trouble and as nice-spoken as you please. Not like Mr Sheridan. He’s not nice.’
‘What sort of not nice?’ asked Tommy.
Tillie grimaced. ‘He pinches,’ she said, rubbing her bony hindquarters as though an old wound still ached. ‘And he grabs. But now he’s taken advantage of Miss Minton, I’ll reckon he’ll leave me alone.’
‘Why do you think he’s done that?’
Tillie looked up at the ceiling, scratched her nose and refused to comment further. Tommy Harris went downstairs to wait for Mr Sheridan to return home.
Phryne Fisher completed the grooming of Missy and said to Miss Younger, ‘Are you hiring me?’
Miss Younger inspected Missy. She ran a hand through the soft mane and lifted a hoof to check that it had been properly cleaned.
‘You can stay. If you aren’t good enough to go in the ring, you can mend, wash, make yourself useful. Thirty shillings a week, five more if you go on. You sleep in the girls’ tent, that’s on the left of the big top. We go on tour on Friday. You’ll need fleshings and a costume but we can look at that when we see how you progress. All right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Call me Miss Younger. You came with some carnies. Don’t have much to do with them once we’re on the road. Not if you want to be accepted by the circus.’
‘No, Miss Younger,’ said Phryne.
‘Go over to Mr Farrell’s van and get a contract. Tell him to talk to me if there’s a problem. And Fern . . .’
‘Yes, Miss Younger?’
The horsemaster came closer, lifted Phryne’s chin with a finger and looked into her face. Phryne looked back. The older woman’s face was blotched with shed tears which powder did not entirely conceal. Phryne was sorry for her.
‘I don’t know what things have been like for you, being a dancer, but circuses are very moral. If you play at being a tart, you’ll be taken for one.’
‘Yes, Miss Younger.’
‘And look out for Mr Jones. He has an eye for a pretty face. You aren’t precisely pretty but you’re graceful and you’re young and that’s how he likes ’em. Don’t be alone with him.’
‘No, Miss Younger.’ Phryne pulled her chin out of the horsemaster’s hold. ‘I can take care of myself,’ she said. ‘But thanks for the warning.’
Phryne walked across the circus towards the largest and most gaily decorated van. It had ‘Farrell’s Circus and Wild Beast Show’ emblazoned along both sides in red and tarnished gold. She paused at the bottom of the steps. The half-door was open.
‘Mr Farrell?’
A grunt, and someone croaked, ‘Come in.’
Phryne mounted the steps and walked into a cluttered little room, with a table full of papers and a typewriter. There were two chairs and two gentlemen occupied them. One was the tall man with white hair, whom she knew to be Mr Jones. The other was a smaller man with a stockman’s hat and weary blue eyes set in a nest of wrinkles.
‘Well, well, what have we here?’ asked Jones. ‘The little rider.’
‘Sir, Miss Younger sent me for a contract,’ parroted Phryne, poised for flight. She recognised the look in Mr Jones’s eye and did not like it.
‘Oh, yes. My name’s Farrell.’ Mr Farrell stood up and reached out a hand crooked with arthritis but nonetheless strong. ‘Hello. Welcome to the circus. What’s your name?’
‘Fern,’ said Phryne. She realised that Doreen had neglected to provide her with a surname and added, ‘Fern Williams,’ fervently hoping that Dot would never find out that she had borrowed her name for such an unrespectable purpose.
‘And you can stand up on a horse, Fern? That’s good. Been a dancer? Thought so. Way you stand. Sit down, Fern. Before you sign you get the lecture on circuses. Want you to know that this is an Imperial tradition, one to be proud of, no matter what they say about us. Rogues and vagabonds, they call us. But the crowds in ancient Rome wanted bread and circuses and they got them. And ever since we have been travelling, bringing innocent
‘What sort of not nice?’ asked Tommy.
Tillie grimaced. ‘He pinches,’ she said, rubbing her bony hindquarters as though an old wound still ached. ‘And he grabs. But now he’s taken advantage of Miss Minton, I’ll reckon he’ll leave me alone.’
‘Why do you think he’s done that?’
Tillie looked up at the ceiling, scratched her nose and refused to comment further. Tommy Harris went downstairs to wait for Mr Sheridan to return home.
Phryne Fisher completed the grooming of Missy and said to Miss Younger, ‘Are you hiring me?’
Miss Younger inspected Missy. She ran a hand through the soft mane and lifted a hoof to check that it had been properly cleaned.
‘You can stay. If you aren’t good enough to go in the ring, you can mend, wash, make yourself useful. Thirty shillings a week, five more if you go on. You sleep in the girls’ tent, that’s on the left of the big top. We go on tour on Friday. You’ll need fleshings and a costume but we can look at that when we see how you progress. All right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Call me Miss Younger. You came with some carnies. Don’t have much to do with them once we’re on the road. Not if you want to be accepted by the circus.’
‘No, Miss Younger,’ said Phryne.
‘Go over to Mr Farrell’s van and get a contract. Tell him to talk to me if there’s a problem. And Fern . . .’
‘Yes, Miss Younger?’
The horsemaster came closer, lifted Phryne’s chin with a finger and looked into her face. Phryne looked back. The older woman’s face was blotched with shed tears which powder did not entirely conceal. Phryne was sorry for her.
‘I don’t know what things have been like for you, being a dancer, but circuses are very moral. If you play at being a tart, you’ll be taken for one.’
‘Yes, Miss Younger.’
‘And look out for Mr Jones. He has an eye for a pretty face. You aren’t precisely pretty but you’re graceful and you’re young and that’s how he likes ’em. Don’t be alone with him.’
‘No, Miss Younger.’ Phryne pulled her chin out of the horsemaster’s hold. ‘I can take care of myself,’ she said. ‘But thanks for the warning.’
Phryne walked across the circus towards the largest and most gaily decorated van. It had ‘Farrell’s Circus and Wild Beast Show’ emblazoned along both sides in red and tarnished gold. She paused at the bottom of the steps. The half-door was open.
‘Mr Farrell?’
A grunt, and someone croaked, ‘Come in.’
Phryne mounted the steps and walked into a cluttered little room, with a table full of papers and a typewriter. There were two chairs and two gentlemen occupied them. One was the tall man with white hair, whom she knew to be Mr Jones. The other was a smaller man with a stockman’s hat and weary blue eyes set in a nest of wrinkles.
‘Well, well, what have we here?’ asked Jones. ‘The little rider.’
‘Sir, Miss Younger sent me for a contract,’ parroted Phryne, poised for flight. She recognised the look in Mr Jones’s eye and did not like it.
‘Oh, yes. My name’s Farrell.’ Mr Farrell stood up and reached out a hand crooked with arthritis but nonetheless strong. ‘Hello. Welcome to the circus. What’s your name?’
‘Fern,’ said Phryne. She realised that Doreen had neglected to provide her with a surname and added, ‘Fern Williams,’ fervently hoping that Dot would never find out that she had borrowed her name for such an unrespectable purpose.
‘And you can stand up on a horse, Fern? That’s good. Been a dancer? Thought so. Way you stand. Sit down, Fern. Before you sign you get the lecture on circuses. Want you to know that this is an Imperial tradition, one to be proud of, no matter what they say about us. Rogues and vagabonds, they call us. But the crowds in ancient Rome wanted bread and circuses and they got them. And ever since we have been travelling, bringing innocent
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