The Trapeze Act

by Libby Angel

  My father began appearing in the local media with embarrassing frequency. There he was on the news at the height of the Foster case, briefs in one hand, the other holding his wig on his head, gown billowing behind him as he stormed across the square like a cranky-arsed Batman. No comment, he said to the reporters who crabbed along beside him thrusting microphones in his face. No, he told them, he couldn’t comment on the current case and he wouldn’t comment on any other case, either. Excuse me, he said and, with a flourish of his cape, vanished.

  There he was again on the late edition. A door opened. He was sitting at the big engraved table in the library at his chambers, surrounded by floor to ceiling bookcases lined with leather-bound journals and case studies. The camera swooped in for a close-up. A black foam microphone approached his face.

  No comment! said the esteemed barrister, a coy smile on his face. In relation to the man charged with murder, no comment, and no comment on the sexuality of the victim either.

  Ha, my mother sneered, turning up the volume on the TV at home; this place is so backward people here still think homosexuality is a perversion! They think the victim deserved to be cleaved into twelve parts and stuffed into the freezer because he was a queer!

  I saw your father on the news, my new teacher, Mrs Morris, told me the next day.

  I haven’t seen him for a week, I mumbled.

  I expect he’s very busy, she said, her face flushed. With the important murder case.

  I shrugged. I was innocent, ignorant. My father’s mouth was a steel trap. If we asked questions during dinner in the presence of guests, he would administer a swift kick under the table. Any other time, he simply ignored us.

  We came to accept it when he disappeared for days on end and came back smelling like a foreigner.

  That’s where it happened, my brother shouted and pointed.

  We were strapped to the back seat like a couple of bananas, Leda driving us down Bakerville Road.

  The roof splayed up on either side of the house in question giving it a frowning look.

  That’s where the architect was chopped up and stuffed into the freezer, my brother continued, bouncing up and down in his seat. Hey, Ma, do you think he used a chainsaw?

  How do you know it was a he? Leda responded, lurching across the lanes. How do you know I didn’t do it, one dark night?

  She had started using that phrase, one dark night, whenever we drove past a large terracotta pot she liked the look of on the footpath, or the gorilla suit in the window of the costume hire shop on Twin Street: I’ll come back for that, one dark night.

  Now Gilbert Lord had hit the big time, off we went in the mornings, my brother and I, off to our respective bus stops, off to our expensive schools, with our socks falling down. While Leda browsed wig catalogues and considered what life might be like in the tropics. The dry air here did not suit her skin, she claimed. She was allergic to the place and had built up no resistance, even after all this time.

  My new school stood behind a tall brushwood fence on Bakerville Road, not far from where the architect had been murdered and dismembered. In winter we wore a blue tartan kilt with white shirt and striped tie, and in summer, a blue gingham button-up dress. There was also a woollen jumper and a blazer with the school insignia on the pocket, brown lace-up shoes, or roman sandals in summer, all coordinated with regulation fawn-coloured full briefs. Several times a year, without notice, the deputy headmistress, with her hair set immovably on her head, would stride into a classroom for a random check, during which two or three girls would be asked to hitch up their skirts. Such inspections ensured that we would not be caught wearing novelty underwear when the truck drivers on Bakerville Road saw us doing handstands on the front lawn.

  What—no bustle? my mother inquired of the woman in the bookroom when we went to collect my sports uniform: a blue tunic worn over a fawn-coloured blouse and matching bloomers. And when she saw the leather-topped box in the gymnasium, she put her hand on the PE teacher’s bony shoulder and said, Good to see you’re on track for the BC Athens Olympics.

  Miss Drew—fake-tan orange, with collapsed cheeks and frenetic, protruding eyeballs, in her ice-blue tennis skirt, and with a clipboard propped against her jutting pelvis—looked at my mother and seemed to die a little.

  To make up for the inadequacy, my mother offered to teach after-school tumbling and balancing sessions. But, as Miss Drew was quick to point out, Leda had none of the required training or qualifications to meet the school’s insurance policy, and, anyway, she explained, the interschool gymnastics syllabus was fundamentally different from the amateurish theatrics practised in circuses. Gymnastics was Miss Drew’s specialty.

  You might want to check what’s in your tanning pills, my mother responded, filing the encounter away.

  In between training and performing in the circus, Leda had been home-schooled by her parents on the European circuit of festivals and tours. With their ivy-covered turrets and gold-embossed hymn books, the private schools of the town appeared to her to be little more than anachronistic theme parks. Boarding schools with porridge! Choirs! Gold stars! Honour rolls! Prefects! But despite her enthusiasm at the initial interview—in which she all but ended up in a catfight with Miss Drew, then flirted with Mr Nobis, the biology teacher, in a patronising way evident to all but Mr Nobis himself—she showed little interest in the mothers’ club or the many other opportunities for parental involvement in the school.

  When my mother insisted on coming to school open day, I was therefore surprised, but it wasn’t long before her motivations became clear. Instead of watching the home-economics demonstration, she snuck out into the corridor and switched off the main fuse so that the sewing machines stopped mid-seam and the electric ovens cooled, causing our carrot cakes to collapse in their middles. I saw her hiding among the other parents, smiling in the semi-darkness while the home-economics teacher fretted and apologised and then ran off to find help.

  It wasn’t until afterwards, in the car on the way home, that she told me what she had done. Your father is not paying all that money to train you as a housewife. All those frumpy cows leaking milk from their flabby teats, she said, referring to the other mothers. They might have nothing better to do than tuck-shop duty or baking cakes for the school fair. Let it be known that I intend to be a positive role model for my daughter. Zo, I will do none of those things!

  In the biology lab, Mr Nobis had set up an experiment for the students and parents to do together. Ignoring his instructions, Leda caused a stink with some sulphuric acid before knocking over a Bunsen burner and setting one of the workbench drawers alight, conjuring enough smoke to set off the fire alarm and effect the evacuation of the whole building. Not that Mr Nobis minded. He was grateful for the opportunity to press himself up against my mother’s backside as they squeezed in tandem through the fire exit.

  The centrepiece of open day was the maypole dance. Under Miss Drew’s direction, we had spent months rehearsing it in the new sports facility. It was not without good reason that our gym teacher visibly steeled herself when she saw my mother walk into the building.

  With a grimace, Miss Drew pressed the play button on the cassette recorder. To the strains of a polka, we skipped over and under, weaving our coloured ribbons until they were thatched around the top of the pole. The parents watched and smiled. There was a short pause before the music resumed and we began to unwind our work. (As everybody knew, the maypole had always to be stored with the ribbons wound around the pole in a clockwise direction.)

  Maypoles? Leda shouted over the boom box, incredulous. You make them dance around maypoles, as in medieval England?

  Perhaps Mrs Lord has a more impressive display to offer us? Miss Drew squawked back.

  As I watched my mother careering down the blue Acromat like a bus off a bridge, stringing together a seemingly impossible combination of aerials, backflips and somersaults, I could only feel proud. My parents are madly in love, I told myself, everybody says so: my father w
ith the sparkle behind his lips, my mother, so chic, in spite of herself.

  My father is famous, I said to myself, and my mother can fly.

  Some of the girls applauded, but the adults glared at them, stilling their hands. (The people in the town were deeply offended by displays of excellence, my mother maintained, especially by women.) The parents stood in a cluster, twitching and coughing, awaiting further instruction, while Miss Drew stood riveted to the inner circle of the basketball court, her eyes popping from her head like eggs from the back end of a chicken.

  What?, my mother said, breezing back along the mat to pick up her wig, which had fallen off mid-air. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise the new mat was just for looking at. I thought it was for tumbling on. My mistake. She put the wig back on, flicking its strands in an arc behind her.

  The parents looked at their socks (in the interest of protecting the floor we had been ordered to leave our shoes at the door).

  So it seems you were being sarcastic when you asked for a more impressive display, Leda persisted, standing in front of Miss Drew. Well, let me tell you, nobody likes a cynic.

  Miss Drew looked at my mother with familiar contempt, as if Leda were a relative risen from the dead.

  Christ, my mother laughed on the way home, slapping the steering wheel. What a crack-up—vestal virgins dancing around a fucking maypole!

  Within two weeks of school open day, Leda had organised a petition to update our sports uniform. Every morning before school she stood outside the gates canvassing parents and students until she had collected more than five hundred signatures.

  Not all children suffered from obesity and ineptitude, she pointed out to anyone who would weather her rhetoric. Even the more ungainly students would stand a better chance in life wearing something other than the straitjacket circa 1902 that currently served as a sports uniform. Our dismal interschool sports record would, no doubt, improve.

  To accompany the petition, Leda made a number of sketches of proposed alternatives: a leotard for gymnastics, a pair of stretch shorts for athletics.

  Much to Miss Drew’s chagrin, the headmistress, who had stuck her finger in the wind and wished to appear progressive, took great interest in the cause.

  Don’t let anyone tell you I’m not a proper mother, just because I refuse to make lamingtons for your twee little fetes, Leda crowed, when the item appeared in the school newsletter.

  By the end of the year, the hockey team was running around the field in short pleated skirts and polo shirts and the swimming team was diving off the blocks in blue bathing suits. Even Miss Drew had to admit that the gymnastics team looked a whole lot more competitive in their new long-sleeved leotards with the school insignia emblazoned on their chests.

  January 16th

  Apart from reading of books, writing of letters & other sedentary pursuits, there is little shipboard entertainment to be had. Passengers have fiddles, accordions, flutes etc, but music & dancing are forbidden after 9 o’clock & on Sundays. A small group of women, myself included, have started playing a little crib, bridge & poker. Our designated meeting place is a small windowless hold off to the right of the Deck, little more than a closet. Mrs M brings a small lamp. Thank fully, the Authorities are preoccupied with brawling, drunkenness etc. If they are aware of our transgressions, the Officers have so far chosen to ignore us. What harm can be done, after all, by a few polite ladies at cards?

  * * *

  January 25th

  Mrs P appeared to take a turn for the better only to lie down & draw her last breath. Mr P is inconsolable, the children too young, perhaps, to properly comprehend their loss. A Service will be held on Deck this afternoon.

  * * *

  February 2nd

  I found a friend in one Agnes D, whom I met one evening as she was soliciting business on Deck. She has volunteered to alert us whenever Officers are near the Hold. Authorities appear to have no qualms about her peddling her trade. In fact, she has used her connections to upgrade her accommodations from Steerage to Officers’ Quarters. She plans to open her own business in the Colony & is determined one day to secure herself a parcel of land in her own name.

  * * *

  February 7th

  Mr P taken seriously ill. All Pray for his recovery but the Surgeon holds little hope. His children face the prospect of arriving in the Colony as orphans. There are several other cases of fever. Thank fully, E & I remain in good Health. An occasional measure of Whisky helps. (I packed several bottles.)

  * * *

  February 11th

  I have discovered a surprising number of insomniacs wandering the Decks at night. Last night I saw a man fall nearly overboard as he was running from his wife. Three more are ill with fever.

  * * *

  February 14th

  I won another tea set (Dresden) at cards, though I do not feel right claiming it.

  * * *

  February 18th

  When they see Agnes and me sitting together talking, some of the other women whisper behind their hands. Perhaps they have heard rumours of our card games, but it is most likely the sight of Agnes that bothers them. Agnes is unconcerned by what others think of her. In any case, all but the most aberrant behaviour has been fully eclipsed by Nocturnal Cock fights. It is a small wonder it has taken the Authorities so long to uncover such an abomination when the wailing of birds can be heard all night, & most mornings the Deck is smeared with blood, excrement & feathers.

  * * *

  February 21st

  Last evening we suffered a terrible storm. The sea washed over the Deck so violently we were obliged to take refuge in our Cabins. Later, I awoke to great quantities of water pouring onto my bed. There were scenes of hysteria, chaos & calamity all around: furniture and boxes were swept about, people rushed up & down the stairs shouting. Strangely, the effect was more humorous than anything. It later emerged that the Companion Door had been left open.

  * * *

  February 28th

  All Passengers were granted special exception from duties yesterday as we passed the Equator into the Southern Hemisphere. Ladies, Gents, Children swarmed about Deck complaining of the poor view—as if expecting to see a shining red ribbon through which the bow of the Ship might pass—naturally, there was only endless grey sea & sky as usual. All those willing were led blindfolded to the lower Deck & drenched with a bucket of water over their heads, courtesy of ‘Neptune’ (an Officer in costume). Ernest went all out for this theatre whereas I did not. There followed some Singing & Dancing. That evening, a woman fell backwards down the Cabin stairs & broke her leg.

  * * *

  March 2nd

  Even before the moment of Death, her body starts to decay. I take a draught of Whisky to stifle the stench. A man stumbles across the deck and vomits.

  * * *

  March 4th

  Amelia Duffy died of Scarlet Fever six o’clock last evening. The Ship rocked violently as she passed & the weather continues foul today. A small Service was held this morning. It was most solemn to witness her lying alone there covered with a plain flag, the plank tipping up, the body sliding off the Bulwark into the sea with an awful splash. We watched in Silence as the body floated away through the spray then disappeared into the dark water.

  * * *

  March 18th

  With hardly a breeze we have made small progress these past few days. The Ship creaks and sways but does not move. The air is thick and heavy. According to Agnes, the Officers are aware of our gaming habits but overlook us. Perhaps they do not risk losing her favour.

  * * *

  March 26th

  At this stage we must do without luxuries & are mainly confined to boiled meat. The Officers snare the occasional seabird (quite unlike Duck, Fowl or Pigeon, but entirely edible). Yesterday the First Mate killed a Porpoise, a most unusual fish. It bled more than any pig I have seen at the butcher’s, but the flesh looked similar, especially around the face. Upon eating the liver you could not tell it apart f
rom a pig’s. Many of the others complain about the limited fare. The Officers assure us the Captain eats no better.

  * * *

  March 30th

  There have been several infants born on this journey, one stillborn, another died shortly after birth. The fourth arrived today, so far in perfect Health although the mother appears weak.

  * * *

  April 5th

  We passed by a Dutch vessel late this afternoon. Our Captain sent a small boat across to buy some of their coal. They kindly sent back two bags and would accept no money.

  * * *

  April 12th

  We are approaching the end of our voyage, evidenced, E says, by the appearance of a variety of fishes & land-based birds. Last evening we sighted a family of whales. The largest spurted a shower from its blowhole, precipitating a stampede of binocular-wielding passengers to Starboard. (I made do with the opera glasses that somehow found their way into my luggage.) E was most impressed by these prehistoric mammals. By all accounts, whaling is a thriving business in the Colonies. I suggested to E he reconsider his plans to hunt ivory in the New Country in favour of further pursuing his studies in Naturalism. (He is yet to abandon hope of discovering Elephants in the Interior.) Some of the women are most impressed when I tell them Ernest is a Servant of the Government, and is, in all probability, to set forth on an expedition. Mrs H seems confused as to how she should regard me—as the wife of an esteemed explorer, or as a gambler, pants-wearer & associate of a femme galante?