Page 47 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Move it.’ A workman from behind pushed against him. ‘Got to get the tent down by four.’

Michel moved away from the queue and made his way to the horses, greeting them each with a pat on the nose, then fed them the last of the hay that Felix had dumped nearby.

Werner emerged from his carriage, dressed unusually in plain navy trousers and a pale green shirt. He said something to Felix, whose face was smeared with grease as usual, his dungarees almost falling off his wiry frame. Michel saw Felix nod, then return to the engine, and Werner made eye contact with Michel, hitched his waistband up over his belly – which immediately fell back below it – and walked up to him.

‘That’s the last of the hay,’ Michel told him.

Werner stroked Beau’s nose.

‘I can ask the farmer for some more?’

Still Werner did not speak.

‘The show went well…’ Michel ventured.

‘Did it?’ Werner turned to him.

‘I think so.’

‘Did you see it?’

‘No. I just worked.’

A small smile appeared on Werner’s face. Michel shifted uncomfortably and placed his hands in his trouser pockets.

‘You worked. Is that what you did?’

‘I did as you said to do. Worked and nothing else.’

Werner nodded, then said, ‘Beau rides well. He didn’t have a hint of fear about him, not even when the band struck up.’

‘I’m glad.’

Werner scratched at his early morning stubble. ‘You can stay, Michel. Don’t even ask me why I’m letting you. I know I’ll regret it. You can thank that long-legged idiot friend of yours, Jean, for vouching for you. I told him that if you mess up, he goes too – and the little Italian.’

‘Thank you, Werner.’

‘Keep your head down, work hard, do as you are told, keep your nose out of everyone’s business, and you’ll get along fine. But I warn you,’ Werner leaned into him so there was less than an inch between them, ‘keep away from the performers. Leave them alone. You are nothing but an animal yourself; your friends are the horses. Know your place and for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut – no questions, no talking back. Understood?’

Michel nodded, his face growing warm.

Werner grinned. ‘Good.’ He walked back towards the train.

Michel’s breathing came quickly, his fists bunched in his pockets. He wanted to run after the man, push his fat little body to the ground and watch him squeal. But he didn’t. He stood and watched and waited until his breathing calmed, all the while keeping an eye on something, or rather someone, who had just appeared from the train, her cornflower-blue dress already stained with an oil smear from handing Felix his tools. She laughed at something Felix said and Michel felt his body relax.

He began to pack his things, then pulled down his canvas tent, storing it safely in the back of Beau’s carriage along with the fold-out table, chairs and bed.

Around him, tent pegs were being pulled from the ground with the help of the four large carthorses that no one had bothered to name. With each peg, the tents deflated like sad balloons, until all of them lay on the ground; skeletons of the night before.

Shacks and stalls were dismantled with care and stored in the rear carriage ready for their next show.

Michel worked all morning, unpegging canopy after canopy from the summer-hardened ground, packing costumes, food and props into large wooden crates and sealing them with a few knocks of a hammer on nail.

‘You need to work quicker, Michel.’ Felix was beside him, wrapping rope around his arm, the length of it quickly trailing towards him over the flattened grass.

‘The train fixed, then?’

‘No. I’m packing rope because it’s still broken.’