by Michael Bond
The clowns dashed off and were replaced by a girl doing handstands on the legs of an upturned table. The same girl repeated the trick to greater effect shortly afterwards on the back of one of the Arab ponies. Was she, he wondered, being groomed as a second Yasmin? She looked like a younger sister. Moments after her act was finished she joined the small band above the entrance to the ring, adding fife-playing to her other talents.
Madame Caoutchouc reappeared as the ‘Indiarubber Lady’, distracting attention while a cage was erected by tying herself up in knots to the tune of ‘Over the Waves’, whilst at the same time making a cup of coffee.
She could have saved herself the trouble. The act which followed was something of an anti-climax. Neither the lion nor its temporary keeper made any pretence at going near each other. Perhaps they both suffered from bad breath.
Monsieur Pamplemousse found his attention wandering. Clearly it was a case of ‘the show must go on’, but it was a struggle. The barrel was being well and truly scraped and there was a feeling of sadness about it all.
He kept his seat during the interval, feeling that if he once got up he might not return. He wondered what on earth he was doing here anyway. Was it just the romantic notion of it all? Had he temporarily seen himself as d’Artagnan rescuing a damsel in distress? The combination of a pretty girl and the age-old lure of the circus. He corrected himself. The combination of a pretty girl, the lure of the circus and a desperate note. It was a case of locking the stable door after the horse had bolted, but he had to start somewhere.
There was something else that bothered him about the note. He took it out and read it again, even though he knew it by heart. It wasn’t simply a plea for help, there was an underlying message in it for him as well. ‘Take great care.’ The last two words were even more heavily underlined than the earlier ones.
‘I must see you. Please do not come to me. I will come to you, later tonight after the show. Take great care!’
It was almost as though she had wanted to tell him something, the knowledge of which would put him in some kind of danger too.
But there had been no ‘after the show’. In fact, the more he thought about it the more convinced he became that Yasmin’s fall had been no accident. It was too much of a coincidence. Perhaps she had been wrought up over something, perhaps it had been a momentary lack of concentration on her part. But even that didn’t ring true. In his experience, when it came to the crunch, people working in jobs requiring total concentration were capable of switching off to everything else, including personal problems.
He wondered about the man he’d seen driving the van. He seemed to be the odd one out. ‘The Great Christoph’ was how he’d been billed when he’d done a brief ‘strong-man’ act halfway though the first half. Apart from that one appearance he’d neither played in the band nor shown his face since the opening parade.
The answer came towards the end of the second half of the programme and left him with a strange mixture of feelings. The newspaper report had made no mention of Yasmin having a partner and from the artist’s impression on the poster he had assumed she was a solo act; it had really been a case of the eye reading what the brain expected it to see. It hadn’t crossed his mind that the man had also been part of her act.
A hush fell over the audience as the lights over the ring were dimmed and Christoph entered the ring and began climbing a rope hanging against one of the king-poles. It was the moment most of them had been waiting for.
No wonder the man had been keeping a low profile. It was hard to picture how he must be feeling at this moment, particularly if the accident had been the result of a row. There was no doubt in Monsieur Pamplemousse’s mind that for whatever reason the girl had been avoiding her partner. Avoiding him, or … avoiding him seeing her with anyone else.
He concentrated on the figure of Christoph as he reached a platform near the roof of the tent on the far side of the ring. Stripped to the waist, the gold cross dangling from his neck, he posed for a second or two while he regained his breath. Taking advantage of the moment, Monsieur Pamplemousse picked up his camera and zoomed in to as tight a shot as possible. The single spotlight produced a halo effect making it difficult to focus.
Perhaps it was a simple case of jealousy. Greeks were renowned for it, guarding what they considered to be their property even unto death.
He pressed the shutter six times, then Christoph made a gesture towards the ring. Another spotlight came on and a murmur went round the audience as it revealed the young girl standing at the foot of the opposite pole. It was followed almost immediately by a burst of applause as she took a quick bow and then began her climb, moving with lightness and ease, hand over hand, towards the top.
There was a low drum-roll as she unhitched a pole suspended from the roof by two ropes. It grew louder and louder as she climbed on and began to swing backwards and forwards towards her partner. There was a gasp from the audience, first of horror, then of relief as she appeared to slip and caught her heels on the pole at the very last moment, so that she was hanging upside down.
There was no doubt about it, they were both milking the situation for all it was worth. And why not? She deserved every ounce of applause for her courage. He glanced down at the ring. A group of men were standing round the safety-net. Their faces showed clearly the anxiety they felt as they followed her every movement to and fro.
Monsieur Pamplemousse slipped quietly from his seat and made his way out of the tent. It wasn’t squeamishness. He simply wanted time to think, and he doubted very much if lightning would strike twice in the same place.
Outside the air was cool. There was a full moon and the sky was crowded with stars. The immediate area was totally deserted. Everyone must be inside watching the act. Another loud drum-roll sounded, followed by a burst of applause.
Almost without thinking he made his way back towards the caravan. Quite possibly, if Yasmin and the Great Christoph had formed themselves into an act, they also lived together. They might even be married. Literally putting your life in someone else’s hands day in, day out, pre-supposed a closer than average relationship. But if that was the case, why had Yasmin sent the note? He still couldn’t rid himself of the uneasy feeling that it had to do with something she had wished to keep from her partner.
The caravan was an American Barth. That accounted for the whine he had heard which would have come from the electrically operated steps. Even from the outside it looked as if it had everything and it probably did. A state-of-the-art multi-purpose aerial on the roof summed it all up. Again, why not? Travelling fairs and circuses were always an odd mixture of the tawdry and the up-to-date. Showmen were renowned for their caravans. It was where all the money went; an outward sign of success. The second lock on the door was a recent addition. It was French; a Vachette double cylinder multilock. Anyone breaking in would find it easier to cut a hole in the side of the caravan. There was mud on the steps, the same colour as that on the back of the blue van.
The blinds were lowered on all the side windows. Tinted glass around the driving compartment made it impossible to see inside.
Near the main door stood a portable waste-bin. It must belong to the local authorities, for it was of the same shape and dimensions as those along the promenade.
Working on the principle that it was often possible to learn more about a man in five minutes by going through his rubbish than an hour spent with him in the charge-room, he lifted the orange lid and shone his torch inside. The black polythene liner bag looked dry. Underneath a layer of old journaux there was an assortment of odds and ends, mostly female; old tights, make-up, several padded coat-hangers, a large bag of greyish powder – it could have been some kind of talcum. It looked as though someone had been having a good clear-out. He poked around for a moment or two longer, but it was a waste of time. There was far too much clutter.
Another, much longer burst of applause came from the direction of the circus tent. The band broke out into a loud march. It soun
ded as though the show was nearing its end.
Acting on the spur of the moment, he lifted the plastic bag out of the container and carried it out to the car. Accustomed though he was to his master’s vagaries, Pommes Frites did not look best pleased when it landed on the seat beside him.
‘Surveillez-le!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse gave him a quick pat, then hurried along the promenade in search of a suitable replacement bag.
It took him longer than he’d intended. The first two stank to high heaven, the third was nearly empty. He struck lucky at the fourth. A couple taking an evening stroll gave him an odd look when they saw what he was up to. He raised his hat and bade them a formal goodnight.
As he passed the car on his way back Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to risk Pommes Frites’ displeasure once again by getting rid of the bag of ballast which was still on the back seat. Slipping the new polythene liner into the container outside the caravan, he stuffed the much-chewed bag in the bottom and covered it with some paper, plumping it up to give it more bulk. Then he closed the lid. It wasn’t quite as good as he would have liked, but it was the best he could manage in the time.
By the time Monsieur Pamplemousse had finished the first of the audience were already hurrying out, anxious to reach their cars before the main rush. Lights began to come on all around him; engines roared.
He hovered for a moment or two, wondering whether to go back to his car or stay for a little while longer. He decided to stay. The fair was coming alive again. The trickle of people leaving the circus had turned into a flood, all pushing and jostling to be first. It would be some time before they dispersed.
He began to wish he’d brought Pommes Frites; at least it would have ensured a free passage through the mass of people. As it was, the very fact that he was going against the main stream was resented. Skirting round the outside of the crowd, he made his way past a row of caravans in the direction of the menhir. Almost immediately he regretted the decision. He’d been so intent on avoiding other people he failed to see a figure lurking under the trees. It was the old harridan he’d encountered earlier in the day. To his horror, as soon as she saw him coming she started to wave and began hurrying towards him.
Almost without thinking he made a dive between two of the caravans, turned sharp left at the far end and doubled back up the other side. Peering round the corner, he was just in time to see the wretched woman disappear down the route he had just taken. Clearly she wasn’t giving up in a hurry. Given the incredible complications of her attire, she had a surprising turn of speed. If she kept going at her present rate, there wasn’t a moment to lose.
If he took a chance and followed on behind he ran the risk of finding her lying in wait. If he tried mingling with the crowd and she caught up with him it could be even worse. He would get no sympathy; from the look of some of them they were much more likely to egg her on.
Seeing a light coming from Madame Caoutchouc’s caravan he made a dive for the steps. Mounting them in one bound, he flung open the door, then closed it gently behind him. Remaining where he was for a moment or two, hardly daring to breathe, he put his ear to one of the panels. To his relief there was no pounding of feet, no sound of anyone approaching.
Relaxing a little, he let go of the door handle and took in his surroundings. The black curtains were now drawn back, turning what had in effect been a series of compartments into one large room. The little table just inside the door had gone and the crystal ball was now on top of the hi-fi. He could hear the sound of running water coming from behind the door he’d noticed that morning. Madame Caoutchouc must be having a well-earned shower. The crocheted counterpane on the bed was littered with the impedimenta of her act; unidentifiable garments covered with sequins, the cup and saucer and the coffee-maker she’d used in her act, a top hat, a white towelling dressing-gown. The flowered dressing gown was lying discarded on the floor. On top of it was a whip.
To his right between the door and the sink unit was a small window. He was about to look out through a gap in the curtains when he heard the water in the shower being turned off. Abruptly the door at the far end swung open.
Madame Caoutchouc patently wasn’t expecting visitors. When she caught sight of Monsieur Pamplemousse she stopped dead in her tracks and gave a gasp. Then, as she recognised him, she reached for the towelling dressing gown.
‘What do you want? Didn’t you see the Fermé notice? I am closed for the night.’ She came towards him and reached for the door handle.
Monsieur Pamplemousse raised his hat. He decided to come clean. There was no great point in concocting a story.
‘Pardonnez-moi, Madame. It is an inexcusable intrusion. The truth is, there is someone outside I would rather not see. If I may just check first …’ He motioned towards the window. ‘I will not stay a moment longer than is necessary.’
‘In that case I had better turn off the light, otherwise you will be seen.’ Madame Caoutchouc essayed a brief and not altogether successful attempt at pulling her dressing-gown around her. Monsieur Pamplemousse averted his gaze and found himself looking at her image in the crystal ball. Her reflection as she reached for the switch near the door was distorted beyond belief.
‘Merci. You are very kind.’ He groped his way towards the window and slowly parted the curtains in the middle. The old woman was still there, skulking in the shadow of a nearby tree. From the way she was standing it looked as though she was quite prepared for a long wait.
He felt a large breast against his right shoulder. ‘I can only see an old clocharde. Surely …’
‘That is the one.’
‘Oooh, là, là! I understand why you would not wish to see her.’ There was a slight pause for thought. ‘Why did she pick on you?’
‘I do not know. Perhaps it is my aftershave.’ He meant it as a joke, but it immediately reminded him of the scent the old crone had left behind outside the restaurant. Until that moment it had slipped his memory.
He tried concentrating on the view outside, but it wasn’t easy. For someone well into her prime, Madame Caoutchouc’s breast was surprisingly, not to say disturbingly, firm. Perhaps wrestling with crocodiles was good for the mammary glands. She was also either supremely unaware of the fact – which he very much doubted – or she was being deliberately slow in removing it. It was not only surprisingly firm, it was also remarkably damp. In fact, he was conscious of creeping dampness all down his back, and he was about to let go of the curtain when he felt her stiffen. A moment later he realised why. Christoph had come into view. The old woman evidently saw him too, for she slunk back even deeper into the shadows as he went past.
Madame Caoutchouc also drew back as she followed his progress. ‘Salaud!’ The word was spat out with surprising venom.
His interest roused, Monsieur Pamplemousse craned to see where Christoph was going. In an effort to get a better view he tried standing on a shadowy object on the floor below the window. It felt soft and yielding beneath his feet and he nearly lost his balance.
Something came up and hit the side of his leg. He tried to brush it away. It felt soft and clammy. Instinctively he drew back.
‘Merde!’
‘Attendez!’ Madame Caoutchouc pulled him away from the window and bent down. ‘Attention an crocodile!’
‘Un crocodile!’ Monsieur Pamplemousse jumped in horror, hardly able to believe his ears.
Staggering back, he scrabbled at empty air, then toppled forward, colliding with Madame Caoutchouc as she stood up. As he clutched at her he felt himself enveloped in a damp but heady mixture compounded of flesh and fabric. It was so sudden and unexpected it was all he could do to stay upright. He was vaguely aware of making a futile grab for his hat as it slid off the back of his head – the more bizarre the situation the more man clung to the most trivial of possessions – then there was a crash of breaking glass as they collided with the table and the vase of flowers went flying. Spinning away from it, they hovered uncertainly in the middle of the caravan, then landed on the be
d in a panting heap of twisted arms and legs.
He tried desperately to disentangle himself, but his body seemed to be held in place by a vice-like grip from which there was no escape. It was like a bad dream. Arms encircled him. Toes dug into his spine. Toes – or was it the coffee pot? Perhaps even – heaven forbid – perhaps even even the crocodile – it was hard to tell. He had temporarily lost all feeling.
Nothing Madame Caoutchouc had done in the circus ring could possibly have prepared him for the complexity of their present arrangements. Had he been forewarned he might have been better prepared. Like a swimmer about to attempt a swallow dive from the high board, he would have filled his lungs with sufficient life-giving air to enable him to surface unharmed. As it was, all the breath had been squeezed out of him during the first few moments of their embrace and his lungs were now so tightly compressed the prospect of refilling them seemed remote in the extreme.
He called out and heard a thin voice remarkably unlike his own somewhere in the distance. There was a tramp of feet and then other voices too; voices he didn’t recognise, uttering imprecations and oaths. Cries of ‘Quelle horreur!’ and ‘She has had an attack of her old complaint!’ impinged on his brain. Hands reached out, grasping at anything within reach, in a vain attempt to pull them apart.
At the height of it all there was a loud banging sound. It seemed to be coming from outside the caravan. Irrationally it occurred to him that it might even be the old woman. The one he had been trying to escape from. It would be an ironic twist of fate if she came to his rescue, but by that time he hardly cared.
The knocking ceased and there was a blinding flash of light. It was followed by a familiar voice calling out his name. He told himself it wasn’t possible. It had to be part of some dreadful nightmare from which he would wake at any moment. But as he twisted his head round to look his heart sank. Patently his senses had not entirely deserted him. His worst fears had been realised.
