by Ever Dundas
I was fifteen years old when Monsta was buried and I was glad. It was the end of a childhood born blue.
Chapter 10
London, 13 October 2011
Detective Curtis has everything spread out on the table. Evidence tags hang from each item. I pick up the camera and examine it.
‘It still works,’ he says.
I lay it down and lift Monsta’s shrew head.
‘What is all this?’ he asks, gesturing to Monsta’s remains. ‘Voodoo?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Tell me.’
‘He was my friend, after Devil died.’
‘Voodoo and devils, huh?’
‘He was my dog.’
‘Devil?’
‘It’s from the comic strip, The Phantom. My aunt would send them to my brother and I read them all.’
‘What happened to your dog?’
‘He died.’
‘Did he end up here?’
He brings out the photo.
‘No. He was shot. I buried him in Kensal Green. These are his bones.’
‘Who shot him?’
I pick up a photo of Devil. Detective Curtis leans back in his chair, considering me. I know what he’s thinking; is it too soon to bring out the photograph? He makes a huffing noise as he pulls it out and places it in front of me. It’s the first time I’ve seen it.
‘Is this anything to do with your devil dog and the voodoo?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Not really.’
‘Either it is or it isn’t.’
‘Have you ever been to the sea, Detective?’
He sighs. I stare down at the photograph.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Before we go any further, I have to warn you that there’s going to be some press interest in this. For now, if they approach you, the only thing you can talk about is the dead pets. Okay? That’s all. If I was you, I’d avoid the tabloids completely and don’t say a word about devil dogs or voodoo.’
‘My lips are sealed, Detective. As they have been for seventy-two years.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Who lives in the past, Detective?’
‘Did you take these photographs?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you buried the camera. Why did you do that?’
‘Who wouldn’t?’
‘How old were you when you took this?’
‘Nine.’
We both look at the photograph.
‘It turned out well. The light was fading.’
He nods.
‘You’re a storyteller, aren’t you, Goblin?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want you to tell me the story of this photograph. Of all of these photographs.’
He spreads them out across the table, but he keeps the focus on the one in front of me.
‘Let’s start with names. Who are they?’
‘I don’t know, Detective.’
‘Who is this?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know who any of them are.’
‘Who’s responsible for this, Goblin? Don’t you want them brought to justice?’
‘I’m responsible,’ I say.
He sighs.
‘I was born blue,’ I say. ‘I could have died. Could’ve, should’ve.’
‘Give me their names.’
‘There is no justice. There can never be justice. It’s too late.’
‘Where was this? Where did you take the photograph?’
‘I don’t remember, Detective. It was a long time ago.’
He looks at me, taps his pen on the edge of the table and stands up. He leaves the room and I stare at the photos, a few minutes passing before he returns.
‘You know who this is, don’t you, Goblin?’
I look at the man standing in the doorway next to Detective Curtis. He rubs his grey beard nervously before taking off his cap to reveal a balding head. I was about to say no, no I don’t know him, when he smiles tentatively. I know that smile, I know those eyes. He sits down in front of me.
‘Yes, Detective,’ I say, looking at Mac. ‘I know who this is.’
‘You can catch up. I’m sure you both have a lot to talk about.’
He closes the door, leaving us sitting in silence.
*
‘The detective said you were in the circus.’
‘Yes.’
‘Makes sense. How long?’
‘Several years. I retired in Venice, where I wrote articles, busked, ran history tours. You?’
‘Teacher. Not as exciting as you.’
‘A teacher is good.’
Mac looks at the photos, spreading them out, pinning one down with his finger.
‘I pretended it never happened. But I had nightmares about it,’ he says. ‘For years.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘No?’
‘No. Only dreams of the sea.’
‘I heard you came back, you know. From evacuation. I knew you were back in the city when I came home, but I couldn’t face you. We moved away, shortly after. We moved.’
‘You took this,’ I say, holding up the photo of me standing in front of the mound of animal corpses.
‘I threw up. When I saw it in the paper, I threw up.’
‘Then you went to the police.’
‘Not straight away. I looked them up first,’ he says, drumming his fingers on the photo. ‘Do you know they’re war heroes?’
‘I found out.’
‘It was then I picked up the phone,’ he says.
‘What good is it now?’ I say.
‘I couldn’t take this to my grave.’
‘Why not? It’s where it belongs. Buried.’
‘You don’t believe that.’
‘They’re going to exhume the body,’ I say.
‘You think it’s there?’
‘Where else would it be?’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Mac says. ‘If you want me to.’
‘You think it will stop the nightmares.’
Gathering up all the photos, he piles them on top of one another, burying the one depicting what we were going to unearth. He looks up at me.
‘Tell me about the circus. What did you do?’
‘I was a clown. And I helped look after the animals.’
He smiles. ‘Of course.’
UK, 1950 – 1961
I know how it felt for them; like disappearing into another world. Greeted at the entrance by the guardians of the realm, ushered in to the sound of music, enveloped by an intoxicating medley of scents, surrounded by laughter and yells as they jostled for space and made their way down the aisles, finding their seats. I’d peer out at them, looking at the faces of the children, remembering my first experience of the circus with Pigeon. Now I was one of them. I was a clown, a fantasy, a freak.
The thing I loved the most about circus life was the feeling of anticipation and excitement when we arrived in towns. We’d set up camp on the outskirts before travelling into town to parade through the main street and in some cities thousands would turn up to watch us. The animals were the star attractions. As the elephants lumbered by with the glitter girls astride them you could see the sense of wonder in everyone’s eyes, even the adults. It made me feel that this Goblin-runt born blue was meant to be. In the circus I was a bringer of joy. I was no longer the travelling Goblin with her Devil dog or her Corporal Pig or her Monsta. I was travelling Goblin-clown-freak with a family of hundreds, humans and other animals.
I was with the clown troupe, Marv, Ali, Paul, and later on there was Horatiu who we picked up on our travels. I loved clowning and took it very seriously. We trained with the acrobats – learning the rules before breaking them; it took a lot of grace to look clumsy. I came out of it mostly unscathed, with lots of bruises and aching muscles, though Paul was laid up for a while with a sprained wrist.
We teamed up with Milly, the tiger trainer, devising an act where Ali’s Jack Russell, Rusty, was replaced with a tiger cub but he pretended not to not
ice. This was a real hit with the audience – they’d yell for him to watch out and he’d feign deafness, shrug and continue on with this tiger cub at his side. The tiger ‘mum’ would enter the ring and the audience went wild. Ali just looked confused for a moment, shrugged and continued walking round the ring. The tiger mum padded up behind Ali, took the tiger cub by the scruff of the neck and exited the ring – there was an audible sigh of relief from the audience every time. Ali turned round, saw his Jack Russell was gone and started searching, lifting up women’s skirts and looking under men’s hats. The audience, distracted, laughing at Ali, didn’t see the tiger mum at first – she’d re-entered the ring, carrying the Jack Russell in her mouth. There was a gradual ripple through the crowd, followed by yells. Ali turned, saw his dog and stomped his way back into the ring. Two pats on the head of the tiger – a collective gasp from the audience – and Ali had his dog back.
It was one of my favourite acts – the whole troupe had devised it and it was always a success – but I ended it. The trainers had trouble breeding tigers; it wasn’t successful whatever they tried, so they bought cubs from traders or zoos. I didn’t know much about zoos, but I didn’t like separating the cubs from their mums, and I felt uneasy about cubs from the wild. It took me a while to persuade mum and dad, but I got them to effectively kill our best act. The clown troupe never knew it was me; mum and dad took full responsibility. I felt pretty bad about it and did all I could do make it up to them; working harder, helping other acts, doing more than my share if we needed extra hands for the erection and dismantling of the tents. Mum and dad reassured me, telling me they understood – ‘We know how much you love animals, G’ – but I decided I wouldn’t rock the circus boat from then on. The clown troupe bitched and moaned about Mad and James’ decision, saying, ‘Sorry, G, but it’s just—’ and I’d nod and say, it’s fine. I get it.
‘We don’t need the cub anyway,’ I said. ‘We can stand on our own clown feet.’
And we could. The audience loved us and I loved being a performer. Sitting in front of that mirror each night, Goblin becoming clown. I wasn’t as skinny as I was during the war but no one could tell I was a woman as my body disappeared beneath my costume; layers of blue and white stripes with ruffles at my neck. I wore a pointed hat with blue pom poms down the front, and we all had our signature make-up; I whited out my face, my dark eyebrows and my big lips disappearing, giving me a strange otherworldly look. I then exaggerated my lips to the point of grotesqueness, smearing lipstick over my philtrum and chin, each side curling high up on my cheeks. My eyebrows were thick black triangles, high on my forehead, giving me a look of permanent surprise and I drew in vertical lines at each eye. The other clowns coloured their noses, but I left mine white – from a distance it looked like I didn’t have a nose at all.
Other than the tiger cub and occasionally Rusty, we didn’t perform with the animals, but I loved to be with them so when I had time I helped Colin and his workers muck them out, wash them, brush them, feed them, whatever needed done. The menagerie was one of my favourite things about the circus. I’d try to get my costume and make-up done in plenty time before the show so I could go out and watch all the people, seeing their reactions to the animals. I moved through the crowd, selling a few clown toys, watching the people mill around taking photos of the animals. I took a photo of a family with two of our elephants, the little kid not wanting to look at the camera, too busy staring up at Mitzi and her flapping ears. A click and a flash and I caught her sense of wonder.
The menagerie weren’t the only animals in the circus. Captain Flint and Groo came with us. Captain Flint would fly off when we pitched, disappearing for hours, returning with prey he’d eat on my bed. I’d come in from a performance to find a corpse, half-eaten. I remember when he brought a corpse and a diamond bracelet, almost as if it was an appeasement. We were pitched in York when he didn’t return one evening. I didn’t fret, sure he would make it back before we left. Four days passed and he didn’t return; I was anxious for him, but hoped he was enjoying his freedom and not injured or dead. I missed him and his gruesome meals.
Groo took a while to get used to circus life and mostly stayed in my caravan on my bed. Eventually she ventured out, exploring the new terrain in each town and city we stopped in. She would bring me mice and small birds until my caravan was a grisly menagerie of corpses. Groo would sniff out the other animals in the circus, fascinated by all the new smells. Trotting in front of the cages, she held her head high in a haughty display of her freedom in contrast to the mighty big cats behind bars. She made friends with one of the performing dogs, Ali’s Jack Russell, Rusty, and I’d find them curled up on my bed together, making huffy noises in their sleep. Groo groomed him and he enjoyed it. I tried not to think of Devil, I tried not to think of the past at all. Except for David; I used our travelling as an opportunity to look for him. We travelled for eight months of the year, all across the UK, everywhere we went I would put up posters of David, keeping an eye out for him in seaside towns. I’d also get tattoos in almost every town or city we stopped in. I asked the publicity troupe to scout out a tattoo artist for me and book me in before we arrived. I’d get waves, ships, pirate flags, mermaids and mermen, krakens, sailors, anchors, lizard people, Mary and Jesus. I had ‘LOVE’ tattooed across the fingers on my right hand and lines from Alice in Wonderland and The Time Machine across my back and my legs. Each year we’d return to the same towns and cities and I’d return to my favourite tattoo artists. They’d be waiting for me with a shot of whisky, vodka, gin or a pint of beer and it was like I’d never left. The last tattoo I got was a small lizard on my ring finger.
At the end of the tour the circus would return to London to do a few shows there, then we’d have a short break before coming back together and repairing and repainting our carriages and props, working on new acts, bringing in new performers. I’d return to letters, people telling me they’d seen David, but they were all from cranks, lonely people looking for someone to rescue them. I kept all the letters and some of them I replied to, keeping up a correspondence with an old woman who lived in a cottage near the coast with her two dogs. She had so many stories to tell and I’d get lost in them, pretending her past was mine.
Adam and I split summer of ’52. We’d been taking each other for granted, being together out of habit, not really connecting anymore. And he hated when I was drinking.
‘You get drunk and maudlin, talk around your past – never about it.’
‘Don’t pry,’ I said, ‘leave me be.’
‘You need to talk about it.’
‘Don’t tell me what I need.’
I ended it before he could. He didn’t speak to me for weeks after, but I hardly saw him anyway, as he was involved in Freaks and Wonders and I was busy clowning. It was strange going back to my caravan in the evenings now he wasn’t there. I met up with mum and dad for a weekly evening drink, and I started going round to Marv’s with Ali and Paul and drank with them a couple of nights a week. They were all about fifteen years older than me and they’d fought in the war – Ali and Paul had been in the army with dad, and Marv was in the RAF. Ali and Paul barely spoke about it, but Marv regaled us with tales of derring-do and womanising. When Marv wasn’t with us in the evenings he was off wooing one of the glitter girls and he’d tell us all about it the next day, ‘That Laura, she was something else – kept me up all night.’ He didn’t seem to care I was a woman. At first I thought their easy acceptance was because of Mad and James, but we hit it off and they enjoyed my crazy stories about the London ghosts and my collection of animals.
I wasn’t with anyone for the next few years; just brief flings here and there. Mum and dad had rules, the main one being that we weren’t to fraternize with any locals when we stopped off, though I know many did. The second rule was that if we had affairs, it wasn’t to affect our work. The third was that there were no unplanned pregnancies; contraception was provided and every child was given sex education. If any performers
wanted children, they informed mum and dad, giving them time to plan so that performances didn’t suffer. The circus was one big family and mum and dad encouraged everyone to help with the children.
It wasn’t until ’55 that I was in another serious relationship, when I fell for another angel. Angelina was a glitter girl, one of the aerialists who worked with mum. Everyone called her Glitter Queen when she became one of our big stars with fans clamouring for her autograph after shows. When she took part in the parades through the towns she’d wear wings. She was a dream.
I went to watch her rehearse whenever I had the time. She was another fiery angel – all temper and expletives when practice didn’t go well, no patience if anyone dared to disagree with her. I must have been watching her work for weeks when she came over to me after rehearsal.
‘Jesus!’ she said. ‘You saw that, right? If he doesn’t pull his fucking weight the whole act will fall apart. I need a drink – you coming?’
I went back to her caravan and sat on her bed as she told me about her trouble with Dave.
‘He’s got a problem with me just because I turned him down. What are we – school children? Jesus!’
She didn’t seem to mind that I was there as she peeled off her tights and unclipped her bra. She stood naked in-front of the mirror, taking her hair out of a bun, brushing it and tying it back. She pulled a towel around her and said, ‘Just getting a quick shower, hang around will you? Help yourself.’ She pointed to the whisky on her dresser.
We lay on her bed, drinking late into the evening. She finally moved on from the trouble with Dave and told me about growing up in poverty in Manchester, said her parents had tried to marry her off to an old man with money, ‘so when your circus came I stowed away. I’m lucky your parents took me on.’
‘We’re the lucky ones – you’re our star.’
‘All thanks to your mum,’ she said raising her glass, ‘taking a chance, taking the time to train me.’
‘Mad knows potential when she sees it,’ I said, clinking glasses with her.