Kerry Greenwood - Blood and Circuses

The screen was also painted to look like the box and was of canvas. Dulcie fitted neatly between the screen and the outer wall of the box.

‘Only thing to do is not to giggle,’ said Dulcie. ‘What’s the matter, Fern? You look pale.’

‘Miss Younger . . .’ said Phryne. Dulcie patted her shoulder.

‘It’s real hard for her,’ she said slowly. ‘Losing Mr Christopher like that. But it’s not surprising that she went crook. She sorta looks after us girls. And it’s my fault too, Fern. I oughta told you about clowns.’

‘What about clowns?’

‘They’re off limits,’ said Dulcie slowly. ‘I dunno why. It’s just always been like that. It’s all right for them to marry, like old Thompson, but not to have lovers, not to be happy. Clowns ain’t supposed to be happy. You did the wrong thing, Fern.’

‘So I did the wrong thing.’

‘And you gotta give him up.’

‘Do I?’ Phryne was bewildered. Just as she had thought that she was understanding the circus, it had turned unaccountable and alien again. ‘And if I don’t?’

‘Then you’ll be a tart. They’ll all be coming to the tent and asking for you. You’ll be pestered to death.’

Phryne thought about it. The clown was too sweet to surrender because of the circus’s strange views of morality. He was also the only person who could make her feel loved. She needed him. The affair would have to be secret. Then she remembered that one cannot have secrets in a circus. It was give up the clown or be taken for a tart. The decision was already made. There were worse fates than being pestered. She presumed that they would not go as far as actual rape.

‘Then the pesterers are going to get a shock,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’m not giving him up. He’s lovely.’

Dulcie sighed. ‘Oh, well, Fern, if that’s what you want. But it won’t be easy for you. I hope you know what you’re doing. You look a bit upset. Come and we’ll see if Bernie can give us a cuppa. He might even have some ginger biscuits left if that thieving Bruno ain’t scoffed the lot. That’s why he keeps ’em in a tin. Bruno ain’t got the hang of tins yet. Or, no, we can’t. Bernie’s washing Bruno today. We’ll think of something. Mr Sheridan,’ she called. ‘I’ve fixed the box.’

The magician came out of the large caravan emblazoned with his name and smiled at Dulcie. Even in a dressing-gown he had a morning-suit manner.

‘There’s my good girl. My two good girls,’ he added. ‘Hello, who is this?’

‘Fern,’ said Dulcie. ‘We gotta go, Mr Sheridan.’

Sheridan slathered a lascivious smile all over Phryne, leaving her feeling smirched. He stepped back into his large caravan like a cuckoo into a clock.

‘Jeez!’ snorted Dulcie, dragging Phryne away. ‘Every time he does that I feel like I gotta go and have a wash. It’s no jam being a magician’s girl. Here, look at the state of your arm. Fingerprints, they are. What did Miss Younger do to you, Fern?’

‘Nothing. Nothing really. She was upset.’

‘Yair. Well, you can stay out of her way until tonight. I’m going over to see a friend in another camp. You want to come?’

This was a surprising announcement. Phryne nodded and went with Dulcie back to the girls’ tent to wash off Mr Sheridan’s smile and change into another once-washed cotton dress. This one was lime green and had a matching scarf.

As they crossed the circus into the carnival, Phryne realised that Dulcie was not going to stop there. They were going to the gypsy camp.

The invisible boundary was crossed. It looked just like the other camps, except for the people. Dark eyes lifted from washtub and lathe and stared with the absent-minded indifference of cats.

‘Here,’ said Dulcie and stopped outside a tent. It was bigger than the others and striped in red and yellow.

‘Come in,’ said an old voice. They ducked in under the fringes of many brightly coloured shawls and came face to face with Mama Rosa.

She was massive. Her face was beaky, strong and determined. She had a shawl draped over her mass of white hair and her blunt-fingered hands were folded in her lap. She was wearing what had been someone’s grandmother’s good black silk dress. On Mama Rosa it looked like a wizard’s gown. She had the huge Gothic authority of a mountain.

‘Dulcie,’ she said. ‘And Fern.’

They sat down on cushions at her feet.

‘What do you see?’ asked Dulcie tensely. Mama Rosa opened her hands and cupped a crystal ball.

‘Dark,’ she said. ‘Danger.’

‘For me?’ asked Dulcie. Mama Rosa shook her head with a click of earrings. ‘Fern. In the darkness there are eyes. And teeth. Pray that you not be devoured. You will receive a message this afternoon. Heed it.’

Her eyes closed. Dulcie and Phryne tiptoed out.

‘Whew!’ said Phryne. ‘She’s amazing!’

‘Yair,’ said Dulcie. They walked across the gypsy camp and into the carnival. Phryne remembered Alan Lee and had to get rid of Dulcie.

‘I’ll see you later,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a friend here.’

‘I hope he don’t mind about the clown,’ said Dulcie. ‘Ta ta. You better take a rest this arvo. Show tonight. But no matinees tomorrow.’

‘Why?’

‘Melbourne Cup,’ explained Dulcie and went away.

Phryne had forgotten all about the Melbourne Cup. If she were at home, she thought, she would be having her last fitting for a fashionable dress, in order to go to the Cup the next day and dazzle the eyes of all beholders. She would bathe in scented water and perhaps eat a little chocolate, Hillier’s of course, before dressing, her maid waiting on her as she did so. Then she would recline in the back seat of her Hispano-Suiza while Mr Butler drove her to the racecourse, with Lindsay or some other suitable escort. There she would sniff the roses, look at a race card occasionally, and dine on chicken patties and drink champagne while the horses thundered past.

It seemed like a dream. Fern the trick rider bought herself an ice-cream and paid to see Samson, the Strongest Man in the World.

Fifteen muscle-racking minutes later, Samson finished his act by twisting a poker provided by a local into a knot. The man who had donated the poker exerted all his strength, grimacing, trying to untwist it again. Samson let him struggle until he gave up. The man put the knotted poker back into the offered hand and Samson flexed a few deltoids and straightened it with one smooth motion.

‘Show’s over, folks,’ said the strong man. ‘Hello, Fern.’

‘Samson, you really are very strong.’

He wiped his forehead on a towel.

‘The poker’s easy,’ he said dismissively. ‘That bloke could do it if he knew how. It’s a knack. I hear you can stick on a horse good-o, Fern.’

‘It’s a knack,’ said Phryne. ‘Samson, if I need you, will you help me?’

‘You can count on me. You know that. You got trouble, Fern?’

‘Possibly. Might be tonight. I’ll . . .’ Someone came into the tent. ‘See you soon,’ concluded Phryne. She walked out into the sun again.

Alan Lee drew her into the cover of his tent and dropped the flap. ‘We can talk if we’re quiet,’ he said. ‘I got your answers and a letter from town, I thought it shouldn’t go in the circus mail. What’s gone wrong?’

She laid her forehead against his shoulder. ‘Nothing but my nerve,’ she said. ‘I’ve lost it. Don’t let go of me.’

His arms closed around her. She could hear his heart beating. On impulse, she unbuttoned his shirt and laid her cheek against his skin. Her heart began to resume its normal pace and her breathing slowed.

‘Funny. That’s what frightened animals do,’ he said softly. ‘Or threatened ones. Huddle together, touching flank to flank.’