Love, Let Me Not Hunger

by Paul Gallico

  Since then he had been back at intervals from three days to a week, growing angrier and more frustrated, even though Mr. Pollen had informed him stiffly upon one occasion, “Granite National never fails to honour its policies. Claims, however, have to be looked into and the formalities observed. Don’t worry, sir, your money will be paid to you.”

  But each time there was some delay, some hitch, at the other end, some non-arrival or delay of documents, none of them serious, Mr. Pollen kept informing him; on the contrary, quite normal in the course of such an investigation—things were really going very well.

  Teased by occasional encouragements that the end of the affair was just around the corner, Marvel remained at the Royal Arms in Birmingham, haunting the office of the insurance company or waiting to hear from them.

  And at last perhaps something was about to happen, for his appointment at three o’clock that afternoon was the result of a summons on the engraved heavy bond of the company to say that they would be pleased if he would find it possible to call around and see their Mr. Pollen.

  The clock dragged its fingers to five minutes to three. Marvel arose, lit a fresh Schimmelpenninck and went out. The offices of Granite National were only around the corner. As always, he passed the cinema that was a cinema no longer, even though the old vertical sign ODEON-PALACE had not been removed. For a year the marquee neon signs and the poster panels on either side of the entrance had announced BOWLING, and from within as he drew nearer he heard the muted rumble of the heavy balls rolling down the alleys and the hollow crashing of the tumbling ninepins.

  Again he paused there for a moment, his hands in his pockets, regarding the converted building and the sign which only served to confirm his judgement. The flicks too! Yet another victim to those bloody telly boxes. Yes, and football and racing likewise. He had been right. The new medium was killing off every kind of visual entertainment.

  But after he had been closeted with Mr. Pollen for five minutes and had ascertained the reason for his summons, Sam Marvel was red-faced and bristling, his bowler hat pushed to the back of his head, his thin cigar pointing straight at Mr. Pollen’s cold eye as he pounded the desk and shouted, “What’s this! A run-around? I tell you it’s an open and shut case. I’m paid up on my premiums. Why can’t I have my money? I don’t want to talk to you any more. You’re trying to give me the business. You get hold of your manager for me, or somebody bigger than you.”

  The insurance man remained completely unperturbed in the face of this outburst. He was used to them. He dug into a wire basket and produced the documents which Marvel had completed and filed, but they had been added to now. They were thicker in volume and some of them that the adjustor leafed through bore rubber-stamp imprints in Spanish.

  He said, “There was a man died in the fire. Why wasn’t that information included on your application?”

  “What the hell’s that got to do with it?” Marvel demanded. “It wasn’t any of my business. He was hit by lightning. I’m covered for death in my policy, it says. When are you going to quit stalling and give me my money?”

  The insurance man read the report from Madrid again. “Apparently that is not the view held by the police,” he said. “There seems to be some doubt about how he died. We shall have to wait the results of the findings.”

  “You’re stalling!” Marvel shouted. “You’ve kept me waiting a month already. If you think you’re going to make me pack up by buggering me about—”

  Mr. Pollen straightened out the papers. “I’d say about another week or ten days at the most,” he said soothingly. “Our Madrid man seems to feel it will be settled by then.” He glanced at another document. “You’re at the Royal Arms, I take it. You’d like us to notify you there?”

  Marvel removed his cigarillo from his face, carefully spat upon the floor, and said, “You know what you can do with your notifications! I don’t know where I’ll be, but I’ll be back in ten days, and if you ain’t got my money lying on that there desk by then you’re for it, Mr. Stalling Pollen!” He arose, turned and walked out.

  He went back to his hotel and sat down in the lobby again to collect himself, resorting to his copy of the World’s Fair. He read through the circus notes again of the current issue and was pleased to see that nowhere was there any news of the destruction of his show. At least for the time being, then, he would not have to listen to snide remarks of quasi-sympathy from associates in the business.

  He found then that he was staring at a page without being aware of the words printed there. Other thoughts had obtruded; the four he had left behind in Zalano. He had given them money to feed the animals, he remembered, but he could not recall how much. His mind conveniently blocked out the sum. They probably still had some left, but if not it was up to them to find some way to manage. Let them take jobs if they had to. They were all lazy and good-for-nothing. He returned once more to his paper.

  In the back of the thick sheet he glanced over advertisements for slot and fruit machines, football tables, roulette wheels, and novelties. His eyes fell upon a single column ad in black type:

  WANT TO MAKE MONEY THE MODERN WAY? MAKE IT QUICK? KEEP IT ROLLING IN? FOR SALE. SACRIFICE! BOWLING ALLEY. SIX ALLEYS. HARDWOOD. FULLY EQUIPPED. OWNER MUST SELL. REASONS OF HEALTH. LATEST CRAZE HERE. SURE MONEY WINNER. STAFF AVAILABLE. WRITE OFFERS. J. GOODHUE, 4, BERRY STREET, NEWCASTLE.

  He sat staring for some time at the notice, studying it for the hidden gimmicks in it. The come-on was all too fruity. But there was the line “Owner must sell for reasons of health.” If this were true—. The point was, he told himself, that he had nothing else to do. It was somewhere to go. And besides, there were several people he knew in Newcastle he could look up. A week or ten days and then he would surely have the money and could go back to Spain. But in the meantime, what would it hurt him or anyone else to enquire?

  He went up to his room, packed his bag, paid his bill, and took a cab down to the railway station where he bought a ticket to Newcastle.

  In the train, he thought about them once more before putting them out of his mind altogether. The Walters boy would not be fool enough to fail to notify his family if he were in trouble. The old man and the dwarf were half-wits, but Deeter was an old trouper and no idiot. If things weren’t under control he would somehow manage to let him know or something would have got into the papers, so there was nothing about which he need worry.

  But in this Sam Marvel was wrong, for in Zalano, Toby Walters, Fred Deeter, Mr. Albert, and Janos and all of the animals, great and small, were on the verge of starvation. And Rose, too, for she had come back.

  C H A P T E R

  1 4

  She came walking up the road from the town, the same dirt road rutted and pitted, now dry, down which the flash flood had roared which had nearly cost her her life. She was carrying her suitcase and blue cloth coat. Her beret was pushed to the back of her head, and her reddish hair was matted with sweat. Her face and clothes were dusty, and she looked drawn and tired. There was a leanness about her, too, as though she had not eaten regularly during days past.

  She came onto the lot, past the ellipse of the burnt-out tent to which she gave no more than a glance, but paused for a moment before the unfamiliar set-up, put her suitcase down, and looked, an expression of apprehension passing momentarily over her features.

  The men had repositioned the rolling stock so as to catch less of the hot sun and simplify the care, cleaning, and feeding of the beasts. They had built up a U-shaped enclosure on the vacant lot as far away as possible from the wreckage, stringing the living wagons end to end for one arm, the lorries and the remaining living wagons for the other, and the beast cages in between at the bottom facing to the north. Here, too, Judy had been staked out.

  This was not the way she had left them, and for a moment it was like one of those evil, disturbing dreams where the well-known and familiar is turned into something strange and distorted. There was an instant, too, of fear when she thought that somehow the remnan
ts of the Marvel Circus might have packed up and pulled out and another taken its place, one in which there would be only strangers.

  Then her eyes took in the row of living wagons and found the one upon which she had worked so many long hours, scrubbing and cleaning, the one with the scratched and marred features of the Auguste with the bulbous nose, and the letters in golden curlicue writing: JACKDAW WILLIAMS. A smile of relief came to her mouth, and some of the fatigue seemed to drain away from her body. She picked up her suitcase and walked around to the open end of the “U.”

  Janos was sitting in the sun on the steps of the clown wagon eating out of a tin with a spoon. His two great Danes went into a hysteria of barking. Janos looked up and began to shout. “Hoi, hoi, hoi! Hallo, hallo! You, Rosie! You come back! Hoi, hoi, everybody come to see! Rosie come back!”

  At the shouting Fred Deeter and Toby ran from the horse tent where they had been engaged in curry-combing the Liberty horses, and Mr. Albert came jogging up from the bottom of the enclosure where he had been tending his animals.

  A kind of pandemonium broke loose then. The lion and the tiger leaped from end to end of their cages roaring; the black leopard coughed with agitation; all of the articulate animals picked up the excitement and squealed, whined, barked, or chittered. Judy, the elephant, rattled her chains, flapped her great ears, and raising her trunk blew a trumpet blast. She had recognised her old enemy and her clever, knowing little eyes twinkled wickedly and harboured expectation.

  Deeter and Toby approached to where the girl was standing, a little smile still at the corners of her lips and her eyes shining. Toby could hardly believe what he saw, and for a moment he looked about anxiously to see whether Jackdaw Williams was there too.

  Deeter drawled, “Well I’m blowed. So the cat came back!”

  Toby stammered, “Rose! What the hell are you doing here?”

  But Mr. Albert, his white moustache cascading over a most foolish and beatific smile, came up to her as though he was about to take part in some kind of vernal dance. He took her hands in each of his and swung her arms wide and then back again, crying, “Rosie! Rosie! You’ve come back to us! They’ve missed you, Rosie! Listen to ’em all. I just kept hoping you might. You couldn’t just go off leaving them like that. They didn’t understand.”

  Toby asked, “What’s happened, Rose? Where’s Jackdaw?”

  Janos had waddled over to the group, accompanied by his three dogs, who first sniffed her heels and then put up their heads to be fondled, the big Danes grinning and the fox terrier yapping hysterically. The girl was fixed in the centre of the interrogative gaze of the four men and felt frightened at what she had done.

  Toby repeated his question, “Where’s Jackdaw?”

  “I don’t know. On the train, I suppose.”

  “What train?”

  “From that city we went to—Madrid. He said he was going to Amsterdam. Maybe he’s there already.” Then she asked, “What day is this?”

  Deeter replied, half mockingly, “Tuesday, sister. All day. Whatsamatter? You lost count?”

  The smile faded and she looked dazed for a moment. “I walked a lot,” she said. “I didn’t have any money. I got a couple of rides, but mostly I walked.”

  Her loss of the sense of time and distance told them more than anything about her condition and what she had endured to get back to them.

  Toby asked, “Why aren’t you with him? Did he chuck you?”

  Rose looked from one to the other of her inquisitors and then replied, “I left him.”

  “Why?” Toby insisted. “What for? What made you come back here?”

  It had all seemed so clear to her that Saturday morning in the noisy, smoky railway station in Madrid. The other performers had been booked for England, either by bus or train, but Williams had bought two third-class tickets for Amsterdam and the job in the circus which had been promised would always be open for him there.

  It had happened as Williams had mounted the steps of the railway coach ahead of her and, having entered, turned around to ascertain that she was following him. But she was not. Something held her fast and prevented her from making the move that would cut her off forever from what lay behind her. The drag upon her to return was almost unbearable.

  It consisted of the most extraordinary mixture of memory pictures, memory sounds, memory smells, all far more alive and vibrant within her than the stink of soft coal smoke, the clanging of bells and piping of whistles that filled the railway station. Toby—the animals—old Mr. Albert—and her home, the little living wagon, clean and sweet as she had made it, the bunk that was her own and all the trim and the curtains she had sewn—the thought of them back there, empty, untended, desolated her.

  In her nostrils was the reminiscence of the strong, pungent smell of the tiger and the feel of the powerful head and rasping tongue and the rough fur beneath her fingers. Through her mind reeled the thoughts of the bear that begged, the kangaroo that cuddled, the monkeys that wrapped their spidery arms about her neck and gazed at her, their sad eyes filled with hopeless love, and Mr. Albert hovering about, fussing and flapping and approving all of the affection exchanged between her and the beasts.

  And, Toby! Or only Toby! Nobody but Toby! Toby ever to despair and distraction, and wanting and loving. Was it home or the beasts or Toby or all three? She could now no longer tell, but only acknowledge the irresistible power of the pull.

  She had set her suitcase down upon the station platform, looked up at Jackdaw standing above her on the train and said, “I’m not coming.”

  For a moment he had regarded her silently, the corners of his eyes drooping, his thick, pendulous lips expressionless. “Why,” he asked, “what’s the matter?”

  She had replied, “I can’t. I’m sorry. I don’t want to.”

  And that was the end of it. It had been so simple and his reaction so like him, just as their whole relationship had been.

  He had fallen silent again, and because she was a woman her instincts and gutter wisdom enabled her almost to read his thoughts and his weighings of the pros and cons of trying to persuade her and the conclusion he would be reaching. She had been useful to him and worth having on tour in the van which she had made comfortable and livable for him, a way of life to which he had become accustomed. But he, himself, had said at the parting from their rolling home with the prescience of the experienced trouper, “Christ knows when we’ll see that again.” From then on they would be living in digs or, if something went wrong with the Amsterdam job upon which he counted, they would have to journey on, seeking work to be able to eat and exist. She knew that he was thinking that a man alone could travel further and faster and hold out longer than two. And so it was good riddance to her then, and goodbye, and Williams need not even have the whisper of a conscience to jog him, not that he ever had much of one.

  “Okay, Rose,” he said, “if that’s the way you feel. Goodbye.” And then he added, “Good luck to you,” but made no further gesture, such as perhaps to kiss her or enquire what she would do or whether she had so much as a penny on her.

  The whistle of the guard had piped; the engine shrieked and began its slow chuff-chuff. The train had begun to move. Williams, still standing in the open doorway, suddenly went into the most extraordinary gyrations, slapping himself on the breast and then on the hips, and Rose, looking up at him anxiously, asked, “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, no,” said Williams, one hand inside his breast pocket, “it’s all right. I’ve got your ticket. I thought maybe I’d given it to you. I can cash it in Amsterdam.” And with this he turned and vanished within the vestibule.

  As the train crawled out of the station, Rose had picked up her suitcase and, not looking back either, had marched off the platform to the plaza outside and begun the long, hard struggle, friendless, moneyless, languageless, return to Zalano.

  But now, encircled by the four pairs of eyes, she could not tell them any of this or speak of the strange tug upon her heart and person that
had brought her back; home, the love and trust of wild things, the yearning for Toby. The living wagon that she and Williams had occupied was close by. Beyond, at the bottom of the enclosure, she could glimpse the flash of orange and black as the great tiger paced his cage, and the furry figure of the brown bear sitting on his haunches, his tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth. And there in front of her, filling her eyes and within touch of her hand, was the possessor of her heart—Toby. Yet not a word of this could pass her lips. She felt hopelessly imprisoned within herself.

  It was Mr. Albert who broke into this gaol. He was dancing again with excitement at her return, at seeing her, and he seized her eagerly by the arm, pulling at her in the direction of the beasts. “Come on, Rosie. They’re waiting for you! Listen to ’em! Look at old Rajah!”

  Rose began to laugh suddenly, out of the pure joy of being there, of being loved, and went flying with him down the enclosure.

  The two men and the misshapen dwarf stood looking after her. Janos cried, “Hokay, hokay. That is good. Except how are we going to feed her?” He waddled back to the clown wagon and picked up his tin. Her presence would mean shorter rations for him. Toby and Deeter watched silently and saw the tiger hurl himself at the bars of his cage and then roll over onto his back, his paws waving ridiculously in the air.

  The boy glanced at the ex-cowpuncher, and his lids narrowed suddenly, for Deeter was eyeing Rose and the merest suspicion of a tongue appeared momentarily at the edge of his thin lips, passed along them and disappeared. The gaze of the American shifted and Toby followed its line to Rose’s suitcase resting on the ground. He went over and picked it up and said to Deeter, “Take it easy, old boy.” And there was no mistaking his emphasis on the “old.” “Maybe you wouldn’t even be able to do much about it any more.”