The Lampo Circus (4 page)

‘Federico Lampo looks after us all,’ said Finn. ‘Please excuse us now, but we must finish this task.’ They both bowed politely before spinning on the balls of their feet and cartwheeling their way down the street.

Milli frowned as she watched Finn and Fennel go. There was something odd about their behaviour. She had not missed their sudden downcast eyes when Lampo’s name was mentioned. Milli knew from experience that you could deduce a great deal by what people did with their eyes when asked a simple question. The twins had been unsure where to look. Perhaps this meant there would be repercussions if they were late in completing their assignment. Of course, Milli could not be sure of this, and she hoped she was wrong as they seemed such gentle and unassuming children.

Not wishing to delay them further, Milli did not call after them but instead detached one of their notices from a nearby lamppost.

Milli could barely contain her excitement. A matinee performance exclusively for children! How could her parents possibly object to that? Seizing Ernest by his jacket, she pelted back to Peppercorn Place and burst in the door gasping for breath. Thrusting the flyer at her mother, Milli folded her arms in indignation.

Rosie let out a weary sigh and closed the wallet of papers she had been working her way through. Straightening her glasses she began to read. When she had finished, she put down the flyer and looked thoughtfully at her daughter.

Milli and Ernest were not without a plan. This was their final chance to campaign for their cause and they had several strategies to put in place. The conversation went something like this:

Milli:
Nothing has gone wrong all week and now it’s their last performance.

Ernest:
(hanging his head sadly) We’re the only children in town who haven’t seen the show. We’ve heard there are going to be presentations about it at school…I guess we’ll just have to talk about the history of the steam engine instead.

Milli:
It must be worth seeing if it’s being incorporated into the curriculum.

Ernest:
No parent would willingly rob their child of this once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Milli:
It’s Lampo’s way of expressing gratitude for the town’s support.

Ernest:
(ruefully) One is a child for such a short time…

They could not be sure if it was guilt or exhaustion or a combination of both that finally caused Mrs Klompet to crack. I suspect she was thinking about the everlasting stream of tears and recriminations that would follow should she prevent Milli from attending. As children, you and I know just how malleable parents can become given the right game plan.

‘Enough!’ Rosie raised her hands in protest. ‘You two should consider running for politics. If you really want to see the show that badly, then go. Just try not to be late home for dinner—your father is making his famous chunky starfish stew with lima bean purée.’

Milli grinned at her mother. ‘Thanks for the warning.’

It was well before the matinee was due to begin and the village green was already awash with children waving their parents off. Milli and Ernest were jostled and elbowed but were too awed by the sights around them to be bothered by bad manners.

Brightly decorated caravans in rows served as the performers’ homes. In the centre of the open field a mammoth tent had been erected. It looked to Milli like an alien spaceship that had landed in Drabville by mistake. Images shimmered across its canvas surface. On one panel, daring equestrians rode upside down on galloping horses; on another, elephants in pastel tutus pirouetted daintily whilst behind them kangaroos boxed in satin shorts.

It was no surprise to see the ticket stall with its fringed canopy was unattended, as no tickets were required for today’s matinee.

Milli and Ernest, who had eagerly anticipated this moment all week, could hardly wait to get inside. The crashing of cymbals caught everybody’s attention. The entrance to the tent
furled open to reveal uniformed ushers ready to escort the children to their seats. Inside did not resemble a circus tent as you or I know it. They entered a sumptuous interior with tiered seats and silk cushions to sit on. Instead of sawdust on the floor there was a fine white sand that gave off a cosy heat in case your feet got chilly during the performance. Special box seats at the front offered an uninterrupted view of the ring. Ernest, who was interested in engineering, was intrigued to discover that he could see no evidence of rigging keeping everything in place. Giant gold tassels instead of pegs pinned the tent to the ground.

On every child’s seat was a hessian drawstring bag containing edible delights such as sour sherbet canes, a jug of caramel shake (the creamy contents miraculously did not spill until you were ready to take a sip) and butterflies made entirely of coloured marzipan that fluttered around your mouth for a moment before dissolving. There were also keepsakes, including a miniature horn that roared out different animals sounds each time you blew it. (It had educational merit as well because you had to
correctly guess the animal before the horn would move on to the next sound.) There was also a tin of tiny toy soldiers that leapt from the confines of their container and used the heads of audience members as trampolines, pulling hair, knocking off glasses and thieving confectionery as they went. Their antics were met with shrieks of glee from the children. Just as the last soldier was recovered and returned to his drawstring bag, a hush of anticipation fell over the audience. The lights dimmed and a drum roll signalled that the show was about to begin.

A
stodgy man strutted into the ring cracking a whip. He had the toothiest grin the children had ever seen and would have been wonderful in a toothpaste advert. He wore a gold earring that twinkled when it caught the light, an embroidered waistcoat and a large top hat that glittered with horseshoes and centipedes. Every few moments his enormous buttons exploded with shimmering silver dust that fell from his clothes as he moved, giving him the appearance of being incandescent. Ringmaster Lampo’s apple cheeks shone so brightly that he appeared to be made of wax, and the beads of perspiration beginning to
gather on his forehead made him look as though he were melting. He gave an exaggerated bow and opened his arms to the audience in a sweeping gesture.

‘My dear children, I welcome you to the Lampo Circus where extraordinary things happen at every turn.’

His voice was ridiculously high-pitched and had a grating, falsetto ring. If you have ever heard the squeals of a pig stuck in a fence, then you will recognise the noise Ringmaster Lampo produced every time he opened his mouth.

‘Are you ready to witness a once-in-a-lifetime spectacle?’ he teased his audience, raising wild eyebrows. ‘I promise you an extravaganza so spectacular you will not want to blink for fear of missing a moment of it. I promise you a matinee to remember!’

He paused mid-breath to pull a snail from his pocket, which morphed into a rainbow-coloured lollipop that he bestowed upon the closest child. Lampo gave a girlish giggle of satisfaction and from another pocket produced a dragonfly, which he swallowed whole only to
have it reappear sitting on his head, which was revealed to be as bald as an egg when he lifted his top hat. He smiled graciously in response to the sighs of wonder that followed.

‘There is much more in store for you this afternoon, so you had better hold on to your seats. But before we begin, I would like to take this opportunity to acknowledge a very special guest gracing us with her presence today. I am speaking, of course, about the one and only Contessa Augusta Bombasta, Patroness of the Arts, without whose largesse the survival of this circus would not be possible. Please show her your appreciation.’

He inclined his head reverently in the direction of one of the specially reserved box seats.

The children broke into hesitant applause, not entirely sure what ‘largesse’ meant but hoping it did not refer to size. (In actual fact, it is just a word snooty people like to say in place of ‘generosity’.) The children craned their necks to take in the personage upon whom Lampo lavished such praise. When the Contessa stood to acknowledge their applause, the children
might have been forgiven their confusion as to the meaning of ‘largesse’ for there was an awful lot of her to take in.

Contessa Bombasta was a rhinoceros of a woman. From her great height she looked down her aquiline nose at the children and raised one pencilled eyebrow almost vertically in disdain. She had heavy, pendulous jowls, and beady eyes. Across her shoulders was draped a stole of black ermine. Indeed, all of her garments appeared to be made from assorted animal pelts. The jewellery around her neck had the creamy sheen only ivory possesses and was so heavy she seemed to sag a little under its weight. On her feet she wore pumps decorated with glazed lizards’ eyes. One hand clutched a crocodile leather handbag, and the other cradled a shorn miniature poodle. On her head was perched a hat plumed with feathers from the rare and endangered Congo Bongo Bird.

Two female assistants in heavy-framed glasses and matching suits flanked the Contessa and ministered to her needs like automatons. With their hair pulled back so tightly their eyes
slanted upwards, they looked like executive Barbies. When Bombasta’s nose twitched, both knelt on the ground, whipped open a briefcase, unfolded a crisp linen handkerchief and lunged to catch her sneeze, just missing it by seconds. Contessa Bombasta rolled her eyes at their ineptitude and roughly pushed them aside. She gave a regal nod to the crowd before resuming her seat. This appeared to be the ringmaster’s signal to proceed.

‘To start off the show with a whiz and a bang,’ Lampo squealed, ‘it is my great pleasure to introduce to you our first act for this afternoon. Please make welcome the world’s most incredible contortionist. All the way from Mongolia, I give you…Bling-Bling!’

The hypnotic chords of a mandolin filled the tent and a nimble and svelte girl no more than sixteen materialised in the ring. Bling-Bling wore silk pantaloons and an Oriental blouse buttoned up to her neck. Her long black hair hung in a thick rope down her back. Pressing her hands together as if in prayer, she bowed and performed some graceful stretching exercises. Then, as calmly as if this were an
everyday occurrence, she began to fold up like a napkin. She sat cross-legged and began snaking her limbs together as though her entire body were made of play-dough. Soon she had halved in size with her chin touching the floor parallel with her feet. The children expected her to stop there, but an assistant hurried into the ring carrying a lacquered hatbox. He placed it in front of Bling-Bling, who waddled towards it on hands and feet. With a few deftly executed movements she manoeuvred her entire body into the box’s cramped interior. The assistant snapped the lid shut and walked out of the ring carrying Bling-Bling under his arm.

As the audience erupted into applause, Bling-Bling bounced her way back for the second instalment of her act. This time the assistant arrived bearing a largish porcelain teapot on a silver tray. Spinning on the balls of her feet, Bling-Bling built up enough speed to appear a blur. She then shrank down in size until she was able to dive into the teapot leaving only a pair of dainty feet protruding from its rim. The assistant picked up the teapot and
made as if to pour from it, whereupon Bling-Bling spilled out and unravelled to her normal size.

No one knew what to expect when Federico Lampo introduced the next act as The Croakers. They turned out to be a troupe of break-dancing toads wearing caps at an angle and enormous white runners. They accompanied their routine (involving head-spins and moonwalks) with toad song, a type of synchronised croaking so rhythmic that the audience could not help tapping their feet along in time. At one stage, the toads climbed up on one another’s backs until they had formed themselves into a toad pyramid. They peeled off their hooded jackets to reveal iridescent skin glowing as bright as fairy lights. The entire pyramid twinkled like a Christmas tree.

Next, The Croakers arranged themselves to resemble famous structures such as the Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum and the Sydney Opera House. When their final song ended, the toads dispersed to resounding cheers. A couple of megalomaniacs amongst them could not resist
crowd-surfing, but were safely caught and petted by delighted children.

The next act involved four acrobats on a tightrope. As they balanced on the wire, hooded black figures appeared below them and hurled beach balls, cricket bats and even the occasional toaster in order to topple them. The audience held its breath and hoped ambulances were at hand, but the acrobats dodged every missile and did not even falter. They skipped, hopped and tumbled along the wire effortlessly, even waltzing with each other at times. When one momentarily lost his footing it was clearly intentional, as he caught one of the beach balls in midair and threw it out to the audience before vaulting back up to the tightrope, where he landed as lightly as a cat.