Circus Shoes (7 page)

Santa came over to Gus. She carried the bowl of water.

“Mr. Stibbings is always right and proper, dear. But what are you going to do with us?”

Gus looked first at her and then at Peter

“Would you like to stay with me for the rest of the tenting tour?”

Peter looked at Santa.

“You would, wouldn’t you?”

Santa nodded.

“I think it would be heavenly.”

Gus gave a quick glance at Peter.

“And you?”

“I’d like it.”

“Right.” Gus put the telegram in his pocket. That’s settled. Now we must get a move on. I’ e another bed to fix. Mr. Cob to see. When you’ve done the washing up you must write to the reverend to thank him, and to Mrs. Ford to send on your things. We must hurry or we’ll never be through by five- thirty.”

“Five-thirty?” Peter stopped in the doorway “What happens then?”

Gus looked shocked.

“What happens! The show, of course. What we’re here for, and don’t you two forget it.”

VI

In the Stables

*

IT WAS wretchedly dull writing letters with so much going on outside. Peter and Santa simply could not give their minds to it. Every few minutes one of them would go to the caravan door and look out. All sorts of things were going on. Scattered groups came up from the town and paid sixpence to look at the animals. People brought the most exciting-looking clothes out from their caravans and hung them up to give them a brushing. A smart-looking woman, with a very olive skin and black hair cut in a fringe, came and sat on the steps of her caravan and covered a small wooden ring with artificial roses. While she worked she talked to somebody inside the caravan. Santa, who was the first to hear her speak, looked very surprised and beckoned to Peter.

“French! My goodness, doesn’t she do it well!”

Peter listened.

“Perhaps she is French.”

Santa sat down again. Grudgingly she took up her pen. She gave it an angry bite.

“Why must we write letters? I’d like to watch her make that ring of roses. I wonder what it’s for? It’s too small to wear.” She sighed and looked down at her letter. “You know I don’t know what to ask Mrs. Ford to send. Gus said only useful things. I’ve written down ‘raincoat.’ That must be useful. But I can’t think of anything else. What have you put?”

Peter turned his page over.

“I’ve said: ‘Please send all my pajamas, even the old ones. Any pants and vests and socks you can find. My shirts and ties. All my handkerchiefs. My other suit, and the old one that needs mending on the elbows.’”

Santa began to write furiously. “What a fool I am. Of course those are want we want. Pajamas. All my vests and things. As a matter of fact I’ve only got three good pairs, and one I’ve got on and one is in my case. Still, she may as well look, she might find some old ones. What next?”

Peter looked back at his list.

“Shirts and ties. You haven’t got those. Then there’s your shoes and all your handkerchiefs.”

Santa nodded.

“And my other dress and coat and things. And my summer dresses, only they’ll be too short. And that’s all.” She wrote quickly across the bottom, “Much love, Santa,” then got up and went back to the door.

“Oh, Peter, come and look. There’s a man climbing about on the top of the big top.”

Peter jumped up. It was perfectly true. There was a man right up at the top of one of the king-poles. They watched with enormous interest, wondering what on earth he could be doing. Suddenly they saw. He was fixing up a chain of colored electric lights. They came back to the table again. Santa addressed an envelope to Mrs. Ford and pushed it across to Peter to put his letter in. Peter drew a picture of a caravan on the blotting-paper.

“I was wondering. Do you think we ought to write to Bill?”

Santa tried to think fairly. Of course they ought to write to Bill. He had been kinder than almost anyone they had ever known. All the same the thought of writing yet another letter gave her a sinking feeling inside. Nobody could want to write three letters the first day they came to live in a circus. She made a “must we? “ face.

“We’d have more to tell him tomorrow.”

Peter was just as glad of an excuse as she was.

“That’s true.” He threw an envelope across to Santa. With his tongue out ready to lick. “Doesn’t it seem funny how important they seemed. They don’t matter a bit now.”

Santa was licking, so she could only say “Um.” But now she came to think, it was very odd. Mr. Stibbings with his slowness and fusiness. Mrs. Ford and all her tears. Madame Tranchot with her black-bordered handkerchief and her hands thrown into the air. Miss Fane and her violin. All suddenly just gone away. It was as though they had been packed up and put in a box like the old ivory set of spillikins that had belonged to the duchess.

Peter had put Mrs. Ford’s envelope on the table. Suddenly he pounced on it.

“I say, we are fools. We never said where the things are to be sent to.”

Santa looked blank. Circuses seemed very come and go affairs, not at all the kind of places where one sent luggage.

“Well, where shall she send it? We’d better wait and ask Gus.” Peter had managed to reopen the envelope without tearing it. He frowned at it.

“I’d much rather not ask him. I think it’s the sort of thing he’d think we ought to know. I’d much rather find out for myself.”

“How?” said Santa.

Peter got up and went to the door. He was not exactly cross, but somehow since they had run away people were making him feel that they thought him stupid. Nobody ever had before. In fact Aunt Rebecca, Mr. Stibbings, Mrs. Ford, and Madame Tranchot had all in their way given him the idea he was rather bright. He knew that he was not stupid really. In fact, he suspected that he was better educated than anybody attached to the circus. All the same, the way Gus said things made him feel a fool, which was just as bad as being one. If possible he did not mean to give him the chance to make him feel like that again.

Santa looked at him anxiously. She knew just what he meant about Gus. He was the kind of man who expected you to know everything without being told. She joined Peter at the door.

“I can’t think why we didn’t tell Mr. Stibbings we had an uncle.”

Peter gave an angry jerk of his shoulders.

“You thought it was a good idea to run away. You said so.”

Santa sat on the caravan step.

“Of course I did. What I mean is, it is funny we both thought running away was the only thing to do.

It would have been more sensible to say we had an uncle.”

Peter kicked at the caravan door.

“I can’t think why Aunt Rebecca never told us about our family. Why didn’t she say she was just maid to the duchess?”

Santa puzzled the question over in her mind.

“As a matter of fact she never said she wasn’t. I mean she never said why she knew that awful duchess. Anyhow, I’m glad. I’ve always hated Lady Moira, Lady Marigold, and the Manliston girls. Now I needn’t be like them any more.”

Peter felt surprised and pleased.

“And I needn’t do things like Lord Bronedin.”

Santa stretched out her legs.

“We needn’t do anything like anybody. We’re just us.” Suddenly she leaned forward and gripped her knees excitedly. “I can cut off my hair.”

Peter was doubtful. Of course he knew Santa’s hair was a nuisance to her. All the same he was not sure he thought it a good idea to cut it off. It looked rather nice sometimes.

“I shouldn’t. You’d probably look awful with it short.” He stepped through the door onto the step where Santa was sitting. “Look, there’s Alexsis. Let’s ask him about how luggage comes.”

Alexsis came and sat on the steps with them. It took him a rather long time to grasp what it was they wanted to know. Peter and Santa kept prompting each other, and they spoke too fast for his bad English.

When he did grasp what they were talking about he got up and ran down the steps.

“I will ask my father. He understands this things.” He turned and held up a finger. “You wait? Yes?”

Alexsis’s father, Maxim Petoff, was in his caravan. Alexsis brought him back with him. He made a formal introduction.

“This is my father, Maxim Petoff. He is equestrian director. He train the horses. You understand? Yes?”

Neither Peter nor Santa did understand much. They had never seen a performing horse, so had no idea what training them meant. But they smiled politely as if they understood perfectly.

Maxim Petoff was the kind of man everyone smiled at. He was tall with brown curly hair like Olga’s and Sasha’s. He had eyes that turned up a bit at the corners as if crinkled with laughing. He had even higher cheek-bones than his children. He had lovely teeth which showed when he smiled. He held out his hand, first to Santa, then to Peter.

“So this is the nephew and niece of Gus. And there is trouble with a box. Let us go and sit inside and you will tell me.” He came into the caravan and sat down at the table. There was something so big about him, not so much in the way he was made, as in himself, that the caravan which had seemed quite roomy was suddenly very small. “Well?” He smiled at Peter.

Peter explained what they wanted to know. When he had finished Maxim talked the problem over with himself.

“That letter is for London?” Santa and Peter nodded.

“They get him tomorrow. That is Friday. They must pack the box. Then they must send it to the station. That maybe will be Monday. It costs much money to send by passenger train, so it will be sent by freight. Next week is three days Carlisle. Three days Whitehaven. It is the week before Easter.” He stopped and took on the proud voice of somebody who has worked out a difficult puzzle. “The box must go to Whitehaven.”

Santa had been enthralled at this casual mention of towns. After all, going to Bridlington had been a great adventure to them, and here was Mr. Petoff making long journeys sound no more than walking to Miss Fane for a violin lesson.

“And where do we go after that?” She had to accentuate the “we” a little.’ It was such fun to be able to ay it about yourself and a circus.

Maxim laughed.

“That’s right. Always say ‘we.’ You are already part of us. We”-he beamed at her-“go to Blackpool. We stay all the week.” He got up. “I must go. I am a busy man when there is a build-up.” He patted Santa’s head and smiled at Peter. “We shall be good friends.”

Gus came back just as Mrs. Ford’s letter was stuck lawn for the second time. He nodded approvingly at the two envelopes.

“That’s right. Two letters in one envelope. Save the pennies. That’s always been my motto.” He picked up the letter to Mrs. Ford. “Where are you having your stuff sent?”

Peter and Santa answered at the same time. They both tried not to sound pleased with themselves.

“Whitehaven.”

But it was evidently no good expecting admiration from Gus. He thought a moment. Then he nodded

“Yes. Whitehaven’s best. Week before Easter. Might miss us at Carlisle. Besides, there’s no show on Good Friday. Give us nice time to fix your stuff.” He looked at his watch. “Tea’s at four. I’m going to have a nap. You two go and have a look round. I’ve told Mr. Cob you’re here so you’ll be all right.”

Peter and Santa jumped down the steps. There was no question where they were going. All the animals would have come from the station and they had not seen them. They set off running.

Although they had seen the stables being built, the sight of them full came as a complete surprise. They walked through them awed into silence.

There were horses in the twenty stalls on the right. Ten chestnuts and ten grays. On their left, where before there had before there had been a space, two huge barred cages had been placed. Looking through the bars with sleepy disinterested eyes were lions. Farther down below the lions’ cage in the ten stalls were more horses. Four were cream-colored. The ten chestnuts were called after things in the kitchen: Pepper, Salt, Vinegar, Mustard, Tapioca, Coffee, Cocoa, Rice, Soda, and Clove. The grays’ names had no connection with each other: Allah, Juniper, Ferdinand, Biscuit, Halfpenny, Robin, Pennybun, Masterman, Lorenzo, and Canada. The lions’ individual names were not given, but right across the two cages was written: “Satan’s Lions.” The four white horses had grand names: King, Emperor, Rajah, and President. The other six were called Rainbow, Whisky, Forrest, Magician, Pie-crust, and Wisher.

They came into the other half of the stables. In the space on the right a great wagon had been placed. On it was written: “Schmidt’s Sea-lions.” From the inside of the wagon there came splashing and queer hoarse barks. Next to the sea-lions a space had been fenced in. There were kennels at the back of it. Playing about in he enclosure were four French poodles. They glanced up as the children stopped to look at them. Their eyes were humorous, but behind the humor they seemed a little blasé. On the roofs of the kennels was painted: “Lucille’s French Poodles.” Facing the sea-lions’ wagon and the French poodles were six great heavy horses and ten Shetland ponies. The horses were called sensible names to fit their size: Mack, Fred, Carter, Mike, Paul, and Joseph. The ponies were Prissy, Diamond, Alice, Nixie, Cinderella, Nimbo, Poppy, Fanny, Lucy, and Lassie.

At the end of the tent, where the wooden platform had been put up, there were six elephants. They were fastened to the ground with ropes but seemed quite indifferent to them. They swayed to and fro with al most a dancing movement. When anyone came near them they held out hopeful trunks which said far better than any beggar’s bowl, “Can’t you spare a little something?”

Peter and Santa, having watched the elephants in silence for a minute or two, suddenly let out great sighs as if they had been holding their breaths.

“Do you realize,” said Peter, “that there are forty six horses?”

Santa nodded.

“Um. That’s counting the little ones. What do you like best? “

Peter needed no time to think. “The horses. Don’t you?”

They heard a chuckle behind them, and there was old Ben nodded in an approving way at Peter.

“That’s sense, that is. Elephants are all right. This lot are clever as paint. But when you’ve trained them n matter what they do they’re always kind of funny. Now ‘osses
,
they’re beautiful.”