The Girl Who Walked on Air (7 page)

The main road into Sharpfield was hectic busy. Coach lamps and hoof beats whizzed by in the darkness. It was a miracle I didn’t get trampled flat. Not that I cared. I was sobbing so much I feared I’d never stop. The best thing was to keep walking. Each step put the circus further behind me.

Eventually, I found myself in the main part of town. My face was wet with tears and snot. Since my own show had been cut short, it was still quite early. And this pesky road was still mighty busy. By now I’d reached another of those streets where all the houses looked the same. Gas lamps gave off just enough light for me to see I wasn’t alone. Clusters of people in their best coats and hats were heading up the hill. They seemed in high spirits. Despite my own wretchedness I was curious, and fell in beside a man and his missus.

‘Where you all going at this hour?’ I asked.

The man and the woman shared a little excited glance.

‘Haven’t you heard?’ he said.

The woman chipped in. ‘Where’ve you been, duckie?’

With a stupid circus,
I thought bitterly.

The woman seemed to take pity on me, sore-eyed and mud-splattered as I was. She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a handbill.

‘Here. Keep it, if you like.’

So much for us coming to Sharpfield, then; there was another show here tonight too. It explained why so few punters had come to ours. Opening the handbill, I braced myself to see what big attraction had trumped our dog and pony show.

I read the words once. Twice. My heart stopped still. And then it was pounding so fast again that I could only gasp.

Great snakes alive! Could it be true? Could this really be happening? Here, tonight?

I read the handbill a third time.

‘MARVELLOUS! MARVELLOUS! MARVELLOUS!’ it said. ‘FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY . . .’

One word stood out bigger than the rest. That word,
that
name
, was as familiar to me as my own. How many times had I read it, cut it out of newspapers, posters, seen it in bright lights inside my head?

BLONDIN.

The Great Blondin.

My
Blondin.

Call him what you want – he was here! Tonight!

All my bad luck, and now . . .
this
. A heaven-sent slice of good fortune. I wasn’t going to miss it for the world.

The venue was easy to find since half of England was heading for it. Just off the market place was a splendid building with pillars outside. It looked like a theatre. The front steps teemed with people, all chattering and clutching their tickets as if they were the crown jewels themselves.

I faltered; I didn’t have a ticket. And I’d bet in a place as grand as this there’d be someone checking. Even our little circus did that.

Sure enough, men in flat caps moved among the crowds.

‘Get yer tickets ready! No ticket? Then no joy tonight, ladies and gents.’

And they meant it too. One chap got yanked from the steps before my very eyes.

‘Don’t try it again!’ the flat cap hollered, kicking the man’s backside halfway up the street.

There had to be some other way of getting in. Directly opposite the theatre were food stalls, selling coffee and meat pies and hot potatoes. The smells made my stomach growl. I ducked behind the pie stall. And waited.

Eventually, the last of the punters went inside. The flat caps followed. I’d have to move fast. At any moment, the performance would be starting, and I wasn’t going to miss a second of it.

Far as I could tell there was only one way into the theatre: the main doorway, which was now shut. Through the steamed-up glass, shapes moved backwards and forwards. Flat caps, I bet, and ticket girls. I’d never get past them. Not a chance.

I wracked my brains. There had to be a way in around the back. A cellar, a side window left open.
Something! Anything!
If only Ned was here. He’d have worked it out with me or stood by as lookout. This time it was down to me alone. And it made my head hurt, for the theatre was connected on both sides by more buildings. There really was no other way in.

One thing was certain; I couldn’t just stand here, not with Blondin a stone’s throw away across the street.

A hand came down on my shoulder.

‘Take this over there will you, girl?’ said a man’s voice. ‘There’s a penny in it for you if you do.’

I spun round to see the pie seller handing me two steaming pies wrapped in paper. He nodded towards the theatre.

I didn’t need telling twice. Swiping the pies from him, I raced across the road and up the steps. A nudge of the elbow and the glass door swung open. I stepped into a brightly lit hallway. Two girls sat counting tickets behind a desk, their faces thick with rouge. The flat caps stood at the foot of a red-carpeted staircase. They all eyed me coldly.

‘Pies!’ I said, holding the hot bundle aloft.

‘Are they for me?’ said a flat cap.

‘’Course they are, dimwit,’ said one of the ticket girls. ‘No one else ordered ’em.’

I placed the paper-wrapped parcel on the desk in front of her. The smell of gravy wafted out and the girl wrinkled her nose. ‘Ugh, it stinks. Take it somewhere else, Harry.’

Harry came over to claim his pies. And as he did so his mates started ragging him, saying he had to share them and really he was a cheapskate to have only ordered two. They bickered and jostled in front of the girls. They’d forgotten I was even there.

This was my chance.

Tiptoeing past the desk, I took the stairs two at a time. No one came after me. It was almost too easy. At the top of the stairs was a corridor. At its end was a pair of double doors. I could hear the crowd beyond them, a whistling, thrumming sound that made me shiver.

Suddenly, a man behind me shouted, ‘Oi! You! Come back here!’

I started to run, praying those double doors would open.

‘Stop! You!’

He was gaining on me.
Just ten more yards to the doors
. From inside the theatre came clapping and cheering. I willed my legs to go faster. Grabbing for the handle, I smelled meat gravy. Harry the flat cap was right behind me, still carrying his pies. With his free hand he seized my skirts.

‘Got you, you little toe-rag!’

He yanked me backwards, all the while holding his pies out of harm’s way as I fought like a ferret in a sack. My frock ripped. He still held on. I had a firm grip on the door handle now. As he pulled me back the door inched open. Through the tiniest sliver I saw dazzling lights and row upon row of punters. I gasped in wonder.

Yet this Harry cove wouldn’t give up. I stopped wriggling till his hold eased. Then, swinging my arm, I elbowed him hard. His pies were now a big splatty mess on the carpet. His nose didn’t look pretty either.

‘I’ll have you, you little . . .’

As he lunged for me again I sidestepped through the doors.

Once inside, I didn’t hang about. There were punters everywhere: sitting down, standing up, lining the aisles, squeezed into the balcony. The place stank of gas jets and damp overcoats and unwashed hair. It was hot as hell. And the excitement was so sharp I could taste it.

I elbowed my way right down to the front of the balcony. The crowd swallowed me up. That flat cap would never find me now. Below in the stalls, there were hundreds more punters. Great lamps blazed from the gilded walls. Red drapes hung across the stage and at every entrance. It was a rum sight indeed.

Then I saw Gabriel Swift.

He stood only a few feet away from me. And like everyone else, he looked flushed with heat and excitement. Reaching out, I grabbed his sleeve.

‘You knew about this and didn’t tell me?’

He jumped out of his skin. ‘Gosh, Louie, don’t do that!’ he cried.

I squeezed in beside him. As our shoulders bumped I swore he was trembling. It dawned on me then that maybe he’d run away too. Perhaps Mr Chipchase had had words. Told him his act wasn’t daring enough. It was wrong to feel it, but it did make things better. At least I wasn’t on my own anymore.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘Mr Chipchase won’t come after us.’

‘Mr Chipchase? Why would he do that?’ Gabriel said, surprised.

‘You’ve run away, haven’t you?’

He looked taken aback. ‘No . . . at least not . . . well, I’ve just come for the show.’

‘Oh.’ I felt stupid. So I was on my own after all.

‘I did try to find you, Louie. You see, I overheard a fellow from the factory talking about
this
show. I came looking for you straight away.’

‘You did?’

He nodded. ‘Anyone serious about the tightrope admires Blondin, am I right?’

He was. Dead right.

‘I’ve kept a scrapbook on him for years,’ I said. ‘There ain’t much I don’t know about Blondin.’ It came out a bit wrong, making me sound like a show-off. But it was the first time I’d admitted it to anyone.

Gabriel sounded impressed. ‘Gosh, no wonder your technique is so advanced.’

‘You think?’ I felt better hearing this.

‘Oh yes. I bought us both tickets, you know.’

‘Who needs tickets?’

He stared at me in awe. ‘You got in here without a ticket?’

Clearly it hadn’t occurred to him to do the same.

At that moment, the lights dipped. A master of ceremonies took to the stage. ‘Tonight, good citizens of Sharpfield, we have a very special performer . . .’

High in the roof space was a length of rope, running from one side of the theatre to the other. A curtained-off platform was up there too, and from it a figure now appeared.

Straight away I knew it was him. With his dark pointy beard and flesh-coloured tights he looked just like he did in the papers. Even so, it took a moment for my eyes and brain to connect.

It was Blondin.
My
Blondin.

He was here, in the same place as me, breathing the same too-warm air. It was a job not to swoon on the spot. But what a waste that would be, to faint away and miss the whole thing! Later, I’d go over it all in my head, right down to the smallest details. Now, I simply gazed. And forgot everything else.

Blondin bowed for the crowds.

‘Same rope he used at Niagara, so they say,’ said Gabriel.

Niagara
. It sounded like a magic word and made me shudder in delight. I thought of all my scrapbook clippings, of Blondin dwarfed by the river beneath. What nerve he had! What daring! The only river I’d tried to cross I’d gone belly up into. I could only dream of having his skills.

Now Blondin stepped onto the rope. I leaned forward, elbows on the balcony rail. In real life, he didn’t look
quite
the same as in his pictures. He was rounder at the chest, with narrow legs and a drooping set of whiskers at his mouth. He looked smaller somehow, and a bit . . . well . . .
old
.

Yet with his very first step –
oh goodness alive
– my botherings vanished. He moved like a bird. His feet took little fairy steps. Every movement was so easy, so natural he might’ve been walking on air.

Just as my brain got used to it, when I was sure he was safe, Blondin stood stock still. He lay down flat on the rope and rolled right over so he was face down, waving to the crowd below. I watched in amazement. He even did swimming strokes, kicking his feet and flailing his arms. All around me people ‘ooohed’ and ‘aaahed’, and I clapped till my palms stung. Then he got up again and started walking, taking huge, silly, clownish strides and we all laughed and cheered him along his way. It was sheer pantomime. I’d never seen high-wire walking like it.

Once, he even pretended to fall. The crowd gasped. A woman near me clutched her husband. My own stomach leaped to my throat. But the Great Blondin righted himself just in time. He finished with a backflip somersault.

A somersault on the high wire!

I could hardly believe my eyes. It brought the house down. Jumping for sheer joy, I whooped myself hoarse.

There was no denying it; Blondin was the best. Gabriel Swift might look better close up, but he didn’t do any tricks. And this was what the crowd wanted. Blondin had them eating out of his hand.

After Blondin came the fire-eaters and a man with a talking crow. Then there was a woman who could fold herself in half and fit inside an apple crate. The crowd clapped politely. But we were saving our cheers for Blondin, who we knew would return for his finale.

The lights went up. It was interval time. And Gabriel and me were suddenly talking all at once.

‘He was brilliant, wasn’t he?’ I cried.

‘He was. It was genius!’

‘The way he swam along the rope!’

‘And when he nearly fell!’

As the crowd surged around us we babbled on and on. Gabriel was all lit up with it. He looked different, less cagey. It was like seeing the real person for the first time. I bet it was all there in my face too, the sheer joy of finding someone who understood Blondin. Who loved the tightrope like I did.

Then, right by us, the crowd moved apart. Gabriel’s face suddenly froze.

‘Oh no,’ he said, and stepped backwards.

The crowd started jostling. There were catcalls and sharp elbows. It was hard to stay upright. Quickly, I lost sight of Gabriel. Standing on tiptoe, I strained to see over people’s heads.

‘Gabriel!’ I yelled. ‘Gabriel!’ But there was no sign of him.

The crowd closed in again. The lights dimmed and the music started up. I squeezed back into my place at the balcony rail. But the excitement had gone. I was more bothered about Gabriel, who’d vanished into thin air. It wasn’t the same watching Blondin without him.

Yet I wasn’t without company for long. A dandy-looking gent parked himself slap bang in front of me. He was wearing the most stupidly tall top hat.

‘Excuse me, mister,’ I said, for I now couldn’t see a thing.

The man ignored me. He was looking up at the platform, where Blondin was about to reappear.

I tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Mister. Your hat.’

He didn’t turn round. I tapped harder, irritated. Any minute now the show would be starting again and there was no other space to stand.

‘Oi! Mister! Your hat’s like a blinking church spire, and I can’t see round it!’

The man shuddered. He turned ever so slowly, as if he was about to cuff me round the ear. I braced myself. Yet seeing me, his eyes went saucer-wide. He stared for a very long moment. It made me chill, like someone had walked over my grave. Then he touched the brim of his hat, just once, and moved on through the crowd.