amusement to the people. We cross the boundaries of what is possible. We fly higher, leap further. We defy natural laws. My old dad could balance with one foot on each of a pair of horses. They bet him once that he couldn’t run the pair across a bridge and he laid the bet, then found when he was in motion that the bridge had a toll gate across it.’
He paused. Phryne asked breathlessly, ‘What happened?’
‘He called to the horses and they jumped it, with him aloft. He won his bet. He was a great rider, my old dad. And his father before him and me too, in my time. Perhaps you, Fern, if you practise enough. Which mount did Molly give you?’
‘Missy, sir. She’s lovely. Not so smooth paced as Bell, though.’
‘She must like you. Missy’s her second string. Good. Now, you get thirty shillings a week, five more if you are good enough to ride in the rush. We give you accommodation and food. You sleep in the girls’ tent, left of the big top. That’s where you leave your stuff and change before the show. If you aren’t riding you can help the other girls with changing and mending and washing, you help wherever you’re needed. This is a circus. We all help each other. When we strike camp you’ll see all the principals helping as well. Always something to do in a circus.’ He chuckled. ‘You’ll have to be ready to leave early Friday morning. I’ll hire you for the tour. That’s six weeks. If you don’t practise or if you get into any hanky-panky I can fire you on the spot. Thieving or disobedience, the same. Is that clear?’
Farrell’s face seemed to have been carved out of mahogany. Phryne nodded.
‘Good. Be a good girl and you’ll be happy with us, Fern. Sign here.’
Fern signed, crabbing her ordinarily free script down into a scribble. Mr Farrell signed after her. His hand shook.
‘Wait a bit,’ said Mr Jones. ‘Stand up.’
The caravan was just lofty enough to allow him to stand. He reached out for Phryne, seized her shoulder and ran his hand down her side and buttock. His touch was not impersonal, like Alan Lee’s and Miss Younger’s, and Phryne squirmed. In her present persona she could not hand this mongrel the clip on the ear which he evidently required. She had to suffer his touch, turning imploring eyes on Mr Farrell, who seemed uncomfortable but said nothing. Phryne stumbled and kicked Mr Jones in the shin by what appeared to be accident. It was a sharp kick. He let go of her and swore.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said tonelessly. As she turned to leave the caravan, she caught a glow of pure pleasure in Mr Farrell’s eyes.
‘Now, I wonder what that means?’ she asked herself aloud as she walked away. ‘Mr Farrell and Mr Jones are not at one, it seems. Ooh, how I would like to boil that Jones in engine oil. How dare he touch me like that!’
‘You had trouble with Jones?’ asked a plump girl who was sitting on an upturned bucket mending tights. ‘He’s a cur. Felt me all over as though I was livestock.’
‘I kicked him in the shin,’ said Phryne with simple pride. The plump girl laughed.
‘Good for you! What’s your name? Can you darn?’
‘Fern. I can’t darn, sorry.’
‘Can’t be helped. Kicked ’im in the shins, eh?’ She laughed again. ‘I’m Dulcie. What’s your line?’
‘Horses.’
‘Oh, you must be replacing Allie. Hope you have better luck.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Juggler,’ said Dulcie laconically. ‘Magician’s assistant, wardrobe, costumes, and I’m one of the elephant girls. You doing anything special?’
‘No, I was just going to have a look around.’
‘I’ll take yer, if you like. Your reward for kicking that mongrel Jones.’ She stuffed the tights and thread into a canvas bag. ‘I could darn tights all day and never get to the end of ’em. You’d better learn to sew, though. You want me to introduce you?’
‘Thanks, I’d like that. It’s big, isn’t it?’
Dulcie stood up and stretched. She was the same size
He paused. Phryne asked breathlessly, ‘What happened?’
‘He called to the horses and they jumped it, with him aloft. He won his bet. He was a great rider, my old dad. And his father before him and me too, in my time. Perhaps you, Fern, if you practise enough. Which mount did Molly give you?’
‘Missy, sir. She’s lovely. Not so smooth paced as Bell, though.’
‘She must like you. Missy’s her second string. Good. Now, you get thirty shillings a week, five more if you are good enough to ride in the rush. We give you accommodation and food. You sleep in the girls’ tent, left of the big top. That’s where you leave your stuff and change before the show. If you aren’t riding you can help the other girls with changing and mending and washing, you help wherever you’re needed. This is a circus. We all help each other. When we strike camp you’ll see all the principals helping as well. Always something to do in a circus.’ He chuckled. ‘You’ll have to be ready to leave early Friday morning. I’ll hire you for the tour. That’s six weeks. If you don’t practise or if you get into any hanky-panky I can fire you on the spot. Thieving or disobedience, the same. Is that clear?’
Farrell’s face seemed to have been carved out of mahogany. Phryne nodded.
‘Good. Be a good girl and you’ll be happy with us, Fern. Sign here.’
Fern signed, crabbing her ordinarily free script down into a scribble. Mr Farrell signed after her. His hand shook.
‘Wait a bit,’ said Mr Jones. ‘Stand up.’
The caravan was just lofty enough to allow him to stand. He reached out for Phryne, seized her shoulder and ran his hand down her side and buttock. His touch was not impersonal, like Alan Lee’s and Miss Younger’s, and Phryne squirmed. In her present persona she could not hand this mongrel the clip on the ear which he evidently required. She had to suffer his touch, turning imploring eyes on Mr Farrell, who seemed uncomfortable but said nothing. Phryne stumbled and kicked Mr Jones in the shin by what appeared to be accident. It was a sharp kick. He let go of her and swore.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said tonelessly. As she turned to leave the caravan, she caught a glow of pure pleasure in Mr Farrell’s eyes.
‘Now, I wonder what that means?’ she asked herself aloud as she walked away. ‘Mr Farrell and Mr Jones are not at one, it seems. Ooh, how I would like to boil that Jones in engine oil. How dare he touch me like that!’
‘You had trouble with Jones?’ asked a plump girl who was sitting on an upturned bucket mending tights. ‘He’s a cur. Felt me all over as though I was livestock.’
‘I kicked him in the shin,’ said Phryne with simple pride. The plump girl laughed.
‘Good for you! What’s your name? Can you darn?’
‘Fern. I can’t darn, sorry.’
‘Can’t be helped. Kicked ’im in the shins, eh?’ She laughed again. ‘I’m Dulcie. What’s your line?’
‘Horses.’
‘Oh, you must be replacing Allie. Hope you have better luck.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Juggler,’ said Dulcie laconically. ‘Magician’s assistant, wardrobe, costumes, and I’m one of the elephant girls. You doing anything special?’
‘No, I was just going to have a look around.’
‘I’ll take yer, if you like. Your reward for kicking that mongrel Jones.’ She stuffed the tights and thread into a canvas bag. ‘I could darn tights all day and never get to the end of ’em. You’d better learn to sew, though. You want me to introduce you?’
‘Thanks, I’d like that. It’s big, isn’t it?’
Dulcie stood up and stretched. She was the same size
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