Page 67 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘But you will not return?’

Michel shook his head. ‘I want to. But with the war, I am not sure what is there for me anymore.’

‘But there are things for you here?’

He nodded then drank the rest of his wine.

‘Michel, there are those who long for home, who cannot find themselves comfortable anywhere but with that which they already know. But there are those who welcome a change of sound, of sight and of smell. They long for the unknown just as others long for the known.’

‘And you are one who welcomes change?’ Michel said.

‘No. I am the one who longs for home.’

Suddenly a knock on the door made Frieda jump up from her seat. Her smile was gone, her face suddenly pale. Before she could answer the door, it was flung open by a red-faced Werner.

‘You! Out! Now!’ he yelled at Michel, who stood obediently and climbed down the steps.

Frieda rushed to the door.

‘Close it. Stay inside.’ Werner’s voice was low; Frieda’s bottom lip trembled. He turned to Michel and gazed down at him from the wagon.

One by one, Werner clomped down the steps after him, the sound echoing in the still air.

‘We just talked, nothing more.’

‘With her! You talked with her, where we sleep! Who do you think you are, Michel Bonnet? Eh? You already charmed Odélie – yes, I know of this. If you think I don’t know what is going on then you are stupider than I thought.’

‘We just talked.’

‘You just talked.’ Werner mimicked his voice and Michel felt his jaw clench. The ringmaster shoved him a little, so that he was forced to step backwards.

‘There’s no law against talking, is there?’

‘My law says there’s no fraternising between worker and performer.’

‘I am friends with Jean. Giordano and the others. Why not Frieda?’ Michel said, emboldened by the alcohol.

‘Not this performer.’ Werner stepped down and pushed Michel again. ‘You think you know it all, don’t you, Michel? Making friends. Being part of this. I let you, you know. By my grace I ignored it. But you have stepped too close. Too close. And you stand here and tell me you were just talking?’

‘We were.’ Frieda opened the door, the light behind her illuminating them all. ‘We just talked. That’s all. About the horses, about what Beau could be trained to do next.’ She nodded slightly at Michel.

‘She’s right. I was saying that maybe I could teach Beau to dance like the Spanish horses. She thought it would be a nice surprise for you.’

‘Come. Come inside now.’ Frieda moved between the two men, placing her hands on Werner’s shoulders. ‘Please. I asked him to come and talk to me about Beau. That’s all.’

Werner’s eyes bulged in the darkness. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He raised his arms, but then dropped them heavily to his sides as if all the fight had been knocked out of him already.

‘We leave at dawn – make sure the horses are ready.’

Michel stood in the pitch darkness, watching his breath curl in the icy air. He watched Werner walk up the steps to Frieda, and only then did he return to the horses.

The next morning, the troupe left before the cockerel crowed and took a rough track away from the town – away from Herr Köhler and his office, where he would be sitting waiting for their papers, waiting to know who they really were.

They moved the horses on quickly, stirring up dust in the wake of their caravans. Michel rode Beau, Claudette on a lead rope next to him. Bisou – too small to keep up – was in Jean and Giordano’s caravan, annoying Giordano by knocking things over and leaving smelly deposits on the floor. No one spoke, no one asked where they were going next, and Michel was too tired, too unnerved by the evening before to think about it – all he knew was that Frieda was in danger with Werner and he had to save her from him.

They rested mid-afternoon outside a settlement of a few houses nestled into the rocky western coastline. Michel had not seen the sea in a long while and he stood on a cliff edge, taking in large lungfuls of fresh salty air whilst the horses rested and ate the lush grass.

‘No show tonight.’ Werner appeared. ‘The Boche will be here soon enough. Tonight we rest, and move tomorrow. There is a field, a mile or so down the track, for us to camp on. Make your way there. Serge will lead you.’