Mortlock

by Jon Mayhew

  At least the old wives’ tale Arabella had told them about the circus wasn’t true. This was a real circus, with a tent and performers. And at least here she and Alfie would be safer from the Aunts, who didn’t seem to have pursued them across the marshes.

  She shook herself. She didn’t have to think about them. Instead, she imagined tumbling into the ring again, the brass band striking up a lively polka as she cartwheeled across the sawdust floor. Eventually, Josie’s eyelids drooped and she slipped back into a world of lights and music and cheers.

  She awoke to the sound of Alfie rattling the stove as he put more logs into the firebox.

  ‘You awake, then?’ he said, dragging his trousers on and pulling his braces over his shoulders. ‘The stove’s just about dried these out. I hung your skirts up for a bit so it shouldn’t be too bad.’

  Josie dragged herself out from under the warm sheets and pulled on her torn skirts and jacket. The seams felt damp but the warmth of the stove countered the cold.

  ‘Lorenzo’s Circus, Alfie,’ Josie said, excitement fluttering inside her. ‘Who’d have thought it? We can find out all about Mother and perform and –’

  ‘Yeah, right . . . Come on, let’s have a look around,’ Alfie said. He still looked tired, his eyes puffy and his face pale.

  ‘Didn’t you sleep very well?’ Josie said, pulling her hair back and tying it up. Her ribbon was one of the few items that had dried out properly, although her hair tangled and snagged in her fingers.

  ‘Like a log, but I still woke feelin’ like bloomin’ death,’ Alfie said.

  They stepped out into the gloom of a cold winter’s day. A thin mist clung to everything, giving the caravans a ghostly quality. The horizon was invisible, the marshes lost. All that existed was this grey world. Everything huddled around the tent that loomed out of the fog like a mountain.

  ‘Just think, Alfie, a real circus.’ Josie clapped her hands. ‘And they’re bound to be our friends. If they knew Madame Lilly . . .’

  ‘I’m not sure. It just looks a bit, well, dingy to me,’ Alfie said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. ‘Look at the state of the caravans, all peelin’ paint an’ cracked windows.’

  ‘They’re probably over-wintering,’ Josie said. ‘They’ll give them a lick of paint in the spring.’

  ‘This mist sticks to everythin’. And did you hear Lorenzo last night?’ Alfie pulled a long face and put on a thick accent. ‘You can rrrest here . . . Cor, he didn’t ’ave to make it sound so permanent!’

  ‘He was just being hospitable, that’s all.’ Josie frowned at Alfie. Why was he being so negative? It wasn’t good manners to mock Lorenzo.

  ‘And listen . . .’ Alfie said, pulling a face.

  ‘I can’t hear a thing.’ Josie felt a stab of irritation.

  ‘Exactly. No birdsong,’ Alfie persisted.

  Josie clenched her fists. She wanted to hit him. He was spoiling everything.

  ‘Well, at least there aren’t any crows either,’ she snapped. ‘You’re not thinking of Arabella’s old wives’ tale, are you? It’s just a circus, Alfie. If we hadn’t met them then we probably would have frozen to death by now. They fed us and gave us a bed for the night – you should be grateful!’

  A flash of brown fur and a squeak made Josie start. A monkey scurried across their path and up on to the ropes of the big top nearby. An ox of a man in a baggy chequered suit lumbered close behind. Faded white make-up stained his unshaven face and he looked ready to strangle the creature.

  ‘Walnut! Come back here, you little demon,’ bellowed the man, grabbing at the monkey and sending it corkscrewing up the ropes on to the roof of the tent.

  Josie could see Alfie shaking as the figure turned to them. She shivered, too, as the clown gave them a lopsided grin full of yellowed, crooked teeth.

  ‘The babes have returned home, then, eh?’ The man beamed, tucking his thumbs into his red braces. ‘I remember you. How could Old Ulrico forget? You and your precious mother.’ He spat at their feet and paced off after the monkey as it leapt from the side of the tent, scampering between the man’s feet and away.

  ‘Ulrico,’ she whispered. ‘From the poster – do you remember?’

  ‘Don’t think he liked us.’ Alfie shivered as the shabby clown wandered into the thick fog that closed behind him like theatre curtains. ‘Or the fact that we’re Madame Lilly’s kids.’

  ‘Well, every show has its rough diamonds,’ Josie said, pursing her lips at him. ‘I can’t remember a single cheerful clown back at the Erato . . .’ She waited for the sarcastic retort, but none came.

  ‘I was just sayin’, that’s all,’ Alfie said, looking hurt.

  ‘Well, don’t . . .’ Josie began, but three children came tumbling from a nearby caravan, making her jump back with a yelp – two boys, one girl, all with thick black hair, deep brown eyes and broad smiles. The eldest boy fell to his knees as the others cartwheeled over him, hands on his shoulders. As they landed, he sprang to his feet and went straight into a somersault.

  ‘Welcome! We have been much looking forward to meeting you!’ beamed the older boy. ‘I’m Nicolao, this is my brother Paulo and my sister Ashena.’ The other two bowed politely but they couldn’t keep still, constantly shoving each other or doing handstands. Josie managed a weak smile.

  ‘We are the Gambinis,’ Ashena said, grinning. ‘You will join us for some food, no?’

  Josie and Alfie nodded. But Josie was looking at the children’s clothes, ragged and torn, their faces grey. They were just like everyone else they had seen in this place. She glanced over at Alfie, who raised an eyebrow. He looked no better, she thought, with the dark rings under his eyes and his haggard expression. Maybe it was living out on the marsh that did it. He swayed and stumbled drunkenly.

  ‘Alfie, what’s wrong with you?’ Josie said, grabbing his elbow.

  ‘Nuffin’, just a bit tired, that’s all. A bit of breakfast’ll sort it, for sure.’

  Inside the Gambinis’ caravan a fire crackled in the stove, struggling to keep the cold morning air at bay. Josie, wrapped in an old blanket, began to relax as they shared the children’s thin porridge. At least it was something warm. They sat crowded around a small table, chatting.

  ‘I’m sorry we startled you,’ Paulo said, opening the curtains and sitting by Josie. ‘Tumbling is all we ever do.’

  ‘My guardian, the Great Cardamom, taught me to tumble,’ Josie said, spooning some porridge into her mouth. ‘We always filled the Erato theatre.’

  ‘Tell us more!’ Ashena cried, kneeling at Josie’s side. Josie forgot herself as she eagerly described Cardamom’s act, Gimlet’s cabinets and stage sets, and how the audience sat amazed and baffled at her guardian’s tricks.

  ‘Cardamom, he was here, with us,’ Nicolao said. ‘Such a happy man . . .’

  ‘But not a great conjurer.’ Paulo grinned. ‘Sounds like he practises . . .’

  ‘You knew him?’ Josie said, excited.

  ‘How’s that possible?’ Alfie frowned across the table at Josie, brandishing his spoon like a weapon.

  ‘No, no . . . we . . .’ Ashena said, her eyes wide. ‘Yes, we hear about him, from Lorenzo, yes –’

  ‘Anyway, tell us more. We love your stories,’ Nicolao cut in, smiling.

  The Gambinis listened as Josie continued, weak smiles tracing curves across their staring faces. Alfie sat opposite her, his head nodding. Josie glanced over to him every now and then. He looked like he was napping, his eyes shut, his head lolling forward. She wondered why he was so tired. He said he slept well, she thought. It doesn’t make sense.

  ‘So how long have you been performing?’ Josie said, shaking herself to attention. She scanned the Gambinis’ grubby faces as they huddled round her.

  ‘All our lives,’ Nicolao said, his voice sounding distant. ‘It is all we know.’

  ‘Our parents died when we were young,’ Paulo added, shuffling closer. ‘An accident on the trapeze.’

  ‘They said that when
they fell, the audience nearly trampled each other in an effort to see the mangled corpses,’ Ashena said, gazing deep into Josie’s face.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Josie said. ‘Who looks after you now?’

  ‘The circus looks after its own,’ Nicolao answered.

  ‘Even unto death,’ Paulo murmured.

  ‘Alfie, he performs, yes?’ Ashena said, her voice bright and loud, breaking the sombre mood. Alfie’s eyes flickered open at the mention of his name.

  ‘No,’ he mumbled and stirred his spoon around his untouched porridge. ‘No. I’m an undertaker’s mute.’

  ‘A what?’ asked Paulo, a puzzled smile frozen on his face.

  ‘An undertaker’s mute,’ Alfie repeated. ‘I help Mr Wiggins the undertaker. I help him run funerals.’

  Josie felt cross with him. Why did he look so miserable? He should be glad they were safe. He just didn’t like the idea of her having more in common with the circus folk. He was jealous. That’s what it was.

  ‘He is a kind of actor,’ she said, narrowing her eyes at him. ‘He walks behind funeral carriages looking sad, even when he doesn’t know the person who died.’

  ‘You get paid for that?’ Nicolao took a mouthful of gruel and shook his head.

  ‘It’s not just that,’ Alfie said, frowning. ‘It’s about showin’ respect, doin’ things right.’

  ‘You have to do this.’ Josie stood up, giggling, then did an impression of Alfie’s slow, stiff funeral march. She pouted her lip and lowered her brows, swinging her head from side to side.

  The caravan erupted with laughter but Alfie clattered his spoon down on the table and stood up. Sending his chair crashing to the floor, he barged out of the van, slamming the door behind him.

  .

  .

  ‘You dug a hole beneath the moon,

  And there you laid our bodies down.’

  ‘You covered the hole with mossy stones,

  And there you left our tiny bones.’

  ‘The Cruel Mother’, traditional folk song

  .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Lorenzo’s Circus

  The silver mist hadn’t lifted as Josie stepped out into the chill morning in search of Alfie. She shouldn’t have mocked him. They were both tired and far from home. Both? Josie wondered. What did she have back in London now? No Cardamom, no Gimlet. The folk of the Erato were kind but they weren’t close. Maybe this could be her home now, like in her dream. Alfie still had Wiggins. He would never understand why the circus attracted her so much. She shivered. To perform again – that would be wonderful.

  Lorenzo loomed out of the fog, appearing as if from nowhere. He nodded at Josie and touched the brim of his tall hat.

  ‘You are exploring, I see,’ he said. He waved a long, thin arm around the caravans. ‘There isn’t much to see. We are a small band of performers. Nothing too special.’

  ‘It’s special to me, Lorenzo,’ Josie said, smiling and pushing her hair behind her ear. ‘It was my mother’s circus.’

  ‘Ah, your mother.’ The tall ringmaster smoothed his impossibly long moustache.

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘As graceful as a ballerina,’ Lorenzo said. His voice softened and a gentle smile wrinkled the corners of his mouth. ‘As fierce as a tigress. The most loving of mothers. She told fortunes but she danced and tumbled, too.’ He raised an eyebrow at Josie. ‘She even threw the odd knife. It was a tragedy that she left us and went to the city, only to return . . . dead.’

  ‘She died of a fever,’ Josie whispered. ‘I know that much.’

  ‘Cardamom brought her home.’ Lorenzo’s eyes looked red and moist. ‘He knew she would want to rest here.’

  Josie gave a start. ‘She’s buried here?’ Would there be a grave? Somewhere she could visit?

  Lorenzo shook his head slowly. ‘We do not bury our dead,’ he sighed. ‘She lay in her caravan, surrounded by all her possessions. We burned it, a cremation, as is our custom.’

  An awkward silence hung between them. A thought occurred to Josie: maybe this man knew her father, too. So little had been said about him.

  ‘What about my father?’

  Lorenzo paused, and a shadow crossed his gaunt grey face. He sighed and then reached out to touch Josie’s forehead. ‘His name was Necros . . . Professor Necros, he called himself.’

  ‘The name on the poster,’ Josie said, barely able to contain herself. ‘I saw his name at Scrabsnitch’s shop! What was he like?’

  Lorenzo shrugged. ‘Just another sideshow performer. He left us . . . He died . . . He wanted more than the circus could ever give him. Now, your mother.’ The smile returned. ‘Performing was all she ever wanted. She lived for it –’

  ‘So do I!’ Josie cut in. She hugged herself. To have so much in common with Madame Lilly!

  ‘You are so full of life, Josie,’ Lorenzo said, his eyes gleaming. ‘It will be like having your mother back.’

  Josie grinned. ‘Can I practise throwing and tumbling with Paulo and Nicolao?’

  ‘By all means.’ An indulgent smile flickered briefly on Lorenzo’s care-worn face. ‘You will find all you need in the tent.’ He paused and the troubled frown returned. ‘Perhaps you should find your brother first. I saw him leave the caravan. He did not look happy.’

  Josie sighed. ‘He’s so miserable,’ she muttered. ‘He’s not excited about the circus at all.’

  ‘He is your brother, nonetheless. You should not let bad feeling grow or it will fester for all time.’ Lorenzo’s eyes seemed to glow as he spoke.

  Josie frowned, watching as he wandered away into the mist. What a strange thing to say, she thought. ‘For all time.’ But he was right: things left too long became harder to repair. Alfie couldn’t be far away. Perhaps he had gone back to their van. She would find him and make peace.

  The entrance to the tent gaped open as Josie passed it. She couldn’t help peering in. A single solid pole, as wide as a man, rose up in the centre; at its top, a circle of daylight cast down feeble rays. A shadowy twilight filled the tent. Josie could just see the circus ring, covered in sawdust, surrounding the pole. Bench seats crouched around it, giving the vast space a closed and confined feeling. A corkboard stood against the pole, next to a table with twelve silver throwing blades. They glinted in the grey light, dazzling Josie.

  She hadn’t thrown in weeks – not real throwing knives, not just for fun – not since that last fateful night when the Aunts arrived at her house. Josie stepped into the tent. She imagined the seats full of smiling people. Music would be playing. She picked up two of the knives and tapped them together, hearing the audience murmur, and grinned. The music would stop now, she thought – maybe there’d be a drum roll as she turned to her target. The scene became real: the expectant hush, the warmth of the gaslights hissing. Josie was back onstage at the Erato and yet in the circus, too, a strange mix of the two in her mind.

  She hurled the first knife, watching it twirl and spin towards the corkboard until, with that satisfying thunk, it quivered in the board. She threw the second, getting it as close to the first as possible. Her imaginary audience cheered and clapped. She bowed and held up two more knives. They were beautiful, perfectly balanced. As if they were made for me, she thought.

  Time and again she practised, lost in her dream. Lorenzo was calling her name, the Gambinis bouncing and leaping as she burst balloons, hit spinning targets and amazed the audience with her accuracy. Morning shadows shifted as the day grew older.

  A shadow at the tent door broke her daydream. Alfie stood there, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill. Josie felt a stab of guilt. She’d forgotten all about him. How long had she been in the tent? She had no idea. Alfie looked terrible – worse than before, if that were possible.

  ‘What you playin’ at?’ he said, his voice sullen. Black ringed his heavy eyes. ‘You been in ’ere all day?’

  ‘I’m not playing,’ Josie said, sending a knife twanging deeply into the
corkboard. ‘It’s what I do. I’m a performer.’

  ‘We’d be better off thinkin’ of how we get back to London.’ Alfie shuffled further into the tent. He stumbled, plonking himself down on to a bench before he fell.

  ‘Alfie, what’s wrong with you? You look awful and you’re so miserable. We’re safe here and there’s going to be a performance!’ Josie’s heart quickened; surely he would be excited by the idea of seeing a show. ‘Lorenzo wants us to take part. I heard him talking last night!’

  Alfie stared at Josie, confusion in his face. ‘What’s wrong with me? Josie, what about the Amarant? Corvis? Have you forgotten? We’ve not been ’ere a day and you’re prattlin’ on about performin’ and –’

  ‘How dare you!’ Josie hurled another blade. ‘I haven’t forgotten.’

  But Alfie sat frozen, staring at the door. A raven, sleek-feathered and sharp-beaked, had fluttered in and landed on the benches. It waddled into the circle, cocking its head at them. Josie could see the malice in its marble eyes.

  ‘D’you think it’s one of Corvis’s?’ Alfie whispered, eyes wide.

  ‘As you said before, we haven’t seen any birds round here at all,’ Josie whispered back. ‘I’m certain it is.’

  She stretched her hand out slowly, gradually reaching for one of the knives. Her movement broke the spell; it was as if the creature knew what she planned next. With a squawk, it threw itself upward, battering the musty air with powerful wings.

  ‘It’s headin’ for the vent at the top,’ Alfie yelled. ‘If it gets away it might lead the Aunts ’ere . . .’

  Josie threw the knife, aiming slightly ahead of the raven, anticipating its path. The creature’s angry cawing stopped suddenly as the blade struck it squarely, sending it spiralling down to the floor with a thud. Its wings flapped feebly as it lay pinioned to the ground, until, finally, they stopped.