Circus Shoes (16 page)

“I can only play
Art thou weary, art thou languid?”

Gus turned to the Schmidts and Moulins.

“That’s a hymn.”

Mrs. Schmidt nodded.

“That will beautiful be. It is nice on a Good Friday.”

The Moulins made approving noises. They sat like people at a concert. Holding their breath for the first note.

Santa, seeing that she had to go through with it, put her bow across the strings.

There had never been a moment since Santa started the violin when she a not made a disgusting noise on it. The noise she made that afternoon was worse than she had ever made before. The violin was out of tune. Her fingers, damp with fright, slipped in the notes. The bow scrooped.
Art thou weary, Art thou languid?
is rather a doleful tune. As played by Santa that afternoon it sounded like the moan of somebody in the most excruciating pain.

The Moulins were polite people. Mr. Moulin and Lucille sat with fixed smiles as if they were pleased. Fifi, less controlled, put her fingers in her ears. Lucille at once gave her a slap, so she took them out and also sat with a fixed smile.

The Schmidts were musical. They came of families in which everyone played some instrument or other. When together, they made up a really good little orchestra, playing purely for pleasure. To them it was sacrilege for anyone who could make such a noise as Santa was making to touch an instrument. They shut their eyes and tried to think of other things.

Olga and Sasha had been brought up without hearing much music. But they had a little music in their blood. They thought at first that Santa was being funny. They looked round at the serious pained expressions of all the others. They bore it for three lines of the hymn, then they could stand it no more. They rolled on the ground screaming with laughter.

It was very rude, but from Santa’s point of view much the best thing that could have happened. In a moment she had stopped playing and they were all laughing. Mr. Schmidt was the first to recover.

“Never,” he said, wiping his eyes, “have I such sounds heard.”

Mrs. Schmidt tapped him on the knee.

“That is not kind, Heinrich. The poor little Santa. It is not the wish of the
lieber Gott
that all gifts she should have.”

Fritzi got up.

“But how is it, Santa, that you tell us you do play?”

Mr. Schmidt shook his head at his daughter.

“It is finish. We will some music make to take the noise away. Stand up, Hans, and you,
Liebchen.
We will sing.”

People who can sing always collect other people around them. The Schmidts sang German folk songs. They sounded lovely. Some of the ring-hands and tent men came across to listen. Then they sang in Welsh. Then someone started a tune that was familiar to them all even if the words they put to it were in various tongues. One song led to another. Half the circus people were standing outside Gus’s caravan. It began to get dark. Lights popped up here and there.

“What shall we finish with?” said one of the men.

Gus looked round. He caught Santa’s eye. She could see his lips forming the word “Art.” She gave him a desperate look. He couldn’t, wouldn’t be so mean Gus grinned at her.

“How about “
The Long, Long trail’?”
he said. “I was always partial to that.”

The Riding Lesson

Two things happened in Blackpool. The first was on Easter morning. Gus had a puncture on the way down and was the last caravan to arrive. As he turned the car into the ground Olga and Sasha jumped up on the running-board. Olga stuck her head through the window.

“Peter and Santa, will you come to our caravan? We have eggs and paska.”

Sasha pushed his head through beside hers.

“We have asked Fifi and Fritzi and Hans. But Fifi has gone to Mass, and Fritzi and Hans have eaten something bad. They have both been sick. They had to stop the car on the way over so they could be. So it will only be you. Will you come?”

Gus stopped the car.

“Hop out, you two, and go and get your Easter eggs. I’m not driving any farther with these two hung on like that.” He leaned out and gave Sasha a slight slap. “One jolt, and you’ll be under the wheels. And what’s the good of Easter eggs then?”

Olga did a flip-flap and turned a cartwheel.

“I’m so glad it’s Easter,” she said, when she the right way up again. “We have a feast.” She held out her hand to Santa. “Come on.”

There were eggs dyed all colors. There were rings soaked in oil with mushrooms round them. were salted cucumbers. There was a meat dish. Most exciting of all was the cake, the paska. Peter and Santa had been given small chocolate eggs on Easter day but there had been no kind of party. They stared at table in amazement. Especially at the paska; they had never seen a cake like it before. Mrs. Petoff was making a pot of tea. She turned beaming to Peter and Santa.

“A happy Easter. We had thought maybe you were lost on the road.”

Peter explained about the tire. Maxim patted the place next to him.

“Come, Santa, you will sit beside me. We are the good friends. Peter will sit by my wife. Sit down, all of you.”

It was extraordinary how they all fitted in, but somehow they managed. And what a meal they all ate something from every dish. Then, to finish up with, a slice of paska. You would not think a rich cake, as well as meat and herrings and cucumber, was the kind of food to have for breakfast, but it all went down very well. When they had finished Mrs. Petoff handed round the eggs. They were in a basket. Santa took a red one and Peter a green. They were ordinary hens’ eggs boiled hard and dyed. They stared at them curiously because they had never seen Easter eggs like that before. Maxim had a blue one. He turned it over in his fingers. He smiled at Santa.

“You have never seen such an egg? No? When I was a little boy in Russia I have seen these being colored. I would think then time is so slow. Easter will never come.”

“Did you always have a party for Easter?” asked Peter.

Mrs. Petoff nodded.

“Yes. It is the great feast. Before there was a long fast.”

Maxim made a face.

“We have sunflower-seed oil instead of butter, and not much to eat. Three days it lasted. And imagine while we fasted what was going on. The kitchen was in excitement. Dish after dish is cooked. The herrings as we have today, only better, you cannot get them in England. The cucumbers. The great roasts. the paska! We children would stand round our mouths watering. Such a mound of curds and sugar and almonds. It was hard to see it made when we fasting.”

Santa could not bear to think of the children hungry.

“Never mind. On Easter you ate it all for fast.”

The Petoffs laughed. Maxim shook his head.

“Not for breakfast. No. In England, yes. There is the pull-down and we travel early. But when I was a child it was at night.” He dropped his voice and his eyes had a faraway look. “All the evening the table is set out. All the food and the vodka. Then at perhaps half-past eleven my mother bring in the paska. Then we go to church. The church will be so full it is hard to get in. We kneel on the floor. On the floor is laid twigs of fir-tree. There is an image of the dead Christ. Then suddenly all the bells sound. The priests and choir come to the door. They have many banners, and lanterns. Then we follow. We have candles. They blow in the wind. There are many stars. The lanterns are on high poles. We march round the church, and sing a great hymn. Then quick like that”-Maxim clicked his fingers to show the passing of a second-“all that solemn is over. It is as if all had gone mad. The bells clash. All kiss each other. All cry ‘Christ is risen,
Christos woss krese.”

Maxim’s voice sank to a whisper. He sat holding his egg with the tears running down his cheeks. Peter and Santa looked round. All the Petoffs were crying. Very quietly they got up and left the caravan. Outside they looked at each other.

“My goodness!” said Santa. “How awful. Poor Mr. Petoff. Fancy having to live in England when it made him cry to think of Russia.”

Peter had been thoroughly embarrassed by the tears.

“Must be pretty bad to make him cry. I wonder he doesn’t try and go back. I expect he could. There must ciruses in Russia.”

Olga came bounding down the caravan steps, followed by Sasha. She stood on her hands.

“Wasn’t that a lovely Easter?”

Peter stared at her.

“It was. But it seemed to make you all pretty miserable.”

“Miserable!” Sasha did a flip-flap and finished facing Peter. “We weren’t miserable. It was beautiful.”

Santa looked at him severely.

“That’s not true, Sasha. Two minutes ago you were crying. We saw you.”

Sasha turned to Olga. They were obviously puzzled.

“Every Easter we cry,” Olga explained. “So it should be. My father is an exile from Russia.”

“I know,” Peter agreed. “And it’s awful for him. That’s why, though everything was very nice to eat, you can’t say it was a lovely Easter when it made you all remember you were unhappy.”

Olga walked a few steps on her hands. “But we were not unhappy.”

“You may not be,” Peter argued, “but your father is. He wants to go back to Russia.”

This statement stopped both Olga and Sasha from practicing tumbling. They stood upright, looking very; earnest.

“Never,” said Olga, “would my father wish to return to Russia. He is naturalized English.”

Sasha thumped his chest. “We was British.”

Peter gave a despairing shrug. He would never understand.

“Then why did you all cry?” Olga stamped her foot.

“You can be stupid, Peter. It’s beautiful to cry. It’s a mood. If you never cry how can you enjoy it when you laugh?”

Peter put his egg in his pocket.

“Gus laughs a lot and he never cries.”

Olga did a cartwheel.

“For the English it’s wrong to cry. My father says they cannot feel.”

“Then why’s he got naturalized?” said Peter. “He oughtn’t to if he doesn’t like the English.”

Olga skipped away.

“You are stupid. He loves England. It doesn’t mean you don’t love a country if you say the people don’t feel.”

Peter did not like to say any more because they had just been to a party. He gave a nod to Olga and Sasha and went toward their own caravan. Santa hurried after him.

“I think Russians are very odd, don’t you?”

Peter kicked up the grass.

“I don’t know what they’re talking about. But perhaps we shall later on.”

The other thing that happened in Blackpool was Peter’s first riding lesson. He went by himself and found Ben. He hung about beside him while he looked at the horses. He knew exactly what he wanted to say, but he didn’t know how to start. Ben stopped suddenly and looked at him.

“What’s the trouble, Peter?”

“Well, I was wondering- I mean to say-well, you said-“

Ben put up a hand to stop him. He picked up two straws and gave him one.

“Either you have something to say, or you haven’t. If you have, speak out. I never could abide talk that had to go a mile round where it was gettin’ to.”

Peter leaned against the post between Halfpenny’s and Robin’s stalls. Ben leaned against a tent-prop.

“You remember,” said Peter, “that you said sometime you’d see how I shaped at riding.”

“That’s right. Come tomorrow, if you like.”

“Well, it isn’t only that.” Peter looked straight at Ben. “People here think I’m a fool.”

Ben chewed at his straw thoughtfully.

“A lot of people don’t see more’n the outside. I say about people what I always say about ‘osses. No good fixing everything on looks. What about the heart? That’s what I want to know.”

Peter felt a bit discouraged. He would have liked Ben to have said, “Nobody thinks you’re a fool. How could you have imagined it?” He kicked at the straw under his feet.

“Why do they think I’m a fool?”

Ben spat out his straw.

“It’s not so much a fool as maybe soft. The day you came, and I saw you and Santa in the stable here, you remember, I told you to take your gloves off. There’s no harm in gloves, it was just your way of walking carefully in case you should tread in something, and the way you have of brushin’ bits of dust off your things. It’s more like a girl.”

“Gus can’t bear me,” Peter blurted out. “So I thought if I could come and ride early when he didn’t know, it would be a good idea. If he knew he’d come and laugh.”

Ben carefully chose another straw. He put it in his mouth.

“I always say to the lads in the stable here, ‘Don’t come grumblin’ to me. You knew what you ‘ad to do when you signed on. If you don’t like it, sign off.’”

“But I can’t sign off.”

Ben gave him a shrewd look.

“Wasn’t there talk of an orphanage? “

“Oh, that!” Peter thought the argument silly. Obviously nobody would want to go to an orphanage who could live in a circus. “I don’t mind being here as much as that.”

“Then there’s no point in grumblin’. Gus has taken you both in. A caravan isn’t that big. Must ‘a’ done away with most of ‘is comfort havin’ you.”

Peter stared at Ben. Aunt Rebecca had run her house for them, and they had always taken it for granted she liked doing it. They had come to Gus. They had thought that perhaps to please Mr. Stibbings they would be sent to the orphanages, but they had never thought that it would have suited Gus. It was a new idea. Peter could not accept it so suddenly. He felt he had proper grievance, that he was being picked on unfairly. It was not easy to switch his mind to what Gus was putting up with on his account. He went back to the question of his riding.

“Might I come early? I’d much rather.”

Ben nodded.

“Be along at seven. I’ll be exercisin’ Mustard. He’s just built to start you on.”

Peter went to Mustard’s stall. He looked very much like the other chestnuts, he thought.

“Why’s he specially good?”

Ben came slowly down the stables. He gave Mustard an affectionate pat.

“Well, he’s slight. Must start you on something slight on account of the length of your legs.” He went into the stall feeling in his pocket. He brought out sugar and gave it to Mustard. He fondled him. “He’s a grand ‘oss. Aren’t you, old fellow? He was a hunter when Mr. Cob bought him. Intelligent! This is almost ‘uman. Eighteen months after his last hunt he was workin’ in the ring. Bit of a change for ‘im, but he took to it as if he’d been born in a circus.”

“Do you think he misses his hunting?”

Ben came out of the stall.

“Sometimes I think he does. ‘Course, all ‘osses ‘ave their moods, same as ‘umans. Mustard does get a bit down at times. There’s mornin’s, especially at the end of tentin’, when it’s sharp, and you get a smell of dropped leaves. Then Mustard’ll go off ‘is feed. And I’ll see a look in ‘is eye as if he were rememberin’.”

“Poor Mustard.” Peter went into the stall and gave him a pat. “Poor old boy.” He turned to Ben. “Couldn’t you take him out when he feels like that?”

Ben shook his head.

“Once a ‘oss is trained to the ring, he’s got to stop there.”

Ben and Peter walked slowly up the stables.

“Must be pretty dull for all the horses,” said Peter. “Just standing here all day. It isn’t as if they talk.”

“Can’t talk!” Ben stood still. He tapped Peter with his straw.

“ ‘Osses talk just as well as you and me. They’ve all got their pals that they chat to. Mustard doesn’t make close friends some do. He’s more on his own. But if he didn’t find himself alongside Vinegar and Tapioca there’d be trouble. They were here when he came. They were trainin’ too. They gave Mustard a helpin’ and, and he hasn’t forgotten.”

Peter was not sure Ben was not pulling his leg.

“Do you really think they mind which horse they stand next to? And they can’t really talk?”

“Can’t they! You come along here.” Ben led the way across to the four creams. “These are a funny mix-up. Two years back Mr. Cob wanted four creams specially on account of a tableau he was puttin’ in for a season at Christmas. He did it with four of the girls. Pretty it was but too fancied for me. Well, nearly a year beforehand we were looking for these cream-colored ‘osses. They ‘ad to match and they weren’t easy to get on account of another circus having matched up ten recently. In the end he got two from Scandinavia, one from a greengrocer’s cart and one from a titled lady. Well, the one from the greengrocer hadn’t a name. The two Scandinavians ‘ad names, but no one could get their tongues round ‘em. So, seeing the one from the titled lady was called ‘President,’ we called the others the same way. The greengrocer’s ‘oss we called King, and the other two Rajah and Emperor. Naturally we put the two foreigners together and King and President alongside each other. Then the fun began.”