Page 57 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘In-deed,’ Giordano slurred.

‘Quite. It will cool soon. Not to worry.’ Jean raised a glass to Serge, then the pair knocked their drinks back in unison.

‘Hard to keep cool though.’

‘Indeed,’ Giordano said again.

‘Michel, know any ways of keeping cool?’

Michel shook his head and Odélie smiled, then drained her glass.

‘Shame there is no river here,’ Serge said.

‘No river, but we do have a lake or two – not large ones, mind you.’ The Madame had appeared with a tray of drinks and more food. ‘A mile west. A greater lake which feeds into a smaller one. I took the children there to learn to swim when they were young. It’ll be low by now, but you can get some respite.’

‘Aha! There you go, Michel, a lake. Michel is one for swimming,’ Serge said, then stood, took some coins from his pocket and flicked them onto the table, letting them clatter and roll.

‘He does like swimming. Not always alone…’ Odélie added and stood.

‘Well, I take the horses. When they are hot.’

‘The horses? Just the horses?’ Serge asked, and held his arm out for Odélie to take. ‘I’ll check with Werner. Maybe he won’t like you swimming with the horses.’

As they walked away, Jean asked what it had all meant and Giordano began to sing a lover’s song to the Madame, whose husband had decided there was no menace to be had with his guests and had once more retreated behind his newspaper.

‘I don’t know – who knows what anything means,’ Michel said, and looked at his shoes, where one of Serge’s coins had come to rest after falling from the table. He did not pick it up. Instead he placed his foot over it, drank half of the warm beer, and allowed his mind to wander.

On the route home, Jean and Giordano began to sing a song Michel did not know the words to. As they walked and sang, Michel felt a warmth, not only from the summer evening air and the alcohol, but the warmth of friendship when Jean placed his arm around his shoulder and drew him near as they blasted out the chorus to their tune.

‘You are scaring the wildlife!’ Michel laughed as an owl overhead gave an irritable twit-twoo.

‘Twit!’ Jean cried.

‘Twoooo!’ Giordano finished.

The three of them began to laugh and sing again, almost forgetting their way home, and turned and retraced their steps three or four times before they decided upon the correct track across the field, towards their tents and their beds.

Michel awoke the following morning, his head full of cotton wool. He sat for some time on the edge of his bed, waiting until his eyes adjusted to the light and he remembered where he was.

He tested his legs and, although they felt heavy, he was able to move them. He stumbled outside, shielding his eyes from the glare of the morning light.

Things were already happening. People moved in and out of the field; the cart horses pulled in a large gypsy caravan, followed by three smaller versions. Newer carts were drawn in with the rest of the supplies from the train, and amongst it all stood Werner, smoking a pipe, directing people left and right.

Jean walked up to Michel, waving lazily, his gait much slower than normal. ‘It’s gone,’ he said, then sat on the dirt, his head in his hands.

‘What is?’ Michel sat next to him.

‘The train. Werner sold it last night. Used the money to some caravans. We have to go on foot.’

‘He works quickly.’

‘You don’t say. He, Felix and a few others sorted it. Felix says he hasn’t slept and doesn’t expect to ever again.’

‘At least we can all stay together.’ Michel patted Jean on the arm.

‘Oh, no! I am not upset by that.’ Jean raised his head. ‘My head! The light! The wine and the beer! I can’t cope.’

‘Where is Giordano?’