Bearded Fran sat astride her stool, peeling waxy potatoes. Her reedy arms swung from her squat body. She looked across the sky, watching a red evening roll in. She was waiting for her cowboy to ride across the horizon. He’d love her fuzzy smallness, and he’d stroke her hairy back. She’d be ten feet tall.
‘Day dreaming again, eh, Fran?’ said Ringo, passing her caravan.
She grinned. ‘One day it’ll come true.’
He laughed. ‘And I’ll win the lottery.’
Fran didn’t care for money. It wouldn’t make her taller, or less hairy. She dreamt of love, absolute head-over-heels love. She knew it’d happen one day. Gypsy Rosa had seen it in her tea leaves.
She saw him coming out of the big top and her heart galloped, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She wondered what was wrong with him. Everyone that worked at the circus had something wrong with them. She scrutinised his walk – no limp or strange gait. His brown, weathered face had no lumps or bumps; he looked healthy even. He wore an open-neck, checked shirt and denim trousers. His eyes were very blue.
He passed her caravan and nodded. ‘Morning.’
She grinned and giggled, giddy with anticipation.
Over lunch, Ringo told the rest of the circus troupe, ‘He said he was a mature student finishing off his studies and had a bit of spare time on his hands. He said he wanted to do something practical and short term, to give his brain a rest.’
‘Another bleedin’ dreamer, then,’ said Tania, one of the acrobats.
Ringo sniffed. ‘Well, he’s not our concern. He doesn’t have much to offer, and we’re not short of staff at the minute.’
Fran bit her lip. It only took one accident and they would be short-staffed.
The next day, Joe got stomach ache so bad he had to go to hospital.
‘Terrible state he’s in, they’ve put one of those drips in him because he can’t keep anything down,’ said Ringo.
‘I reckon it was the cockles he had at Morecambe,’ said Myra.
Fran listened and smiled. ‘There’ll be work for someone, then.’
‘Aye, I’ll give that bloke a ring.’
She nodded. Joe needed to lose a few pounds.
The man jumped out of the van the next day and waved the driver off. He had high cheekbones and strong features. Fran liked that. She watched him from a distance. Maybe he was one of those getting away from the rat race. The circus had had them before, the ones who couldn’t face another day. They usually shacked up in a caravan and tagged on for a week or two, mucking the cages out. Then they got sick of greasy food and went back to where they came from. Some of the drifters were grieving – they’d lost children to drugs, or were recently divorced. They didn’t realise grief travels with you. They never lasted long. The worst were the rich, indulged students who’d ‘dropped out’. Those long-limbed, healthy, smooth-skinned creatures that moaned, ‘I don’t feel I belong anywhere.’
‘Feckless,’ Fran muttered. She wouldn’t give that sort the time of day. She spat, ‘Not anymore.’ They never took any notice of her; she was invisible to them. She wasn’t anything special, not like the acrobats or the lion tamer or the clowns. She was just the deformed bearded lady, who also happened to be a dwarf.
She could see the new man was different. Perhaps he’d had a breakdown, but there were none of the lingering wounds. No nervous tic, no hand wringing, no looking down at his shoes. He walked purposefully, a man who knew what he was doing.
‘He’s going to paint the wagons and all the woodwork in the big top. Proper handyman, he is,’ said Myra the snake charmer, with a greedy glint in her eyes.
He liked Fran’s coffee. She gave him a mug at breakfast, one at twelve and one at four. He was quiet; she liked the quiet sort. He nodded, putting his empty coffee mug down, and his blue eyes shone. ‘Thanks.’
Myra and Fran sat in the launderette watching the glittery acrobats’ frocks go round and round. Myra looked at Fran. ‘You’re smitten, aren’t you?’ she teased.
Fran felt her blood surge, she pushed her pinched, small face up close to Myra. ‘Mind your own business, Myra, I’m warning you.’ Fran had never been in love before, she sat back trembling. This was it, her cowboy in the sunset she’d been waiting for.
Myra looked at her nails. ‘He’ll be off, Fran. Drifters, they’re no good. He’ll break your heart, I can tell. He’s not interested in a relationship. I think he might be gay.’
Fran turned on her. ‘Did he refuse your offer of a few acrobatic flips, eh?’
‘Ooohh, who’s got it bad?’ Myra sniffed.
Fran thought he might be a priest who’d lost his vocation. He had a soulful thoughtful look about him. Wistful, that’s what he is, she smiled to herself. Sometimes, when Fran handed his coffee over, their hands touched round the mug. She wouldn’t wash her hand all day, to keep a bit of him on her.
She knew he wrote every night in his caravan, she’d spied on him tip-tapping on his computer. She imagined poetry and songs. Perhaps he’d sing to her one day.
She made him fairy cakes to go with his coffee, and offered to do his washing for him.
‘It’s alright, Fran, thanks; I can manage. But we can chat a while, if you like. Tell me about yourself.’
Fran had stayed awake at night trying to prepare her answer to this. If they were going to get married, they needed to know about each other. She thought she might say, ‘I was abducted at birth from a wealthy family.’ Or maybe something more dramatic: ‘I have gypsy blood in me, from a clan with magical gifts.’ And she’d stare mistily across the horizon.
But when he asked, she wanted to tell the truth, because that’s how they’d be, honest and truthful with one another throughout their lives. ‘I’ve always lived in a circus,’ she told him. ‘My mother was a bearded dwarf and my dad was one of the acrobats. I wasn’t close to either of them. They made me feel as if I was a burden, just another mouth to feed. They both died in a circus fire five years ago. It was a relief, to be honest.’
‘Fran, I’m sorry,’ he said.
She knew he meant it.
‘Did you go to school?’ he asked.
‘No, no need for that in a circus, and we move around. It’s not nice to always be the new one, especially if you’re a bit different.’
‘So did you get any education?’
‘I’ve learnt everything there is to know about life from working at the circus. I know there are good folk and there are bad. I’m better here than out there. You could say I’ve a degree in human nature.’
He smiled. ‘I’m sure you have. What about friends, did you have anyone to play with?’
‘Sometimes seasonal workers would bring their kids and I’d play with them, but they never stayed long. I always had the animals to play with. Nelly is the same age as me. She thinks she’s my twin sister by the way she trumpets every time she sees me.’
He smiled again. ‘You’re very sweet-natured, Fran.’
She put her head to one side. ‘Can I show you something?’
‘Okay.’
She led him to a small tent next to the big top. In it were mirrors, lots of fairground mirrors. Different distorted images stared back: fat and thin, little and large.
‘Stand here,’ she said. She stood in front of a mirror next to his. In his reflection, he was squashed small and fat, his face was a troll’s grimace. In her mirror, she was elongated, her short limbs were lengthened and stretched. Her round, pug-like face seemed sculptured, her dumpy figure shapely and slim. She pirouetted slowly in the mirror, watching her elegant reflection. ‘Now tell me, do you feel any different even though you look different?’ she asked him.
‘No.’
‘Well, neither do I. Look at me in the mirror. I’m the same inside as other women, I have the same desires.’ She tried to lock his blue eyes with hers but he looked away mumbling, ‘I’m sure you do, Fran.’
She liked the way he whistled quietly as he painted. He was neat and tidy, always cleaned up after himself and put the brushes away. Too soon, he finished the paintwork and Joe came back. Joe was pale, but willing and able. There was no extra work for the man.
‘Sorry, mate, I’ll have to let you go,’ said Ringo.
‘No problem, it’s been good, thanks.’
‘Would you paint my caravan before you go?’ Fran asked coyly. ‘I can pay you.’ She’d emptied out her life savings and counted it all the night before.
He shrugged. ‘A couple more days won’t make much difference. We can have our last little chat, eh?’
She wanted him to see how tidy and neat her caravan was. He’d realise then what a good wife she’d make. He could move into her caravan and work at the circus. Ringo liked keeping it in the family; that’s what he’d be once they married. If he didn’t want to roam round the country with the circus, she’d even live in one place with him. A cottage would be nice, somewhere remote. They’d live off the land. At night he’d read to her, their life would be pure and simple. She knew it was what he was looking for.
‘Yummm, I love shortbread,’ he said, taking another piece with his coffee.
‘Me too,’ she smiled. ‘Isn’t it funny how much we’ve got in common?’
‘What do you mean, Fran?’
‘Well, we both like shortbread, and we like each other’s company, and we like the simple life. All we need is the here and now and each…’
She didn’t finish her sentence. He was looking at her, eyebrow raised as if at that moment something had clicked.
Yes, that’s right, we are deeply in love. She smiled. What a sweetheart, it’s only just dawned on him.
‘I’d better be off, Fran.’ He put his cup down quickly. He didn’t look at her as he left.
She sat down and wrote a list of who she’d invite to the wedding. She’d invite the whole circus troupe, even Myra. The trapeze twins could be her bridesmaids. Then she wrote a list of wedding presents. She fell asleep mulling over what she should wear for her honeymoon.
The next morning, it was a bright, blue day. He knocked on her door. ‘I was wondering if you fancied a little walk, Fran?’
‘Why yes, I’d love one.’ She grabbed her cardigan and stepped out of the caravan. He held her hand coming down the steps. They headed down towards the river. Fran felt dizzy. He’s realised he can’t fight it. He’s going to propose by the river, surrounded by wild flowers and birds singing and the rush of bubbling water.
He didn’t say anything while they were walking. Fran understood: he’s trying to get the words right in his head. They stepped into a bluebell-carpeted wood. It was shaded and cool.
He cleared his throat. ‘I want to thank you very much for everything, Fran. You’ve made me feel welcome.’
‘My pleasure,’ she nodded demurely.
‘I’m leaving tomorrow. I need to get my thesis handed in.’
Her heart raced. ‘Tomorrow?’ She stopped in her tracks. I’ll have to break it to him gently that I need at least a week to pack up. She coughed, trying to give herself time to get her thoughts in order, and asked, ‘What’s a thesis?’
‘A thesis is an academic book. Mine is about travellers. I’ve been observing and writing up how they live all round the country.’ He looked at her. ‘Your circus was the last part of the project. I’ve tried to integrate with each group, living in their community for a short time. I’ve got all the information I need now, and I’ll go back home and write it up. My wife’s probably forgotten what I look like.’ He laughed gently.
‘Your wife?’
‘Yes, I have a wife.’ He turned to her. ‘Fran, our little chats have been particularly helpful – thank you.’
He has a wife. ‘Why?’ She stamped the ground.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why have you tricked us?’
‘It’s much better if subjects don’t know they’re being observed. I don’t think any harm’s been done.’
Fran clenched her fists. ‘How we live is no one’s business but ours.’
‘It’s interesting historically and as a social commentary.’
She thought of all the things she’d told him. Hands on hips, she stepped toward him. ‘I don’t want you to write about me. It’s bad enough that people gawp at me day in day out, without them gawping into my life in a book.’ She stomped her little, fat legs. ‘Never! You are not allowed. You pretended to love me and all the time it was trickery to get your story.’
‘Fran,’ he said gently, ‘I never once exploited you or gave you reason to believe I loved you.’
Fran’s eyes narrowed and she jabbed a shaking finger at him. ‘You’re wicked. You’ll get your come-uppance. I’ll make sure you do, you’ll be sorry, and…’ Red-faced, unable to contain her fury, she threw her head back and howled.
He stepped away. ‘I’m sorry that’s the way you feel, Fran. I’m sorry I’m leaving on a sour note. No one will know it’s you, you won’t be named and…’
She spat in his face.
He wiped his eye. ‘I better go.’
Myra knocked on Fran’s caravan that evening after the show. ‘We’re all having a few drinks at my place. D’you want to come over?’
‘No thanks, Myra.’
Myra shrugged. ‘Please yourself.’
It was a beautiful summer evening, still and calm. The circus had great takings all week because of the glorious weather. Fran sat on her stool. The laughter from Myra’s caravan drifted on a warm breeze. She stared across the orange and red horizon, the same colours the sky had been the night her parents died. She sniffed the whispering summer air. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh, remembering it all.
Later, she watched giggling silhouettes stagger away from Myra’s. They fumbled into their caravans to sleep heavily.
They were roughly woken by the crack and cackle of flames in the early hours of the morning. The befuddled circus troupe lurched from their bunks and ran for their lives.
At the inquest it was stated the man had rigged up some dodgy electrical wiring so he could use his computer in the caravan. It was an accident waiting to happen. The circus was exonerated from any blame.
The next site was on soft, green pastures on the outskirts of the town. Fran carried her wash-bag between the caravans. She looked across the horizon and knew one day her cowboy would come riding home. She smiled to herself. ‘And when he does, I’ll be ten feet tall.’