by Livi Michael
I can't but then neither can Annie. Annie can't do owt.
‘Well, now,’ says Balthasar kindly. ‘Can you play an instrument?’
I'm not even sure what he means. ‘I don't think so,’ I say.
‘Well, we've got enough stories for now, lad,’ he says, ‘but I tell you what. You watch the show, and then after you can tell us all a story and we'll see if it's one we can use.’
I'm not that happy about this but when I ask him again, all h'll say is, ‘We'll see what Honest Bob has to say,’ and I can't get any more out of him.
‘What's in the show anyway?’ I say a bit sulkily.
‘Oh, lots of things, lad. You'll see when we get to the field. We'll have a bit of a rehearsal.’
‘But what will I do?’
‘Oh, there's lots to do, lad, lots to do. You can help us shift props.’
That sounds dead boring but I can't think of anything else to say, so I keep my mouth shut, and drum my heels against the seat.
The road's full of people straggling by. There's a woman sat in a ditch, trying to feed her baby. Her face is covered in sores. Then we pass a whole family trudging along as though tired to death. The man tries to run after us, begging for bread, but Honest Bob drives him off.
‘Ah, poor souls,’ says Flo, poking her head out of the van.
Soon we come to a toll booth and Honest Bob gets down to pay. He exchanges a few cross words with the man inside then we all pull into a wide open space. It looks like all the other fields around, except it's deeply rutted with wagon wheels. In the distance there are a few cottages and not much else.
Ivan and the brothers are unfolding a huge tent from the brown wagon at the rear. We start unloading props from our wagon – the green bushes and three bears' heads, a blue backdrop with fishes and reeds painted on, and lots of rope. Then there's another backdrop, painted to look like the inside of a cottage, and a table and chairs. I'm amazed at how much comes out of that wagon.
Honest Bob runs around barking orders then he disappears back into his tent.
Flo turns to Annie and hands her a bundle of clothes. ‘Put these on, dear,’ she says, then to me, ‘Give us a hand with this cradle,’ and between us we tug out a large wooden box on rockers. We carry this into the tent and set it up in front of the cottage scene. ‘There,’ says Flo.
I step out of the tent and look around. The field's wide and empty. ‘Where's the audience?’ I say.
‘People come,’ says the giantess. ‘Word gets round. Now we rehearse.’
Tale's called Black Annis and the Missing Bairn. Flo brings Annie out and I have to laugh, for she's all got up like a babby, wrapped in a blanket, with a bonnet on her head and a comforter in her mouth. And she's small enough to fit in the cradle, with a bit of a squeeze. They help her in and rock the cradle and she sits in it looking for all the world like an infant. Except for her eyes. Annie's eyes are about a hundred years old.
‘Close your eyes, dearie,’ Flo says. ‘Just pretend you're asleep.’
So she closes her eyes and looks well enough, then Honest Bob starts to tell the tale, holding the sheets of paper that the giant lady was writing on before. He speaks in a big, booming way, not like his usual voice. It's all about an honest labourer and his wife, who have their babby stolen by Black Annis, a fearsome monster with a great blue face and one huge tooth. There's a great storm, with thunder and lightning, and when it's over, the babby's disappeared and the poor folk are griefstruck. They look everywhere for her, then the goodwife promises her soul to whoever brings the babby back, and a horrible demon appears, with horns and a tail. And the demon and Black Annis fight it out all over the stage, until the demon chases Black Annis off, then tries to claim the soul of the goodwife. But the husband's too quick. He throws a phial of holy water at the demon and it disappears in a cloud of stinking smoke. And when all that happens, the babby's back in her cradle, blinking through the smoke.
‘That's it folks – show's over. Clear off and tell your friends,’ says Honest Bob in his usual, snapping voice, and the few children and farmhands who'd gathered around to watch move slowly off.
‘Tell your parents, tell your friends,’ Honest Bob calls after them. ‘Tell your neighbours, your uncles and your aunts! Tell them to come back here in an hour's time.’
There's plenty to do in the next hour, for there's more than one play, and music and dancing at the end. I help clear away some props and put up others, and by the end of an hour there's quite a group of people gathered on the field, and the show begins with the brothers, juggling and playing tricks, leaping on to one another's shoulders while keeping all the balls in the air. And after Cora plays her fiddle and the audience are stamping and clapping to the music, and I have to run in and out of them offering a hat for coins. The brothers play the tambourine and Honest Bob's got a pipe. Everyone joins in. Even the giantess is dancing with a farmer. I look around at the audience and see how their sallow faces are all lit up as they dance, how it makes them forget everything else, and I feel a peculiar kind of ache. Because I want to be part of it but I've got nothing to do.
Too soon it's over and the people are straggling away. Then I have to help take everything down again. It's hard work but I don't mind, so long as I get a go next time. Travelling about the country, playing and singing, that's what I want to do. And if I ask Cora, maybe she'll write something for me. Maybe one day I'll run my own fair!
Everything's cleared away, except for the big tent, because now it's raining, so we all sit under it while Flo dishes out meat stew.
‘Do you remember the dancer with the wooden legs?’ says Flo.
And Balthasar says, ‘Aye what a racket!’ and they all laugh. ‘The one I remember,’ he says, ‘is that man with the hole in his chest – you could put your hand in and feel his heart, actually feel his heart beating!’
‘Yuk,’ says Flo.
‘I remember the dancers in Russia,’ says Ivan, staring into the shadows. ‘So light. They flew through the air like many coloured birds. But the war comes and – pouf! They are gone now. All gone.’
And the talk goes on like this, a kind of sadness flowing through all the laughter like water. And I sit in the middle of it all feeling strange. It's not just the strangeness of the faces because I'm getting used to that now. It's the firelight maybe, and all the shadows flickering over the tent.
I start yawning, then after a bit I get up to stretch my legs. I walk round the vans, tracing some of the pictures with my finger. The vans form a circle, and it's like in that circle is one kind of world, and outside it is the other. The world of cottages and fields and labourers.
I stand for a bit, looking out across the fields to where I think Manchester must be. That's where I'm going, I think. Manchester. I say it aloud to remind myself that I am someone and I've got somewhere to go. Then even though the grass is wet I fling myself down and look at the world another way, through the strands of grass. There's anoher kind of world down here, and I'm moving it just with my breath. Right nostril's blocked with my cold, but the left one's working, and I open my mouth. Strands of grass flicker and quiver. Everything looks different. I wonder what it'd be like to be a fieldmouse, or a beetle. It comes to me then that there's not just one world, but millions of them. Like the workhouse. That was a whole other world. Then I lie on my back and look at the moon. There's no moon really, just a patch of brighter cloud, where it's trying to shine through. I wonder what it'd be like to be up there, looking down.
I can't help thinking what it'd be like to stay with these players, if they'd have us. And I wonder if it's the right time to go back and ask Honest Bob if I can have an act of my own.
13
Annie
Sometimes, at the workhouse, I'd find I couldn't speak. Oh, I were fine at night, when it were just me and the other kids, and I'd keep them up all night telling stories. But when the beadle came and the master said, ‘Come on then, speak up! What have you got to say for yourself?’ I'd find I coul
dn't speak at all, and generally I'd get drubbed. Or when I was sent for by the board for fighting. I'd try and try, and all that'd come out'd be a little stuttering sound like a hammer makes when it's bouncing off a nail, or a chicken makes, pecking the ground. I'd get beaten then too.
So now, when I try to tell Honest Bob my stories, it's just like then.
‘You see – Jack – he were no one – he were just a kid – but he thought – he thought – and he went – he took a shovel – and –’
I hate myself. Why won't it come out?
Honest Bob listens to all this with a look of bleary amazement on his face. Like I'm some kind of boggart he's dreamed up through drink. And eventually he says, ‘Chrissakes, lad – isn't my beard long enough?’
And he goes off then, to shout at Ivan. And I'm left feeling stupid and kicking a stone.
Is it because I'm a bit scared of him? Because I still expect him to turf us out? But it can't only be that, because I can't do it right for Balthasar either. And before that, on the market, I was hopeless. Seems like the only time I really told a good tale was in that pub. It must have been the ale.
Well, whatever it was, I can't do it now. And I hate myself for it. I hate myself and I want to thrash Annie. Because Annie's doing all right – and she never even wanted to be in a show.
Flo can't get enough of her. They're always together, like they're joined at the hip. Whenever I look up combing Flo's her hair, or showing her how to sew, or dressing her up in some new frilly gear from that chest. And now, whenever we're all together, Annie's eyes are on Flo, not me. Which you'd think'd be a good thing, but somehow it makes me mad as a hen. Because I'm not really needed around here. Oh, I help out – feeding the horses and such, and Balthasar shows me how to mend a crooked wheel, but it's not like he needs the help. At least Annie used to need me.
Apart from this, everything's fine. A lot of the time there's nothing to do, and I never thought I'd complain about that, but sometimes I feel like a spare part. What I do is, I practise using the sling Travis gave me. I practise and practise and I get quite good. One day I manage to knock a pheasant out and bring it back for the stew. That were good.
Everyone's kind enough to me. And the fair goes on, taking the long way round to Manchester, through Denton and Gorton and Openshaw and Clayton. Sheep get dirtier and the buildings get bigger. One day I see my first factory. It's huge – hundreds of windows and a great chimney belching out smoke. Wouldn't fancy cleaning that, I think, remembering the workhouse sweeps.
And wherever we go a few people come to watch, except now they're factory hands rather than labourers, and they get more ragged and dirty-looking as we get nearer to Manchester.
First time I saw it I didn't know what it was.
‘What's that?’ I asked Balthasar, pointing to a big black smudge in the sky.
‘Why, Manchester, of course,’ says Balthasar, and I stare hard. It's like the sky ends in blackness, and there's smoke and flame. I can just make out more big chimneys in the black welt, belching out smoke. They must be huge. I stare out at it all the time we travel towards it, and the blackness and the smoke increase. It's like a big coal pit in the sky.
‘Wait till we get to Ancoats,’ Balthasar says, after we've done one performance to about ten people. ‘That's when the crowds really start coming. We always stay in Ancoats for a while.’
The houses change from cottages to rows and rows of red-brick terraces all piled closely on one another in narrow streets, so narrow that when you stand at one end of them you can't see the other end. All the light disappears. And there are more and more children playing out in the filth of the streets, seemingly without parents, some of them without clothes. Only little children, mind, smaller than Annie. All the older ones are in the factories. Though sometimes I see older ones flitting about like they've got nowhere to go. They run after the vans, throwing stones at the horses. Honest Bob calls them thieving scavengers and sets me on lookout in case any of them nick our stuff. Though what I'm supposed to do if I catch any of them I don't know.
The night before we get to Ancoats something weird happens. We're all sitting out in a field after a performance. There's been even fewer people than usual. We sit in a circle, eating stew, feeling depressed. At least the rain's packed in.
Then Balthasar says, ‘Wait till we get to Ancoats, things'll look up then,’ which is the kind of thing he's always saying to cheer us up, only I'm not sure how many of us believe it.
‘Ancoats, Liverpool, Salford – is all the same,’ says Ivan. ‘People no want us any more.’
‘Now, there's no use talking like that,’ says Balthasar.
Honest Bob says nothing. He stares at the fire with red-rimmed eyes. No one else says anything either.
Annie sits between me and Flo. I can tell she's in a peculiar mood. Don't ask me how I know – she's as quiet as she always is – I just do.
After a bit, Balthasar and Flo start talking about how things used to be, like they usually do, to keep some kind of conversation going.
‘It was all fields around here once,’ Balthasar says. ‘Fields and forest.’
‘The lord of the manor used to come and watch,’ says Flo.
‘Do you remember that Christmas when he asked us back to the Hall?’
‘That was the last really big fair,’ Flo says. ‘We still had –’ Her voice trails off, and Balthasar looks choked up. I look at them curiously.
‘Who?’ I ask.
But Balthasar says, ‘Never mind.’
Flo says, ‘She was such a lovely little dancer.’ And I can tell she's near to tears. I'm about to ask who again when Annie starts swaying back and forth and humming, a funny little tune I don't know.
‘What is it?’ Flo says to her, then she gives a little start and a cry, holding her mouth. Still humming and swaying, Annie rises to her feet. Everyone stares as she dips and bobs, then turns round slowly. Her eyes are glassy and pale.
‘Give over,’ I say, uneasily. All we need is for Annie to start freaking everyone out.
She starts to spin, turning round and round on her little bandy legs, humming more loudly now. I want to laugh, but it isn't funny.
Balthasar's watching her with his mouth and eyes wide open. And Flo's clutching her face with both hands now.
I consider pulling Annie back down but suddenly she speaks, looking at Flo and not looking at her – just like that night we spent in Barney's wagon in town.
‘Look at me, Mammy,’ she says in a high, unnatural voice, and Flo makes a little sound like a sob. ‘Like this.’ She whirls round faster and faster.
Everyone's staring now. ‘What the blazes –’ says Honest Bob, knocking over his tin beaker as Annie dances by. The brothers start murmuring to one another in their own language.
Then Annie sinks down, facing Flo. ‘Did I do it good, Mammy?’ she says.
Flo's hands are trembling as they leave her face and reach for Annie. ‘Ida?’ she says in a strangled voice.
‘Nay, lass –’ says Balthasar, but he doesn't seem to know what to say next.
Annie turns to him. ‘Daddy story,’ she says, and rising upwards again she totters towards him, then flings herself on to his chest, clasping her scrawny arms round his neck.
Balthasar's eyes close and he lifts his great hands as if he doesn't know what to do with them, then, as if he can hardly believe it, he strokes her hair. And then Flo's with them, and they're all clasping one another and rocking and Annie goes on humming that weird little lullaby.
Honest Bob says, ‘Well, I'll be damned,’ and he takes a long swig from the bottle of rum he keeps close to his chest.
Ivan crosses himself and so do all the brothers. ‘Your sister, she is a –’ and he says a funny word that I don't understand.
‘A medium,’ says Honest Bob. ‘As I live and breathe.’
‘Who's Ida?’ I say.
But Flo says, ‘Oh, my own sweet baby, my little girl,’ clearing that one up. Tears are running down he
r face, into Annie's hair.
‘Ida's dead,’ says Cora, and I'd worked that much out for myself. ‘She died before her sixth birthday. In their van.’
That's where the clothes came from then, I'm thinking, and I glance at the giantess. Of all of us she seems unmoved, like a mountain, but leaning forward slightly, with an expression of great interest in her eyes.
‘Is no good,’ says one of the brothers. ‘Is witchcraft.’
‘She ever done this before?’ says Honest Bob, and I manage a hollow laugh.
‘All the time,’ I say. ‘Try stopping her.’
‘Mammy, Mammy,’ Annie says, pulling herself away. ‘Watch me,’ and she's up and dancing again, like a little doll. And one thing I know for sure is, Annie can't dance. She never learned how. Yet here she is, skipping and twirling, and Balthasar's reaching for his accordion, and with the tears rolling down his face he strikes up the tune Annie was humming, and Flo starts to clap.
‘Oh, that's right, that's right, my darling,’ she cries as Annie leaps and hops. ‘That's right, my baby girl!’
Then as suddenly as it started, it's finished. Annie sinks down with a shuddering sigh, and her head nods on to her chest.
‘Ida!’ Flo cries, clasping her, but it's plain that Ida's gone. Balthasar stops playing on a horrible twang and sits with his head bowed, breathing hard.
Honest Bob seems worked up about it all. He takes another swig, then wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Can she do that for anyone?' he says.
‘Oh, aye,’ I say, sullenly. ‘Anyone, anywhere, anytime.’
One of the brothers leans forward and clasps my arm. ‘Can you ask her about our sister?’ he says in a shaking voice.
I see then where all this is leading. To Annie being the star of some weird show. ‘Ask her yourself,’ I say, getting up.
Annie's looking at me now, from Flo's arms, and it is Annie again, not some dead thing.
‘Go on – ask her,’ says Honest Bob. I glare at Annie, and she seems to shrink back into Flo.
‘I can't ask her,’ I start to say.