Page 54 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Not great,’ Odélie muttered. ‘Dirt. Couldn’t he have found a decent field? Perhaps by a stream or river?’

As they joined the others, Maximillian the strongman and his daughter Adeline, their bags over their shoulders, pressed past them and headed in the direction of the village.

‘Where are they going?’ Michel asked.

‘Leaving.’ Odélie waved her hand dismissively.

‘Leaving?’

‘Probably. He was moaning the whole night about the war and the soldiers and all that. Said it was too dangerous for his beloved Adeline.’

‘And you aren’t scared of the war?’

Odélie looked at him. ‘Why should I be? It will all blow over. You’ll see. A fuss about nothing. Besides, I always get by – there’s always someone who wants to take care of me.’

‘Michel, over here!’ Werner shouted from in amongst the bustle.

Michel took Claudette from Odélie, who was suddenly eager to get to the triplets when she saw that they had found the best pitch, close to a thicket of blackberry bushes. They were already picking the ripe berries and eating them from their cupped hands, like squirrels.

Werner was distracted. ‘Michel – I want you over there, far corner, bordering that next field. See? Grass for Beau and the others. Rope off a section for them; we’ll fashion an awning of sorts now. Felix will help you.’

‘And me?’

‘And you what? You’ll be in your tent next to them.’

Michel led the horses to the far corner as instructed, and with the help of Felix set up his own area, away from the others, away from Odélie.

By six, the troupe had thinned: some had returned to sleep on the train for one more night and guard the rest of their equipment; others had dozed off in the warm evening air, and still others had ventured into the village to get supplies.

Michel threw down the hay he had procured from the farm for the horses, who ate slowly, tired from the day, the heat and the sudden changes.

‘You look as tired as they do.’

‘Odélie.’ Michel turned to look at her, pretty in her pale yellow cotton dress, her feet bare, her lips painted red like her nails.

‘We should sit together this evening; drink some wine, tell some tales.’ She smiled at him and took a step towards him suggestively.

‘Michel!’ Giordano appeared, dressed smartly in navy-blue trousers, a crisp white shirt and shined shoes. ‘Jean and I, we heard of a café – good wine, cheese, bread. You will come? Jean says you must. Cheese, during war! We need to eat as much as we can now.’

Michel looked to Odélie, then back to Giordano. Then, he thought of Frieda.

‘I’ll be there in a minute. I’ll just wash and change,’ he said.

Giordano walked away with a little skip in his step. Without a word, Odélie turned and strode away, her back straight, her shoulders squared.

Michel wiped his face with his kerchief and waited until she was out of sight before he went inside his tent to get ready.

The walk into the village took twenty minutes through long grassed fields, over styles and along a small stream. The church spire peeped at them as they walked, never out of sight, guiding their way.

‘Do you even know where we are?’ Michel asked Jean.

‘We were heading south before the train died. Somewhere in the middle?’

‘He was never good at geography,’ Giordano muttered.

‘And you are? Tell us then, oh wise one, where are we?’

Giordano stopped and surveyed the landscape. ‘Mountains over there. See? We are on a hill. I’d say we are in the countryside.’