But the real problem was the work, which went on from the crack of dawn until the last rays of sunlight faded from the sky. It seemed to Bobby as if the farmer never did anything but work; he was always up first, walking around the farmyard, feeding the hens or fiddling with this or that bit of farm equipment. Then, during the day, he would be walking through his fields or driving his tractor while Bobby chased after stray sheep or did some other task set for him by the farmer. And this was how it was every single day, with no time for rest.
“We don’t need to bother with school,” said the farmer. “Waste of time, school.”
Bobby did not reply. The farmer tended to become moody if you disagreed with him on anything, and so Bobby just bit his tongue. He wished that he could go to school like other children. He wished that he had parents, as other children had. He wished for so much, but it seemed that he never got anything that he wished for, and so he tried to stop wishing. If you don’t wish for anything, he thought, then you won’t feel so disappointed when you don’t get it.
He spent four years on that farm—four long, hard years. Four harvests, cutting hay with a scythe until his back and arms ached. Four winters, carrying hay up to the sheep, taking load after load until his hair was covered with hayseeds and his nose blocked with tiny pieces of dried grass. Four springs and four summers of weeding vegetable beds and breaking the hard earth with fork and spade.
Then, just after his tenth birthday, he decided to run away. I’m not a slave, he thought. I don’t have to work here all my life for nothing.
He would have liked to write a note to the farmer to tell him that he was going, but he could not write. Nobody had bothered to teach Bobby to read or write, and now he could not even leave a message to say good-bye. He did know, however, how to write the letter B. And so he wrote that on a piece of paper and left that on the kitchen table along with a small present of a couple of feathers he had found on the hill, a flower he had picked from the roadside, and a green stone he had found at the edge of the river and had polished until it glowed with hidden light. The feathers meant: I have gone, I have flown away. The flower meant: I do not think badly of you. And the stone meant: I shall not give up. I shall not be broken.
He left in the early morning one day, before even the farmer had got out of bed. Packing his few possessions in a small bag, he walked down the farm track and onto the road that led off in the distance to the places he had heard of but could only just imagine—the cities of Scotland where the great ships were made and where the sky was filled with the smoke of factory chimneys.
He was filled with a sense of freedom. There was nobody around now to tell him what to do. The sky above his head was his and his alone; the air he breathed was free. And nobody, he thought as he lifted his head in the morning air, could take the sun away from him and switch it off.
After walking for four miles, he stopped to rest at a place where the road ran beside a small stream—what in Scotland we call a burn. He took off his shoes and socks and put his feet in the deliciously cool water, relishing the feeling of water between his toes. He closed his eyes and listened to a bird calling high in the sky above him. Then he opened his eyes and saw that a large truck had stopped on the road behind him.
The driver got out of his cab and came down to where Bobby was sitting beside the burn.
“What are you doing?” asked the man.
“Sitting here,” said Bobby. “I’m walking to Glasgow.” Glasgow was the name of the place he was heading for; he was not sure where it was, or how far away, but that was where he was going.
“Hop in,” said the man, nodding in the direction of his cab. “Come on.”
Nobody had ever told Bobby that one should never do a thing like that, and so he did not waste any time. Pausing only to put his socks and shoes back on, he climbed up into the cab and they set off.
“Don’t bother going to Glasgow,” said the man. “I can give you a job.”
Bobby did not want to work on a farm again and started to tell the man that before he was cut short.
“I’m not a farmer,” said the man. “I run a circus.”
Bobby had never heard of circuses and asked the man to tell him what they were.
“Circuses are big shows,” said the man. “They take place in a big tent and move from town to town. There are clowns and trapeze artists and performing dogs. There are two fierce lions and a lion tamer. There are dancing horses and a ringmaster who wears a red coat and a top hat.” He paused, looking quizzically at Bobby. “Interested?” And then, without waiting for Bobby to answer, he said, “Good. Well that’s settled then.”
5
The circus was camped on the edge of a small town, on a piece of waste ground. Well before they reached it, the man, who was called Mr. Macgregor, had pointed out the tent in the distance, with its large red notice saying Macgregor’s Circus.
“That’s us,” said Mr. Macgregor. “And you see those caravans over there? That’s where you’ll stay with the other children.”
“Other children?” asked Bobby. “Who are they?”
“Acrobats,” said Mr. Macgregor. “Funny bunch. Nobody knows where they come from. Nobody speaks their language, you see. But they’re very good at their job, you see, and that’s the important thing. Their act brings the house down every night.”
There was a question that Bobby wanted to ask, and now, as they approached the circus ground, he asked it. “And my job, sir? What will I be?”
Mr. Macgregor took one hand off the steering wheel and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Lion tamer’s apprentice,” he said at last. “Old Jimmy Macdonald is getting a bit slow and has been talking about retiring. Yes, that’ll be the best place for you to be. It’s a good job, and if you learn young, you learn quickly. That’s what I’ve always said.”
Bobby swallowed. He had never seen a lion, but he had heard a bit about them. And what did he know about lions? Not much, he decided. Except that they had great manes around their heads and . . . and they ate people. He swallowed hard again.
6
Mr. Macgregor took him straight to his caravan and showed him in. It was not a large caravan, but somehow they had managed to fit eight bunks inside. At the far end was a pile of suitcases, out of which socks and shirts and other items of clothing spilled.
“You keep your things over there,” said Mr. Macgregor. “And that’s your bunk. Happy? Good. It’s getting a bit late now, so I think you should go to bed so that you’ll be ready to start learning tomorrow.”
He smiled at Bobby and gave him an apple. “Have this for your dinner,” he said. “Lion taming is hard work, and you’ll need to get a bit stronger.”
Bobby was not sure what to do. He wanted to tell Mr. Macgregor that he really was not all that keen on lion taming, but he did not know how to say it. So he took the apple and ate it before he slipped into his bunk bed and closed his eyes. The journey had tired him and he was not long in getting to sleep, missing entirely the return of the acrobats an hour or two later. So he did not see the seven other children come in, leaping and bouncing, somersaulting into their beds.
7
“So you’re the new boy,” said Jimmy Macdonald. “What do you know about lions, may I ask? Nothing? Just as I thought. Still, I suppose we all have to learn somewhere. We aren’t born with a knowledge of lions, are we? Hah!”
They were standing in front of a large cage on wheels. In the cage, lying down on a pile of straw, were two of the largest creatures Bobby had ever seen. These were the lion and lioness, Leo and Leona. They had their eyes closed, although Bobby thought that Leo had one eyelid slightly open and was watching him.
“The thing about lions,” said Mr. Macdonald, fiddling with the catch on the door to the cage, “is that you have to let them know who’s boss. If a lion thinks you’re afraid, then you’re in trouble. The moment he senses that, well . . .” Bobby waited for him to finish the sentence, but he did not.
“I’ve lost so many assi
stants in my day,” Mr. Macdonald went on. “Let me think of them.” He held up a hand and counted the names off against his fingers. “Tommy, Micky, Boris, and George.”
There were four names, and Bobby suddenly noticed that there were only four fingers on Mr. Macdonald’s hand.
“Looking at my fingers?” said the lion tamer. “Yes, that’s right—only four of them.”
“What happened?” asked Bobby in a small voice.
Mr. Macdonald pointed at Leo. “He got it,” he said. “Nasty creature.”
Bobby stared at Leo, who seemed to open one of his eyes a little more to return the stare.
“So,” said Mr. Macdonald. “No time like the present to get started. You go in there now and give them their breakfast. This bowl of meat here. Put it on the floor in front of them, but whatever you do, don’t turn your back on them. Understand?”
Bobby took the bowl in trembling hands. “Do I have to?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Mr. Macdonald. “You do. What’s the use of being a lion tamer’s apprentice if you won’t give them their breakfast? Be reasonable, young man!”
On legs that felt like jelly Bobby made his way into the cage. His hands were shaking and his heart was beating within his chest like a great steam hammer.
“Don’t look frightened!” murmured Mr. Macdonald from behind him. “Remember—you’re the boss!”
Bobby laid the bowl down. Leo had opened both eyes now and Leona was stirring from her sleep. He took a step backward and . . . tripped.
The next thing he knew he was on his back, looking up at the roof of the cage. There was a growl from Leo, and this encouraged Bobby back onto his feet. Getting back up, he noticed that Leo was standing directly in front of him and had opened his mouth to roar.
“Tell him to sit!” cried Mr. Macdonald.
“Sit!” Bobby shouted. “Sit, Leo!”
For a moment the lion seemed confused, but then he suddenly sat down. Without turning his back on him, Bobby inched his way back to the door of the cage and slipped out to safety.
“Well done,” said Mr. Macdonald, patting him on the back. “You’re a natural lion tamer, young man! I’d say that you’ve got a good chance of making it, you know. At least fifty percent chance, perhaps even a bit more. We’ll see.”
8
A few days later, when the circus was ready to perform, Bobby was called into the caravan occupied by the costume maker. Measuring him up, she fitted him with a circus outfit of red coat and striped black trousers. This, she explained, is what lion tamers traditionally wore. The jacket, she said, was one that had been used by the last apprentice. “I’ve sewn up the holes that the lion’s teeth made,” she said. “They make a terrible mess, those lions. Horrible. Big gashes in the material—it’s an awful waste of good cloth.”
Resplendent in his new uniform, Bobby watched as the other circus performers practiced their tricks. The children from the caravan were very impressive: they wore sparkling silver outfits that were caught in the spotlights and sent dancing diamonds of light about the sides of the tent. They tumbled and cartwheeled, swung from bars, made towering human pyramids, all the while calling out to one another in the language that nobody understood.
Then there were the horses. Sporting headdresses of feathery plumes, they cantered round the ring, women in sequined costumes riding on their backs and waving to empty seats that would soon fill with crowds.
And then there was a performing dog, Rufus, who walked on his hind legs round the ring, leapt through a ring of fire, and, at the end of his act, sat down at a miniature piano and played “Camptown Races” with his paws.
Bobby watched all this openmouthed; he was thrilled by what he saw, but inside he felt cold with fear. Sooner or later, the bars of the lions’ cage would be erected around the circus ring and he would have to go in with Mr. Macdonald, holding his whip for him and helping him to position the stools upon which the lions would be made to balance. He did not see why lions should have to do this. What sense did it make to force a great wild creature to do silly tricks for the amusement of humans? What sense did it make to force a boy of ten to help with all this?
9
The people arrived for the performance. From his place near the entrance to the tent, Bobby watched as the seats filled up. Everyone was chattering with excitement, the children enjoying the candy floss and sugar-covered apples bought for them by their parents. Bobby watched enviously. Nobody had ever bought him a sugar-covered apple; nobody had ever bought him anything.
He wondered what it would be like to have parents. He wondered what it would be like to sit next to your parents at a show like this, secure in the knowledge that at the end of the show you would be going back to your own home, to your own room, and not to a caravan shared with seven acrobats in shiny outfits.
He looked across the tent to where a boy of about his age sat between his mother and his father. The boy’s father was pointing something out to his son, and the boy was listening attentively. Then they both laughed—they were sharing a joke. If only I could change myself into the boy, thought Bobby. If only I could be him rather than me.
The band began to play. This was the signal for the beginning of the circus, and the grand parade came in to start the show. There were the shiny acrobats; there were the prancing horses; there was the performing dog; there was the wall-of-death rider with his roaring motorbike; there were the trapeze artists with their rippling muscles and strong arms.
Bobby watched as the performers walked round the ring, bowing to the applause of the crowd. Then he noticed a man and a woman sitting at the end of one of the rows of seats not far away. They were staring at him, he thought. He looked away, but when he looked again, he could see that their eyes were still fixed on him. Then the man got up and came over to his side.
“You look very unhappy,” the man said. “Is there anything wrong?”
Bobby nodded. “Yes,” he whispered. “There is.”
10
The man and the woman crept out of the tent, accompanied by Bobby.
Standing outside in the darkness, they asked him his name.
“I’m called Bobby Box,” he said.
“And where are your parents?” asked the man. “Where’s your mother or your father?”
Bobby looked down at the ground. “I don’t have a mother or a father,” he said.
The woman touched him gently on the shoulder. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Do you work in the circus?”
Bobby explained to her about being the apprentice lion tamer. As he spoke, she glanced at the man, and they both drew in their breath.
“Is this true?” asked the man when Bobby came to the end of his story.
“All of it,” said Bobby.
“Then you must come with us,” said the man. “You don’t have to be a lion tamer if you don’t want to be! Nobody can force anybody to be a lion tamer, can they, my dear?”
His wife nodded her agreement. “It’s quite out of the question,” she said. “You must come and live with us. We’ll take good care of you.”
Bobby hesitated. “And can I go to school?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the man. “Of course you can. There’s a good school very near our house. You can go there next week, once the paperwork is done.”
They walked away from the tent. As he left the circus behind him, Bobby felt a great weight of anxiety lift off his shoulders. And when he heard the lions roaring in the distance as they were prepared for their act, he was not even the slightest bit frightened. He was now an ex–apprentice lion tamer, and there was no reason for an ex–apprentice lion tamer to be afraid of lions he would never see again.
11
The man and the woman were the kindest people Bobby had ever met. In fact, he had not known that there were kind people in the world; now he did. They took Bobby back to their house, which was a large one with a garden that ran down to a river. They gave him a large dinner, one that ended with chocolate ice
cream. Bobby had never tasted ice cream. He had never tasted chocolate.
Then he was put to bed in a room that they explained would be his from now on. “We have never had children,” said the woman. “Now you have come to us and you can be our son. Would you like that?”
“Very much,” said Bobby.
The next day they took Bobby into town and bought him new clothes. Then they went to an office where some papers had been prepared to make it possible for him to be their son. That all went smoothly. A man in a dark suit asked Bobby whether this was what he wanted.
“Of course it is,” said Bobby. “Thank you very much.”
“And will you be a good son to them?” asked the man in the suit.
“Yes,” said Bobby. “I promise I will.”
“Good boy,” said the man in the suit. “Then that’s all legal. Well done!”
12
Bobby was very happy. He went to school now, and they discovered there that he was remarkably good at mathematics, poetry, art, history, chemistry, and football. He soon found many new friends and was given ten parties all in a row, day after day, to make up for all the birthday parties he had missed in his earlier, unhappier life.
The man and the woman were happy too. “We always wished for a son,” said the man. “And now we have you. We are very lucky.”
“And I’m lucky too,” said Bobby. “Really lucky.”
13
You may think this a strange story, but it is not. There are people whose lives are every bit as unusual as Bobby Box’s—I can promise you that. Not all of them end as well, of course. For many people, the world is a place of sadness and sorrow, which is a great pity, as we have only one chance at life, and it is very bad luck if things do not go well.
What You Wish For Page 2