After all the waiting, all the drama, the baby had been born dead.
Bruce Mandate had begun to think he would never survive it: not the birth itself, of course, not even the death, but the aftermath of the death.
Marge had been beside herself.
First off, he’d been sympathetic. Up the duff for nine months, then the performance of having it, twelve bloody hours it had been, only to find it had all been so much wasted effort … Enough to give anyone the pip.
All the same, there were limits. A day or two he could have understood — he hoped he was a bloke who knew how to make allowances — but the fact was the kid had died and that was an end to it. No way could they bring him back to life, was there? They needed to get on, catch up with the others, yet Marge didn’t want to know. Ten days after the event, she was still performing as though she’d murdered it.
Was stupid enough to say so, or something close.
‘Wasn’t your fault, for cripes’ sake …’
Done better to tie a knot in his tongue.
‘Kept going too long, that’s what it was. That new flying act you worked out was too hard.’
So now it was his fault.
‘We’re a trapeze act, right? Flying’s our job, what we get paid for. If we’d packed up any earlier, we’da bin outa dosh weeks back.’
‘Money …’ As though he’d offered to cut her throat. ‘All you care about, isn’t it?’
More tears on top of old ones, a regular saltwater fountain. Enough to make a bloke puke.
‘Give over, for God’s sake …’
Might have saved his breath. He decided he’d treat himself to a breath of fresh air, give her a chance to get over it. Give himself a chance, come to that; he’d always had a bit of a temper, it was one of his weaknesses, and he could feel himself getting pretty ratty, the way Marge was carrying on. A turn outside the wagon would give him a chance to cool down before he started breaking things. He grabbed his pipe and tobacco pouch and took off before she could say anything else to stir him up.
He knew right off it had been the right move. It was nice, outside in the air. He puffed his pipe, looking about him at the spread of timber-clad hills all round him. It was spring, the air still fresh; it made him feel good to see the tall timber climbing all the way up the slopes of the range to the top, the ridge so blue that in places it was hard to tell it apart from the sky.
There were trees all around them. When Marge had tipped him off things were beginning to happen, he’d started looking for a place she could have the baby in peace. They’d fetched up in a glade a little way off the main east-west track through the forest; in the circumstances, he’d reckoned she’d need a bit of privacy. He’d chosen right, at that; in the fortnight they’d been here, Bruce hadn’t seen a soul. A wallaby or two, birds that seemed to screech all day and half the bloody night as well: apart from that, nothing at all. It was a nice, peaceful place: all the same, he was beginning to get antsy.
The circus hadn’t waited for them. He’d never thought it would; old Gus Evans wouldn’t call a halt for the Last bloody Trump, never mind for Marge Mandale and her kid. The show was holed up at a place called Wattle Glen, somewhere away to the north-west, but they wouldn’t be there forever. Signor Corelli’s Great International Circus, which was what they called themselves, was on its way north: into New South Wales first off: after that, further north still. Gus reckoned there was a packet to be made up in Queensland and, if Bruce and Marge hadn’t caught up with them by the time he took off, he’d find someone to take their place. It wouldn’t be hard; they weren’t the only flying act in Victoria, not by a long shot. If that happened, they’d be stuffed. He’d first suggested pushing on a week ago but Marge hadn’t wanted a bar of it. Enough to drive a bloke dilly. They’d scraped a hole in the dirt, buried the baby at the edge of the forest, covered it over. What else could they do, for cripes sake? No point hanging around. But whenever he talked about making a move, she carried on like she was round the twist.
Morbid, that’s what it was. He knew he’d have to put his foot down but didn’t fancy it; he’d never been a bloke for too much drama.
To take his mind off things, he strolled over to talk to the horse, which was tearing away at the grass on the edge of the track. There were one or two flies, nothing to speak of this early in the season, and he stood watching the animal, listening to the soft, peaceful sounds of its great teeth ripping away at its breakfast.
Mostly, he enjoyed his life. Enjoyed circus, the feeling of arriving in a new town, sitting up in the bandwagon with the rest of the boys, blowing his cornet and watching the people come running, the kids tagging on at the back of the procession as it made its way to wherever the advance man had picked out to pitch the tent. They were always welcome; most of these country places, the circus was the only thing that stirred the dust from one year to the next, apart from some crappy vaudeville outfit, maybe, or a travelling boxing booth. Nothing could hold a candle to the real circus, and the locals knew it. Some of the girls … There were tales he could have told about the days before him and Marge had got together; nothing since, mind. Hot little numbers, some of them, and the circus had never hung around in one place long enough for there to be any risk of trouble. He thought of the carbide lighting at night and the roaring sound it made, with everything dark outside the tent and the oohs and aahs of the crowd as he took the trapeze further and further out above their heads, swinging it in a great circle. The balancing trapeze, they called it, on account of the knobs he’d fixed up on either end of the bar, like weights to keep it even. Did the whole act without a net, too; break his back if he ever came off, but he’d never been afraid of that. Heights didn’t worry him. It was a great act; the spectators loved it, always gave him a good hand.
No, they had to get back as soon as they could; he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if the circus left them behind for good. Wouldn’t know what to do for money, either; all very well Marge moaning, but they wouldn’t get far without it. He was damn near strapped as it was; barely enough to buy himself a wet, even if there’d been a pub nearby.
No, he thought, Marge’ll just have to face up to it. We gotta move on.
He watched the horse, still chomping. ‘Easy time’s over,’ he told it. ‘Gotta hit the road.’
Might as well get it over with. He turned to go back to the wagon, paused in midstride as he thought he’d heard something. He turned and looked at the fringe of trees, spindly little things at this point, with plenty of open ground and the grass growing up between them. That was where the sound had come from.
For a moment there, it had sounded almost like …
You’re imagining things, he told himself.
He waited, but now could hear nothing.
He turned away, and it came again at once. Not his bloody imagination, then. He spun round and walked straight across to the gap in the trees where he reckoned the sound had been. And stopped, staring.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘What you doing here, eh?’
Through the grass, he could see the light. It was golden, bright, shifting to and fro as the wind blew. It made him laugh. He watched it, dancing, tried to snatch it with his hands. Always it got away. He laughed, hearing the sound of the laughter. The wind laughed back.
The grass here was high, taller than he was. He walked into it, still laughing. It tickled him. It was laughing, too, he and the grass were laughing together. He couldn’t see the light any more, the grass was in the way, then the wind blew again, the grass whistled and parted, swaying, and there the light was. Dancing, like before. Another grab. Nothing doing. The naughty light.
Behind him, he heard her come out of the tent. She was busy, holding white pieces of cloth, flapping them. When she did that, it sounded as though the cloth was slapping the air. She was singing quietly to herself. He heard the sound. It was comfortable, safe. It made him feel good.
‘Jamie?’ He heard her footstep on the grass. When she spoke her voice was closer. ‘There you are. Don’t go too far, will you?’
He heard her voice but did not turn to look up at her; he, too, was busy. He wanted to catch the light before it got away again. The naughty light that danced and would not let him catch it.
He crept closer. Snatched. No.
Without looking, he knew that she had gone away again, had gone back into the tent. That was all right.
The light danced. It had moved away from the grass now. It was on the leaves of the trees that were behind the grass. The trees were very tall, even higher than the grass. The trees were his friends, just as the grass was; he saw them every day. He reached out his hands. He touched the shiny leaves that quivered as he held them. He let them go and they sprang away from him. He laughed and took another step, reaching up his hands to catch them again. They wouldn’t let him, any more than the light had let him. It was how they always played: dancing, laughing, letting him touch them then getting away from him again. He couldn’t reach them, so he touched the trunks of the trees instead. He would play with the trunks of the trees.
It was no good. The trees wouldn’t play at all. Instead, they stood and looked at him. They were stiff and still. Again he saw the light. It gleamed and danced beyond the trees. He pushed after it, came through the fringe of grass into a new place. He stood, staring about him. It was different from anything he had seen before. It was still, quiet. Apart from the one spark of playful light, he could see only shadows.
The world had changed. Now he forgot about the dancing beam of light. It was the shadows that called him. He walked towards them. They were all about him. He looked up at the trees, reaching high overhead. Everything he knew was gone but he was not afraid, was too interested in what he had discovered to be afraid. He forgot about everything but went on, sometimes walking forwards, sometimes backwards, feeling this new world that surrounded him. Walking backwards, a tree root tripped him. He lay on his back, looking up at the light far above his head. It was so far that he could barely see the leaves at all, couldn’t tell whether they were asleep or still playing.
He looked about him but the spark of light had gone now. It didn’t matter. There were other things here, things he didn’t know. Everything was new. He turned on his tummy and inspected the root that had tripped him. He batted it with his hand, softly.
‘Bad, bad …’
He could not give it a name; he did not know what it was or what it was called, only that it had tripped him. Again he batted it. The thing was moist and cool against his palm. He looked closely at it, seeing specks of green and brown and orange upon it. So strange.
It did not move, or do anything. He got up and walked on, face turned upwards to watch the branches far above his head, the white brightness of the light between them.
When he was tired of walking, he sat down on the ground and looked about him. All he could see was shadows. No light, no grass. No mother. Suddenly he did not like being alone. He did not like this place any more at all. He was frightened.
‘I want to go back.’
He said it quietly, then out loud, complaining to the trees. They stood and looked at him and did nothing.
He started to cry. ‘Jamie wants to go home.’
He listened to the sound of his cries, liking them. He thought they would bring his mother, as they always had before, but this time nothing happened.
Presently he got up. Now he was more frightened than ever. The shadows weren’t his friends. He wanted to run away from them but they were everywhere. He began to run anyway, wanting to get back as quickly as he could to the world where he was safe, but wherever he went the shadows followed him. The big trees were everywhere. He did not know which way to go, was crying so hard that he could see hardly anything at all.
The ground was covered with things that tripped him up, like the green and brown and orange-spotted thing. He turned round and round but could see nothing he recognised. All the trees and shadows looked the same.
Soon he discovered he couldn’t go on any longer. First he sat, then lay down in the space between two pieces of a tree that stuck out a long way before disappearing into the ground. There were big leaves, not green and shiny like the ones he knew, but hard and brown. They made a noise when he lay on them. He went to sleep all the same, because he was tired. He was still crying, although he knew that when he woke up he would be warm and safe again.
He wasn’t. He was just as lonely and frightened as he had been before. There was a horrible feeling inside him. He did not know what to do. He scrambled to his feet and walked on. Something was following him.
He stopped and looked back fearfully, tears once again beginning to flow. He couldn’t see anything, but something was there; he was certain of it.
‘Go ’way!’
He did not dare cry it out loud.
He was running again. The world was full of trees, of shadows. He was running, tripping, falling over, grazed hands stinging. Running again, while fear ran with him. The hollow place inside him would not go away.
He could not run any more. He was so tired and frightened he could barely walk. He slowed, slowed. Stopped. His thumb was in his mouth. He looked around at the trees. In front of him the ground sloped down, then up again. To a fringe of smaller trees. Behind the trees …
A brightness.
He was running again, running towards the brightness. Which grew brighter as it got nearer. Once again he saw light, gleaming on leaves. On green and shiny leaves.
Somehow he had found his way home.
He reached the edge of the trees, pushed his way through them sturdily. He expected to see the path, the tent, his mother. And stopped, just beyond the last tree. Because this was different. This was not the world of home, or of the shadowed trees. The trees here were different. The grass was different. There was no path, no tent, no … No mother.
He wanted to be home. Where it was safe and warm. Where his mother would hold him. He could feel her, breathe the smell of her, the comfort and safety of her. Not here, though; not here.
It was horrible that she was not here. Naughty Mummy. He was sobbing again, could hear himself crying, because the fear had changed but was still there.
He heard a sound beyond the grass: the sound of a footstep. At once he was still, sucking furiously on his thumb.
Go ’way! Go ’way!
A face he did not know stared down at him. Not his mother; not his father: a man he did not know. Jamie shut his eyes tight so that the man could not see him.
The man was still there. He could not see him, but felt him. He heard the man’s voice.
Bloody hell. What you doing here, eh?
He did not know what the sounds meant. Risked a quick look, saw the man still staring at him, shut his eyes again, fast.
Go ’way!
Felt the man crouch. He could smell him, very close. A strange, uncomfortable smell, not at all like his mother’s smell.
‘What’s your name?’
He was frightened of the man. He would not answer him. Could not answer him.
He felt the man straighten, take another step. Two steps. He knew the man was right beside him.
Go ’way!
The man’s voice was louder, calling out, while Jamie slurped his thumb.
‘Hallo? Anybody there?’
And waited. Silence.
‘Hallo?’
Silence.
The man spoke again, no longer shouting. ‘Where you popped up from, eh?’
Another quick look. Saw the man frowning down at him, his face very high up against the bright sky.
‘Best come with me, I reckon.’
The man’s hand took hold of his own hand. He pulled away but the man did not let him go. Panic, as he tugged and tugged.
‘Give over!’ the man said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, for cripes’ sake.’
And pulled him along, while Jamie opened his mouth, shrieking.
‘Marge!’ The man’s voice. ‘Look what I got, eh.’
Jamie’s eyes were open now, as the man pulled him along. One hand in the man’s hand, one thumb in his mouth. There was a track through the grass, a strange thing at the side of the track. The thing seemed to be eating the grass. Beyond the strange thing, something else he had never seen before. It wasn’t a tent although it had a homely look about it, with two pieces of white cloth hanging on a line and flapping in the wind, just like they did at home. This wasn’t a tent, it was like the box his mother kept her things in, but much bigger. Big enough to go inside. It was green, with something round and yellow on either side of it.
As Jamie looked and looked, wondering what the strange box was, a woman came out of the box and looked down at him. Came at once in a rush towards him. He was frightened of the woman, too, but not as much as he had been of the man. She bent down so her face was close to his. Her smell was different from the man’s; it reminded him of his mother.
‘What’s your name?’ the woman asked.
He almost answered her but could not quite manage it. He sucked his thumb, looking at the woman.
‘My name is Marge,’ she told him. ‘What’s your name?’
He opened his mouth. ‘Jamie …’ The sound came out so softly that even he could not hear it.
‘What was that?’
Her voice was gentle. He wasn’t frightened of her any more. She was still strange, though.
‘Jamie.’ This time he managed a bit better.
Even so, it seemed she still didn’t understand him. ‘Never mind. I’m sure you’ll tell us later. I wonder where you’ve come from.’
‘Standing there at the edge of the trees,’ the man said. ‘I heard him, went to have a squiz, there he was.’
‘All alone?’
‘I called out, but no one answered.’
‘He gotta be lost.’
‘Dunno where he’s come from, then. No houses anywhere round here.’
‘I’ll take him into the wagon, tidy him up a bit, give him something to eat. You go and see if you can find anyone.’
‘In that lot? Strewth!’
‘Get on and do it!’ The woman’s voice was tart. ‘What’s biting you? Scared of the trees, are you?’ Her voice changed, became kind as she turned back to Jamie. ‘Like a glass of milk, would you?’
She took his hand, which the man had let go, and led him over to the big green box, where she lifted him up and carried him inside.
‘You didn’t see nuthin?’
‘I went bloody miles. I tell you, it’s black as the pit in there. Nuthin but trees. God knows where he come from.’
‘Little bloke like him couldn’t have come far.’
‘Beats me. I tell you, I couldn’t see a thing. Yelled out coupla times but never heard nuthin.’
‘What we goin’ to do with him?’
‘Ask around, I reckon.’
‘Ask who? Like you said, there’s no one round here to ask.’
‘The blues?’
‘None o’ them, neither.’
‘Can’t just leave him here.’
‘Have to take him with us, I reckon.’
‘Hold on a sec. You sayin’ we should half-inch someone else’s kid?’
‘What else can we do with him?’
He’s mine. I knew it the first moment I set eyes on him. He’s been sent.
Bruce doesn’t understand. When Colin died … It was like the end of the world to me. Doesn’t mean the same to a man. How can it? Could have lain down and died, myself, the way I felt. Coupla times I wished I had. Yet somethin’ kept me goin’. Like I knew what was going to happen without knowin’ it, know what I mean?
Now this. Angel sent by God. Grubby little tyke, really, but an angel, all the same. Mine. I sent Bruce off into the forest but I knew he wouldn’t find nuthin. It wasn’t meant. The kid was meant to come here, to be mine. I won’t let Bruce get rid of him. He’s my Colin, come back.
Written all over her. Marge is plannin’ on keepin’ the kid. Take the place of the one she lost: that’s what she’s thinkin’. Not easy to tell the way a woman’s mind works, but that’s what I reckon. One thing I do know: Marge is happy again. Reckon I’ll settle for that.
Maybe she’s right, too. I mean, it’s not as though I didn’t look. Gave it a full go, but never saw a thing. He’s too little to have come far, but where from … Beats me. You wouldn’t believe how thick that forest is, once you get into it. How the kid got through it I’ll never know. Maybe it really is a miracle, like she keeps on saying.
Just a kid, like any other kid. But Marge is singin’ again. I can hear her this minute, chortlin’ away like a bloody magpie inside the van. That’s the real miracle, and it’s the kid has done it.
One thing sure: we can’t hang around here any longer. We don’ get movin’, Gus’ll be long gone. No bloody way I can let that happen.
No, my lad, Colin or whatever she’s decided to call you, reckon you’re goin’ to be a circus brat, just like the rest of us.
Time passed. Days, weeks. Memory remained, but buried deep. On the surface it began to fade. Days, weeks, and it was gone. There remained only the present.
The horse, ears twitching, drawing the wagon in a soft rumble of wheels through the Australian countryside, the gums and grass and occasional long vistas of olive-green ranges, of plains stretching forever beneath a warm and golden sun.
A shout of grey-and rose-coloured galahs bursting from the roadside as the wagon passed. The endless warble of magpies. The ghost forms of kangaroos, motionless in the dawn light, then plunging rhythmically away while Jamie no Colin, Colin pointed and laughed.
The smell and feel of the wagon, its dark interior, the tight containment of all that had become his world.
The nights, sleeping and waking in a place no longer strange.
The man’s voice. ‘How long you goin’ to have him in with us?’
‘Till he’s used to us.’
Colin was already used to the incomprehensible noises of adults. Found, little by little, that he was even beginning to understand some of them.
The long days of solitude with the man and the woman, to whom he had by now grown accustomed. Until one day the wagon wheels rolled down a dusty track like any other, the gum trees cream with dust; they passed a scant congregation of houses, all tin roofs and sun-warped wood, and turned in through an open gateway into yet another world of noise and wagons and animals and people. Eyes everywhere, and voices, with shyness once again sealing his tongue.