Carol Birch - Orphans of the Carnival

Julia hated thinking about money. There’d always been enough. Other people provided, but she had to work. She could sweep and wash and light fires, or she could sing and dance and let them look. Singing and dancing won all hands down. Money made her head ache.

‘Myrt!’

Myrtle mumbled then turned over. When her eyes opened they were glazed for a while, unfocused, but suddenly they registered Julia and shot open. A brief hysterical indrawing of breath, quickly controlled, and she jerked up. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said, laughing awkwardly at herself.

‘She hasn’t got a contract!’

Myrtle closed her eyes again. ‘You should have had a lie-in,’ she said to Julia, ‘you’re supposed to.’

‘I always wake early.’

‘It can be a curse.’ Myrtle opened her eyes again but closed them immediately. Last night’s eye paint had bruised her pillow and lay encrusted across the top part of her cheeks. She looked both older and younger than the night before.

‘You have to get a contract.’ Delia sprang back onto the bed. ‘No word of mouth. Today. Before you sing another note. Tell him.’

Myrtle clenched her eyes and yawned till she shook. The sound of Cato’s swerving stumbling voice came in from the yard along with a faint, drainy smell of sewage.

‘Who is that?’ Julia asked. ‘That Cato. Where’s he from?’

‘He come from Alabama,’ said Delia.

‘With a banjo on his knee,’ said Myrtle, and they laughed.

‘True enough,’ Myrtle said, ‘he comes from Alabama. Off of a big plantation.’

‘Does he live here all the time?’

‘No one lives here all the time.’

‘He’s not with us,’ said Delia. ‘He’s with this kid Ezra.’

What does he do?’

‘Cato? Oh, people just like to see Cato. He don’t do much.’

‘He dances,’ Myrtle said. ‘Kind of.’

‘Yeah. Kind of. But mostly he just runs around.’

Myrtle burst out of bed in a flurry of white and went behind the screen. The sound of peeing trickled through the room.

‘Myrt, have you got my comb?’ Delia raised her voice. ‘The one with the fans?’

‘I saw it,’ came Myrtle’s voice from behind the screen, ‘but I can’t remember where.’

‘What about you,’ said Julia, ‘how long have you been doing this?’

‘For always,’ said Delia, re-lighting her cigar, which had gone out. ‘We used to be with a showman. Separate acts, this was, a long time ago, and we got along so we figured we’d try and make a go of it together and cut him out. He was slippery. Nothing written down. Got to get it written down. We get good rates now. We negotiate. This man Rates now.’ She lounged back against the pillow. ‘We all started out on the right foot.’

‘So you remember,’ Myrtle called from behind the screen, ‘you tell him, you want a contract, numbers, security.’

‘I will.’

‘Don’t underestimate it, Julia,’ Delia said. ‘All this. It’s hard work. Always on the move, God, you can die of boredom. You got to get paid. You make sure.’

‘I will. I’ll talk to him.’

Charlotte was sweeping the yard outside the back door. A fat white cat with a smug expression watched from the step. Ted and Jonsy were eating pancakes and eggs on a bench outside the kitchen, and Cato was on the swing, thin legs kicking, head thrown back.

‘Sit down, Julia,’ Myrtle said, ‘you want some eggs?’ She sauntered towards the kitchen door. ‘Morning Cass,’ she said, leaning in, ‘any coffee?’

Julia sat down at the table nervously, nodding at Ted and Jonsy. Ted nodded back. ‘Sleep well?’ he asked, shovelling egg with his fork. By daylight, he was cadaverous.

‘Not so well,’ she replied, ‘I kept waking up and wondering where I was. But I’ve been doing that ever since I left home.’

Jonsy was still wearing the pink suit.

‘That’s a nice colour,’ she said, nodding at it.

Jonsy’s mouth and eyes widened at her.

‘He doesn’t speak,’ Myrtle said.

Ted ate food like a man filling a hole in a hurry. ‘You’ve come a long way,’ he said, emptying his plate and sitting back with a satisfied shifting of the shoulders.

‘I have,’ she said, ‘and I’m going a long way more.’ The strangest feeling, sitting out here with strangers, bare-faced. What do you want? — she asked herself. Just this, out in the world, free, unafraid. Don’t spoil it by being afraid, fool. Pretend. Shake inside but never let it show.

Ted put his plate down next to him on the bench, picked up his can of coffee and slurped loudly. ‘I can tell fortunes,’ he said dryly.

‘Can you really?’ Julia leaned forward eagerly. ‘Is that what you do? I’d love to have my fortune told.’

He drew the makings of a pipe from a pocket. ‘Anyone can tell your fortune,’ he said with a dolorous air. ‘Your face. I been doing the rounds these fifteen, sixteen years, and I never in all that time seen nothing like your face. Oh, they’ll pay to see you. They’ll pay all right.’

Myrtle sat down across the table. She’d cleaned herself up and was puffy round the eyes. ‘You’re no fortune-teller,’ she told Ted.

‘Aren’t you?’ asked Julia, disappointed.

‘No.’ Ted looked mildly amused but didn’t bother to smile.

All this time her eyes had been straying to Cato, trying to take him in.

‘Do you want to see what I do?’ asked Ted.

‘Of course I do.’

‘This.’

He gripped the skin at the side of his neck and pulled it away from his body about four or five inches till it stretched into a thin membrane. Julia screamed, then laughed. Hearing her, Cato jumped down from the swing and came running. Ted let go of the great flap of skin and let it slap back into place.

‘How do you do that?’ she asked, delighted and appalled. ‘It looks as if it hurts.’

‘Doesn’t hurt at all.’ Ted swilled the coffee grounds round in his can. Cato crouched next to him on the bench and set about picking fingerfuls of his neck and face, pulling them out as far as they’d go and letting them snap back. Unperturbed, Ted puffed away. When the cook brought coffee and eggs and more pancakes, Cato let go of Ted’s skin and lurched towards her along the bench babbling excitedly, but he was so gangly and badly co-ordinated that he knocked Jonsy’s cold coffee flying. ‘You bad Cato!’ she yelled, striking the table with the flat of her palm. ‘I’ll tell your master on you.’

Cato wheedled up to her, stroking her apron. She put her hand on the slope of his head and her eyes connected with Julia’s, snagged and stared. Julia smiled. The cook nodded.

‘Cato, you have to be careful,’ said Myrtle. ‘You know you’re clumsy so you have to be careful.’

‘Anyhow,’ Myrtle said, ‘where’s Ezra? How come we always get to do the babysitting? Ezra!’ She threw her voice clear to the other side of the yard. ‘Ezra!’

‘Why is everyone always shouting around here?’ said Delia, swinging herself onto the table. ‘Is this pancake anyone’s?’

‘Hoo-hah.’ Cato pointed at Julia. ‘Hoo-hah.’

‘Yes!’ she said, ‘Hoo-oo-lya!’ Rates and everyone else called her Julia with a J, and it was nice to hear the old pronunciation, even if it was unintentional. ‘That’s how they say my name in Mexico.’

Cato came round to her side of the table and put a child’s hand up to stroke the hair on her cheek. ‘Yes, Cato,’ she said, smiling, ‘I’m hairy.’

‘Cato,’ said a high man’s voice. ‘You behave yourself.’

A big round-shouldered boy with curly black hair was coming slowly across the yard, giving himself plenty of time to get used to Julia before speaking. ‘You should ask,’ he said nasally, ‘don’t bother the lady.’