The Sequin Star

by Belinda Murrell

  The next time she opened her eyes there were three faces staring down at her. One was a boy’s, about fourteen, with a thatch of messy blond hair and lots of freckles. The next was the dark-haired girl, about fifteen, and the third was definitely a monkey, wearing a little crimson fez and jacket.

  Claire sat up gingerly. She looked around, expecting to see the busy street near her home and her usual bus stop. Instead, she was in a dusty field. Behind was a huge tent, with dozens of vintage trucks and caravans parked all around it. A circus. That would explain the monkey.

  Right behind the girl was a wrinkly grey elephant with long, dark eyelashes, who was using its trunk to blow dust over its back. A golden dog sniffed around beside them.

  Claire closed her eyes again. Her head pounded. She could taste blood in her mouth. Muddled thoughts raced through her brain. This doesn’t make any sense. I was on the bus, nearly home. Now I’m lying in a strange field. How did I get here? Where am I?

  The girl bobbed down beside her. She was wearing a pair of baggy brown jodhpurs, knee-length black riding boots and a short-sleeved white shirt. Her outfit looked quaint and old-fashioned. The monkey chittered gently on her shoulder.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ the girl asked. ‘Can you move?’

  Claire fought back an overwhelming sense of panic. There must be a logical explanation. Perhaps I’m hallucinating. Perhaps they moved me while I was unconscious. That must be it. They moved me into a park to get me off the road.

  ‘A bit groggy, but I don’t think anything is broken,’ admitted Claire, her voice croaky. She looked around. ‘Is the cyclist all right?’

  ‘Cyclist?’ asked the boy. ‘The only cyclist around here is Lula the monkey, and she only rides in the circus ring.’

  ‘I stepped onto the road and was hit by a bicycle,’ explained Claire. ‘He hit me hard so I thought he might be hurt too.’

  The girl exchanged a concerned look with her companion.

  ‘There wasn’t any bicycle,’ said the girl. ‘You were knocked over by an elephant. I was riding her down for a swim in the creek, and suddenly you appeared right beneath her feet. I can’t imagine what you were thinking, running in front of an elephant like that.’

  ‘An elephant?’ Claire felt a wave of panic rise up through her. What is happening? Where am I? Tears welled up in her eyes. She rubbed them away.

  ‘There was a cycle – I saw it, just after I stepped off the bus . . .’

  ‘I think you might have hit your head harder than you know.’ The girl spoke in a soothing voice. ‘We’re in a field. There are no buses for miles. What’s your name?’

  ‘Claire . . . Claire Stanton,’ she replied. ‘Who . . . who are you?

  The boy grinned. ‘This is Princess Rosina, or Rosina Sterling, the gypsy princess and bareback equestrienne extraordinaire. And that’s Lula, the cycling, stilt-walking, pony-riding primate. Not to mention Elsie the elephant.’

  The girl bowed. The monkey jumped up and down on her shoulder, chittering with excitement.

  ‘And this is Jeremy Bates, commonly known as Jem – the fiddle-playing, ice-cream-selling roustabout,’ Rosina added, slapping Jem on the back. Jem, too, looked quaintly old-fashioned with a knitted vest over his blue shirt, grey trousers and a soft flat cap on his head. ‘And his faithful sidekick, Jaspar.’

  Jaspar was obviously the big golden dog with its tongue hanging out. It was of some indeterminate breed, with its shaggy, wagging tail and long, white socks, speckled with tan.

  Claire grinned, despite her headache. ‘Do you really live in the circus?’ she asked. ‘That must be amazing.’

  Rosina smiled warmly and stroked Lula’s back. ‘It’s hard work, but we love it.’

  Jem shrugged. ‘More importantly, we get fed.’

  Rosina glanced over towards the camp, then back at Claire.

  ‘Do you think you can stand?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps we should take you over to see Malia. She treats most of the injuries in the show.’

  Jem helped Claire struggle to her feet. She wiped her dusty hand on the side of her jeans and straightened her singlet top. She definitely felt a bit woozy. Rosina offered her arm for support. Claire suddenly remembered her bag, with her phone in it. She could ring her mum. Mum could come and pick her up.

  For a moment relief swept through her, but looking around there was no sign of the bag anywhere.

  ‘Did you see my bag?’ asked Claire. ‘I had it over my shoulder just a minute ago.’

  Rosina looked around. ‘There’s no bag here. Are you sure?’

  Claire looked suspiciously at Jem and Rosina. Had they stolen it when she was knocked over? ‘It had my wallet and mobile in it. I need my phone.’

  Jem flushed. ‘We didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ His voice rose in anger. ‘Townies always think circus people are thieves and riffraff. Whenever anything goes missing we always get the blame.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ Claire said hurriedly, ‘but I need to ring my parents.’

  ‘Jem could go into town and telephone your parents from the post office if you like,’ suggested Rosina. She gestured down the road. ‘We could lend you some money for the call.’

  ‘Don’t you have a phone here? Don’t you have a mobile?’

  Rosina and Jem exchanged incredulous glances again. ‘This is a circus,’ explained Rosina patiently. ‘The nearest telephone is the post office in town. Perhaps if you write the number down Jem can telephone them while Malia is checking your head.’

  Claire swayed wearily. It was all too much to take in. Rosina caught her arm to stop her from falling.

  ‘Can you walk, or would you like to ride on Elsie?’ Rosina asked.

  Claire looked up at the big elephant and shook her head. ‘I think I’ll stay on my own two feet.’

  As they walked slowly towards the camp Claire stared around her, drinking in the sights.

  Men were bustling about the camp, setting up the smaller tents and unpacking long bench seats from the trucks. Claire was struck again at how quaint everyone looked, as though she was on the set of a 1930s period film. Most of the men were unshaven and wore either trousers and braces or waistcoats and jackets.

  The circus men stared at Claire, as she limped along. She felt very much out of place, wearing her modern clothes, with dirt and blood on her hands and face. Claire combed her fingers through her hair in an attempt to tidy herself.

  A temporary fence was set up, forming a yard where horses grazed. A couple of trucks held large cages, their canvas sides rolled up to let in the breeze. One held three tawny lionesses, lying with their cubs in the straw. The other held a mother and baby bear, their tan faces stark against their glossy black fur. Several dogs ran around the camp.

  ‘Oi, Jem!’ a man yelled. ‘Give us a hand, and look lively.’

  ‘I’d better go before Frank loses his hair,’ said Jem. He turned and called out to the workmen, ‘I’m just helping Rosina put Elsie away.’

  He patted Elsie on the shoulder. ‘Come on, girl. I have a nice bucket of potatoes for you.’

  The elephant flapped her ears and trumpeted, as though she knew exactly what Jem had said. She plodded along behind him, swinging her trunk and swishing her tail.

  Rosina led Claire to where the caravans were parked in two neat, double rows, forming a semicircle behind the circus tents. The caravans were painted in bright colours: red, green and yellow. At the very end, a little apart from the others, was a larger blue caravan. It was decorated with gold swirls and scrolls, with Sterling Brothers Circus written in large letters down the side.

  A thin woman in a faded shift frock was sitting outside on a wooden chair peeling potatoes. A table held a mound of potato peelings on top of a newspaper and a large saucepan full of water. There were three young children – a boy and two girls, aged between four and seven – pla
ying with a kitten on the ground nearby. A large pink galah was perched on a branch above their heads, screeching and squawking.

  Galvanised iron washing tubs and buckets and crates filled with paraphernalia were stacked under the caravan. A rope hung between the van and a nearby tree, strung with washing. Claire noticed the washing included tiny tutus, miniature clown suits and harlequin hats.

  ‘Malia,’ called Rosina. ‘Could you take a look at this girl? She was knocked over by Elsie. Claire, this is Malia Sterling, the owner’s wife, and these are her children, Peggy, Stella and Leo.’

  The children looked up at Claire with serious black eyes, then disappeared under the caravan.

  Malia glanced at Claire then Rosina. ‘How did that happen? What were you doing walking under an elephant?’

  Rosina shrugged. Claire decided not to repeat her story of stepping off a bus and being hit by a bicycle. It sounded more and more absurd, even to her own ears. She rubbed her forehead, trying to think clearly.

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ Claire replied hesitantly. ‘I can’t quite remember.’

  ‘She seems to have hit her head. She’s very confused,’ added Rosina.

  Malia stood up and gestured for Claire to sit down on the chair. She examined the wound on Claire’s head then disappeared inside the caravan. Claire’s eyes scanned the newspaper beside her; it looked odd. The banner along the top read The Sydney Morning Herald, Friday, March 11, 1932. Claire felt a sick lurch in her stomach.

  There was a story about the upcoming opening of the Harbour Bridge, one about the latest outbreak of infantile paralysis and another about the Premier, Mr Lang, pushing a new law through State Parliament.

  Claire took a deep breath. She fought back a surge of fear. This is impossible. I must be dreaming. Why does the newspaper have a date that is more than eighty years ago? Who are these people? How on earth did I get here?

  Her head was pounding, her mouth was dry and her heart was beating erratically. Claire thought she might throw up. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to quell the panic.

  Malia fetched a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth. She gently wiped away the congealed blood from Claire’s forehead. Claire winced with the sting.

  ‘Is this a film set?’ Claire asked suddenly. ‘Are you actors?’

  Malia snorted. ‘You have gone soft in the head, although sometimes I’m sure Princess Rosina here thinks she’s an actress.’

  Rosina raised her eyebrows at Claire and smiled. Lula the monkey stroked her hair with soft gnarled paws.

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Claire.

  ‘Orange,’ replied Rosina. ‘The latest camp of Sterling Brothers Circus.’

  ‘Orange?’ asked Claire. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you know where we are?’ asked Rosina ‘We’re about one hundred and fifty miles west of Sydney.’

  ‘One hundred and fifty miles west of Sydney?’ Claire felt sick. How did she get so far from home?

  ‘We’re heading towards Sydney – the Harbour Bridge opens in a week,’ added Malia.

  ‘The opening of the Sydney Harbour Bridge?’ asked Claire in disbelief.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Rosina. ‘No one seems to have talked about anything else, except perhaps the depression, for months.’

  ‘What’s the date?’ Claire asked.

  Malia leant over and read the top of the news­paper. ‘That’s yesterday’s paper, which makes it Saturday, March 12.’

  ‘1932?’ asked Claire. ‘It can’t be. It can’t be. It’s November, two thousand and . . .’

  Have I somehow gone back in time? Claire jumped up, ready to run. But where can I run to? Where can I go? She felt swamped by fear and confusion. She crumpled back into her chair, her heart thumping in her chest.

  Rosina looked at her with alarm. Malia patted her on the arm.

  ‘My head hurts,’ Claire confessed in a woebegone voice, rubbing her forehead.

  ‘Perhaps you should lie down for a little while. Do you live nearby?’ asked Malia.

  ‘Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know,’ answered Claire. She burst into tears. ‘I don’t know anyone here.’

  Malia patted her gently on the arm. ‘You’re in shock, I think. You’ll be all right in a little while. What you need is a hot cup of tea, a couple of aspirin and a little quiet time.’

  ‘I thought Jem could go into town and telephone her parents,’ suggested Rosina.

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed Malia. ‘But first let’s get her to lie down.’

  Malia bustled around, ordering Rosina about. Claire wrote down her parents’ names, address and phone number on a scrap of paper and gave it to Rosina.

  In a few minutes Claire was tucked up under some blankets in a smaller green caravan, which appeared to be Rosina’s. She drank some bitter herbal tea that Malia brought her, then curled up and was soon in a deep sleep.

  Sometime later, a strange noise woke her. She stretched. Memories of the peculiar happenings filtered into her consciousness. Such a strange dream, she thought to herself. Her eyelids flickered open. The noise came again. It sounded like an elephant trumpeting.

  4

  Campfire Dinner

  Claire’s eyes flew open and she stared around in dismay. She was not at home in her beautiful bedroom – the bed piled with her favourite old teddies, funny photos of her friends stuck on the noticeboard, the dormer window overlooking the treetops. She was lying down in a cramped bunk in a tiny caravan. Claire felt overcome with despair and loneliness. She rolled over.

  ‘Oh good, you’re awake,’ came Rosina’s voice from the doorway. Lula was still sitting on her shoulder with her tail wrapped around Rosina’s neck. ‘I’ve brought you a bowl of broth and a cup of real tea. How are you feeling?’

  Claire struggled to sit up and smiled wanly. Rosina handed her the mug of tea. She placed the bowl of broth on a little table.

  ‘A little better,’ she lied. ‘Thanks for the tea. Have I been asleep long?’

  Claire sipped the tea. It was hot and sweet, and seemed to have been made with condensed milk.

  ‘A couple of hours.’ Rosina sat down on a bench that ran across the opposite wall. Lula slipped off her shoulder and started to play with an ostrich feather headdress lying on the table. She held the flamboyant white-and-pink feathers up to her own head, bobbing and nodding so the feathers danced.

  Claire smiled at the sight. The bright feathers were way too long for the little monkey.

  ‘No, Lula,’ said Rosina sternly. ‘How many times have I told you not to play with my costumes?’

  The monkey obediently put the feathers down and started playing with a hairbrush on the table, using it upside down to brush her own short fur. She primped and preened in front of a small, spotted mirror.

  Claire took in her surroundings. The inside of the caravan was shabby, with belongings piled everywhere. A rack of costumes hung at one end. Claire could see a sparkly pink-and-silver dress, a light-blue tutu and a purple velvet cloak. A pair of pink satin ballet slippers hung from the end.

  Seeing the ballet slippers gave her a sharp pang. They made her think of home and her ballet lessons at the dance academy. She remembered how proud she had been when Madame Petrova had said she was finally strong enough to start learning to dance en pointe, after months of training and exercises. Going with her mum to be fitted for her first pointe shoes had been a special occasion, celebrated with a chocolate milkshake at their favourite café. Claire forced herself to look away.

  Rosina took up a pair of pale-pink tights that were lying on the table and began to darn a large hole in the toe.

  ‘Can you remember anything now?’ asked Rosina. ‘Do you know where you live?’

  Claire took a deep breath. What will I say? Shall I sound completely mad if I say I come from another century? Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

>   ‘I live in Sydney, in Northbridge,’ said Claire. ‘I’m not quite sure how I came here. My grandmother is very ill and in hospital. And my mother . . .’ Claire paused. She wished more than anything her mother would walk through the door and sort everything out. ‘Well, anyway, one moment I was on a bus going home and then I was here . . .’

  Claire began to cry again. Rosina handed her a handkerchief. She blew her nose gratefully. Lula climbed over and sat next to Claire, gently patting her on the arm. The tiny paw felt soft and leathery.

  ‘How old are you, Claire?’ asked Rosina.

  ‘Fourteen,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh? I thought you might have been older. You’re tall.’ Rosina paused. She seemed to be thinking. ‘You remind me of someone . . . someone I haven’t seen for a very long time.’

  Claire took another sip of tea. Its comforting warmth made her feel better.

  ‘Have some soup while it’s hot,’ suggested Rosina, passing Claire the bowl and spoon. ‘So let me see if I have this right? You live in Sydney and you don’t know how you arrived in our camp?’ Claire nodded as she sipped the soup. ‘So you don’t know anyone here in Orange?’

  Claire shook her head. ‘Only you and Jem and Malia.’

  ‘Are you trying to run away and join the circus?’ asked Rosina, raising a dark eyebrow. ‘Every town we visit seems to have someone who thinks a circus life would be more glamorous than their own. They soon learn that it’s mostly hard slog.’

  Claire shook her head. ‘It never occurred to me to run away.’

  Rosina drummed her fingers on the tabletop. ‘Jem tried to telephone the number that you gave him.’ Claire sat up straighter, her heart in her mouth. ‘It wasn’t a valid number. The operator tried to get through to the address that you gave him, but there was no one of that name living there. There never has been.’

  Rosina paused. Claire went pale. She felt like she could hardly breathe.

  ‘I’m not sure what to think,’ confessed Rosina. ‘Are you in some kind of trouble? You seem like a nice girl, and I’d like to help you if I can. I know what it’s like to be alone and friendless.’