Love, Let Me Not Hunger Page 2

  The cages and the beast wagons could be hitched in train behind the lorries since the pace of the circus would necessarily be slow. Judy, the single elephant scheduled to accompany the show, and the horses would walk between towns and villages; and where the distances were too great for an overnight march, they would allow several days for the trip and camp en route.

  But what made the trip possible and potentially profitable, besides the streamlining of jobs and transportation, was Marvel’s solution of the setting-up problem, stemming from his study of the situation at first hand. Labour in Spain was so cheap that there would be enough manpower available at practically no cost at all compared with wages in Britain. And to ensure swift and smooth operation Marvel was taking along a ground staff consisting of his tent boss, Joe Cotter, his mechanic, Pete Sprague, and three experienced British tentmen who were also roustabouts and general circus hands. These would be sufficient, when bolstered by unlimited local hire, to put up the show in each community and pull it down. This ground staff would sleep in the lorries. All of the living wagons were equipped either with small kitchens or Primus stove units and the various troupes fed and looked after themselves.

  In his head Sam Marvel retained a catalogue of every act he had ever booked, or for that matter seen, including the specialties and capabilities of every member. The small company he had now gathered together was competent to present a programme of some twenty diverse and individual numbers, which collectively would add up to a performance of three hours’ duration. Among the things the showman had ascertained on his exploratory visit was that the Spaniards expected their money’s worth from the circus.

  C H A P T E R

  2

  In the stuffy confines of his office, Marvel had the Walters family lined up in front of his desk—Harry and Ma; Jacko, Ted and Toby, the three boys, of whom Toby was the youngest; and the two girls, Angela and Lilian—and was explaining what he expected of them.

  He said, “We’ll keep the family act for the second half. You three,” and he nodded towards the boys, “open the first half with voltige. Call yourselves the Jacko Trio.” Sam Marvel had that oldtime showman’s reverence for the half- or even quarter-truth. With a change of costume and a partial change of name, the bemused flatties in the audience never caught on to the fact that the same performers were returning time and time again in different guises.

  “Your girls ought to be about ready on the wire,” he said to Harry Walters. “They’ve been practising long enough.”

  Walters merely grunted. “They’ll be all right.”

  “Okay,” said Marvel, “we’ll bill them as the Liliane Sisters.”

  Lilian Walters, who was the younger of the two, turned pink and smirked with pleasure, and then threw a look at her older sister who coloured likewise, but not with pleasure.

  “You got costumes ready for ’em?” Marvel asked of Ma Walters.

  The fat woman said, “We ain’t had time yet,” and also flushed, for she was always nervous in the presence of Sam Marvel. “We—”

  “Well, make ’em up then!” said Marvel. “Something flashy. Put the little kid in red and the big one in blue.”

  Pa Walters said, somewhat sarcastically, “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” said Marvel, ummoved by the sarcasm and glancing down at the paper he was holding. “You, Toby, you’re always mucking about with that bloody elephant. How would you like to present the pig?”

  “Bona,” said the boy, and reddened with pleasure and excitement. And then added, “Do you mean it, sir?”

  “Yup!” Marvel said curtly, and looked down at his paper again. “Twelve minutes. Rajah Poona. Find yourself an Indian getup with a turban. Something classy that’ll show off your figure. O.K., that’s all.” The family got up to go. Marvel from behind his desk waved a finger at the youngest Walters. “You, Toby, I want to see you a minute.”

  The showman tilted in his swing chair; his brown bowler hat, which he wore indoors as well as out, slid to the back of his head. He lighted up a short Schimmelpenninck, a kind of juvenile-sized cigar of which he appeared to keep an unlimited supply on hand and which inevitably he either chewed or burned between his teeth, and sat there, his thumbs hooked into the arm holes of his waistcoat, looking the boy up and down. With his lipless mouth and beady eyes, his face appeared lizard-like, and as cold. “About that elephant now,” he said, “she don’t like women.”

  Toby was only half listening, for his mind was engaged with the excitement of his new association and job and he already saw himself booted, costumed, turbaned, alone in the ring, displaying his power over so huge an animal. It gave him a delicious feeling that Sam Marvel had singled him out to present the elephant act, for his family kept him down and whereas his brothers and sisters could shine in spangled costumes or tights, their faces free of any makeup, Toby was always hidden beneath the grotesque mask of the Auguste. The town girls did not even recognise him when they came rubber-necking around the wagons after the show. He was the best rider in the family and, although his father and brothers would never admit it, his clowning and comedy performance was the mainstay of the act. But of course the superior skill and timing called for to portray a drunken man trying to stay on the back of a horse were usually lost upon the audience. Now dressed as a glamorous Indian potentate he was to have the spotlight all to himself.

  “About that elephant now,” Marvel repeated. “I’m giving you a little tip. I got it from the feller that looked after her when she was with McPhee’s Circus. They say she killed a woman once in Bombay. I dunno if it’s true. It was a long time ago and they kinda forgot about it. But this feller give me the tip and I’m passing it on to you.”

  Toby was listening now. He hadn’t known this about Judy.

  “Albert’ll keep on looking after her, but she’s your responsibility. Get it? I don’t want anybody hurt in this circus and specially not any flattie or gajo hanging around the lot. Keep ’em away. A lot of them damned women go ootsie-tootsie about animals and you never know. She’s all right in the ring but she don’t like ’em coming around her. Maybe she got something there.”

  Toby nodded and wondered about the story of Judy having killed a woman and whether it could be true. The elephant was so gentle.

  “That’s all,” Marvel said. “When you’ve worked up the act lemme know and I’ll cue the music with you.” He took the Schimmelpenninck from between his teeth. “I’m the ringmaster now.” He grinned his savage grin. “And the band. We’ll be using a panatrope.”

  Unit by unit, Marvel saw the artistes and detailed what they were down for on the programme. The Birdsalos, whose bar-and-trampoline act was a feature of the first half, were to bring the show to a close as fliers on the high trapezes strung up from the roof of the tent. Two of the Albanos, a group of six hand balancers and ground acrobats, could do a fair humpsti-bumpsti or knockabout comedy. Another pair were trick cycle riders, and three could combine in a passable perch act. In the same manner the Yoshiwara-Fu Tong troupe of mixed Chinese and Japanese could present their Risley foot juggling routine, a good slack-wire duo, dish spinners, contortionism, and tumbling.

  Fred Deeter was to triple, presenting the Liberty horses as Signor Alfredo, the mixed-cat act as the Great Marco, and an exhibition of whip cracking, lassoing, and rope spinning in cowboy costume as Buffalo Slim, as well as his trick horse, Marlene Dietrich, a palomino whose responses were almost human.

  Marvel summoned Jackdaw Williams and the clowns, Bill Semple, Tom Drury, and Janos, the dwarf, and laid down the law on their turns. There was to be no more slacking and horsing around. Gogo and Panache were to present their musical entree and work out at least two or three new entrees in which all of them would take part.

  “A lot of stuff with water,” Marvel ordered. “Kids like to see you get doused or fall on your arse in water. Or maybe one of them cars that busts up.” This was as far as Sam Marvel’s originality took him. He added, “And what’s more, all of you lend a hand settin
g up and pulling down. You, Drury! I understand you can spickety Spanish? Okay, you’re the interpreter.”

  Janos, the dwarf clown, parked a half-eaten sandwich and pulled himself up by his finger tips to look over the edge of the desk at the circus proprietor. “What about my doks?” he asked.

  “What about your dogs?”

  “I do my oct with them?”

  “Okay, okay. You can do your act. Second half. Micky the Midget Magyar and his Capering Canine Comics. But you bloody well feed ’em yourself.”

  Janos released his hold from the desk and came down from his tiptoes, a satisfied smirk on his broad features.

  “Hokay, hokay, I feed ’em.” For in spite of his malformation he was as vain as any of his fellow performers. Indeed in this environment his abnormality was covered up. Everyone in a circus is special—everyone shows himself—everyone in some manner changes his appearance. Under clown-white Janos became a member of a unique community and no longer stood out as grotesque, pitiful, and excluded. For affection he turned to the three dogs he had trained to do a comedy act with him and from whom he was inseparable. Two were hulking, lazy great Danes who got laughs by refusing to do anything he asked them to and superciliously turning their heads away at every command. The third was a small, lively, intelligent fox terrier who could turn back flips and walk balanced on his forefeet. With Janos his dogs came first. His second concern was his stomach.

  Janos was a Hungarian with a Hungarian’s gusto for food. He ate voraciously and seemingly interminably since he was rarely seen when he was not chewing at something. Food in some way must have been a compensation to him. Most of his money he spent upon delicacies for himself and would often be seen in his corner of the clown wagon treating himself to a tin of pâté or smoked salmon.

  Sam Marvel had a look at the chewed end of his Schimmelpenninck and then said to Jackdaw, “You do your specialty number with that lousy bird, but you come back in the last half billed as Marvo the Juggler. Why the hell don’t you stick to juggling or doing that musical act of yours? You’re a much better juggler than you are a joey.”

  Jackdaw Williams, who was a big, powerful man with a bulbous nose and weary, heavy-lidded eyes which drooped at the corners like those of a bloodhound, said amiably, “Why don’t you mind your own bloody business, Sam? Say what you want and cut out the lectures.”

  One of his specialties was to appear as a living scarecrow with Raffles, his jackdaw, perched on his shoulder. He had trained the bird to fly into various sections of the audience where it would filch eyeglasses, programmes, bags of sweets, women’s purses, or anything that was loose and bring them to him. When the bird had collected sufficient articles Williams would hold up each one and ask the owner to stand and identify it, and the jackdaw would then fly back with it, with Williams sometimes deliberately muddling articles, such as returning a woman’s hat to a man, which provided the laughs.

  But Williams, who was of the circus from generations back, was also a skilled juggler in the old tradition and a competent acrobat. As well, he could perform on a dozen or so musical instruments and knew the dialogue and back-chat of more than fifty entrees and routines.

  Marvel merely grunted, “Uh-huh,” and without rancour. And then, removing the stem of the Schimmelpenninck from between his teeth and using it to point at Williams, he asked, “Who’s the mussie?”

  The lids of Williams’ eyes seemed to droop still further. He had a cigarette between his lips and the end of it glowed strongly before he replied, “Nobody.” The bird on his shoulder glared beadily at Marvel.

  Marvel returned his own smoke to the corner of his mouth, leaned back in his rocker chair, hooked his thumbs once more into the armholes of his waistcoat, and inquired, “She your palone?”

  Williams did not appear to be greatly interested. “You might say,” he replied.

  “Josser, ain’t she,” Marvel said, not as a query but as a statement.

  “Yup.”

  Marvel’s reaction to the personal turn the conversation had taken had been to fall into circus slang seldom used any longer even though all of them there understood it.

  The showman asked, “Can she do anything?”

  Tom Drury, who was the white-faced clown Panache, a tall, thin man and actually the more droll of the two, said, “Hoo-hoo! Can she!” And with three movements of his body left no mistake in the minds of anyone what he held her good for.

  Jackdaw Williams, without a word, took his cigarette from his mouth and held the burning end against Drury’s cheek. The clown let out a yell of pain and clapped his hand to his face. “Christ!” he shouted. “What the hell did you do that for?”

  Williams gave him a smile that was almost sweet as he said, “You funny fellow.”

  Drury had half drawn back a fist when Marvel interposed with, “Cut it out! Cut it out! Save that comedy for the ring.” Then to Williams, “What I want to know is, can she work? Has she got an act?”

  Williams contemplated the end of his cigarette with his heavy gaze and merely replied, “Nunti.”

  Marvel asked, “Ain’t there nothing she can do? Sing, dance, tumble?”

  Williams was now regarding the showman levelly, and repeated, “Nunti.”

  Marvel said flatly, “You’ll have to get rid of her. We don’t carry any dead weight on this trip.”

  As flatly, but without anger, Williams said, “She stays or I don’t. Which way do you want it?”

  There was a heavy silence in the little office during which Marvel took out the stem of his Schimmelpenninck, had a good look at it and returned it before he said, “O.K. It’s at your expense. You’d better get her a passport then. But put her to work.” He glanced up at the bird. “I suppose she can look after that.”

  There was no ruffling the big Auguste’s equanimity. He said, “The bird hates her guts. He’s jealous.”

  It was Marvel finally whose irritation showed. He said, “Well, I don’t care what she does, but she’s got to do something. Put her to work selling programmes or sweets or taking tickets, or maybe she could learn to dress up an act. She ain’t bad-looking.”

  Williams made no reply, and Marvel said, “O.K., that’s all, boys.” And they filed out, with Williams the last one. Marvel called after him, “Hey, just a minute!” and he produced a pencil. “What’s her name?”

  Half in the doorway, Williams turned and replied, “Rose.”

  “Rose what?”

  “I dunno. I never asked her.”

  “Where’d you find her?”

  “Picked her up. She was on her uppers.”

  Marvel was still sore at having lost a battle and some face. He said, “Just a little tart, eh?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Williams remarked equably, turned, and went out.

  The last one he sent for was the old man known as Albert, or rather Mr. Albert on the lot, and who came in looking nervous and a little foolish in the rusty, dusty, black frock coat, his eyes worried behind the lenses of steel-rimmed spectacles, and the colour drained from his otherwise pinkish countenance until it came close to matching the white of his moustache and his hair.

  Marvel let him stand there for a considerable time while he leaned back in his chair, waggled a newly lit stem, and contemplated him silently.

  Eventually the old man could bear it no longer and asked, “Am I going to get the sack?”

  “I dunno,” replied Sam Marvel. Then he asked, “How old are you, Albert?” And then added with heavy sarcasm, “Oh, excuse me, M-i-s-t-e-r Albert.”

  Mr. Albert answered, too quickly, “Only sixty-seven, sir.”

  Marvel emitted a loud snort, the closest he ever permitted himself to a laugh. “Sixty-seven! That’s a good one! You’re seventy and well over, if you’re a day. Come on, old man, gimme the truth. Sam Marvel don’t stand for no lies. Spit it out!”

  Mr. Albert blinked nervously and said, “Se-seventy-two,—at the most, seventy-three. I don’t just remember what day it was I was born.” And whe
n Marvel did not reply to this other than to give a nod of his head, he went on, the words coming tumbling out, “But I get around good just as I ever did. I get my job done. The animals all—know me.” He had almost said love, but the word was too much out of place under the stare of those cold eyes.

  Marvel said, “We’re streamlining them too. Getting rid of most of ’em. Chipperfields is taking the cats—we’re keeping three—Smarts took a lease on the elephants, the high school horses and the giraffe. We’re taking only Judy.”

  The old man looked at Marvel miserably. “Then I’m for the boot?”

  For the second time the showman said, “I dunno,” added, “that depends,” and then fell into another silence which was more for the purpose of terrifying the old man than reaching any conclusion. He was under no illusions as to the value of Mr. Albert to him and to his circus ever since the day when from a kind of hanger-on, scrounger, and odd man about the lot, he had revealed unsuspected talents for dealing with wild animals of every sort held in captivity. A beast man who could feed and groom his charges and keep them clean and healthy without getting them into an uproar or making them too nervous and irritable to be shown properly in the ring was a find and a rarity. The old-timers at this sort of thing were dying out and no new ones appearing. Marvel was merely setting the stage to see how much more he would be able to get out of the old man in addition to his task of looking after the trimmed-down zoo he planned to take with him to Spain.