Fizzlebert Stump and the Bearded Boy (4 page)

Then she surprised Fizz by squeezing past the two boys sat at the little dining table and leaning over to his mum. Her beard only just avoided trailing in Fizz’s plate with its breadcrumbs and jam smears. If Fizz hadn’t known better he’d’ve said that it had lifted itself up to avoid the plate, but beards don’t do that, so it must have been an illusion.

‘It was good of you to look after Wystan,’ she said to Mrs Stump in a sweet warm voice. ‘I’m glad he’s made a friend. So rare, isn’t it? Thank you.’

And before Fizz’s mum could answer, she retreated, turned and strode out of the caravan, pulling Wystan along behind her.

And then the two bearded marvels were gone.

Mrs Stump said goodbye with a mournful sliding note on a miniature swannee whistle, and turned back to her mirror.

Fizz saw that Wystan had left his sandwiches behind, and while his mum was busy, ate them himself.

I’ll grant you, it’s perhaps not the most cliffhangery ending to a chapter, a boy eating a sandwich while a nearby clown finishes her makeup, but I think if I was trying to eat I’d like a bit of peace and quiet before the next chapter begins. So please, be kind, and give a Fizz a moment to ingest (which just means ‘eat’ with more letters, like what a postman does) before reading on.

Chapter Four

In which a strongman is surprised and a nose goes missing

Fizzlebert was just wiping the last crumbs from the front of his t-shirt (looks like you waited long enough before starting the chapter – we both thank you) when his dad appeared in the caravan doorway.

‘Hi Fizz, had a good day? Where’s your mum?’ he asked, enthusiastically.

‘Hi Dad,’ Fizz answered with a sigh. ‘I don’t know where she’s got to.’

(He pointed to the cupboard above the sink.)

‘That’s strange,’ his dad said, grinning widely. ‘She’s normally here.’

‘Yes,’ said Fizz, talking like a bad actor. ‘I don’t know where she could’ve got to.’

‘It’s not like her to go missing.’

‘No, Dad.’

‘I’m worried about her, Fizz. Where could she be?’

‘I’m sure you don’t need to worry, Dad. She’ll turn up. Why don’t you have a cup of tea?’

(He carried on pointing at the cupboard above the sink.)

‘A cup of tea?’

‘Yeah. You’ll need to get the tea bags though.’

‘Oh, okay,’ said Mr Stump.

Fizz clicked the switch on the kettle and his dad put a pair of mugs on the table and opened the cupboard above the sink, where the teabag tin was kept.

As the long horizontal door was opened a brightly-coloured silk-clad shape rolled out and fell into his arms. It was Mrs Stump, laughing loudly and honking her horn.

‘Boo!’ she shouted between giggles and wriggles.

Mr Stump put her down on the floor.

‘Oh Gloria!’ he said, laughing his deep barrel-bellied laugh. ‘You really got me that time! My heart fair jumped out of my chest. Such a surprise! I had no idea you were hiding up there.’

Mrs Stump slapped him with a kipper.

‘I love you, Herbert,’ she said. (Herbert was Mr Stump’s middle name.)

‘I love you too, Gloria,’ Mr Stump replied.

‘I’m going to be sick,’ added Fizz, sticking his fingers in his ears.

This happened every single day. Being a clown, his mum loved surprising her husband, and so whenever she got the chance she hid. However, she’d been doing this for years and since (a) anything that happens every day for years soon ceases to be a surprise, (b) hiding places in a caravan are limited, and (c) no one wanted to hurt anyone else’s feelings, Fizz and his dad had had to grow very good at
pretending
to be surprised.

The kettle boiled and Mr Stump made two cups of tea, while Fizz poured himself another lemonade.

‘Have you heard the news?’ his dad said as he stirred his tea.

‘What news?’ asked Mrs Stump, now back at her dressing table where she was adding the finishing the touches to her clown face.

‘The Circus Inspectors are coming on Saturday.’

She put down the grease paint stick and turned to look at her husband. ‘Really?’

‘What’s that mean?’ asked Fizz. ‘Who are these inspectors?’

‘They’re from the British Board of Circuses. They’re officials. They have clipboards.’

‘Yes, and red pens, too,’ added his mum.

‘They decide whether a circus is any good or not.’

‘What? How? Why?’ asked Fizz, not sure which question he wanted to get out first and so blurting a little bit of each of them all at once.

‘Well,’ said his dad, ‘they just watch the show and see if it’s any good. Sometimes they look around backstage too, to make sure it’s all safe and what-have-you. Sometimes they ask questions. Every Inspector has his or her own way of testing, that’s what they say. It’s usually pretty easy. Nothing to worry about.’

His mum gently honked her horn in agreement.

‘We’ve never failed one yet, have we dear?’

She honked again.

‘No. I’ve been in circuses for twenty years or more,’ his dad said, ‘and I’ve never once been reprimanded, down-graded or expelled. Not once.’

‘Expelled? What does that mean?’ said Fizz beginning to feel worried.

‘Well, that only happens in the most extreme cases,’ Mr Stump said. ‘When things are seriously bad and the acts are rotten. Sometimes, the Circus Inspectors will recommend an act be removed from the circus and sent back to Civvy Street. Sometimes, if it’s really bad, the whole circus might be expelled. Closed down, you might say. Demobbed.’

‘Civvy Street? Where’s that?’ Fizz asked.

‘It’s nowhere, Fizz,’ his mum said.

Fizz didn’t like the sound of being Nowhere. It sounded dull.

‘It’s not a real place, son,’ his dad clarified. ‘Civvy Street just means the world outside the circus. Expelled acts get dumped out there and are given ordinary jobs. You know, they’re made to be accountants or shop assistants or the people who tidy up the leftovers in restaurants. Boring jobs. Normal jobs. “Just stuff” sort of jobs.’

‘You mean,’ Fizz said, gulping, ‘not circus jobs?’

‘Exactly. That’s it.’

‘And these Circus Inspectors can do this to a whole circus?’

‘Well . . .’ his dad began in a thoughtful tone.

‘
Monty Marsh’s Mirabelles
,’ said his mum.

‘What?’

‘She’s right,’ Mr Stump said. ‘They stopped touring about six years back. Never heard from again. Never mentioned again in the British Board of Circuses Weekly Newsletter either. Just vanished.’

‘And that was ’cos of these Inspectors?’ Fizz asked. He thought he’d heard of all the circus that were out on the road (
Auntie’s Amazing Antipodean Acrobatics
and
Frobisher’s Freak-O-Rama-Land
and
Simon’s Simple Circus
and
La Spectacular De La Spectacular De La Rodriguez’ Silent Circus Of Dreams
and so on), but he’d never heard of
Monty Marsh’s Mirabelles
.

‘Well, the Circus Inspector’s bad report is just one theory,’ his dad said. ‘Some people say Monty retired to open an outward bound centre in North Wales, and some people reckon he never could read a map right and is still out there somewhere looking for the next town.’

‘But what do you think, Dad?’

‘I’m with your mum, Fizz. A Bad Report.’

Fizz was in a lather now. He thought about the act he did with Charles, Captain Fox-Dingle’s elderly lion. Would it be enough to impress these Inspectors?

‘Easy-peasy,’ his mum said, adding an upward toot on her swannee whistle.

‘What?’ Fizz said, startled out of his thoughts.

‘There’s nothing to worry about, Fizz,’ his dad said. ‘Your mum’s right. This circus will pass easily. We’ve got some great acts going on. I’ve been lifting heavier things than ever, and your mum’s at her very clumsiest. And then there’s the new act.’

‘You’ve heard about them?’

‘Yes, I met them this afternoon. I don’t know what they do, but the Ringmaster said it would knock my socks off.’

‘But you don’t wear socks,’ Fizz said.

‘I told him that, and he said he’d lend me some.’

Fizz cracked a small smile at that, but couldn’t help the panic that was swimming through his head making it onto his face round the edges (and over a fair bit of the middle too).

‘Fizz,’ his dad said, ‘we’re going to be fine. I remember the last time the Circus Inspectors came. Three boring blokes with clipboards at the back of the Big Top. It was ticks all the way. We’ll pass with flying colours, just you wait and see.’

Although Fizz trusted his dad, he determined at that moment to do his part in making the circus the best it could be, and to make sure that his act was as good as ever, if not better. He had a horrible picture in his mind of the family being kicked out of the circus. They’d end up living in a brick house that never moved, with the same view out the window every day, and he’d have to go off to a boring grey school while his mum and dad carried grey briefcases off to their offices and made him eat cabbage and fish fingers for tea. No candyfloss, no sea lions, no acrobatics, no fun.

But if his mum and dad weren’t worried, he wouldn’t worry. Not yet. Not for now. There was no need, was there?

‘I hear it’s sold out tonight,’ Mr Stump said, changing the subject. He meant the Big Top would be absolutely full. ‘Should be a good show, eh?
You and Charles been practising, Fizz?’

‘Yes, dad, we’re ready. The Captain is trying out a new toothpaste, so I should be able to keep my head in there for even longer,’ he said. ‘Catch the custard tonight, Mum!’ (There are superstitions in show business. Actors, for example, never say ‘Good luck’ or ‘Have a good show’, instead they say, ‘Break a leg’. Clowns say even funnier things, including what Fizz just said.)

There was a silence where there would normally be a horn honk.

‘Gloria,’ said Fizz’s dad, ‘Fizz said, “Catch the custard tonight”?’

She didn’t answer, again.

Mrs Stump was busy rummaging through the drawers of her dressing table, throwing the contents left and right over her shoulders. Fizz could tell this wasn’t simply the usual untidiness of a clown.

‘Mum,’ he asked anxiously, ‘what’s wrong?’

She honked once as she paused in her search and pointed at the middle of her face.

Oh!

Her nose.

Her face was all painted, and she’d pulled her frizzy yellow wig on, but the red nose that should have sat at the middle of it all was nowhere to be seen.

Fizz’s mum didn’t need to say anything for Fizz to know what this meant. But since you’ve probably never lived with a clown, I will.

A clown’s nose is as much a symbol as it is a real thing. It’s their badge of office, you might say. A clown treasures his or her nose. It is precious to them. It is what they are awarded at Clown College (instead of a certificate) when they pass their exams. To have a nose (and not just one of those cheap plastic ones anyone can buy in a joke shop, but a real handcrafted specially-fitted-by-an-expert one) is what every hopeful student clown is aiming for.