Flying Tips for Flightless Birds

by Kelly McCaughrain

  Trapeze artists have great spatial orientation, but the triple has to be done so fast that your brain loses track of where you are and it’s hard to know when you’re in the right position to reach for the catcher.

  Even having a net doesn’t make this trick safe, because there’s falling and there’s falling. If you’re aware of where you are when you fall, you can get yourself into a good position for hitting the net; but if you’ve lost all sense of direction, you’ll land awkwardly, which can easily result in a broken neck.

  The first successful triple was performed by my hero, Lena Jordan, in 1897, when she was only eighteen. After that it became a lot more common, and of course the new goal became the quadruple.

  Which took nearly a hundred years. That’s how tough it is. In 1982 Miguel Vazquez, spinning at over one hundred and twenty kilometres per hour, performed the first quad in front of an audience.

  Only a few flyers have ever managed the quad. Finch aims to be the next, and I guess I’ll be hanging around, waiting to catch him.

  All these somersaults involve two people, of course – a flyer and a catcher – but only the flyer’s name is remembered, which is fair enough because all the catcher does is wait with their arms out.

  But I’ve spent a lot of time doing exactly that over the years, and catching can be hard too. In fact it can be agony, seeing your partner do something so difficult, so dangerous, and being completely unable to do anything but watch.

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  I dream about flying all the time. I do doubles, triples, quads and quints in my sleep every night. Stratospheric somersaults at hundreds of kilometres an hour or endless rolls in slow motion. Falling asleep is just that for me – falling.

  “Are you dreaming, Birdie?” I ask, perched on her bed as usual. She beeps at me as usual. If she is dreaming, then I’m there with her, like she’s always with me, because a flying dream with no catcher isn’t a dream, it’s a nightmare.

  I listen to the beeps, watch the drips, study the charts, and try to connect all that with Birdie’s heartbeat, her pulse, her veins, her temperature, her brain, all that activity going on inside her motionless body. She’s fighting hard, I know that. And she’s right; it’s really difficult to sit here, completely helpless, and watch.

  Mum doesn’t do things by halves. Already there’s a folder full of plans and a sign-up sheet for the show hanging in the warehouse kitchen area. So far it says:

  We still don’t have enough people, but everyone’s desperate to do all they can, especially now we’re doing it for Birdie, so they’re expanding their usual routines, combining acts and creating new ones. The performance schedule looks exhausting, never mind all the rehearsals we’ll need, but we’re determined to make it work. Even Lou offered to revive her high-wire act, but Mum took one look at the pint of Guinness in her hand and suggested she support us some other way. She took a book of tickets and went around threatening the neighbours instead.

  I wish more than anything I could write “Finch and Birdie – flying trapeze” up there, but I can’t, and I don’t know what to write instead. I could join in with the Juggulars, but they’re such a tight team, I’d feel like a spare part. I can walk a high wire but I’m not as good as Wren and Mum, and I’ve never worked with fire so Py’s act is out. Anyway, I don’t want to do some lame unicycle bit part in someone else’s routine.

  Unfortunately there’s only one other option.

  “I suppose,” I whisper during physics next morning, “since I’m teaching you stuff anyway, and since you did get me through my geography coursework, and since I’m at a loose end, and since you’ll probably injure yourself on your own, I could maybe work on an act with you. A short one.”

  Hector does a deadpan blink. “That’s big of you,” he whispers back. Miss Deshpande lowers her glasses and looks pointedly at us.

  I rest my hand in front of my mouth and talk from behind it. “But just for the show. And you have to work really hard. And do what I tell you. And refrain from telling me facts about the circus or suggesting in any way that you know more about this than I do.”

  “Is that it?”

  “And I’m not wearing giant shoes.”

  “Shh,” Miss Deshpande hisses.

  I lower my voice even more and pretend to be staring at my textbook. “So what sort of act did you have in mind?” I ask.

  Hector grits his teeth. “How about a knockabout act? I could go for some mock violence.”

  “I think you’ve given me enough bruises. What about mime?”

  “If that’s your way of shutting me up, forget it.”

  “Worth a shot.”

  “Do I have to separate you two?” Miss Deshpande says.

  We read a few more paragraphs in silence and then Hector whispers, “How about something classic – a Whiteface clown and an Auguste? You’d be the Whiteface.”

  “I don’t want to do make-up, it’s old-fashioned.”

  “You don’t have to have the white face, it’s just what you call the straight man,” Hector says. “And I’ll be the Auguste, the silly one. We don’t have to wear big shoes and red noses. Although I kind of like the red noses.”

  “And what will we do?”

  He shrugs. “What those characters always do: you set stuff up and I wreck it.”

  “Sounds like an average day for us.”

  “That’s it.” Miss Deshpande sets her pen down. “You two, in the corridor for the rest of the period. Leave the door open and if I hear one word…”

  We spend the next few days experimenting with classic clown routines – Busy Bee, The Whip Skit, Funnel in your Pants. Hector has clearly been doing his circus homework (as well as my homework, Py’s homework and presumably his own homework). He marks the “ring” out with chalk, makes me watch YouTube videos, and then propels me around the floor, but the whole thing is excruciating. I thought, since Hector’s still not great with juggling or stilts and he’s already using a unicycle in his other acts, a simple classic comedy routine would be best. But if anything it’s even harder. And for once, it’s not Hector who’s the problem.

  “You need to work on exaggerating your movements,” he says. “Don’t just walk across the ring, do a big comedy march! Don’t just stand up, jump up. And when you look surprised, you have to make your eyebrows hit the ceiling. Everything has to be bigger and sillier than real life.”

  “Believe me, nothing is sillier than my real life right now,” I mutter. “I feel ridiculous.”

  “You look ridiculous. But you’d look less ridiculous if you were trying to be ridiculous. You only look silly because you’re trying not to look silly. I’ve watched millions of YouTube videos, I know what I’m talking about. I think we need costumes to make it more real. Would this help?” He pulls two big red sponge noses out of his pocket, looking pleased with himself. “I got them online.”

  “I’d rather die.”

  “Put it on,” he says sternly. I do it, reluctantly, but continue to glare at him. Unfortunately, glaring with a big red nose on your face just makes you look funny. Doing anything with a big red nose on your face just makes you look funny. He smirks. “See, better already! Now let’s see your comedy walk.”

  I stride up and down, knees almost meeting my ears, arms swinging wildly. “How do I look?”

  “Like the Hitler Youth.”

  I sag.

  “You need to loosen up,” he suggests. “It’s the facial expression; you don’t look like you’re enjoying it.”

  “I wonder why. We’ve been here for hours, let’s take a break.”

  “No breaks! Work! We can juggle while we think.” He tosses some clubs at me and we start passing them between us.

  “I need the loo,” I moan.

  “Rubbish. You have a bladder of iron. If you were in a horror movie, you’d be Blad the Impaler. If you were a Russian city, you’d be Bladivostok. If you were an animal, you’d be a duck-billed bladypus. Or a piss-filled bladypus.”

  “
Making me laugh is not helping the situation.”

  He sets the clubs down. “Let’s try a different skit. How about Dead and Alive? You get to pretend to be unconscious for half of it – even you can’t mess that up.”

  So we start with the mistimed handshake and then he has to pretend to get so annoyed he punches me and knocks me out (I think he enjoys this bit a little too much) and we go into the unconscious clown routine. It’s better than the other stuff because at least I don’t have to do a lot of facial expressions; I just lie there while he lifts my arms (my legs go up) and then my legs (my arms go up), but it’s still not fun.

  At the end he has to get me on his back and run out of the ring while I “wake up” and wave at the crowd, but we can’t seem to get me from the floor to his back without toppling over.

  On our millionth try, we land in a tangled heap.

  “That was pathetic!” Hector yells, his voice muffled by my upper arm. “You need to have more energy; you’re not jumping high enough!”

  “Energy? It’s eleven at night, I’m wrecked! You’re a slave driver! And you know what else? I quit!”

  “Fine! Good! At fricking last!”

  I heave him off me and we get up, panting. “This was your idea in the first place, you know,” I yell. “If you didn’t want to work with me, why did you even suggest it!”

  “Well, I didn’t think you’d take me up on it!”

  I stand there making disbelieving noises. “What? So why did you ask me?”

  “I thought you’d be so horrified by the idea, it might make you get off your big cowardly arse and get back on the trapeze!”

  I’m too stunned to be angry. We just stare at each other for a moment.

  “What are you talking about?” I say. But quietly, and his shoulders drop their defensive hunch.

  “You haven’t been up there since Birdie fell,” he says.

  “Why would I go up there? We’re a double act; there’s no point in going up there alone. I’m waiting for her to get better.”

  “You can practise with Wren, or your mum. You’ll lose muscle tone if you don’t practise, and … you’ll lose your nerve. If you don’t go back up soon, I’m worried you never will.”

  I fold my arms across my chest and stare petulantly at the floor. “I don’t have nerves. I’ve never been scared in my life, not up there. Anyway, no one’s in the mood to practise; in case you haven’t noticed, Birdie’s in hospital.”

  Hector puts a hand on my shoulder, but I pull away and he stuffs both hands in his pockets instead. “She’d want you to keep going. You can rehearse some tricks alone; Birdie was working alone when—”

  “Yeah, and look what happened!” The words burst out of me and he takes a step backwards. He looks like he’s going to apologize, but the only thing worse than his interfering is his sympathy, so I brush him off. “Look, forget it, Hector, I have to go. It’s late anyway.”

  “But, Finch—”

  “Whatever, see you later.” And I run out the door.

  “Remember, it’s not the thrower that counts – it’s the target.”

  – Gabor from Girl on the Bridge (directed by Patrice Leconte)

  Posted by Birdie

  The impalement arts include knife-throwing, archery, sharpshooting and bullwhips, and they’re all about firing dangerous things (daggers, arrows, bullets, axes) into a wooden target. But with a human standing in the way.

  It’s an interesting fact that it’s always the thrower’s name that’s famous. There’s The Great Throwdini (who was an ordained minister before taking up knife-throwing), Paul Desmuke (an armless knife-thrower who used his feet) and countless others. But in fact, the thrower isn’t really important. You can throw daggers with both hands while blindfolded and unicycling, but it won’t mean a thing if you’re throwing them at a plank of wood. It’s the human target that sells tickets.

  Target girl Sandra Thompson proved this when she was struck in the ear during an act and so badly injured that six women in the audience fainted. But the performance the next night sold out. People are like that.

  Knife-throwing is as popular with magicians as it is with the circus, but I believe it truly belongs to the circus, and for one reason – it’s real. There’s a myth that knife-throwers use tricks or fake knives. Not true. Knife-throwing is not a trick, it’s a skill.

  Getting someone to be your target is an even bigger skill. No target, no act!

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  A few days later we’re in Hector’s kitchen, steadily munching our way through a huge tin of chocolate biscuits and discussing new acts for the show. Mainly to avoid discussing our own failed double act and my complete lack of a trapeze routine.

  “Do people still do knife-throwing? Seems a bit old school,” Hector says, in response to my latest suggestion.

  “Exactly! It’s kitsch. We could have the whole ‘glamorous assistant in a bikini, tied to a wheel’ routine.”

  He grins. “Can we make Py be the glamorous assistant?”

  “Do they make black denim bikinis?” We both shudder at the image.

  “It’d take years to get good enough, though,” he says.

  “I bet I could take a fair stab at it.”

  “Yeah, stab being the appropriate word.”

  “Come on, stand over here.” I take him by the shoulders and move him, amid biscuit-crumbed protests, to the kitchen door, arranging him with his back against it, limbs spread. “Like a star shape,” I instruct him. Then I open the cutlery drawer.

  “You are NOT throwing knives at me, Finch.”

  “Lack of faith, that’s your problem, Hector. You read Birdie’s blog: No target, no act.”

  “How about No Hector, no homework.”

  “Don’t worry! Have you ever seen me throw a dodgy club? Have I ever misplaced a ring or a ball? These hands are infallible.” I blow on my fingers as if they’re smoking hot.

  “I don’t care, I am not ending up in A&E!”

  I grin evilly at him as I rummage in the drawer, but then I lift out a clutch of teaspoons. “Relax, oh fearless one, we’ll practise with these.”

  “Hang on, I’m not ready, I’m— Jeez! That was close!” He flinches as a teaspoon hits the door just by his left ear.

  “That’s the point; they have to get close enough to make it exciting but not actually hit you. And stop moving.” I throw a couple more spoons and they hit the door, one just above his shoulder, one right between the legs.

  “Bullseye!”

  He goes pale, or paler anyway. “You are NOT throwing knives at my vitals, Finch!”

  “Like you have any use for them. Fine, I’ll stick to the head then.”

  I go on throwing and my aim isn’t bad, though I have to admit a couple do graze his shirt and one lands in his hair, but that’s only because he keeps twitching. When I run out of spoons, I lift a steak knife out of the drawer and stand there, poised to throw. “Right, enough practice!”

  He laughs and holds his hands out to protect himself, but I can tell he doesn’t believe I’ll throw it. “Don’t you dare!”

  “Stand still!”

  “Finch!”

  “Ears or armpits? I’ll let you choose.”

  “Finch!”

  We’re both laughing so loud, we don’t hear anything from the hallway until the kitchen door suddenly opens. Hector is flung out of the way and I’m left standing there, aiming a steak knife at Mr Hazzard’s stunned face.

  He raises a hand slowly, calmly, the way the police do when they say, “Put the gun down, son.”

  “Do you want to set that down, Finchley?”

  “Oh! Yeah, sorry.” I put the knife back in the drawer. “I wasn’t going to throw it, honestly, Mr H. We were just mucking about.”

  “With knives?”

  “Well, no, spoons mostly.”

  Behind his dad, Hector is trying not to explode with laughter, but he swallows it when Mr Hazzard turns to look at him and then at the spoons scattered across the fl
oor. Hector and I quickly start gathering them up.

  “We were just practising some circus stuff, Dad. It’s for the show.”

  “Show?”

  “I told you about it. The show at Franconis’. I’m going to be in it!”

  “Are you.” Somehow, this isn’t a question.

  “As a clown,” Hector says. “Finch and I—”

  “Hector, I’m not sure about that.”

  “But they need me. With Birdie in hospital, they’re down an act.”

  “It’s interfering with your school work; your maths exams aren’t far away, you know.”

  “I have to practise.”

  “And that involves spending every waking minute with…” He glances at me. “At the circus?”

  Hector’s face hardens a little. “There’s nothing wrong with the circus.”

  “I’m not saying that. It’s just … you’ve already got into trouble with Mr Cooper over hitting people with juggling balls, and now you’re playing with knives and being sent out of classes for talking? That’s not like you.”

  How did he know about that! “That was my fault, Mr H,” I say, but neither of them are listening.

  “And there’s more to Little Murragh than the circus,” Mr Hazzard goes on. “I have no problem with social activities, but if you want to make friends at school, you should make time for more varied interests.”

  “So you think I shouldn’t be a clown because I won’t fit in at school?” Hector folds his arms and stares huffily at the ceiling.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  I think he pretty much did say that but I’m keeping my mouth shut. I have the weird feeling I’ve walked in on an argument that’s been going on for years, like a long war, with worn-out sentences being lobbed unenthusiastically between trenches.

  “But why make life difficult for yourself?” Hector’s dad says. “You’re new here, your priority should be keeping up with your school work and not getting into trouble with the head teacher, and if you have time, you can get involved with some after-school groups. Isn’t there a chess club?”