Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

‘ Bien sûr. Mais d’ òu venez-vous? But where do you come from?’ One thing she was sure of. ‘ Vous n’ êtes pas français. You aren’t French.’

Àgata laid the baby over her shoulder and patted its back. It was small and dark and it burped resoundingly.

‘ Non, senyoreta, nous sommes Catalans. Nousautres aimons mieux parler le français que le castillian. We are Catalans. We would rather speak French than Spanish.’

Her husband interposed, seeing Phryne’s difficulty. ‘ Je doute fort que vous parliez le catalan. I doubt that you can speak Catalan.’ He lowered his voice. ‘ Les autres nous appellent les étrangers. The others call us foreign. Il n’y a que le nain, M Burton, qui parle français. No one else can speak French, except for Mr Burton the dwarf.’

Àgata laughed. ‘ Un homenet bien enseigné. An educated little man.’

Aaró agreed. ‘ Un petit bonhomme bien savant ,’ he said. Phryne wondered if he was being ironic. Savant also described a performing flea. Then again, there was certainly something of the performing flea about the amazing Mr Burton. ‘ Voudriez-–vous nous faire le plaisir de souper avec nous? Perhaps you will like to dine some time?’

‘ Je veu bien. Je vous en remercie. Thank you, I would be delighted,’ said Phryne. ‘ Bon, je dois partir. Mon cavalier s’ énerve. I’d better go. My escort is becoming nervous. Je suis bien contente d’avoir fait votre connaissance. A bientôt. How delightful to meet you.’

‘ Adéu ,’ said Àgata. ‘ Petite cavaliere?

’ ‘ A bientôt ,’ echoed Aaró.

‘ You ain’t foreign, are you, Fern?’ asked Dulcie suspiciously.

Phryne laughed. ‘No. I learned—’ Oops. She had to think fast. ‘I lived in Collingwood when I was a kid. Went to school there. I picked up a bit of the lingo. Enough to get along. Come on. What’s over there?’ She pointed to a row of steel cages under a canvas awning.

‘Lions. We gotta be careful. Mr Burton said the lions was upset and an upset lion ain’t nothing to fool about with. But all the newies want to see the lions. I’ll go first.’

Phryne followed Dulcie into a narrow alley. There was a stench of raw meat and something more worrying, a reek of predator. The hair on the back of Phryne’s neck bristled. An inheritance, she thought, from the days when lions hunted humans. Some small primitive Phryne had streaked across the grassland and up a tree just out of ripping distance of those terrible claws, those long sharp white teeth, that hot red gullet. That cave-dwelling Phryne was gibbering frantically in the back of 1928 Phryne’s head.

Three men were discussing the racing news, seated on folding canvas chairs. The central figure was big and running to fat, with a crop of longish hair as white as wax. The other two were undistinguished, rather oily, in overalls. One had each finger and most of both palms strapped up in sticking plaster.

‘Well, I’m putting my money on Strephon,’ declared the man with the plaster. ‘I like the name. And I reckon the weather’ll suit him. Hello! What have we here?’

‘Dulcie and a new girl,’ said the big man languidly. ‘Hello, Dulcie. Who is this?’

‘Fern. I’m showing her around.’ Dulcie sounded cautious.

‘And of course you could not stay away from Amazing Hans and his equally amazing lions!’

Amazing Hans stood up. He had just a trace of German accent and was magnificent, his mane of white hair resembling that of the lions. He gestured to them to come under the awning. Iron bars made the occupants of the cages hard to see but Phryne did not want to see them any clearer.

‘Sarah,’ he said. Something snarled in the half-dark and Phryne made out teeth and eyes. ‘Sam, Boy, King, Albert and Prince. Presently of Farrell’s Circus, soon to be . . . well.’

‘You, too?’ Dulcie eyed him disapprovingly. ‘Ain’t Farrell’s a good show? And ain’t Farrell been good to you? Bought you that new lion and all?’

‘He has been good to me,’ said Hans precisely. ‘But he is no longer in charge. And too many things have been going wrong, Dulcie. These beasts need a lot of care, you know. There’s the food and the vet’s bills. It’s costly.’

‘Aren’t they hard to handle? I thought that female lions were more fierce,’ said Phryne. Amazing Hans scowled at her.

‘What would you know? Amazing Hans does not need advice from a slip of a new girl. They recognise me as their master. Female and male.’

‘They’re just big cats,’ sneered the man with the plastered hands. He ran a finger along the steel bars and whistled to the lion inside. It stood up and shook itself.

‘You think so?’ Hans laughed unpleasantly. ‘Just cats, eh? I’d advise you not to take them for granted, Jack.’

Hans approached and Jack stepped back from him. Dulcie took Phryne’s cardigan sleeve and drew her towards the sunlight. ‘Not to be taken lightly,’ advised Hans in a gentle voice. Jack took another pace away and snarled, ‘What’re you doing?’ a split second before the air was wounded by a thunderous roar. A clawed paw shot out between the bars. Jack squealed. The claws had raked his skin, leaving thin parallel scratches as clean cut as a razor-blade. The stout cloth of the overall had been slit.

Amazing Hans laughed merrily. ‘You’d better go and get Mrs Thompson to put some lard on that,’ he said. ‘Don’t come near my lions again. They’ve got a good memory,’ he added, as Jack scuttled past him into the alley. ‘And Prince has got your scent now.’

Phryne and Dulcie walked away. Phryne found that she was shaking.

‘I don’t like ’em either,’ confessed Dulcie. ‘Nothing that big ought to have teeth like daggers. Still, they’re a draw.’

They had come to a small patch of grass outside a neat green caravan, where a shirtless, tanned man was plaiting leather bootlaces into what looked like a leash.

‘Give me a hand with this,’ he grunted. Phryne sat down and took the four ends from his hand and watched as the deft fingers moved like shuttles. After a few minutes, he tied off the end and looked up.

‘Thanks. Who’s this, Dulcie? I thought she was Andy. Want a cuppa?’

A kettle was singing on a small fire. Phryne was thirsty. So was Dulcie.

‘Thanks, Bernie. Her name’s Fern, she’s a new rider. I’d kill for a cuppa, Bernie, thanks.’ Dulcie flopped down onto the grass. I never realise how big Farrell’s is until I take a newie around.’

Mr Wallace made mugs of strong tea with milk and sugar and opened a tin of ginger biscuits. He accepted one of Phryne’s cigarettes, without thanks, as though it were his due. Phryne had been bolstering her courage. Now it was leaking away like sand out of a sandbag. She sat down on the grass, ignored, and feeling utterly forlorn.

‘This is the life,’ said Bernard Wallace, smoking contentedly and blowing on his tea. ‘Nice day, sun shining, no show tonight and Dulcie the juggler to talk to.’

A dog inserted its head under Phryne’s elbow soliciting attention and biscuits. She managed not to spill her tea and stroked the smooth head absent-mindedly.

‘Just Bruno, he’s all right,’ observed Mr Wallace. ‘What’s new, then, Dulcie?’

‘Nothing much. You heard about Mr Christopher?’ Bernard nodded. ‘Lots of ’em are thinking of leaving. Even Mr Burton. How about you?’

‘Nah. Farrell’s I started and Farrell’s I’ll end. Got a couple more years’ work and then I’m off to the country with Bruno. I reckon Farrell’s will last that long.’

‘I hope so,’ said Dulcie. ‘Who would a couple of greasy fellers be, one with his hands all bandaged up?’