Page 1 of The Show Woman

Ayr, Scotland September 1910

The Fall

Showtime.

High above the tent, Violet glistens like a sleekit fish. Stock-still, toes pointed, head bowed as though in prayer. The crowd below twist their necks as Lena the ringmistress flits among them, her words seductive as a hypnotist’s. Do they know that Violet is the greatest trapeze artist who ever lived? That some believe she may actually have wings?

The throng shifts with restless excitement. They suck loudly on boiled peppermints and lumpen caramels. Sweat rises above the ring in steamy clouds. They have heard about this circus of ladies that travels the land, thrilling the towns and villages with their flying girls, daredevil horse-riders and the mysterious, tail-coated ringmistress with the velvet voice. It brings glamour and danger, and the hint of something darker, teetering on the edge of illicit. They have queued at the ticket booth and paid their pennies. It is their turn to be dazzled.

‘Look up,’ says Lena. ‘Can you see her? Right at the top of the tent. Look up, ladies and gentlemen, because this young woman is about to fly.’

Taut as piano wire, Violet swings forward and grabs the bar. For a single, perfect moment she is flying. Soaring through the tent, light as the air that carries her.

And then, as if it were planned, as if it were the most graceful of movements, Violet’s hands slip from the bar as though it were spun from silk. Or coated in grease. She falls, her body like an arrow shooting for the ground.

The tent glitters. Lena runs. But not even the tail-coated ringmistress can stop gravity.

Violet, heavy as the moon, lands on the sawdust with a toneless thud. The crowd begins to howl. The greatest trapeze artist who ever lived is lying flat on the floor of the tent. Her toes are still pointed. But only she is looking up.