Page 8 of The Show Woman
7
Loosening
The sun hangs suspended in the sky, waiting to drop like a stone. Lena’s hands are red raw from the thin leather reins as the caravan pulls into Linlithgow showground, and her hair is damp and sticky. Violet sits placidly next to her at the front of the wagon and with a flicker of irritation Lena sees that her neat bun still rests perfectly at the nape of her neck.
It has clearly been a busy day on the rides. Wrappers and bottles litter the grass, along with a forest of cigarette butts. One carousel in the distance is still lazily turning, wooden gondolas creaking up and down with a loud hrruuuk hrruuuk now that its barrel organ has stopped playing. The air is sweet and cloying, smells of tobacco and burnt sugar and sweat. Shrugging away her exhaustion, Lena inhales the scent as she draws the horses up. Home, she thinks. I’m home.
Violet nudges her hard in the ribs. A man wearing a cap and a smart jacket is heading purposefully towards them, sheaves of paper in his hand.
‘ Vedere ,’ whispers Violet, and Lena’s heart lifts at her use of Parlyaree, the old language of the shows. ‘There’s a flattie if ever I saw one.’
‘No room,’ he shouts before Lena can speak. He is short, with polished brown shoes and a beetling black moustache that looks as though it must permanently tickle his upper lip. ‘You’ll have to go elsewhere, we’ve no more space here.’
He looks down at his papers before peering up again at Lena. ‘Who’s in charge here, miss?’
‘I am,’ says Lena, surprising herself. ‘I’m a show woman, and this is a showground, is it not?’
‘And I’ve just told you, young lassie, that there’s no room here. Now where’s your man?’
Violet leans over and gave him a huge, beaming smile.
‘What did you say your name was, sir?’ she asks. She narrows her large green eyes, cat-like and feral.
The man puts his hand to his forehead, looks down at his papers again. ‘I’m Mr Robert McAllister, but that’s not the point—’
‘We’re just four wee lassies, you see, Mr Robert McAllister. Four wee lassies and a couple of horses. And we won’t take up much room here. Look – tiny, we are.’
She clears her throat and Carmen appears from the back of the wagon, stooping her tall frame as much as she can.
‘Hello, sir,’ she says haltingly. ‘It is so very nice to be here.’
Rosie, now walking an exhausted Tommy Pony on his reins alongside them, sidles forward too.
‘I mean, that’s not even really a horse, now, is it, Mr McAllister? Show him what you can do, Rosie Posy.’
Rosie looks at Violet, aghast. She is so exhausted she might just drop down asleep at Tommy Pony’s feet, right where she is standing.
‘Go on, Rosie,’ Violet says again, more gently this time. ‘Just a wee jump.’
Rosie unfastens Tommy Pony’s saddle. The little horse whinnies softly. He knows what this means.
‘Now, ladies, the thing is, I’m sure this is all very interesting but we just haven’t any room. I run this showground for Mr Robertson and he’s asked me very firmly to make sure—’
‘Oh, Mr Robertson !’ says Violet, clapping her hands in recognition. ‘We know him, don’t we, Lena?’
Lena nods vigorously. She is starting to enjoy this, the game of it all. Mr McAllister has a single bead of sweat running down the bridge of his not inconsiderable nose. He must be roasting in that tweed jacket and his high, fancy collar.
‘There’ll be no bother if it’s Mr Robertson. No bother at all.’
Rosie is now standing on top of Tommy Pony, her neck erect, her tiny, tired body a perfect line. She looks Mr McAllister straight in the eye, and executes a star jump. Tommy does not shift an inch.
‘Now you see, Mr McAllister, this is a very high-end show we have here. Four lassies, all of us with our own special and very clever skills, a ladies’ circus if you will. And I happen to know that if you turn us away, Mr Robertson will be very displeased.’
Mr McAllister droops. ‘A ladies’ circus, eh?’ He shakes his head. ‘Just when you think you’ve seen everything. Well, then, you’ll need to go right at the back, up by the stables. You can pay your fee in the morning.’
‘Oh, thank you, sir, I promise we’ll be no bother,’ Lena bursts out, to a furious look from Violet.
That night Lena dreams of a deep, wide river, and no matter how hard she tries, she cannot get her feet on the bottom. Instead she kicks out, flails her arms, but finds herself borne away on a thick, strong tide. Up in the sky, just out of her field of vision, a storm is coming, dark, angry clouds, thunder that will wake up the gods.
But when she opens her eyes it is to a silent wagon, Violet snuffling into her pillow on the bunk beside her, Rosie curled up in a ball next to Carmen, who sleeps with one long, gangling arm hanging down until it almost touches the floor. But there are noises. Lots of them, coming from outside. It sounds like a crowd at a shooting gallery, whoops and shouts and excitable cries. She sits up and wonders if they have slept late, so exhausted from the journey they have failed to stir as dawn crept in through the thin muslin curtains on either side of the wagon. Perhaps the day’s fair has already started. Perhaps it is late morning, the crowds are already surging through the grounds and they have missed half a day’s takings.
Admonishing herself, she puts her bare feet on the floor and creeps towards the little window where the sound is loudest, peers through the crack in the middle. There is a crowd out there, alright. Showmen mostly, the odd woman, standing around smoking and laughing.
‘What is it?’ says Violet from across the wagon. She is sitting up, her hair a huge crimson halo fluffed out around her head, and Lena hears from outside the words ‘Ladies’ circus, eh? That’ll be right.’
‘I think,’ says Lena, ‘we have attracted some attention.’
Violet swings down from the bunk with a whoop. ‘In that case,’ she says, ‘let’s go and have some fun.’
They emerge several minutes later, blinking in the hard glare of the sun.
‘Ooh,’ shouts a man in a bunnet who is, at most, five feet tall. ‘La-di-dah. Here comes the ladies’ circus. Look a bit loose if you ask me.’
Violet fusses at her midriff, where her corset should be, then decides to ignore him and instead performs a small pirouette. The men laugh and elbow each other.
Lena feels the heat rise in her face. This is what she has quietly feared, but not had the courage to say out loud. That they are a laughing stock. A prank. Wee lassies, not to be taken seriously.
‘Is that the best you can do?’ shouts another man, taller this time and older, his jowls bobbing up and down like gills on a fish.
‘You want any more you’ll have to pay for it,’ shouts Violet.
The men laugh harder and this time it feels charged. Nasty. ‘Where have I heard that before?’ shouts a short man with a tweed bunnet, and another replies, ‘Down the Leith docks on a Friday night, no doubt.’
‘You’ll see,’ Violet says, but her voice is subdued, as though she realises she has been caught out.
Lena is scanning the crowd for faces she knows, friends of her daddy perhaps, old hands from Vinegarhill. But they gape back, anonymous. A group of unknowns. Perhaps they’re down from the Highlands, or even from faraway England.
‘Give us another twirl,’ shouts the first man, the short one, and Lena realises his accent is lilting, unfamiliar. Not her daddy’s lot, then. She feels a little puff of relief leave her chest. She doesn’t think she could face it if her own people turned on her, even if she is just a silly wee lassie. She puts a hand on Violet’s arm and they turn away. The crowd are losing interest, talking about setting their stalls up, readying for the day.
‘Bastards,’ Violet mutters under her breath.
Back in the wagon Rosie is huddled in her bunk, dirty knees pulled up to her head. Her eyes are pink and wet.
‘It’s alright, dona ,’ says Lena gently, and sits with one arm round her tiny, trembling form. ‘They’re away now, eh? No more of this.’
Rosie shakes her head but says nothing. Lena and Violet exchange a look. They have both noticed the girl’s reticence around men, how the confidence she displays on Tommy Pony vanishes into meek fear whenever they are around others.
‘You don’t like the lads much, do you, chicken?’ says Violet.
She doesn’t say it harshly, but Rosie baulks at the remark, sticks her fists in her eyes. Lena touches her shoulder but Rosie pulls back.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says eventually, and her voice is thin and reedy. ‘I’ll be fine in a wee minute.’
There is a smart rap on the door of the wagon. They freeze.
‘Vi?’ comes a deep voice. ‘Vi, is that you in there?’
‘Harry!’ cries Violet, and is at the door in one leap. She throws herself into his arms.
The man who enters the wagon is so tall he has to stoop. He is angular, but not thin, the white shirt he is wearing accentuating his sinewy frame. The stubble on his chin is the same colour as the hair on his head: a vivid strawberry blond.
Lena is astonished. She has not seen Violet’s older brother for years. He is a singer, a jolly good one too by all accounts, and, while he has been working the fairs in recent times, it is in the music halls, where there is good money to be made and fame to be had, that he has set his heart.
‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’ Violet asks into his chest.
‘A charming welcome, as ever,’ he says. ‘Change of plan. I was going to spend the summer in Glasgow, trying the music halls for the odd concert, but Jimmy Moore gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’
Violet narrows her eyes. ‘Which was?’
Lena suppresses a smile. Jimmy Moore is notorious on the fair circuit, has been for years. Each year he turns up with a different ride, or a fancy new stall. One infamous summer it was a dancing bear. By the time they got back to Vinegarhill Jimmy had inevitably lost any money he’d made, and quite often his ride too, lamenting that the crowds just weren’t as good as they used to be, and it wasn’t his fault the damned ride packed up. Whatever happened to the bear, Lena didn’t like to think.
‘He’s got himself a big dipper, would you believe,’ says Harry. ‘Needs a couple of men to shift it from place to place. It’s grunt work but it’s not for the whole season, and the money’s good. It’ll give me the chance to put a bit by for when I do start on the singing. I might be able to do a wee tour of my own.’
Violet rolls her eyes at the end of this speech, and Harry turns his attention to the rest of the women. Rosie has stopped crying. Carmen shrinks into her bunk. But it is to Lena that Harry speaks.
‘I hear there’s a new show woman in town,’ he says. And with a theatrical sweep he lifts his cap and doffs it elegantly. Violet cracks up laughing.
Harry spends the morning with them. It is still early, and after a swift breakfast of bannocks warmed on the fire served with a thick, sweet syrup that Carmen produces, he helps them put the tent up.
It is hot, thankless work. Twice, despite Carmen and Harry’s best efforts with the thick wooden poles, the stripy pink canvas collapses into an undignified heap on the ground. Then Lena realises there isn’t nearly enough sawdust to cover the ground inside, and worries that the mud will churn up under the crowd’s feet. It dawns on her too that they should have invested in chairs, stools even, although they have no room to move them from place to place. Everyone will be standing. If it’s busy the audience will be packed in like tinned sardines.
As they work, Lena feels Harry’s eyes rest upon her. She is aware that he is looking at her intently, as though searching, really searching, for something within her. This silent attention makes her shy and unsure of herself. She is unused to it. Normally it is Violet, with her insouciant charm and those big eyes of hers, who commands the male gaze.
Violet is softer than usual thanks to the presence of her big brother – her favourite, she told Lena once, after a few nips of whisky – and spends her time stretching. She leans her arms forward and up, pulling each muscle and sinew until they ripple under the skin. She arches her foot, lifts her leg into a right angle, her eyes closed as though she were communing with a higher spirit. Around her the rest of them puff and sweat as they hammer in the final poles, tuck in the canvas.
Carmen ventures a quick eye-roll towards Lena, and Lena catches it and gives her a smile.
‘She is very dramatic,’ says Carmen quietly.
‘Yes,’ says Lena. ‘She certainly is.’ The tall rainbow girl is getting the measure of Violet already, it would seem. Good, thinks Lena. It is better that she knows that Violet can be bloody hard work. She could be an ally, and a useful one.
She notes that Carmen has been avoiding Harry, has barely spoken to him. Perhaps it is because he is Violet’s brother, and she is wary. Or perhaps she too, like Rosie, dislikes men.
‘Have you a sign?’ asks Harry. He has rolled his sleeves up. The hairs on his arms are strawberry blond too, glinting merrily with tiny beads of sweat.
The question stumps Lena. ‘A sign?’
‘Aye, you know, to put outside the tent. To tell people who you are. Surely you want everyone to know that you’ve got the greatest trapeze artist who ever lived in there.’
Lena shakes her head as Violet stops stretching to raise an eyebrow at her brother. Another thing she has forgotten. How on earth will anyone know what’s inside the tent? They might not even come in at all.
‘Right,’ says Harry. ‘Well, you’ll need one. For today, though, I can get one of the wee lads who works with us to come and hawk for you. He can stroll up and down outside and shout out prices and show times.’
Prices and show times. It is another thing Lena has forgotten about. She has been so wrapped up in the show itself, in presenting something that looks beautiful and different, which would glisten somehow, a tiny pearl in the vast, shifting ocean that is a summer fair, that it never occurred to her she would need to sell it. That people would need to be persuaded to push past the soft canvas flap in order to see what was inside.
She stares back at Harry, silent.
‘Come and have a smoke,’ he says, and leads her over to a bale of hay by the door of the stables.
Violet is still stretching and Rosie and Carmen have disappeared. It is warm now, and the stables are almost empty, most of their occupants dispersed into a nearby field while their owners get their shows and stalls set up for the day.
He brings out a packet of cigarettes in a gold-edged case, and a fancy matchbox with foreign writing on it. There is a picture of a ship on the front.
‘Where did you get these?’ she asks as he lights her cigarette. It is long and white, with a proper filter on the end.
‘Tobacco shop in Glasgow, just off George Square,’ he says. ‘Violet’s always saying I’m a fancy dan, but I like a wee bit of sophistication in life. Makes it worth living.’
He gives her a lopsided grin and she feels something inside her flip like a fish on a line. She inhales the cigarette to steady herself. It is rich and smoky, quite different from the rough, loose tobacco her father smoked, and from the smooth, toffee-sweet one that Violet had offered her. It reminds her of the scent of burning peat. She has seen men on the hills in the Highlands set it alight when spring is aloft, releasing a rasping earthiness that smells as though it has come from deep within the ground.
‘So you’ve not worked out any prices, then,’ says Harry.
Lena shakes her head and takes another puff.
‘Well, that’s easily done. A penny should do to start with, and Violet’s got a reputation so that should help. You start out cheap, let word spread, bring the crowds in, get them excited, and then you can start hiking your prices. You’ll know that from the way your father did things.’
She feels a flash of irritation. How dare he bring up her father now? Tell her what to do, when he knows so little about their show, their plans?
She quells her annoyance and flashes a smile. ‘Actually I thought I’d start at tuppence. And it’ll be two shows an hour. It was just all a bit much back there with the tent; I think it’s too hot. But I know what I’m doing. You’ll see.’
Harry looks down at the ground. A large clump of straw has detached itself from the bale and he puts his foot down on it until it crunches, like spun sugar.
‘Well, good for you,’ he says shortly. ‘I’ll send a lad over soon to help you with the hawking. Bonne chance .’
He walks away, leaving Lena with the feeling that she has just let something precious slip through her fingers.