Page 21 of The Show Woman

20

Old Queens

Serena is coughing, a deep, guttural splutter. She produces something green and unmentionable, spits it into a tatty lace handkerchief, and glowers at Rory McCracken.

‘Read it to me, lad,’ she says. The boy, the youngest of the three brothers, waif-like and dingy-haired, looks down at the newspaper and mumbles.

‘ Miss S. Linden . . .’

‘Louder,’ she says. The grip on her cane is vice-like.

‘ Miss S. Linden’s circus will visit Blairgowrie on . . .’

Serena leans back on the day bed to listen. Clever and refined, that was her grand show. Amusing, too. Even more amusing to remind the Perthshire folk that she, Serena Linden, is the only circus proprietor in the land to have been commanded by the late Queen, may God rest her soul.

What a day it had been, the first time they rode through the gates of that fine castle, its granite turrets glinting like silver blades, servants scurrying out on to the grass as though they were greeting royalty.

Linden’s had been touring Deeside when the invitation came, delivered on thick creamy card by a fine footman in a wig and a rich red waistcoat, breeches immaculate. An invitation to Linden’s Circus, to Miss Serena Linden in particular, to perform for Her Majesty the Queen. If only her father could have seen it.

It had been an overcast day at Balmoral, but nothing could dampen the high spirits of the royal household as they gathered on the grass. Grand ladies and gentlemen trussed up in stylish dresses and morning coats, among their number at least several princes and princesses, Serena was later told. Children from a local school, done out in their best bib and tucker, teachers in their good skirts, as shining-eyed and excited as their small charges.

And then the old Queen, who arrived on the grass in a carriage and remained there, opera glasses raised to her eyes, throughout the performance.

Serena’s acts had done her proud that day. The elephant, Bostie, and the pony, Snookles, who did a wonderful turn with Bostie up on his hind legs and Snookles running rings around him. Her performing dogs who ran through rings of fire. That marvellous dancing donkey, a lion that reared up and roared, and her cowboy, resplendent in his Stetson, who thrilled the crowds on horseback with his pistols.

Afterwards, a footman had beckoned for her and young Benjamin to approach the carriage. The old Queen had leant down, trussed in the gloomy black of her widow’s weeds, but with festive flowers like a crown adorning her hair.

Up close her face looked like melted wax, Serena thought, the rheumy eyes, tinged yellow, deeply hooded by folds of skin.

‘You have amused me greatly, Miss Linden,’ she said. ‘I have very much enjoyed the day.’

And then she gestured at the footman, who darted forward and handed Serena a gift. A jewel box, studded with emeralds and with a pretty shell pattern on the front.

‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ Serena said, performing a deep curtsey that to her great shame made her knees crack, and the Queen’s eyes widen. ‘I shall treasure this forever.’

That had been the first Balmoral visit. There had been two more after that, the old Queen looking frailer, less human each time, lavishing upon Serena greater and grander gifts. A hair slide of tortoiseshell and onyx. A gold brooch, set with diamonds and rubies.

And then, the Queen had up and died in the cold days of January, hundreds of miles from her beloved Balmoral on the rain-lashed Isle of Wight, and Serena, who had taken to calling her circus the Royal Linden’s Circus, felt that something had withered away in her, too.

She thinks about the old Queen now, what she would have made of this modern new world. Would she have approved of the cinematographs, the Spaniards and the Italians who flooded the fairs... the all-female acts who threatened Serena’s very existence? She was a lady of sophistication and taste. A breath of the old world. Serena had known it as soon as she saw her. She would not have put up with all this modernity.

Her son the King, a drinker by all accounts and a terrible philanderer, had not been a patch on his mother, and now he was dead too. Why, the more she thinks about it, they had a lot in common, Serena and the old Queen. Disappointing sons. A great inheritance. A grand fuss wherever they went. And when all was said and done, wasn’t royalty a show, just like the circus?

The boy has finished reading. He sniffs loudly, wipes his nose on the newspaper. Serena is disgusted. ‘Get yourself a kerchief, boy. Filthy animal.’

‘Sorry, miss.’ He stares down at his feet. His boots look as though they have never seen a lick of polish since the day he bought them. Or, more likely, stole them. He’d whip the coat off your back as soon as look at you, that one.

‘When do the fairs get here?’ she asks.

‘Two days after we do. They won’t be happy, miss.’

‘Exactly,’ says Serena, and she emits a cackle that soon turns into another hacking rasp. ‘Teach those young lassies a lesson, won’t we, lad? Aye. Well. Away with you. Long day tomorrow.’

When he has gone, she lights her oil lamp and sits down on the velvet day bed. It has been a good day. Hundreds of townspeople turning out to welcome the circus into Blairgowrie, the gaily coloured cavalcade that stops the flatties wherever it goes, its giant cages, a lion in one, a tiger in the other, the old elephant, the trail of horses, even her performing donkey – all take on a magical allure when they enter a new town, a new village.

It reminds Serena of the old days. When Davey was still at her side, when Benjamin and Simon were young and showed a wee bit of promise, not just disappointment. So much to remember. So much she wishes she could forget.

Well, she is here now, and there is work to be done. The queen of the shows has arrived.