Flying Tips for Flightless Birds

by Kelly McCaughrain

  Dad’s been sitting with Birdie, but a few minutes after he leaves I hear the door open again and someone else come in. There’s no fake-cheerful “Hiya, Birdie!” to tell me who it is, though. Footsteps. Chair legs scraping. But no one speaks. It could be a doctor, but doctors never sit down, and Tony’s out here with me. It could be Wren, but she tends to sing to Birdie. Actually, I think Wren knows I’m here and she sings to both of us. But today there’s just silence. I listen for a few minutes and then my attention drifts back to my homework and Tony telling me about his weekend, so I’m startled to suddenly hear a voice say, “I’d better go. I shouldn’t be here, I’m sorry,” and then the chair legs scraping again. It’s a familiar voice but for a second I can’t place it.

  As I jump to my feet and press my face to the window, I catch sight of the unmistakable back of James Keane’s head disappearing through Birdie’s door.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  Tony stands and looks through the window. “Who?”

  “That guy. The one who just went out.”

  “Didn’t see him. But there are a couple of boys who come to see her besides you. Do you mean the good-looking one?”

  I roll my eyes. “I guess so. If you like that sort of thing. Tall, dark, etc.”

  “Yeah, he comes on his own, after your dad leaves and before your mum gets here for her shift.”

  “That sneaky…” I can’t think of anything bad enough to call him. I don’t care what Cooper says, this confirms everything. And if James thinks sitting in Birdie’s hospital room feeling guilty makes up for whatever he did to put her there, he can forget it.

  “I think you’re jumping to conclusions,” Hector says the next day when I tell him about seeing James. It’s Saturday afternoon and we’re on our way out of the hospital. “Loads of people from school have been to visit Birdie,” he adds. “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.”

  I throw my arms up in exasperation. “Tony says he comes all the time. That’s got to mean something. Why are you being so negative?”

  “Because it doesn’t count as evidence. And because I don’t want you to look like an idiot, going around accusing innocent people of terrible things again.”

  “Oh, so I look like an idiot now?”

  “Not yet,” Hector mutters.

  He starts talking about costumes for our act, but I know he’s only trying to change the subject. I remind him that I haven’t even said I’ll definitely do the act and that in fact it’s probably a terrible idea, given how our first and only rehearsal went.

  “Oh, come on, we weren’t that bad.” I give him a look. “Well. We still have time to work on it. How about trying some improvisation? I’ve been reading about it; you don’t have to have an act planned at all, you just go with whatever you feel like doing.”

  “That sounds like my worst nightmare.”

  “You don’t know till you try. Napoleon said the mark of a great general is the courage to improvise.”

  “Well, luckily I have no ambitions to lead the French army. Look, it just isn’t me.” This is true; you don’t improvise on a trapeze. If you so much as grin in the wrong place, you can throw your partner off. It might look exciting from the ground, but in fact we aim for total predictability, mind-numbing repetitiveness. Asking a trapeze artist to improvise is like asking a cat to bark.

  “I know you look down on clowning,” Hector says, “but it takes guts.”

  I scoff. “You think it doesn’t take guts to let go of a trapeze bar in mid-air?”

  “It’s not the same. You and Birdie are only taking a chance on each other. A clown has to trust a crowd of complete strangers to laugh in the right places. And not throw fruit. Being that vulnerable is terrifying, and if you haven’t the guts for it that’s fine, but just admit it.”

  “You’re right, the trapeze and clowning aren’t the same. Because the worst that can happen to you is you get humiliated. The worst that can happen to me is a long list of stuff, starting with broken bones and ending with killing your partner. But, yeah, your job is harder.”

  “Exactly!”

  “What?”

  “You’re not scared to go up there and risk your neck, but you’re terrified of looking silly in front of a few kids from school? It’s not about danger; it’s about being too chicken to do the stuff you’re not good at.”

  “I’m just not the clown type. Even you can see that.”

  “Oh, you’re too cool for clowning, is that it? Clowns always have the lowest status in the circus and you’re not used to that, I get it. But that’s kind of the point of clowning. If they minded being laughed at, they wouldn’t be funny, they’d just be sad.”

  “I don’t know where you’ve got this idea that I don’t like being laughed at. Have you seen my clothes? I’m a clown 24/7.” I gesture at my bowler hat, which, admittedly, is the only odd thing I’m wearing, but I like to think putting it with jeans and a hoodie kind of makes an anti-statement.

  “Yeah,” Hector says, “but maybe that’s like a costume – you give them something to laugh at so they never get a chance to laugh at the real you.”

  I look around helplessly, like someone might tell me what he’s talking about. And then I realize we’re lost.

  “Where are we?” We’ve been arguing so much, we’ve taken a wrong turn. In either direction there’s just more corridor; I can’t see an exit. We stop at the open door of a large ward and Hector peeks inside.

  “Children’s ward,” he says. I look over his shoulder. There are two long rows of beds down either side of the room, and the walls are painted with rainbows, suns, trees and animals. The kids are lying or sitting on the beds, some of them trussed up in plaster casts, some with less obvious problems. They’re reading, playing on iPads or with board games, and at the end of the room there are toys in a big heap and a TV playing cartoons at low volume. Apart from the plaster casts and pyjamas, it looks like a standard roomful of kids, but quieter; you’d expect a roomful of kids to be making more noise. There’s something unnatural about it that reminds me of talking to Birdie and getting no answer.

  I start to move away but Hector says, “Hang on.”

  “What are you doing?”

  He shrugs, puts a hand in his pocket and pulls out his red nose. “Going for a walk.”

  I watch him stroll casually into the ward, hands in his pockets, whistling. The kids all turn to look at him. This could be because he’s wearing a red sponge nose, but I get the feeling these kids are so bored, they’d turn to look at anyone who walked through that door.

  I can’t watch. I put a hand over my face and peek through my fingers. Hector strolls on, ignoring the eyes following him down the ward. About halfway, when there’s complete silence apart from his whistling, he “trips” over something on the floor and lands in a heap. The kids titter. Some of them move to the ends of their beds to see what he’s fallen over. There’s nothing there, but Hector gets up and starts making What idiot left that lying there! gestures. He shakes his head, picks up an empty Lego bucket and makes a big show of collecting the obstacle and putting it in it. Then he stops. He looks at the bucket cradled in his arms, then around at the ward, and narrows his eyes in a sneaky I have an idea look.

  He goes on a fake-casual walk around the room, looking left and right as if to check no one’s watching, like a cartoon burglar, and starts nicking random objects from the kids’ bedside tables and putting them in the bucket. He takes a little girl’s toy lipstick, pretending to apply it to his pouted lips and then fluttering his eyelashes before tossing it in. Then he steals another kid’s toy car, a single slipper, a plastic tiara (which he tries on in front of a mirror and then discards), a few building blocks (which he juggles into the bucket), a bag of sweets, a can of Coke, a book, a doll – oblivious to the kids watching him. They’re looking at each other, bemused, half disbelieving the nerve of this guy who’s nicking their stuff, and half waiting to see what the punchline will be.

  A few of them sta
rt to follow Hector around, reaching for the bucket to take their possessions back. Each time they get close, Hector does a sharp turn or switches the bucket to his other hand at the last minute, all the while pretending he doesn’t see them at all. He never says a word, but the expression on his face is priceless as he “finds” things to steal, looking under pillows and behind curtains, and then sneaking each item gleefully into the bucket, while the kids laugh at each other’s attempts to steal them back.

  As he passes me, still standing in the doorway, he neatly grabs the bowler hat off my head, puts it on his own and keeps going.

  The kids all stop to see what I’ll do.

  In the circus, if someone gives you a cue, you really don’t have a choice. It’s the equivalent of someone trying to high-five you in public; it’s just plain rude to leave them hanging. So I react exactly as Hector knows I will – instinctively.

  I have no idea why that stupid red nose is still in my pocket but, heart pounding, I jam it on, put my hands on my hips and make an exaggerated Hey! face. Then I do my best comedy march down the ward after Hector, who pretends to notice me coming and quickens his pace.

  The kids all stand back to watch my attempts to get my hat back. Every time I get near Hector, I do a massive dive at him and he swerves or ducks or dodges and I do a somersault, ending up on my back or my arse, splayed on the floor and looking confused. I may not be a natural at improvisation, but somersaults I can do.

  And it’s weird, but this feels different from rehearsing in an empty room. It’s fun. The kids squeal with laughter every time I make a leap at Hector, and it’s easy to be silly because I know they want me to be.

  I start wordlessly directing them to help me. They cut him off for me, drag him towards me, they even make jumps at the hat themselves. There are too many of them to avoid and soon it gets knocked off Hector’s head onto the floor and they all cheer.

  I leap about triumphantly, then make Stand back, I’ll get it motions. I walk purposefully towards the hat and bend down to pick it up, but as I do, it skids a few centimetres along the floor away from me. The kids gasp and I shake my head as if I must be imagining things, then walk towards it again. It skids away. I try coming at it from different directions, I sneak up on it, I run at it, but every time the hat magically dashes away from me. The kids are killing themselves laughing at my ineptitude and shouting, “Get it!”, “It’s stopped!”, “Jump on it!”

  This is the oldest trick in the book. It was old when Lou was a kid. But people are always impressed because it looks so effective. And it’s dead simple: as you step towards the hat and bend down to pick it up, you kick the brim so it scoots out of reach. If you do it quick enough, it totally looks like the hat is moving by itself and running away from you.

  By now a few nurses have come in, wondering what all the yelling is about. One of them, thinking we’re mucking about and bothering the sick kids, strides towards me. Hector immediately gets in her way. He grabs the clipboard out of her hands and runs, and she whirls round to follow him as he pelts down the ward, in and out between the other nurses, looking terrified and throwing toys out of his bucket to slow her down. She couldn’t have done better if she’d rehearsed with us. The kids bounce on the beds, hysterical with laughter. Even the other nurses start to laugh, and soon the nurse chasing Hector gives up and just stands there watching as he runs back to me and the hat.

  This is it; I reckon we’ve got about thirty seconds before they chuck us out.

  I motion to the kids, the ones who can get off their beds anyway, and direct them until we’re all standing in a big circle around the hat. Then Hector and I take silly, tiptoe steps towards it, fingers to our lips, and the kids follow suit, all trying to stifle their laughter, eyes shining as we creep up on the surrounded hat.

  I hold a hand up and count on my fingers. One. Two. THREE! I don’t need to tell them what to do. With a roar we all dive at the hat and land in a big heap on top of it. I emerge, waving it in the air, then push it onto my head, battering it down like it might try to escape again, while the kids do victory dances.

  Finally Hector and I stand to take a bow. I bend at the waist and the hat falls off. Hector grabs it and runs down the ward with me in pursuit, and the kids clap and cheer behind us.

  We don’t stop till we get to the hospital exit, and we’re halfway down the road, panting and laughing, when I realize we’re still wearing our red noses.

  “That was incredible!” Hector says. Or yells. I know the hyper look in his eyes, the way he’s bouncing around like he’s being electrocuted. There’s nothing like the rush you get when you’ve just finished a performance and the applause is still ringing in your ears. Your heart pounds, your blood fizzes, you feel like you could run a marathon, and you’re certain, absolutely certain, that you don’t want to do anything but this for the rest of your life. Hector’s just done his first ever show and he’s been bitten by the bug, big time. He throws an arm round me and bounces me up and down with him. “Wasn’t that fantastic! And you were so good! You’re a natural! You’re a natural clown, Finch.”

  “Take that back, how dare you!” I laugh, but I can’t help being pleased that he thinks I was good. “Calm down, Hector, you can’t fail to be entertaining in a place where the alternative is injections and bed-rest.”

  “Admit it, we were brilliant! Oh my God, Finch, that was terrifying. I had no idea what I was going to do!”

  “Yeah? You didn’t look scared.”

  “My legs were like jelly!”

  “I can’t believe you did all that just to make a point.”

  “I didn’t.” He looks surprised at me. Or at himself. “I did it because those kids looked miserable; I couldn’t stop myself. That was so not like me at all!” He looks suddenly frightened. “God, what’s wrong with me?”

  I put a hand on his arm and say gently, apologetically, “I hate to be the one to break this to you, Hector, but you’re a clown. I’m afraid you will be physically incapable of acting like a normal human being for the rest of your life. You will go on to frighten and irritate many, many people.”

  “I’m a clown,” he breathes, looking awestruck, like I’ve revealed his cosmic destiny.

  I slap him on the back. “Come on, Bozo, we’ll miss our bus.”

  “When great actors die, people are sad. When the great clowns die, people grieve.”

  – The late film critic Andrew Sarris

  Posted by Birdie

  Clowns are the backbone of a circus (and the funny bone). They fill the gaps between acts while the props are changed, they caper around doing silly versions of all the serious acts so there’s always something to laugh at, and they have running gags that go all the way through the show and tie all those different acts together.

  When people join the circus, they always want the glamorous jobs, with drum rolls and sequinned costumes, because those acts look the most impressive. But clowning is harder than you’d think.

  Buster Keaton was one of the big stars of silent cinema, but he was basically a clown who did all his own stunts. He was once asked how he did all those falls. He said, “I’ll show you,” then opened his jacket to reveal a chest covered in bruises.

  Clowning can teach you a lot, and not just pratfalls and somersaults. You learn that it takes a lot of guts to be the butt of everyone’s jokes, and that some things are worth taking a few bruises for. Most of all, you learn to really value the people who make you laugh.

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  I’m sitting in the nurses’ garden when Tony comes out for a smoke.

  “Hiya, Finch, what have we got today?”

  “Maths.”

  “Eugh.”

  “Exactly.”

  He sits beside me. “I heard about your little stunt in the children’s ward.”

  I wince. “Really?”

  “Everyone’s heard about it.”

  “Crap, sorry. Are they raging?”

  He laughs. “They want you to come back and
do it again.”

  “Seriously?”

  “The kids loved it; they’ve been talking about it all weekend. The nurses thought you could make it a regular thing if you want. Would Hector be up for that?”

  “He’d be so up for that, it would frighten you.”

  “Gotta love an enthusiast.”

  “Obsessive is more like it.”

  “Could be worse,” he says. “My boyfriend is obsessed with antique musical instruments.”

  I drop my gaze back to my maths book. “Hector’s not my— You have a—” I cough, swallow, take a breath and look coolly up at him. “What kind of instruments?”

  He grins at me, clearly amused. “All kinds. I have an old cinema organ in my kitchen at the moment. It’s not even a big kitchen.”

  “Does he at least play for you while you cook?”

  “Yeah, that’s why we eat out a lot.”

  There’s a silence, and then he says, “Hector seems like a nice guy. He was pretty popular with the kids.”

  “Yeah. If he could be as popular with people at school as he is with seven year olds, that’d be great.”

  “Seven year olds are smart. Teenagers, less so. Give him a hard time, do they?”

  “They’re idiots, he knows that.”

  “I doubt knowing they’re idiots makes it any easier to live with.”

  “Yeah. Why are people such assholes? Just because you’re a bit different. Don’t you think it’s depressing, the way people are here? If you try to be even a tiny bit interesting, they just descend on you like ‘Who do you think you are?’ As if it’s a sin to actually like yourself. Especially if you happen to be fat or skinny or short or talented or geeky; or have acne or glasses or crooked teeth or a weird family or a bizarre hobby or, God forbid, a personality. You’re supposed to keep your head down and spend your life apologizing for your existence or something.”

  Tony frowns. “Are we talking about Hector now, or you?”

  I shrug.