Page 10 of The Show Woman

9

Rosie realises

Night time. A sky of distant stars. Rosie sits on the steps of the caravan twirling a single daisy, worrying at the stalk until it disintegrates, sticky and green, in her hands. She was in the stables while the show went on, trapped in her own despair, but knows, now, what happened. A disaster. The end of things.

She tosses the tiny flower into the dark. Rosie does not think it is the end of things, even if Lena does. She is convinced, deep down, that had she been able to perform she would have blown them all away. That Violet is talented, as is Carmen. That Lena has talent too, she just doesn’t know it yet.

Rosie may be small, and young, but a fierce heart beats inside her tiny chest. She has not come this far to give up now. She has not cantered away from her life, left its remains in rotting tatters, stoked her father’s fury and her mother’s despair, for it to fall apart because of a few sniggering men.

She remembers her mother, cowering one night by the fire, vinegar-soaked poultice at her blossoming purple eye, hand trembling next to the flames. How she had gone to her, gently taken the poultice and held it for her, wrapping her other hand in hers, stroking the rough skin of her thumb, tracing over the ragged nail. Her mother was a broken woman, and Rosie knew that she was trapped. She wondered who she might have become, this shell of a person, had she been allowed to sing openly, instead of living in abject fear.

Rosie realised she did not know who her mother really was, and that was because her mother did not know who she was either. Her sharp edges had been smoothed out into a blank white sheet. She knew that her mother liked plum jam, which she made herself each autumn as the leaves fell outside in golden clumps, smeared on a slice of warm bread straight from the stove. She knew that her favourite dress was the blue calico, even though it had been ripped once, years ago, when her father stood on the hem. That she liked to wear her hair pinned to the side, and that she would sing sometimes, old songs about ploughing and lost loves, as she fluttered around the kitchen.

But she knew nothing of her mother’s desires and needs, what she dreamt of at night when her tormentor had finally fallen into deep sleep, what made her laugh. She knew only what made her cry.

Rosie gets up and walks softly away from the wagon. The rest of the girls are asleep. There has been brandy and tears, and now Rosie can hear soft snores from the back. She picks her way through the litter that a day at the fair has left, her soft footprints trailing into the dark.

‘Violet, wake up.’

Violet snaps her eyes open in fear.

‘Sshh,’ says Rosie. ‘It’s just me.’

She jumps down from the bunk. She is still wearing her dress from the day before, even though light streams into the wagon.

‘Get dressed. I want to show you something.’

Outside the air is fresh, and a low mist hangs across the showground. It has rained during the night, and the wetness seeps into her boots as they walk.

‘Well?’ says Violet, yawning, expectant. ‘What’s so important you had to tear me away from my sleep?’

They round a corner and the whole showground opens up to them. There are caravans as far as the eye can see, some with little puffs of smoke chugging out from the flume in their roofs. Early risers are already pottering about, hanging up washing, starting fires, heating kettles for hot tea.

‘This,’ says Rosie. She points at the scene in front of them, and Violet shrugs.

‘So? It’s a bunch of show folk getting up in the morning. Hardly exciting, Rosie.’

‘It is to me,’ she says. She stops, crossing her thin arms over her dress. ‘I think you’ve forgotten who I am. I’m a flattie, as you call them. A farmer’s daughter. I’ve never seen anything like this before – this world.’

‘OK, well, congratulations. Now you have.’

Violet turns to go and Rosie shoots out an arm to stop her.

‘You’re missing the point. This is what we need. I’m what we need. You and Lena, you grew up with all of this. The shows, the fair, living in these wagons. And now it’s all got a bit . . .’ she casts around looking for the right word ‘. . . stale. You’re like that heel of bread Lena’s been carting around with her since Vinegarhill. You’ve gone all crusty and hard.’

Violet gives her a small, languid smile. ‘Go on.’

‘If you want to put on a show, a good show, you need to see what the other folk are doing. Get a few ideas. Pretend you’ve never seen any of it before and it’s just as amazing as the first time you ever saw it. See what’s not being done, too, and who’s getting it wrong. That’s the only way we’re going to do this between us, with what we’ve got. That, and figure out how to fit Tommy into the tent.’

Her lips twitch and Violet laughs. ‘Aye, well. Right enough. You might be on to something, Miss Rosie.’

On impulse, Violet, still soft with sleep, leans in and hugs her. Rosie turns pink and hugs her back.

‘So what you’re saying is you want a wee day out at the fair?’

Rosie nods into Violet’s hair, damp now from the early morning air.

‘I really do.’