Page 31 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Michel followed Jean to the Big Top, where a table had been set up outside; coffee, cakes, water and fruit piled on top.

‘We used to get cheese.’ Giordano sat next to the table, his plate full, his eyes downcast. ‘But Werner says this is all we get now before rehearsals – says too much food makes us like slugs.’

‘More like he doesn’t want to pay for the cheese,’ Madame Geneviève said, and handed Michel a slice of lemon sponge cake. ‘I made it.’

‘More like he can’t afford to.’ Odélie appeared and sat next to Michel on an upturned wooden crate.

‘I heard there was food?’ Anton had his wireless tucked under his arm.

‘You really think I would steal it?’ Odélie asked him, pointing to the radio.

‘You have before, I dare say you’d do it again.’

‘Play us something, Anton. Find some music,’ Jean urged.

‘It’s not for music. It’s for the news.’

‘Well, then let’s hear the news,’ Geneviève said.

‘It’s in German mostly. Or nothing. Just static.’

Michel ate his cake and thought of the voices that had come from the radio the night before – all he knew was that the voices, whilst not clear, were certainly not German.

‘Give it to me.’ Odélie took it from under his arm and twiddled with the dial until she found an echo of music, light and soft, with no words.

‘Classical music, beautiful!’ Madame Geneviève clapped her hands together.

Odélie handed Anton back the radio. ‘I’d rather have silence,’ she said.

‘Shame we can’t listen to some news reports.’ Felix wandered over and took a cup of coffee. ‘I’d like to hear.’

‘Should you be here?’ Odélie asked. ‘Surely there’s a stump to thump or something to build?’

‘He’s here.’ Felix pointed at Michel. ‘He’s not a performer. If he’s here then it’s OK if I’m here, I figure.’

‘Quite! Everyone welcome. No one turned away.’ Geneviève smiled.

‘I can go.’ Michel stood and wiped the cake crumbs from his hands on his trousers. ‘I’ve got to check on Beau anyway; stables to clean and all that.’

‘Stay awhile,’ Jean urged.

‘No, really, it’s fine. I’d rather just get on.’

When Michel reached Beau’s carriage, he saw the behind of someone crouched over, wearing a pair of black trousers.

‘Can I help you?’ Michel asked.

The figure stood and turned to face him. Frieda.

‘I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind? I borrowed some tools, just a hammer and nails. I was thinking to sort Beau’s door a little. You know, the pole won’t stop him – he’s run away so many times I’ve lost count.’

‘I can help,’ Michel said.

‘You can?’ She smiled at him then tucked a piece of hair behind her ear; it had escaped the blue cloth that held it back. ‘I look a mess, I know. Not very ladylike. Werner would burst a vein if he saw me, but then again, he nearly burst two when Beau scarpered yesterday.’ She held out the hammer to Michel. ‘You said you’ll help?’

He took the hammer from her and tried to think of something to say, but he could conjure no words.

‘I was planning to nail in some planks, you know – halfway up the door?’