Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

Deprived of the response of Miss Phryne Fisher, which would have been a swift knee in the privates, Phryne was at a loss. She twisted out of the grip.

‘Please,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I need this job.’

Farrell could be heard leaving the lion tamer’s tent. Jones was either anxious to accompany him or still a little in awe of him. He released Phryne from his gaze.

‘Remember that you owe me a favour,’ he said, and Phryne watched him walk cockily away. She noticed that her hands were trembling. The cigarette smoke wavered, tracing blue squiggles on the still, hot air.

‘I’ll remember,’ she said softly, enraged at her helplessness. ‘Oh, I’ll remember.’

The next person to catch her by the shoulder was Molly Younger, and she stepped back a pace as Phryne turned on her fiercely, fists clenched.

‘Oh, sorry, Miss Younger.’

‘Who did you think I was?’ demanded Molly Younger.

‘Mr Jones,’ admitted Phryne.

Miss Younger’s face grew grimmer. ‘Him.’ She summed him up comprehensively with one phrase. ‘He don’t belong. Now, girl, I want a word. Come to my caravan, I’ve got to change.’

Phryne, wondering what this was all about, followed Miss Younger’s straight back as she stalked through the circus to a neat painted wagon with shafts. Miss Younger did not like trucks.

‘Come in,’ she snapped as Phryne paused. ‘Shut the door.’

The caravan was sparsely furnished. Only rows and rows of blue ribbons and rosettes decorated the walls. The bed was flat, hard, and covered only with a thin blanket. Phryne sat down on it and looked at Miss Younger.

She had pulled off her hat and her fair hair was dragged out of its severe plait. With her hair loose she looked more female. Pouring water into a tin dish on the floor, Miss Younger peeled off her shirt and riding breeches. She was wearing a pair of battered silk shorts and the rest of her body was bare. She stepped into the dish.

Phryne watched without comment. Nudity was common in the circus, when it was a matter of changing clothes or washing. The etiquette was not to look, or not appear to be looking. Phryne wondered if this rule applied in a private caravan. Molly’s face was set and her lips tight. She did not seem pleased and Phryne wondered what she wanted with Fern.

‘I told you when you came,’ said Miss Younger, sponging dust off her body, ‘that if you behaved like a tart you’d be treated like one.’

Phryne nodded. The fair hair bobbed across Miss Younger’s shoulders. She had almost no breasts, and strong muscle was outlined and shadowed by her hair.

‘Then you went and did it.’

‘Did what?’

‘I smelt you. I can smell you now. Greasepaint and lust. You slut!’

Phryne sat back on the hard bed and stared. She had not remembered that one cannot keep secrets in a circus. Miss Younger stepped out of the dish and flung the water out the door. She did not dress but stood, hands on slim hips, glaring.

‘You tart!’ she yelled suddenly. ‘I could smell the polecat stink of you from Missy’s back. You haven’t even washed.’

Phryne decided to say exactly what she meant.

‘I haven’t done any harm,’ she began.

Miss Younger’s chest heaved and she began to breathe in short, painful gasps. ‘No harm? No harm? You’ve only been here a few days and you lie down with a clown!’

‘I like him,’ said Phryne coldly. ‘What business is it of yours?’ She decided to attack. ‘Haven’t you ever had a lover?’

Hands shot out to her throat and began to strangle. Phryne choked, broke the grip with both thumbs biting into the tendons and punched Miss Younger in the stomach. Her fist bounced off muscles like rubber. Miss Younger screamed at Phryne, ‘Slut!’ and Phryne slapped her across the face with all her force. The woman crumpled to the ground.

‘He’s dead,’ said Miss Younger, flatly. ‘He’s dead.’

Phryne accepted Miss Younger into her arms. The woman knelt with her face against Phryne’s breasts and moaned. ‘He’s dead. Mr Christopher is dead. Murdered.’ Phryne did not know what to say. She had not realised just how much the man had meant to the horsemaster. Molly Younger was now weeping freely, with her head buried in Phryne’s lap, kneeling between her knees. Her tears were soaking the cheap cotton dress. All Phryne could do was embrace Molly close and say nothing.

After ten minutes, bitter lamentations were whispered just above hearing.

‘He wanted us to travel together,’ she heard the woman say. ‘He wanted us to live together, to share a caravan. I said we couldn’t because . . . because we weren’t married yet and I wasn’t a tart. It hurt his feelings. He went back to his boarding house and . . . I wanted him,’ she sobbed. ‘I never wanted a man before. They say I only love horses. I do love them. But . . . you stink of love,’ she snarled suddenly. ‘A little slut off the streets, out of the dancehalls, and you’ve . . .’ She drooped. ‘You’ve got love, even the clown, even though no one sleeps with clowns.’ She groaned, then demanded shrilly, ‘Did you enjoy him, then, slut? Did he please you, Jo Jo the clown? Did he touch you and kiss you until you were dizzy? And did you lie down and open your legs and . . .’ Her voice choked again.

‘Yes,’ said Phryne, treading very carefully. ‘I lay down with him and he loved me and I loved him.’

‘You won’t do it again!’ Miss Younger clutched at Phryne’s hips and sank her fingers in around the bone.

Phryne winced. ‘Not again,’ she said softly. ‘Not if you say not.’

Miss Younger made a convulsive movement, forcing Phryne back onto the bed. She slid upwards, rubbing her body against Phryne’s as though she wanted to penetrate it, to be inside her skin and bones. Her rigid lips gaped and she kissed Phryne’s mouth with great force.

Phryne held her tight and kissed her back. The mouth was strong, with a muscular jaw, and Molly kissed wildly and clumsily as though she would bite. Phryne was seized with great pity. Mr Christopher and Miss Younger. Man–woman and woman-man. They were made for each other and no one else would fit. Miss Younger broke off the kiss and shoved Phryne away.

‘It’s all right,’ said Phryne gently. ‘It’s all right for you to love women. I know two women who live together in the country and they are perfectly happy. No one has even noticed.’

‘No!’ Miss Younger screamed, mouth still wet from contact. ‘No! Not you, not any woman! I’m not a freak, not a pervert! I have done without love, I can forget about love. Only when I smell the stink of sluts on heat, like you, does it come back.’ She was panting and the grip on Phryne’s arm was bruisingly tight. ‘I only ever wanted one person in the world, the only one I could love. I never thought there’d be anyone. I’m a man, you stupid bitch. I’m a man. Cursed with this body, which is wrong and bleeds and betrays me. Formed wrong. Born wrong. And so was he. Born different. Born for me, my only one, my dear love. And he’s dead. Gone. I’ve lost him forever. And I never lay with him, never found out about love while I had the chance. Leave me,’ she said harshly.

Phryne stood up and moved away. She stopped at the caravan door as the woman gasped, ‘The clown.’

‘Yes?’

Miss Younger veiled her eyes in the cloud of her hair. ‘Do you really want him?’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne honestly.

‘Then take him,’ said Miss Younger. ‘Even if he is a clown. Take him while you can get him.’

‘Yes.’

‘Like I should have taken mine.’

She turned her face to the wall and began to weep, deep shuddering sobs, like a man crying, unwilling. There did not seem to be anything Phryne could do. She left, closing the door behind her. A roustabout, seeing her dishevelled condition, laughed.