Circus Shoes

by Noel Streatfeild

  ‘He didn’t know you were going to throw it.’

  ‘Know! I’d like to see my kid, who’s just three, miss a catch like that!’

  Santa was furious.

  ‘Peter can do other things.’

  The man looked over his shoulder.

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Well …’

  Peter caught her arm.

  ‘Come on.’

  Santa hesitated. She hated leaving the conversation like that with a vague slur on Peter’s abilities. But the awful thing was that she had not got an answer. What could Peter do? If it came to that, what could she, except play ‘Art thou weary?’ on the violin?

  ‘Come on,’ Peter urged.

  Santa decided to retire with dignity.

  ‘Good morning, and thank you for the tomato.’

  They went round the corner and leant against the wall. Santa started to pull the tomato in half, but Peter stopped her.

  ‘I won’t have any, thank you.’

  Santa went on dividing.

  ‘Don’t be silly. No good being hungry.’

  ‘I’d much rather be hungry than eat anything of that horrible man’s.’

  Santa had split the tomato fairly, if messily.

  ‘I expect he just got out of bed the wrong side.’ She took a bite of tomato. ‘I wouldn’t bother about him.’ She held out his half. ‘Eat that, then let’s go and find a pawnshop.’

  Neither Peter nor Santa knew that part of London and they walked a very long way before they found a pawnbroker’s. They walked down Long Acre and through Leicester Square, getting more and more tired. Then suddenly in a side street Santa gripped Peter’s arm.

  ‘Look!’

  He looked. Just across the road was a shop closed in with dark green shutters. Over it was written ‘Samuel Aronson. Jeweller.’ Above the door hung three golden balls. On the glass of the door it said: ‘Pledge Office’.

  Peter put down his attaché-case.

  ‘What shall we do till it opens?’

  ‘Sit somewhere,’ said Santa.

  ‘Sit!’ Peter sounded scornful. ‘Where?’

  Santa looked up and down the street. It was the most shut-up looking road, all shops with shutters. Nobody was about except a black cat and, a long way off, a paper boy.

  ‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t sit on a step,’ she suggested. ‘There’s nobody to mind.’

  Peter looked amazed.

  ‘A step! People don’t sit on steps.’

  Santa settled herself on the step, her attaché-case beside her. Peter looked at her. She did look most awfully comfortable, but he felt self-conscious for he had never sat on a step; on the other hand, at present there was only the cat to see them. He sat down beside her.

  ‘I could never have believed a step could feel so lovely,’ Santa sighed.

  Peter had his head resting against the door. His eyes were shut.

  ‘All suitcases are made that way,’ he murmured.

  Santa opened one eye. Such an idiotic reply could only mean one thing. Peter was going to sleep. In another three minutes she had followed his example.

  They were awakened by a man. He was leaning over them. He gave Peter a shake.

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, young man.’

  Peter started, sat up, stretched, and suddenly remembered where he was. He looked ashamed and jumped to his feet.

  ‘Oh, I say! I am sorry. You must think it very odd our being here.’ He gave Santa a push with his foot. ‘Get up, Santa.’

  Santa opened her eyes. She smiled at the man.

  ‘Is this your step?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry we chose it, but we were waiting to go in there.’ She nodded towards the pawnbroker’s.

  The man looked sympathetic.

  ‘Mother short?’

  Peter and Santa were surprised. Why should somebody who found you sitting on his doorstep care how tall your mother was? However, although he had only seen a photograph of his mother, Peter thought it polite to answer.

  ‘I don’t think so. Do you, Santa?’

  Santa mentally considered the photograph. Her mother in a wedding dress. She was certainly taller than the bridesmaids.

  ‘No, not short. Tall, I should think.’

  The man gave a quick laugh.

  ‘Don’t you know what “short” means?’ He had opened the door and was in his passage. He spoke over his shoulder. ‘Being short means not ’aving enough money. Wherever was you brought up that you ’aven’t learnt that?’

  Santa picked up her attaché-case.

  ‘It’s funny we never did. For we’ve never had any money at all.’

  Peter disliked this public discussion of their affairs. One of the things the duchess had said more often than any other, and therefore Aunt Rebecca had repeated more often than any other, was that ladies and gentlemen never mentioned money.

  ‘Come on, Santa. We mustn’t take any more of this gentleman’s time.’

  The man laughed.

  ‘You are a caution.’ He turned to Santa. ‘Aronson’s won’t open for a bit yet. If your brother can bring himself to drink out of a cup without a handle bring him in and you can ’ave a cuppa tea.’

  They had a very nice meal with the man. He gave them not only tea but bread and butter. Only people who have got up at half past three and had nothing but half a tomato know how good the bread and butter tasted and how the tea warmed their insides. Even Peter, who was hurt at the man thinking he minded the cup not having a handle, enjoyed every mouthful.

  When they had finished, the man, who said his name was Bill, leant back in his chair. He gave a nod in the direction of Aronson’s.

  ‘How much money do you want?’

  ‘Well, that depends …’ Santa began.

  Peter gave her a kick under the table.

  ‘Perhaps you’d take a look at the things and say what they are worth?’ He took his watch from his pocket and got up and fetched the bracelet from his attaché-case. He put them in front of Bill.

  Bill picked the things up and ran his eyes over them. Then he nodded.

  ‘Both gold. Good for a bit. Didn’t your mother say what she wanted for them?’

  Peter swallowed.

  ‘They weren’t given to our mother. They were given to our aunt.’

  ‘Well, didn’t auntie say?’

  ‘No.’ Peter hesitated. ‘You see, they’re for railway fares, and it depends what they cost.’

  ‘Well, where to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Bill leant back in his chair.

  ‘I’m not throwing no insults, but it strikes me you kids aren’t speaking the truth.’

  Peter turned red.

  ‘You’ve no right to say that.’

  Santa was prepared to leave everything to Peter as long as he kept his temper, but if he was going to lose it he would be no good to anybody. She leant across to Bill.

  ‘As a matter of fact, we are speaking the truth only we’ve left an important bit out. Our aunt is dead.’

  ‘Dead!’ Bill looked at the bracelet and watch. ‘Then who do these belong to?’

  Santa and Peter spoke in one breath.

  ‘Us.’

  After that Bill had to hear everything. Peter unpacked Uncle Gus’s postcard. Between them they told him all about Mr Stibbings, Mrs Ford, Madame Tranchot, Miss Fane, Saint Bernard’s Home for Boys, and Saint Winifred’s Orphanage. It took quite a long time telling and he never interrupted once. At the end he said:

  ‘Where’s Cob’s Circus?’

  Peter took a gulp of tea, for talking had made him thirsty.

  ‘We don’t know. We’re going to find out.’

  ‘Where?’

  Peter pointed to the address on the postcard, which was Birmingham.

  ‘He was there at Christmas. I thought someone there would know.’

  Bill shook his head.

  ‘That’s no good. Can’t have you two wandering all over the cou
ntry.’ He felt in his pocket and brought out sixpence. ‘There’s a newsagent down the street. Hop along, Peter, and ask for a circus paper. I expect that’ll tell us what we want to know.’

  While Peter was gone Santa and Bill cleared the table. Santa wanted to wash up, but Bill said it could wait. In about five minutes Peter was back; he had a newspaper in his hand.

  ‘The man didn’t know if this was the one, but he said it was for circus people.’ He laid the paper on the table. It was called World’s Fair.

  They pulled it to pieces and each searched a few pages. It did not seem at all an easy paper to find things in. It had photographs of circus acts, but it did not say where they were doing them. Then suddenly Bill thumped the table.

  ‘Here it is! Listen. “Judging from the splendid attendance at Whitby these last three days and from what I hear of the advance bookings at Bridlington, I should not wonder if this proved a record opening month for Cob’s Circus!”’ Bill looked at the top of the paper. ‘Published last Saturday.’ He gave the paper a cheerful slap. ‘We have it! Uncle Gus is at Bridlington.’

  Bill went to Aronson’s to pawn the bracelet and the watch. Before he went to get the money he made Peter and Santa give him a promise.

  ‘I’m taking a risk on you two. Maybe I did ought to hand you to the police, but you do seem to have an uncle and I reckon this watch and the bracelet’s your own, so I’ll give you a chance. But you’ve got to do something for me. You won’t be in Bridlington till evening and maybe the circus is some way from the post office. But first thing tomorrow I’m expecting a telegram. If I don’t get that telegram by eleven I’ll go to the police. Promise?’

  Peter and Santa nodded.

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Right.’ Bill opened a drawer which was full of odds and ends and brought out a greasy card. It had his name and address on it and said he was a tailor. ‘Pack that in your case, Peter, beside Uncle Gus’s, and remember, telegram first thing, or you’re for it.’

  It seemed odd to get as fond of anybody in a short time as Santa had got of Bill. He saw them on to a bus for King’s Cross, and as the bus moved off she had a lump in her throat as if she was saying goodbye to an old friend.

  The journey to Bridlington was long, but neither Peter nor Santa noticed much of it. They had one meal of ham sandwiches and lemonade but most of the time they were asleep. Sometimes one of them opened an eye and saw a station or a house whiz by, but almost at once they shut them again.

  It was Santa who noticed they had arrived. Somebody got out of the train and brushed her foot. She opened her eyes and saw it was dark outside. Then by a station lamp she read: ‘BRID …’ so she opened her eyes wider and read ‘LINGTON’. She leant across the carriage and shook Peter.

  ‘Wake up, Peter. We’re there.’

  What with having slept and Bridlington being much farther north than they were used to being, the station seemed very cold. They shivered and yawned and stumbled up the platform with legs still working badly from having been in a sitting position for so long. At the barrier Peter stopped. He felt in his pocket. Santa had one sickening moment when she thought he had lost the tickets, but it was all right, they had only got caught in his handkerchief.

  Outside the station they stood looking round.

  ‘Where do we find out?’ Santa asked.

  Peter looked up the street.

  ‘There’s a policeman, how about him?’

  The policeman was a nice, good-tempered-looking man. He smiled at Peter and Santa.

  ‘Well?’

  Peter smiled back.

  ‘Could you please tell us the way to the circus?’

  ‘The circus!’ The policeman laughed. ‘You’re a bit early, sorry. The circus won’t be here till tomorrow.’

  4

  The Build-up

  Santa cried. She was dreadfully ashamed about it afterwards, but that was what she did. Not in front of the policeman, but the moment her back was to him. Peter looked at her in surprise, because she was not a person who cried much. He opened his mouth to ask her what was the matter, but shut it again, deciding it would be no good. She was not crying quietly, but loud hiccuping sobs which made people turn and stare. He took her arm and hurried her up the road and into a teashop, and sat her down at a table in the corner.

  There was a nice, cheerful waitress behind a glass counter full of chocolates. She came over at once. She looked sympathetically at Santa.

  ‘Poor little thing. What is it?’

  Peter shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Santa put her head down on her arms and howled. The waitress stopped being a waitress and became very friendly.

  ‘Aye, that’s a shocking noise and all. Is summat oop?’

  She had a soft voice with a funny accent. Santa heard that even through the noise she was making. She choked back her sobs.

  ‘That’s a good girl. That’s fine.’ The waitress knelt down by her. ‘Dry tha tears and tell what’s t’matter.’

  Santa sat up and found her handkerchief. She leant against the waitress as if she had known her always.

  ‘I’m so tired.’

  ‘Is that all? Well, if it’s nowt worse nor that.’

  ‘It is worse.’ Santa scrubbed her eyes. ‘We’ve come all the way from London to see our uncle and he won’t be here till tomorrow.’

  ‘What’s keeping the man?’

  Peter looked in a worried way at Santa. She did look tired. Her face, where it was not red from crying and black from the train, was greenish white.

  ‘He’s with Cob’s Circus,’ he explained.

  ‘Cob’s Circus, is it?’ The waitress gave Santa a friendly shake. ‘That’s funny like to cry at. Why, it’ll be here early in the morning, lovey.’

  ‘Will it?’ Santa blinked at her. ‘How do you know?’

  The waitress got up.

  ‘My brother has a milk round. He doest’ milk for the circus. “You be here early”, that’s what the gentleman in the advance wagon said to him.’

  ‘I can’t think why it isn’t here now.’ Peter was puzzled. ‘We spent threepence on a paper called World’s Fair, and it said that Cob’s Circus was in Whitby last week and was coming here this week.’

  The waitress nodded.

  ‘Aye, that’s reet. Whitby Thursday, Friday, and Saturday of last week. Then it moved over to Thirsk. Now tonight they’ll move from Thirsk here. They’re doing three days in each town, you see, lovely.’

  Peter did not see, but he tried to look intelligent. The waitress did not seem to care if they understand or not. She rested her hands on the table.

  ‘I expect food’s what you need. Got any money?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Peter could not help sounding proud. ‘Nearly ten shillings.’

  The waitress shook her head at Santa.

  ‘Lot of crying for nothing you’ve been doing. Got enough to fix up beds and all. Come on oop to mother. She’ll see you reet.’

  It was a lovely morning. Very few people were about in the streets because it was early, but those who were sounded gay. A newsboy whistled, a policeman hummed, a milkman rattling by with a cart-load of milk sang at the top of his voice, two women cleaning doorsteps told each other funny stories and roared with laughter. The animals, too, showed it was a good morning. A black cat danced across the street, the milkman’s horse whinnied to the one belonging to the butcher, and a very old fox-terrier who had crept about all the winter scampered up the road, suddenly feeling young again.

  Peter and Santa did not need a good morning to make them happy. They had slept well, eaten an enormous breakfast and had almost got to their uncle. It was Santa who saw how near to Uncle Gus they were. She stood still and pointed at a hoarding.

  ‘Look!’

  There was a large poster which said: THE CIRCUS IS COMING, and across that was another one which said: FOLLOW THE GREEN STARS FOR COB’S CIRCUS.

  ‘Green stars!’ said Santa. ‘Where?’

&nb
sp; They had not far to look. At intervals all up the street green stars painted on a white background had been hung from the lamp-posts. It was ridiculously easy to find the way, and made the walk into a game. Both of them tried to be the first to spot the stars. The stars did not go straight on but turned corners. Because they were looking at the stars and not at where they were going the sea came to them as a surprise. They had turned a corner and there it was.

  The first time you see the sea must be exciting for anybody. When you have got as old as eleven and twelve and a half before it happens it is as startling as if somebody had knocked all the breath out of you.

  ‘I never knew it would look like that,’ Peter said at last.

  Santa was so impressed her voice was a whisper.

  ‘Fancy there being so much water anywhere.’

  They went on, but more slowly. They had to keep stopping to stare at the waves. The stars led them right along the front up a hill, then suddenly they came to an end.

  In front of them was a large stretch of rough grass. The only things on it were two caravans and two immense masts stuck into the ground.

  Santa nudged Peter.

  ‘Do you think that’s it?’ She nodded at the caravans.

  Peter shook his head.

  ‘A circus has lions and things.’

  At that moment the door of one of the caravans opened A man came out. He looked round and saw the children.

  ‘Hallo.’

  ‘Hallo, sir,’ Peter said politely. ‘Can you tell me if you are Cob’s Circus?’

  The man laughed.

  ‘Not all of it. I’m with the advance.’

  ‘Oh.’ Santa looked pleased at having struck something she knew. ‘It was you who told the milkman to come early.’

  ‘That’s right. The men’ll want their breakfast.’

  ‘What men?’

  The man took her by the shoulders and spun her round.

  ‘See those?’

  Santa looked at the two great masts.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Those are the king-poles. The first thing to come off the train will be the big top. That’s the circus tent, and with it will come the men to put it up.’

  ‘And they want breakfast?’

  The man laughed again.

  ‘I should say so. I don’t suppose they got off the ground at Thirsk till well after midnight. Then they have to get to the station. They’ll be unloading now. Not much of a night Wouldn’t you want your breakfast?’