Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

Phryne Fisher crept back into the women’s tent in the early morning, noticing that several other beds were empty. She was sated and dreamy. Once the initial frenzy born of long frustration was over, the clown had been an excellent lover. His touch went deep, right through to her bones. His body was strong and smooth and sweet to the mouth. He might well prove addictive.

She burrowed into her quilt and slept like a log for three hours, after which she was woken by Dulcie.

‘Up you get, Fern. Breakfast is on and it’s time to fall off a horse again.’

Phryne stretched, dragged on the cotton dress and decided to omit washing. She rebound her pink turban and went to the cook-tent for brackish tea and wodges of bread and jam. Not even if she was starving would she consider Mrs T’s porridge. It heaved sullenly in its cauldron and appeared to be semi-sensate.

She walked into strong sunshine, blinked away dust and went to fetch Missy from the horse lines. Her supply of peppermints and carrots was holding out. Missy sidled up to her to be groomed.

Miss Younger was standing in the middle of the ring. The big top looked so permanent that Phryne could not believe it had been disassembled before her eyes the day before. She led Missy into the ring and released the leading rein.

Moving round and round, in a smooth canter, Phryne slid easily up onto her knees and gently into her hands-and-feet bridge. This was the point where she usually fell off. Listening for the command to stand and feeling her tights slide across and squeeze, she was overcome by a vision of the clown. She smelt greasepaint and felt the electric fingers. Sweat dropped from her forehead to spot Missy’s grey back. And without remembering that she had fallen off before, she stood up and stayed up.

The ring flew past. Various lookers-on shouted congratulations. Phryne did not hear them. She was standing up on Missy’s back, one foot either side of the spine, her arms by her sides. Miss Younger smiled for the first time in Phryne’s experience. She directed Missy into another circuit and Phryne stood like a pillar, leaning inwards, wondering why this skill had taken so long to learn.

‘Both hands down,’ ordered Miss Younger. ‘Right at your feet. Now stand on your hands.’

Recalling the clown’s face upside down, Phryne laughed and lifted her legs. She stayed upright for three beats, then sat down astride. The muscles in her upper arms trembled with fatigue.

‘You ride tonight. Get them to give you a costume and some weights to strengthen your arms. Well done,’ said Miss Younger. ‘Joan! You’re next.’

Phryne allowed Missy to walk out of the ring. Dulcie, sitting casually on a trapeze ten feet above the ground, caught the balls she had been juggling with her partner Tom and called, ‘I told you you could do it, Fern!’ Phryne, dizzy with achievement, laughed aloud.

She was passed by a running, rolling, tumbling group of dark men. The Catalans shouted a cheerful greeting as they bundled into the space behind the ring not yet occupied with seating.

At the door Phryne met three clowns. Jo Jo in practice dress and with his own face, leading Toby his brother, attended by Mr Burton in shorts and a paint-stained shirt. Phryne slid down from Missy and bounced as her feet stung.

‘It’ll get you like that,’ said Matthias. ‘Jump, rather than get down too gently. Congratulations, Fern! I knew you had it in you.’ He grinned, an intimate and challenging grimace, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Something deliquesced in Phryne’s middle. ‘Fern, Fern, makes my heart burn,’ he added, clutching at his chest and turning the corners of his mouth down. ‘When will you love me, Fern?’

Phryne mouthed, ‘Tonight?’ and the clown’s eyes glowed. He gave a slight nod. ‘Oh Fern,’ he yelled, reaching out stiff arms, ‘come to me, Fern!’

Phryne felt eyes upon her from knee level. The rapport between herself and Matthias must not be revealed to Mr Burton’s acute gaze. She turned on the clown a look of withering scorn.

‘Garn,’ she drawled and led Missy out into the light, ignoring Jo Jo, who howled like a dog after her.

‘I did it,’ Phryne exulted to Bernie, who was leading Bruno into the tent. ‘I did it!’

The man smiled at her. Bruno, recognising a friend of bears, sniffed at her pocket until she gave him a peppermint. He licked her hands rather thoroughly in case any should remain, then got up and waltzed slowly in a circle.

‘Good bear,’ said Bernie absently. ‘Well done, Fern! Dulcie said you’d manage it. Come on, Bruno.’

Missy, who objected to bears, tugged at her rein. Phryne was recalled to the present. She hummed as she brushed Missy, combed out her mane and tail, and left her tethered in the horse lines munching hay.

Having now nothing to do, she went questing for a job. Delight fizzed in her head like champagne. She had stood up on a horse and was now a trick rider in Farrell’s Circus.

She threaded her way through the maze of guys and pegs around the big top and found herself in a canvas alley among the flesh eaters. Voices were raised. Amazing Hans was not happy.

‘Farrell, I have known you for years. I came to you with only three beasts and no money. I know that. I am under an obligation to you.’ The lion tamer was shouting. Phryne decided that she needed a cigarette and stopped, fumbling in her pocket. It took her a long time to separate the cigarettes from her handkerchief and then find her lighter. She listened hard.

‘But now what this Jones wants me to do, it is impossible. I used to put my head in old Joe’s mouth but he was ancient and tame and had no teeth. My lions are young. They are strong. Lions have a natural instinct to bite anything that is put between their teeth. Do I not know? Was I not trained by the great Hagenbeck? What I am demanding of the beasts is not foreign to their nature. That was Hagenbeck’s skill. These creatures are gentled. They love me, they do not fear me.’

‘Scared, eh?’ said Farrell’s slow Australian drawl, scathing to the pride. Phryne heard Amazing Hans draw in a deep breath. The lions moved uneasily in their cages, catching their trainer’s mood.

‘Yes!’ he yelled, loud enough to make Phryne jump. ‘Yes, I’m scared. I, the Amazing Hans, am afraid. And I am not ashamed of it. I will not do as this idiot asks. And I will leave your circus. Sole’s want another trainer. I shall take my lions and go. Now get out of my tent.’

Farrell had just begun to answer when someone grabbed Phryne by the shoulder. ‘Snooping, Fern?’ asked Mr Jones.

She held out the cigarette and the lighter and remembered her accent. ‘Just trying to get a light.’

He lit her gasper with a flourish. Up close, Mr Jones was less attractive than he had seemed, and he had never posed any threat to Valentino. He was tall, running to fat and overdressed in a suit and tie. He had white hair and flat brown eyes. He stank of Californian Poppy, cigar smoke, and mouthwash with an underlying reek of rotten teeth.

‘I reckon you were snooping, Fern,’ he said slowly, and the hand moved to pinch her breast. ‘You be nice to me and I won’t tell Mr Farrell and get you sacked.’

What would Fern do? thought Phryne as the hand took further liberties with her body. Treacherously, it was beginning to react, recalling the touch of Matthias and Alan Lee. Phryne made up her mind that Fern was a good girl.

‘Sorry,’ she said, refusing to meet his eyes. ‘I’m not that kind of girl.’

Mr Jones had evidently met this response before. He gripped her chin and forced her to look into his face. It was a face that might have been carved out of soap. One gash made the mouth.

‘It’s your job, Fern,’ he said softly. ‘You wanna walk home from Rockbank?’