Flying Tips for Flightless Birds

by Kelly McCaughrain

  “Oh. I guess that makes sense.”

  “It looks scary, I know,” he says. “But we’re taking good care of her, I promise. I’m sure Birdie wouldn’t want you to worry.”

  I do feel better. It feels good just to hear someone call her by her name. “Thanks, Tony.”

  He winks. “No problem. I’ll be back in an hour, if you have any more questions, OK? And you should talk to her – she can hear you. Bye, Birdie, see you later!”

  I get off the plastic chair, settle myself on the bed and hold Birdie’s hand. “Well, he’s nice, isn’t he?” I say.

  For the first two weeks it feels like everything’s been freeze-framed. We don’t go to school, Dad doesn’t go to work, no one buys groceries or cooks or does housework or homework, we don’t watch TV or listen to music.

  The only time I get out of the house, except to go to the hospital, is when Mum sends me to the warehouse to stick a note on the door. I tape it up and then stand there, staring at the words Birdie and I have been dreading for months.

  FRANCONIS’ CIRCUS SCHOOL CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE

  The warehouse is dark and gloomy and even quieter than Birdie’s hospital room, and I wonder if we’ll ever open again. The longer we’re closed, the more money we’ll lose. How will we pay the rent? It feels like the end already. And it happened so fast; we thought we’d at least get time to put up a fight. I lock the doors and walk home.

  Mostly we sit around Birdie’s bedside or around our kitchen table. We don’t talk or anything, but it somehow seems important that we’re together all the time. Like more of us might start disappearing if we lose sight of each other.

  They say all we can do is wait, so that’s what we’re doing.

  But nothing happens. Birdie lies there on pause while the rest of us start to realize that the world has kept going without us, which seems shocking in a way, almost rude. We get emails from parents asking about circus classes. Lou gets a chest infection and has to be taken to the GP. Teachers send me notes for classes I’ve missed, and Hector, Py and Janie post YouTube videos on Facebook.

  One night Jay taps Wren on the shoulder as we’re all sitting silently around the bare kitchen table and whispers, “I’m hungry.”

  Mum blinks at us all, like someone coming out of a trance. Then she takes a deep breath and says, “Wren, take Jay and Finch to Tesco for groceries. I’ll tidy up here and then we’ll have dinner.”

  And life starts again, just like that. Mum and Dad insist we go back to school and Dad starts working from his laptop at Birdie’s bedside. I know we don’t have a lot of choice, but somehow it feels like a betrayal; like we’re not waiting any more, we’re getting on with things.

  On my first day back at school, Hector gives me a pile of papers and a hug.

  “I’m sorry about Birdie. If there’s anything I can do…” he says over the yells of “Get a room!” from across the yard.

  “Erm … thanks. What’s all this?”

  “Your homework for the last ten days.”

  “Great, how am I going to get through this lot?”

  “No, not the assignments,” he says. “The answers. I’ve done it all for you – you just have to copy it out and hand it in.”

  “Seriously? Hector, that’s pretty decent of you.”

  “Don’t get too excited, I’m going to make you go over all this stuff when Birdie’s better.”

  “Should have known. Did you see the blog post?”

  “Yeah.” He winces. “Seemed kind of inappropriate.”

  “I can’t get into her account to delete it! I’ve spent hours trying to guess her password.”

  “You’ll never guess it,” Hector says. “That’s the point of passwords.”

  “But Birdie’s passwords are terrible. She always picks something obvious and personal, so she’ll remember. I can guess it, I know everything about Birdie.”

  Hector scoffs in disbelief. “You can’t know everything about a person.”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “Bet I guess it before she wakes up.”

  “You’re on. Movie tickets, loser pays.”

  “Deal.”

  Hector also starts calling for me every morning so we can walk to school together, like I might collapse if I have to spend five minutes alone.

  My second morning back, I opened the front door and he was there, waiting for me.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked him. But he just blinked at me.

  “What are you wearing?” he said.

  I looked down at myself. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing.” He frowned. “That’s what’s wrong with it.”

  I was wearing jeans, a pale green T-shirt and black trainers. Hector couldn’t seem to get himself off the doorstep. “What, no big collar?” he said. “No ruffles? No tassels, no garish orange print? No braces, no hat? Those aren’t even bell-bottomed jeans.” He put a hand to my forehead. “Are you feeling OK?”

  I knocked his hand away and started down the path. “I was in a rush this morning. I decided to go understated.”

  “You mean boring.”

  “I call it Hector-chic. I thought you hated my clothes anyway.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, but this is worse. You should get up earlier.”

  Actually I lied about sleeping in. I’d been up at seven, standing in front of the mirror in a loud Hawaiian shirt and my “Rupert Bear trousers”, as Mum calls them. Something wasn’t working. I tried a leather jacket. No. Then a velvet jacket. Worse. Poncho. Sandals. Red belt. Braces. Even my goes-with-everything tank top. Something was still wrong. Something was missing.

  I rifled through the hangers, then hauled out the pile of stuff that had fallen off the hangers and lay pooled on the wardrobe floor. Then I wandered over to Birdie’s room to look at her collection of men’s watches. Her wardrobe was open – it’s so full it doesn’t close – and net skirts and minidresses spilled out between the doors like they were trying to escape. Suddenly I knew what was missing from my outfit.

  If Birdie were home, she’d have taken one look at my Rupert trousers and put on her red miniskirt and yellow knee socks, and we’d have walked to school together feeling like we were strutting around Camden Market in London. I forced her wardrobe doors closed and frowned at myself in the mirrors on the front, then I went back to my room and dug a pair of jeans and the plainest T-shirt I own out of the back of a drawer. Turns out Birdie is my main fashion accessory and everything I own looks odd without her.

  At school the reactions were as strong as Hector’s. A couple of teachers told me I looked “very smart today” (kiss of death to any outfit), a few people stopped dead in the corridors and said, “Finch?” and my class went silent when I walked in the door, like in those Westerns when the gunslinger walks into the saloon. I just scurried to my desk, blushing like I’d arrived in my underwear. Only Kitty Bond seemed disappointed with my new look. I could almost hear her thinking, River Island? What am I supposed to do with that!

  I didn’t care. They’d get used to it. For the first time in years, I had no interest in my clothes. I wanted to sit at the back of the room and do nothing more than exist until the bell rang at the end of the day and I could get to the hospital. The less obvious I was, the less I’d have to deal with in the meantime.

  Hector kept doing double takes and frowning at me. “Too weird,” he said for the millionth time. “Promise you’ll wear a hat tomorrow at least.”

  I sighed. “Whatever.”

  Of pyramids, twins and other disasters

  Posted by Birdie

  Our dad may not have the Franconi dare-devil genes but he makes up for it by being a bit of a circus-history nerd expert. While Mum taught us how to fall into the net without getting hurt, how to dust our hands for grip and position our thumbs on the bar, Dad did his bit to ensure our safety by telling us horror stories on the way to practice.

  One of these was the story of the Flyi
ng Wallendas, an old circus family, and their Seven-Person Pyramid (which is exactly as dangerous as it sounds). The act involved three tiers of people (and a chair) on one high wire with no safety net, but it all went wrong in 1962 when the lead man faltered and three people fell. Two were killed and one was paralysed from the waist down.

  Finch and I were always more interested in how this trick was done than in how it went wrong (much to Dad’s annoyance), but I’ve always wondered what it was like for the other four people up there on the wire. It’s hard enough to stay upright on a high wire, but it must be nearly impossible to watch your partner fall and stay focused enough not to go after them. Not to even lean over or stretch out a hand.

  Finch and I have a tendency to follow each other around. It’s a twin thing; we’re the original buy-one-get-one-free offer. And sometimes I have a nervous feeling that if one of us fell from the trapeze, the other would go sailing after, just out of pure habit.

  < < Previous Post

  “Hiya, Birdie.” I pause, raising my eyebrows exaggeratedly at her, then hiss, “That was your cue!”

  Nothing.

  “Nothing. You’re so predictable.” I sit cross-legged on the bed, raise her hand into a limp high-five, then set it down and hold her fingers.

  “I read your blog today. Another weird one. You’re getting all deep and meaningful since being in a coma. I think we should go back to unicycle tips. Hector, for one, could use them. Do you think he’ll ever get better at it or has he peaked?”

  Nothing.

  “Janie made you a new bracelet.” I slip the plaited band of red silk around her wrist, next to the blue hospital bracelet with Bridget Sullivan and our date of birth scrawled on it. “She said something about tactile objects helping people in comas. I don’t know what that means, but it feels nice, see?” I twist the bracelet around so she can feel the silk slide over her skin. “Like it?”

  Nothing.

  “Py said to tell you ‘Keep ’er lit’. He also suggested coming in and doing some tricks for you, but I think he just wanted to get near the compressed oxygen tanks. Can you imagine the size of the flame-thrower he could make? He said the fire alarms would wake you up for sure. Hector said burning down the hospital might not be the best thing we can do for you and Py gave in, since he now does everything Hector says. It’s bizarre – just because Hector helps him with his homework, Py’s decided he’s Einstein or something and no one’s allowed to contradict him. Not that Hector didn’t have a point about not burning down the hospital, I suppose. I’ll thank him for you, yeah?”

  Nothing.

  I settle myself more comfortably beside her and dig a packet of crisps out of my bag. Pickled onion, her favourite. I open them and wave the bag under her nose.

  Nothing.

  “Everyone from school’s been to see you. I bet you were super humiliated to be seen in that hospital get-up. Teachers came too. That must have been weird, though I suppose they’re used to you not listening to a word they say, yeah? Yeah? Oh, come on, that was funny!”

  Nothing.

  “You won’t believe who I saw coming out of your room on my way in today. James Keane and Sinead Adeyemi, with their arms round each other! The Dream Machine is cheating on Kitty with one of her own Bond Girls! Poor Sinead, I almost feel sorry for her. Kitty will end her when she finds out. James went scarlet when he saw me. I’m not surprised; this is the gossip of the century. Not that I have anyone to gossip to, do I?”

  Nothing.

  “Dad’s coming after dinner; he’ll take over until bedtime. Our bedtime, not yours, since you’re in bed all day, you lazy lump. I’ll probably head over to the warehouse. We’re not open, but people keep showing up. Jay’s there tonight with the Juggulars, and I’m sure Py and Janie will call in. And Hector, of course. I’ll just make the pizza, since there’s not much I can do on my own on the trapeze. Mum’s not really in the mood. You know, you’re really setting us back here, Bird. What kind of a flying trapeze act only has one flyer? And if I can’t be a flyer in the show, what am I going to be, hey, tell me that?”

  Nada. Nil. Niente. Zip. Zilch. Nothing.

  “Hey, Finch, you have to come see this, it’s hilarious!” Janie calls as I walk through the warehouse door. Everyone’s crowded around a messy pile of clothing on the floor, which suddenly groans and reassembles itself into Hector. As he gets up, everyone applauds.

  “You shouldn’t encourage him, he’ll wreck himself,” I say.

  “Yeah, but it’s brilliant, watch!” Py says.

  Hector rights his unicycle, climbs on with a bit of help from Wren, and starts pedalling across the warehouse, torturously slowly, the wheel jerking in every direction but forward. “Whoa! Whoa! WHOA!” he shouts. I feel like covering my eyes but everyone else is killing themselves laughing. As he passes Janie’s silks dangling from the ceiling, one of them gets twisted around his flailing arm. The unicycle keeps going, taking his legs with it, while his upper body is trapped in the silk, till he’s almost horizontal. Everyone’s waiting for him to let go and plummet to the floor but he starts pedalling backwards, and the unicycle gradually rights itself. We all start breathing again.

  Soon he’s back to vertical, looking relieved, but he can’t stop pedalling and the bike goes from under him again, in the other direction this time. We wince. He pedals forwards and gets back upright, but the bike starts going sideways. We hold out our hands involuntarily as if to catch him, but he rescues it again.

  And he keeps doing this, each time managing to turn in a circle and wrap the silk tighter around himself, until he’s spiralled in it like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Then he gives up, lifts his feet with the unicycle still dangling between his clenched legs, and the whole Hector/bike/silk parcel starts to spin back the other way, faster and faster, while Hector yells helplessly from within. Py and Janie are leaning on each other laughing, which I think is a bit mean, to be honest. When the last twist of silk unravels, Hector and his bike fall to the floor in a pathetic heap and everyone cheers.

  “Hey, you lot made mistakes when you were learning, you know. There’s no need to be cruel.” But no one’s listening to me. I walk towards Hector, looking for a hand or arm I can tug to help him up.

  “That was great, Hector! Even better than last time,” Janie says.

  “I think he added an extra turn,” Py says.

  “What do you mean?” I bend down to Hector, who untangles himself and stands up without my help, grinning manically.

  “He’s done that six times now,” Janie says. “He has it perfect! I think you should add it to the show. Hey, we could incorporate it into my act, like a comedy silks routine? He could spin me around above him!”

  “That would be so funny, Janie!” Hector walks off with her, already discussing ways they can merge their acts, and everyone follows.

  “Hey! Wait a minute!”

  Hector turns back. “What?”

  “You did that on purpose?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been working on it since … well, for a few weeks now. You weren’t around to teach me so I’ve been practising alone.

  “But that was—”

  “Yeah?”

  “I mean, it wasn’t—”

  “Yeah?”

  He’s going to make me say it. “That was good, Hector. It was really good.”

  He gives me the most triumphant smile I’ve ever seen.

  “All right, don’t get cocky, your landing needs work.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  Before long, the CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE sign is a rain-tattered scrap blowing around the car park. We’re not teaching classes, but Janie, Py, the Juggulars and the Tuesday Acrobats turn up whenever they feel like it, and Hector and Janie’s act is getting better every day.

  “They look pretty good together,” Py says as we sit on the sofa watching Janie spin gracefully above Hector, who’s spinning helplessly, arms and legs flailing in every direction.

  “Of course they do. It’s all about co
ntrast: she’s super talented, he’s a disaster – that’s the basic recipe for comedy.”

  “Do you think there’s more to it than that?” Py says, examining his ragged fingernails and looking slightly too casual.

  I almost spray my Diet Coke over him. “Hector and Janie? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No?”

  “Definitely not.”

  He looks relieved, and I almost laugh. It’s ridiculous. Even if he’s crazed with jealousy, he can’t possibly believe that Hector and Janie…

  “I guess they have been spending a lot of time together,” I say, more to myself than to him.

  He frowns, then gets up quickly and shouts, “Hey, how about teaming up with me, Hector? Have you ever worked with fire?”

  Soon, Hector has been added to nearly every act in the circus. They’re even designing new ones around him. He gets trapped in the middle of a water-balloon-missile war the Juggulars are having, riding his unicycle up and down No Man’s Land while balloons whizz past his nose to a belting soundtrack of the Saw Doctors’ “Will It Ever Stop Raining?” He dresses as a tenpin skittle on stilts and the Tots Acrobats turn themselves into human bowling balls and tumble along a giant bowling alley while he teeters around them, trying not to get knocked down. He even does a series of unicycle ride-pasts behind an “unsuspecting” Py, blowing his torches out before Py can swallow them (Dad has serious reservations about Hector and fire).

  And he’s hilarious. He never gets it exactly as planned, but he’s always funny, and when things go a little wrong, the rest of the performers are quick and agile enough to get out of the way so no one ever gets hurt.

  I think it’s the expression on his face more than anything. A nervous clown is instantly funny because you know something awful is about to happen to him. Hector’s not faking the nerves but he does ham it up for maximum effect. He looks no more confident than he did the first time I handed him a juggling ball, but he’s concentrating so hard you can’t help but root for him, and the more you don’t want him to fall, the bigger the laugh when he finally does. And he doesn’t care how ridiculous he looks, he just wants to entertain everyone. I start to worry he’ll kill himself just to get a bigger laugh.