Page 9 of The Show Woman

8

Cascade

Later, when she thinks back on it, Lena realises it could never have been any other way. She had thought their wide-eyed naivety, the thrum of excitement and bluster, the tingle of opportunity and newness which carried them all the way from Glasgow to the smart town of Linlithgow, would be enough to sustain them. That, having created the bread, the butter would magically appear.

It did not. They were not prepared. They had done nothing. And their first show is a disaster.

It starts with the hawker, a feral-looking child with bare feet and large, ruby-red ears. He tells Lena his name is Tam. She thanks him for coming and asks if he will walk around the area near the tent and shout: ‘Ladies’ circus. Tuppence a show. Come this way, please.’

‘But why, miss?’ he asks.

She studies his face. ‘Why what?’

‘Why would you have lassies in a circus?’

‘It’s ladies, Tam. And why not?’

He rocks back on his heels and whistles, as though he could never have imagined such an extraordinary thing. ‘And what’s in it for me?’

‘Tuppence, and a meat piece for your tea.’

‘I’ll have the pennies now, then,’ he says. He smiles. He has gaps in his mouth where the baby teeth have fallen out, pink gums waiting patiently for the new ones to grow in.

‘Alright,’ she says. ‘But you get your piece later on.’

He snatches the money and scuttles off into the sparse crowd that is starting to gather, shouting, ‘Lassies’ circus, lassies’ circus.’ Lena feels her irritation rise as she heads into the tent.

At the bar, Violet is panicking. ‘Are you sure this is safe?’ she’s asking Harry, who looks unflappable and unhurried.

‘Of course it’s bloody safe, you silly wee girl. You think this is my first time at the circus?’

‘Well, it doesn’t look it. And don’t swear. Lena doesn’t like it, do you, Lena?’

Lena ignores her. ‘Where’s Rosie?’ she asks.

Violet shrugs. ‘At the stable, I suppose, getting Tommy Pony ready.’

At that moment there is a commotion at the door of the tent. It as though a great horde is pushing to get in, and Lena worries that the hawker has done his job too well, too quickly, that there is a crowd of excited fairgoers already, until a muzzle appears through the tent. ‘Lena,’ Rosie shouts, and her voice is muffled behind the canvas. ‘I don’t think Tommy will fit.’

Finally, it is showtime. Rosie has gone back to the stable, heartbroken, unable to perform, leading a morose and confused Tommy Pony through the crowd. Harry says they can work on the tent, make it bigger, but it does not stop Rosie from sobbing, great heaving hiccups that turn her normally grey eyes a clear, watery blue.

But now there are people, real people, shuffling into the tent, faces confused but expectant. Their clothing is hand-stitched and smart: sturdy boots, long, sensible dresses, overalls made of thick workman’s canvas. Children cling to their mothers’ skirts or pull faces at each other. Men mutter quietly to each other. There are occasional digs in the ribs. Their expressions are familiar. Lena knows what they want, what they expect to see, because she has seen it every summer since she was a bairn. They want a cheap thrill, and it is up to her to give it to them.

There are maybe fifteen folk in the tent. Lena wonders if Tam has brought them in, but when she peeks outside he has, predictably, vanished. She gives a small nod and Carmen dances into the small ring they have created with the sparse sawdust. Her streamers fly in all directions, a blur of colour, and there is the odd murmur from the audience as they watch this rainbow confection. It is a beautiful sight, until a child darts suddenly forward, entranced by the whirl of colours, and grasps one of her ribbons. It is like pulling a loose thread. All the streamers cascade from her costume and on to the floor and Carmen, her face panicked, freezes. The child dart backs and Carmen recovers herself, does her best to cover her body with her hands. A deep, rumbling laugh ripples through the crowd.

‘Stopped by a wean!’

‘Off with ye!’

‘Give us a striptease instead, hen!’

Lena, standing at the back, is aghast. Something as simple as a nosy child has railroaded the whole show. She looks up at the rafters where Violet hides, unseen by the crowd, ready to swing down on her trapeze, and nods at her, furiously.

Violet swings, and the crowd looks up in shock. Their faces lighten. They had not expected this. Violet sways slightly, then pulls herself up on to the bar and performs a somersault before catching the next bar, which has been pushed forward by Harry, hiding on the other side.

There is a collective gasp. While the first swing is still moving she does it again, and there is another gasp as the bar bobs and weaves dangerously, the top of the tent flapping precariously. But then Violet looks at Harry and shakes her head.

‘Not strong enough,’ she shouts at him. ‘I can’t risk it.’

She hauls herself up on to the platform and looks down at the crowd, furious.

The throng sag. Is this it? Is there no more to see? Is this the whole show? A man turns to go, and a handful more, seeing the real world emerge briefly from behind the flap, hearing the sound of a hawker promising toffee apples, follow him. Within minutes the tent is empty. It is over.

Lena slumps to the ground, defeated. She balls her fists into her eyes to stop herself from crying. She will not let them see her weep. But then Violet is there, all bony angles and cooling sweat, wrapping Lena into her, and she allows herself to lean in and sob. She thinks of her father, how disappointed he would be that she sold his beloved carousel for this. She feels a hot, prickling shame and, beneath that, a deep fear. She has let everyone down. She has failed. It is over.

‘Come on, now,’ says Violet softly. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’

Lena hiccups into her angular shoulder. ‘It was bloody awful and you know it. We’re finished. It was a stupid idea. What the hell was I thinking?’

She takes a deep heaving breath, tries to steady herself. All she can hear is the galloping of Violet’s heart.

‘Well, if it was a stupid idea, then it was my stupid idea too,’ Violet says.

Lena shakes her head. ‘I let you talk me into it. I spent all that money on the tent. It was me who wrote up the posters, dragged Rosie and Carmen away from their lives . . .’

‘Rosie and Carmen wanted to get away from their lives – surely you can see that.’ Violet sits back and produces a clean cotton handkerchief. Lena dabs at her eyes and looks at her. ‘Those girls are desperate for an adventure,’ Violet continues. ‘And so are we. What else are we going to do? Sit around Vinegarhill shouting at the crows and poking our noses into other people’s business like my mammy?’

Lena giggles. It turns into a small sob. She looks around at the tent, empty now. ‘I don’t know where to start,’ she says.

‘You already have,’ says Violet. ‘We’ve started. And now we’ll get better. I promise. We’re in this together.’

Lena’s eyes fill with tears again. ‘Thank you,’ she says, wrapping her arms around her friend once more.

‘Anyway,’ says Violet, ‘ bloody awful ? I thought you didn’t like swearing.’

‘Shut the hell up,’ says Lena into her shoulder, and they rock, and cry and laugh together while, outside the tent, the fair whirls on.