Chapter 5

Lizzie was barely out of bed the next morning before Malachy called round to her caravan. ‘I’ve had some ideas,’ he said from outside while she dressed. ‘Levitation is old hat. They’ll all be doing it soon. But I reckon I can cook up some stuff that’ll look like glowing ectoplasm!’

Lizzie had heard of ectoplasm – a sort of goo that ghosts used to take on a physical form. Her caravan door was in two halves, and she opened the top half now, like a window. ‘I already said no. I ain’t a fraud.’

‘All right,’ said Malachy, undeterred. ‘What about shadow puppets? We could have you surrounded by dancing devils, skeletons, all sorts…’

‘What part of no ain’t you understanding?’

Someone coughed. They both turned to look. It was Fergus the journalist, standing back with an amused look on his face. ‘Hope I’m not interrupting.’

‘Interrupting?’ Malachy said. ‘If we didn’t know who you were, we’d have you for trespassing! This part of the camp’s for circus people only.’

Fergus laughed. ‘Since when did I ever use the main entrance?’

‘Don’t mind Mally,’ Lizzie said, coming out of the carvan, now dressed in her mystic robes for the day’s work. ‘He’s looking out for us. Just like his father.’

‘I was hoping to speak to your father, as it happens,’ said Fergus. Out came the notebook and the pen. ‘What with Fitzy’s Circus being such a success, I thought I might do a wee piece on you. Behind the scenes at the great attraction, that sort of thing.’

Lizzie and Malachy looked at one another. ‘I suppose we could show him around,’ Malachy said.

‘It could be good publicity,’ agreed Lizzie. ‘Besides, we do owe him one after last night.’

‘So, where do you want to start?’

‘Have you got any lions?’ said Fergus. ‘I’ve always wanted to meet a lion.’

* * *

‘No touching,’ Hari warned. ‘He’ll have your arm off.’

Leo was asleep in his cage, his great golden-furred chest rising and falling. Fergus jotted down notes. ‘He’s dangerous, then?’

‘Deadly.’

Lizzie knew Leo was old and toothless and about as dangerous as a kitten, but she kept quiet. One of Leo’s paws was dangling out of the cage bars and Hari showed Fergus how the huge sabre-like claws came out when the paw was squeezed. Fergus whistled softly.

Then the journalist shrieked. Something was scrabbling up his leg, something with a dark furry body and spindly clutching arms. He staggered back while the creature climbed him like a tree. It swung from his forearm, jumped and landed on his shoulder. ‘Get it off me!’ he yelled. ‘Get it off!’

Leo, woken by the noise, blinked his amber eyes and stirred.

‘It’s only a monkey,’ laughed Hari. ‘Just keep still. He won’t hurt you.’

Embarrassed by his outburst, Fergus did as Hari told him and Hanu peered into his eyes, sizing him up. ‘Hello there,’ the reporter said, a little nervous still. He tucked his pen into his pocket and patted the monkey on the head.

Hanu promptly whipped the expensive pen back out, jumped down to the ground, and ran off with it.

‘Hey!’ Fergus yelled, but it did no good. The monkey climbed up the bars of the lion’s cage and perched up there, turning his prize over in his little hands. He chittered at Fergus. Lizzie could have sworn he was laughing.

‘Sorry about that,’ Hari laughed. ‘He’s named after a god, but he’s a bit of a demon.’

Fergus shrugged and took another pen from inside his coat. ‘He’s not the first pickpocket I’ve had to deal with. But he’s definitely the smallest.’

Once Hari had introduced all the animals and Fergus had made notes and sketches, the four of them moved on to the show tent. Fitzy was watching the rehearsals with his back to them.

‘Come on in, Mister Campbell,’ he said without turning around. ‘Take a seat and make yourself at home. Just don’t get in the way.’

Fergus sat in the front row, only inches from where the clowns were rehearsing a slapstick routine, and took off his hat. ‘You were expecting me then, sir?’

A note of frost crept into Fitzy’s voice. ‘We saw you coming, if that’s what you mean. Nothing happens in this circus without me hearing about it. Especially not a visit from a journalist. I was going to have you thrown out, but I was persuaded otherwise.’ Fitzy pointed with his golden baton to where Collette was sitting nearby. She gave Fergus a shy wave and a little smile.

Fergus stood up abruptly. ‘If I’m not welcome…’

Fitzy turned to face him, his hands behind his back. ‘My people are loyal, Mister Campbell. The newspapers haven’t always been our friends.’

‘I assure you, I’m not here looking for scandal.’

Fitzy nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘I hope you’re a man of your word. But just in case … Collette? Kindly keep an eye on this man for me.’

‘Oui, Fitzy.’ Collette came over and sat next to Fergus, her legs crossed demurely. Fergus coughed and kept his eyes fixed on the clowns.

As Fitzy turned back, Lizzie saw a wicked, familiar twinkle in his eye. As always, the ringmaster knew exactly what he was doing.

For the next hour, they watched the acts rehearse. Once the clowns were done, Fitzy himself put Leo the lion through his paces in the lion-taming act. Next, the Sullivan boys rode their ponies wildly around the ring, firing revolvers or hurling tomahawks at targets with pinpoint accuracy. After them, the acrobats took the stage, clambering up one another’s bodies to stand in gravity-defying formations.

‘What do you think, Monsieur Reporter?’ Collette teased.

‘Call me Fergus, please,’ he said. He looked hot and bothered, but not in any hurry to leave.

Collette put her hand to her mouth. ‘Perhaps when we are better acquainted.’

‘Mademoiselle,’ said Fergus, ‘I should like nothing better. An interview, perhaps. Would you mind?’

Pierre Boisset, Collette’s father, chose that moment to come striding over. ‘Collette! Are you going to make with the chit-chat all day?’

‘But Papa, Fitzy said I was to chaperone the reporter—’

‘It is time to rehearse.’ Pierre glowered at Fergus. ‘The reporter will just have to fend for himself.’

Collette skipped off. ‘Helas, the interview will have to wait,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Perhaps another day.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Fergus suggested, with a boldness that made Collette blush. Pierre stiffened, but said nothing.

‘This is better than being at the theatre,’ Lizzie whispered to Malachy. ‘I’m on the edge of me seat!’

Moments later, Fergus was watching the Astonishing Boissets perform. Despite the safety net, he looked worried for Collette’s safety and spent more time chewing his knuckle nervously than writing in his notebook. Lizzie thought it was sweet. Then, with a start, she thought: Is that what I look like, watching Dru? No wonder people tease me about liking him, if it’s that obvious.

After the Boissets, it was Nora and Erin’s turn to practise. ‘Since you’re here,’ Nora told Fergus, ‘we’re going to give you an exclusive!’

‘Our latest trick, never before seen,’ Erin added, with a proud toss of the head. ‘We’re calling it the “Highland Fling”.’

‘Ready when you are!’ Dru called, dangling upside-down from a trapeze by his knees. Lizzie stared open-mouthed. For variety, acts sometimes crossed over with one another – a clown blundering through the acrobats or an elephant invading the clowns – but she’d never seen Dru take part in the Sullivan Twins’ equestrian routine before.

The first part of the stunt began. Erin and Nora cantered around the ring while Dru swung back and forth, building up momentum. Slowly both twins rose to a standing position, arms outstretched, smiling and waving.

‘I wonder why they call it the Highland Fling?’ Fergus wondered aloud.

Next second, they found out. As Dru swung past over Erin’s head, she leaped up into the air and he caught her by the arms. He swung with her back and forth overhead while Nora continued to ride around the ring.

‘Oh my gawd!’ Lizzie cried. ‘He’s not going to—’

Dru flung Erin through the air.

Lizzie could hardly bear to watch. She imagined Erin landing on the ground and horse’s hooves trampling her broken body, blood pouring out onto the sawdust.

But Nora rode into position, caught her sister around the waist and set her down gently in front of her, smiling all the while. As they galloped around the ring, the band blew a fanfare and Lizzie, Malachy and Fergus all leaped to their feet and clapped until their hands hurt. The Sullivan Twins reined their horse to a gentle stop, while Hari took care of Erin’s now riderless horse.

‘What did you think?’ Nora called, breathless and laughing.

‘I think you should perform for the Queen,’ Fergus said, ‘because that was incredible.’

Ma Sullivan came in with a working lunch for everyone: cheese, oat cakes and tea. The circus crew sat in the stalls, munching and chatting. The Penny Gaff Gang sat in a circle around Fergus, eager to answer his questions.

Lizzie could tell something was troubling him, though. ‘Go on, spit it out,’ she eventually said.

‘I have to ask,’ Fergus said. ‘Aren’t you all a bit young to be working?’

‘What do you mean?’ Malachy snapped.

‘No offence, but—’

‘But nothing,’ Malachy snarled. ‘We’re all over ten years old.’

‘You ought to be worrying about kids going up chimneys and down mine shafts, mate,’ warned Erin. ‘Not us.’

Lizzie nodded. She remembered how exhausted her brother had been when he would come home from the matchstick factory. He’d told her about little children as young as five years old working ten hours a day there, in dangerous conditions.

‘My dad looks after everyone who works here!’ Malachy was really angry now, Lizzie saw with alarm. She tried to make him sit back down, but he wouldn’t. He shook off her hand.

Fergus said in smooth tones, ‘I’m not calling you a liar, young man. But some of you do very dangerous stunts. And a travelling circus complying with employment law? It’s hard to believe.’

‘Complying with all the laws,’ Malachy said. ‘I know what you’re suggesting, mister. It’s in all the papers, ain’t it? The Labour Reform Movement—’

‘They’re good people,’ Lizzie interrupted. ‘The reformists are against little kids having to work in factories – that sort of thing.’ The flyer she’d been given outside the Assembly Rooms had explained that the reformists were trying to make new laws to stop children under the age of ten from working in factories.

Fergus gave Lizzie a grateful nod. ‘Aye, I’m a reformist. Proud to be. If you’d seen the conditions some of these industrialists force children to work in, you would be too.’

‘I have seen them,’ Lizzie said. ‘My brother died from working in a matchstick factory.’

Malachy sat back down. ‘Sorry, Lizzie,’ he mumbled. ‘But this reporter don’t have no right to doubt my dad.’

As if on cue, Fitzy strode back into the show tent. His face was red with anger, and Lizzie thought he might be about to punch Fergus in the face, but the anger wasn’t meant for him.

‘Joey? Bungo? Front and centre – NOW!’

The two roustabouts he’d called came tramping up in front of him, one whiskery, the other hairless. ‘Yes, boss?’

‘How many exits does this tent have?’

The whole tent fell silent. Mouthfuls of food went unchewed. All eyes were on Fitzy and the two men standing motionless in front of him.

‘Well, um, there’s the main entrance.’ Bungo rubbed his moustache. ‘And the performers’ entrance, and the side exit, for emergencies.’

‘Point to the side exit,’ said Fitzy.

Bungo pointed and Lizzie instantly saw what Fitzy was angry about, and a cold thud of fear hit her in the chest. A stack of pasteboard scenery, painted to look like mountains, had been dumped in front of the exit, blocking it completely. It was from the elephants’ performance, in which one of the clowns played Hannibal crossing the Alps.

Fitzy narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you sure that’s the side exit? Only from where I’m standing, it looks like a pile of scenery!’

‘It was only going to be there a minute, Fitzy,’ Joey protested.

That was a mistake; Lizzie saw it immediately.

‘Only a minute,’ Fitzy repeated in a small, slow voice.

Lizzie gulped. Fitzy was like a kettle, Ma Sullivan often said. He made a lot of noise as he got hotter, but you knew he was really boiling when he went suddenly quiet. And right now he was so quiet nobody dared to breathe.

‘All of you, listen,’ he said. ‘Ever heard of Philip Astley’s amphitheatre? First circus ever created, back in 1777. First one to burn down too. He opened the Royal Amphitheatre after that. That burned down an’all.’ Fitzy strode back and forth. ‘And let’s not forget Her Majesty’s Theatre, burned to a cinder only a few years ago. You see, fire spreads very quickly, and a whole circus can go up in next to no time. It only takes a minute.’ He glared at Joey. ‘Only a minute. Are you with me?’

Joey, too shamefaced to speak, stared at his feet.

‘MOVE!’ Fitzy bellowed.

Bungo, Joey and several other members of the crew quickly ran to remove the scenery from the exit. Lizzie watched Fergus nod in approval, write something in his notebook and underline it twice.

The last stage of the tour saw Fergus alone with Lizzie in the fortune-telling tent.

‘Poor old Douglas Grant didn’t convince me,’ Fergus said, offering his palm, ‘so let’s see how you do.’

Lizzie found his life line. In most people it was a simple crease across the palm, but Fergus’s zigzagged like a lightning bolt. Bad beginnings leading to a bright future, she thought.

As she traced her finger down his palm, images danced before her eyes. Lizzie described what she was seeing as pictures floated by in soap-bubbles. They were cloudy, which meant they represented the distant past.

There was Fergus as a cheeky young boy, visiting the printing press with his father. There he was again as a young adult, with a red-faced editor slamming his story down onto a spike. Young Fergus winced as his editor snarled, ‘You won’t earn a penny from scribbling trash like this.’

The Fergus in front of her turned pale. ‘How’d you do that?’ he said. ‘Must have been a lucky guess.’

Lizzie concentrated. A new, crystal-clear image appeared before her. She was seeing the future now. An older Fergus with ginger mutton-chop whiskers was accepting an award shaped like a golden shield. Images passed by – Fergus curled up in bed, Fergus reading in front of the fire, Fergus having a pint in a pub, Fergus dandling a ginger-haired child on his knee. She saw him walking down a bustling London street and entering a tall building with a sign that read The Times. ‘Fleet Street,’ she said. ‘That’s where you end up.’

‘I’m going to be famous, aye?’

‘I promise.’

He let go of her hand. ‘Lord knows I’d like to believe that. But how do I know you’re not just telling me what I want to hear?’

Lizzie leaned close and whispered in his ear: ‘Because I saw that late at night, when you’re all alone in bed, you suck your thumb.’

Fergus’s eyes widened in surprise.

Lizzie sat back and folded her arms, satisfied. ‘So, are you going to give Fitzy’s Circus a good write-up, then?’

Fergus grinned, snatched up his hat and bowed as he left the tent. ‘Surely you must know the answer to that already … fortune-teller.’

After putting away her crystal ball and taking off her robes, Lizzie came out of her tent and heard an odd noise. It sounded like someone taking long, snuffling breaths.

‘Hello?’ she called, wondering if one of the animals had somehow escaped.

A whining noise came from behind one of the penny gaff tents. It was definitely human. Lizzie ran round behind the tent and saw a little girl sitting on the ground, her face buried in her hands.

‘What’s the matter, sweetheart? Are you lost?’

The child lifted her head miserably, and even through the drizzle of tears, Lizzie recognized her at once. ‘Amelia?’

‘You’re not the fairy lady,’ Amelia stammered, and let out a bawl.

Lizzie hugged her. ‘It’s all right, precious. Where’s Maisie? And your Uncle Ally?’

‘I don’t know!’ wailed Amelia. ‘Maisie took me to the park in Uncle Ally’s carriage for a picnic and then we had a little nap on the blanket. Only I didn’t fall asleep – I saw the top of the big tent across the park and walked all the way over to it. I only wanted to see my fairy again…’