All Fall Down

by Ellie Marney

  Forget this. We can keep up the snarky co-organising thing we have going. Admittedly, it’s sort of exhausting, but it’s fine. I’d like it if Marco and I got along better–no, what I really want is the easy rapport we had as children. But we’re not children anymore, and I’m not sure how much I should compromise to achieve détente.

  I try to pull my leg back. ‘This is a dumb idea.’

  Marco grabs my ankle. ‘Oh, no. Stay right here, missy.’

  ‘Ow.’ I scowl. ‘You’re being bossy.’

  He tries not to grin, lifts my foot onto his lap. ‘It’s not bossy, it’s commanding.’

  ‘Like those two words totally don’t mean the same thing.’

  ‘Fine, I’m bossy. Someone has to have the guts to boss you around.’

  I open my mouth to shoot back, but then something magical happens. Marco eases off my ballet slipper and starts gently massaging my foot.

  And I totally forget what I was even going to say.

  His fingers work, and it feels so fucking good that I have to make myself speak before I start making unintelligible moaning noises. ‘So…so what you’re really saying is that I’m bossy.’

  ‘You are.’ He focuses on my instep. ‘You got even more bossy while I was away. I didn’t think that was possible.’

  ‘It was either that or let people walk all over me.’ Oh god, where did he learn to do this? My instep is softening, and my voice has turned to syrup. The words slide out all drawly and soft. ‘Anyway, that’s circus–you have to blow your own horn.’

  ‘You’ve never had a problem with that,’ Marco notes. ‘You’re ambitious.’

  ‘And you’re not?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess I am.’ He’s completely up-front about it. He shifts on the couch as he shrugs out of his suit jacket and tosses it on the armchair before returning his attention to my foot. Now he’s in his sleek suit trousers, crisp white shirt sleeves, paisley waistcoat. ‘I don’t want to be a PA forever. Right now, I’m building up my credentials at Cadell’s. But I want to be a show runner someday.’

  ‘Me, too,’ I admit. I’m having trouble dragging my eyes away from the sight of his shirt stretching over his shoulders and arms. ‘Only difference is, this is the show I want to run.’

  ‘You’re getting good at it, you know.’ Marco looks down as he rolls up his cuffs two turns before continuing to do mind-blowing things to my instep. ‘But you can’t keep going like this. You can still spend time with your dad without living at the hospital–’

  ‘You’re as bad as Genie,’ I grouse, frowning. ‘I’m coping fine.’

  ‘Again with the “fines”.’ He makes an exasperated face. ‘Fleur, don’t bullshit me, come on. You look ragged all the time. It’s not sustainable. You know how you get when you’re low on sleep.’

  I cross my arms. ‘Maybe I’ve changed. Maybe I’m fantastic on limited sleep now. You don’t know what I’m like anymore.’

  Marco shakes his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘That’s the thing, though–I do know what you’re like. I remember all these details about you, just like you have all the dirt on me. It’s one of the side effects of growing up together.’ He looks away, remembering. ‘God, we used to get each other into such trouble.’

  ‘You still seem to be pretty good at getting me into trouble…’

  He glances up, eyebrows arched. ‘Do you remember that time we tried to do those tricks we’d seen Jacques perform?’

  I groan. ‘Ohmigod, we didn’t try. You tried. And then you fell off the tightwire we’d been told not to screw around on and broke your arm, and I got in trouble for it.’

  He laughs as he carefully kneads the top of my foot with his thumbs. ‘You were so unsympathetic. You told me to get up and walk back to the van–’

  ‘I didn’t know you had broken bones! For god’s sake. I felt terrible afterward.’

  ‘We got in trouble for playing doctors and nurses, too.’ His grin is sly as his fingers rub and press and generally do delightful things. ‘I remember you standing with your skirt up, because you wanted to show me the red embroidered cat on your knickers.’

  I snort. ‘And you showed me your nipple, which I thought was really boring because you ran around shirtless all the time.’

  ‘And then Mum found us, and I thought her head would explode, she went so red in the face…’ He smiles, his face angled down. But then he glances at me and I see something in his eyes. Something bright and dark at the same time, like a hot coal.

  Show Doctor Marco…I shiver. Here we are, playing doctors and nurses again all these years later, in very different circumstances.

  But this is the most relaxed we’ve been around each other for days. Maybe we can call a truce, Marco and me. He might have changed a lot physically–grown taller, broader, his gawky adolescent self somehow transformed by adulthood–and I’m sure I’ve changed, too. But we used to be good together. We were close, once. And there are things I want to know, that I need to know, about why our friendship deteriorated. Now might be my best chance to find out.

  His grip on my foot changes as I lean forward. ‘Why did you leave? No, really–I always wondered. Was it something your dad and Eugenia decided?’

  ‘I…had some input.’ Marco carefully squeezes each of my toes in turn and if he stops now, I’ll cry. He wets his lips before continuing. ‘I was the one who instigated it, actually.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  He looks at me with honest eyes. ‘Fleur, did you never notice how miserable I was, every time the carnival picked up and moved?’

  Suddenly I realise what the look on his face is saying. ‘You wanted some consistency.’

  ‘I wanted regular.’ His expression gets wistful when he says it. ‘I’d been living out of suitcases for so long, doing homework in the wings during shows, sitting in the back of cars…I’d see kids with normal lives, and I was always jealous.’

  ‘Really?’ Marco said we know each other, but this is something I never knew about him. This desire for normal life, for ‘regular’–I had no idea he’d ever longed for that. ‘I mean, sure, I noticed back then that you’d get all mopey when we travelled with the show…’

  Marco’s hands still and his voice goes quiet and soft. ‘I wanted a place to settle, Fleur. I wanted a home.’

  I’m compelled to return his softness. ‘Marco, I never knew. I guess I thought it was just you being temperamental or something. Either that, or I was so caught up in my own petty bullshit I never really thought about it.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry. I should’ve noticed.’

  The standing lamp beside the couch warms us both with a muted light, and I feel bad, now. I was neglectful of him when we were kids. Some kind of friend I turned out to be.

  ‘Ironic, huh?’ He snorts, bending his dark head over my foot, his white shirt rustling as his hands move. ‘I tossed in circus life for living with my Dad, who promptly went and got a job in the UK. I moved again, this time to a whole new country.’

  ‘And you would’ve had a settled place here, if you’d stayed,’ I point out.

  His expression is disgruntled. ‘Yeah, well, I didn’t know that at the time, did I? It was just another chaotic shift to another chaotic city, and Mum was still performing–’

  ‘That was her last year. She shifted out of performance into costuming and admin after that.’

  ‘I know.’ He shrugs helplessly. ‘I should’ve stayed. But by the time I figured it out, I was half a world away.’

  My voice gentles for things lost. ‘Oh, Marco.’

  He looks down. ‘Mum used to email me, tell me about the initial set up here on the lot. It did sound a bit crazy.’

  ‘It was crazy.’ I’m thrown back into that period of my life for a disorienting second. ‘Well, most of it just went on around me. But then my folks divorced, and Mum left, which was…messy.’


  Marco’s hands smooth over my foot as he looks up. His dark eyes peer into mine. ‘I saw you. Just after it happened.’

  ‘I remember,’ I say, and of course I do. I remember exactly how he was that day. ‘It was one of your infrequent visits.’

  His expression levels me. ‘You just looked so…lost.’

  ‘I can honestly say that was the worst time of my life.’ My voice shakes with the admission. But it’s not enough. There’s more I need to admit. ‘I was pissed at you, y’know. You left just when I needed you most.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Marco swallows, his words husky. ‘I didn’t realise until I came back, and by then it was too late, I was already scheduled to return to Scotland with my dad…’ He regards me solemnly. ‘I was fifteen, and I didn’t do PDA, but I remember hugging you.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I sound husky, too. ‘I remember that hug.’

  I can recall it now: the feeling of being wrapped in Marco’s arms–skinny arms, back then–and tucking my face into his neck. I was barely thirteen, and he’d turned into a full-blown teenager while he was away, and I felt like I needed his strength. He was the rock my churned-up emotions were dashing themselves against, I guess. I was angry, because I knew he was leaving. But something about being near him, being held by him, calmed me like nothing else…

  Marco tears his eyes away from mine, and I realise his hands are gently gripping my instep, my ankle. He blinks and releases me, sliding my foot off his lap and onto the couch. ‘I…I should let you get some sleep.’

  I clear my throat. ‘Oh, right. Sleep. In an actual bed.’

  ‘In an actual bed, yes,’ Marco says, and he colours. ‘Okay, I should go. Good night.’

  And he stands up, gathers his suit jacket and leaves. Just like that.

  The van seems quiet after the door closes behind him. It was quiet before, but now it seems…empty. I clamber up off the couch, brush my teeth and change into pyjamas, which I have to pull out of my backpack. Then–my bed. Oh, my lovely, lovely bed. Mattresses! Such an awesome invention. And one you don’t fully appreciate until you’ve spent a week sleeping on the floor.

  Before I slip into sleep, I think about the way Marco ran off like that. We’d been having such a good conversation. Honest, for a change. But perhaps he was finding it painful? All those old memories, and some new revelations…

  Maybe it was too much, maybe I’ve been too honest too soon. Maybe he was embarrassed by the stuff I said. Or maybe he felt embarrassed about revealing all his own stuff…

  Or maybe I’m over-thinking it. And maybe guys are just weird.

  Which is the last thought I have before I fade out.

  ‘Really?’ My eyes chase around my father’s hospital room. ‘But he just… Didn’t he only get out of ICU twelve days ago? You don’t think it’s a bit premature to discharge him at this point?’

  Dr March smiles genially at me. ‘Your father’s making wonderful progress. I’ve re-considered my initial prognosis. His ultrasound yesterday has given me great optimism for his recovery, and in a much shorter time than expected.’

  ‘So that’s tomorrow?’ I’m happy to hear the good news, but my thoughts are roiling with frantic logistics. How will we get Daddy home? What about meals? Showers? He can’t walk properly yet–how will he get to the bathroom?

  ‘Miss Klatsch, I know you think it’s a bit pre-emptive.’ Dr March gives me her Understanding Doctor expression. ‘But it’s hospital policy to move people out of the ward as soon as we feel they’re ready–and in fact, the sooner your father is on his feet, the better.’

  ‘See?’ Dad crows. ‘That’s what I said!’

  Dr March nods. ‘The best thing for him right now is to be recuperating at home. He’ll be in familiar surroundings, with a more normal routine, and I can guarantee that this will be an improvement for him. He certainly won’t be woken in the night so much, eh?’

  She looks over at Dad, who gives her a game grin and a thumbs up. I see my bed roll tucked in a corner. I wonder if my temporary campground in Daddy’s room had anything to do with Dr March’s decision to turf him early.

  Although apparently, this isn’t early and it’s all perfectly normal? It’s normal to push a patient out the door when they’ve had two major surgeries; it’s normal that my father still can’t sit up properly for more than ten minutes at a time; it’s normal to discharge someone with acutely limited mobility so they can go back to live in their space-restricted caravan…

  Oh, god.

  Dad’s enthusiasm for the idea is hard to tamp down, though, and it’s the first time in days I’ve seen him show any interest in cooperating with the doctor. I wouldn’t call him the world’s worst patient, but he’s quick to criticise the regime of medication, food and regular rest that Dr March has prescribed for him. He still thinks he should be bounding out of bed any day now–his own physical limitations seem to have completely slipped his mind. I guess that’s why I’m here.

  ‘Okay, I’m going to have to arrange some things at home for Dad’s arrival,’ I say, glancing between my father and Dr March, who look more and more like co-conspirators with each passing second. ‘The van’s not really set up for easy recuperation, so what sort of things will we need?’

  Dr March explains, in considerable detail, the long list of requirements for my father’s comfort and recovery at home. I’m going to have to call in reinforcements. There’s no way I can keep an eye on my Dad twenty-four-seven, and there’s some things–showers and bathroom trips, for instance–which I know he will feel more comfortable managing with someone not me.

  By the time I get back to the lot, my head is quietly spinning in circles. I want Dad home–of course I want that. I want him with me, and I want him to get better. I’m just not confident anymore in my ability to manage Dad’s care myself and attend to carnival business at the same time.

  When I’m on the lot, I’m dashing back and forth, meeting with crew, squeezing in my own trapeze practise, fielding calls, coordinating with Mitch and Eugenia and Marco, managing performance hiccups, doing my own performing–all of it. But my father will need someone with him all the time, to assist with every task...

  I thought having Dad in hospital was difficult? Having him home, still unable to do anything for himself, will be a hundred times more complicated.

  But as soon as I step back on the Parade Road, Mitch Gibson waves to get my attention. I follow him past old rollercoaster cars and broken Ferris wheel parts so we can converse in his mech yard office without being overheard. My foot is hugely improved today; I’m not limping as much and the pain is manageable with paracetamol, which is a relief. It’s possible that Marco really does have magic fingers.

  ‘I’ve arranged for you and Marco to meet with Vas Cavendish,’ Mitch says, as soon as we get in the door of his office. It’s a slightly smaller version of his van in here: utilitarian in both form and function, with a tray of oily tools dumped on a pitted desk in the centre and a re-purposed hat stand that holds a collection of grease-stained coveralls. ‘It’ll be straight after the matinee,’ Mitch continues, ‘and it’s on his turf, so you’ll get a chance to go onto their lot and meet with the man directly.’

  I purse my lips. ‘And maybe have an opportunity to find out whether Cavendish’s crew uses walkie-talkies like the unit you found?’

  Mitch crosses his arms over his chest, his craggy face impassive. ‘It would be useful to have that information, yes.’

  I consider. ‘It’d be good to talk to Cavendish face to face, get a sense of which way the wind is blowing. You don’t want to come along to this meeting?’

  ‘Vas Cavendish and I don’t have a history of…cordial interaction,’ Mitch replies, his words a study in forced politeness. When I grin, he shrugs one shoulder. ‘Okay, fine. We butt heads. I don’t think having me there would be an advantage. And I don’t want Genie to go anywhere near Cavendis
h, so that leaves you and Marco.’

  Really? I want to ask why Mitch is so opposed to Eugenia visiting Lost Souls. But now is not the time, according to his glower.

  ‘I think Vas is more likely to discuss things openly if it’s just you two,’ Mitch says. ‘I’m not saying he’ll trust you, but at least he won’t be ready to let rip before you even open your mouth.’

  ‘Then I guess we’re going on a reconnaissance mission. Have you told Marco?’

  Mitch nods. ‘He’ll meet you after the matinee.’

  So once the matinee performance is over, I change out of my trapeze costume into another costume: a sleek, latte-coloured pencil skirt, fitted jacket, kitten heels. I wanted to wear my normal jeans and button-down shirt, but Eugenia was insistent.

  ‘Vas Cavendish is a pig. I feel like I’m sending you into battle.’ She tugs the lines of my jacket smooth, examines my makeup and checks my French roll is perfect, coaxing a few strands of curl into position. ‘Go in there looking dignified, representing your father, and you’ll have the upper hand.’

  ‘You and Vas don’t get on?’ I crick my neck around trying to get a read on her face, but her expression is shuttered, so I smooth things over quickly. ‘Wow–you, Daddy, Mitch… It doesn’t sound like Vas Cavendish gets on with anybody.’

  ‘You’re right about that,’ she says stiffly, then she turns at the sound of a knock on her door. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is Fleur ready?’ Marco pokes his head in. ‘Mitch has the car out front, so–’

  I swivel around when he stops talking, but he’s just standing there, holding the door and looking at me. I figure I should finish his sentence for him. ‘So…it’s time to go?’

  ‘Ah. Yes. I mean–yes.’ He’s staring at me with the same expression on his face he used to get when we were kids in practise, if one of the training moves confused him. He’s still in his suit and waistcoat from the matinee: today’s waistcoat is a rich, bottle-green brocade. With his dark hair, the colour looks great on him. He’s loosened his tie completely and I see a dull, red flush rise up the exposed skin of his neck, all the way to his ears.