Page 53 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

I have heard so little of the war since I left. A man here, Anton, a trapeze artist, has a radio. He tells the others now and again of the war. I have not listened to it all – I don’t want to, not for now. I’d rather sit here and enjoy this summer evening, as the birds sing and circle before becoming silent, tucked in their nests, as the air becomes still and cool before the stars begin to appear. Here it is easy to pretend that all is well. I know, once more, you would chastise me for this; tell me how things are, what I should and should not do. You are right, of course. But what could I do if I knew more? I cannot stop the war; I cannot save anybody.

Our workman and train driver is called Felix. He’s from Poland. He’s a hard man and I’m sure he has seen much, yet he does not say so. He told me one needs to look after himself and no one else. I don’t agree with him – but I am alone, so I suppose I can only look out for me right now… but to be honest it fills me with sadness. I feel like I have less worth. Does this make sense?

I’m tired, Bertrand, so I apologise now for my ramblings, but I had to write to you, I had to talk to my friend.

I have enclosed an address in Vodable. A friend from my travels called Lucien who showed me kindness lives there. I am sure he will not mind if you send letters to him. I shall write to him and forewarn him in any case. Perhaps we will return to that part of the country at some point, or perhaps I will leave here and go to him and stay. Please do write, Bertrand, I promise I will find your replies.

Stay well. Give my love to Odette.

Michel

That night Michel slept next to Jean; Giordano had found safety from a night with the horses and had begged a place in the main seating carriage with Geneviève, insisting that he had to be there to look after the women.

‘Wake up, Michel.’ Jean shook him from a dream so deep that when he opened his eyes he did not know where he was.

‘My apartment…’ Michel said.

‘If your apartment in Paris was like this, you were a poor man indeed!’

Michel sat and rubbed at his eyes, the milky early dawn seeping into the gloom.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Werner has found us a spot to set up, a mile or so away.’

‘We are leaving the train here?’

‘Even Werner must sleep in a tent from now on.’ Jean winked, a cheeky gleam in his eye.

A haphazard procession began to emerge just after the sun rose over the hills. Performers and workhands alike carried luggage, food rations and costumes, whilst the four carthorses pulled at a large worn wooden carriage piled high with the tents and stalls; so much so that the wheels screamed as the carriage moved, and Michel thought they would soon give way.

Michel gave lighter loads to Beau and Claudette; even Bisou was given the task of shouldering a woven bag containing a few lead ropes and bridles. Michel joined Hugo, who had decided that the ingredients for his génépy were the most important things to take with him, and asked Michel for Claudette to carry his bag with his clothes and personals.

‘We have not talked much since our card game, you and I,’ Hugo said.

‘No. Not much.’

‘Jean gave you some of the génépy though. He told me you liked it.’

‘I did.’

‘This batch will be my greatest – you’ll see. I’ll let you know when it is ready, and we will drink together and maybe we can talk then.’ Hugo ambled off to secure his perfect tent position – not too close to anyone, so that his stash of alcohol and ingredients would not mysteriously disappear.

Michel became distanced from the group. The horses insisted on stopping every now and then to chew at grass, stubbornly unmoving, an air of mischief about them since leaving the train behind.

He looked ahead and saw that most of the troupe had turned a dusty corner near an old oak and disappeared from view. He tried to reason with Beau that they should move more quickly, but the stallion was anchored in his desire to take his time and try each leaf or patch of new grass.

‘You were waiting for me?’ Odélie appeared at his side, her cheeks red with the growing heat, her breathing slightly quickened as if she had run to catch up with him.

He smiled at her. ‘Beau wants to sample every blade of grass, it seems. He has encouraged the others too.’

‘So, you were not waiting for me?’ She pouted like a spoiled child, then laughed. ‘Come, Michel, let’s catch up and perhaps place our little canvas homes near one another?’

Odélie took the lead rope of Claudette who was unhappy to be dragged away, but as soon as she began moving, the other two sensed adventure and decided upon a quick walk to catch up.

Once Michel and Odélie turned the corner by the oak, there in front of them was a steep hill, and a sign marking that the village was now only one mile away.

On the right side of the track was a low farmhouse and two large hay barns off to the side, and on the left a field, mottled with coarse bushes, the grass already brown and patchy. In its middle, a storm of gritty powder was being churned up by those who were already making camp and smashing poles into the ground to erect their tents.