Love, Let Me Not Hunger

by Paul Gallico

  Peabody looked bewildered. “What,” he said to Toby, “you too?”

  “That’s right,” Toby said, and then closed his mouth so that no more words could issue therefrom.

  It was a blow to Peabody that Toby was not to ride in the family act, but on the other hand if he did, they would be snapped up by any of the bigger circuses and he had the Walters family and their name at bargain rates. “Well,” he said, “come over to the wagon and I’ll settle up.”

  Later, Rose and Toby saw Mr. Albert off on the road to the Finca Pozoblanco. Rose kissed a cheek of the old man and he kissed hers and wiped a tear from his eye, and then shook Toby’s hand, and everything he had meant to say about good luck and good wishes went out of his mind and all he could think of was to stammer, “She’s a good girl, Toby.”

  And Toby replied straightforwardly, “Yes, she’s a good girl.” And then he added, “Maybe we’ll all meet up again some time.”

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Albert said, blinking over his glasses, and climbed back into the jeep. And then repeated, “I don’t know. But perhaps you’ll send me a postcard some time telling me how you are and things are going.”

  He waved his hand and drove away, and they watched him until the back of the vehicle was wholly obscured by the cloud of dust it whirled along behind it.

  They were alone then on the road, and Rose turned to Toby putting a hand on his arm. “Toby, aren’t you going back?”

  “No.”

  “Toby, you ought to go back to your family. Your father asked you to, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you got to go. It’s your life, Toby. You’ve got to go back to them. You’re different from me—all of you.”

  Toby said, “They wouldn’t have you. They’d kill you with meanness. They’d suck all the blood out of you, all the good of you, until you’d be yellow and dry. They’d worry the heart and bones from out of inside you and then you’d die.”

  “I wouldn’t ever want to make you take me, Toby. I’d go away. I’d be all right. You belong with them.”

  He was thinking and figuring as though he had not heard her. He said, “We’ve got half Deeter’s pay. That’ll keep us a while. We can get married in Madrid. We’ll go to the consul.”

  She protested no more. He had made his decision. He was in command, but it was no longer the ruthless and arbitrary kind with which he had first taken her, for the way he was looking at her now was compassionate as well as possessive.

  He said, “After that maybe it’s going to be rough, Rose. Finding a job won’t be easy, but I can look after horses and I can train ’em. We’ll do the best we can and manage somehow. There mightn’t be so much to eat at first, and maybe not even any kind of home or a proper place to sleep.”

  Rose added, “We can sleep at the railway station.”

  “Is that what you used to do?”

  “Yes, or in the bus station as though I was waiting for a bus. And sometimes in the summer in a park or on the beach.”

  In his mind’s eye Toby saw Rose sitting up in a bus terminal on a bench packed between people so that she would not fall over when she went to sleep, or lying curled up, a solitary figure, on the sand of some beach sheltered by the shadows of the promenade.

  “I oughtn’t to do that to you, Rose,” Toby said. “You’ve had enough of that. Not if I loved you like I do.”

  “I wouldn’t care,” Rose said. And then, looking up into his face, repeated with a fierce and breathless intensity, “I wouldn’t care.”

  “Okay, then,” Toby said, put his arm around her shoulder and they went back to the encampment.

  The next morning many of the townspeople of Zalano, including even the alcalde and Dr. Perrera, came out to the tober, for word had spread that the remnants of the circus which had been in their midst so long were about to depart. Toby and Rose stood by and watched, and in love though he was and his decision made, the boy could not prevent a sinking in his heart, a nostalgia, and all the doubts and uncertainty of the future arising to affect him.

  For the little circus had been restored and rejuvenated, and those who had come over from England, the performers as well as those in Peabody’s employ, had worked with paint and brush as well as wrench and block-and-tackle. The caravans, living wagons, and cages of the animals glittered once more in colours of red and gold. On the side of the lead lorry the name of Sam Marvel’s Marvel Circus had been painted out and Peabody’s Marvel Circus Combined substituted in bolder and larger letters.

  Old owner Peabody had the true showman’s feeling for the dramatic. Once they were out of town, the elephant and the horses would have to be sent on ahead and the faster lorries lay by for a later start so they would not catch up with the slow-moving animals too soon, but the departure was to be in the shape of a parade through town so that pictures could be taken and eventually the story of the circus that nearly starved to death in Zalano would reach the outer world.

  Under the careful, organizing eye of Joe Cotter, they assembled on the tober, the elephant in the lead, then the horses with Harry and Jacko astride the two Arabs. The big lorries containing the horse tent and all that was left of properties and equipment came next drawing the menagerie cages open to public view, and finally the gaily repainted caravans.

  There had been a moment of uneasiness with Judy. The big, grey beast had been nervous and unwilling. Her little eyes were anxious and she searched with her trunk until she picked up the scent of Toby. She trumpeted shrilly for him to come to her, and leaving Rose for a moment he went forward, took her lead rope and put it in the hands of the elephant man Peabody had brought with him. He said, “Good Judy. Good girl. Go, girl.”

  She looked bewildered for a moment.

  The elephant man, an old, experienced hand reached up and patted her cheek and urged, “Come on, Judy. You and me are going to get along fine.” She explored him with her trunk for a moment, decided she liked him, and became docile.

  Toby returned to Rose who took his hand and said, “You loved her, didn’t you?”

  Toby replied, “Yes. But it don’t matter.” And then added. “She’ll never get over it, hating women. I told Peabody.”

  Harry Walters looked down from the back of one of the Arabs. It was Sally, Toby’s favourite. Jacko was on the other leading the rosin-backs. Harry’s mouth was unpleasant and contemptuous. “You don’t want to change your mind, do you?” he asked.

  Toby said, “No.”

  Inaudibly, Rose spoke his name, “Oh, Toby,” and clung to his hand, for all along she had been afraid that he might still go at the last minute.

  Walters touched the side of his horse and rode it into the line of the parade.

  Jacko had to have the last word. “We’ll make out.”

  “Okay, make out!” said Toby.

  From somewhere along the line came the thrilling trill of the ringmaster’s whistle, the latter-day pipes of Pan, introduction to fun, joy, and excitement that set every heart, young and old, a-beating, and it was followed by a burst and blare of the circus entrance march. The panatrope had been activated from the generator wagon.

  The elephant man astride Judy’s head tapped her gently with his stick; she recognised that he knew his business, raised one forefoot, put it down, and they were off, as a great cheer went up from the Spaniards. Hats and handkerchiefs were waved and once more the gallant music of the circus parade was heard in Zalano as the glittering wagons passed by to the grinding of their engines in a low gear, the barks and whines and roars of the animals, the shouts of children, and the applause of the spectators.

  As they passed Toby and Rose, Peabody leaned from the driver’s window of Marvel’s wagon calling, “Goodbye! Goodbye! And thanks again!”

  At his shoulder Ma Peabody cried, “You’re sure you two wouldn’t want to come along with us part of the way? We could drop you off in Madrid maybe.”

  “Thanks, no,” Toby said. “We’re going on the bus.” If only they would go! He wanted
this to end, to be finished with them all, to have them out of sight so that he might begin his life with Rose.

  “Good luck to you two, then,” Peabody shouted.

  The converted van of Jackdaw Williams drove by, the clown at the wheel, his bird perched as always on his shoulder. As they passed Rose and Toby, the bird caught sight of the girl and, rearing up, flapped its wings, screamed, and scolded. Williams began to shake with silent laughter. He took a hand off the wheel, waved it at the pair, and drove on.

  The last of the wagons, squeaking and rattling, rumbled up the road and vanished, drawing the onlookers after them until at last the tober was wholly deserted except for the figures of the boy and the girl with their suitcases at their side, and for a moment they lingered.

  It was empty now but for the charred ring which marked the ruins of the tent and which no doubt no one would ever clear; the bits of steel and iron would be remaining there until kingdom come, or they rusted away to dust and mingled with the wind.

  On the ground the “U” where the encampment had been was still to be seen, indicated by the different colour of the dirt which had been beneath the wagons and the cages. Rose and Toby stood contemplating the marks, each with his and her own thoughts of all that had happened to them since first they had pitched there. Each for a moment was swept by waves of nostalgia for their friends, two- and four-footed, who had left them: all of their own kind had gone away. They turned instinctively towards one another and intertwined their fingers.

  “Okay,” Toby said, “let’s go.” And they, too, walked up the rutted road towards the town.

  C H A P T E R

  2 8

  Christmas Day at the Finca Pozoblanco would ordinarily have been a time of fiesta after the morning Mass where every man, woman and child crowded into the little chapel. Then there would have been a great feast of joy and distribution of presents by the Marquesa herself, and after that music, singing and dancing, for there are no gayer and happier people than Spaniards on holiday.

  But this Christmas, following upon the departure of the circus from Zalano, there was no celebration or merriment, and at the Mass that morning the church was filled with the sobs of the women of the finca and the sound of prayers said for the dying, for it was told that the Marquesa was on her death-bed.

  In October, she had been taken ill with a pain in her side, and had become increasingly irritable and demanding. Her morning levees were suspended and she was seen less and less. The local physician, Dr. Calderon visited often and brought with him colleagues and consultants. An appendicitis had first been feared, but when this had not developed the doctors had advised a trip to Madrid to consult specialists.

  She had been away the whole month of November, but returned early in December and took to her bed. From then on she was seen only by her day and night nurses, Don Francisco and her chaplain, Father Belmondo, with Juan the acolyte who said Mass at a tiny makeshift altar set up before the shrine of the Virgin Mary at the far end of the room.

  The rumour that persisted throughout the finca was that she was suffering from cancer of the liver, that the specialists in Madrid and two others who had been flown from London and New York had been able to do nothing for her except to confirm that she would not be able to survive an operation, and that she had been sent home to die.

  Yet the Christmas gifts had not been neglected. There were sweets and toys for the children, lengths of material for the women, wine and cigars for the men, or other gifts of more value, depending upon their importance and position in the hierarchy of the estate. Only this time they were distributed by the major-domo and received with sighs and tears, protestations, and questions as to how the Marquesa was faring.

  To these queries, Don Francisco would reply invariably: “She is the same. See, Jaime (or Pedro or Manuel or Maria or Conchita) she has not forgotten you. She wishes you happiness this Christmas. Pray for her.”

  Winter on La Mancho was as cold as summer was hot. There was no break to halt the winds that blew down from the Guadarramas. Sometimes snow fell, but mostly it was wind and rain that lashed the campo at that time of year. There had been a high haze in the morning and fitful winter sunshine as the yellow ball of the sun, hanging low in the sky, pierced it momentarily; but in the afternoon it had clouded over, and by nightfall the cold wind brought half rain, half sleet.

  The evening meal had been a gloomy one. The weather had clamped down upon all of them, and besides there was the sick mistress in the villa, from which lights of burning candles showed from upper-storey windows.

  Mr. Albert was anxious to get to his room and turn on his radio to drive away the Christmas megrims. It had been a solace and a companion to him, this little box, ever since he had bought it with his own money from the sum he had received as his share of the split of Deeter’s pay. It was a treasure, and Mr. Albert, who had once worked in a radio shop, had been able to coax the most out of it. He knew that Continental reception in the daylight hours was not good, but that after nightfall the wave lengths would be packed, and if he were lucky—very lucky—he might pick up a faint whisper from faraway England, some British voice, some well-remembered bit of programme theme music if the atmospherics happened to be right. The set was not strong enough to pull in the BBC except under extraordinary conditions, but he could pick up American broadcasts in English from the big U.S. military base outside Madrid and hear at least his own language.

  This particular evening, he hoped to get something that would help him to forget. Not that Christmas had meant very much to him or that he had ever had a home in which to celebrate it or many friends to whom to give presents. But at least had he been in England he would have had a drink of whisky on Christmas Day and a bit of turkey, even if it was a tough old bird slung at him in a cafeteria. There would be decorations everywhere, carols would be issuing from all the radios, and before the day was done somebody was sure to say to him, “Merry Christmas, Bert.”

  It was nine o’clock when Mr. Albert hurried from the mess hall through the stinging rain to the garage, mounted to his room, and switched on his wireless—eight o’clock in England.

  Immediately the weather invaded the set and filled it with buzzing, crackling, and clicks. As he had expected, the air waves were jammed with a hundred stations, each abutting on the other, heard through the violent crashing of the static.

  Then suddenly and unexpectedly a tempest swept a most heartbreaking Christmas gift for the old man into the tiny, white-washed room in the centre of the Spanish plateau a million miles from nowhere. As he turned the dials, discouraged by the reception and of half a mind to give up, an English voice boomed into the room and then was gone. He pounced upon the set for he had tuned too far and passed it. With one hand he clutched the little case to steady it and with the other delicately turned backwards. Loud and clear, as though he had been sitting in a pub in Battersea, he heard: “. . . Light Programme. We go over now to a special Christmas night performance of Peabody’s Marvel Circus Combined for the crippled children of Sheffield, and here is Peter Lewis . . .”

  He had locked on to the station, for it was one of those freaks of atmospherics in which a northerly gale sweeping southwards seemed to help radio signals fly to portions of the earth far beyond their strength.

  A burst of circus music issued from the speaker—it was the perennial, time-honoured circus entrance march—and then the voice of the announcer, “. . . This is Peter Lewis speaking from the arena in Sheffield, a very special occasion, where we are attending the Christmas night performance for the Greater Sheffield Orphanages of Peabody’s Marvel Circus Combined . . .”

  There was a new sound, shrill and high-pitched, which at first Mr. Albert took to be another kind of electrical interference, but a moment later recognised as something he knew and had heard himself whenever they played to audiences of children—their cheering.

  “. . . Listen to them!” the announcer was saying. “Three thousand youngsters shouting their heads off! The parade is s
tarting! Here they come—the acrobats, the horses and the clowns.” His voice dropped a pitch lower. “I’ll tell you about them as they pass by my broadcasting booth . . .”

  Mr. Albert thought he would die at first from the pain that went through his heart, and he pressed his ear to the metal mesh of the speaker as if he were trying to get inside the instrument there to find himself, Albert Griggs, in the sawdust of the ring in Sheffield, rushing about testing ropes and wires, setting out props as of old, breathing in the sharp, pungent, circus smell compounded of animals, people, popcorn, and sticky sweets.

  The voice of the announcer filled the room. “. . . Here they are now, the clowns, Gogo and Panache and Jackdaw Williams with his famous jackdaw, Raffles, on his shoulder—I say, they are funny fellows! Gogo has just fallen head over heels. And here come the elephants, led by the famous Judy, and riding her in Indian costume Ted Walters of the marvellous Walters family . . .”

  “Judy!” Mr. Albert whispered. “Judy!” And did not realise he had spoken aloud. And as the voice momentarily faded and crashings and cracklings filled the box, he thought of Toby and Rose and of the card he had had from them a few days before Christmas and which he could see inserted into the mirror over his chest of drawers. It had on its reverse side a picture of Lake Zurich and had come from a place in Switzerland called Rapperswil, and the message space was filled with Toby’s unformed handwriting:

  “Dear Mr. Albert:

  Merry Christmas. Hope you are all right. We are O.K. It was rough all right, but we are all right now, at least for a while. I am in Circus Knie winter quarters here working in the stables. They are O.K. and say maybe I can ride next year only it’s tough for a single. They got some fine animals here. Rose is all right. She sends her love.

  Cheerio, Toby”

  And then in the tiny space left at the bottom in a still more childish hand: “Love Rose” with a series of crosses and noughts.

  The voice of the announcer boomed in again, rising in pitch and excitement as he described the passing of each of the colourful troupes and the animals in their cages. Mr. Albert began to cry.