Circus Shoes (19 page)

“Hallo,” he said. “What are you two up to?”

They explained they were waiting to see the parade start.

Mr. Cob looked at the
s
ky. “I’m not betting on there being one. Looks more like rain.”

“Goodness, I hope not,” Santa “Of course it’s always nice with a circ
us
, but it’
s
not as nice when it’s raining.”

Mr. Cob laughed.

“Glad you find it nice. Some of these wet days I wish the whole contraption under the sea.”

Then he looked at the children. “How would you two like to ride on the coach?”

Peter and Santa got quite red with excitement.

“Might we?”

“Yes.” He nodded at Santa “You go along to the girls’ dressing-tent. Tell the leader one of them can stay at home and to fix
you
up with the
clothes.” He
scratched his head and stared at Peter “What are we
going
to do with
you?
I have it. You find the coach boy.
He’ll
have a spare coat and topper.”

Half an hour later Santa and Peter climbed onto the coach. Santa had on a
crinoline
and bonnet, Peter a green coat and a top-hat. The
y
were given the seat in the front beside Ben. Ben was
looking
smart in a coat with a
lot
of collars, a top-hat, and
yellow
gloves. He nodded e at them.

“Proper
folk
you’re gettin’.”

“Which of the horses are
you
driving Ben?”
S
anta asked.

Ben jerked his head toward Peter.

“You ask him. He’s gettin’ to know
my
“osses most as
well
as I do myself.”

Peter looked at the four. They were
well
-matched bays.

“That’s-” Peter pointed to the leader- “Wisher; the one with him is Pie-crust; the one behind Wisher is Rainbow, and the other one is Whisky.”

Ben’s lips tightened in a smile. He looked pleased. Santa was startled at Peter’s being so clever. She knew Mustard by sight because she went with Peter to feed him every morning, but she was not positive she could have picked him out. As for these bays, she merely knew they existed, that was all.

“My goodness! how did you know?” she whispered.

Peter kicked her ankle. Not hard, but just enough to make her shut up. He did not want Ben or the girls behind to hear Santa asking how he knew the horses’ names. In the circus people did know things, and nobody thought it clever of them.

The girl for whom Peter had opened the basket at pull-down was sitting behind them. She tapped Peter on the shoulder.

“Good morning, Little Lord Fauntleroy. Nice of you to honor the coach.”

Peter turned scarlet, but to Santa’s surprise he did not lose his temper.

“Good morning,” he said. Then, after a pause, he said, “I didn’t know it was your coach, or I’d have thanked you for letting me ride on it.”

The other girls sitting round laughed, and so did Ben. Ben said, “He’s learnin’, Rosa.”

Rosa seemed to like Peter for having had an answer ready. She was only about sixteen, and though as a dancer and acrobat she pretended to be grownup, was quite glad to talk to boys and girls of about her own age. She had a bag of chocolates. She offered them to Peter and Santa.

“Have one. How are you liking living with us?”

Peter and Santa told her they liked it very much. They went on to discuss the different towns they had been in, but Santa’s mind was not on the conversation. Peter was changing. Only that short time ago when they ran away, people like the tomato man and Bill had found him odd. He had looked as if he did not want to know people. He still looked rather out of place in a circus, but much less than he had. Of course, knowing things made you feel much less queer. To think of Peter’s knowing all the horses by sight! The people here would not think anything of that, but she knew, and so, she was sure, did Ben, that it was clever of a boy who a little less than a month before had never known a horse to speak to. She had a feeling such as she always used to have before they came to live with Gus, that Peter was clever. She was proud of him. Lately she had not felt like that. She had begun to look upon herself as his equal. After all, neither of them knew anything, and on the whole, people found her less stupid than him. But now she did not feel his equal a bit. She did not know the names of the horses, and she would never have had an answer for Rosa, and she knew it.

Ben had been sitting with the ribbons loosely in his hands, but now he gathered them up. The float with the band on it was turning out into the road, playing a gay tune. Behind them, looking lovely and glossy, came Mustard, Tapioca, Coffee, Cocoa, Pepper, and Clove, with Mr. Petoff, the Kenets, and Paula riding them, wearing smartly cut coats and breeches and bowler hats. Behind them came Gus in an old car. He wore a green coat with enormous white spots, a huge scarlet bow-tie, and a bowler hat with no top to it, through which his wig was sticking. He had a funny make-up, with a white face, scarlet nose, an immense mouth, and very long, curling eyelashes. Behind him came all the other clowns and augustes. Some were on stilts, one clown was riding an old penny-farthing bicycle, another was driving Peekaboo, who was cavorting about as if he were a new lamb. The rest were riding on a float, where they shot at each other with water pistols, and knocked each other down and very funny. Behind them the ponies came spanking along drawing their little coach. Alexsis in a livery with a white top-hat was leading them. Behind them trunk to tail came the elephants, with Kundra, in a gold suit, covered with what looked like precious stones, riding on the leader.

“Here’s us,” said Ben. He made clicking sounds. The horses moved. The coach was in the procession.

It felt queer riding on a coach. Santa was frightened at first. She was afraid Peter would fall off. She glad he was on the outside because she was certain she would not have been able to hold on for a minute. She was afraid the horses would bolt. Four horses seemed a lot for one man to be driving, especially a man as old as Ben. But presently she got used to the feeling, and then she began to enjoy it.

They came into the main streets. Everybody stopped what they were doing to look. Everybody, no matter what they looked like before, began to smile. The children, in the streets and hanging out of the windows, roared with laughter. The police had to hold up the traffic. The people in cars did not seem to mind; they hung out of the windows and laughed with everybody else. You knew what was passing in front of people by the noises they made. There was conversation for the horses because everybody wanted to point out their good points to somebody else. There were roars of laughter for the clown and augustes. There were cooing sounds of people saying “Aren’t they sweet!” the ponies, and again for the poodles, who were on the float behind the coach. There was a long “Ooh!” for the elephants.

The excitement in the street was contagious. Before long Peter and Santa were excited too. You could not help it. It was wonderful to be part of something which pleased so many people. To be even a little bit of such a gay procession. To Peter and Santa it was lovely to see other children wishing they were them. To know they lived in the world where this kind of thing was always happening. That ahead of them, in Bolton and Oldham, children were reading the advertisements for the next week. That in all the towns they were visiting between now and October, children were saying, “The circus is coming! The circus is coming!”

“MIS”

IT WAS in Sheffield in the third week in May that Mis got sick. The children heard of it when, with Fritzi and Hans, they went to fetch Fifi for school. Usually Fifi was dressed and ready, waiting to shake hands and say good morning in her polite way. Today there was not a sign of her, in spite of their knocking. Then suddenly she came running from the direction of the stables. Her face was white and her eyes red with crying.

“Something wrong was?” said Fritzi nervously. She gripped Peter’s arm.

Usually Peter hated to have his arm held, but this time he was so worried he did not notice it.

Long moments passed before they could find put what had happened. The moment Fifi began to tell them she cried, and all they could hear was “Mis.”

At last Fritzi asked a direct question. “Mis was gone dead?”

Fifi raised her head.

“No, but she was very sick.”

Santa was sorry about Mis, but she did not think it would help if they were all late for school. She took Fifi’s arm.

“I imagine she’ll be all right. Come Qn. Perhaps when we get back she’ll be better.”

They were a very drooping procession going to school. Even Sasha and Olga, who joined them, had not the heart to do more than walk quietly. The illness of a dog of Mis’s ability took the spirit out of them all.

“How did it start?” asked Olga. “Santa and me and Peter were in front last night. Mr. Cob passed us in. She wasn’t ill then.”

“It must have started in the night. It was early in the morning that
maman
sat up. She woke papa. ‘Quick!’ she said. ‘Mis is ill. I feel it here.” Fifi clasped the place where her heart was, to show what her mother had done.

“How did she know?” Peter asked. “Did she hear her whining?”

Olga, Sasha, Fritzi, ‘Hans, and Fifi looked at him. Their faces showed they thought he had said something very silly.

“With us,” Olga explained severely, “our animals are the same as children. If a baby is put to bed its mother in the night she’ll wake up, and some little thing that was different will come to her. ‘My baby is ill,’ she’ll say. Then she’ll run. So it is with us.”

“Well, but Mis wasn’t different last night,” Peter objected. “We saw her. She was just the same as usual.”

“To you, yes,” Fifi agreed. “But not to
maman.
Papa ran to the stables. He went to Mis’s kennel. She lay still. At first he thought she was sleeping. Then he laid his hand on her. She was stiff and cold. She was unconscious.”

“Goodness!” Santa was appalled at the thought of energetic, lively Mis lying unconscious. “What did your father do?”

“Maman
had followed him. They picked Mis up. They wrapped her in blankets. They pour water on her head. Presently she opened her eyes. Then
maman
fed her with the white of an egg beaten with brandy. They feel her to see if she has any pain. They think that perhaps she has been poisoned.”

“Poisoned!” all the children exclaimed.

Fifi made a gesture to show that anything was possible.

“Where there is so great an artiste there is always jealousy.”

“Well, had she been?” asked Peter.

“No. That very day there had been new kennels. Better in front. It is impossible for anyone to pass anything through. Besides, Mis has no trouble inside. She has no fever. It is just that she’ s unhappy. She cries and cries. My papa fetches a vet. A very good vet. He find nothing. But today she’s no better. Her lovely coat doesn’t shine. She won’t eat. She won’t drink.”

Sasha pulled her sleeve.

“Will she be in the show today?”

Fifi shrugged her shoulders and raised her hands.

“Who knows? She cannot go on the parade this morning. She won’t leave her kennel.”

“Perhaps the air of Sheffield disagrees with her,” Santa suggested.

Fifi shook her head.

“It’s worse than that. Sometimes it may be the place doesn’t suit. But then a little powder and all is well.
Maman
says she remembers now that since Sunday when we arrived she has been quiet. Last night she thinks she was still more quiet.”

“Nobody has brought a dog near her, have they?” Olga asked. “Could she have caught anything? You know, she might have.”

“Perfectly,” Fifi agreed. “But if that was so she would have fever. Nor has she a chill. On Sunday, when the stables are built, there was a dip in the ground where the dogs are put to play when the menagerie is shown. So papa went to Monsieur Schmidt and asked if for this one week he will change places. So he puts his sea-lions at the end next to the elephants.”

Fritzi and Hans had heard of this change. Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt had agreed to it, but at home they had sniffed and said the fuss the Moulins made about their dogs was ridiculous. There had been no rain for days to make the dip damp. However, this was no moment to say anything about being fussy. Fritzi and Hans merely looked at each other and said nothing.

After school they all hurried home. They followed Fifi to the stables. Both Mr. Moulin and Lucille were sitting by Mis’s kennel. The other dogs were playing about in an enclosure in the sun outside, but Mis lay in her basket with lack-luster eyes. The children looked expectantly at Mr. Moulin and Lucille. Lucille got up and came to them. Even in a moment of crisis like this she could not forget her manners.

“Good morning, Fritzi and Hans. Good morning, Peter and Santa.”

They all spoke at once.

“Good morning. How is Mis?”

Lucille shrugged her shoulders and raised her hands. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Sick.”

“What’s the matter with her?” asked Santa.

Lucille sighed. “Who can say? The vet can find nothing.”

“Perhaps it s a mood,” Olga suggested.

“That may be,” Lucille agreed. I have said I believe she is suffering here.” She held her heart.

“But why should she?” Peter argued. “Nothing’s happened.”

Lucille sighed again.

“Who can say? With a great artiste it may be a little thing. They are such children. Once we have a dog; she was from Holland. A very clever dog, but to us she was quiet. ‘She has no temperament, that one,’ I said. My husband said, ‘She has temperament, but she is a Hollander. Hollanders do not show how they feel.’ He was right. One day that dog is sick. She cannot eat. We try her with everything. Still she will not eat. The next day it is the same. She takes nothing, but nothing at all. That night I wake up. I wake my husband. I say, ‘I know how it is that Gretchen will not eat. Come, I will show you.’ We get up and go to the stables. The watchman brings us a light. Gretchen is asleep in her basket in her kennels. I have with me some bread in hot milk. I call ‘Vooruit. Gretchen, vooruit!’ Gretchen jumps up. She comes to me. She eats. You see how it was. We had that week finished teaching her to speak French. We taught her so well that we spoke it to her altogether. In the ring she would not mind, but now we were speaking it for her food. That made her homesick. She will not eat. After that we speak Hollander and she is not sick again.”

Peter looked puzzled.

“But you haven’t talked anything but French to Mis, have you?”

“But no. But it may be some little thing has hurt her feelings. She is so sensitive, that one.”

Fifi took her mother’s hand. “Will she work today,
maman?”

Lucille stooped and kissed Fifi’s anxious face.

“Yes. She will work. She is the artiste born. It will be in the ring as if there was nothing wrong. Now you must smile, my little one. Come, I have a nice
dejeuner
waiting for you.”

Mis was able to work at both shows. She gave her usual witty performance. Whatever her trouble, she never let the audience know anything was wrong.

Early the next morning, when Peter went for his riding lesson, he went to the kennels to inquire for her. Violette, Simone, and Marie were playing about in their enclosure outside. Mr. Moulin was hanging their blankets up to air. There was no sign of Mis. Peter felt a sinking inside as if he were going down in an elevator. No Mis. Had she died in the night? Mr. Moulin read his thoughts.

“It’s all right, Peter. We took her to sleep in the caravan.”

“Is she better this morning?”

Mr. Moulin fastened leads onto Violette, Simone, and Marie. His face was sad.

“No.”

Nothing could take Peter’s pleasure in his riding lesson, but inside he had that dull ache you get when something is wrong, even if you are not actua
lly thinking about it.

He was getting on well with his riding. He needed no help to mount Mustard now. Ben had taken his stirrups. He did not believe you could be a rider unless you could trot without them.

“Movin’ by slow ways, that’s my method,” Ben said. “No stirrups now, not till August. Before then I’ll put you up on a lot of diff’rent osses. You’ve got to ride ‘em when they’re lively, and difficult to handle. When I can put you on any ‘oss in the stables and you can make him know from the beginnin’ you’re not one he can take liberties with, then we’ll be getting somewhere.”

“What’ll I do in August?” Peter asked.

Ben chewed his straw thoughtfully.

“Maybe I’ll see how you shape at high-school.”

Peter was so surprised he felt as if somebody had hit him in the wind.
Haute école,
of which Alexsis had said, “This is the most best work in riding.”

“Do you mean what the Kenets and Paula do?”

Ben nodded.

“By the time I was second head of the stables I was teachin’ it. It’s pretty work for the ‘osses, and fine control for the riders.”

“But it’s proper circus riding. Could I?”

Ben moved his straw across to the other side of his mouth.

“From all I hear. It wasn’t always used in a circus. There was a gentleman came round once. Artist he was. Always paintin’ the ‘osses. Tented with us one or two summers. He told me that in the time of Oliver Cromwell, you know him in the history books, his special bodyguard was all trained in it. The artist told me it was a right good idea. He said the passes left and right were just the thing for fightin’ with a sword.”

Peter tried to picture himself fighting with a sword on horseback. He saw a mental figure of himself dressed as a Roundhead, his sword thrusting left and right. And as he moved, he saw the horse moving with him.

“It would be a good thing to do. It would be much better than an ordinary horse that only goes backwards and forwards.”

“That’s right.” Ben sucked his straw meditatively. “Mind you, it’s true. I heard tell there was a statue to King Charles that had a ‘oss doing high-school work. So last time I was at the winter stables I took a day off and went up to see. I had the name of the place written on a bit of paper.”

“Did you find it all right?”

Ben nodded.

“Very nice it was. Nicely trained the ‘oss seemed. Must ‘ave come hard on him posin’ that long. It’s hard to get a ‘oss to hold his position while his photo’s taken. Shouldn’t care for the job of keepin’ ‘im quiet while they made a statue of ‘im.”

“Can I start at the beginning of August? When my holidays begin?”

“May be. We’ll see how you shape. You keep legs down better. Sittin’ the way I often see you, with your toes turned in, you couldn’t use a spur. I’d ‘ave my ‘osses ripped raw.”

“You wouldn’t!” Peter said indignantly.

Ben never noticed when people were cross; his voice was as
slow
and mild as usual.

“Couldn’t ‘elp it, son. If your toes are turned in, then you force the calves of your legs out. Sittin’ that way your ‘oss won’t feel your leg before the spur the way, he should. And when you ‘ave to use the spur, it won’t be a gentle touch as is proper, you’ll ‘ave to jab. Sittin’ that way, you can’t do anythin’ else.”

Peter longed to argue. He was certain Ben was wrong. If only he had some spurs on he would show him. But it was a waste of time arguing with Ben. He never seemed to notice you were arguing. He never supposed anyone would want to argue with him about horses or riding.

After the lesson Peter went with Mustard to his stall. He gave him a pat and some carrots, and walked down the stables. He liked it in there. He knew most of the stable lads by name now. At this hour of the morning they were all about. Doing the stables. Cleaning the harness. Grooming the horses. The bereiters leading different horses into the ring for exercise. There was a nice cheerful noise of hissing during the grooming. The horses stamped. There was a good smell of stables. Usually most of the men had a word to say, but this morning they were all gossiping among themselves, Peter stopped by the stable lad he knew best.