs. Beasley looked out from her door, her head bristling with rag-tied curls.

“Mr. Flynn,” she called, “would you care to take my car? We're doing very well with our petrol rations, and you know I don't like to drive it myself. And perhaps, if you happened to be going into Gravesend there are some shops, and I could give you a list…”

I tipped my cap. “Thank you, Mrs. Beasley. You're very kind, but I've arranged to ride with some of the other helpers.”

“Very well then, I won't detain you.”

Thankfully, she withdrew and closed her door.

I suddenly remembered that my driver would be Harris. What a choice: driving Mrs. Beasley's car, which guaranteed me the life expectancy of a kamikaze pilot, or riding with Harris, which was an exercise in passive terror.

Hastening away from the Inn, I found the Scourge of the Carriageways waiting in his car down the road. I approached with a feeling of doom. After saying good morning, I opened the door.

“May I have a blindfold?” I asked.

“I get the distinct impression that you don't like my driving,” Harris said, in an injured tone.

“Oh, I like it well enough—from a distance.” I said. I flicked my lighter, and by its flame, I looked in at the tiny space intended to receive my person. I cleared my throat, shutting up the lighter. “I believe I'll sit in the rear this time.”

Harris pushed open the passenger door. “That's a good idea,” he agreed. “You do tend to crowd me, you know.”

“Do you think that it might be possible not to drive so fast?” I asked as I wedged myself in.

“Right,” he said. “We've plenty of time—needn't rush.” No sooner had these words left his mouth, when the accelerator was pressed to the floor.

I held on, gritting my teeth, and prayed that we'd encounter no Yanks on the road.

The sky brightened by the time we neared the circus grounds, and it had grown light enough to see the activity already under way. At that moment, the big top was coming down, massively descending its poles, and settling to earth. Teams of men and boys bustled about, some hauling lines or carrying gear. Horses and camels were led by, and I could see at least one elephant being put to work handling the immense tent poles. A local farmer sat by, gaping, on a tractor with a rope trailing from it with nothing attached. His head pivoted continually as he followed the activity all about him, and he seemed comically out of place.

As soon as we'd parked, Harris and I went to work straightaway. Joining Boris, we each took five boys and set about pulling down booths and stalls. Robert went about directing us, mucking in himself where needed. It was amazing how efficiently we worked together, and my doubts subsided about the boys being suitable for shipboard duty. They were strong, wiry lads with not an extra ounce on any of them. It seemed odd that these were the “children” of the orphanage. The eldest one looked about the same age as young men I'd known who'd already had their own homes and jobs. I knew that the legal school leaving age had recently been raised to fifteen. I wondered how O'Connell managed to justify funds that would maintain boys obviously older.

Once we had the canopies and timbers neatly stacked, we sat down to rest and catch our breath, not realising the hours that had passed. Robert went off to see if the tents had been laid out and were ready for folding. He came back a few minutes later with the welcome tidings that lunch was nearly ready, so we might as well go and have ours before we began on the tents. He led us to several massive charcoal braziers where some nice fat sausages sizzled on the grill. The sound was music to the ears of the ravenous workers. A queue was already forming, so we took our places behind and settled in to wait.

Eventually the sausages were done. We collected mugs of tea and tin plates, and then moved along as each received a generous helping of bangers and mash. It did my heart good to see how the boys tucked into the meal. Robert and I looked on in wonder as a minor Everest of sausages and potato vanished down Harris's throat. I'm sure he was equal to another such, for he gazed longingly at the still-busy grill, but Bowman came up and engaged him and Boris in quiet talk. I couldn't make out a word of it, and presently Bowman went off again, taking Boris with him.

One of the boys, the red-haired one named Larry, came up to Harris and stood respectfully, plate in hand. “Mr. Harris, sir?”

“Yes, Larry?”

“Are we allowed to go back for more?” Larry waited in anticipation for his answer. He was the focus of many pairs of eager eyes.

Harris appeared to struggle briefly with some strong emotion. “You bloody well are!” he roared.

A cheer went up from the boys as they ran off to join the end of the queue. I felt like cheering myself.

Harris abruptly rose and strode off. I followed, hoping to learn something of what Bowman and Boris had been discussing with him. He went along the railway tracks and paused. A few animal cages still sat by the tracks, waiting to be loaded into cars. Strolling by the cages, he stopped at the last and stood gazing through the bars at a large brown bear. He seemed lost in thought, so I hesitated to disturb him.

After a while he turned about and stalked back over to the lunch area. I saw his tall figure rove into the vicinity of the grill, bend down quickly behind the serving counter near it, and then just as quickly move off back to the cages, this time carrying a substantial-looking paper packet in one hand. I watched curiously as he sat down on a bale of straw and looked in through the bars at the bear, which lay at the back of the cage, showing no interest in him or its surroundings. I usually felt rather sorry for circus animals, endlessly dragged from city to city, living in cages without proper room to move; a circus didn't seem the best of lives for them.

Now I saw the bear raise its snout, sniff the air, and turn its head to look at Harris. One could tell it was old; its muzzle was silver with age. I decided to take a closer look. Drawing nearer, I could see that there were broad calluses on its shoulders and elbows from long years of lying caged up. I wondered what a circus could want with such an ancient specimen, for no one was pampering this bear. It looked ill-cared-for, its coat dull and patchy.

All at once Harris noticed me standing by and smiled sheepishly. “You know, when I was younger, I used to spend time watching a bear at the zoo.” He shook his head, chuckling a little at the memory. “A brown bear it was, and they had him by himself in a big stone compound that had a pond—he did so love that pond. And he was a
dancing
bear. I've no idea where they got him. But if I held up a bit of food and said dance, brown bear, he'd come up front and stand on his hind legs. He'd make a full turnabout, and then come down on all fours again. At that point I'd throw in the food to reward him. There was a Do Not Feed The Animals sign, but I managed to escape the notice of the attendants most of the time. God, that bear fascinated me. I really loved that animal. And he liked me too. Who else brought him so many treats and sat by talking to him for hours on end?” He turned his gaze back to the grizzled old fellow before him and sighed. “I always was soft on bears,” he said.

The bear, with a great wheezing and grunting, now raised itself stiffly to its feet and shuffled up to the front of the cage, the shackles on its hind legs clanking. It stood looking at Harris. Then, with no prompting, it tried to rise up on two feet. On the third attempt it managed to stand and started to turn about. We both stared open-mouthed as it laboured halfway round, and then with a groan came down onto its front paws with its great furry rump towards us. It whimpered, then looked back round at Harris with a mournful expression.

Harris was wide-eyed with astonishment. He swallowed, then opened the paper packet and pulled out a sausage. He held it up. “Dance, brown bear,” he whispered.

The bear tried to stand again, but after several attempts gave it up and slumped to the floor of the cage, where it lay with a mournful expression and its sad eyes upon Harris.

“Oh my God,” said Harris huskily. “It's
him
! Brown bear? Here, here, brown bear.” And he threw the sausages in through the bars. The bear eyed them in surprise, then gobbled them up, licking its chops. A dim light began to kindle in the bear's dull eyes. Harris, with tears trickling down his cheeks, was murmuring, “Brown bear, poor old bear,” while throwing in the sausages, which the bear devoured with obvious relish.

It was truly the most touching reunion I've ever witnessed. Soon, it was spoilt by the intrusion of one of those people who don't seem to know that there are times to enforce rules and regulations, and times to let them slip by a bit.

“Here, what d'you think
you'r
e about? You've no business meddling with that animal!” It was one of the managing assistants, who quite disproportionately was annoyed and probably for no more reason than his own bad temper. “Just clear off now,” he ordered, “this isn't a zoo.”

Harris, rather uncharacteristically, tried to reason with him. “But I know this bear. He's a friend of mine.”

“Right, it's your dear old schoolmate,” said the fellow. “Now sod off!”

Behaviour like this was quite uncalled for and I could see the turn the situation was taking.

“Now, Harris,” I put in; of course it was pointless.

The managing assistant now noticed the near-empty packet of sausages. “Oh, pinching bangers into the bargain, eh? A bear-feeder
and
a thief!” He launched into a general tirade on the subject of the presumption and dishonesty of casual help. “Hire 'em for a day, and they think they own the whole operation!” he ranted. “Let 'em out of sight for a minute, and they're stealing everything they can lay hands on
and
abusing the animals into the bargain…”

“Shut your bloody face!” Harris thundered, “or I'll shut it for you!”

Harris rose looming, with anger terrifying to behold. He put one giant hand over the fellow's face and began shoving him backwards at arm's length. They proceeded thus for about fifteen feet, until they were stopped by a dustbin, into which Harris propelled him, arse first. The sight of a pair of feet and the top of a head protruding from the bin would have been richly comical had not Harris been so dreadfully angry and distraught. Squirm as he would, the hapless manager could not free himself from the bin, and his cries for help went unheard amidst the noise and bustle of work and lunchtime.

Harris had resumed his seat on the bale, and was now hunched over with his head sunk in his hands, his great frame shaken by sobs. It was unnerving to see the normally self-assured Harris like this, and I tentatively made a move to approach him, but was stopped by Bowman, who had just come up. He led me away.

“I've known Harris since he was a wee lad, and
never
have I seen him quite so undone,” Bowman said in a hushed voice. “I recall he long ago told me about spending much time at a zoo. I hadn't any notion that he was mates wi' a bear, not that it isn't fitting if one thinks on it. Perhaps they're related. Now, that would be living proof of evolution,” he added, trying to inject a lighter note into what was obviously a sad situation.

Harris now went to crouch by the side of the cage, the bear tilting its head to watch him. Holding the bars, he spoke to it in a low voice. The bear, pulling round to face him, replied with soft moans. This great mountain of a man began weeping again, with the same intensity I'd seen during the War when so many were losing homes and loved ones. It was a sight to tug at the hardest of hearts, and I could see that even the rusty old heartstrings of Bowman were getting a good pull. Not knowing what to do, we sat on a bale and waited quietly.

Meanwhile, strangled curses flowed from the dustbin, which rocked and quivered with the vain struggles of its human contents. Now that lunch had finished, young Larry came up and halted, absorbing this entertaining spectacle with a quizzical eye. Seeing the weeping Harris, he stared in dismay for a time. He turned to Bowman.

“Cap'n, we're ready to go back to work,” he ventured. “Is Mr. Harris coming, sir? What's the matter with him?”

“Never ye mind what Mr. Harris is about,” said Bowman, rising. He took Larry by the shoulders and faced him back the way he'd come. “Just ye go and work with Robert and Boris, we'll be along presently.”

The boy went off reluctantly, casting many worried glances back at us. As Larry went off, one of the circus workers happened to pass. He spied the animated dustbin.

“Mr. Moorland!” he cried, “what's happened to you?” He hastened forward, then saw the still-disconsolate Harris huddled against the bars. “Here, what's all this? Do you need any help mate?”

Harris looked up, “This is a dancing bear, you know,” he said.

“Well, of course it is, this is a circus,” replied the other, probably supposing him to be drunk.

Harris went to the bale and took up the few remaining sausages. “Here, I'll show you.” Then his face darkened. “And if you say one word about feeding the animals, that bear's next meal will be
you
!” The man backed away as Harris turned to the cage. He held up the sausages and softly called, “Dance brown bear!” Again, the poor old bear tried to perform, but was unable to stand. “No, no, don't try, don't dance,” sobbed Harris remorsefully, and tossed in the sausages. “Have your bangers, brown bear, I won't torture you any more.”

While this was going on, the circus worker was trying to extricate the livid Moorland from the dustbin. He succeeded in overturning it, but couldn't manage to free the imprisoned man. For a time a sort of hermit crab or turtle effect was achieved. At last, a furious managing assistant was released among the living and went rampaging off to return with two burly chuckers-out.