‘Let’s see,’ said Alice.
Captain Fox-Dingle handed her the photo he’d caught.
In it the Ringmaster, aged maybe thirteen or fourteen or fifteen, was sat on a hard-looking wooden chair, ornately carved and rather splendid in its own way. On his head was a little golden crown, with red velvet lining and fat gems and in his hands, laid across his lap, was a big white cat. It was wearing a collar almost as jewel-encrusted as the crown, and it looked into the camera with the purest blue eyes Alice had ever seen.
To the side of the chair (she was tempted to use the word ‘throne’ for some reason) she could see the edge of another chair, taller, bigger, gold-coloured. It was cut off, only a tiny bit of it was in shot, but she could see an elbow resting on the armrest, swathed in velvet and the end of a golden something (a stick or rod or … sceptre, why did that word spring to mind?) was resting on the arm.
The Ringmaster’s face was stern, bored, sad even. It didn’t look like the face of a lad at a party. It didn’t look like someone who was enjoying themselves very much.
Was the Ringmaster so embarrassed, she wondered, about having been bored at a party thirty or forty years ago that he’d be willing to sell the circus to keep the secret? It was madness. She knew that couldn’t be the reason. So what was it?
‘I think I’d best collect all this stuff up, for safe keeping,’ said PC Singh, snatching the photo from between Alice’s fingers. ‘As evidence,’ she added.
Dr Surprise coughed quietly and said, ‘My friends. A long time ago the Ringmaster entrusted me with a secret, which I have faithfully kept, but now, I think, you deserve to know the truth.’
As he said these words, and as PC Singh was extracting the photos from the grips of the rest of the crowd a noise of inchoate fury thundered from the supermarket’s back door, interrupting the doctor’s explanation.
All eyes turned to see a short, pointy-faced man with sideburns and a sheen of yellow slime dripping from all over, burst out into the night.
‘AAArrrgggHhhhGhH!’ he yelled.
(He seemed to be a bit miffed about something.)
‘Calm down there, Wet Pants,’ said the policeman with the big nose.
Mr Pinkbottle stopped and dripped and blustered and rubbed his eyes and dripped a bit more and stared at the policeman.
‘Flinch,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Sergeant Flinch, to you … sir,’ said the policeman.
Mr Stump looked from one to the other.
‘Do you know this man?’ he said (asking the policeman if he knew the supermarket man).
‘What?’ said the policeman. ‘Do I know Bernie Wet Pants?’ He coughed, went, ‘Ahem,’ and straightened himself up to speak sensibly like a policeman ought. ‘I mean “Do I know Mr Bernard Pinkbottle?” Oh yes, I should say so. We were at school together. A long time ago now. Years back, but I never forget a face. Or name. Except for … oh … you-know.’ His face went all wistful and sad for a few seconds as he tried to think. ‘What’s-her-name … I just can’t remember what she looks like. But other than that, I never forget.’
‘That’s an unusual surname,’ said Dr Surprise, stroking a growling Flopples in his arms. ‘“Wet Pants”. No wonder he changed it to “Pinkbottle”.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t call him that. Not when I’m on duty,’ Sergeant Flinch said. ‘It’s just that I’ve never forgotten the smell on the coach coming back from the circus. No one who was on that trip’s forgotten it. We were, what? Seven? Eight, maybe? Getting on for half a century ago, now. And at every school reunion people still ask me if I know what Bernie Wet Pants is up to. Nicknames have a habit of sticking, sometimes.’
Mr Pinkbottle was fuming and bubbling. ‘I hate you, Flinch. I hate everyone in Ocelot Class. Even Miss Whitman. Even she pointed and called me by that name.’
‘You’re misremembering, Mr Pinkbottle,’ said Sergeant Flinch. ‘She called you “Bernard Soggy Socks”. Marvellous way with words, that woman. Taught me so much.’
‘One day … One day I’ll have my revenge on her, too.’
‘It was a school trip to the circus, you see,’ Sergeant Flinch began to explain. ‘Young Master Pinkbottle was surprised by a human cannonball –’
‘It was a very loud bang,’ snapped Pinkbottle.
‘– and found he’d had a little accident in his …’
The sergeant left the end of the sentence hanging in the air.
‘It left him with an irrational fear of circuses and circus performers –’
‘Not irrational,’ interrupted Mrs Leavings. ‘All those sequins … they’re a proper health and safety nightmare. Very easy to choke on.’ She shuddered. ‘Not irrational at all.’
The sergeant ignored her and continued, ‘This is actually the third time he’s blackmailed a Ringmaster into selling his circus.’
‘Blackmail?’ shouted Mr Pinkbottle. ‘I’ve not …’
He stopped talking when PC Singh held up the envelope of photos.
‘Oh,’ he said.
‘After the last time he promised us he’d not do it again,’ the sergeant said. ‘But it just goes to show, once a Wet Pants, always a Wet Pants.’
(This doesn’t, strictly speaking, make sense as an argument, and you could make a certain case to suggest that had Sergeant Flinch (pre-police career) and his classmates (and teacher) not taken the mickey out of young Bernard all those years ago he might have grown up to be a nice man … But you never know. Bullying is a bad thing, yes, but Mr Pinkbottle might’ve still become an unpleasant man for all sorts of other reasons. It’s hard to say for certain.)
Mr Stump looked at the supermarket manager and at what was dripping off him today. It wasn’t what had dripped down all those years before, he thought (although that too had been yellow).
‘Is that custard?’ he said.
Pinkbottle gave him a look, and realised that the game was finally all up. His shoulders sagged as if he was giving up and giving in and then, like a human cannonball from a cannon, he was off running.
‘What have you done with Gloria!’ shouted Mr Stump.
‘Catch that man!’ shouted Sergeant Flinch.
‘Darling!’ shouted Mrs Leavings, reaching out for the fleeing villain. ‘I don’t care about the wet pants. Come back!’
Ftang! Ftang! Ftang!
Mr Pinkbottle suddenly stopped running.
He’d been passing the Stumps’ caravan, but now he was dangling.
His suit seemed to be attached to the caravan at three points, as if it had been stapled there and he’d fallen or slipped and was waiting, suspended, for someone to come and unpin him.
‘No need to thank me,’ said Emerald Sparkles, circus knife thrower, blowing on her fingertips.
‘Ah,’ said Dr Surprise, ‘but we should thank Flopples.’
They turned to see Mrs Leavings, who had just darted in the opposite direction, lying on her front, pinned to a puddle by a growling, sharp-toothed, nose-twitching rabbit. Oh, of course she was wriggling and trying to escape, but the rabbit had a firm grip on her collar and a wicked gleam in her eye.
Fizzlebert Stump, and Kevin, had heard none of what had just happened outside, but a minute later the door to the storeroom was ripped off its hinges and light flooded in on them for the first time in ages.
They blinked and rubbed their eyes and looked around them.
Mrs Stump was still snoring.
‘Oh, Mum,’ Fizz said, quietly so as to not wake her up. ‘You’ve been sleep-eating again.’
All around her were open packets and cans of custard and there was a smear of yellow loveliness around her lips.
The custard had dripped all over the floor. So much so that custard had even leaked under the door and out into the corridor.
Fizz’s dad was in the doorway, and so was Alice.
‘There you are,’ she said and punched him on the arm. ‘Lazing around while me and your dad do all the work.’
When Fizz got up he
introduced her to Kevin.
‘Kevin!’ said Mr Stump. ‘I thought you were missing. The policeman said … But what are you doing here?’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Fizz. ‘What’s the ending look like?’
Out in the car park Kevin went over to PC Singh and said, ‘Excuse me. I think you might be looking for me.’ He explained who he was.
PC Singh radioed back to base and base telephoned his parents and his parents got dressed and went round to Mr Furbelow next door and asked if he’d drive them to the supermarket. (Their own car was in the garage for a service.) Mr Furbelow, still in his pyjamas, began the search for his car keys, which he’d definitely had in the kitchen before dinner, but were now …
Eventually Kevin’s mum and dad walked across town to the supermarket (arriving just as Mr Furbelow turned up and kindly offered to give them all a lift home).
They were a little surprised to see Fizzlebert and the other circus folk there, but not too surprised.
‘Do we get more free tickets?’ they asked.
But there wasn’t any real reply to that, because this time Fizz didn’t have a circus to invite them to.
And that’s almost the end. All that’s left is tying up the loose threads and a glimpse into the future, and we’ll do that in a little dangling final chapter, right after the break.
CHAPTER TWELVE
In which loose threads are tied up and in which the future is glimpsed
After the police had hauled Mr Pinkbottle and Mrs Leavings away for further questioning about the kidnapping and locking away of Kevin and Fizz and his mum, and other questions about the envelope of photos labelled Blackmail, the Ringmaster emerged from his caravan.
He yawned and stretched as he climbed down the steps.
(Mr Stump had explained what had been in the blackmail envelope to Fizz and his mum while they were waiting for Kevin to be picked up.)
‘Why’s everyone up?’ the Ringmaster asked. ‘What’s been going on? It’s awfully late.’
Once the giggling had died down (once you’ve seen a photograph of someone you know as a grown-up when they were a spotty, floppy-haired teenager, it’s hard to forget that image, however serious you try to be) and after a moment of silence in which no one could quite bring themselves to look him in the eye, Fizz spoke up.
‘Ringmaster,’ he said. ‘You sold the circus. You sold our home, our family, our acts. Because of a few embarrassing photographs? Well, it’s over now. We can take back our contracts and leave this supermarket. We can get back on the road and get on with what we’re supposed to be doing. We’re not normal people, we’re not meant for normal lives, for normal jobs like this.’ He pointed at the supermarket. ‘Supermarkets are important, they put cornflakes in people’s bowls and milk in their tea, but we … we put smiles on people’s faces and sawdust in their … I mean, stardust in their eyes. That’s what we’re meant to be doing. But … but you sold it all. You gave it away. I’m … I’m sorry …’
Mr Stump put his hand on his son’s shoulder and pulled him into a hug.
‘It’s OK, Fizz,’ he said. ‘We’ll be OK now. Thanks to you.’
‘And to Alice,’ added Dr Surprise.
Alice murmured something, not wanting to show off.
The Ringmaster hung his head low. He’d been found out. Caught out. He’d lost that thing that all Ringmasters need: respect.
‘I was …’ he began. ‘He had …’
‘Your Highness,’ said Dr Surprise.
The Ringmaster looked up sharply. His face fell. They knew his secret.
‘What do you mean?’ Miss Tremble said. ‘Your Highness?’
The Ringmaster looked at Dr Surprise, then at Miss Tremble.
‘I was about to explain,’ the doctor said. ‘But things got a bit hectic and the moment had passed. They’ve seen the photos, though.’
The Ringmaster sighed.
‘If it came out,’ he said. ‘If they found out where I was, I’d have to go back. I was born Prince Rudolf Flanderfuff, only son of my parents, the King and Queen of Aldonia.’
‘Ooh la la,’ said Madame Plume de Matant.
‘Gosh,’ said Alice, quietly.
‘I hated it. I hated being a prince. I hated all the expectations, all the paperwork, all the endless, tedious cocktail parties and bowling alley opening ceremonies. Aldonia’s not a big country, but it has a lot of bowling alleys that need opening. A lot of ribbons to cut, and that was my responsibility. My father, the King, had even more responsibility, more paperwork, and more people coming and asking to rub his moustache for luck. I couldn’t face ending up like that, so when I was seventeen I ran away and joined the circus. I never looked back. I love the circus, it’s my world now … you’re my friends. I only ever wanted to …’
‘Ringmaster,’ said Fizz, speaking up when the Ringmaster’s words ran out of steam. ‘I don’t know anything about being a prince or being a king or anything like that. But what I do know is that you let us down. You didn’t trust us. You never spoke up. We were your friends. Your family. You should’ve trusted us.’
‘But I stayed,’ said the Ringmaster. ‘I stayed with you …’
Fizz sighed and turned around. He climbed the steps into his caravan. He was sad, not angry, just sad. At least it was over now.
Slowly everyone began to follow Fizz (not into his caravan, which would soon be very crowded, but into their own ones (and Dr Surprise walked Alice back to the cicrus (and then followed his short cut back, getting to bed much, much later than everyone else))).
The Ringmaster was finally left by himself.
His friends, those people who had been his circus family for many years, had turned their backs on him. They didn’t hate him for what he had done. Of course they knew he hadn’t done it to be mean, or spiteful, or wicked. They knew he was a human being, and had simply been weak and vain and afraid. But he needed to be more than that, better than that if they were ever to follow him again, if they were ever to hold him in the high estimation they had once held him, and that wasn’t going to happen. Not easily. Not quickly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the empty car park, before going back to bed.
The following day a circus-ish meeting was held, in the space between the caravans.
The Ringmaster’s caravan had gone, vanished in the night, and in its place was left a bottom drawer with some money in it. It was his savings and he had left it for his old friends. (It wasn’t a huge amount of money (not a prince’s ransom, certainly), but it was a kind gesture.)
Percy Late had got in touch with as many of the old acts as he could and they’d learnt that most of them had found jobs with various circuses scattered all over the country, so there was no chance of getting the old circus back together.
Besides, the Big Top and most of the ropes and equipment had been sold off too. They couldn’t be a circus, not even a tiny eleven-person circus without a Big Top.
(Fortunately Miss Tremble’s horses had been sent away to visit a cousin of hers in the country, so she was able to call on their help, and Captain Fox-Dingle used some of the Ringmaster’s money to buy Kate back from Duck’n’Gooseland (who had been happy to sell her, not having many ducks or geese left).)
After all they had been through they wanted to stick together and so, with no other option obvious to them, they went to see Neil Coward.
The following night Neil Coward’s Famous Cicrus put on the best show it had ever mounted.
Dr Surprise did some high-class hypnotising.
Miss Tremble rode round on beautiful white horses (refreshed and better than ever after their holiday in the country).
The Fumbling Gloriosus and Bongo Bongoton did a small, but brilliant clown show (she dropped things and he looked surprised, again and again).
Emerald Sparkles threw knives at Kevin, as he spun on a rotating board.
Percy Late spun his plate with elegance, wit and charm. (Mr Crudge, Alice’s dad, handed him the plate, with a sequin
ed flourish, but left the spinning to the master.)
And Fizz, his dad and Alice did a three-person act of lifting quite heavy things up that was a real highlight. In all my years of watching circus shows I’ve never seen feats of triple-strength like it.
I particularly enjoyed the bit where they got a volunteer from the audience (that night there were almost eighteen people in) and lifted them, twirled them and passed them back and forth between one another as the music fanfared and crescendoed around them.
The reason I particularly enjoyed that was because I was that volunteer.
I like to think Fizz picked me, out of all the possible audience members he could’ve pointed at, because I reminded him a bit of his old friend Wystan Barboozul (who was a bearded boy; me being similarly bearded), but whatever the reason, he hefted me above his head and his dad hefted me higher and Alice delivered me back to my seat.
Oh! It was a glorious night.
And so that was how I, just a humble writer, first met the remarkable Fizzlebert Stump and his friends and family.
Now, all these years later … now that Fizz is the Ringmaster of his own circus (the second-youngest Ringmaster in circus history, apparently) … he’s asked me to write down some of his early adventures, because if things aren’t written down, sooner or later the stories get forgotten.
I am honoured to have been given this job and have performed it to the utmost of my ability across these six volumes, without making anything up or embroidering the truth in the slightest.
But I get ahead of myself, talking about things that have nothing to do with the story I’m telling you.
Let’s wrap things up.
Mrs Leavings escaped from police custody and fled to Acapulco and was last heard of working as a deckchair attendant, which is OK work if you like that sort of thing. (Fortunately she didn’t.)
Fizzlebert Stump and the Great Supermarket Showdown Page 10