Page 28 of The Show Woman

27

And on the night before

They are pulling into Ayr showground, near the racecourse on the edge of the town, when Lena spots him. That brawny frame. The cap pulled down low over his forehead. And, under it, the blossoming smile.

‘Harry,’ she says, and she draws up the wagon, steadies the horses, as he smiles and waves at them.

‘Ladies,’ he says and lifts his cap.

‘Hello, big brother,’ says Violet, from her perch on the box beside Lena at the front of the caravan. Beyond Harry Lena can see a small crowd forming at the gates of the ground, catches the excited shouts. Is that the ladies’ circus? Look, they’re here!

Violet ignores them, focuses her attention on Harry.

‘What brings you to this part of the world?’

He pulls himself up so he is standing on the wagon step, so close to Lena she can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the fresh stubble on his chin. ‘Well, I’ve an invite for you. Special event.’

Lena clutches the reins in her hands, feels the leather work into the skin of her palms.

‘I’ll be singing tonight, at the Gaiety Theatre in the town. Thought you’d like to come along. I’ve four seats for you.’

He fumbles in his jacket pocket, produces tickets the colour of raspberries. Violet leans over and snatches them from him. ‘Ooh, the stalls, too,’ she says. ‘Aren’t you the fancy dan?’

‘Thank you,’ says Lena. Her heart is hammering in her chest. ‘We’d love to come. What time is it?’

‘Starts at eight o’clock,’ says Harry. ‘Figured you’d be finished for the day by then. See you tonight.’

He gives Lena a toothy grin and jumps back down off the wagon.

They do three shows that afternoon, each one as packed as the last. Their reputation has clearly spread. They are a curio, a must-see, and when Lena takes a bow at the end of their final performance she feels a warm glow in her chest: happiness. The season will be at an end soon, but before that there is Galston to get to. She imagines herself wandering the streets, knocking on doors, asking if anyone knew a Maggie Loveridge, and does she still live around here or has she moved? The thought terrifies her, makes her want to shove her fist in her mouth in fear, but there is a kernel of excitement there too. A hopeful tingle.

And then, when the season is over, they will return to Vinegarhill for the winter. There will be much to do. She has been careful with the takings, paying everyone each night and keeping some back to tide them over, make improvements while they’re back in the ground. A new tent, perhaps. New shoes for the horses. Maybe she will hire another act, a lady boxer perhaps, or a clown. She has never seen a female clown, but surely there must be one, somewhere? The rest of the year stretches out before her, endless, exciting, ripe with possibility.

As they are packing up the tent Lena hears an excited squeal. She turns to see Rosie wrapped up in the embrace of two women. Lena sees the family resemblance immediately, in Rosie’s mother, bird-like and delicate; in her sister’s kind, open face.

‘We’re so proud of you,’ her mother is saying. ‘You and Tommy were wonderful, I just can’t believe it.’

Violet nudges Lena and Carmen. ‘Shall we say hello?’

They approach the three women, still clutching arms, Rosie stifling tears, her face beaming.

‘These are my fellow . . .’ she hesitates over the word, and swallows. ‘My fellow show women. This is Lena, and Carmen, and Violet.’ She gives Violet a small, secret glance.

‘You girls are quite something,’ says Rosie’s mother, her face flushed and excited. ‘You were flying up there, Violet. It was beautiful.’

Violet smiles graciously. ‘Your daughter’s our star turn, really. Well, her and Tommy.’

‘Yes, Tommy Pony,’ says Jennifer. ‘I never knew he had it in him. Always thought of him as a wee runt but he’s doing a great job with you.’

Rosie’s face suddenly clouds. ‘Does Pa know you’re here?’

Jennifer shakes her head. ‘God, no. We kept the paper away from him – that’s how we found out you would be coming here, Rosie – but he’s been very angry. You know what he’s like.’

Lena sees Rosie’s ma’s face darken too, streaked with something like pain.

‘I don’t want you worrying about it, though, hen,’ she says. ‘I can see it now. This is the right place for you. Don’t you be coming back to the farm.’

The three women stroll away to buy some sweeties as Violet, Lena and Carmen finish taking the tent down for the day. Lena takes Tommy back to the stables, but, just as she’s finished untacking him, Rosie appears beside her with a sugar lump for the pony.

‘They came, they really came,’ she says, her eyes shining and happy.

Lena slides an arm round her tiny waist. ‘There now,’ she says as they leave the stable. ‘Just as you hoped.’

‘And Jennifer’s expecting, too. She told me. I’m going to be an auntie.’

Back in the wagon they change, bring out old dresses kept for best, that haven’t seen the light of day since they’ve been on the road. Violet lends Rosie one of hers, in palest blue with a tulle skirt and a high collar. It fits like a glove, lights up her eyes, gives Rosie an ethereal, almost angelic look.

‘Beautiful,’ says Violet, and smoothes her hands down Rosie’s tiny waist. ‘But it’s missing just one thing.’

She rummages in her packing case and produces a box. She opens it to reveal a brooch in the shape of a butterfly. It is brightest blue, glisters in the fading light, its wings boned with silver.

Rosie’s hands rush to her mouth. ‘Oh,’ she says.

‘Oh,’ repeats Violet. ‘A little gift for you. Picked it up in Aberdeen.’

Rosie lifts the brooch out of its box, turns it this way and that. ‘It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Can you put it on for me?’

Carefully, Violet unpins the brooch and affixes it at Rosie’s throat where it seems to hover, as though it has merely landed for a second before taking off again in flight.

Lena feels a warmth towards these two young women, their deep and obvious affection for each other. She has never known Violet quite so benevolent and kind, so enthralled by a person other than herself. She has been wrong to worry. Perhaps they really are made for each other. And if they are happy, why can’t she be too?

Her mind flits to Harry again. That lopsided smile, the fuss with the tickets, his earnest voice, telling them about his singing. Had he been nervous? Is it her he really wants to see tonight?

Lena is wearing a long cream skirt, a white blouse edged with lace, and a waistcoat. She has done her hair carefully, pinning it to create height at the crown, and put large hoops in her ears. Her mammy’s pendant lies on her chest, close to her heart.

‘You look nice,’ says Carmen, applying her favourite red rouge to her lips. She has chosen black and red, her favourite colours, she says, so different from her rainbow costume, and yet the outfit accentuates her dark eyes, her silky black hair.

‘Are we ready?’ asks Lena, and they trail out into the fading dusk of the evening. It has been a hot day, too hot for September, and the air feels thick and close. It prickles at their skin, even as the sky turns dark.

‘Could be rain coming,’ says Violet.

As they make their way towards the town, arms linked, laughing about the boy in the last show of the day who insisted on being ridden round the ring on Tommy Pony after the show then stood up on his back, promptly toppled over and had to be caught by Violet, they attract attention. A cart goes past with two lads on the back, barefoot and with bottles of beer in their hands, and they wolf-whistle at the four women and ask if they want a ride.

‘Not where you’re going,’ says Violet and they laugh as the wagon disappears into the dark. They pass a flower bed, and on a whim Lena leans in and plucks a small white flower for Carmen’s hair.

Further into town now and men in smart suits and bowler hats cast admiring glances their way, right up to the theatre door. There is a clamour to get in, through the grand foyer with its sweetie stand and refreshments stall, a huge electric light hanging from the ceiling with cascades of shimmering crystals, and down a narrow carpeted corridor into the auditorium.

Lena is taken aback at the size of it. The heavy curtain across the stage. The seats, covered in a rich, burgundy velvet. The fashionable ladies and be-suited gentlemen. Giggling, excited, as if they are doing something naughty – should not be caught in such polite company and in somewhere so strange – they find their seats, just four rows back from the stage. Lena thinks she hears one lady say behind a fan, ‘Gypsies, I’ll warrant, just look at the dark one,’ but she ignores it. Nothing can prick her buoyant mood tonight. And besides. She has heard it all before.

The house lights go down. A hush passes over the auditorium. And then the curtain rises and there stands Harry, alone, a spotlight highlighting his golden head, wearing a kilt. A violin in the orchestra, unseen in the pit below, plays a single note. And then, in the silence, Harry opens his mouth to sing.

‘ O my love is like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June;

O my love is like a melody

That’s sweetly played in tune. ’

Lena is spellbound. She has never heard Harry sing before, had no idea his was such a good voice, deep and rich. It makes her want to cry and to smile, all at the same time, and when he intones the words ‘ I will love thee still, my dear, Till all the seas gang dry ,’ she feels something in her chest fizz with excitement and longing and hope.

Afterwards they wait for Harry outside the stage door, the air sticky on their skin, Violet swatting at her face with a programme she pinched during the interval.

‘There he is,’ she says as Harry emerges into the warm night, still wearing his kilt. ‘Not bad,’ she adds. ‘Not bad at all.’

‘Well?’ he says. He is looking at Lena.

‘You were wonderful,’ she says. ‘You really do have a good set of pipes on you.’

Violet clears her throat theatrically. ‘Rosie, Carmen, I think we have some urgent business to attend to back at the showground.’ And she links arms with both of them, flashes a smile at Lena and departs.

Harry is suddenly shy.

‘Would you like to get a drink?’ he asks.

They find a small pub by the river. It is dark and busy; men eye Lena as she threads her way through the lads crowded at the bar, and Harry gives her his hand to hold, just in case. It is warm and dry, reassuring. It is the first time she has ever been inside a public house, and she notes she is the only woman in the place.

They take their drinks outside, wander over to the riverbank. In front of them, a large swan is waddling back to her nest, three dirty brown cygnets following behind.

‘So you liked the show, then?’

Lena nods. ‘I didn’t know you could sing like that. I remember you liked singing as a bairn – your mammy always said you should have been in the cathedral choir – but good male voices don’t always come through when they break.’

She colours a little at this reference to puberty, to the other things that change when a boy’s voice breaks, but Harry doesn’t notice, nodding thoughtfully.

‘Aye, I think my mammy thought I could do all sorts of things I didn’t really want to do. And now my pa’s gone she’s been on at me to take on the travelling theatre. But it’s not what I fancy. Proper theatres, places like that tonight, that’s the place for me.’

Lena sips her whisky. It is rough and warm, and she enjoys the tingling sensation as it floods through her, fills her body with a simmering heat.

‘There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ says Harry. ‘Tommy. The hole that was cut in the tent. I’ve been hearing that it was the Linden woman.’

Lena is shocked. ‘From Linden’s Circus?’ she says. ‘What would she have against us?’

‘Well, Violet crossed her, and I hear she’s a bitter old crone. Nasty piece of work.’

Lena remembers something. ‘At Blairgowrie. It was there that the hole was cut. And Linden’s were in town. Everyone was talking about it, don’t you remember?’

Harry nods. ‘I do. You’ve got to watch her. She’s up to no good. Just . . . be careful. I can’t be around for the rest of the season to protect you.’

He grabs her hand and she lets him hold it, feels him stroke the side of her thumb.

‘We’ll be alright,’ she says. ‘We’re show women. And Carmen’s taught us how to look after ourselves. We won’t let anyone get the better of us.’

He looks at her. His face is inches from hers now.

‘I know you won’t,’ he says. ‘I think you’re...well, you’re quite something, Lena Loveridge. And I’d like to see more of you. Would you fancy that? Us getting to know each other, I mean?’

He leans in, cups her chin in his hand. She feels his mouth brush against hers, soft as feathers, and nods.

It is late when they arrive back at the showground, a damp thick smell on the air, as though a storm is coming. Harry has walked her home, and leaves her at the gates before heading back to his digs in the town. ‘Don’t want to see Violet again, she’ll only craik at me,’ he says.

He kisses Lena on her forehead, lets his hand linger round her waist.

‘I’ll see you back at Vinegarhill in a couple of weeks,’ he says. ‘When the season’s over. Then we can start to make plans.’

Lena feels dizzy, her head spinning. She waves at his retreating form and begins picking her way through the detritus of a day at the fair. She can still taste him on her lips: whisky, tobacco and something else, salty, like the sea. On her skin she can feel the first spots of rain. The weather is beginning to break.

Back at the wagon Carmen, Violet and Rosie are still up. They have clearly been drinking and Violet’s eyes are glassy. She is waving a bottle around and singing some tuneless number that might, or might not, be the hymn ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’.

‘Lena,’ she says, then starts singing ‘Lena lo-oves Ha-a-a-rry-y’ to the same tune.

‘Well, clearly not all the Weavers are blessed with as good a voice as Harry,’ says Lena. She feels a bit tipsy herself, takes the bottle from Violet and has a swig.

‘And since when were you the authority on my family?’ asks Violet. There is an edge to her voice.

‘Ach, away with you,’ says Lena. ‘What have you been doing anyway?’

‘Just having a little chat,’ says Violet. She sits down heavily, slings an arm around Rosie, who is struggling to keep her eyes open, and reaches the other out to Lena for the bottle. ‘The real question, Lena the ringmistress, is what were you doing with Harry?’

‘Just having a little chat,’ Lena retorts.

Violet watches her closely. ‘I bet that’s not all,’ she says.

‘And what if it isn’t, eh?’ says Lena. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Well, that depends,’ says Violet.

She takes a swig of the bottle. There is a hardness in her eyes. A meanness. The rain is starting to come down now, thick droplets landing all around them. ‘What do you have to say about it, Carmen?’

Carmen looks up, startled. She has been knitting, a long scarf in blues and purples, and the clack of her needles comes to an abrupt stop.

‘About Harry and Lena,’ says Violet.

‘It is very nice,’ says Carmen flatly.

‘Nice,’ says Violet. ‘Nice,’ she repeats, rolling the word around in her mouth. ‘Is that what you thought about him? Harry, I mean. Was he nice with you?’

Carmen flushes, looks stricken, but says nothing.

‘What are you talking about?’ says Lena. Cold dread creeps up her arms.

‘She went with him,’ says Violet. ‘Back in Glasgow. Before the circus. Ages ago. You didn’t tell her, Carmen?’

Carmen has flung her knitting on the ground, put her head in her hands. Her whole body is convulsing. Lena is frozen to the spot. Violet must be lying. But one glance at Carmen and she knows it is true.

‘I told you not to get worked up over Harry,’ says Violet. ‘You wouldn’t listen. Do you really want to be with him now? My love is like a red, red rose indeed. I ask you. He’s pathetic.’

Lena cannot speak. Her body thrums with fury and shame. Carmen is sobbing loudly now. Rosie has her head in between her knees, rocking back and forth.

‘You bitch,’ Lena says finally to Violet. She walks straight past her into the wagon so she does not see her tears. High above them, the heavens finally open.

Rosie tears across the ground after Carmen. The acrobat is running towards the gates, her battered suitcase hastily packed, hair slicked with rain. Rosie catches up to her, grabs her free arm, long and skinny, and clutches at her wrist.

‘Carmen, please. Don’t go.’

The Spaniard turns to look at her, her angular face washed with tears and rainwater, and shakes her head. ‘How can I stay? After that? After what Violet did. It is no good. I must go.’

‘Please. We can sort everything out. Perhaps if you and Lena just talked? It’s all in the past, isn’t it?’

Carmen gives her a sad smile. ‘Yes, of course. It was a long time ago. It was nothing. That is why I have avoided him, Harry, as much as I could. But I should never have told Violet. It was a big mistake.’ Carmen looks at Rosie. ‘Did she tell you, too?’

Rosie shakes her head. ‘Honestly, I didn’t know. And I don’t care either. And once Lena has calmed down, neither will she. I’m sure of it.’

Carmen lifts her hand to her friend’s cheek. ‘My sweet little shrub. You are so very good. But you are an innocent in these matters. It is not that simple.’

She leans in and gives Rosie a hug. It is pouring now, pitch black, and Rosie shivers.

‘Can’t you just stay for tonight?’ she says into her chest. ‘You could come and sleep in the stables.’

Carmen shakes her head. ‘I do not know that I can control myself around Violet. I am very angry with her.’ She steps back. ‘Please look after Lena for me. She is a good woman. And so are you. And give Tommy Pony a pat from his Spanish friend.’

She picks up the suitcase and walks away, leaving Rosie alone at the gates of the ground.

Violet is pacing the floor of the stable, kicking furiously at the straw on the ground, when Rosie creeps in, soaked to the skin. Tommy Pony is unsettled and keeps one eye open at the commotion. He does not like his rest disturbed, even by his beloved Rosie.

‘I’ve done it now,’ says Violet. ‘I’ve buggered it all up.’

Rosie sits down cross-legged in the corner of the stall, says nothing.

‘Go on,’ Violet continues. ‘You can say it. I’m an evil witch, as bitter and twisted as my own mammy.’

Rosie shakes her head. ‘You were angry. Jealous maybe. I know how much you love Harry. Lena, too. Perhaps you thought that if he and Lena started going around together, they wouldn’t have any time for you.’

Violet looks at her and laughs, mirthlessly. ‘You’re far too clever for your own good, my lass.’

‘Come here,’ says Rosie, and Violet, weakening, collapses in a heap beside her.

‘It’s going to be alright,’ says Rosie. ‘We’ll make good with Lena tomorrow. And then we’ll find Carmen. We’ve come too far; we can’t let it all slip through our fingers now.’

Violet flings her arms around her.

‘I hope so, Rosie Posy. I really bloody hope so.’

Lena sits alone in the caravan, listening to the rain drumming the roof. She is shaking with fury and fear. One moment a new life, tantalising, possible, stretched out before her. The next it was snatched away by a snarling Violet, and Carmen along with it.

Why had she lied? Why had Harry? Had they been meeting up behind her back? Was Harry just being kind to her?

And what of the circus? With Carmen gone, they have lost not just her act, but her music, too. Will Violet and Rosie even turn up tomorrow?

On the floor a single ribbon from Carmen’s costume lies discarded by the door. It must have broken off in her haste to get out. Lena picks it up, trails the colourful fabric through her fingers, and lets herself weep. She has never felt more alone, or more lost, in all her life.

The rain drums harder on the roof of the caravan, echoing the staccato beats of her heart.