“We’re here,” said Plumpscuttle, the first words he had spoken to her, and he stomped through an open five-bar gate into a field. Sheba trotted after him.
There were signs of recent festivities. Faded bunting was draped along the drystone wall, the grass was churned by hordes of booted feet, and there were paper wrappers, apple cores, and piecrusts everywhere. Carnies were packing up stalls and rides, and hitching them to horses, before rolling out onto the road and off to the next village fair. Sheba saw a coconut shy, a group of fortune-telling gypsies, and a rickety old merry-go-round.
Plumpscuttle waddled on, nodding here and there to an acquaintance, until they reached the corner of the field. There stood a canary-yellow gypsy caravan, with a vicious-looking gray shire horse between the shafts. Written on the side in peeling paint were the words:
“Get in,” said Plumpscuttle as he chucked Flossy’s basket up onto the driver’s seat and, with considerable effort, began the laborious process of heaving himself up beside it.
Sheba tiptoed to the back of the caravan, where she found a little door set above some steps. She reached up to unlatch it, then jumped back as it swung open. The interior was dark and musty, and packed with shadows. She could smell people inside — at least five or six. She heard a match struck. A lantern was lit.
In the light a cluster of faces appeared, all staring at her intently. They were misshapen, hulking, wizened, alien, and like nothing she had seen before. It was as if a nightmare had come to life in front of her.
Sheba started to scream.
Hours later, and the rhythmic clop of horse hooves, coupled with the gentle sway of the caravan, had soothed Sheba’s terror a little. There were two low bunks, and she sat on one, sneaking glances at her fellow freaks.
A hulking giant, the biggest man she had ever seen, took up almost half the caravan space. He had a shaved head, a craggy face scratched with crisscross patterns of old scars, and a broad-striped woolen jersey that looked as though it would pop its seams at any second. Squished into a curled ball, he was trying to jot notes in a leather-bound journal, his meaty fingers making the pencil look like a toothpick.
Sitting on the bunk next to Sheba was a beautiful Japanese girl dressed like a boy in black trousers and jerkin. Her eyes were delicately almond-shaped, and dark like her long hair. Sheba had never seen anyone from the East before. The girl looked exotic, but perfectly normal compared to the others, and smiled sweetly whenever she caught Sheba peeking at her.
The bunk opposite was occupied by a mysterious figure puffing on a long clay pipe, its face hidden beneath the brim of a floppy hat. It was only when the person looked up, showing vivid green eyes and soft, graying curls, that Sheba realized it was a woman. She was wearing a greatcoat, breeches, and knee-high leather boots, and her left arm was resting on a large wooden box, from which Sheba could hear a quiet rustling. It smelt as though some kind of animals were inside, and when the woman caught Sheba staring at it, she gave her a quick wink.
Hanging from the roof was a small iron cage and in it — arms, legs, and tail dangling through the bars — was a young boy with goggle eyes and a face like the rear end of a bristly pig. He gurned and gaped as if his face was made out of putty, and every visible inch of skin was covered in smears of grime. Great gusts of stink wafted from him as he swayed to and fro, looking every bit like a bored primate in a zoo. He was currently trailing thin strings of dribble from his mouth. Judging by his look of concentration, he was finding it a fascinating pastime.
It was a bizarre set of traveling companions but, now that her initial burst of terror had subsided, one in which Sheba the Wolfgirl fitted quite well. She began to feel ashamed about her first reaction.
“I’m sorry I screamed when I saw you,” she said in a small voice.
“That’s quite all right,” said the woman with the clay pipe, smiling.
“We’re used to it,” added the giant, not looking up from his journal.
“She’s got a bleeding cheek, though, screaming at us when she looks like an accident in a wig factory,” said the caged boy, flicking dribble everywhere.
“Ignore him,” said the woman. “He’s awful rude to everyone he meets, so you mustn’t take it personally.”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind,” said Sheba, although actually she did. “I am a bit strange, I suppose.”
“As are we all, my dearie. And now that you’ve pulled your little self together, I suppose it’s time you were introduced to the company.” The woman leant forward, and with the end of her pipe, began pointing out the others in the caravan.
“That great mound of might and muscle is known as Gigantus, the man mountain. The Oriental beauty beside you is Sister Moon, a master — or should I say mistress — of the deadly art of ninjitsu. None can stand before her in single combat. The unfortunate, apelike creature in the cage is Monkeyboy. There’s not much he can do except stink the eyebrows off you at twenty paces, although he can shimmy up a tree just like a real gibbon when he wants to.”
As their names were mentioned, they each gave Sheba a glance or a nod.
“You didn’t tell me your name,” said Sheba.
“I didn’t? How rude! I am Mama Rat and these here are my little babbies. The cleverest ratties in the country.” She tapped the box beside her, at which a series of squeaks and squeals emerged. “Hush now,” Mama Rat whispered into one of the holes on the top. “You can get a good look at her when we stop. Nosy things.” She gave Sheba another wink, and blew a few smoke rings from her pipe.
Through the air holes cut into the side of the box, Sheba glimpsed the twinkle of cunning little eyes. By instinct, she hated rodents. The rank stench made her hackles rise. They didn’t even smell like proper rats. She swallowed a growl. “My name is Sheba,” she said instead. “Very pleased to meet you all.”
“You come from other sideshow?” asked Sister Moon, in broken English.
“Yes. Grunchgirdle’s. At the end of the pier in Little Pilchton.”
“Never bleedin’ heard of it!” said Monkeyboy.
“We’re from London,” explained Mama Rat. “The East End. Plumpscuttle takes his show on the road for a few weeks each summer, touring the local fairs. That was our last one for the season, so now we’re headed home.”
“Thank crikey,” said Monkeyboy. “I’ve had enough of fresh air and eating nothing but turnips. My farts stink like a vegetable patch.”
“I’ve never been to London,” said Sheba. She tingled with excitement at the thought.
“It stinky, smoky, and horrid,” said Sister Moon.
“It’s fascinating, fun, and beautiful,” said Monkeyboy, poking out his tongue.
“It’s a festering cesspit of horror,” said Gigantus, still not bothering to look up from his journal. “It’s almost as bad as Paris, and that’s saying something.”
Sheba was starting to feel anxious. “Is Mr. Plumpscuttle a nice boss?” she asked, looking to change the subject.
There was a mixture of snorts, coughs, and splutters from around the caravan.
“That depends on whether you like being insulted, spat at, half starved, made to live in a dismal slum, and paraded in front of slack-jawed dimwits night after night. If the answer is yes, then he’s the greatest boss in the world,” said Gigantus with a scowl.
“He’s a revolting tub of whale guts,” said Monkeyboy.
“He very nasty man. Smell almost bad as Monkeyboy.”
Sheba wished she had never asked. Perhaps she would have been better off staying with fishy old Grunchgirdle. . . .
“Oh, hush yourselves!” Mama Rat said, glaring around the caravan. “You’re starting to worry the poor girl.” She leant forward on the bunk. “The truth is, my dearie, that Gideon Plumpscuttle is a deeply horrible specimen of humankind. His soul is an open sewer of self-loathing, which he take
s out on all those around him. He is as unpleasant to be around as he is to look at, but . . . there are worse owners, as I suspect you already know. He manages to keep us fed and housed, and he has yet to lay a hand on any of us —”
“If he ever does, I’ll pound his head into a pancake,” muttered Gigantus.
“— and for the most part, he is hardly ever around. He heads out to the inns and pie shops directly after every show, spends all night — and all our takings — eating himself stupid, and then wastes the whole of the next day sleeping it off. And if you know how to handle him, he’s a big pussycat.”
“To you, maybe,” said Gigantus.
“It true,” added Sister Moon. “We have time to ourselves. Plumpscuttle not mind what we do, if we stay in house.”
Monkeyboy pressed his face to the bars of his cage. “Sitting around all day is dull as stinky ditchwater.”
“That’s because you haven’t found a worthwhile pursuit to occupy your mind,” said Gigantus, looking over the top of his journal.
“Actually, I think you’ll find I have discovered a more than worthwhile pursuit.” Monkeyboy looked down at Sheba and gave her a crooked smile. “I’ve taught myself to burp the national anthem. Want to hear it?”
“Um, maybe another time,” Sheba said, catching sight of the others frantically shaking their heads. “But I would have thought there were hundreds of things to do in London. Sights to see, things to learn . . . and all the people.”
“All the unwashed street scum, you mean?”
“That’s rich, coming from you, Monkey,” said Gigantus.
“Isn’t London full of gentlefolk and royalty?” Sheba asked. She had imagined crowds of beautiful people popping in and out of Buckingham Palace for tea.
“It have many poor people,” said Sister Moon, after Monkeyboy had stopped cackling. “Some very, very unfortunate.”
There was silence for a moment, as Sheba adjusted her mental image of the big city. Maybe it really isn’t such a great place after all, she thought, even if it has got crystal palaces and whatnot.
“Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Sheba,” said Mama Rat. “I’m sure we’ll all get along. But now, I think, it’s time for bed.”
With a mixture of grunts and cackles, the strange group began to ready themselves for sleep. Monkeyboy wriggled around in his cramped cage until he was somehow lying on his back. Mama Rat rested her head against her box of rats. Gigantus simply stretched himself out on the floor. Sister Moon curled at one end of Sheba’s bunk.
Someone blew out the lantern, and the caravan was plunged into darkness, except for the glow of moonlight through its single, tiny window.
“Night, all,” said Mama Rat, and there was a chorus of replies. Not long after, a range of snores began: deep and rumbling, smoky and wheezy, snorting and filthy. Sheba thought she could place them all. In the darkness, a voice came from the end of the bunk.
“You all right, Sheba?” It was Sister Moon.
“I’m not sure,” she replied. “I mean, I think so. It’s a lot to take in.”
“I felt same when I first join show. Now I glad to be here. You be fine, do not worry.”
“Sister, can I ask you something?” There was a soft rustling sound, which may have been Sister Moon nodding. Sheba carried on. “The others and I, we all look . . . strange somehow. But you’re . . . normal. Aren’t you?”
In answer, Sister Moon moved so that her face was caught in the moonlight. She motioned Sheba closer, then closer still, until she was staring deep into her eyes. They looked completely ordinary, just like the rest of her.
Then Sister Moon flicked the lucifer match she held in her hand. There was a sudden flare in the dark caravan, and that was when Sheba saw it.
Moon’s pupils shrank, the way everyone’s do when the light changes suddenly. Except they didn’t shrink to dots. Instead they became vertical slits, just like the eyes of a cat.
As the light died down, Sheba noticed that Sister Moon was smiling.
“Good night, Sheba,” she said. Then she blew out the match, and disappeared into the darkness.
Sheba lay awake for a very long time.
When gray morning light stirred Sheba, it took her a moment to realize where she was. Her sleepy brain expected her to be in her cage on the end of the pier. But instead of the fresh smell of the sea her nose was full of . . . the worst smell in the world. It was stronger than Mama Rat’s stale pipe smoke, or the ratty stink that came from her wooden box, stronger even than the baked-sewage stench of Monkeyboy’s unwashed trousers, and it was coming from outside the caravan.
She stood on her bunk and quietly, so as not to wake the others, levered open the tiny window. It didn’t reveal much except a view of the passing hedgerow, the gray shire horse stomping moodily, and Plumpscuttle dozing on the driving board, wobbling like a giant caramel pudding. Sheba wriggled her head and shoulders through the window to see more.
Fields and woodland stretched ahead of them, broken here and there by small clusters of houses. It looked almost exactly like the countryside she had trudged through with Plumpscuttle the day before — except for a sooty smudge on the horizon. A giant storm must be brewing; great billows of gray and black clouds were boiling in the air. But as Sheba peered toward it, she could make out buildings and church spires amongst the blackness.
Then she realized what she was looking at.
London.
That enormous span of smoke and stone was just one city, a colossal sprawl. Thousands upon thousands of buildings, and all of them filled with people. She had never imagined so many human beings could be in existence. It couldn’t be natural. Her jaw hung open as she imagined the amount of brick, stone, and wood needed to build such a thing. How could there be enough food in the world for all the hungry mouths inside it? How would they get rid of all their waste?
The source of the atrocious stench suddenly became clear. Raw sewage.
Sheba remained stuck, half-in half-out of the window, for the next hour. Little country houses began to roll past, wattle-and-daub lean-tos with threads of white smoke drifting from the chimneys. The view of London began to become clearer. There was a hint of a great domed building that must be St. Paul’s Cathedral. She squinted closer, trying to get a glimpse of sparkling glass that might be the fabled Crystal Palace of the Exhibition.
Soon there were clusters of houses, then small hamlets with their own inns and churches, followed by the junk mountains. Great heaps of rubbish and manure up to ten yards high, each with a gaggle of rag-clad paupers climbing and rummaging amongst them. They passed the first factory she had ever seen, a shambling cube of red brick with rows of tiny windows. Then there were breweries, slaughterhouses, tanneries, and foundries. Each had at least one chimney; all were belching out masses of black fumes. The stink stuck in her throat, burnt her lungs, and made her cough violently. Lines of tattered workers turned to gawk at the strange, choking, hairy thing hanging out of the yellow caravan.
Sheba’s sensitive nose was reeling. Not only was she smelling new odors at an alarming rate, she was taking them in at intensities her delicate system had never experienced before. Her coughing turned to retching and her head began to spin. Clumps of black soot drifted into her face and flecked her hair. She tried to pull herself back into the caravan, away from the overpowering stench, but she was stuck fast.
Then a pair of massive hands closed around her ankles and yanked her inside. Through stinging eyes, she noticed all the Peculiars were awake now, although there seemed to be lots more of them. Fifteen at least.
She tried to form words, but she was so light-headed and full of fumes she could barely think. “The smell . . .” she managed to say, before she collapsed onto the bunk, unconscious.
“Well,” said Monkeyboy, looking down from his cage. “I know London doesn’t have the nicest
pong in the world, but there’s no need for that sort of performance.”
It was late morning when Sheba came to. Thankfully, her brain seemed to have used the time to adjust itself to London’s stench. She could still smell layer upon layer of sewage, coal, smoke, gas, rotting meat, blocked drains, and a hundred other offensive odors, but they had been dimmed to background noise. Her nose thrummed but it no longer felt as if it was about to explode.
She lay on a pile of tatty blankets in a small, square room with plaster crumbling off the walls and a window that looked out onto a street of squashed little houses, pavements thronged with people. Around her were a collection of other beds and the box that held Mama Rat’s “babbies.” Tiny rodent snores drifted from within. Someone had placed her little ebony box by her side. A quick check told her everything was still in its place.
At one end of the room was a door from which deeply strange noises were leaking. It sounded as if a herd of pigs was trying to gargle syrup. By the smell, she supposed it was Plumpscuttle, fast asleep and snoring.
At the other end of the room was a staircase. She padded down it, emerging into an almost bare parlor with a small fireplace and a single rickety armchair. Next door was a kitchen with a splintered table and chairs fashioned out of old tea crates. The window was open, but Sheba was too small to see over the sill. Instead, she opened the back door and stepped out to see a bizarre sight.
In the far corner of a dusty fenced yard was the yellow caravan. The opposite corner held a small privy shed and a squat iron cage from which Monkeyboy’s face was currently peeping. A gate hung from rusty hinges and on it, in flourishing but faded script, Sheba read:
But in the middle of the yard was the gray shire horse — and it had a homicidal glint in its eyes. The Peculiars were trying to shepherd it into a stall next to the house.
“Come on, Raggety dearie. Good horsey,” crooned Mama Rat.
The horse gnashed its teeth in her direction, and she skipped backward. Sheba hadn’t seen many horses, but she was pretty sure they weren’t supposed to scowl like that.
Freaks Page 2