Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

The tired company dined off mutton stew and retired to their various resting places. Animals made sleepy noises. Only the lions roared and complained, unsettled by the thunder in the air or, possibly, the wandering presence of sheep.

Phryne had been allotted a stretcher bed. She unfolded her quilt and got under it. Her diaphragm was in her sponge bag and, in view of what might happen in a circus, she did not intend to be found wandering outside this chaste tent without it. No one seemed to notice what she was doing, or to care.

Twelve women stubbed out cigarettes, stretched, stowed their mending and rubbed a little more ointment into their bruises. Dulcie put out the light.

Phryne could not sleep. She looked up into the canvas ceiling of the tent, feeling as lonely as she had on her first day at boarding school. There she had known no one, had no friends and was not the sort of person who would fit in. Here she had a few allies, but only Mr Burton, Bruno and Dulcie could be said to be friendly. She was surprised to find herself crying.

‘Never mind, Fern,’ whispered Dulcie from the next bed. ‘You’ll do it tomorrow.’

‘Do what?’ sobbed Phryne.

‘Stand up on the horse.’

‘Yes,’ replied Phryne. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’ She had never felt so much like an alien.

Muttering an excuse, she rose and went out into the dark. She could not stay in the tent any longer. She was looking for something, though she did not know what it was.

Ten minutes later, Phryne was standing outside a lighted caravan watching Jo Jo the clown strip.

The darkness was hot and laden with scents: engine oil, horses, burned sugar from the fairy lolly machine, and sun-scorched grass. A hot wind caressed her face and stirred the skirts of her cotton nightgown. Phryne could not tell why she was fixed in her place, unable to move even if she wanted to. She did not want to move.

The ragged fall of ash-coloured hair was real, she observed, as he shook his head free of the ridiculous cap. With careful, automatic movements he peeled off his shirt, his trousers, and began to unfasten padding from around his tubby waist. When it was gone he was revealed as slim and muscular. His hands were big and gnarled with years of hauling lines.

He sat down to take off his boots and ran considering hands down the length of his body, from shoulder to calf, as if to calm and reassure it—as one would stroke a nervous animal. She heard him sigh, but because of the painted mask she could not read his face.

His lines were as elegant as those of the great cats. Could he, like them, see in the dark? He had risen to his feet, naked and beautiful, and walked to the caravan door, leaning out, scanning the night.

Phryne was still rooted to the spot as if she had grown there. She realised that her position was equivocal, to say the least, and also that she was clad only in a thin nightdress.

The clown looked down and she looked up, green eyes into slate-grey eyes.

‘Fern,’ he said softly, as though he were tasting the name.

‘Matthias,’ she acknowledged.

‘Were you watching me?’

There was an odd undertone to the question but Phryne answered simply, ‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Perhaps I was curious.’

‘So am I. Will you come in?’

He made no move to cover his body. It was, Phryne thought as she climbed the stairs into the caravan, a body worth looking at and not one to be ashamed of. She wondered if his nakedness was an invitation or a threat.

She came up over the last step and shut the caravan door behind her. He drew his curtains. The little room was brightly lit by a kerosene lamp and crowded with possessions—posters, a trunk, and a bed covered with a handmade patchwork quilt. On the windowsill stood the trademark eggshell with his clown’s face painted on it, proof of Jo Jo’s ownership of his mask.

‘Sit down,’ he said politely. ‘I’m afraid there is only the bed. Would you like some wine?’

Phryne nodded, overcome by his closeness and the brightness of the light. He opened a bottle of wine and turned down the lamp as he saw her wince.

‘You’ve been out in the dark for a while,’ he observed, his voice low and detached. ‘Here we are, Fern, have a drink with me and tell me what you’re curious about.’

‘I’m curious about everything,’ said Phryne with perfect truth, taking a swig from the bottle. It was a sweet, rich port.

‘But you are curious about me in particular.’

‘Yes.’

She took another gulp of wine. The paint was still on his face, two yellow stars over each eye, the mouth white and his own lips red. Those grey eyes watched her, giving nothing away. He sat easily on the bed next to her, his bare thigh touching her cotton-covered one.

‘Perhaps I just find you . . . attractive,’ she added. ‘Why else would I prowl in the night?’

‘Why else indeed?’ he replied. ‘But you are no circus-born kid, Fern. Or you’d know.’

‘Know what?’

His nearness was unsettling Phryne. She could feel heat radiating off his skin and she noticed a muscle begin to twitch, a tendon pulling from his hip to groin. Other developments were making themselves apparent. There was no doubt that the clown was pleased to see her.

His voice, however, was still cool. ‘No one sleeps with clowns,’ he said, passing her the bottle. ‘It’s unlucky, we’re unlucky. And we are supposed to be sad.’

‘Why?’ Phryne laid a hand on the nearest expanse of flesh and heard him draw in his breath.

‘Clowns contain sadness. That’s why people laugh at us. How can we be sad if we have lovers?’ he asked reasonably. ‘Ah!’

Phryne had stroked another part of his back. His muscles under her hands were hard, evidence of formidable strength.

‘So you think I don’t belong to the circus?’ she asked, running her fingers lightly down his neck to his chest and finding an erect nipple.

‘No, you don’t. You’re a good rider but that’s not why you’re here. Why . . . Ah! . . . Why are you here?’

‘I won’t be able to concentrate,’ purred Phryne, ‘and neither will you, until we have this over with. Therefore, you shall have kisses for answers. One, do you favour Farrell or Jones?’

‘Farrell. Jones is a crook,’ he said and Phryne kissed the painted mouth. The greasepaint came off on her lips and coloured them alike.

‘Good. Two, will you help me find out what is happening?’

‘Yes,’ he said and red mouth met red mouth in a deeper kiss.

‘Third and last . . .’ She breathed into his ear. Then she paused.

‘What?’ he said, still not touching, and saw her smile, the black hair swinging back from her face.

‘Do you want me?’

The clown mask came closer, until he was staring into her eyes, and for the first time that night he touched her. He slid both calloused hands up her calves to her thighs and she caught her breath.

‘I might hurt you,’ he said. ‘It has been a long time.’

‘Because clowns are unlucky?’

‘Yes.’ His face glowed with sweat and paint; a desperate clown who trembled at her touch, at her nearness and her female scent.

‘I will take the risk. What is your answer?’

‘Yes.’

She stripped off the nightgown in one movement and then he was above her, kissing her with hard, fast kisses, his strong hands picking her up and laying her on the patchwork quilt. Paint smeared as he rubbed his face across her belly, his mouth seeking the sweet place where all of her sexual nerves twined into a knot.

Her joints loosened, her thighs parted. Over the flat planes of her breast and hip, the clown’s face appeared. His hair fell ragged and Phryne bit her hand to still a cry. His mouth was skillful; he had found the right place.