Circus Shoes (11 page)

“It a wonderful instrument is.”

Fifi shrugged her shoulders and raised her hands. The gesture said plainly, “If she can play the violin, what more do you want?”

After that the girls moved away. Fifi gave a small acrobatic display and they gathered round to marvel.

Santa, left alone, inwardly called herself an idiot. What on earth had made her mention the violin? They would expect her to play it. She could just imagine their faces when she started
Art thou weary, art thou languid.
Then, just as the bell rang, she remembered something that cheered her up. She had not asked Mrs. Ford to send her violin. She would not be able to play.

“Early bed tonight,” said Gus. “We’re starting round about six tomorrow.”

Santa was sitting on the steps of the caravan working at some sums.

“Can’t we see the pull-down? Hans say it’s more exciting than the build-up.”

Gus nodded.

“So ‘tis, too. But you’ve got your schooling just know, and you don’t want late nights. It’ll be your holidays next week; you can see it then.”

Peter was studying an atlas.

“I don’t suppose I’ll want to.”

Santa looked up from her sum, then quickly looked back again. What was the matter with Peter? From the start, he had been as excited about the circus as she was. But ever since school yesterday he had sulked. Of course it was sickening for him to be moved down to work with Hans, who was a year and a half younger, especially as Hans was so much cleverer than he was. But it was no worse for him than it was for her. She had been moved out of Fritzi’s class into the one with Fifi and Olga in it, which, considering that Fifi and Olga were only ten, wasn’t much fun. She thought probably it was much worse for her. Peter did not have to work with someone who curtsied to all the teachers way Fifi did, and so made other people, who, of course, would not dream of doing a showing-off thing like curtsying, look awkward. Then Peter did not have to work with Olga, who never seemed to be attending, who made all the class laugh, and then did better than anybody else.

Gus looked at Peter and sighed. What a difficult boy. What was the matter with him now? He had seemed keen enough about the circus the day they arrived, but since yesterday he had been as cross as a bear. He had come back for his midday dinner sulky and silent. He had returned again at tea-time worse than ever. Gus had sent him and Santa off shopping with Mrs. Schmidt, hoping that would cheer him up; but no, he had reappeared in just as bad a mood, and had hung about the caravan until it was time for bed. Today was just the same. What had bitten him? Gus tried to be fair, but he suspected that the trouble was snobbishness. The boy thought himself too good for his school. If that was so, the sooner he got over it the better. He got up.

“Well, time I was moving across to the dressing tent, I suppose. Why don’t you two go along to the stables? You can see all the animals go into the ring. But don’t get in the way.”

Santa got up to let Gus go by. Then she went on with her sum. Of course she was not going to the stables alone, but to suggest to Peter that he come was to be certain he would say “No.” Perhaps if she left him alone he would suggest it himself.

Peter looked at Santa out of the corner of his eye. He knew he was being hateful, and he wished he was not. But he felt simply miserable. Somehow with Aunt Rebecca he had been the boy, and there had been a sort of understanding that about some things he knew best. Santa had always been admiring. She knew he usually taught of things first. She had been quite happy to let him plan things. Now suddenly he seemed to be nobody. Any tent hand knew more about circuses than he did. All these Germans and Russians and French were better at lessons. Gus considered him a hopeless fool, could not even trust him to buy himself rubbers and a pullover; he had to send Mrs. Schmidt with him. Well, he did not care. They could all think him a fool if they liked. He probably was, so why worry? All the same, he was sorry he was being cross with Santa. It was not really her fault. He comforted his conscience by saying to it, “Well, she can go to the stables by herself, can’t she?” But his conscience would not be comforted. He and Santa had always done things together. It was not likely that she would go off by herself now.

Santa went on struggling with her sum. She looked longingly across at the big top. The people were queuing up to go in. It was Saturday, and there had already been a matinee performance. Some of the audience from the matinee were still straggling out from the menagerie. Somewhere a wind instrument was having a few notes blown on it. Evidently the orchestra were collecting to come out and play in front. Olga and Sasha came and leaned against the caravan.

“Why do you sit here?” asked Olga, using the side of the steps as a practice bar and raising her right leg in an arabesque.

Santa was glad to see them. She laid down her book and pencil.

“I’m trying to do those sums.”

Sasha stood on his hands and rested his legs against the caravan.

“Where’s Peter?” Santa gave a jerk of her head to show where Peter was. Sasha, still standing on his hands, slowly opened his legs in the splits. “Why is it that you and Peter work so hard at your lessons? You worked last night and again this morning.”

Santa thought this a mean question. Surely it was perfectly obvious why they would have to work hard.

“We’re backward. You know that.”

Sasha slowly closed his legs again.

“Still I don’t see.” He gave a slight jerk to his body and landed on his feet. “When me and Olga first come England we don’t speak English good.”

Olga went on with her bar practice.

“That’s right. We don’t speak it good at all. We go school every day, and every day we cried because we couldn’t understand what anybody said. So I ask my father, ‘Must we go?’ “

Sasha fell onto his hands again, and walked a few steps on them.

“You see we had German. That’s the language that is always spoke in a circus.”

Peter’s British spirit was aroused by this statement. He came to the caravan door.

“That’s wrong, anyway. English is. Everybody here speaks English.”

Olga picked up her right leg by its ankle and held it over her head.

“That is because we’re in England. But among the artistes, no.”

Sasha fell over. He got up on his hands again, and once more tried to walk.

“Mr. Cob speaks German to the artistes. That’s so with all ring-masters.”

“Well, it’s very silly if he does.” Peter went back to his atlas. “English is a much better language.”

Olga looked down from the foot over her head and made a face at Santa.

“He has a mood. My father’s often like that.”

Santa was glad she called it a mood. She herself would have called it temper.

Sasha fell over again. When he had righted himself and was once more on his hands he said to Santa, “I was telling you about us and the school. Always we don t want to go. Always we must.”

He fell over, so Olga went on, “Partly in England It s the law, and partly my father wants us to speak. Ten one day we understood. It was like that.” She clicked her fingers. “Then we liked school. So it’ll be with you.”

“But Peter and I are English. It can’t be that.”

Sasha walked triumphantly six steps before he fell.

“It’s the same. Fritzi says so, and Fifi, and Hans. You have been learned differently. One day it’ll come.”

Santa hoped very much that they were right, but she had a gloomy suspicion they were not. Even after one day’s school she could see there were strange gaps in the things Mrs. Ford had taught them. She picked up her book and pencil.

“Goodness, I hope you’re right.”

Olga gave a bound in the air and landed on the bottom step of caravan. She clasped Santa’s knees and gave them a little shake.

“Don’t look so sad. Look, the band is coming out. Let’s go and suck some pieces of lemon.”

“Lemon!” Santa raised her eyebrows. “Whatever for?”

Sasha was enchanted with the idea. He turned three rapid cartwheels.

“Yes. Lemons. Come on.”

Santa looked round at Peter.

“Will you come, Peter?” Peter shook his head and went on staring at his atlas. Santa looked helplessly at the others. “I can’t. He doesn’t want to come.”

Olga and Sasha made strange noises. They caught hold of Santa and pulled her off the steps.

“When anyone has a mood,” Olga said severely, “even so bad a mood that they say they will shoot themselves, leave them alone, it is better.”

“But,” panted Santa, hurrying after them to the Petoff caravan, “Peter never has talked about shooting himself; he never would.”

“With us,” said Sasha, “there is always talk of shooting.”

Santa was sorry for them.

“How awful. And do they ever?”

“No.” Olga ran up the steps of their caravan. “Never. But they feel better because they’ve said that. It is the way with moods.”

Each holding a quarter of lemon, Olga, Sasha, and Santa went over to the big top. The band had just arrived outside and were striking up.

“Hide your lemon in your hand and don’t use it till we tell you,” Olga whispered.

Santa palmed her piece, but she wondered what for.

Olga and Sasha, with Santa following, walked quietly up to the band. They stood directly behind the musical director. Then Olga looked round and gave a faint nod. Simultaneously she and Sasha began to suck their bits of lemon. Santa, though she found it so sour it dried the inside of her mouth, did the same.

The effect on the band was disastrous. First one wind instrument player and then another gave up. The sight of those lemons dried their mouths so that it was impossible to blow. Then the drums and cymbals saw what was happening and they began to laugh. The music tailed off to nothing. The director looked round. He saw the three children. He made a movement. Olga and Sasha dashed off round the other side of the big top. They were laughing so much it was quite difficult to run. Santa, after one scared glance at the musical director, flew after them.

“Goodness!” she said “You made the band stop playing. Whatever will happen?”

“Nothin,” Sasha giggled. He looked at Olga. “Did you see old Ted trying to blow his euphonium?”

The memory seemed to Olga such a glorious joke that regardless of the wet grass she lay down in order to laugh more easily. When she had finished she got up. “What shall we do now? Shall we make an apple-pie bed for someone?”

Sasha was enchanted.

“Let’s make it for mother and put in that fish she bought today.”

“The fish!” Olga clasped her hands at the glory of the idea. “It will be cold, and she’ll scream. Come, Santa you shall help.”

But Santa had had more than enough for one evening. They might think all these things fun, but they did not have an Uncle Gus whom they did not know very well, who might change his mind and send a person to an orphanage.

“No. You go. I want to see the horses.”

The stables looked quite different. The sleepy atmosphere was gone. The animals had heard the band, and every one of them was excited. There was the same kind of excitement you can feel behind the scenes in a theater when the call-boy says, “Half an hour, please.” The horses were being dressed in their ring finery, and each was throwing about his head as if to say, “Now let me see. Is that comfortable? I can’t work if there’s a pull anywhere.”

The sea-lions were in their tank but there was a tremendous noise going on. Mr. Schmidt was putting fish into a barrel. He smiled at Santa.

“My childrens are calling.” He patted the wagon. “Each one to me is trying to say, ‘The band it plays. Do not be late.’”

The poodles were behaving like a lot of ballerinas waiting in the wings for their entrances. Not for one second did they stay still. They wriggled. They stood on their hind legs. They shook themselves. Lucille, in her ring clothes and wig, was in with them. She held out her hand to Santa.

“Good evening.” She looked at her dogs with pride. “They are great artistes, full of temperament.”

“They’re awfully clever,” Santa agreed.

Lucille nodded. “But difficult! You know how it is with artistes. Great children, all of them. Some little thing is wrong, and they cannot give of their best. So I come down early and look at my dogs. How is it with you today, Simone? And you Violette? Do you feel happy, Marie? And then I turn to Mis. She is my funny one. A little genius, that. And I say to her, ‘How are you, Mis?’ I would like to say more. I would like to kiss her, but no.” She lowered her voice. “All artistes are jealous. It is the temperament. If I kiss Mis, I must kiss them all or they will not work.”

“Do you mean they wouldn’t do that jumping and all that?”

Lucille made a gesture with both hands.

“But certainly they would not. Maybe I will pet hem and give them sugar, and they’ll do a little. But by that time Mis is upset. She cannot work. The act is spoiled.”

Santa looked with respect at the poodles. Evidently they went for what the Petoffs called moods. Of course, they could not say they would shoot themselves, but evidently to Lucille what they did threaten was just as bad. Santa would have liked to ask more questions, but Mis gave Lucille’s foot a small bite. Anyone could see it meant, “Now, then, that’s enough of talking to that girl, what about me?” So, afraid of making her jealous, she hurried away.