Page 16 of The Show Woman

15

Carmen’s secret

Rain beats down as they pull into Stirling, but little can dampen Lena’s mood. For the past two weeks in Falkirk their shows have been a success. Their curious little circus with its famous trapeze artist, its lithe, beautiful rainbow girl, deft equestrian and mysterious ringmistress have captured imaginations. Word is starting to spread.

On the way out of Denny, the last fairground before Stirling, they are stopped twice, once by a flock of young farm workers wanting to take them out for the night, and then by an older couple, asking why they were leaving so soon.

‘You better get yourselves back here before too long,’ the older lady shouts as they trot down the lane and on to the main road. ‘We’d all like a squint at ye.’

Stirling showground squats underneath the old castle. Its battlements hulk over the town, forbidding and ancient. Lena is setting the wagon up for the day when she realises they are running low on food, almost out of bread and cheese.

‘Come on,’ she says to Carmen. ‘We’ll away up the town and pick up a few bits. The other two can see to the horses.’

On the cobbles of the old town, hooves clatter through the long, winding streets. In a small square they see the remnants of the fruit and vegetable market packing up, crates of early blaeberries, their skins soft and cloudy, great sacks of potatoes, piles of unscrubbed neeps. As they walk round the edge of the square, Lena hears a shout.

‘Hey! Hey! Wait up.’

They stop and turn. A large man is running towards them, wearing an apron. He has fat cheeks and jowls, and a cap on his head. He stops in front of them and looks at Carmen.

‘You’re a long way from home, hen,’ he says, peering at her closely. Spittle has dried in the corners of his mouth. ‘Finally got yourself out of the rat pit, did you?’

Carmen turns away hurriedly, begins running out of the square. Lena, mystified, follows her.

‘Or have you just brought another of yer rats for a day out?’ He laughs loudly as Lena runs to catch up with Carmen.

‘What is he talking about?’

Carmen’s face glistens with tears. She shakes her head. Says nothing.

‘Come on. Tell me. Did you know that man?’

Carmen stops, fumbles in her skirts for a handkerchief and eventually produces a grubby one edged in fine, delicate lace. She mops at her eyes, nods slowly.

‘I knew him once. Maybe a few times. In another life.’

‘Another life?’ Lena is still confused. ‘Before you came to Glasgow? You knew him in Spain?’ The whole thing seems incredible. What would a fruit-seller be doing in Spain? How could they have met here, like this?

Carmen shakes her head again. ‘No. I knew him in Glasgow. I have not been . . .’ She pauses. Cannot look Lena in the eye. ‘I have not been completely honest with you. With all of you.’

Lena stays silent. She has grown to like this tall, beautiful woman with the gangly limbs, who can turn her body at will into any shape she desires, who can write words with the curve of her spine, who gets up and helps muck out the horses, does her share of the washing, and cooks stews with strong, pungent spices that make Lena picture warm places she has never been.

‘I was on the streets, before.’ Carmen looks up at Lena, her eyes burning with shame. ‘I had been with a circus, a Spanish circus. We came to Britain, we toured, but then, I had an accident.’

‘An accident? What happened? Were you hurt?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘You do not understand. An accident with a man. He was . . .’ She pauses, as though trying to recall a face. ‘He was an acrobat, handsome. And then I was pregnant. They threw me out of the circus. I was alone. In this strange country. No money. No job. I could not go home. And then I found the rat pit.’

Lena flinches. She has heard of the rat pit, vaguely. Remembers Mary Weaver talking about it once. A home for women who had fallen on hard times. She doesn’t know much about it, but she knows that you have to be desperate to go there. On your knees. Without love, or luck, or any chance of redemption.

‘How long were you there?’ she asks. ‘And what happened to your baby?’

She motions for them to sit down on the kerb and a woman, dressed in a neat coat and dress, curls her lip at the sight of them. Carmen starts sobbing again.

‘I was there for many months. It was the only place I could find to sleep. I lost the baby not long after I arrived. I bled between my legs, and then it was gone. But the women there, they have been through so many terrible things. They are without hope. Without God. I was too, for a while.’

Lena strokes her long chestnut hair, lets Carmen cry, softly. She cannot imagine how frightened she must have been, to lose her unborn bairn in such a place, with no one she knew or loved beside her.

Carmen looks up. ‘And so that is why I did it.’

‘What?’ Lena says softly. ‘What did you do?’

‘I sold my body. To men. Rough, nasty men on street corners who hurt me. All for a few pennies.’

She buries her face in her hands again.

‘Some of them were OK. There were a few who would buy me food, bring me fresh sheets. But most of them just wanted one thing.’

Lena understands now. Carmen’s maturity, mingled with a hard-worn weariness, a quiet sadness. It had struck her from the moment they met. Now she realises that it comes from a place of pain. That Carmen has truly been to hell and back.

‘I always knew you were strong, but I had no idea that you went through all that,’ she says. ‘How did you get out, my duck? How did you find us?’

Carmen chokes back another sob. Her nose is red, her eyes rimmed with tears, but she is still exquisitely beautiful.

‘One day I decided to find a church. I am a Roman Catholic, and I knew I had sinned, and so I wanted to confess. There is a beautiful church in Glasgow, on Garnethill. It reminded me of the churches back home in Spain. I started going regularly, speaking to some of the women there. I told them about my life back in Spain; that I had been in the circus. And one day, after Mass, one of them brought me your poster.’

‘Fate,’ says Lena.

‘Not God?’ asks Carmen, and they laugh a little, there on the steps.

‘We all believe in different things,’ says Lena. ‘My mammy taught me that. That those beliefs, no matter what they were, could be tested in the most awful ways. That’s why I think you’re so powerful. You’ve faced the worst in life, and yet you still believe. In yourself. In your god. And in us.’ She looks sideways at Carmen. ‘You do believe in us, don’t you? Us four? The circus?’

Carmen nods her head. ‘I have never believed in anything more.’

Lena squeezes her shoulder, and Carmen stands up. She seems calmer now. Talking of her faith has soothed her.

‘Would you like to go to church now?’ asks Lena. ‘Shall we find one?’

And so the two women link arms, and walk through the winding streets to a little chapel, tucked away on a side wynd. Lena has so rarely been inside a church, only really in her school days, that she finds the dark, dusty pews, the high stained glass windows and the altar with its large gold cross intimidating. As Carmen kneels to pray, Lena gazes up at an icon of Jesus on the wall, the blood pouring from his crown of thorns, and wonders if everyone is put on earth simply to suffer.

By the time they leave the chapel the rain has stopped. The air is saturated with birdsong. In the still-blue sky an early moon hangs. A boy runs past, his bunnet askew, waving the evening paper. He is shouting.

‘The King’s deid! The King’s deid! Do you think we’ll get a holiday?’