Skylark by Jenny Pattrick Page B

the tricks of the trade from my good Mrs Foley then?’
    I didn’t like to hear that sort of talk. I thought the two of them were off on their separate ways, and Maria in the frame for a bit of love and family life. But held my peace until matters became clearer.
    Well, you would hardly credit it, but that man then bent quickly to his knees and ran his hand up under my skirt, thendown my leg and probing over my ankle! Just as quick he stood up again, smiling as if nothing was amiss. ‘Your leg has healed well,’ he said, giving me a wink. ‘I’ll wager you can ride the horses again, like the old days.’
    I might as well have been a horse myself the way he carried on! Or was it an excuse to get under my skirt? The man had more tricks to him than a monkey. The upshot was he wanted me back in the ring for the afternoon performances, which would leave me free for the evening theatre. He had discussed it all with Mrs Foley and Mr Marriott, without a word to me.
    â€˜Mr Foley,’ I said, putting on a deep voice like his wife would when annoyed, ‘I am not a piece of meat to be bargained over behind my back. I am now an artiste in my own right. I will have a few conditions if I am to return.’
    He sobered up then, cleared his throat and frowned, but we both knew it was a game. He could read my twinkling eyes and I knew he was grinning behind that straight look.
    â€˜I have a reputation for a fine voice and a new repertoire of songs,’ I said, very firm, ‘and if I return as Miss Tournear I require to be billed for the musical interlude as well as the horses. And paid accordingly.’
    Mr Foley tugged at his left moustache, which always meant he was enjoying himself. ‘I can offer you three shillings per performance and a special benefit before we leave Wellington. That will be on top of what Mr Marriott pays you.’
    â€˜Four,’ I said, trying not to giggle. It was a good offer.
    â€˜Three shillings and sixpence,’ he said like a shot, which showed he valued me. I would have taken the three.
    â€˜Done!’ I cried and threw him a deep, theatre curtsey, left foot behind, right hand prettily pointed above the heart. Oh, my heart was singing! To ride bareback again and act on the stage! Who would have dared hope for such perfection?
    Tommy came hand-springing, flip, flip, over the mudflats, like some mad jack-in-the-box, to land right side up under my nose. ‘Pooh,’ he cried, ‘the stink of this new beach! How can you Wellingtonians stand it?’
    It’s true that we had become used to the stench. For the first days after the quake the natives — and many settlers — had harvested the newly raised beds of shellfish with glee. Many settlers were cooking out in the open, even in the street, on makeshift fireplaces, built from their shattered chimneys. The delicious smell of freshly roasted cockles filled the air. But then the beds dried in the sun and the shellfish rotted. After another day or two even the seagulls wouldn’t touch the stinking mud. Tommy thought no one would come to the circus because of the smell, but Mr Foley said they would and he was right as usual.
    â€˜Maria says come for a cuppa,’ said Tommy, jiggling up and down as if he were taken short. I don’t think I ever saw Tommy Bird still for more than a minute, even when he was a grown married man with children twice his size.
    I looked over at Mr Foley, to get some idea of how the land lay as far as Maria was concerned. He lifted one eyebrow and gave a curt little nod, which I could not interpret, so off I went with Tommy to find out for myself.
    Tommy directed me to one of the regimental tents. Accommodation was very short in town with all the destruction, and the 65th had come to the rescue with a row of tents down on the new shore. The soldiers from the garrison had come up trumps in the emergency. Tommy and I attracted a few cheery waves and shouts