Page 25 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Who do you think you are, telling me what I can and cannot do? Un beauf! Eh! I can see from your clothes – poor, no refinement. You think you know more than me?’

‘Not at all. All I know is horses; that’s it.’

‘Listen to me. I know horses. I know acts, shows, animals. What I don’t know is why a piss-poor lad is plaguing me!’ the ringmaster spat.

Michel picked up his bag then held the reins out to Werner.

‘How long?’

‘How long what?’ Michel asked.

‘To train him. How long?’

‘A week or so.’

‘Too long.’ The ringmaster reached into his pocket and pulled out an ivory cigarette holder, into which he inserted a long thin white smoke that he lit with a gold lighter.

‘Less than a week if I am with him every day, and all night. He needs to feel safe – secure.’

‘You’re not a performer, that’s for sure – the cut of you, with your skinny arms. No use to me really. Not that I’d ever give you the chance anyway. But the horses – perhaps.’

‘I’d be grateful for the work.’

‘I’m not paying you. Not for this. Trust must be earned. Food. Lodging. You have five days to get Beau ready. That’s it. No more.’

‘Five days.’

‘If you behave maybe I’ll give you a few more days. If not – you remember Serge?’ He grinned. ‘I’ll tell you now, this is my circus, my troupe, my rules. You are here to sort the horses and that’s it. You are not to annoy the performers; you are not to ask questions. I tell you what to do, and you do it. Understood?’

The ringmaster walked away. Then he stopped and turned. ‘You coming, then?’ He beckoned.

Michel took the stallion’s reins and followed this sour red sphere of a man, his thoughts immediately returning to the woman from the train.

‘Your name?’ Werner asked.

‘Michel.’

‘There’s a village not far from here. One of the farmers is a friend of mine and we are setting up in his fields as we speak.’

Michel followed the line of Werner’s extended arm and waited for him to say more, but he was silent during the walk that took them three more miles to a field which edged around a railway track, a disused train shed and dilapidated platform crumbling and sad in the near distance.

The red-and-white striped Big Top was already in place, dominating the field and, like a dancer performing on centre stage, it begged to be looked at and admired. Michel felt drawn to it, his gaze only broken by the sight of Serge from the train, his muscles bulging from his white shirt as he leaned against a wooden post and talked to a woman with long legs.

‘Over here,’ Werner said, indicating the static train and the wagons.

Michel followed, the horse at his shoulder, now and again snuffling at his shirt.

‘Here. This is his.’ Werner drew open a wagon door and pulled down a ramp. The horse knew what to do and walked dutifully into his wooden home. ‘He’s Beau, my newest. He’s for me – a stallion for a stallion!’ The ringmaster roared at his own joke, his belly sticking out as hard and ripe as a watermelon.

Werner gathered himself and pulled a pole across the open door. Michel saw Beau eye it as if it were a mere annoyance; it would not keep him inside if he wanted to leave.

‘Next door, this is Claudette and Bisou.’ Werner patted the nose of a white mare who received the affection with a low whinny and a nuzzle at her master, and then the nose of the miniature pony, piebald and jittery. ‘Our star horses. Two carriages down, that’s where we keep our working horses; not much to look at, but strong.’

Michel dropped his bag on the ground and stroked Claudette’s nose.

‘We’ll sort you a tent – a small one, mind. Have it put up here, next to the horses. Wait here. I’ll send someone.’

Michel watched as the ringmaster walked away, barking orders to men in brown trousers who wielded hammers and plunged pegs into the ground to secure the Big Top. Others were putting up smaller canvas tents and makeshift wooden stalls, and setting out large wooden poles atop which lanterns were hung, along with lengths of wires and bulbs to light the way through.