The Whispering Road

by Livi Michael

  It seems like a long time before Alan comes back, and he's got the little woman with him. I try not to stare. She's got breeches on her, and braces and a check shirt, just like the man and, same as him, her head and hands are too big for her. She's not like him though. She's got brown, curling hair and wide grey eyes, a bit like Miss Julie. If it didn't sound daft to say it, I'd say she was beautiful. And she smiles at us, very kind.

  ‘Alan tells me you're travelling with us a while,’ she says in a kind voice.

  Annie says nothing; I mumble something and shuffle a bit.

  ‘Well, you're very welcome, I'm sure,’ she says. ‘We can always do with an extra hand. Is this the little maid?’ she says, looking at Annie.

  Little maid? I'm thinking. She's near as big as you.

  ‘What's your name?’ she says to Annie, and when Annie doesn't speak she reaches over and takes her hand. To my surprise Annie doesn't snatch it back.

  ‘Her name's Annie,’ I say, and add, ‘She doesn't talk much.’

  ‘That'll give her more time for thinking,’ the woman says. ‘Well, my name's Flo and I work with Balthasar over there, and tonight the two of you can sleep in our wagon.’

  She leads Annie off by the hand but I stay where I am, looking back at Alan.

  ‘You'll be all right with Flo,’ he says. ‘I'll have to be going now.’ And he starts walking away.

  ‘You're leaving us? Here?’ I say, but he doesn't turn round. ‘Well – thanks,’ I say, trying not to sound bitter. Somewhere else we've been dumped. But if Alan catches the tone in my voice he doesn't let on; just lifts a hand as he walks away into the night.

  I hurry to catch up with Flo and Annie. What else can I do?

  ‘These two'll be wanting a bed for the night,’ she says to Balthasar. ‘They're staying with us.’

  Balthasar straightens up and stares. ‘With us?’ he quacks. ‘There's no room.’

  ‘We can pull the table out,’ Flo says. ‘And you can sleep on the floor.’ She turns to us. ‘It'll be fine,’ she says. ‘I'll just introduce you to everyone first.’

  She climbs nimbly up the steps to the nearest wagon, painted yellow and blue, and raps on the door. ‘Hello,’ she calls. ‘We've got guests. Come and meet them!’

  Then she skips down again and hops up the steps to the next wagon, painted orange and purple. ‘Cora, dear,’ she calls. ‘We've got new people staying with us. Come and see!’

  Then over to the last wagon, red and green. ‘Come on out, boys!’ she calls. ‘I want you to meet someone!’

  The wagons rock and creak, there's calls of ‘Who is it?’ and ‘What's going on?’

  And then the doors open – and now I'm really staring.

  First off comes out a blue, green and orange man, all bald, with scales and fish crawling all over his skin. Next there's a great rumbling creak from the orange-and-purple wagon, and the door bursts open and I'm hard put to it not to yell – for there's a monstrous, great woman inside, big as all the giants Jack ever had to kill. She comes down them wooden steps and, by some miracle, they hold. Taller than Old Bert and near five times as wide; more of a mountain than a woman, with great shaggy hair hanging in plaits and just one tooth in her head. And I'm sweating and praying that there's only one head, for I hardly dare look. Then, from the same wagon as the blue-green-orange man, the jugglers from the fair come tumbling out. They cartwheel across the grass and one of them leaps on to the shoulders of the others. And I can see now what I didn't notice at the fair, that they all look exactly the same - like three peas from a pod. They've all got black, glittering eyes, pointy noses and wide, wide mouths. The one on top leaps down, turning like a wheel in mid-air, and lands in front of me, moving his head this way and that.

  ‘Leave him alone, Vito,’ says Flo. ‘Now don't fret, dearie,’ she says to me. ‘He takes a bit of getting used to – but then we all do, don't we, dears?’

  At this the horrible blue-green-orange man next to me gives a great snort, and the giantess grunts, and suddenly they're all laughing, with me stood among them not knowing which way to look. What've we got into now? I'm thinking, and words about frying pans and fires come to mind. I think about Alan bringing us here, and how he seemed like a friend, and remind myself not to trust no one, ever again. For it feels like we've wandered into some horrible folk tale, and I don't know what the end'll be. I hope it's not, so the two poor children were et up for breakfast, and never seen again…

  Flo's speaking again. ‘Let me introduce us all,’ she says. ‘You've met Vito, and his brothers are Pepe and Luigi. The large lady's Cora. The coloured gentleman's Ivan – all the way from Russia. And your name is?’ But I still can't say anything.

  ‘He don't know his name,’ Vito says, and I shoot him a look, and mumble, ‘Jack.’

  ‘And the little maid's Annie,’ says Flo, then she takes my hand. ‘You look dead beat,’ she says, and suddenly I know I am. I feel kind of achey and shivery too, but I don't know if that's cold or fright.

  ‘It's too wet for standing around, Flo,’ says Balthasar.

  Flo says, ‘You're right, pet; you usually are. Help me fix up the wagon.

  ‘Come with me,’ she says to me and Annie. ‘You'll be sleeping with us tonight.’

  Wonderful, I'm thinking, though I suppose I'm glad I'm not sleeping with the giant lady. And because I can't think of anything else to do, I follow her up the steps of the blue-and-yellow wagon.

  Inside there's a big jumble of pots and pans, costumes and props. There's a huge bear's head hanging from a hook. The van smells funny. Old food and something else – like the mothballs the matron used to keep in her cupboard. There are wooden ledges along the walls with blankets on them and a rolled-up blanket for a pillow. Balthasar unfolds a table on long wooden legs.

  ‘You can have Balthasar's bed,’ Flo says, pointing, ‘and the little maid can sleep on the table, when I've made it up.’

  ‘Where'm I sleeping?’ says Balthasar, not best pleased.

  ‘I'll do you up a bed on the floor.’

  ‘Why do I have to sleep on the floor?’

  Flo sighs, tugging his blanket up. ‘Serve up some stew, can't you?’

  ‘Pot's empty,’ says Balthasar, looking in a large crock. ‘Shall I cook up some more?’

  Flo hesitates. ‘Are you very hungry, dears?’

  Neither of us is that hungry after the furmety, and I get the feeling that there isn't much to go round, so I shake my head. Flo looks relieved.

  ‘There's a bit of bread left,’ Balthasar says.

  ‘And I'll make us some tea,’ says Flo. ‘Sit you down, dears.’

  We perch together on the edge of one of the ledges, wedged between that and the table. There's food stains all over the table and I pick at them with my thumb while Flo pulls blankets down from a cupboard. It's not very high up, but she has to stand on the table to do it. Balthasar says, ‘’Scuse me,’ and goes to sit on the steps with a hammer and some boots. Soon he's banging away, fixing the soles back on.

  ‘Your clothes are dripping wet,’ says Flo. That they are, and hanging off. She rummages about a bit in a chest and finds us some that look like they're costumes – yellow breeches and a striped shirt for me, and a blue dress with the lace all frayed for Annie.

  She holds the dress out to Annie. ‘This should fit you lovely,’ she says, and for a moment there's a tremor in her voice. But she hands the clothes over and then goes to the steps with Balthasar. She hangs up our old clothes on hooks over the door, talking all the time about the show they'll put on tomorrow, somewhere called Auden Shaw.

  Annie looks different in the blue dress, like a big doll. I feel a right ninny in the yellow breeches, but I don't like to say no. And at least they're dry and warm and cleanish, though they've got that funny mothball smell. They're too big round the middle and short at the ends, but they've got red braces on that I slip over my shoulders. And pockets so I can drop in Travis's sling.

  When we've finished, Flo turns round. I
t's like she can't take her eyes off Annie.

  ‘Well,’ she says after a moment. ‘I'll just make us that tea.’ And she brews up, moving easily around the crowded wagon. Soon we're chewing on a chunk of bread and sipping sweet tea like the master used to. It's not real tea – more like hot water with a bit of milk and honey, but it goes down well. And Flo starts telling us about the travelling fair, with Balthasar chiming in and interrupting all the time.

  Seems like it used to be much bigger than it is now. ‘Oh, much bigger, much,’ says Balthasar.

  ‘They had a unicorn once,’ Flo tells us fondly.

  ‘I used to polish his horn,’ says Balthasar.

  ‘He used to eat lumps of sugar,’ says Flo.

  ‘He were terrible for sugar,’ says Balthasar. ‘You had to hide it away in a big tin.’

  ‘And the mermaid,’ says Flo, ‘she was a lovely lady.’

  ‘My favourite was the goose with the human face,’ says Balthasar. ‘And the Siamese twins, don't forget them. Joined at the hip they were, but they were rare dancers.’

  I'm so caught up in this tale of wonderful creatures that I forget to be shy. ‘What happened to them?’ I ask, and both Balthasar and Flo look very sad.

  ‘They've gone now,’ says Flo.

  ‘All gone,’ Balthasar says.

  Seems like the fair's fallen on hard times. Once Honest Bob owned as many as twenty wagons, and wherever they went there was feasting and fun.

  ‘Now, with all the fencing off, there's hardly anywhere to go,’ Balthasar says, getting up. ‘It's all private property, and rents and fines.’

  They were fined in Wakefield, for public disturbance. ‘Dancing – that were all!’ says Balthasar. Moved on in Rochdale for breach of the peace. ‘That were Bob trying to out-drink Ivan,’ Balthasar says. And when they tried to camp in Oldham they found that the rates had tripled.

  ‘So there's hardly anywhere left,’ says Flo, and they both shake their heads, so that although it's a sad enough tale, I want to laugh, and manage to cough instead.

  ‘But listen to us talking,’ cries Flo, ‘when these two childer are tired to death! And we've got an early start in the morning.’

  She scoops the crumbs off the table, scattering them to the floor, and Balthasar clears the pots. Then Flo starts making up a bed for Annie, and I lie down on the ledge, with a blanket over me, one under me, and a rolled-up one for a pillow.

  It's strange trying to sleep in the crowded wagon. Balthasar and Flo seem to manage it right away and, cripes, how them little folk can snore! Enough to rattle the wagon and all the pots inside. Wind's building up outside, and my thoughts are all jumbled with the memories of the past days; of Dog-woman and Travis and Barney, Old Bert and Alan. And now this lot. So, in all, it's hardly possible to sleep.

  12

  Show

  Morning comes and everything's blurred. I've got a right headache and soon as I move I'm sneezing.

  Someone's yelling outside. ‘Move your a*ses! Come on – up! What am I paying you for, eh?’

  ‘He's not paying us at all,’ Balthasar mutters, hauling the big crock down the steps.

  ‘Come on, shift, you lazy s*ds!’ the voice goes on. I wipe my nose on my sleeve and poke my head out of the van. There's Honest Bob, ranting and raving and banging on the doors of each van with a stick. When he sees me he stops in his tracks, looks as if he might be about to set about me with the stick then thinks again and goes back to banging on the door of Cora's van. Then, when we're up and shivering, he disappears into his tent again.

  We all gather round the crock in the blue morning light while Flo doles out porridge. No one says much, we're too busy shivering; though I catch Vito smirking at my new gear as if he thinks I look funny. You can talk, I think. If he says owt I'll have him. But there's no time for fighting. Soon as we're finished we have to hitch up and get moving.

  I help clear away the pots, but when it comes to hitching up horses I'm not much use so I stay in the van looking at the props. A golden wig, a red cloak and a tasselled hat, a big cardboard bush. Everyone else runs around saying nowt. What's clear is they do all the work while Honest Bob sits in his tent.

  ‘He weren't always this bad-tempered,’ Balthasar says, rolling up the wig in the cloak.

  ‘He's a good man at heart,’ agrees Flo, wiping pots. ‘He's just going sour, like milk.’

  ‘Like bad ale, you mean,’ says Balthasar. ‘He's slowly pickling himself.’

  That's all they say about that because Honest Bob comes roaring by again.

  ‘Are we setting off this year or next?’ he thunders on, and Flo and Balthasar shoot one another a look and scramble out to the front of the van. And we're off, creaking and rocking, on our way to the next town.

  Sun's whitish in a white sky, but there's neither snow nor rain. Flo asks if I want to ride in the front with Balthasar, and she sits in the van with Annie. The town's a smoky smudge on the right and we pass it and go on through fields and trees and straggling cottages. Every time we pass a cottage, children run out and point. I can't say I blame them. We're the only bright-coloured thing on the whole of this grey earth.

  All the time we're riding, Balthasar's talking. ‘Time was we travelled all over England and Scotland and Wales,’ he says. ‘Now we just stick to this area. Furthest we've been for years is Liverpool.’

  After a bit he says, ‘Do you want to hold the reins?’ and he shows me how to hang on to them – not too tight – and he sits back, making himself comfortable and lights a pipe.

  ‘I can tell stories,’ I tell him, and right then and there I tell him the story of Tom Hickathrift. At least I can tell it now, but not as good as I'd like, and he keeps having to help me out.

  ‘Very good, lad,’ he says when I'm finished, though I get the feeling he's being kind.

  ‘I know other stories,’ I say.

  ‘Telling stories's not much use to you, lad,’ Balthasar says. ‘You'd do better at a hiring fair, picking up a trade.’

  But I don't want a trade, I'm about to tell him, when suddenly there's a great crack and a crash, and cries from the van behind. I jump near out of my skin but Balthasar doesn't move.

  ‘It's Cora,’ he says calmly and, reaching over, he takes the reins from me and brings the van to a halt. I leap down to see what's going on. The orange-and-purple van's leaning over, and Honest Bob's flown into a rage.

  ‘You're not worth your keep, woman,’ he roars at Cora, who gazes down at him steadily. The wheel of her van's gone into a rut, and the van's lopsided so she can't get out without tipping the whole thing over, and everyone has to pitch in, struggling and straining, to set it to rights. Then we see that the shaft's broken, so we're all held up while the brothers and Ivan set about mending it.

  Back in Balthasar's van, Flo's showing Annie how to spin using a distaff made from a forked birch branch, and a fir cone for a spindle. Annie's wrapping the wool round a piece of card and they both look strangely content, so that I feel like I can't interrupt. I pet the horses for a bit, then wander down to a stream and watch a heron flapping upwards with a fish in its beak. Drops of water spray from its breast and you can almost hear the creak of its wings.

  When I get back, first person I see is the giantess. She's got out of the van somehow and is sitting with a feather pen in her great hand, making scratching noises on a sheet of paper. I can't help it; I stare so hard that she looks up.

  ‘What's the matter?’ she says in her odd, grunting voice. ‘Did you think big and ugly's the same as stupid?’

  ‘No,’ I say, though of course that's exactly what I thought.

  I step closer. ‘What are you writing?’ I ask.

  She shuffles round so I can't see. ‘What's it to you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. Then, ‘It's all right, I can't read.’

  The giant lady stares at me and I can't help thinking how fearsomely ugly she is. Whoever gave birth to that? I'm thinking. Midwife must've smacked the mother when she were born. All the
same, she's clever.

  I step closer again. ‘Will you teach us?’ I say.

  I've surprised her now. ‘I'm no teacher,’ she says, then she turns back to her writing. It's all curly, like a lot of string.

  ‘What does that say?’ I ask when she's finished a word. She sighs.

  ‘I'm writing something for the show,’ she says, ‘when I'm not being interrupted.’ And she turns her back on me.

  For the show? I'm thinking. Like a play? But she won't say any more so after a bit I walk off whistling.

  Seems like the van's all set now. The brothers are practising juggling. Vito's got three balls in the air, then four, then he drops one. He catches sight of me and throws two of them my way. I drop them right away and Vito grins, flips over into a handstand and bats them upwards with his feet.

  ‘I wish I could do that,’ I say.

  ‘What can you do?’ says Vito.

  ‘I can tell a story,’ I say, but he snorts.

  ‘Stories!’ he says and he walks off, still juggling. I can't think of anything rude to say back. Seems like everyone here can do something I can't. I go back to Balthasar's van and Flo's packing the wool away.

  ‘We're setting off now,’ she says. ‘Only another mile to go.’

  I climb back in. ‘Cora's writing something for the show,’ I say, and Flo beams.

  ‘Yes, she told us,’ Flo says. ‘She's writing in an extra part for Annie here.’

  For Annie? I think, open-mouthed. Not for me? I look at my sister but her face gives nothing away.

  ‘We'll have a little practice when we get there,’ Flo says, beaming tenderly at Annie. And what will I do? I'm thinking.

  I go to the front to sit with Balthasar again as we set off. ‘Annie's got a part in the show,’ I tell him.

  ‘Yes, Flo were saying,’ says Balthasar.

  ‘Can I be in it?’

  Balthasar flicks the reins. ‘Well, we'll have to see,’ he says. ‘What were you thinking of? Can you do any tricks?’