Page 58 of The Midnight Carousel

‘Mama, look.’

Milo is ankle deep in water, his chubby, little legs splashing up and down, his big, blue eyes shining with excitement, as though it’s a diamond necklace and not a long, wriggling creature that he’s dangling.

At three years old, he reminds Maisie of herself at that age, paddling in the shallows, fascinated by the beings living in the sea.

‘Well done, Milo, let’s put it in the jar.’

With the lamprey settled in its new abode, Milo holds Maisie’s hand as they cut past the westward side of Silver Kingdom.

Maisie can feel his grip tighten as they spot a figure in the distance, waving.

Madame Rose. It’s early for any park workers to have arrived, and this confirms Maisie’s suspicions that the woman is living in her red tent.

‘It’s all right, she won’t hurt you.’

Milo whimpers. He has always been terrified of the fortune-teller. Perhaps it’s the way Madame Rose’s eyes stare as though she knows things about you that you wouldn’t want revealed, or maybe Milo has picked up on his mother’s dislike.

Maisie hurries along the path to Essex Cottage, which lies in a quiet spot on the northern fringes of the park.

A single-storey, timber-framed building centred around a large brick fireplace, it isn’t grand like Jesserton or Fairweather, consisting only of a kitchen, bathroom, living room and two bedrooms, but for the first time ever in her life Maisie owns her own home, with every colour, every minute detail, chosen by her.

Milo places the jar on the oak kitchen table, his eyes glued to the lamprey’s dance, while Maisie serves up porridge.

‘Breakfast. Put the lamprey on the counter, please.’

‘He’s called Mr Arnie,’ he corrects Maisie.

Milo is obsessed with Arnold. He follows his godfather around Silver Kingdom, giggling at the dramatic introductions to the carousel. ‘Roll up, roll up,’ were amongst the first words to spring from Milo’s mouth.

‘Then put Mr Arnie on the counter, please.’

Pouting, Milo shakes his head.

‘Milo Malcolm Squires, if you aren’t good, we won’t play tiddlywinks this evening.’

It never fails to amaze Maisie that she has to coax her son to eat when she herself spent a good part of her childhood grateful for tiny portions of gruel and stale bread.

Milo frowns, but does as he’s told. Ruffling his hair, Maisie is overcome by her emotions for this small person.

Sometimes the force takes her breath away.

As she first cradled her son, admiring his little fingernails and tiny toes, Maisie had sworn always to protect him.

No matter what, she could never, ever leave him.

A knock on the door sends Milo scurrying to the hallway. There’s laughter and squealing, and he bounds back into the kitchen followed by James.

‘And how’s my boy today?’ he asks Milo, ignoring Maisie.

Not that she wants acknowledgement. After the abrupt end of her marriage, she struggles to be around the man.

Like a sea fog evaporating, she can now see James for what he really is.

But she tolerates him for Milo’s sake. Of everything she desires in life, her child feeling wanted in the way she wasn’t by her own parents is at the top of Maisie’s list. It’s why she hasn’t got around to an official divorce.

They don’t need to– James repaid her the two thousand dollars within a year, and both he and Maisie support themselves financially, with an unspoken agreement to share any costs relating to their son.

Of course, bringing up a child alone is challenging.

There’s no one else to share the big milestones with: sitting up alone, tottering around without help, his first ride on the carousel, held on Maisie’s lap while he bounced up and down in excitement.

No one to worry with when he’s sick or sad.

She does all this and more, gladly. And the staff at both the house and Silver Kingdom help out whenever they can: Clara babysits; Eric is teaching Milo how to ride a bicycle; Peggy Mae brings pies; doughnuts, pizza, hotdogs and clam chowder arrive from the food concessions; the Crew do repairs on the cottage.

As long as she doesn’t have to live with James, who rents an apartment near the club, it will be fine.

The absence of grandparents for her son tugs at her heart sometimes, but what can Maisie do about that?

James’s parents live on the other side of the Atlantic, and she long ago gave up on the idea of searching for her own, because how could she possibly find them when they were last seen thousands of miles away?

Her desire to feel wanted has lingered, however, and she still holds out hope that they will come looking for her one day.

She kisses the top of Milo’s head. ‘Mama is going now. Will you be good for Papa, please?’

He nods, his face solemn, then pulls his father to admire the lamprey in the jar.

Outside, the Jointees are now setting up for the day; restaurants fire up ovens, staff pile in, shuttered stalls open, chalk boards are positioned, awnings unfurl in a domino effect. Workers tip their hats as Maisie passes, so many of them now that she can’t always remember their names.

Business is booming. Joining the original set-up are twenty-three new rides, sixty-five further concessions, an acrobatics show and an upscale restaurant.

There’s even a streetcar stop, an extension of the original Clark-Wentworth route running into downtown Chicago.

Negotiated between Maisie and the Chicago Railway Company, it loops over reclaimed marshland, bringing customers straight to the park’s door without disturbing the neighbours.

Taking note of Freddie Fortescue’s idea, she’s extended their opening hours at weekends, and once or twice she even considered following the example of Mr Ingersoll’s Luna Parks by introducing Silver Kingdoms in other locations.

The past couple of years have been busy, with Maisie’s eyes fixed on one goal: escape.

Strolling across the park, she spots her pebbles still dotted around the carousel. It’s been more than three years since Maisie has felt the need to lay any more, ever since she came up with an ingenious idea to keep everyone safe from disappearing, once and for all.

A little older, a little more worn from all those eager riders patting and stroking horses, wriggling on the saddles, the ride is still magnificent.

And now the strange horse is enclosed in a glass cabinet, inaccessible, giving it a fairytale quality.

It’s their very own Snow White. Their very own version of a freak show, attracting spectators from far and near.

Maisie has even set aside one hour at the end of each day for visitors to have their photographs taken beside the horse.

The unresolved mystery of what happened to the people who vanished attracts a long line. Would-be sleuths swap theories: kidnappings gone wrong; coincidence; a publicity stunt; communist spies. ‘It was Martians from outer space, you mark my words,’ one man claimed, pointing to the sky.

Maisie keeps her thoughts to herself. She knows for certain now that Beau Armitage wasn’t involved, having discovered a couple of years ago through the gossip pages that he was attending a movie premiere in Hollywood on the night Sir Malcolm disappeared.

The little voice in her head had begun asking questions again.

What was the relevance of her own experience of riding the strange horse?

Why were the police forces in two countries still stumped?

Then, last month, she visited a bookstore in the city with Milo.

As usual, everyone took stock of Maisie holding her son’s hand, eyeing her with the same quizzical expression as the parents visiting Silver Kingdom, and the sales assistants in the toy department at Marshall Field’s.

Asking themselves, Who is this pale-skinned, blue-eyed child to you?

Ignoring the stares, Maisie had helped Milo choose a book for himself, then spent a few moments browsing the adult fiction section– and there, with its golden spine, had sat The Time Machine by H.

G. Wells. Open-mouthed, she had read enough to know that she had to buy this book.

After absorbing every word, she got a wild idea– could the horse be a device for snatching people away to the past, where they become trapped?

She pulls up the collar of her coat against the autumn wind.

The majestic outline of Fairweather House looms into view with the usual sight of Nancy staring from her bedroom window in a white nightgown.

Though she might have felt some victory at reclaiming Fairweather House for herself, something seemed to break in Nancy when Milo was born.

Maisie had tried to continue their quiet moments sitting together on the patio bench when Nancy was in one of her vague states, but the woman withdrew completely.

She barely talks or eats or sleeps now and stays in her room, alone, according to the servants, who are Maisie’s eyes and ears in the big house.

To Maisie’s secret relief, Nancy even lost interest in Sir Malcolm’s death, appearing to believe the alibi Mrs Papadopoulos provided a few days after the party.

It seems she is safe, for now– though the guilt at covering up his disappearance persists.

Arriving at the office near the ticket booth, she is immediately met by a letter lying on the desk. She recognizes the slanted handwriting, knows the sender without having to check. Laurent has written again.

She wonders if his wife knows that he writes to another woman on the other side of the world.

What does Maisie care anyway, since she’s sworn off romantic love?

She’s doing fine by herself, and James involving Freddie Fortescue in their lives taught Maisie that a husband doesn’t necessarily offer protection.

With that, she places the envelope with the other nine, all unopened, in the top drawer.