Page 118 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Werner suddenly groaned a little and Michel stood. ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘It’s just the stitches. Your handiwork, whilst it saved my life, has tightened the skin. Feels as though I am going to burst out of them.’

Michel plumped the pillow behind his head and helped Werner to sit up a bit more.

‘I’d better get back to them,’ Michel said.

‘Yes. You’d better. They’ll be running amok down there.’

‘You sure I can’t get you anything?’ Michel asked.

‘No. I’m fine. Got this poetry to read, a nap to take.’

Michel left Werner and just before he closed the door, he saw him staring out of the window once more, the book still unopened on his lap.

When Michel came upon the field, tents were springing up, a stern Frieda, hands on hips, directing the workers. As he approached, he heard the honk of a truck’s horn behind him, followed by the trumpeting of an elephant.

Two trucks came closer, the elephant’s trunk sneaking through the latticed wood of the first to sniff out her new environment. The second truck was quieter. A man jumped down, his arm in a sling, a cheroot between his teeth.

‘Mind,’ he told the crowd, ‘he’s in a bad mood today,’ and nodded at his arm.

‘You’re here! Voilà, Michel! Your animals.’ Henri appeared from his car, trailing behind the entourage.

‘Two of them,’ the injured man said.

‘Georges is an ill-tempered beast,’ Henri said.

‘Georges is the one in the truck, I assume?’ Michel said.

‘Oh, heavens no! That’s Bastien the lion. Georges is his trainer. He’s the one you must watch out for.’

‘Victor says you owe him double,’ Georges told Henri. ‘He says you can afford it.’

Henri’s smile set in place. ‘We will talk later.’

‘I’m just the messenger. Where do you want us to set up?’

Michel pointed towards the rear of the tent.

‘Stephanie, my daughter, deals with Camille. That’s the elephant. So, don’t get any ideas that anyone but her will be riding her. My daughter’s a star.’

‘Where is she?’ Henri asked.

‘Asleep in the cab. She likes her sleep too, so don’t annoy her if she’s sleeping. She’s worse than me.’

The troupe nodded, yet none of them moved, each wanting to get a look at Camille the elephant.

‘You’ll see her later.’ Georges climbed back into the first truck and the driver took them around the back of the tent to set up.

By late afternoon, most of the work on the tents had ceased and Michel brought the performers into the Big Top for their first run-through. They followed him into the ring, heaped with sand. Workers were busy raking it flat whilst the trapeze and nets were being tested above. Hammering echoed around them as the men finished erecting the tiered stands, the highest seats reaching to the canopied roof.

‘We have only three days to get this right,’ Michel told them. ‘I know it isn’t long, but it can be done. We just have to work hard.’

Michel heard someone giggle and he swallowed, his mouth dry. ‘I have given you all a running order. Make sure you read it. Your costumes are being completed as we speak by Madame Rosie and Bertrand, who has proven adept at sewing.’ Michel paused and allowed a moment for smiles all round. ‘After our first run-through now, we break, you eat and see Rosie about your costumes, then we do another run-through tonight.

‘We will start with all of the troupe entering to the music of the band. I want it dark; one by one, the spotlight will pick out the performers. As the music swells, more lights will shed a glow on our dancers. Then, all the lights come on and the troupe have disappeared, leaving the clowns in the centre, dressed in red suits and black shirts, your faces painted as skeletons.’

‘Like actual skeletons, so we look dead?’ a small boy asked.