The sight of us walking along the main road in our tights and tunics certainly turned a few heads. What turned mine were the handbills stuck on every lamp post. ‘NIAGARA FALLS’, ‘TIGHTROPE’, ‘DAZZLING’ – all leaped out in big red letters. Underneath was the date: Friday 2 June.
Tomorrow.
Despite everything, I still felt a rush of excitement.
‘Do you want to run away, then?’ I asked, turning to Gabriel.
He’d seen the handbills too and was frowning.
‘I tried that once before, if you recall?’
We walked on. Neither of us spoke. I’d grown almost used to Gabriel’s silences.
Then, out of nowhere, I said, ‘Back in England, did Mr Wellbeloved threaten you? Is that why you left?’
Gabriel sucked in his cheeks.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘If you don’t fancy saying . . .’
He shook his head. ‘It’s time I told somebody, I suppose. Mr Wellbeloved insisted we perform something against our wishes.’
‘We?’
‘My brother Albert and I. We walked the tightrope together, which, as you know, is difficult enough. Yet Mr Wellbeloved thought our routine was too tame.’
Mr Chipchase had said the same about Gabriel. Yet with two performers it surely had the whiff of death about it.
‘What did he have in mind?’ I asked.
Gabriel took a deep breath. ‘He wanted us to carry chairs onto the rope . . .’
‘. . . And then sit in the middle and drink tea,’ I finished. It was a Blondin trick: balancing a chair on the rope by only one chair leg and then sitting in it. It’d very nearly cost Blondin his life. And yet here the tables had been turned, and it was Mr Wellbeloved nicking the ideas.
‘We had our concerns. But Albert was always braver than me. He said he’d try it first. But the balance wasn’t right and he fell. I saw it all.’
‘Oh Gabriel. That’s awful.’
He stared ahead, dry-eyed. ‘Yes, it was.’ Then he blinked. ‘He died right there in front of me. He was the only family I had left.’
I didn’t know what to say, so I reached for Gabriel’s hand and squeezed it, Jasper immediately in my mind. I’d never forget the sight of him falling through the air. How I’d gone to him not knowing if he was alive or dead. It still hurt like a punch on a bruise. And yet he did live. He was getting better.
Poor Gabriel. I could only imagine how dreadful he felt. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
He squeezed my fingers then let go; I found myself wishing he hadn’t. Just to hold hands for a little while would’ve been comfort for us both.
We didn’t talk of anything for a bit. We walked on, heads bowed, and I felt terrible for Gabriel. No wonder he was scared. No wonder he ran away. Why would he trust a tightrope after that? Just to even look at one would take courage.
I thought of Mr Wellbeloved; what had Mr Chipchase called him? A gentleman of the shade. He’d certainly been odd that night in Sharpfield. The way he’d looked at Blondin’s daughter still gave me the shudders.
‘So did you do the chair routine?’ I asked Gabriel.
He gave a sort of half shrug. The sun had sunk below the trees, casting a shadow across his face.
‘You said no one dared to stand up to Mr Wellbeloved. But did you?’
‘I tried.’
He glanced up and down the street to check no one was watching. Then he stopped and rolled up one of his shirt sleeves. My hand went to my mouth.
‘Oh heck!’
The skin on his forearm was slashed red with evil-looking scars. They started at the wrist and disappeared up beyond the elbow. The skin was quite newly healed.
‘He whipped you,’ I whispered. ‘After all that had happened.’
‘Horsewhipped,’ said Gabriel. ‘Eight lashes. Done in front of the other performers.’
I was stunned. Mr Chipchase didn’t even own a horsewhip.
Gabriel covered his arm again. ‘After Albert died, I wasn’t fit to perform. Mr Wellbeloved saw it as shirking. Never mind that he still owed me wages from . . .’ he faltered, ‘. . . before. But very conveniently, he forgot all about that and bullied me into performing. So when I saw the Chipchase advert, I just packed my bag and ran.’
I now felt rather shifty that I’d begrudged him the job. He’d needed it more than I had. And yet in the end, Mr Chipchase had made me a showstopper too, though he’d never really explained his decision.
We carried on up the hill. Mrs Franklin’s white house was now in sight.
‘That night when Mr Chipchase finally chose me, do you know why he changed his mind?’ I asked.
‘Money?’ said Gabriel. ‘I wasn’t exactly pulling in the crowds by myself.’
‘Nothing to do with Mr Wellbeloved, then?’
He looked at me. ‘What do you mean?’
I didn’t quite know. For so long I’d begged to perform, yet all I’d got for my pains was a second-rate buffer act. And even that I’d had to do in a clown’s suit, with my hair tucked away. Then Ned told Mr Chipchase about a gent in a top hat asking questions. And by bedtime, I’d been made showstopper.
Why then, after all that time?
It was as if Mr Chipchase had been trying to hide me . . . and then suddenly . . . he wasn’t.
‘He knew Mr Wellbeloved was on the trail,’ I said out loud.
Gabriel looked confused. ‘Who did?’
‘Mr Chipchase. Ned told him someone was after you, and he must’ve guessed.’
‘So he made you showstopper because he knew I’d have to leave. That’ll be the reason.’
I shook my head. ‘He wasn’t keen for me to stay showstopper. He said it brought too much trouble.’
‘He was probably referring to those charity types.’
Do-gooders. Yet the night Mr Wellbeloved turned up, he’d not been sweating over them.
‘Well, he didn’t want me to come here, that’s all I know,’ I said, lifting my hair off my neck. It was hot still, despite the time of day.
‘Perhaps he cares about you, Louie,’ said Gabriel. ‘Had you thought of that?’
I hadn’t. Not from a man who was rarely civil to his own daughter.
As we walked, I mulled this over some more. Suppose Gabriel was right and Mr Chipchase did care. He’d taken me in as a baby, after all, or at least he’d let Jasper keep me. Perhaps there was more to him than his red face and short temper. Or perhaps he knew what Mr Wellbeloved was like. Either way, it unsettled me.
We’d almost reached our lodgings now. Just before Mrs Franklin’s was a building with a porch out the front and ‘Queenstown Stores and Post Office’ painted above the door. A bunch of horses were tied to the porch posts, swishing their tails in the heat.
‘Is that Mrs Franklin?’ said Gabriel, shielding his eyes for a better look.
All I could see was horses’ rumps. It was the sort of joke Ned might crack, and it did make me smile. After everything Gabriel had told me, I was glad he’d recovered a little.
‘That’s not nice, Gabriel,’ I said, nudging him playfully.
Then I saw her myself, emerging from behind a grey horse. She was struggling to carry her basket. We went over to help.
‘Let me carry that for you,’ said Gabriel.
Mrs Franklin looked startled to see us. ‘Goodness! I hardly recognised you both!’
Despite the heat, she looked pale. Her gaze slid over our tunics and tights. Then she sighed like a person in pain.
‘It’s all right. We’ve been performing,’ I explained, for I decided I quite liked Mrs Franklin. She made nice breakfasts, and she had kind blue eyes. ‘We don’t normally go about the streets dressed like this.’
‘Well, my dears, you certainly both look the part.’ She tried hard to smile but it came out as a muffled sob. ‘I’m sorry. Do forgive me.’
‘Please, let me take your basket,’ said Gabriel gently.
‘Oh, my dear,’ she said. ‘You are an angel.’
Handing it over, she winced. The fingers on her left hand were swollen and bruised.
‘What happened to your hand?’ I asked.
She pulled her sleeve down quickly. ‘Oh, I’m clumsy. Don’t mind me. I caught it in a door.’
She wasn’t a very good liar. I bet I knew whose work this was; I’d heard them both this morning outside my bedroom. And what had Mr Wellbeloved said to her? Something about trust and her knowing who I was. Well, I’d never clapped eyes on her until last night. So I couldn’t begin to think how she might know me.
No wonder Mrs Franklin’s basket was heavy; it was full to the brim with vegetables. As Gabriel settled it into the crook of his arm, her eyes suddenly darted towards it. Mine did too. Stuck at an angle among the potatoes were some envelopes; I guessed about six. She snatched them up like they were hot and then stuffed them in her purse.
‘Those are Mr Wellbeloved’s,’ she said, a bit too brightly.
Clearly, she didn’t mean the potatoes.