‘You’ll stay,’ Odélie said, leaning down. She turned off the small torch, and in the blackness, he heard her remove her clothes.
‘You’ll stay,’ she said again, as she lowered her naked weight on top of him.
Michel woke at dawn, feeling relaxed and warm. He opened his eyes and Odélie was gone, but the scent of her remained. He dressed quickly, washing his face at the two barrels of water that had been placed near the dug-out latrines.
He did not breakfast but grabbed a cup of coffee to take with him before collecting Beau and leading him to a nearby field, away from distraction.
Michel let Beau loose to roam and feed. He sat in the long grass and sipped at his coffee, watching him move – the twitch of his tail, the ears that moved back then forwards – always alert, never relaxed. It was the kind of summer morning that inspired slowness, when in Paris, women would hang out laundry, then sit with their neighbours and wait until it was dry; when Bertrand would roll up his sleeves, pack a picnic and beg Michel to take a day off, and together they would spend a day boating, reading and drinking wine. Here, slowness was all around him; bees buzzed lazily, still tired from their night-time slumber, whilst birds dipped and chirped as they sought their breakfast. Even the camp behind him was slow to stir. Turning around he saw people walking towards the breakfast tent; some sat, smoked and drank coffee outside their tents. He looked for Odélie, for Jean and for Frieda, yet he could not pick them out.
Returning his attention to Beau, he saw how the stallion’s eyes still watched Michel, his muscles taut beneath the black sheen of his coat – ready to run, ready to disappear.
Michel knew how he felt – restless and scared. When his coffee was gone, he placed the cup on the ground and stood slowly, taking a few steps closer to Beau, every now and then crouching down slowly when Beau stared at him. The wind was gentle, weaving in between the blades of grass, causing it to ripple like water. It calmed Beau, and even Michel felt his heart slow, his limbs become lighter.
Suddenly, as if the two had spoken, Beau walked towards Michel, his head bowed, and nuzzled into Michel’s chest.
Michel clipped a lunge rope onto his bridle, and bit by bit gave him length. With a whistle and a gentle tug on the rope, Beau walked in a circle around Michel, then with a click of his tongue, and some more length to the rope, Beau began to trot.
‘You’ll need this!’ a voice rang out.
Michel turned to see Werner at the fence, waving a large lunge whip in the air. Beau caught sight of the whip and whinnied. He stomped at the grass, his ears backwards, his nostrils flared.
‘I don’t use them,’ Michel said.
‘Well, I do. Use it. Give him a quick flick and he’ll soon learn.’
‘It’s better my way. You asked me to train him.’
‘I did. I thought you knew what you were doing. Obviously, I was wrong. Take the whip.’
Michel drew Beau close to him and patted his neck, whispering in his ear to calm him. Michel felt a sudden sharp sting on his arm. He looked to Werner who grinned at him, still holding the whip in the air.
‘It’s the only way to learn.’ Werner walked away, humming a tune as he did.
By late afternoon, Michel returned Beau to the carriage and opened his tent. There on the bed was the lunge whip. He knocked it to the ground and sat down. He lit a cigarette and thought of leaving. He could. He could just leave. Nothing was keeping him here. Werner was never going to be easy to work with. This was never going to work.
‘You all right?’ Jean walked into the tent. ‘Didn’t see you at breakfast or lunch.’
‘I was training Beau.’
‘The way you say that doesn’t sound too hopeful.’
‘It’s not him that’s the problem.’
‘So, who is?’
‘Werner.’
Jean sat next to him on the narrow bed. ‘With so many of us, there’s always someone who is a problem. Giordano drives me mad most of the time.’
‘It’s not that. It’s clear he doesn’t like me, so why give me a job? He gave me that.’ Michel nodded at the gift from Werner. ‘He says it’s the only way to learn.’
‘Wants to whip you into shape.’ Jean took the whip in his hands. ‘Maybe I can use this on Giordano when he snores? Ah, come Michel, put a smile on your face.’
‘There’s something else.’
‘What? Me?’
‘No, not you, Jean! Of course not. It was last night…’
‘You and Odélie?’
Michel looked at Jean, his mouth agape.
‘Word gets around quickly here. You’re not in trouble, don’t worry. Odélie had her eye on you on the train and didn’t stop talking about you even after you were gone. Just be careful there – she’s…’
‘She’s what?’
‘Tricky, Michel. Tricky.’
‘It wasn’t Odélie I was going to mention,’ Michel said, rubbing at the stubble on his chin.
‘Oh, yes! Someone else?’ Jean laughed. ‘Goodness, you work quickly.’
‘No, not that. Last night I heard Werner talking to Anton. He was just listening to the wireless, but Werner threatened him – said he would be thrown out! Just for listening to the radio? I can’t see how it can work, my staying here – I don’t know his rules, and even if I did, I am pretty sure I would willingly break them.’
‘When I was younger, I had an uncle, always shouting at something, always mad and thrashing about. Once, he got mad when the wind blew a tree over in the garden – he was mad at the wind, Michel! It was only when I was older that I realised he had had hard times as a child. The anger from that was still there.’
‘Is Werner your uncle by any chance?’ Michel laughed.
‘Not so! But you see what I mean? He is just a small angry man. Who knows what ails him? But he gives us work, food. No small thing these days. What else could we want?’
‘Apart from the freedom to listen to the radio?’
‘I see you have your humour back. Perhaps Werner simply did not enjoy the music?’ Jean slapped him on the back. ‘Come, you are just tired and in need of food before rehearsals.’
‘Rehearsals?’
‘Early evening. Dinner is always delayed until afterwards. You’ll be needed at some point. Better to eat now. Come, Giordano has coffee, Madame Geneviève cake. And me, cigarettes.’
Michel followed Jean to the Big Top, where a table had been set up outside; coffee, cakes, water and fruit piled on top.
‘We used to get cheese.’ Giordano sat next to the table, his plate full, his eyes downcast. ‘But Werner says this is all we get now before rehearsals – says too much food makes us like slugs.’
‘More like he doesn’t want to pay for the cheese,’ Madame Geneviève said, and handed Michel a slice of lemon sponge cake. ‘I made it.’
‘More like he can’t afford to.’ Odélie appeared and sat next to Michel on an upturned wooden crate.
‘I heard there was food?’ Anton had his wireless tucked under his arm.
‘You really think I would steal it?’ Odélie asked him, pointing to the radio.
‘You have before, I dare say you’d do it again.’
‘Play us something, Anton. Find some music,’ Jean urged.
‘It’s not for music. It’s for the news.’
‘Well, then let’s hear the news,’ Geneviève said.
‘It’s in German mostly. Or nothing. Just static.’
Michel ate his cake and thought of the voices that had come from the radio the night before – all he knew was that the voices, whilst not clear, were certainly not German.
‘Give it to me.’ Odélie took it from under his arm and twiddled with the dial until she found an echo of music, light and soft, with no words.
‘Classical music, beautiful!’ Madame Geneviève clapped her hands together.
Odélie handed Anton back the radio. ‘I’d rather have silence,’ she said.
‘Shame we can’t listen to some news reports.’ Fe
lix wandered over and took a cup of coffee. ‘I’d like to hear.’
‘Should you be here?’ Odélie asked. ‘Surely there’s a stump to thump or something to build?’
‘He’s here.’ Felix pointed at Michel. ‘He’s not a performer. If he’s here then it’s OK if I’m here, I figure.’
‘Quite! Everyone welcome. No one turned away.’ Geneviève smiled.
‘I can go.’ Michel stood and wiped the cake crumbs from his hands on his trousers. ‘I’ve got to check on Beau anyway; stables to clean and all that.’
‘Stay awhile,’ Jean urged.
‘No, really, it’s fine. I’d rather just get on.’
When Michel reached Beau’s carriage, he saw the behind of someone crouched over, wearing a pair of black trousers.
‘Can I help you?’ Michel asked.
The figure stood and turned to face him. Frieda.
‘I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind? I borrowed some tools, just a hammer and nails. I was thinking to sort Beau’s door a little. You know, the pole won’t stop him – he’s run away so many times I’ve lost count.’
‘I can help,’ Michel said.
‘You can?’ She smiled at him then tucked a piece of hair behind her ear; it had escaped the blue cloth that held it back. ‘I look a mess, I know. Not very ladylike. Werner would burst a vein if he saw me, but then again, he nearly burst two when Beau scarpered yesterday.’ She held out the hammer to Michel. ‘You said you’ll help?’
He took the hammer from her and tried to think of something to say, but he could conjure no words.
‘I was planning to nail in some planks, you know – halfway up the door?’
‘We’d need a hinge,’ Michel said, his voice quieter than he would have liked.
‘A hinge? I’ll go and ask one of the men to give me one. Maybe you nail the boards together whilst I’m gone?’ She smiled again.
‘I can do that.’
‘Good. Be back in a minute.’
As soon as she was gone, Michel set to with the boards. I can do that. Is that what he had really said – is that all he could muster? Like a child. I can do that. What was wrong with him?
He took a nail and hammered it into the wood. It split and he had to try again. He suddenly thought of the butcher’s daughter, Estelle, of the way he could talk to her with ease, even in front of her father. Then of Odélie, and of the women from Odette’s café. He had said more to them – talked of music, of life. He had made jokes – yes, jokes! One woman – Adele, was it? – she had said he was funny.
He took another nail and splintered the wood again.
‘Here, a hinge.’ Frieda held it over his shoulder.
He took it from her, his fingers touching hers, and felt the words fall away once more.
‘I’ll hold the nail in place. Maybe that will help?’ She bent down in front of him and they worked silently for a few minutes, save from the knock of the hammer on each nail.
When they were done, Michel sat back.
‘I should have asked the men, you know, to do this… that’s what Werner would have done.’
‘But you didn’t,’ Michel said.
She sat back too, her bottom on the ground, her legs pulled up so she could rest her forearms on her knees.
‘I like Beau. I was the one who told Werner to buy him. No one wanted him, did he tell you that?’
Michel shook his head.
‘He was going to be shot. They said he had too much spirit. But I liked him; I saw something in him that reminded me of someone. So, I got my way. And now it is my responsibility to keep him safe. That’s why I didn’t ask for help. He’s mine. I want him safe.’
‘I’ll keep him safe for you.’
‘I know you will. I can see it in your eyes.’
‘Can you bring Claudette to the tent?’ Odélie appeared behind Michel, her voice loud and harsh.
‘Claudette?’
‘Yes. To the tent. Now. We are rehearsing.’
‘Sorry, he was helping me.’ Frieda stood.
‘Werner wants us all.’
‘I’ll finish this later,’ Michel said.
‘Claudette? Michel! I need her now.’
Michel turned to Odélie and went to Claudette, seeing the shadow of Frieda disappear out of the corner of his eye.
‘What were you helping with?’ Odélie asked as Michel fixed the bridle onto Claudette.
‘A door for Beau.’
‘Just a door? Why was she doing it?’
‘I don’t know. She was here when I came back.’
‘Werner won’t be happy.’
Michel looked at her. ‘And who will tell him?’
Odélie grinned at him. ‘We all have secrets, don’t we, Michel?’
‘About last night…’
‘What about it?’ She smiled slyly at him. ‘I was fast asleep – I’m not sure what you were up to? Get her ready and bring her to the tent. Quickly now. No one wants to see Werner upset.’
A few minutes later Michel led Claudette to the Big Top. He walked her around the outside until he saw Felix, leaning against a post, smoking a cigarette.
‘Do I take her through the front?’ Michel asked.
‘You’re so friendly with them, thought you’d know where to take her,’ Felix said.
Michel turned away and walked Claudette through the main entrance. In front of him lay a dusted circle ready for the performers, encircled by tiers of seats that workers were still banging nails into.
‘Not here! Are you that stupid?’ Werner walked towards him from the middle of the ring, a spotlight from above making his costume glitter. ‘Behind! Behind! You think that the audience want to see you with a horse?’
Michel turned Claudette, who, ruffled by all the shouting, pushed her nose against his cheek.
‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ Michel spoke calmly to her.
He walked her past Felix once more, who grinned at him, and found the back entrance to the part of the tent that held the performers away from sight of the audience’s seats.
‘I’ll take her.’ Eliáš the male triplet took the reins from Michel.
‘Odélie said Claudette was for her.’
‘And I will take her to her.’
‘Stand here, Michel.’ Jean came forward and ushered him behind a wooden stall. ‘Stand here and watch the rehearsal. You’ll like it.’
‘Jean, you look magnificent,’ Michel exclaimed. Jean was dressed in a wig of white curls, his face painted white with red circles on his cheeks. A ruffled white neckerchief peeked out over a waistcoat of gold, framed by a jacket and pantaloons of scarlet velvet. His legs were clad in white tights and his giant feet in black patent shoes.
‘I am a king – if just for a day, Michel. Giordano is my court jester. Giordano, where are you? Are you hiding again?’
Giordano appeared from behind a cut-out throne being carried by two men to the centre of the ring.
‘I look foolish!’ Giordano cried.
‘You look like a jester,’ Michel said, admiring the man’s red, green and blue striped outfit, and stifling a laugh as he spotted the slippers that were upturned with bells on them.
‘See? You think I am stupid.’
‘You are funny, my friend, and that is the point,’ Jean said, and placed his arm around Giordano’s shoulders. ‘Now, Michel, wait here – watch and see some magic!’
Michel stood in the shadows and watched as the performers all met in the ring. The triplets were decked out in silvery white cotton leotards, their sequins catching the light. Werner held court, standing on an upturned box, his red overcoat unbuttoned, his top hat on the ground.
Odélie appeared, her body encased in the same silver-white as the triplets, her hair piled high and pinned with sequins that winked as they caught the light. She stretched and laughed with the others as Serge walked into the ring, a bag on his back, the shining tips of swords peeping out of the top.
‘From there, you hold out one arm, and she will jump o
n behind you,’ Werner instructed Eliáš, who was clambering aboard Claudette bareback.
‘I know. I’ve done it before,’ he said.
‘No backchat! Go! Get on with it.’
Eliáš rode Claudette around the ring to warm her up, her head pulled high, her strides short and clipped.
Michel stepped back, just one step, and tripped over something soft.
‘Ouch!’ A woman’s voice.
Michel turned to apologise and there was Frieda.
‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’
She smiled at him. ‘It’s all right.’
‘You look…’ Michel lost his words.
Gone were the men’s trousers and shirt; now she was in a navy-blue leotard bedecked with sequins and silver thread, her long legs encased in transparent tights.
‘Better than my workman clothes? Not my best costume, this one, but it will do for rehearsals.’
‘Did I hurt you?’
‘Only a little. It’s nothing compared to the injuries I’ve had over the years. Trapeze isn’t for the faint of heart.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘Are you going to watch?’
‘I want to.’
‘Frieda! And you, why are you still here?’ Werner stalked towards them. He grabbed hold of Frieda’s arm, pulling her away from him. ‘You damage her foot, you damage my show!’
‘It was an accident. It doesn’t hurt. Not even a bruise, see?’ She turned her ankle left, then right. ‘See?’
‘Are you still here?’ Werner looked at Michel.
‘No. I’ll go.’
‘Better get to it, then.’ Werner dragged Frieda across to the others, who all stared after Michel as he walked out.
The next morning, Michel woke tangled in his sheet, his forehead slick with sweat as if he had a fever. With the mercury steadily rising each day – it never stayed still long enough for someone to record the exact temperature – the inside of the tent was growing stuffy.
Michel went to see Beau and Claudette, who were lethargic and lay on the ground to cool themselves. He could not train Beau in this heat – he would have to wait until early evening.
He spent the day grooming the horses instead, picking their hoofs and checking them all over for summer ticks. He even read to them from his book, feeling strangely at home – as if he were back in Paris, back at his job, and soon would be dining with Bertrand.
The Ringmaster's Daughter: A beautiful and heartbreaking World War 2 love story Page 8
