by Susie Bower
‘What’s for afters?’ said Saddo.
Mr Gold came back into the room. ‘I have reported finding the boy to the police,’ he said. ‘And I have suggested to social services that we keep him here for the time being, until someone comes forward to claim him. I will arrange an extra bed for him in the boys’ dormitory.’
Rule Boy made a face.
Custard clutched my hand. ‘I w-won’t sleep a w-wink with him next door,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t be daft,’ I whispered back. ‘He’s just wild and frightened. He won’t hurt us.’
Miss Cruet harrumphed again. ‘Felix, this is most likely a feral boy—completely uncivilized. He can’t be expected to fit in here.’
‘Why not?’ said Mr Gold. ‘The boy is a Nobody, so far as we know, so he should fit in just fine.’
The boy followed the conversation, his head turning back and forth as if he was at a tennis match.
‘Please, Miss Cruet,’ I said, ‘what does feral mean?’
Miss Cruet looked a bit taken aback and glanced over at the boy. He was holding a hank of his hair, inspecting it and occasionally biting at it, like a dog searching for fleas.
‘Feral means wild, as opposed to domesticated. A feral cat, for example, is one who has lived in the wild and knows only wild ways. So if such a cat is brought into someone’s home, it will continue to act like a wild cat until it is tamed.’
‘What if it doesn’t want to be tamed?’ I said.
Miss Cruet ignored this. She turned to Mr Gold.
‘Very well, Felix. He may stay, for the time being. But if he causes trouble, it will be entirely your responsibility. I insist, however, that he washes and wears our uniform. And tomorrow is Haircut Day, so we will dispose of that.’ And she pointed at the boy’s long, matted hair, which was dripping all over the kitchen floor.
Next morning, Mr Gold led Custard and me into the bathroom, which had washbasins in it, along with an old-fashioned bath with clawed feet and a shower cubicle.
‘But why do we have to? Is it the rules?’
Rule Boy was sitting at one of the basins, a towel round his neck, holding his glasses in his hand. Without them, he looked young and sort of innocent. The floor was covered with black curls. Rule Boy’s hair, or what was left of it, stood up in spikes. Standing behind him, brandishing a pair of shears, was Miss Cruet.
‘Here you go, Euphenia,’ said Mr Gold. ‘Two more for haircuts.’ And he limped out.
Miss Cruet turned and glared at us. She wore her brightest outfit yet—a knitted dress in mustard yellow with red polka dots, two knitted scarfs in blue and green stripes, and a long pink knitted cardigan.
‘Right,’ she barked at Rule Boy. ‘You’re done. Go to your dormitory and wait there.’
‘But why?’ said Rule Boy again. ‘Why do we have to get our hair cut?’
Miss Cruet narrowed her eyes. ‘Nobodies must give up all those things which mark them as individuals: their names, their clothes, their possessions. Ergo, your hair.’
‘What’s ergo?’ I muttered to Rule Boy, as he pulled on his glasses.
He rolled his eyes.
‘Latin,’ he said. ‘Means therefore.’ He drifted out of the room, running his hand through his shorn black spikes and grumbling to himself.
‘Sit!’ said Miss Cruet to Custard and me.
She handed each of us a towel—not very clean ones—and stood behind Custard. Custard’s blonde hair, though fine and wispy, was almost down to her waist. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and looked at the shears with terror. Without further ado, Miss Cruet cut a big chunk out of her hair, then another.
‘P-please,’ stammered Custard, ‘my m-mum said—’
Miss Cruet ignored her, and in a couple of minutes, Custard’s hair was shorn to her shoulders in a ragged bob.
‘Back to your dormitory,’ ordered Miss Cruet, and Custard slunk out, sucking her thumb.
Then it was my turn. I wasn’t frightened. I wanted my hair to be cut, so everyone could see my name. I gave Miss Cruet my best smile. She didn’t smile back.
‘Can you cut it really short?’ I said. ‘Like a pixie cut?’
Miss Cruet raised the shears and, in rough hacks, began lopping my hair into exactly the same shoulder-length bob as she’d given Custard.
‘A fringe would be—’ I began hopefully, then I stopped short as the door was flung open.
Mr Gold stood in the doorway, holding the feral boy by the hand. The boy looked a little more like a human now that his face and hands had been washed. He was wearing a sweatshirt, inside out, and trousers and trainers. His matted hair fell to below his knees.
When he saw Miss Cruet, a low growl rumbled from his throat. His strange, tawny eyes flickered around the room, as if looking for escape. Then he saw me and stared at my burn, just the way he had yesterday. I quickly turned my face away.
Mr Gold sat the boy in the chair beside me and said in a low voice to Miss Cruet: ‘Be gentle with him, Euphenia.’ Then he limped out of the room.
Miss Cruet lifted a hank of the boy’s hair. He gave another growl, baring his teeth like a cornered animal, and pulled away from her. As she raised the shears to begin cutting, he opened his mouth and screamed. It was a terrible sound.
I shrank away from him.
Still holding the shears, Miss Cruet grabbed him with her free hand. He kicked and growled and shook his head frantically.
I jumped off my seat, my heart thudding, and edged backwards until my back hit the wall.
The boy was on his feet, drumming them on the floorboards, twisting and snarling and whipping his long hair back and forth, out of reach of Miss Cruet’s grasp.
Suddenly, he stopped struggling. His shoulders slumped and he slipped to the floor as if his legs wouldn’t hold him up any longer. His strange, tawny eyes locked into mine. They were full of tears, and as we stared at one another, a single drop tracked down his face. Just for a moment, I stopped being scared of him. He was wild and frightened and alone. I thought of Sonia and Claude, and how they’d stopped me from being wild. And before I could think any more, my legs carried me towards him. I grabbed the shears from Miss Cruet’s hands and threw them to the floor.
‘STOP IT!!!’ I shouted at her. ‘Stop it right now! Leave him alone!!!’
Miss Cruet seized me by the arm and shook me, scattering hairpins over the floor.
‘Impertinent child!’ she barked, and was clearly going to say a lot more, only she was interrupted by the door opening.
Mr Gold entered. He scanned the room in that strange way he had.
‘Let her go, Euphenia,’ he said. Then he limped over to where the feral boy was crouching, growling, and knelt down in front of him, gazing into his eyes.
‘We wish you no harm,’ he said quietly.
Miss Cruet bent to pick up the shears, but Mr Gold stopped her.
‘No, Euphenia,’ he said. ‘Let him be.’
‘You know as well as I do, Felix, that while they are at this school, the children’s hair must be cut to a standard length.’
Then I thought of something. ‘Please, Mr Gold,’ I said.
‘Yes, child?’
‘What about rule three? One possession only.’
‘What about it?’
‘Couldn’t he keep his hair?’
‘An interesting idea,’ Mr Gold smiled. ‘What do you say, Euphenia? Do you think we could apply rule three?’
Miss Cruet huffed and puffed. ‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘But don’t blame me if this situation comes back to bite us—literally.’
Then she turned to me, and snapped: ‘Go to your dormitory immediately.’
I shook the towel from my shoulders and moved towards the door. As I reached it, something made me turn. The feral boy was still sitting on the floor, his wet eyes fixed on me as if I was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
And that was the beginning of the trouble.
SECRET MUSIC
My golden leotard
swayed above me, the pearls and sequins and crystals glinting in the sunlight. Its hem brushed my face, back and forth. I reached up to touch it, and my fingers met something soft and warm. I opened my eyes.
And screamed.
A pair of tawny eyes stared down into mine. The feral boy was bending over my bed and stroking my cheek, where my burn was. His hair hung over me like a curtain and it was this that I’d touched. I pulled my hand away and leapt out of bed.
‘STOP IT!!!’ I yelled. ‘Leave me alone! Go back to your own room!’
He backed out of the room and disappeared.
Custard, who had shot out of bed when I screamed, was cowering against the wall, clutching her yellow blanket.
‘Why does he k-keep following you?’ she said.
‘I don’t know,’ I said shakily. ‘I just wish he’d stop.’
Why, why, why, I thought, as I pulled on my sweatshirt and trousers, had I rescued the feral boy from the tree, and then saved his hair from being cut? He’d been here less than two days, but already it felt like forever. Everywhere I turned, there he was like an extra shadow. He’d stuck to me like glue, staring at me with those strange eyes. It gave me the creeps.
‘Where are you g-going?’ asked Custard.
‘Out,’ I said.
Today was the day of my first acrobatics lesson with Mr Gold. He’d told me to meet him in the Amphitheatre at seven thirty, before breakfast. It was only six forty-five, but I might just as well get up now, and go down there early. I could practise my handstands and cartwheels before Mr Gold arrived.
I brushed my teeth and tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding the creaky one near the bottom. Miss Cruet was banging around in the kitchen, so I quietly pulled open the bolt on the back door and stepped out into the garden.
The sun was just rising and the air was cold and fresh and full of the tweeting, chirruping and chattering of birdsong. I hurried through the orchard and took the left-hand path through the wood. Soon it would be autumn. Mushrooms and spotted red toadstools grew in the shady places among the tree roots.
I’d passed the shed and was almost at the clearing, when a sound made me stop in my tracks—the very last sound I would expect to hear in the middle of a wood.
It was music.
I tiptoed towards the Amphitheatre. There, standing in front of the stone seats, was Rule Boy. He had a cloth on his shoulder, and on this rested his violin. His fingers darted over the strings, while his other hand used the bow. Propped against the stone seat in front of him was a sheet of music, and beside that stood the odd triangular machine. Its single hand was rocking back and forth, tick-tock, tick-tock…
The music, beautiful and sad, made me shiver and tingle all over. Rule Boy was swaying about and his face looked different, dreamy and intense. Then he opened his eyes and saw me.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said.
If he had been anyone else, I’d have said how well he played and how the music made me feel, but this was Rule Boy, so I didn’t. He’d only use it as an excuse to be smug and superior. Instead I pointed at the machine, which was still tick-tocking.
‘What’s that?’
Rule Boy leant over and flicked a switch on the machine and the hand stopped moving.
‘It’s a metronome,’ he said. ‘Most people would know that.’
I ignored this, and said: ‘What’s it for?’
‘It keeps time,’ said Rule Boy. ‘I set it to the speed I need for the piece I’m planning to play and it tells me how fast to go.’
‘Oh,’ I said. I picked up a piece of the sheet music. I knew about music from when I studied for my grade one piano, but that had been simple. This music looked like a hailstorm of notes.
‘Want to hear me play something else?’ said Rule Boy, picking up another sheet of music.
‘OK,’ I said.
Rule Boy fiddled with the metronome until it was tick-tocking really fast, then he picked up the violin and began to play again. Once again, he furrowed his brow and looked serious as he concentrated. But this time the tune was bouncy and jolly, and I found my feet tapping. Then I couldn’t help it—my whole body began to dance and jump and whirl and bounce around the grass circle.
I didn’t want the music to stop, but of course it did, and I stood there, grinning and panting.
Rule Boy began gathering up the music and the metronome.
When I got my breath back, I said: ‘How did you sneak all this stuff out of school without Miss Cruet seeing?’
Rule Boy flushed. ‘I used my violin case to bring down my music, bit by bit, and hid it in the shed. Last of all, I brought the metronome. You won’t tell on me, will you?’ For once, he didn’t look superior.
‘I’m not a sneak,’ I said.
‘Thanks,’ he said gruffly. Then he picked up his stuff and walked out of the Amphitheatre.
When he’d gone, I stood in the centre of the circle of grass. A grey squirrel pattered along a branch, its cheeks full of nuts. Somewhere nearby a bird gave a strange, croaking cry. The trees whispered to one another.
Rule Boy’s music still sang through my head. I began to dance again, round and round the circle, throwing in a couple of handstands and a cartwheel for fun. Then, out of breath, I sat down on one of the stone seats and waited for Mr Gold. I didn’t have a watch, of course, so I had no idea how long I’d been waiting. Had he forgotten? What if he’d changed his mind? Maybe he’d decided it was too dangerous, because he couldn’t see me properly?
The sound of footsteps approached. Mr Gold limped towards the Amphitheatre, wearing green braces and baggy green trousers. Under his arm he carried two plastic mats.
‘Mr Gold!’ I shouted. ‘Here I am!’
‘You are in good time,’ he said. ‘An excellent beginning.’
‘What shall we do first?’ My body was tingling all over and itching to move again.
Mr Gold laid his stick down on one of the stone seats.
‘Patience, child,’ he said, with his crooked smile. ‘The muscles must be stretched before we work them. Follow what I do. First, swing your arms.’
He began to swing his arms round and round, and I copied.
‘Now, stretch up as high as you can. And bend down and touch your toes.’
He tossed me a mat, and we laid them down in the grass circle.
‘Watch me.’ Mr Gold lay on his back and brought one of his legs straight up in the air. I was surprised at how easily he did it. ‘Now, you have a go.’
I tried to copy him. My muscles felt like elastic bands being stretched further than I ever thought they could go.
When we’d stretched every bit of our bodies, Mr Gold stood up.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘show me what you can do.’ And he went and sat on a stone seat.
So I showed him some somersaults, some cartwheels and my twenty-second handstand (I actually managed thirty seconds—it must have been all the stretching).
‘Good,’ he said, and I felt very proud. ‘You have excellent balance. You must practise every day, to build up your strength.’
He delved in his pocket and, with a flourish, pulled out three large spotted handkerchiefs.
‘Ever had a go at juggling?’
I shook my head.
‘The best way to learn to juggle is with handkerchiefs, because they fall slowly.’
Mr Gold threw one of the handkerchiefs into the air, then the next, then the next. He caught each one as it fell. I remembered what he’d told me about being almost blind.
‘Can you see them?’ I asked.
‘I can see the movement. But I could do this blindfold. In fact, I did juggle blindfold as part of the act.’
He threw the handkerchiefs over to me, one by one. I caught them and began to copy him. It wasn’t as easy as it looked, but I soon got the hang of it.
‘Keep the handkerchiefs,’ Mr Gold said, ‘and practise.’
I stuffed them into my pocket.
‘How long did it take you to learn to be an acrobat?’ I
asked.
Mr Gold sat down.
‘Many, many years,’ he said. ‘I began when I was younger than you, when me and Fred—’
‘Who was Fred?’
‘Fred was my twin brother,’ said Mr Gold.
‘You have a twin?’
I almost burst out and told him about my twin, then I slapped my hand over my mouth, just in time. Mr Gold must never find out about my plan to escape to the Academy. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were sad, as if they were looking into the past.
‘Yes, Fred and I were twins,’ he said. ‘We trained together from when we were toddlers. Our dad was a great acrobat, the best in the world. So was his dad. Our family were all circus people.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘So you were born in the circus?’
‘I was,’ said Mr Gold. ‘Circus was the only life I knew.’
‘I’ve read stories about children who run away to the circus. I used to wish I could do that when I lived with Sonia and Claude.’
‘Well, Fred and I were a bit unusual,’ said Mr Gold. ‘Because we ran away from the circus.’
My mouth fell open. ‘What? Why?’
‘Remember what I told you about there being good circuses and bad circuses?’
I nodded.
‘Sometimes good circuses turn bad.’ He twirled his stick in his hands, round and round. ‘And that’s what happened to ours.’
‘Would you… will you tell me about it?’ I said.
‘Child, it is not a happy story.’
‘I don’t mind sad stories,’ I said.
Mr Gold thought for a moment. Then he gave a small nod.
‘Very well,’ he said.
And he began.
GOOD AND BAD CIRCUS
‘Our circus was called Harlequin’s,’ said Mr Gold. ‘We lived with our dad in a caravan.’
‘I’d like to live in a caravan,’ I said. ‘I’d like to always be moving from place to place.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Gold. ‘Moving around would suit you very well.’
‘But what about lessons? Did you and Fred go to school?’
