Authors: Jenny Pattrick
Skylark (5 page)
But the Chinese couple went immediately to work. I thank Our Lady for them, for their good sweet souls. The woman gently took the kettle from my hand and hurried into the tent. Her husband bent to hold the lamp close to my Papa as he lay silent on the ground.
‘Much bad,’ he said shaking his head. ‘Too, too bad.’
He waved at me, indicating that I should go into the tent, but I was too afraid — fearful of Maman’s screams, and not understanding what had happened to Papa. Oh what a nightmare these memories are, even now!
‘Go, go,’ said the Chinese man. ‘I take care.’ He picked up the loose bundle that was Papa and carried him away into the dark.
Maman was shouting, ‘Lili! Valentin!’ over and over. At last
I crept into the tent and held tight to her hot and desperate hand. The Chinese woman was murmuring words that might be soothing if only Maman could hear. She was out of her mind — I hope she was — moaning and thrashing, the lump of that unborn baby frightful inside her poor straining belly. I felt only hatred towards the child who was causing such distress.
The Chinese woman tried to smile at me, but it was clear, even to one as young as I, that the situation was beyond her expertise. The woman laid her hands on the mounded stomach, tried pushing the baby into a better position, but Maman screamed so loudly that the woman withdrew her hands as if scalded.
Oh, that long and horrible night! I bathed my mother’s feverish face, held the hand that gripped mine so fiercely that I bore the marks for many days. Bore them and wept: treasured those sad scars in my own flesh as a last memory of a mother lost.
Maman’s moans grew weaker and weaker; her body burned with a terrible fever. An old digger drawn by the screams came to the tent flap, but quickly walked away again, afraid, perhaps, of some disease he might catch. The Chinese woman shook her head sadly. There was nothing she could do, but she stayed there all night. At some stage the Chinese man returned. Into my unwilling hand he pressed Papa’s leather pouch, then turned to whisper in his wife’s ear. She nodded, but would not look at me or try to explain. A dreadful fear chilled me to the bone.
‘Papa?’ I whispered.
The woman touched her lips. She didn’t want Maman to hear.
Maman died towards dawn. The baby was never born.
My father, Monsieur Valentin Alouette, my mother, Madame Jeanne-Marie Alouette, and the unborn baby are buried in Pennyweight Cemetery, Mount Alexander. Only the Chinese couple and I attended the burial. I never knew whether the Chinese paid for the gravediggers, or whether it was done out of goodwill. I suppose a speedy interment was in everyone’s interest. They said many had died of the fever that week.
For two nights, maybe more, I slept with the Chinese couple.
They put small balls of rice and vegetables into my mouth, watching to make sure I swallowed them. They were so kind, yet I could not speak a word of thanks — I would sip at the hot sweet drink they held to my mouth, and then turn away, lie back on my blanket and shut my eyes as if that might erase the memories. At last, some time later, I knew it was time to move on. I was alone in a strange land and must somehow find my way in it.
Before leaving, I offered the couple the smaller of the two nuggets. That good man’s eyes widened to see such a treasure, but he folded my small fingers about the dull gleam of it.
‘You need. You take.’
Yes, I would need. I nodded, but then took his weathered hand in mine and led him back to our claim. I pointed down the hole.
‘You take,’ I said. ‘I go.’ I knew that now I must learn to speak English.
The man smiled his understanding. He asked no question about my intentions, nor did he query my ability to manage on my own. He seemed to accept that I would survive. There were many wanderers and many lost souls on the goldfields.
I packed what belongings I could carry, tied Papa’s leather pouch containing the two nuggets around my neck, and begged a ride on a cart going into Bendigo. Half child, half young woman and alone in the world.
‘Foley’s Circus,’ I said to the carter, hoping I’d remembered the name correctly.
Surely this squalid camp could not be home to Mr Foley’s Victoria Circus? My first instinct was to run after the cart that had brought me here. Perhaps the old carter had made a mistake? Oh, it looked nothing like what I had imagined. Two burly fellows were fighting with a mound of canvas that might have been a tent; large, battered wooden crates lay on the ground in no particular order; a pair of horses pawed at the barren ground where they were tethered under a tree. Next to them a goat chewed at a patch of scrub. But when I dragged my way closer to the animals, I saw that the goat had two heads: a normal one and then another sticking at an odd angle from its neck! The feeding head turned slowly; four goat’s eyes stared at me. I was both fascinated and horrified. Were those eyes laying a curse on me? I walked slowly towards the creature, not sure whether the second yellow-eyed head was real or some trick.
‘Oi!’ A voice from somewhere above stopped me in my tracks. Disembodied voices? Was I going mad?
‘Oi!’ The voice came again.
There, above me, was a boy hanging upside down from a tree branch. ‘Hop it,’ the upside-down head said. ‘Circus ain’t open to public today. Yer’ve come too late, Miss.’
I understood the general gist. In the few days since my parents had died, I’d begun to realise that the English language had been lurking unused and unneeded, somewhere inside my head. Now
that I needed to understand, I could, after a fashion. A small and very helpful miracle. I smiled up at the inverted face, wishing he would come the right way up, like any normal person.
‘Madame Tournear?’ I asked. ‘Madame Tournear is here?’ It didn’t seem likely. The colourful bejewelled lady from the sailing ship would surely choose a more splendid place to live.
The boy doubled his body effortlessly, reaching with one supple hand up to the branch from which he hung. Then he flipped up onto the branch and ran, monkey-like, on hands and feet along its length, until it bent beneath his weight and delivered him to the ground.
‘You a Frenchie?’ he asked.
I nodded.
The boy frowned. He was taller than me, with bright blue eyes and a freckled nose. His voice was an odd mixture of piping and cracked. I thought he might be older than he looked. ‘
Madame
Tournear,’ he said, laying a sarcastic emphasis on the first word. ‘Who would she be when she’s at home? Maria Louise? Or do you mean Martha O’Neill?’
What was he talking about? I stood there frowning.
‘Any road,’ said the boy, ‘she ain’t too chipper today. She won’t be keen on no one visitin’, I reckon.’
By this time I was desperate. How could I persuade this fellow? I could think of no one else in the wide world other than Madame Tournear who might help me. I tried to smile. ‘Please. Oh please. At least to try.’
I placed my small bundle on the ground, summoned the little energy I had left, and dived over it in an arching handstand, flipped to my feet, then flipped again without touching my hands to the ground. Looking back I can hardly believe my body obeyed my need. Desperation can produce dramatic results, especially for a performer.
The boy whistled. ‘You circus folk, then?’ He imitated my two flips, then bettered them with ease, leaping in a reverse arch over the bundle.
I did not dare attempt the manoeuvre. My legs were shaking
like trees in a wind. ‘Madame Tournear?’ I pleaded again.
The boy tapped his chest. ‘Master Bird. Slack wire artist. Heard o’ me?’
I had to shake my head, which did not go down at all well with Master Bird. Obviously he didn’t like to play second fiddle to Madame Tournear. ‘I take top billing. After the boss and Lucy.’ After a pause he added with a shrug, ‘And Mrs Bloody Foley, I suppose. What’s so special about Tournear?’
Oh dear. If only the boy would stay still for a moment! He was now sitting with both legs around his neck and his hands flat on the ground. Trying to understand his queer, rapid speech was simply too much for me. Tears began to roll, unbidden, down my cheeks.
At last this trying situation was brought to an end by a tall, booted fellow with a wide, waxed moustache. He stood by the two horses, waving his arms in an agitated manner. ‘Tommy Bird, get over here toot sweet! I need a hand with these animals.’
Tommy Bird came upright quickly, and pointed to a shabby hut behind the pile of collapsed tent. It was a small wooden hut on wheels, a little like the sort travelling gypsies used back in France, but not pretty and painted. This little house looked as if it would not keep out rain: one wooden wheel was cracked, the window grimed with mud. ‘That’s her,’ said Tommy, grinning. ‘Good luck.’ And ran to give the tall man a hand.
My feeble knock on the door of the hut was answered by a fulsome curse. The words were a mixture of French and some other language. I took heart and, hardly controlling my giggles at my own daring, answered back in the same vein. Maman would have been shocked to hear that I knew such words. The door was wrenched open and there stood a very different Madame Tournear. Her hair was dishevelled, her face chalk-white, and the shawl which she clutched around her shoulders, though brightly coloured, was in need of a wash and a darning needle. The deep scowl with which she greeted me changed to astonishment.
‘The child on the
Esmeralda
! Lili Alouette!’
I tried to smile through my tears. ‘You could maybe help me?
I am alone now. Maman and Papa …’ I choked on the words, but took a breath to continue. ‘I can learn very quickly, Madame, you saw how I could balance and leap …’
My tumbling words were halted by Madame’s raised hand. The lady clutched the shawl closer, looked around quickly to see who might be watching and then drew me inside and kicked the door shut.
The riot of colour inside the little cabin was reassuring. I touched a string of glass beads and set it chiming. There was the wooden horse, crammed into a corner, next to the
peacock-painted
trunk. The bed was covered with a silken shawl woven in red and yellow. The single tiny window had a glass star glued to one corner; beads of every colour, hanging from a nail above the bed, clashed and sparkled in the disturbance caused by the slammed door.
Madame Tournear fell back on the bed, groaning. She clutched at her belly, rocked back and forth. ‘Ah! Ah! Oh what a curse it is to be a woman! How are we supposed to bear all this? Oh Lili, what we artistes must suffer!’
I never found out what gave Madame Tournear such misery. One might guess … Perhaps she had found a way to end the life of an unwanted or embarrassing baby. Perhaps it was a simpler affliction. But the mysterious ailment was to my advantage — and to hers. She told me that the circus was about to travel on to Ballarat and then to New Zealand. Mr Foley was a great organiser and had it all planned. He was not, however, one to carry passengers. When Madame Tournear, his ballerina on horseback, missed two performances in a row, and still seemed severely under the weather, he proposed to leave her behind and seek a more dependable replacement. Madame determined that
I
should be the replacement and
she
should train me up, since she understood the horses involved. Through her groans and writhings — she was really in pain, poor soul — she hatched the plan while I chewed on bread and raisins and made her a pot of hot sweet tea on the little spirit stove.
‘Eat, eat,’ she demanded. ‘You must regain your strength! Mr
Foley must be persuaded! And more to the point,’ she added darkly, ‘Mrs Foley, the wretch. It will be all her doing, my dismissal. She is jealous of my good looks and my superior performance. Mr Foley, the dear man, would never send me away.’
The problem of course was that I had no skill with horses. I could balance and dance and tumble, but on horseback — that was another matter. Out came the wooden horse, and for the next few hours I was given instruction — in between moans and curses — on the difficult art of staying atop a moving animal.
In the end I simply fell down in a faint and we were both afforded a welcome rest.
It might seem strange that I was able to work, and even take pleasure in a new pursuit, so soon after the death of my parents. But consider this: I am an artiste. Even more so, I believe, than Maman and Papa were. I was born with the desire to perform. I hated those months in the goldfields — so drab and dour. I longed for the golden days when we had tumbled for the crowds on the Riviera. Applause — the cheers and bravos, the admiration of an audience — are meat and drink to a true artiste. Without such sustenance, even at that early age, my life was blighted. I had the talent, yes, but also that vital ingredient for any artiste: fortitude. I was prepared to work my body to the bone for a chance to enter Mr Foley’s circus. Suddenly my life had purpose. I would impress Mr Foley and his difficult wife or die in the attempt!
By the next day, Maria was able to walk with the aid of a stick. (Madame Tournear was not her real name at all, but a stage name. I’m not at all sure that Maria was her name either; others called her Martha. But to me she was always Maria.)
[Archivist’s Note: I have been able to verify that the Madame Tournear, of Foley’s Royal Victoria Circus, was in fact Martha O’Neill of London, England. E. de M.]
I helped her over to the circus ring, which was now open to the air, the wooden railing still in place. Some men were taking apart the benches and stacking them into a cart. Maria had draped a silken scarf over my old skirt, brushed and beribboned my hair. It was the best we could do.
The tall man in the ring with a pair of horses was Mr Foley himself. He stood quite still in the centre, gently trailing a whip this way and that, while two small black ponies trotted forward and back, stopping, turning, slowing and walking, seeming to understand what the master with the whip desired. It was so clever I clapped my hands and laughed out loud.
Mr Foley stopped when he saw us, laid his whip on the ground and the ponies stood stock still. He walked over to where we stood, by the rail. Mr Foley was tall and very dashing. Even in his shirtsleeves and braces he managed to look smart. He laid a gentle hand on Maria’s arm and led her to a bench. I left them to their talking and stared at the ponies, wondering if there was any way I could mount them without showing my lack of training. By the time Mr Foley came back into the ring, I was near paralysed with anxiety. I believe he understood this. Like many horsemen, he was sensitive about moods; I saw it later during his troubles. He could not bear to hurt anyone, strict manager though he was.
‘So, young miss, you would like to join my troupe?’ He spoke kindly enough, but his eyes were shrewd. I knew he would not accept a dud or a fool. I nodded, casting a wary eye at the two ponies. They were restless now, beginning to paw the ground, their tails swishing back and forth.
‘Maria says you never rode a horse but will be a quick learner.’
Maria, still sitting hunched and ill on the bench, sent me a nod and a smile. My stomach was churning; would I disgrace myself at this crucial moment?
‘Hey there, my dear, hey there.’ He spoke softly and stroked my arm as if I were a horse myself. Oh how eagerly I responded to that simple friendly gesture! It was as if a tiny flower unfurled in my heart. How I wanted to please this gentle man!
‘Forget the animals for a moment,’ he said. ‘Show what you can do on the rail.’ He gestured to the rail that surrounded the ring. It was wooden and narrow, about waist-high to a man, with only one opening over at the far side, where, I supposed, the animals would enter and exit.
I needed no further encouragement. Papa had taught me always to shout as I began a movement — a short happy cry to attract the attention of the crowd. ‘
Hopla!
’ I cried, and ran at the fence. This would be much easier than the parapet back in Menton. Up I leapt, running a few yards along the narrow rail to get the feel of it under my feet. Then I flipped to a handstand, held it for a moment, flipped back to the ground, went up again — hands then feet — onto the rail and danced its length. I pirouetted and pointed this way and that, using my arms and toes as prettily as I dared, as if a large audience sat all around instead of Mr Foley, Maria and a pair of ponies.
At the break in the rail, I dived to the ground, flipped across the gap and leaped for the rail again. Alas, I missed my footing and fell in a stupid heap, all my antics gone for naught. To be an acrobat one must practise every day; I was sorely out of condition. But across the other side of the ring, Mr Foley and Maria were applauding! I made my bow and ran to them, my chest heaving with the effort and my legs suddenly turned to jelly.
‘Well, now,’ said that great man, beaming at me, ‘the crowds do love a juvenile. What say we give Maria here a week to get you up on horseback, eh?’ He put a finger under my chin and tilted my face. ‘Tears? Now, here is your first circus lesson: tears are not welcome. We all have our trials.’ Here he looked over at Maria; there was a closeness between them and an understanding that even in those early times I recognised. ‘Even a clown like me has his moments.’ He dragged his mouth down in a mockery of a sad face, sobbed dramatically, then laughed out loud, slapping his thigh with his whip.
