Skylark

by Jenny Pattrick

How I missed the applause and cheers which we earned back in France. I pleaded with Papa: ‘I can learn new routines. We can do new tricks, just you and me.’ But he was intent on digging his claim and had no time for practice. Anyway, the other diggers preferred to spend their pennies on the rowdy entertainment of the saloons and dancehalls. Charles Thatcher (whom I later performed alongside, I’m both proud and ashamed to say) was a great favourite among the diggers. Everywhere you’d hear the bawdy words of his songs repeated with much laughter around the campfires. My English was not good enough to understand. Papa said it was just as well.

  Once, we paid a few precious pence for a ride on a cart into Bendigo. Here were buildings: saloons and public houses, theatres, bootmakers, barbers, general stores, drapers. I saw a poster for Foley’s Royal Victoria Circus! But where, in the town’s sprawling mess of buildings and people, could it be situated? And anyway, our money was too precious to be spent on entertainment.

  Maman cried out in horror at the high prices in Bendigo. Food and clothes, even general necessities like soap, shovels and canvas, cost a fortune. We returned to our claim with a sack of flour, a little sugar and tea, and a piece of bacon. Clothes for the baby would have to wait.

  Many months after our arrival Papa was still digging. I remember it was a Sunday — a priest had come to the diggings and conducted an open-air service. The three of us attended the mass and then returned to work. Papa’s hole was deep now. The tips of the rough wooden ladder only just reached the top, and a pile of debris rose behind the tent. In the past days there had been enough grains of the colour to keep up Papa’s constant high spirits, but today his movements were slow, his eyes dull. Still he worked on. Maman lay in the tent. The baby was not due for another month but already Maman seemed listless and ill, her cheeks as flushed as Papa’s were grey. I waited by the little pulley, ready, when Papa shouted, to haul the bucket of dirt to the surface.

  Big Marco, who worked the claim to the right of us, came climbing over piles of rubble and rubbish, shaking soil and stones from his clothes as he approached. Marco was an older man, his grey hair curling wildly to meet a profusion of wiry beard. Mostly his eyes peered out from this foliage in a friendly way, but I had learned to stay clear when he had liquor aboard. Once I saw him knock two men to the ground — bang, bang, left and right — without, it seemed, even trying. Marco had worked the goldfields of California before these, and had enough French to pass the time of day with Papa. Today he was smiling, so I waited.

  Marco lowered a thick paw onto my shoulder, making my knees sag a little. His accent was thick and his words laced with Italian, but I grew up on the Italian border and so was used to deciphering that language. ‘Little girl, I am leaving today.’

  I nodded.

  ‘This field, it is past its best time, you understand?’

  Again I nodded.

  Marco sighed. ‘Little one, forgive the remark, but your mother is not well. She should not be here.’

  ‘I know that,’ I said, ‘but Papa says we will stay one more week and then go to town.’

  ‘I do not wish to intrude, but one more week may not be so good an idea.’

  I waited for more, but the old digger seemed unable to find the words. He shuffled his feet, searched in his pocket for some unseen thing. I waited. Finally he spoke again in a rush.

  ‘Your father is not well also. I have seen it before. The bowels run away …’

  ‘Well, we have all had that,’ I said rather sharply. What business had this man to talk of such private things?

  Marco nodded. ‘Yes, yes, I know, but his is different, I think. He should go to the doctor. Please, little one, tell your mother. Tell your father. Go to Bendigo before it is too late. Please.’

  Marco looked at me sternly, pressed a heavy hand on my shoulder again and left, his boots scattering stones as if he were angry.

  Before I had time to think about these warnings, Papa’s head popped up from the digging. His face was drawn, but his eyes shone with excitement. ‘Lili, Lili, help me out!’

  Marco’s words held some truth; Papa hadn’t the strength to climb over the lip. But once upright, he moved quickly over to the tent and ducked out of sight. I followed. Papa knelt beside Maman. In his outstretched, grubby palm was a nugget the size of a grape. He spat on it, then rubbed it with his sleeve until the little treasure gleamed.

  ‘See, my darling,’ he whispered. ‘This will pay for all we need. And more.’

  Maman sat up on her cot, her eyes shining. She laughed, coughed, but recovered and smiled again. Oh, how strong was my poor Maman!

  For that day and all night, we were king and queen and princess of the world. Papa forgot his tiredness. Maman ignored pains that should have warned us all. Papa returned to the digging. Up came the buckets of dirt; I hauled and tipped them out into the box, dashed in the water, rocked the cradle and sent the buckets back down to Papa. I wanted to be the one to find the next show of colour. But Papa was no longer interested in grains or flakes. He was sure there’d be another nugget, and another, and another. He called for a lamp and worked an hour into the night. When he finally crawled out and into the tent, he collapsed. There was a dreadful smell about him. But his eyes still shone, that sweet Papa of mine, because in his hands was indeed another nugget, not as big as the first, but heavy and beautiful.

  He was hardly aware that I undressed and washed him, threw the soiled trousers outside and tucked him under the blanket beside Maman.

  The day had been hot, the flies maddening and the stench of rubbish or rotting food quite horrible. Night-time, when the flies settled, was always our favourite, when the three of us would rest in the little tent. Sometimes we would sing — old songs from home, or new ones we’d make up about our hopes and dreams. Papa had a lovely voice, high and sweet. Maman and I would take the lower parts. Occasionally others would gather and listen, but soon they would melt away again. Perhaps they didn’t understand our foreign tongue — or perhaps they were just tired.

  That night there was no singing. Papa lay still as a stone, the skin around his eyes black, his breaths uneven and rasping. I remembered what Marco had said and began to be afraid. Then Maman woke suddenly with a scream.

  ‘The waters, the waters, they are broken!’ She screamed again. And rolled back and forth on the bed.

  Papa’s eyes snapped open. He tried to sit up but fell back. Tried again, but it was no use. He grabbed at my hand. ‘Lili, Lili, run and find help. Quickly! Perhaps the old Chinese lady …’

  Out of the tent I ran, stumbling among the heaps of rubble, falling to my knees and then continuing on. I think I was shouting and screaming for help — or was it my mother’s cries in my ears? I was trying to remember where the Chinese tent was. And I was afraid. The old couple were secretive, living a little apart from the rest of the diggers, their clothing unusual and the way they squatted on their heels and ate their food with little sticks alien to our Mediterranean eyes. But the Chinese woman was the only other of our sex in that section of the goldfields.

  I found the tent. Gasping and shaking, I woke them and tried to make them understand with gestures and a few words of English that my mother’s baby was on the way. They turned away from me and began talking in that strange singsong way; I thought they were refusing to come and in my desperation I started shouting and crying. The lady — she was not so old after all — took my arm gently and made me understand that she wanted me to carry a copper tea-kettle. Her husband took the blanket from their own bed and she wrapped something in a clean towel. They were good, kind people, not strange or fearsome at all. On the way back to our tent I was happy to hold the man’s hand, and be guided by his lamp.

  We could hear Maman’s screams. Oh, I still hear them all these years later! She was not a delicate, high-bred woman, my mother; she had always endured pain and physical discomfort with a laugh or a shrug — ‘It’s only pain, soon to pass’ — so I knew that something bad was happening.

  [Archivist’s No
te: Indeed it was. Lily’s journal becomes fragmented at this point, the phrases stuttering and hiccuping as she remembers that terrible night. I have edited the following passage to make it coherent. E. de M.]

  I could see, dimly lit by the Chinese man’s lamp, Papa lying on the ground outside the tent. Perhaps he had tried to remove himself from Maman before his bowels gave way. There was a terrible smell. I couldn’t move: rooted to the ground with fear, I was. I heard a whimpering and realised the sounds came from my own mouth. Who should I help — Papa or Maman? Alas, I was helpless to give comfort to either.

  But the Chinese couple went immediately to work. I thank Our Lady for them, for their good sweet souls. The woman gently took the kettle from my hand and hurried into the tent. Her husband bent to hold the lamp close to my Papa as he lay silent on the ground.

  ‘Much bad,’ he said shaking his head. ‘Too, too bad.’

  He waved at me, indicating that I should go into the tent, but I was too afraid — fearful of Maman’s screams, and not understanding what had happened to Papa. Oh what a nightmare these memories are, even now!

  ‘Go, go,’ said the Chinese man. ‘I take care.’ He picked up the loose bundle that was Papa and carried him away into the dark.

  Maman was shouting, ‘Lili! Valentin!’ over and over. At last I crept into the tent and held tight to her hot and desperate hand. The Chinese woman was murmuring words that might be soothing if only Maman could hear. She was out of her mind — I hope she was — moaning and thrashing, the lump of that unborn baby frightful inside her poor straining belly. I felt only hatred towards the child who was causing such distress.

  The Chinese woman tried to smile at me, but it was clear, even to one as young as I, that the situation was beyond her expertise. The woman laid her hands on the mounded stomach, tried pushing the baby into a better position, but Maman screamed so loudly that the woman withdrew her hands as if scalded.

  Oh, that long and horrible night! I bathed my mother’s feverish face, held the hand that gripped mine so fiercely that I bore the marks for many days. Bore them and wept: treasured those sad scars in my own flesh as a last memory of a mother lost.

  Maman’s moans grew weaker and weaker; her body burned with a terrible fever. An old digger drawn by the screams came to the tent flap, but quickly walked away again, afraid, perhaps, of some disease he might catch. The Chinese woman shook her head sadly. There was nothing she could do, but she stayed there all night. At some stage the Chinese man returned. Into my unwilling hand he pressed Papa’s leather pouch, then turned to whisper in his wife’s ear. She nodded, but would not look at me or try to explain. A dreadful fear chilled me to the bone.

  ‘Papa?’ I whispered.

  The woman touched her lips. She didn’t want Maman to hear.

  Maman died towards dawn. The baby was never born.

  My father, Monsieur Valentin Alouette, my mother, Madame Jeanne-Marie Alouette, and the unborn baby are buried in Pennyweight Cemetery, Mount Alexander. Only the Chinese couple and I attended the burial. I never knew whether the Chinese paid for the gravediggers, or whether it was done out of goodwill. I suppose a speedy interment was in everyone’s interest. They said many had died of the fever that week.

  For two nights, maybe more, I slept with the Chinese couple. They put small balls of rice and vegetables into my mouth, watching to make sure I swallowed them. They were so kind, yet I could not speak a word of thanks — I would sip at the hot sweet drink they held to my mouth, and then turn away, lie back on my blanket and shut my eyes as if that might erase the memories. At last, some time later, I knew it was time to move on. I was alone in a strange land and must somehow find my way in it.

  Before leaving, I offered the couple the smaller of the two nuggets. That good man’s eyes widened to see such a treasure, but he folded my small fingers about the dull gleam of it.

  ‘You need. You take.’

  Yes, I would need. I nodded, but then took his weathered hand in mine and led him back to our claim. I pointed down the hole.

  ‘You take,’ I said. ‘I go.’ I knew that now I must learn to speak English.

  The man smiled his understanding. He asked no question about my intentions, nor did he query my ability to manage on my own. He seemed to accept that I would survive. There were many wanderers and many lost souls on the goldfields.

  I packed what belongings I could carry, tied Papa’s leather pouch containing the two nuggets around my neck, and begged a ride on a cart going into Bendigo. Half child, half young woman and alone in the world.

  ‘Foley’s Circus,’ I said to the carter, hoping I’d remembered the name correctly.

  ACT TWO:

  Foley’s Victoria Circus

  SCENE: Bendigo, Australia

  A new family is found; a new talent is born

  Surely this squalid camp could not be home to Mr Foley’s Victoria Circus? My first instinct was to run after the cart that had brought me here. Perhaps the old carter had made a mistake? Oh, it looked nothing like what I had imagined. Two burly fellows were fighting with a mound of canvas that might have been a tent; large, battered wooden crates lay on the ground in no particular order; a pair of horses pawed at the barren ground where they were tethered under a tree. Next to them a goat chewed at a patch of scrub. But when I dragged my way closer to the animals, I saw that the goat had two heads: a normal one and then another sticking at an odd angle from its neck! The feeding head turned slowly; four goat’s eyes stared at me. I was both fascinated and horrified. Were those eyes laying a curse on me? I walked slowly towards the creature, not sure whether the second yellow-eyed head was real or some trick.

  ‘Oi!’ A voice from somewhere above stopped me in my tracks. Disembodied voices? Was I going mad?

  ‘Oi!’ The voice came again.

  There, above me, was a boy hanging upside down from a tree branch. ‘Hop it,’ the upside-down head said. ‘Circus ain’t open to public today. Yer’ve come too late, Miss.’

  I understood the general gist. In the few days since my parents had died, I’d begun to realise that the English language had been lurking unused and unneeded, somewhere inside my head. Now that I needed to understand, I could, after a fashion. A small and very helpful miracle. I smiled up at the inverted face, wishing he would come the right way up, like any normal person.

  ‘Madame Tournear?’ I asked. ‘Madame Tournear is here?’ It didn’t seem likely. The colourful bejewelled lady from the sailing ship would surely choose a more splendid place to live.

  The boy doubled his body effortlessly, reaching with one supple hand up to the branch from which he hung. Then he flipped up onto the branch and ran, monkey-like, on hands and feet along its length, until it bent beneath his weight and delivered him to the ground.

  ‘You a Frenchie?’ he asked.

  I nodded.

  The boy frowned. He was taller than me, with bright blue eyes and a freckled nose. His voice was an odd mixture of piping and cracked. I thought he might be older than he looked. ‘Madame Tournear,’ he said, laying a sarcastic emphasis on the first word. ‘Who would she be when she’s at home? Maria Louise? Or do you mean Martha O’Neill?’

  What was he talking about? I stood there frowning.

  ‘Any road,’ said the boy, ‘she ain’t too chipper today. She won’t be keen on no one visitin’, I reckon.’

  By this time I was desperate. How could I persuade this fellow? I could think of no one else in the wide world other than Madame Tournear who might help me. I tried to smile. ‘Please. Oh please. At least to try.’

  I placed my small bundle on the ground, summoned the little energy I had left, and dived over it in an arching handstand, flipped to my feet, then flipped again without touching my hands to the ground. Looking back I can hardly believe my body obeyed my need. Desperation can produce dramatic results, especially for a performer.

  The boy whistled. ‘You circus folk, then?’ He imitated my two flips, then bettered them with ease, leaping in a
reverse arch over the bundle.

  I did not dare attempt the manoeuvre. My legs were shaking like trees in a wind. ‘Madame Tournear?’ I pleaded again.

  The boy tapped his chest. ‘Master Bird. Slack wire artist. Heard o’ me?’

  I had to shake my head, which did not go down at all well with Master Bird. Obviously he didn’t like to play second fiddle to Madame Tournear. ‘I take top billing. After the boss and Lucy.’ After a pause he added with a shrug, ‘And Mrs Bloody Foley, I suppose. What’s so special about Tournear?’

  Oh dear. If only the boy would stay still for a moment! He was now sitting with both legs around his neck and his hands flat on the ground. Trying to understand his queer, rapid speech was simply too much for me. Tears began to roll, unbidden, down my cheeks.

  At last this trying situation was brought to an end by a tall, booted fellow with a wide, waxed moustache. He stood by the two horses, waving his arms in an agitated manner. ‘Tommy Bird, get over here toot sweet! I need a hand with these animals.’

  Tommy Bird came upright quickly, and pointed to a shabby hut behind the pile of collapsed tent. It was a small wooden hut on wheels, a little like the sort travelling gypsies used back in France, but not pretty and painted. This little house looked as if it would not keep out rain: one wooden wheel was cracked, the window grimed with mud. ‘That’s her,’ said Tommy, grinning. ‘Good luck.’ And ran to give the tall man a hand.

  My feeble knock on the door of the hut was answered by a fulsome curse. The words were a mixture of French and some other language. I took heart and, hardly controlling my giggles at my own daring, answered back in the same vein. Maman would have been shocked to hear that I knew such words. The door was wrenched open and there stood a very different Madame Tournear. Her hair was dishevelled, her face chalk-white, and the shawl which she clutched around her shoulders, though brightly coloured, was in need of a wash and a darning needle. The deep scowl with which she greeted me changed to astonishment.