Chapter 3

Lizzie woke up in straw-smelling darkness. She was still lying against Akula’s warm, heaving flank. She must have dozed off, she realized. Not the smartest thing in the world, falling asleep curled up with an elephant. What if she had rolled over in the night and flattened me?

Silly. Akula would never do that. Lizzie felt safe around the huge animal, even when she was asleep. She felt round until she found Akula’s head, gave it a fond pat, then stood up and brushed the straw from her dress.

What time was it, she wondered? The train was still rattling along. She opened the door to the next carriage, letting in the grey light of morning, and groped her way blearily through the train until she found her own place.

Her friends were all where they’d left them, but now they were slumped snoring in their seats. Dru had propped his feet on the seats opposite, Malachy was using the ledger as a pillow, and Erin and Nora were clutching each other as if they feared to be parted.

Lizzie stepped over Dru’s legs. She watched him sleep for a moment, then felt funny about it and settled into her own empty seat by the window. Nobody woke up.

She didn’t mind the speed of the train at all now. Odd how quickly you could get used to new things. Through the window, she watched the sun rise over wide, rolling countryside, much of it empty and rugged but beautiful with it. She saw dry stone walls, sheep nestled into the grass, rocky rough slopes and great acres of desolate moorland. The cottages were stony and small, like holdovers from some earlier part of history.

Malachy stirred and opened his eyes. ‘Morning,’ he mumbled. Yawning, he asked, ‘Where are we?’

‘Somewhere with a lot of moors.’

‘We must be in North Yorkshire! Yes – see that river down there, all silvery and twisting like it was made of molten metal? That’s the River Esk. It flows down to the sea at Whitby.’

Lizzie clenched her hands together with excitement. ‘We’re almost there!’

Her loud voice woke up the others. Sleepiness soon vanished like morning dew as they realized how close to Whitby they were. Suddenly the last few miles of the journey seemed like the longest of all.

Lizzie couldn’t stop staring at the river. It meant the seaside was close. Ever since she was little, she’d dreamed of going to the beach one day. The closest she’d ever come was the muddy banks of the Thames.

Out on the moors, people were leading ponies laden with packs. ‘What are they doing up so early?’ she wondered aloud. ‘They can’t be farmers.’

‘They’re bringing rough jet home from the coast,’ Malachy told her. ‘You know what jet is, don’t you?’

‘Something … black? ’Cause people say “jet black”, don’t they?’

‘That’s right. It’s a shiny black stone. That’s what’s in those packs. Cracking great lumps of rough jet.’

‘And the Whitby jewellers make it into brooches, bracelets, rings and necklaces,’ Nora cut in. ‘It’s beautiful stuff.’

Malachy chuckled. ‘Funny to think of fine ladies wearing jewellery made from fossilized trees. That’s what jet is, you know.’

‘Malachy!’

‘Like wearing coal, really … ow! Nora, stop kicking me!’

The last leg of the journey was on the road. The brightly coloured circus caravans, which had been securely tied onto flat goods wagons, were now wheeled down ramps with loving care and reunited with their horses and ponies. It was only a few miles to travel, and the battlements of Dunsley Castle were soon in view over the treetops.

‘It’s a real castle!’ Lizzie gasped, standing up on the roof of her caravan. Her old home had been called ‘Rat’s Castle’ as a bitter joke. What would the people back there say if they could see her now?

‘Fit for a princess!’ Malachy called across.

‘It’s so funny, suddenly being here,’ Lizzie said dreamily. ‘Seems like no time’s passed at all. Like a giant scooped up the whole circus, caravans and all, and plonked us down here in the north.’

‘Smell that salt air?’ Hari took a deep breath. ‘You can tell we’re close to the sea.’

‘I can’t wait!’ The palms of Lizzie’s hands itched with anticipation.

‘You’re going to have to wait,’ Malachy reminded her. ‘We all are. Can’t go running off until the tents are all pitched.’

That brought her back down to earth with a bump. ‘Sometimes, Mal, you really remind me of your dad.’

But Lizzie wasn’t workshy. From the moment the caravan convoy pulled up on the gravel forecourt of Dunsley Castle, she threw herself into the work along with the rest of the company. For the next three hours, she helped to unroll huge sheets of canvas, haul bundles of poles in multiple sections, pound thick tent pegs into the ground and unload endless boxes of props and costumes.

The grassy lawns were thick and lush, the finest she’d ever seen. The flowerbeds nearby were peppered with blooms. Bashing stakes into the ground felt a little bit like vandalism, but this was where the Maharaja wanted them to perform, so this was where the tents would be pitched. After all, Lizzie thought, it’s his garden and he can do what he wants with it.

She and Dru worked their way around the outside of the tea tent, Dru holding the stakes in place and Lizzie walloping them with a mallet. She couldn’t take her eyes off the stunning castle behind them; with its parapets and towers it looked like something from medieval times.

It wasn’t that old, she knew; most of the really old castles were nothing but ruins now. And Dunsley Castle was really just a manor house, done up to look like a castle. Even so, she could imagine princesses walking along the battlements, their long silken dresses fluttering in a warm summer’s breeze…

Lost in her dreams, she swung and missed the stake completely. The mallet whacked into the grass, gouging out a chunk of earth. Dru sprang away with an acrobat’s reflexes.

‘Lizzie, watch what you’re doing s’il vous plaît!’

‘Sorry!’ She folded her arms and leaned on the mallet handle. ‘It’s just that I think I’ve fallen in love with that house.’

‘An Englishman’s home is his castle,’ Dru teased. ‘Maybe an Englishwoman’s too.’

Lizzie just snorted at that. She lifted the mallet, and Dru went back to work with a merry whistle.

By mid-afternoon, the red and white striped show tent was in place, towering over all the smaller tents. To one side a staked-out corral enclosed the circus ponies, who were munching the lush grass happily. They seemed none the worse after their long journey on the train, Lizzie was glad to see. Erin, Nora and the other Sullivan siblings – Patrick and Sean, Brendan and Conor – sat on the grass beside them on a blanket, enjoying yet another picnic.

As Lizzie bashed in the last of the pegs, a furious yell resounded from the castle. ‘Oi!’ came the shout, and then again, ‘Oi!’

Dru looked up, puzzled. ‘The Maharaja?’

‘Didn’t sound like him.’

It wasn’t. The man running towards them was white, hefty and wore moleskin britches with braces, a neckerchief and a cap. His whiskers were greying and a huge wart protruded from the side of his nose. He looks like a sprouting potato, thought Lizzie, lumpy and grubby. He carried a spade over his shoulder like a slung musket.

He glared at Lizzie as he passed, then carried on until he reached the Sullivans. ‘What the ’ell do you mean by letting your animals rove on this ’ere grass?’ From the way he pronounced ‘grass’ to rhyme with ‘lass’, Lizzie knew he had to be a local man. ‘Are you aware you’re trespassin’ on private property?’

Nora burst out, ‘We was only—’

‘Irish, is it? We don’t want no gypsy freeloaders round ’ere. You’d better move on before I start movin’ yer.’

To prove he meant it, he held the shovel like a club, menacing Sean with it and Lizzie felt a cold fear that the young man would jump to his feet and knock the older man out cold. His sisters were being threatened, and Sean never allowed that.

But he kept his cool, thank heavens. ‘I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,’ he said with smooth good manners. ‘We’re the Sullivans. It’s a pleasure to meet you. And you are?’

‘My name’s Johnson, you cheeky bleeder!’ roared the man. Lizzie couldn’t tell whether it was Sean’s cocky attitude that had set him off, or his refusal to be intimidated. ‘These are my gardens your horses are chewing up!’

‘Aren’t they the Maharaja’s gardens?’ said Erin, acting unruffled, taking her cue from Sean. ‘Cucumber sandwich, Mister Johnson?’

‘You can stuff your ruddy sandwiches,’ Johnson yelled, purple in the face now. More like a beetroot than a potato, Lizzie thought. He lurched forwards as if he really meant to hit someone with his spade.

Hari came running over. ‘What’s the matter? Why all the shouting?’

Johnson rolled his eyes at the sight of Hari. ‘That’s all we bloomin’ need. Another one.’

‘Another what?’

Johnson didn’t answer the question. ‘I’m the gardener here at Dunsley Castle, I’ll have you know. Do you lot have any idea how much work it takes to keep these gardens immaculate? And here you come, loosing horses on ’em, banging stakes in, heaven knows what else!’ A sneer came over his face. ‘You’ve probably got bloomin’ elephants in them tents, haven’t you?’

‘Two, actually,’ Hari said. His white teeth gleamed as he smiled broadly. ‘I’m very proud of them.’

When he realized that Hari was serious, Johnson’s face went through several amazing contortions. He looked as though he was having a heart attack.

‘We do have every right to be here, Mister Johnson,’ Hari said politely. ‘We’re invited guests of the Maharaja. We’re not squatters.’

Johnson’s voice went very quiet. ‘You don’t belong here,’ he hissed. ‘When it all blows up in your faces – and it will – don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘This is gettin’ out of hand,’ Lizzie told Dru. ‘Let’s get Fitzy before someone gets hurt.’

But the ringmaster was already hurrying over, with Malachy close behind. ‘Mister Johnson, I’m so sorry. You should have been notified of our arrival. The message must have gone astray.’

‘You’ve turned these grounds into a farmyard,’ Johnson raved. ‘This place has been tended for hundreds of years, and you lot come rolling in and treat it like a public park! I’ll be making a formal complaint to his nibs about this.’

‘I promise you, on my word of honour, that we’ll be respectful of the grounds.’ Fitzy’s voice had a calm authority that even the gardener couldn’t deny. All his ranting and bluster suddenly looked ridiculous next to Fitzy’s mannerly goodwill. He fidgeted like a schoolboy caught throwing paper darts.

Lizzie was quietly impressed. Fitzy was surely as exhausted as everyone else, but he was still the solid rock on which the whole circus rested.

Johnson shrank into himself like a toad. He glanced about, finally letting his gaze rest on Hari. ‘You people…’ he muttered, adding something Lizzie couldn’t hear, but which sounded obscene. ‘Him too. He’ll be sorry. There’s an evil wind coming, you mark me. And when the Devil sails into Whitby harbour on his ghost ship, he’ll find no shortage of sinners to carry off!’ With that, he stomped off towards the castle, lifting his legs high with each step as if he were wading through mud.

‘Ghost ship?’ said Nora, looking worried.

‘He’s just trying to scare us with superstitious nonsense,’ Lizzie said firmly. But in the back of her mind, she remembered the ghostly green ship she’d seen in her vision. Could the groundskeeper be right, she wondered. Had she foreseen the Devil sailing into Whitby harbour?

‘What an unpleasant little man,’ Fitzy said, holding his chin thoughtfully. Then he shrugged, as if the matter was already forgotten. ‘Best move the horses around, folks. Not too much grazing in any one place, savvy?’

‘Right you are,’ Erin said with a salute. Fitzy went to inspect the big top, while Malachy lingered to help finish off the picnic.

Lizzie was still watching Johnson dwindle into the distance, leaving a trail of swear words hanging on the air. ‘What’s the matter with him, anyway?’ she wondered aloud. ‘The Maharaja’s giving the locals a circus for free, isn’t he? You’d think he’d be happy, not starting up like … like an angry badger!’

‘Think about it, Liz,’ Malachy said, digging the last of the jam out of the pot with a finger. ‘The locals probably didn’t like the Maharaja from the start. That’s why he’s giving them a circus. To try and win them over.’

‘But … he’s rich, he’s popular, why would the people here hate him?’

Malachy and Hari exchanged a glance. Suddenly the penny dropped. ‘Oh,’ Lizzie said. ‘Oh. It’s because he’s foreign, isn’t it?’

‘Foreign and brown,’ Hari said, in tones that hurt Lizzie’s heart. ‘You heard what he said to me. “Another one.” I’m not even from the Punjab. I’m from Goa.’

‘Not every community opens its arms as readily as Fitzy’s circus,’ Malachy said sadly. ‘Some people just hate anyone who’s different from them.’

Lizzie thought how much wealth the Maharaja would bring to this town. ‘Even if they’ve got loads of money?’

Malachy looked sour. ‘Especially if they’ve got loads of money. It’s even easier to hate someone you’re jealous of.’