Page 17 of The Show Woman

16

Rememberings

The days shift, rich with light, the world struck silent by public mourning. Shops shutter. Schools close. Muffled church bells toll. Men wear black armbands and women their darkest, dowdiest dresses. At Stirling showground, a patch of green spread out like an underskirt beneath the towering castle, the fair shuts for three days, the entire weekend, as a mark of respect. Anxious showmen roam the grounds with bottles in their hands and money on their minds. A royal death, all this mourning and respect, will not be good for business.

Lena busies herself sprucing up costumes, adding real feathers to Rosie’s headpiece that she has gathered from a nearby wood, wading up to her ankles through springy bluebells to find them. She likes to hold the feathers in her hand, feel the bony sharpness that softens into a bendable, wavy spine, the pillowy down that spans out in colours of grey and slate and deep, mossy green.

She keeps an eye on Carmen, who is quiet and occasionally morose, only leaving the wagon, and the small, battered Bible she now reads each day, to do her daily stretches and exercises. Lena wonders if she regrets having spilt her secret, and worries the woman might leave them. But where would she go? Back to the rat pit? Surely not. No one would willingly turn back down the road towards hell.

Violet, meanwhile, seems irritable and restless. She never could stand still. The travelling blood runs deep within her veins. She seems to take it personally that the King has died. Her only remark on the matter, sitting on the steps of the caravan one night next to Rosie, a tatty tartan blanket round both of their shoulders, is to say, ‘He’s not my king.’

‘It’s hardly the King’s fault he’s died,’ Lena says mildly.

‘Isn’t it?’ asks Violet. ‘I met this acrobat once who knew a showgirl, Emerald I think her name was, and she told him she’d danced for the King once, and apparently he was never away from the drink. Belly on him the size of Ireland.’

Later that night, when Carmen and Rosie are in bed, Lena talks to Violet about the prospect of a trip to Galston. Ayrshire has always been one of the last places in Scotland that the fairs visit on the old, well-worn routes that all show people follow each summer, a last hurrah after the biting cold of the northeast and the granite-grey city of Aberdeen. But perhaps now, with this unexpected break, they could take a quick trip? Ask about her mammy?

Violet is reluctant. ‘It’ll take too long,’ she says, pulling a piece of tobacco from her teeth. ‘By the time we get there the fair might be open again. And we can’t leave those two on their own. They don’t know which way is up, bless their wee flattie hearts.’

Lena senses there is more to Violet’s resistance but decides to leave it. There is money to be made on the road right now. They’ll make it to Galston soon enough.

On Monday the ground’s owners make the decision to open, and the crowds flood in as never before. There is a pent-up energy, a charge in the air, and the reverential mourning gives way to something joyful, loose, and excitable. It lingers in the throng in the tent that first day, the faces that leer and twist, the gasps and shouts, particularly when Violet takes to the bar. Her act is now flawless. She flips and twists and bends and weaves, her body so pliable, it is as though she has turned to liquid. She hardly needs the bar at all, simply soars from one side of the tent to the other, as though she really can fly.

Perhaps, thinks Lena, I can play with that. Tease the crowd, suggest that Violet actually has wings. Didn’t her daddy tell her about the mermaid with the tail? And didn’t she always believe him?

That night, Lena wakes to the sound of whispering outside the wagon. Low, male, rough. Flatties, perhaps, keen with the drink and thinking they can noise up the ladies from the circus. She elbows Violet, who is deeply asleep beside her.

‘Can you hear that?’ she says in a low voice.

‘ Mff ,’ says Violet.

‘What’s the name of the one in the hat? Nice legs, but looks a wee bit hoity-toity,’ says a voice from outside.

‘Violet,’ Lena says urgently. ‘Wake up.’

Violet opens her eyes. Beyond her Rosie and Carmen are stirring too.

‘Loony, isn’t it?’ says another disembodied voice, closer now, right under the wagon window.

‘Aye, well, they’ll be carting her off to the loony bin when I’m finished with her,’ the first voice returns, to a low, guttural laugh.

Lena grips Violet’s arm in fear, feels her huge green eyes staring at her in the dark. On the road with Daddy she so rarely had to worry about the men who, as her breasts grew large and full, her hips curved out and her waist went in, would eye her hungrily from a distance. Her daddy had a reputation, after all. Being a bareknuckle boxer had served him well. Nobody brought trouble to Joseph Loveridge’s wagon, no matter how ripe his daughter looked, or ready for the picking.

‘Evening, gents.’

Another voice, now. Different. Familiar. Lena sinks her nails into Violet’s wrist and Violet snatches her arm back. ‘Ouch,’ she says.

‘Shh,’ responds Lena. ‘Sorry.’

‘Out for a wee stroll, are we? Nice night for it,’ says the new voice, and Lena realises, with a soaring flood of relief, that it is Harry. All four of the women sit stock-still now, every sinew in their bodies straining to hear what will happen next.

‘Bugger off,’ says a gruff, nasty voice.

‘I won’t, actually,’ says Harry, ‘although I hear there’s some lads down by the river who are into that sort of thing. It’s you two who need to bugger off.’

Two of them. Dangerous. Harry’s a big lad himself, but could he take on two drunk townies?

‘Who the hell are you, ya ginger bastard?’ says one of them, and he spits loudly on the ground.

‘I’m a man with more pals on this ground than you, son,’ says Harry. His voice is even-tempered, moderate, but there is a steely edge to his tone. ‘Never seen either of you two before. You blow in from the town, did you? You should know you’re not welcome here after hours.’

There is a commotion outside, as though one of the men has taken a run at Harry.

‘Hey!’ comes a shout.

A flash of white streaks through the caravan, the door flings open and Carmen hurls herself at one of the men, kicking him in the face, forcing his arm up his back and pinning him to the trunk of a tree with her foot. ‘No!’ she shrieks, her hair wild, as the man writhes under her grip, while Harry punches the other in the stomach, forcing him to double over, and the air is full of the sound of voices and cries.

They all crowd down the steps of the wagon as several other men from the showground appear. The two men, rough-looking with no hats, threadbare suits and mucky boots, are swiftly pinned to the muddy ground. Before long they are dragged off into the dark.

‘Where in the name of God did you learn to do that?’ Violet says as Carmen pushes her way back into the caravan, pulling her nightgown down and shaking her hair out.

‘Just something I learnt when I first joined my circus, in Spain. The men were hard, so I had to become hard, too. It is useful, is it not?’

‘You’re bloody right it is,’ says Violet, sitting down on the bunk with surprising force and staring at Carmen in admiration. ‘Can you teach me?’

‘Teach all of us,’ echoes Lena. ‘We could do with a bit of protection on the road.’

Carmen grins. ‘I will. We can have a little lesson if you like.’

There is a knock at the door.

‘Only me, Vi,’ says Harry.

She lets him in, and Lena pulls a blanket round herself. She is wearing only her nightgown. Rosie still in her bunk, pulls the covers up, while Carmen retreats into hers.

‘When did you get so bold?’ asks Violet.

‘You’re welcome, dear sister. It was a pleasure to save your life, and that of your fellow circus ladies.’

‘You hardly did anything,’ says Violet. ‘It was Carmen who saved the day.’

‘You’re absolutely right. Thank you, Carmen.’ He performs a little bow, but she stares back at him blankly.

‘What were you doing round here anyway?’ Violet asks. ‘Isn’t your wagon miles away on the other side of the ground?’

‘A fellow can’t go a wee stroll of an evening and take in the night air?’

Violet tuts, but Lena can see she is pleased and proud.

‘Can I give you a wee nip of whisky for your trouble, Harry? It’s the cheap shite but it’s better than nothing.’

She colours immediately. Despite her recent, much-mocked blip, she rarely uses curse words; it was one of the few things Daddy used to give her the strap for as a bairn. Why had she used one now? In front of Harry, of all people?

Violet smirks. ‘Aye,’ she says. ‘Join us. Drink our cheap shite. The finest in all the land. What an invite, Lena.’

‘I’ll not trouble you further,’ says Harry, turning to go, but he twinkles in Lena’s direction. Curled up in her bunk, Rosie smiles at him.

‘Thank you, Harry. That was . . .’ She stumbles for the right words. ‘Very kind.’

He nods at her and smiles.

‘Carmen,’ he says, looking at the acrobat, huddled in her blankets now, despite the warm night. But she turns her face to the wall and says nothing.

For the rest of the night Lena lies awake, her index finger worrying at a loose flake of skin on her thumb. Every creak and rattle, each distant voice, makes her body tingle with fear, sends a shot of adrenaline coursing through her.

She’d known, when her daddy died, that it would be the end of their life together. Of everything she had known, come to it. But she had not contended with the fact that she would lose her safety, too.

Lena’s father had been her compass, her map, constantly guiding her, showing her the way, and throwing an invisible ring of protection around her. She had taken it all for granted, clung to him so tightly after Mammy left that they’d formed a bond she’d believed was unbreakable. She had forgotten about death, somehow. Its infinite nature, its cruelty, the sudden blow of its scythe. How stupid she’d been. How childish.

And now, here, in a new town with a new show, a show she still can’t quite believe is hers, in her daddy’s old wagon, once so safe and secure, she has been caught unawares. Vulnerable. Easy prey.

For the first three years after her disappearance Lena had thought that was what had happened to her mammy, too. That she had been taken, forced goodness knows where by God knows who, to do unspeakable things.

Then, after the letter arrived, she had pictured her lying in a strange bed with a strange man, a bairn whose name Lena might never know held close to her solid, comforting form.

And now? She simply does not know.

The birds are singing by the time Lena falls into a shallow, uneasy sleep, her mother’s name lying softly on her lips.

The next day Harry is back with a large metal bolt that he screws on to the inside of the wagon.

‘Just in case,’ he says to Lena. He rolls up his sleeves, sets happily to work.

‘Do you think they’ll come back?’ she asks.

‘Nah,’ he says. ‘They were drunk, for a start. So they’ll have sore heids this morning. Probably have forgotten all about it. And we’ll be moving on in a few days anyway. But I don’t think they were townies. They didn’t have that look. Looked more like travellers to me. Gypsies.’

Lena has known many gypsy families over the years, although some of their customs, their words even, remain strange and foreign to her.

‘They’re like us but they’re no’,’ her daddy once said, by way of explanation, when they had shared a small camp with a smattering of gypsy families in a quiet town in Argyll, where a stream ran over battered rocks and the men sang plaintive, melancholy songs in a language she could not understand as the sun dipped in the sky. ‘They travel, but they don’t travel with their work like us show people do,’ the old man had said. ‘They travel to it instead. They might head to Perthshire for the tattie-howking, or up to the Tay for fruit-picking and pearl-fishing, but you won’t find them pulling a carousel.’

‘Gypsies,’ Lena says now. ‘I didn’t think they’d be around Stirling this time of year.’

‘Well, you never can tell,’ says Harry, affixing a final screw to the bolt. ‘Might not have been, after all. Maybe they were townies, with a bit of gypsy blood running through them.’

Showtime comes and goes, as do the punters. Lena recognises the same faces twice, even three times, and it dawns on her that people are so drawn to the ladies’ circus, so fascinated by this little show they have put on, that they want to see them again and again.

One night, about three weeks later, Lena lights the fire and looks out the whisky. They have had a good day, one of their best yet. Rosie, who takes the drink a bit too easily – so much so Lena is not sure she’s ever tried it before – is flushed and gabbling, clasping Violet’s arm and telling her about the first time she went to the circus.

‘There were acrobats doing somersaults, four of them together, and this huge tent, at least five times the size of ours. And then the bareback riders came out. Oh, what a sight. Those beautiful ponies, their sparkly costumes and headdresses; it was beautiful. I knew then,’ she says. ‘I knew it was all I ever wanted to do.’

‘Sounds like Linden’s,’ says Violet, throwing her a dark look.

Rosie nods happily. ‘I think it was, you know,’ she says.

‘I’ll tell you about the first time I saw Linden’s,’ says Violet. ‘It was when I ran away from home.’

Carmen and Rosie look at her, surprised. Lena, who has heard about Violet’s first night at Linden’s before, takes another sip of her whisky.

‘You ran away from home?’ asks Rosie.

‘Aye. Which is quite a feat when you consider that in our world, your home can run after you.’

Rosie giggles. ‘But why?’

‘Wasn’t getting on with my mammy,’ says Violet simply. ‘My pa had upped and died on us, and my mammy was...well, she wasn’t coping with it.’

Lena looks up. She has rarely heard Violet talk about Mary like this. When it comes to family, she usually keeps her own counsel.

‘Anyway that wagon wasn’t a good place to be. Not for me, anyway. One day I saw a poster for Linden’s, said they were looking for trapeze artists. Well, I’ve been on the bar since I was old enough to walk, and I thought, That’s it. That’s the way I’ll get out of here. So I got on one of our old horses – my brother Billy was raging when he found out I’d taken him – and rode off.’

Carmen takes a stick, gives the fire a poke, and the four women watch as the flames sputter and dance.

‘When I got to the town, somewhere up in Fife I think it was, maybe Kirkcaldy, it was night time, and the big top was up, and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen,’ says Violet. ‘Really classy. Magical. All these flags fluttering, and music, sounded like a brass band, coming from inside.

‘So I sneaked in one of the side doors and watched the show. There was an elephant, acrobats, like you said, Rosie, a huge lion that looked as though it could snap your neck in its jaws, bareback riders, and then the trapeze artists. They looked so beautiful, swinging up there on the bar. It was higher than I’d ever been, but my God, I wanted to get up there and show them what I could do.

‘As soon as the circus was over I went and found Serena Linden, begged her to let me show her my act.’

She starts rolling a cigarette, and Lena looks at her. Does Violet regret leaving Linden’s? Think their little show is silly, inconsequential, in comparison? No. Violet is headstrong. And honest. And wasn’t creating their own show, this ladies’ circus, her idea anyway?

‘What was your first show, Lena?’ asks Violet, interrupting her thoughts.

‘I don’t really know,’ she says, considering the question. She brushes her hands across the grass beneath her, feels the soft blades fold under her fingers. ‘It’s just always been there. There’s always been a show to go to, a ride to sit on, a penny shy to have a go at. I’ve always lived alongside it. It’s as though my whole life has been a show.’

Violet gives Lena a secret smile, just for her. She alone truly understands what she means.

‘What about you, Carmen?’ asks Lena. ‘When was the first time you saw a show?’

‘My parents, they were, as you say, flatties, and we lived in a village near the sea. The smell of fish all day long, cottages painted in white.’

Carmen closes her eyes, as though picturing her faraway home. Lena imagines houses like the tall buildings in Fife fishing towns, or the blacksmiths’ cottages in Ayrshire. Did her mother end up living in a white-painted house, a line of clean washing blowing in the wind?

‘The first time the circus came I was nine years old,’ says Carmen. ‘Big event. Huge. Whole town is there. And there was a lelaphant.’

‘A lelaphant,’ says Violet. ‘Big trunk? Grey? Hooves the size of Tommy Pony?’

‘Yes, yes, a lelaphant,’ says Carmen impatiently. ‘And he got out. Ran through the town. He gets to the church and he cannot get up the steps. Too big. And the priest comes out and he blesses him, and the lelaphant just sits down and sleeps.’

Carmen is laughing now, and soon they are all laughing, and Lena looks at their faces round the fire and, with a surge of something like joy, is suffused by a warmth she has not felt since her daddy died.

Lena stands in front of the small, grubby-looking glass hung in the far corner of the wagon. She has wiped off the rouge, taken off her hat and her shirt and stands in only her stays, regarding herself. Her skin has taken on the sun, and a legion of freckles have broken out on her nose. There is a small mark on her neck where the high collar of the shirt, fixed at the back with hair pins, has dug into her throat.

She is alone. The other three have taken a drunken wander to the stables, because Rosie wants to say goodnight to Tommy Pony. Lena tries not to worry about their safety: three girls alone out on the showground when it’s late, and they are full of the drink.

Lena is still getting used to her costume, this curious outfit that is supposed to make her resemble a man, yet somehow enhances her femininity. She is aware of the admiring glances from men in the crowd, the attention they pay her, the long, appraising looks. But it makes her uncomfortable, too. She has never really stood out before, and certainly not in Violet’s company. She has become used to being the plain one, decently turned out but nothing special, little to write home about. Now she receives compliments, the occasional whistle. Like so many things in the past few weeks, it is a whole new world.

She mouths, ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ into the glass, looks back to see what it is the audience see, how it is she is able to keep them under her spell. ‘I present to you, the ladies’—’

‘Lena!’

Carmen tears through the door of the wagon, her breath coming in ragged bursts.

‘You must come to the stable. It’s Tommy Pony.’