A Day at the Circus

 

I must reassure you, listener, that I didn’t play truant every week. But now and again the urge to escape the daily grind of school was strong.

It was the middle of March; unseasonably warm and being cooped up in school didn’t appeal to me at all. The talk around the breakfast table was all about someone called Adolf Hitler. It was the first but it certainly not the last time that I would hear that name. Apparently, he had invaded Austria, a country neighbouring to Germany.  My mother and father reacted very differently: my mother said that she was sure that Chamberlain would keep us safe, my father was clearly worried and said that the end of Hitler’s ambition was not yet in sight.

I left them to it, kissed my mother, took my satchel and went. As soon as I was around the corner, I half ran, half walked to the Inch, which was where I knew the circus would be. Careful not to encounter classmates, I took a roundabout route, taking in the Greyfriars Cemetery and some obscure vennels.

The Big Top had already been erected. It was white and red; flags and bunting adorned it: a riot of colour. A large banner announced: ‘Duffy’s Circus. The best Circus in the World.’ Underneath: ‘Roll Up! Roll Up! Come and see the Human Cannonball! Our brave Lion Tamer and the world-famous Flying Duffy Family! Tickets from 2s.’ I was drawn to it like a moth to the flame.

Colourful wooden caravans were parked around the Big Top. Trying to be inconspicuous, (and probably failing) I sauntered around. The door of one of the caravans was open and I could see in it. It looked so cosy; a small, spotless kitchen, a table with a brightly- coloured oil cloth with a bowl of apples on it. If only we could live in such a space. But somehow, I couldn’t picture my mother and father living in a caravan, how brightly painted and clean it might have been.

It was like a small village: people bidding each other good morning, babies outside in their prams, to catch the fresh air. Chairs were dotted around in the grass. In one a man was shaving himself with a water basin and a mirror on a stool in front of him. Another was taking care of his impressive moustache; combing and gelling it to achieve maximum effect.

A little further away where the animal cages. On one, the screen was up, and I saw a lion lazily pacing in his prison. When he spotted me, he stared at me with yellow eyes. After giving a lazy sort of snort, he laid down and ignored me.

‘I’ll have you know that Jaipur can bite y’r head off in one go!’

I turned around and saw a boy my age. He was tanned, smaller and wiry. A cap sat askew on his dark brown hair.

‘Who’re you, then?’ he asked.

‘I’m Gregory,’ I said.

With a look that said: ‘what kind of name is that?’ he said: ‘I’ll call you Greg. I’m Duke. I can use some help in the ring. Come on.’

And without waiting for my reply, he walked to the entrance of the Big Top. I followed him and he held the canvas aside so I could enter. My mouth fell open.

‘You'll catch a fly,’ said Duke and gave me a pair of workmen's gloves and a rake.

I grew two inches when I put the gloves on. I had never in my life done anything more menial than carrying the plates to the kitchen or build a sandcastle. We had to spread the sawdust evenly in the ring of the Big Top. It was hard and dusty work, but I was determined to keep up with my new friend.

‘You’re doing grand,’ he said.

In the short break it took to bring a new wheelbarrow with sawdust in the ring I took time to look around me and saw a bewildering array of ropes, ladders and nets above me. The use of some of those became clear when the troop of flying acrobats came in to practise their show. They must have been the Flying Duffy Family. All dressed in tight-fitting costumes with glitters everywhere, they looked utterly glamorous. Their faces were fully made up; I could smell the greasepaint. The men used rope ladders to climb up to their platforms. There was one woman in the troupe. My jaw again displayed the tendency to go south before I checked myself. Her costume didn’t leave much to the imagination. Her lips were as red as a rose. I fell in love at first sight.

‘Give me a lift, will you.’ The woman wrapped a rope with a loop around her wrist and waited for Duke. He caught another rope, and without any apparent difficulty, hoisted the woman of my dreams up to the platform. She behaved as she would have in front of an audience. A smile on her lips and an elegant pose all the way up. Once she reached the platform her fellow flyers helped her up. She blew me a kiss and the practise began.

Still trying to spread sawdust, I stole a few glances above me. They performed incredible acts of acrobatics, as if gravity didn't keep a hold on them. Over and over, they repeated their moves and practised new routines. I was glad to see there was a net; it was needed when one of them missed the trapeze and tumbled in it. He clambered up again and practised his routine several more times.

Outside, someone made a racket with a spoon and a pan.

‘Elevenses,’ said Duke. The flying artists tumbled one by one in the safety net.  Outside, one of the women of the circus family was handing out milk and buttered brack. There were only a few mugs to go around so in between the men they were dipped in a bucket of water to clean them. My mother would have been horrified but I accepted the mug handed to me with gratitude. I was very thirsty. The brack was a doorstop, liberally spread with margarine. I scoffed it all in record time.

Duke and I wandered to the animal cages.

‘I want to be a Lion Tamer,’ he said. ‘My uncle, Big Otto Duffy, is the tamer now and he is training me up.’

‘Aren’t you scared?’ I asked.

‘Nah,’ he said, ‘my uncle has only ever lost two fingers to Jaipur. With every performance there is a man with a rifle near the cage, ready to shoot when something happens. We tamers carry a whip and a chair. The chair confuses the lion. I’m not an eejit; I have been in the cage with my uncle loads of times.’

We worked for another hour to get the ring ready for the performance. I thought of Duke, who was learning to be a lion tamer, and myself, learning long division and the capitals of all the countries in the world. I wondered what was more important. When I heard the bells of St. John strike twelve, I laid down my rake a peeled the gloves off.

‘I need to go,’

‘Fine so,’ said Duke. ‘Slán.’

I ran all the way home. In my street I shook myself to get rid of all the saw dust. Then the routine started.

I went into the kitchen. My mother was preparing the dinner.

‘I don’t want any dinner, mam,’ I said, ‘I don’t feel too well.’ Having no dinner was no great hardship after the piece of brack. My mother felt my forehead. It was clammy, after all the hard work and the running.

‘Go and lie down for an hour or so, Gregory. I dare say you are having a fever.’ I weakly protested about going to school, but my mother was firm.

‘Upstairs with you. I’ll wake you up.’

Which she did, around three o’clock. Way too late to go to school.

‘Thirsty,’ I croaked. Which is why, ten minutes later, I sat at the kitchen table with a glass of milk and a thin slice of curranty bread with a smear of butter.

‘I’ll write you a note for tomorrow,’ my mother said. I knew I was home dry.

That evening, at the supper table, I asked: ‘Can we go to the Circus, Mum? They’ve got lion tamers an’ all.’

‘Certainly not,’ said mother. ‘Who knows what illnesses you might get there. And those smelly wild animals! We’ll go and see your cousin Barnaby tomorrow.’

Cousin Barnaby was two years older and a snivelling brat, in my eyes.

It took me more than 25 years before I went to see Duffy’s Circus; this time with my own children. I didn’t see Duke, or any lion. I looked at the sawdust in the ring and wondered about the poor fellows that had spread it this time.