Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

‘You wanna work in a circus,’ the rigger said calmly, the cigarette never moving from its position on his lower lip, ‘then you work.’

‘Mr Jones said—’

‘I don’t give a . . .’ The rigger noticed Phryne and did not finish the sentence. ‘I don’t care what Mr Jones said. He ain’t head rigger and I am. Now carry canvas or get out.’

Sulkily, the three men moved away. The rigger spat out his cigarette and ground it slowly into the dust with the heel of his boot.

‘Now, you watch,’ he said. The tent came down with a gusty sigh, ballooning gently, as the king poles toppled. Rajah trundled out as it fell and stood patiently waiting until someone undid her harness. An army of men fell on the flattened saucer-shaped mass and dissected it into laced sections of canvas, miles of line, poles, tent pegs, electrical equipment and wires.

‘You’ve got electric lights, then,’ commented Phryne.

‘Yair, boss bought a generator. That’s the generator truck. Much better than the old flares. Petrol vapour, they were, and bloody dangerous. The electric ones are beaut. But the flyers say that they’re too bright and they get too hot up in the air. Flyers,’ he chuckled, ‘they don’t come more temperamental than flyers.’

It struck Phryne that she was talking to the most important man in the circus. Without this tall and competent rigger, the temperamental flyers would have no trapeze, the circus would have no cover, no lights and no ring. He seemed to bear his responsibility lightly. His eyes, however, missed nothing.

Horses neighed, camels hooted and bubbled. Rajah was unharnessed and led through the crowd by one ear. The air was full of smoke as all manner of trucks revved and either started or did not start. The air was also filled with curses.

‘Miss Fern,’ said a voice at Phryne’s hip. This time she did not look up and around but dropped to one knee immediately. The dwarf seemed nervous.

‘Mr Burton,’ she said. ‘Good morning.’

‘Would you care to ride with me?’ he asked diffidently. ‘The Catalans and I travel in convoy. Or perhaps you have a companion already?’

Phryne’s body ached suddenly with remembrance of Alan Lee’s touch. She banished a treacherous thought of what it might be like to make love in a moving caravan.

‘Am I supposed to travel with the rest of the girls?’ she asked.

The rigger commented, ‘Nah. The girls spread ’emselves wherever there’s a place. You go with Mr Burton, girl. You’ll get a more comfortable ride with him.’ He grinned. ‘Safer, too.’

Since Mr Burton had drawn himself up to his full four feet (advertised height, three foot, seven inches), Phryne interposed her body.

‘Thank you for telling me about the tent,’ she said hurriedly to the rigger. ‘Most interesting.’ He gave her a puzzled look and she realised belatedly that she had used the wrong voice.

‘Gotta go,’ she added and accompanied the dwarf across the disintegrating camp to his own caravan. It was drawn by a large and patient horse, who was being backed into the shafts by one of the Catalans.

‘ Hola, ’ he encouraged. ‘ Il vaut mieux aller seul qu’en mauvaise compagnie. It is better to travel alone than in bad company,’ he added, viewing the pink dress with disapproval. He recognised Phryne as she came closer and muttered an apology. Phryne grinned. The dwarf climbed the side of the caravan and took the reins.

‘ Merci, Benet ,’ said Mr Burton. ‘Will you sit beside me, Miss Fern?’

The solemn dark boy boosted Phryne up onto the wagon and she sat down beside Mr Burton, clutching at her turban.

‘It all vanishes so fast,’ she said breathlessly.

The circus, which had looked so permanent, came apart and packed itself up with astounding speed. The horse lines were empty. Phryne caught sight of Miss Younger, sitting astride Bell with effortless ease, ordering the riders of the liberty horses into convoy. The lions’ cages had been loaded onto two trucks, with Amazing Hans driving one. Phryne caught sight of his flowing mane of hair. The first trucks, carrying the tent and the seating, were already out of sight. Behind, in a straggling line which was nevertheless perfectly ordered, came the riders, the camels, Rajah and her friend Sultan, the flyers and tumblers and clowns. There followed the Catalans and Mr Burton, then after them in a long line the riggers and the lions and the roustabouts, cooks and boys. After them, separated by a little space came the carnival and after them, also separated, the gypsies.

The wagon jolted onto the tarmac surface of Williamstown Road. ‘Would you like to make some tea?’ suggested Mr Burton. ‘There is a spirit stove inside.’

Phryne climbed back into an immaculate little room. Everything was dwarf-size, from the four-poster bed with the satin quilt to the tiny wash-stand and the miniature wardrobe. It was all decorated in English cottage style and must have been very expensive.

She managed to persuade the spirit stove to light. While she waited for the kettle to boil, she looked out of the chintz-curtained window at the passing scene. Children whooped and ran along the pavements. Adults stood and stared. Once she had watched a circus go past in this way. Now she was inside one.

A bubble of delight burst in her chest.

She called to Mr Burton, ‘How do you like your tea?’

‘Two sugars. Black,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to keep driving; can you bring it out here?’

Phryne managed to crawl back through the caravan hatch without spilling too much tea. Mr Burton gave her the reins while he drank. The big horse plodded on after the others in perfect four-four time. Clop, clop clop clop. Clop, clop clop clop. Phryne felt suddenly very relaxed, almost sleepy. The creature needed no guidance from the reins. He knew where he was going.

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Burton, putting down his empty cup in a niche evidently designed for it. ‘Why not have your tea now and perhaps a cigarette? This is always my favourite part of the journey. The beginning. Who knows what lies ahead?’

As Phryne sipped her tea and lit a gasper, the small man continued without change of tone, ‘And what are you doing in Farrell’s Circus, Miss Phryne Fisher?’

CHAPTER TEN

Are summer songs for me and my Aunts

As we lie tumbling in the hay.

William Shakespeare

The Winter’s Tale, Act II, Scene iii

‘What’s eating you?’ demanded Detective Inspector Robinson, summoned out of his cubbyhole of an office by Sergeant Grossmith at eight o’clock in the morning. The sergeant seemed excited about something. ‘Why are you tiptoeing like that?’ Robinson did not get on well with mornings. ‘Taken up ballet at your age?’

Sergeant Grossmith opened the door into the front office of Russell Street Police Station and motioned his chief to look.

There, offending the cleanliness of the mud-coloured lino, sat old Lizard Elsie the sailor’s friend, clutching a bottle of what appeared to have been brandy. Her tattered dress was splashed with dark stains and her boa was balder than ever. She was fast asleep and smiling. This in itself was not unusual. What caused Robinson to step back a pace onto Grossmith’s foot was the sight of Elsie’s supporter. The ill-famed harpy was lying with her head on Constable Harris’s tweed-clad shoulder. He was sitting with his arm around Elsie and his back against the wall and his eyes were closed.

‘Well, well,’ said Robinson. ‘The Babes in the Wood. Just waiting for the birdies to come and cover them with leaves. How long have they been there, Duty Sergeant?’

‘They came in, sir, about ten minutes ago and flopped down like that.’