Fizzlebert Stump by A.F. Harrold Page B

the sort of girl to turn back from an adventure.
    She grabbed the bar of the trapeze and jumped into the air.
    Whoosh
, she went, onomatopoeically.
    Her stomach plunged as she swung down and down and along and along and up and up. She yelled with pleasure into the rushing air, but couldn’t hear herself for the roaring wind in her ears.
    This was amazing, like being on the biggest, longest park swing in the world.
    Fizzlebert’s stupid coat streamed out behind her as she zoomed. Her hair ruffled. Her eyes streamed.
    This was amazing.
    And then the trapeze slowed, as it reached the highest part of the upswing on the far side,and she saw a second little platform there, waiting for her to jump off. But she didn’t dare: the platform looked so small and by the time she thought maybe she
would
get off, she was already plunging backwards through the air.
    This was also amazing.
    If only everyone could see her now. They’d forgive her for not being the best pupil there was, for being an awkward and unusual daughter. They’d simply think she was brilliant.
    She didn’t know it, but down below she was being watched.
    The Fumbling Gloriosus had come back into the ring to look for a not-lifesize model of the Statue of Liberty she’d dropped.
    She heard the yell of pleasure from above and looked up.
    Imagine what she saw. (Unless we’ve been able to afford to get Sarah to do a drawing of it, in which case don’t bother imagining it, just look at the brilliant picture. (Otherwise, imagine away, dear reader.))
    There, way above her head, far up in the heights of the Big Top, her son, her little Fizz, was hurtling through the air on the rickety old trapeze, his red ex-Ringmaster’s coat flapping out behind him.
    â€˜Gosh,’ she said, honking her horn at the same time.
    She was torn in two. Normally when she was dressed in clown gear, with her clown make-up on and her red nose resting like a huge cherry on a cake in the middle of her face, she was inclined to be silly, to make jokes and fart noises, to drop things and fallover a lot. However, seeing her son, who is afraid of heights and is rubbish at walking the high wire even when it’s a low wire, swinging vertiginously above the circus ring made her want to be quite serious, because
something was wrong
.
    She honked her horn and looked around for help.
    â€˜Miss Tremble,’ she said, ‘look!’
    Miss Tremble was just leading her horses into the ring to rehearse their running around in circles act.
    â€˜Oh, Mrs Stump,’ she said. ‘I want to have a word with you about Fizzlebert. He trod on my horses and they’re very upset with him.’
    She dabbed at the corner of her eye with a handkerchief and pointed at the dirty footprint on Emily Brontë’s back.
    â€˜What? No! Look!’ Mrs Stump said, pointing up.
    â€˜Is that Fizzlebert?’ Miss Tremble asked. (She didn’t like heights either, which is why she refused to work with very tall horses.)
    â€˜Fizz’ screamed from above as the trapeze began a third pendulous swing. The two women watched.
    (Piltdown had failed to step back on to the original platform and had plunged forward again. She was beginning to think this might not have been the best thought-through plan she’d ever not thought through.)
    â€˜Quickly,’ Mrs Stump said, honking her horn again, ‘you go get help. Find the Twitchery Sisters. I’m going to go get him.’
    (Mary and Maureen Twitchery were the artistes who trapezed. If anyone could geta rogue trapeze under control it would be them.)
    â€˜Mrs Stump,’ Miss Tremble said, laying a hand on the clown’s silky shoulder. ‘They’re not here. They’ve gone to Australia for the week on an exchange trip, remember? That’s why Alberto McGough the Singing Echidna-Wrestler is wrestling singing echidnas.’
    She pointed to the side of the ring where a large man in a leotard was