Page 65 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Moments later, Werner hurried past, striding towards Anton’s tent. As he entered, the voices disappeared and Michel caught Werner’s voice – low and threatening but the words were mumbled.

Michel waited until he saw Werner leave, followed by Anton, his eyes downcast, his limbs slow and heavy.

He hesitated until they were gone, then quickly ran to Anton’s tent. Inside was not just one radio but three, plus wires, headphones and a microphone.

He closed the tent flap and walked back to his own. The wind blew, but this time it was cold and made him shiver; Bertrand would have called it the wind of change, and Michel believed it.

That evening, Michel was at the rear of the Big Top, watching the show from his seat on an upturned bucket. The dancers danced, the clown clowned, the acrobats contorted and flipped and spun. Frieda flew in the heavens above them and Werner rallied the crowd, as the pared-back band comprising Kacper and his accordion, accompanied by a workhand on the trumpet and Serge thumping a drum, tried to fill the tent with mellifluous notes. The audience clapped with delight under the twinkling lights, only seeing what they were meant to – the performers, the colours, the act.

Michel knew different, though. The troupe’s faces, although made up as usual, were more mask-like than ever. Hugo was paler, his eyes larger and sadder; Werner’s smile was frozen in place; the triplets and Odélie were almost ghost-like in their pallid blues and whites, as though hoping to simply disappear in front of their audience.

Sitting front and centre were Herr Köhler and his men. Hugo’s génépy had worked a treat, and they laughed and slapped their thighs as Hugo honked horns and pretended to fall over his own foot. By the end they were half asleep, and Herr Köhler had to be carried back to the village.

Michel waited until the very end, when Frieda tumbled into the safe hands of the net, her long stockinged legs strong and supple, her curves enhanced by the sequinned bodysuit.

He imagined that instead of the net it was his arms that held her, pulled her to him so she was safe. Then, he imagined her standing in a parlour filled with light and birdsong from the trees outside. In his daydream, he took her in his arms, and they moved together as if they were one and the same.

He snapped back to reality. If, just if, she ever spoke to him again, what could he do? Woo her? With what – the few francs he had kept from Lucien or won at mouche? And what of Werner? He would not let her go without a fight – one which Michel knew he would lose. He felt his hope slipping away. She was not his – she never would be.

He stood and took Beau’s reins, then Claudette’s. He waited, counted to ten, then twenty. Finally, she walked past him, the scent of her sweat and lemon perfume sweet yet fresh at the same time. She turned to look at him and smiled: not a smile she gave to Herr Köhler, nor a smile she gave to Serge or Odélie, but a shy smile Michel knew well – one that Estelle in Paris had given him, one which told him he was right to stay, to wait. Patience, Michel. That’s what Estelle had said. Patience.

As the troupe quietened, lights were switched off and torches doused, Michel sat out with the horses, stoking a fire in a steel drum, and wrapping them in his own blankets. They soon settled onto the bed of straw, each using the other for warmth. Michel watched them sleep, their breath steaming in the cold air. He would speak with Werner tomorrow. This could not go on. They needed stables; the weather would soon be worse.

Beau would not settle completely, and whinnied and kicked for no reason. Michel sat close to him, stroked his nose, and began to tell him a story.

‘When I read to you before, it was always the story of Tintin and his adventures. Well, this story, now, is not from the book. It is my story. Once upon a time, I was born in Paris to my mother, Marie. My father had died in the war, so she was alone, with me, in Paris and no money.’

Beau quietened, but there was a noise, a rustle behind them – something was there that should not be.

Michel stood.

‘Keep going,’ a voice said.

‘Who is it?’ he asked, even though he knew the answer; he just wanted her to speak again.

‘Frieda.’ She moved close to the fire, the orange glow lighting up her face under the cloak she wore.

‘You should be inside, it’s cold.’

‘So should you. Leave them, just for a moment. Come and warm yourself inside. I have some wine that can warm you too.’ That smile again. The one that was just for him.

‘What about Werner?’

‘He’s gone into town to celebrate with Serge. He won’t be back for some time. Trust me.’

Michel hesitated, unsure of himself, aware that words had failed him once more.

‘Come. Please.’ She held out her hand.

Michel took it and allowed her to lead him towards her and Werner’s home; feeling as though this were all simply a dream.

Inside the caravan the ceiling was painted with pink-cheeked cherubs that floated on clouds against the purest of blue skies; bunches of rich purple grapes decorated each corner, so realistic that Michel felt the urge to raise his hand and pluck a plump fruit from the vine.

A bed covered in a rich red-and-gold blanket dominated the space. Beside it were a chair, some clothes, a small warming stove and a brass stand holding some potted herbs, a few cups and a jug of wine the colour of the painted grapes. A door led to another room, but it was closed.

‘Here, sit,’ she commanded, pointing to the chair near the stove.

Michel sat.