Page 26 of The Show Woman

25

Swells

Summer spins by like the slides in a zoetrope. Violet and Rosie steal kisses in darkened stables, behind whirling carousels, in fields thick with skeins of cottongrass. Lena acquires a top hat and tailcoat from a kind gentleman in a town near the sea, and their starched formality adds a rigour to her act, imbues her with a power she had no idea she possessed.

Kirriemuir. Forfar. Arbroath. Montrose. For the best part of two weeks they hug the coastline, the sea winds tangling their hair and threatening to blow the tent down. They eat stewed crab apples, bushels of wild blackberries, and Violet takes Rosie to dig for spoot clams on the beach, watching her delight as they shoot, jack-in-a-box-like, out of the sand. Later, Lena cooks the rubbery fish on an open flame, and their edges blacken and curl. They taste like fire and seaweed.

Brechin. St Cyrus. Johnshaven. Stonehaven. The accents are different here, flatter, more abrupt, and occasionally they hear Doric spoken, fit like and foos yer doos , as the shows fill up with fishermen straight off the boats, bringing the scent of the swell on their oilskin boots.

Inland briefly, to Ballater, where they catch a glimpse of the King’s grey granite castle and Carmen goes foraging in the hills for mushrooms that taste like mud and give them all stomach aches. She is more confident now, calmer. She tells more stories of her childhood on the whitewashed Andalusian coast, where the sun baked the ground to a hard shell and the sound of locusts filled the air. If she understands the nature of Violet and Rosie’s relationship she says nothing, but she is protective of Rosie. Tender. Like a sister.

Harry has vanished, back down to the Lowlands for shows in Edinburgh, Glasgow, a touring production performing in real theatres and music halls. Lena thinks of him sometimes when she’s up front on the wagon, steering the horses towards the next town, the next show. Of those golden hairs on his arm, his lop-sided grin. Then Violet’s stark words come back and she tries, instead, to banish him from her thoughts.

Aberdeen now. One of the biggest showgrounds on the trail. When they arrive, the flattie who owns the ground proudly leads them to one of the prime spots in the whole fair.

‘So delighted to see the ladies’ circus in town,’ he says in brisk northern tones, lifting his hat, and Lena glows with pride. ‘We’ve folk down fae Fraserburgh and Peterhead to see you tonight,’ he says. ‘They’ve heard about you girls, read about you in the papers. Had to come down to the toon to see you for themselves.’

By the time they open the canvas door the crowd outside is heaving, impatient, and Lena wonders if they will all fit. But they do. It is as though the tent herself has sighed, shrugged her shoulders and gracefully widened to accommodate every last soul. Once in, they gasp. Clap. Cheer. Clutch at each other. Upon Violet’s final act they throw hats in the air. They leave in raptures.

That first night, after they have finished their shows, counted out their pennies – so many pennies, thinks Lena, and she is already planning what they will do in the winter, hire a new act, perhaps acquire a bigger tent, throw a grand party at Hogmanay – and all taken their share, Rosie decides to visit a fortune-teller.

‘I want to know how my ma and Jennifer are doing. If they’re OK.’

She glances surreptitiously at Violet, who is engrossed in a back stretch that curves her spine in a letter U.

‘And other things too. Will you come with me, Lena? I didn’t understand the last lady.’

Lena links arms with her as they sway through the dying throng, decides to let it lie, Rosie’s little fib. Shearwaters circle the sky, cawing plaintively. The days are that bit shorter now, even here in the bristling north, the light fading into the dark.

Rosie turns to her. She looks fraught, and a little sad.

‘You alright?’ Lena asks.

‘Aye,’ she says with a shrug. ‘It’s just – well, we’re going to Ayr next. That’s home for me, or near enough. Our farm’s just a few miles down the road. I just thought that maybe . . . Well, my ma doesn’t read too well. Perhaps she won’t see anything in the paper. And my sister never read the paper at all. I just...I’m hoping that if they could get round my pa, perhaps they might come and see me. But maybe they’re still angry.’

Lena takes her arm. ‘A few months have passed. I’m sure they’d love to see you. We’ll be there for a few days too, so you never know.’

In through a heavy velvet curtain they go, and there Miss Sibyl sits, a small headdress of golden coins roped around her skull. She motions for Rosie to sit down, waving her hands over the glowering crystal ball on the table before her while Lena hovers in the background.

‘You are named after a flower,’ she says. She does not look at Rosie but at the cloudy glass before her and Rosie nods, meekly.

‘And you are very far from home.’

Lena snorts quietly in the background. This woman likely knows exactly who Rosie is, how far she has come. She’s been in the paper. They are the talk of the fair.

Miss Sibyl ignores her.

‘You nearly lost someone,’ she says. ‘Someone very dear to you. Tom.’

Despite herself, Lena’s skin prickles, and Rosie’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I nearly did.’

‘Tom is safe now,’ says Miss Sibyl. She has parched lips, and the coral rouge she is wearing has dried to a flaky crust. She waves her hands again. ‘Danger is coming,’ she says, and this time she lifts her eyes, looks not at Rosie but at Lena. ‘Danger is coming. For you in particular.’

Lena stares back at her, blank-faced.

‘There will be great sadness. A terrible loss. You might never recover.’

‘I think that’s enough now, Rosie,’ says Lena. And pulls her away.

One last performance. One final cheer. A rose, handed to each of the four women by a grateful fairground-owner who says he can’t remember such crowds. It must be a miracle.

Now, they are finished with this clear, salty-aired, jagged part of the country. It is time to head back down the road, and go south. To Ayrshire.

They will stop first in Ayr and then on to Galston, where it all started. Or finished. Lena wishes she knew. She feels a tingle of excitement at the prospect, laced with something more sinister. She will find that tree, chop it down if she has to, in order to get to the truth.

They pull the wagon out of Aberdeen showground, away from the town, back across the well-worn grooves, chattering all the way. In the sky above, the sun bears down on them, impassive.