The Palace of Laughter by Jon Berkeley Page B

cheese.
    Mr. Farmer grunted, but the miserable expression seemed to be melting from his face too, like winter snow. “I don’t spend the day breakin’ my back to feed every ’ungry urchin that ’appens by,” hemuttered, though none too loudly.
    â€œYou don’t spend the day breaking yer back at all, you lazy old coot, unless it’s liftin’ a beer tankard you’re talking about.” She handed the bread basket to Miles, throwing in the last few olives for good measure. “’Ere, lad, this’ll stop your ribs knockin’ together. Take it over to your sister and mind you share it, eh?”
    â€œThank you,” said Miles. He hesitated by the table.
    â€œWell?” said Mr. Farmer. “What is it, sonny? Want me socks and britches as well?” He laughed loudly at his own wit.
    â€œI was just wondering if you knew where I could find a place called the Palace of Laughter.”
    The reaction to Miles’s question was not what he had expected. Mrs. Farmer’s face went strangely blank, yet at the same time her mouth stretched in a sort of strained grin that was quite unlike the sunny smile she had worn a moment before. A strangled whinny came from the back of her throat. Mr. Farmer stared fixedly at Miles, as though he were trying to remember where he had seen him before. “Never ’eard of it,” he said eventually. He picked up the wine jug and emptied it down his throat, then he and his wife got up from theirbench without another glance at Miles, for all the world as though he had become invisible. They walked a slightly meandering path to their battered old car, giggling like a couple of schoolchildren, and drove away in a cloud of dust.
    Miles stood for a moment staring after them. He noticed that some of the people at the nearest tables were looking at him with suspicion, so he took the basket of leftovers and hurried over to where Little was waiting for him. She sat on the rim of a stone fountain that stood in the center of the small square, dangling her fingers in the cool water. “Why did those people leave so suddenly?” she asked.
    â€œI don’t know. I asked them if they knew the way to the Palace of Laughter, and they reacted very strangely. They said they’d never heard of it, but I don’t think they were telling the truth. I suppose I could ask someone else.”
    Little put a piece of cheese in her mouth. She pulled a face and bit off a chunk of bread to dilute the sour taste, and shook her head. “I don’t think anyone here is going to tell us. As long as we can still see the train tracks we must be going in the right direction.”
    They ate in silence for a while. The midday sunwas hot for October, and after they had quenched the thirst of their long walk with handfuls of clear water, they sat down on the warm paving stones, leaning against the fountain’s smooth rim. With his belly full and the sun on his face, Miles felt sleepy. He looked around him for a moment, half expecting to see the strange figure the circus had left in its wake, but there was no one to be seen but the chuckling landlady, her melancholy customers and the two small girls, who had been joined by a blond boy and were squatting in the dust making patterns with pebbles. “We’ll rest here for a few minutes before we go on,” said Miles, but Little was already asleep.
    Miles felt in his pocket for Tangerine, who gave his fingers a squeeze. He seemed tired too, although he had done none of the walking. A fly buzzed somewhere above their heads, and wood pigeons hooted softly in the trees beside the inn. Squinting through his eyelashes, Miles noticed a circus poster tacked to a pole across the square. Beneath the words “CIRCUS OSCURO,” the tiger, magnificent and fierce, reared in the center of a flaming hoop, while a fearless boy in a red suit with gold epaulets brandished a whip in the background. He