The Circus

by Olivia Levez

  Places I tried first:

  YumYums, a delicatessen and café.

  The Naked Lunch, a vegetarian restaurant.

  Birdcage, a vintage clothes shop.

  Bill and Pippa’s Plaice, a stall selling dab sandwiches.

  The Mermaid, a pub by the seafront.

  Leaving the Old Town, I walk to the newer shopping centre and try all of the high street shops. No luck in Topshop, River Island, H&M, M&S, Dorothy Perkins, Monsoon, Burtons or New Look. I cross the road by the train station, and try the independent shops along Battle Street. This part of town has a very different feel to the old part. It is full of pawn shops and nail bars and tattoo parlours. I make myself ask for a job in five of the least scary-looking places:

  Shoopermarket, a discount shoe shop.

  Buy Your Leave, a budget gift shop.

  Hastings Famous Pound Shop, a store where everything’s a pound or less. (This amazes me. I lose track of time, exploring all of the aisles. Twelve rolls of toilet paper for one pound! Imagine.)

  In each of the stores that I go in, my voice rings out too loud and too posh and too confident. Eyes stare as if I’ve dropped in from another world, and I suppose in a way I have.

  In the end, I walk across the pebbled beach to the edge of the sea. I take off my shoes and socks and ease my aching feet into the chilly water.

  Afterwards, sitting on the pebbles, I take out my Kit of Happiness. The first item I pull out this time is the head girl badge. I used to take it from Beanie’s bedside table and wear it around town when she was off on an exeat weekend and I was not. It made me feel important, I suppose.

  Next is the button from the Handbag’s wedding dress. I turn it over in my hand, and wonder if they went through with the wedding. Did Daddy even notice I wasn’t there to hold up the veil? Absent from all the wedding photos. The absent guest. The missing daughter.

  What did she do when she went to put on her dress and it was ruined? Got Martyna, I suppose, to stitch all the buttons back on again while she and her bunch of pleb friends drank Daddy’s champagne and topped up their spray tans. I try to feel delight at the thought of the Handbag and her missing buttons, but all I feel is empty.

  In a minute, I will sit down and open one of the bags of crisps and read the free ads in the back of the newspaper. If there are no jobs in there, I don’t know what I’m going to do.

  Dear Beanie,

  Job-hunting in Hastings is a real scream. You’d never believe the places I’ve been! The best place by far is Hastings Famous Pound Shop (apostrophe not included) which is INCREDIBLE. Truly. I don’t know how people can say they’re poor when they can buy literally everything they need for only £1 per item. We so need one near school (if I ever come back, that is, which obvs I’m not going to). Imagine all the midnight feasts we’d have, all the biscuits!

  And if you ever need a five-pack of plughole debris collectors, then I’m your girl.

  I’m having so much fun, Beanie.

  Wish you were here.

  Wxx

  Camera Obscura

  ‘It’s for a job,’ I say, ‘so it’s really important that I use your phone.’ Mrs Fox puts down her Sudoku puzzle and leafs through a little notebook.

  ‘That’ll be five pounds per minute,’ she sniffs. ‘Calling out on our landline is not in our house rules.’

  ‘Five pounds?’ I say. ‘Surely you can’t charge…’

  But she’s reached for her biro again, and is writing a number into one of the Sudoku boxes, hissing out heavy coffee breath. I unclench my fingers and draw out a five pound note. Handing it over to her is like a physical pain. I think how many drinks and bread rolls and biscuits I could have bought with that at the pound shop.

  Without raising her eyes, Mrs Fox pushes the phone over to me.

  I tap in the number rapidly. Should I or should I not wear my ballet tutu? Would it be too much at a first audition? I have dozens of routines I can perform, from all those years doing gymnastics and modern dance at county level. St Jerome’s prides itself on its extracurricular opportunities, and it helped fill up the time if I had to stay at school for the holidays.

  ‘Hello?’ says a man’s voice, with a strong local accent. There’s the sound of breathing for a moment, and then a series of beeps, as if he’s put his touchscreen against his ear.

  ‘Oh, good morning,’ I say. ‘My name’s Beanie, and I’m a performer. I’d like to audition to be one of your dancers, please.’

  I can hear the Fox listening hard. You can tell by the way her pen’s stopped scratching at her newspaper.

  There’s that heavy silence again. Then: ‘Auditions, you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply impatiently. ‘It says in the advert you placed in the Hastings Bugle. “Dancers wanted”. Well, I’m one. A dancer, I mean.’

  I count to five this time. Whoever’s on the other end of the line needs a lot of time to register things.

  ‘Are you Tone?’ I say, at last.

  The man gives a sort of laugh. ‘Yes, I’m Tone. So, you’re a dancer, you reckon?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ I list all of my awards and achievements, finishing with my grade eight RADA certificate. I wonder how much this call is costing me, whether it’s been over a minute yet.

  There’s a hoosh of breath from Tone’s end. I write down the address he gives me on a corner of my newspaper. Afterwards, the Fox shows me her phone screen, her fuchsia lips pressed together. She’s been timing my call on her stopwatch: 2:58.

  She smiles thinly as I hand her two more crisp five pound notes.

  Number Five, Quarry Lane doesn’t look like the sort of place you’d hold auditions. There are no obvious signs anywhere, and I have to walk up and down the street before I’m sure it’s the right one. A broken pushchair sits outside it, and a child’s Finding Nemo plastic ball.

  It’s a Victorian terrace with a big bay window at the front, except you can’t see inside, because someone’s clipped the curtains together with a clothes peg. It must be because of the photographs, to get the lighting right in the room.

  I push open the metal gate and walk up to the front door. It opens immediately, and a face peers through a chain.

  ‘Are you the girl for the auditions?’ A man’s voice, light and high. It’s a different voice to Tone’s.

  ‘I’m the dancer,’ I say. I shiver, despite the yellow coat I’m wearing over my leotard, tutu and leggings.

  There’s a rattle as he draws the chain, then he stands aside to let me in.

  ‘I was expecting Tone,’ I say. I look around. The house is strangely bare; there doesn’t appear to be any furniture.

  The man in front of me hovers, smiling uncertainly. He’s very skinny, with that shoulder stoop that tall people have.

  ‘My name’s Patrick.’ He holds out his hand, and I shake it, trying not to recoil at its soft dampness. Under the bare bulb, his face glows orange. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Beanie,’ I say. I look around for somewhere to put my bag. ‘Is Tone coming soon?’

  He giggles. ‘Great name. It’s great that you’re a dancer. I’m a musician.’ He points to the guitar propped up against the stairs. He looks like a musician, I suppose: straggly gingery hair and long thumbnails.

  ‘What do you do – your act, I mean?’ he says.

  I look at him; he sounds genuinely interested.

  He plucks a few flecks of tobacco from his black T-shirt. I notice that his fingers are long and pale.

  ‘Let me guess…trapeze, right?’

  I stare at him. Think of my mother, with her strong wrists and wide shoulders that are just like mine.

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I? Just that you look kind of strong to me. Strong and powerful.’ He has a quick, soft voice, and I decide that he must be shy.

  ‘My mother is a circus performer,’ I say. ‘And, yes, it was the trapeze. I hope to follow in her footsteps.’

  He looks impressed. ‘Really? That’s really cool. My mother works in the arcade.’ Again
, that quick, soft laugh. A pause, then: ‘Shall we go through?’ He nods towards the front room.

  I follow him into a room that’s dark and empty, apart from a rail of clothes and what looks like a tank on the floor. A photographer’s umbrella stands in the corner.

  Patrick takes my bag from me. I try not to mind about his long white fingers.

  ‘Is she here?’ A voice from behind the umbrella makes me jump.

  ‘Beanie, meet Tone,’ says Patrick.

  Snake Charmer

  ‘So, are those the costumes?’ I ask. ‘For the audition?’

  Patrick is smiling and nodding. Tone smiles too, showing teeth like hubcaps.

  ‘Ah, the costumes. We have plenty of those, don’t we, Patrick?’

  Tone is as short as Patrick is tall, and wears shades indoors, which makes me wonder what his eyes look like. He has pale hair, so light it’s almost silver in the gloom.

  I don’t like Tone, and I like Patrick even less. Something about his high voice makes my skin shrink.

  Tone shows me a plastic brochure with pull-out photographs. The cover says: Tony Daiquiri. Publicity. Photography. Promotions.

  ‘These are my stars,’ he says, showing his grey teeth. There are lots of pictures of girls, in soft focus, wrapped in feathers and tilting their heads at the camera. They look strangely oldfashioned, like cigarette cards of forties movie stars.

  ‘All my girls are performers,’ he says, rubbing his thumb against the plastic.

  ‘So, shall I dance now?’

  Tone snaps into business mode. ‘I’ll take your promo shots while you, er, audition,’ he says. ‘A full set, different sizes, will cost you –’ He names a price which is a week’s lodgings. ‘Or you can have the introductory package for fifty quid,’ he says. ‘Includes my services as your agent, your basic sell sheet, information on all the local gigs. Basically, it’s your way in. Includes costume hire as well,’ he adds.

  ‘Fifty pounds?’ I say. Although that would buy me two nights at Mrs Fox’s, it doesn’t seem so bad.

  ‘I want to be a trapeze artist,’ I say. ‘Like my mother.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, this is your way in. All the shows around here will expect you to have an agent. Having photos gives you the edge.’

  The photographs look all right. I riffle through them, and then freeze. One of them is a shot of a girl with a snake around her neck, both of them winking at the camera.

  ‘Ah, that’s Lizzie,’ says the man. ‘She’ll cost you extra.’

  ‘Lizzie?’ I stare at the photo. This girl is blonde. She’s got a bony face and wide pale eyes. She’s definitely not my mother.

  ‘Indian Temple Viper. Completely harmless, she’s had her fangs removed. But we use her as a prop.’

  ‘So, it’s all a fake?’ I say, staring down at the photograph.

  He nods and laughs. ‘You don’t think they use actual poisonous ones in the shows, do you? Anyway, time’s ticking on, I’ve got to go out and meet some of my, er, clients later, so you’ll have to make up your mind pretty sharpish, love.’

  ‘I’ll take the fifty pounds introductory package,’ I say, still gazing at the picture. Maybe my mother came here too, I think. Perhaps Tone was her agent.

  ‘Sure I can’t tempt you with the deluxe…? OK, sign here, and we’ll take your money up front, please. In cash,’ he adds. He has changed from being benevolent Tone. He’s taken his shades off, and his eyes look rattish in the light from the anglepoise lamp. I don’t want to ask him about my mother.

  ‘In here,’ says Tone. ‘Take your pick. I’ll get the lighting ready.’

  I look doubtfully at the few costumes hanging on the rail behind the screen. They all look revealing: a shiny purple bra top with sequins, a cowgirl outfit with tasselled bra top and tasselled boots and not much else, a flapper costume with drooping feathers, a Jungle Jane outfit in snakeskin – no doubt to match Lizzie, who lies stone-like in her tank, looking bored with the whole business.

  I choose the flapper dress, just because it seems to have more material than the other ones. Tone hands me a used lipstick in bright red.

  ‘Put this on too, love – and for chrissake smile. Imagine you’re in the ring.’

  I stand shivering behind the screen, and slowly take my clothes off. I can hear Tone and Patrick talking in low voices. I don’t want to be here. I want to be as far away as possible from this horrible place and these horrible men and back in my room at Mrs Fox’s, curly hairs or no curly hairs.

  But they have my money. And something about Tone’s smile makes me think that there’s no way he’s going to give it me back.

  Slowly, I pull the zip up. This dress smells unwashed, as if hundreds of girls before me have worn it in this seedy little room. I pull off my socks and my cherry DMs and put on the strappy silver sandals that Tone has provided. They are too big, and have faint foot outlines inside, where other feet have sweated and rubbed against them.

  Finally, I bend forward and drag the lipstick over my lips. Press them together.

  Taking a deep breath, I come out from behind the screen and stand in front of Tone. He is fiddling with something on his camera. There’s a rug on the floor that wasn’t there before. Patrick is lounging against the wall, biting his nails. His face is in shadow.

  Tone points to the rug. ‘Lie on that,’ he says. ‘On your tummy. Tilt your head in your hands…that’s right.’

  I do as he says, feeling foolish. It’s cold in this room, and my arms are nubbed with goosebumps. The rug doesn’t smell very nice. ‘Shall I do my dance routine now?’ I say, when he has finished.

  ‘Can you do any circus moves? Do the splits? Stand on your hands? Anything like that?’

  ‘I can stand on my hands,’ I say.

  He nods behind the camera.

  When I balance, I am aware of my skirt falling around my arms, the feathers tickling my arms. My ridiculous heels waving in the air.

  ‘Good, good,’ says Tone. He is a long time taking the pictures.

  ‘Can I get down now?’ I say.

  ‘Sure, why not, lovey?’ He sounds a little breathless.

  I stand, scowling, and flinch when something heavy and dry is placed around my neck. It is Lizzie. She wags her head at me, flickering her black tongue.

  ‘We’ll throw her in complimentary,’ says Tone. ‘That’s it, smile, love. Hold still.’ His hand crawls round to adjust her position, and I recoil at the feel of it against my throat.

  ‘All right, all right. Twitchy little thing, aren’t you? You’ll have to get used to this, love.’

  Tone lifts Lizzie from my neck, and starts to coil her around my arm.

  I jump back. ‘Stop. That’s enough. I don’t want you to take any more.’

  ‘But what about the close-ups?’ says Tone. His hooded eyes make me think of a lizard. In the shadowed corner, I see Patrick’s thin leg tapping.

  ‘No close-ups,’ I say. I look around for my clothes.

  Tone makes a sad face. ‘Up to you, lovey,’ he says, licking his lips with a spitty sound. I push past him, and start to get dressed. Behind the screen, I hear Patrick say something, and Tone laughs. It sounded like ‘school-ish’.

  ‘When do I get the prints?’ I say, pulling my yellow coat on.

  Tone winks. ‘Call back in a couple of days. We’ll have them for you. Won’t we, Patrick?’

  Patrick’s leg jiggles.

  Dear Beanie,

  So I finally got the publicity shots!!

  They are literally amazing– you wouldn’t recognise me. I am wearing the most divine costumes. Talk about glamour! A professional makeup artist did my face, then it was the turn of the stylist to transform my hair. Finally, the costume…

  Let me describe it. Think gold, gold and more gold, and you get the general idea. You know the dress you wanted for the last summer ball, but Miffy beat you to it? Well, it’s even better than that! There are about a million tiny glass beads, all threaded into the fabric, which is light as a spider’s w
eb, because when I finally get to perform, obviously I can’t have anything too heavy, not when I’m doing a double toe-loop in mid-air!

  Anyway, I’ve got to go. You wouldn’t believe the amount of rehearsals they get us to do. All of my muscles ache. It’s literally heaven to soak in a hot shower at the end of each day…

  Love you! Miss you!

  Wills x

  Money in Money out

  £765.50 (gap year savings) 1 Hastings Bugle

  1 dab sandwich with vinegar

  3 items from pound shop

  3 minutes’ phone call at Sea Spray

  Tony Daiquiri Promotions

  Total spent:

  £0.80

  £2.95

  £3

  £15

  £50

  £71.75

  New total: £693.75

  Transcript of Telephone Conversation between DS Tracy Scallion and Willow Stephens, Monday 9 May 2016 at 4.07A.M.

  Willow: Hello?

  Scallion: Who is this?

  Willow: Hello? [pause] Scally?

  Scallion: [sound of movement] Willow Stephens? Is that you?

  [long pause]

  Scallion: Willow, love?

  Call ends.

  Inner Clown

  The auditions are 10 May. Today.

  I slide the circus leaflet back into my Kit of Happiness.

  I have been practising my stretches and gymnastics exercises when I can, in my room. It is time, I think. Time to show them all what I’m made of. Because it’s my life, isn’t it? And it’s high time that I was the star of my own show.

  The Art Café is filled with hippies selling rip-off jewellery and nicely spoken families drinking freshly made smoothies and real coffee. A girl in a clown costume stands talking to a child in dungarees and a beanie hat.

  I feel self-conscious in my leotard and tutu. A girl with pink hair and a nose piercing is stretching. When she bends down, she has a thigh tattoo: painted swirls and hothouse flowers. I look down at my stripy leotard. Wish it wasn’t so prim.

  I pull out a paper ticket from a machine like the ones on the deli counter in supermarkets, and sit down.