Page 13 of The Midnight Carousel

Maisie would raise her eyebrows if Sir Malcolm wasn’t glaring at her. He must have no idea that she can identify a hangover blindfolded after years of witnessing the gin-induced afflictions of the Sixpences.

‘How about sweet tea and a boiled egg? I’ll get Clara to bring it.’

‘Indeed. And please deal with the carousel. I’m not up to much today.’

Or most days. What a waste of a life, she thinks. On the other hand, she’s glad for his fragile state, for this gives Maisie the perfect opportunity to show Sir Malcolm how indispensable she is.

By the time Maisie returns outside, the canopy is complete, rising in the sky as a gigantic, multicoloured parasol.

With one hand shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare, she can make out the painted figures of a red, white and blue army marching towards a fleet of golden ships that float on a turquoise ocean.

Following the curve of the carousel, Maisie realizes that the picture morphs seamlessly into an intricate scene of a city under siege.

The artwork is so beautiful that her heart sings.

Enthralled, she watches as the carved horses are next unwrapped.

There are copper manes, silver chevrons, saddles that blaze gold.

A ginger pony with purple hooves and striped mane is carried past. It seems that whoever designed these glorious creatures went to great pains to make sure that no two were alike.

Mr Corbett is bellowing instructions, gesticulating wildly.

His face is now as red as a ripe tomato, his cheeks puffed up.

There seems to be some difficulty in positioning the correct horses on the correct poles, the mention of a certain order.

His labourers struggle, switch horses, try again.

With a rush of adjusting, there’s success at last. Just as Maisie thinks the work is completed, one of the men races up the ladder to screw a flag at the top.

A shiver runs down her spine. It can’t be.

As though Maisie has been carried off to the past, she’s sitting near the copper beech tree on Canvey Island, unrolling the picture she and Tommy treasured.

The multicoloured horses. The patterned, tent-like covering.

The silver disc. The gold-and-indigo flag.

The similarities to the carousel standing right in front of her are startling.

There’s cheering and clapping as the workers congratulate themselves.

‘Finally finished. Almost had us beat,’ Mr Corbett declares, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. ‘There were all sorts of newfangled parts to place right; horses that wouldn’t slot in on the first go. Now I just need to show someone how to work the controls.’

Maisie has no choice, she supposes, but to be that someone. She follows him, listens to his lengthy instructions about how to work the lever, the switches, some rambling about oiling the parts.

‘You got an automobile?’ he asks.

Maisie nods. ‘The master of the house does.’

‘Good. This ain’t one of those old-fashioned rides running on clockwork or steam.

It’s different. I don’t know much about these matters, but it has an engine like an automobile, Mr Fraser says, so it needs gasoline like an automobile.

There’s enough in there for a couple of turns, but it’ll need topping up occasionally.

’ He hands her a folder. ‘Not sure what use this is since it’s in a foreign language, but here you go. ’

Apparently satisfied that Maisie has absorbed enough of the instructions, he rallies his crew and they disappear up the driveway. Relieved to be rid of them at last, she removes her boots, which are like vices after standing for so long.

Perched on the metal platform, she opens the folder.

Mr Corbett is quite correct– the papers are written in a language Maisie doesn’t understand.

There are diagrams of mechanisms, perhaps instructions.

Rifling through, she’s at the point of giving up on making sense of anything when she spots something poking out of a page at the back.

She pulls out a poster. It’s an advertisement for an event, similar in style to the advertisements for Hershey’s chocolate.

She can hardly believe it. This is the same carousel.

paris exposition – and the date april 14th, 1900 .

Maisie shakes her head in wonder. It’s like being reunited with an old friend.

This picture sustained her through the bleakest times of her life, gave her hope when all seemed lost. How many hours had she sat with Tommy, memorizing every brush stroke, absorbing the exact shade of every horse?

And now she’s holding a pristine version in her hands.

How is that even possible? Perhaps she’s a conjuror, drawing her wishes, her dreams, from the other side of the sea.

Soon Sir Malcolm appears through the trees, dressed in shirt and pants with a trace of colour to his cheeks.

He heads straight to the carousel, his eyes fixed ahead like he’s sleep walking, climbs on to the platform, metal clanging under his brogues, and examines the nearest horse.

He moves to the next horse, then the next, and so on as if he’s inspecting an army.

Maisie is relieved he makes no irate comment about where the carousel is situated. Perhaps he’s even pleased.

‘Should we have a turn?’ he asks abruptly, gazing down at the complex pattern etched on the platform, a labyrinth of interconnected lines.

She thought he would never ask.

He chooses a brown horse with an emerald saddle, while Maisie pulls down the control lever, then leaps on the one nearest to her, a dappled grey stallion. They move off, the wind in their faces.

She feels it immediately. There’s none of the clanking or jerking of the Clacton carousel, no roar.

This machine purrs, gliding with every rotation.

It’s faster too, cutting through the air at such speed that Maisie can barely catch her breath.

For a moment, there’s a pang in her heart for that special day at the funfair.

She pictures the joy on Miss Catherine’s face, Aunty Mabel laughing.

The image is so clear in her mind that it suddenly feels as if they’re really here.

A surge of exhilaration courses through Maisie as a show of sparkling lights appears above.

Gripping the pole, she pulls herself up.

Two rows in front, Sir Malcolm also rises to his feet. They both whoop in delight.