The Trapeze Artist Page 18

  ‘Hello,’ he said, grinning because he was sure it was Edward.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Paul brightly at the other end. ‘That was so funny when I lifted up the cloth and everybody saw you two like that! But listen, I wanted to see if you felt like doing something tomorrow . . .’

  As if in formation people get out of their caravans and trailers and come to stand in a huddle at the edge of the field, where they stare at the huge red big top with its swirly golden pattern of the solar system, rising up from the ground like the ornamental cupola of a Russian palace. There is no denying that it puts their own tent to shame.

  ‘Jesus, it’s the commies,’ mutters someone. There are sighs and groans and at the front of the huddle Benny sucks up a mouthful of saliva and spits out a giant lump of phlegm.

  ‘Heh,’ sniggers Midge. ‘Looks like someone’s already on the case.’

  They watch as the livid figure of Big Pete marches across the field towards the red big top. It is like watching David approaching Goliath, and it almost seems as if the tent might suddenly come alive, prove to be an extraterrestrial blob and devour Big Pete’s tiny form right in front of their very eyes. But Big Pete reaches the big top without getting eaten, climbs over some guy ropes and starts kicking at it furiously. They cannot hear him because of the wind and the distance but there is no doubt he is yelling and swearing. A few seconds later a flap opens and a tall man steps out and Big Pete squares up to him.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ groans Midge.

  Big Pete is now pushing the other man, who does not react well to this and pushes him back, waving a threatening fist in his face. A couple more figures join them outside the big top and Big Pete begins to divide his anger between them, waving his arms furiously and turning round and round on the spot like a frenzied bull.

  Vlad turns to him, yawning.

  ‘I’m going for a nap,’ says the aerialist. ‘Tell me what happens.’

  Vlad opens the door to their caravan, revealing to the company a brief glimpse of its messy insides, which turn to chaos no matter how frequently it is tidied and cleaned, before closing it behind him. Benny taps Midge on the shoulder and nods at the pickup that holds their own big top.

  ‘Come on,’ Benny says wearily. ‘Everyone – let’s do this.’

  ‘Where’re we s’posed to stake it?’ demands Midge. ‘The commies are right on our fucking patch!’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s not our problem, is it?’ Benny snaps. ‘Big Pete pays us to set up the tent, and until he tells us not to, that’s what we’ll do. So let’s move, eh?’

  ‘Who died and made you emperor of cunts?’ mutters Midge, but grudgingly he and the others follow Benny to the back of the pickup and crowd around to carry the big top out and lay it down on the grass rolled up like a colossal jumbo sausage.

  ‘What now, genius?’ says Midge. There is no space around them to unravel it, but to take it into the field would mean setting it up right next to the other tent.

  ‘Now we wait,’ Benny tells him.

  ‘Brilliant!’

  They do not have long to wait by the looks of things. Big Pete makes some final rude gestures at the rival circus, most of whom appear to have gathered outside to witness this crazy man who seems to want to take them all on at once in mortal combat, then spins on his heel and starts back. He trips on a guy rope as he leaves and sprawls forward on his knees. Even from a distance they can feel his rage, and for once no one even sniggers. Most look away as Big Pete picks himself up and continues his marching, fists clenching and unclenching as if in a parody of cartoon anger.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asks Midge quietly. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘The Red Circus,’ Midge replies. ‘Commies, we call ’em. They’ve nicked our patch.’

  ‘Patch?’

  ‘We don’t just set up shop wherever we bloody well like, y’know. You think this itinerary of ours is random? Gotta have permission from the council, documents and shit. And there’s the territory. Some towns, they don’t support more than one circus a year. Others are shared territory. This one ain’t.’

  ‘Then what are they doing here?’

  ‘Fucking us over. Dude who runs it obviously reckoned he’d set up and try and leave before we got here so we wouldn’t know.’

  Midge sighs deeply as if he had only managed to depress himself and pokes around in his coat pocket for his tobacco. Just then Big Pete arrives. Everybody falls silent, waiting for him to speak. The ringmaster looks slowly around the mêlée of trailers and caravans and takes in the saggy sausage of big top spread out on the ground at the centre.

  ‘Put that away,’ he orders.

  Midge rolls his eyes as the company starts to heft it back into the pickup.

  ‘All right, folks,’ announces Big Pete. ‘Looks like we’re gonna be here for the night at least while this gets sorted out.’

  ‘Hey,’ calls out the contortionist, ‘they taking our patch or what?’

  There are a couple of stagy boos and sighs, but really everyone is on tenterhooks to know the answer. The ringmaster grinds his teeth at the ground for a few seconds, flecks of spittle flying out and catching the light before disappearing on the air.

  ‘Me and them got some talking to do,’ he says grimly. ‘You lot stay out of it. And don’t get too comfy, cos this ain’t no fucking holiday.’

  Big Pete waves violently to signal that any conference is over and people start to disperse, heading either for town to seek out the pubs or back to their caravans. He turns to go and join Vlad and as he does he sees Marie standing at the door to her trailer with a black shawl wrapped around her shoulders, watching with a bitter expression. She has lost a shocking amount of weight in the last couple of weeks, he realises, something he had somehow failed to notice in the intermittent glimpses of the ringmaster’s wife he’s caught while collecting and depositing keys for the box office. Her skin is pale and sickly-looking and her forehead looks prematurely lined from stress. She catches his eye but does not smile. Then she retreats inside.

  ‘Useless bitch,’ says Big Pete, coming up beside him to stare at his own little portable house. ‘You’d think she’d do something about it, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he says, aware that any question carries the risk of having the ringmaster explode at him.

  ‘Her bloody family, ain’t it?’ snaps Big Pete over his shoulder as he strides purposefully towards his trailer. ‘Fucking red commie cunts!’

  At school the word had got round. Somebody’s mother had been at the exhibition, and she had told her daughter, and the news had travelled from person to person like a synaptic pulse until everybody knew. The entire room went quiet and then began to whisper when they entered the classroom that Monday morning. At the back of the class a boy called out ‘Gays!’ – it was hard to tell who because he immediately ducked his head down, as if not wanting to be the one to break the silence, an unusual thing given that they had been jeering at him and Edward for being gay since they had first become friends. But this was different, because now any element of doubt had been removed. He felt his insides turn to jelly as he realised this, but Edward merely looked around at the faces and gave an ironic laugh.

  ‘Come on,’ he whispered, trying to tug Edward to their seats.

  But instead of sitting Edward cleared his throat and climbed up on his chair. The whispering ceased and everybody looked up in amazement.

  ‘Attention,’ Edward told them. ‘We would like to formally come out to you, the good people of our class, easily the most deserving of our confidence. Thank you all for your unwavering support, for your refusal to give in to bigotry or prejudice, and for your ceaseless commitment to the good fight.’

  Edward bowed grandly. A couple of girls near the front started laughing and applauding, and quite a few others were smiling. He waited for the boys at the back of the room to start laying into them – they seemed to be conferring among themselves about the best line of attack. Edward reached down and grabbed
his hand, and he was so surprised by the gesture he gripped back instinctively.

  ‘Come on, Mavis,’ Edward lisped, using him as a support as he climbed down. Edward sat and pulled him into the seat beside him. There was more laughter, followed by the words ‘Fucking poofs . . .’ from the back, and Edward gave him a sidelong, secretive smile, and as if then someone had flipped a switch, he felt his fear quite magically vanish. He smiled back at Edward, then turned, puckered his lips, and made a kissing noise to the girl sitting behind him, who grinned.

  That night everybody assists with building a big fire. At first Benny, who has been left in charge while Big Pete is gone, shouts at them and tells them they will be caught by the council and fined, but then someone gives him a beer from one of the crates they brought back from town, and someone else hands him a spliff, and he calms down and decides he does not really care one way or another. The red circus has had a bad effect on morale – seeing its larger and far superior big top, and its trailers with their extra attractions that include a merry-go-round featuring rideable Disney creatures for small children and a darts and shooting range for adults has made the company restless and dissatisfied, and almost unanimously people have decided to get drunk. Someone even sneaks into the red circus during its matinée and returns to inform everyone in a despairing voice that it is really good. Several members of the company spit at this news, but mostly people shrug as if it was all they’d expected.

  ‘Of course they’re better than us,’ mutters the clown. ‘We’re shit.’

  Jethro gets a couple of dirty looks and Midge tells him to ‘Shut up, you cunt’, but he can see that basically everyone agrees with him. The general attitude seems to be that Big Pete’s circus is on its last legs, and when someone suggests they use the big top for kindling the entire company cheers.

  He seats himself between Vlad and the contortionist at the edge of the fire. The contortionist is already talking about next season, how she is going to return to London and get involved in the contemporary circus scene, maybe work in nightclubs and get on the books of some agents for corporate events. She says she will build a name for herself as a bendy burlesque star, as this is what everyone in the city wants to see. Vlad emits a short harsh snort and spits in the fire, leaving them in no doubt as to what he thinks of bendy burlesque stars, and the contortionist shoots him a glare. The clown skulks around at the edge of the circle, smoking and drinking and casting mean glances over at him and Vlad. Eventually he catches the clown’s eye and looks at him askance, but Jethro immediately looks away and not long after he disappears.

  It is late and people are starting to get very drunk. There is still no sign of Big Pete, but the lights of the red circus have gone out and music has been switched off, signifying that the other show is over. Midge suggests they get a crew together and go over to the red circus and show them what they’re made of, but Benny just laughs and tells him they’d be eaten alive and to get a grip.

  ‘What kind of a retard are you?’ Benny demands. ‘There’re three times as many of them.’

  The mood starts to dip once more. They have run out of beer and everybody is too stoned to think of going to fetch more. Over in Big Pete’s trailer one of the lights is on, and he realises Marie must be home and listening to everything they’re saying.

  ‘Going to the gentlemen,’ Vlad announces, standing.

  ‘I’m coming too,’ he says.

  He stands but the aerialist gestures angrily at him to sit down.

  ‘Can’t I even take a piss without you holding onto my hand?’ Vlad says.

  He is hurt, but he hides it because people are watching. The aerialist climbs across people’s laps and makes his way out of the circle. He notices that he is not going in the direction of the toilets though, or even heading towards the closest set of bushes, and his heart sinks. Vlad is off to the gentlemen all right, he thinks. But he does not get up and follow.

  After about an hour he can stand it no longer. He thinks he cannot sit there drinking and affecting laughter when he does not know what the aerialist is up to, so he gets up and clumsily makes his way out of the circle himself. As he does he is suddenly reminded of the day he followed Vlad and first saw the company like this, gathered around a fire at the centre of a field, a pool of light and merriment closed off from the rest of the world. He remembers how impenetrable the group was and how impossible it seemed that he should ever belong, and now here he is exchanging nods and clinking his bottle against others’ as he stumbles over people’s legs and laps. And he thinks to himself then that no matter where the aerialist is or what he is doing, he is not in the slightest bit sorry for the way things have turned out.

  From then on he will drive to the nursing home every day. He will go early, as soon as the home opens, when there are few other visitors and many of the residents are still being washed, cleaned and dressed. He will assist in this process with his mother, though the carer will always bathe her alone – ‘Don’t want to shock you, do we?’ she will tell him with a wink. He will not inform her that he has plenty of experience in bathing old ladies who have lost the ability to move their own limbs after strokes and aneurysms. The carer will often ask him how the ‘trapeze thing’ is coming along, for she will have read about it in the local paper like everyone else. Indeed, he will be something of a celebrity at the home, and a couple of times he will find himself rushed at by two children, a boy and a girl, while their mother waves to him from the side of the old man she comes to visit. These children will beg him to tell them about the circus and what it’s like to run away with it. He will be vague and embarrassed and smile a lot with the hopeful demeanour of someone who does not know how to talk to children. Young people have never been his speciality – it is old people in which he is expert. The children will chatter away over the top of him regardless, since in the end his presence is only a catalyst for them to voice their own ideas.

  Sometimes he will try to tell his mother about it. He will explain about the excitement, the hardship, the ridiculousness, the strange allure of it all. Who he will really be trying to explain it to is himself, and he will never find a satisfactory way of doing so. He will always end up just sitting there with her hand in his and staring with her out of the window at the small patch of lawn that lines the building.

  ‘Just as well you’re in the home already,’ he will say once, as a joke. ‘If you could see what I’ve done to the house, it’d probably put you in here anyway.’

  And she will stare blankly back at him and he will feel bad about the joke, suddenly wondering if somewhere inside she does understand after all. Then he will hear his voice taking on that same property of absurdly bright cheer that everyone uses to talk to unresponsive relatives, the one that he always used in the past too, and which his mother used to use when she worked here herself. Hearing this tone in his own voice will soon depress him back to silence. Sometimes the carer will walk in on the two of them with tea, sitting there quietly, and she will laugh uncomfortably and call them a pair of old waxworks.

  There are voices shouting at each other – one of them belongs to the aerialist, it is clear from the way it is punctuated with Romanian curses. The other is someone he does not immediately recognise. He follows the direction of the voices until he sees them, not far from the road, dimly lit by one of the street lights. They are standing a metre apart and bawling insults at one another as if it is what they were born to do. The reason he did not recognise the clown’s voice is because he has never heard him shout before. Jethro always speaks with a sneer, and his shouting voice sounds different, shaky and high-pitched, almost psychotic.

  ‘You’re a jealous fuck, that’s all you are!’ Vlad is yelling. ‘Jealous, jealous, jealous! Because you’re nothing but a sad old has-been! And you know what else? You’re not even funny!’

  The aerialist cackles manically and shakes his beer at the clown, producing a splatter of froth.

  ‘Because you’re such hot shit, eh?’ the clown screeches b
ack at him. ‘Vlad the amazing poof! Who everybody knows can’t even get it up – Vlad the amazing limp dick more like!’

  The pair of them pause for a second, and it almost seems as if both have abruptly run out of ideas of what to shout next. Then, as if by mutual accord, they launch themselves at each other like two cats that have been waiting for the right signal to pounce. They meet in the air, seemingly in a hug, but one which quickly develops into a wrestling match as they connect with the ground and begin to roll back and forth, each fighting to get on top of the other.

  ‘Stop it!’ he shouts, but neither so much as acknowledges his presence. He rushes up to them and then hovers behind the battle feeling strangely ineffectual and detached – almost as if he really were at the cinema watching it unravel on-screen. He sees the clown raise his fist and sees Vlad sock him in the jaw before he can bring it down and feels nothing, no sense of urgency or panic.

  ‘Hey! What’s going on here?’

  It is Midge, running towards the fight from across the field. There is another shout from behind Midge and he knows that more people are coming, and this spurs him into action and he leaps towards the struggling duo and grabs the shoulders of the one on top, pulling hard. When this person snarls and turns to plant a fist square in his face he is so stunned that the image of Vlad realising who he is hitting seems to freeze-frame as he falls back into the mud beside them.

  ‘Cunt!’ Jethro screams.

  He lies there, dazed, dimly aware that they are still fighting. Then Midge has reached them and is pulling them apart – but by this time it is unnecessary, as they are more or less done, panting and rubbing their respective wounds. Midge is shouting at them to go and cool off and someone else is crouching beside him and asking him if he is OK. He feels something wet on his lips and from the taste realises it is blood.