Golden Hope (9 page)

‘Don't you ever defy me again, you little smart arse! Attempting a
forward
flip-flap without rehearsal. Jesus Christ, you could have broken your fool neck!'

Clytie tried to defend herself. ‘I've watched Dolores perform it for years – I knew exactly what to do. And I've rehearsed it when no one was watching.'

She was aware Madam Zaza was hovering anxiously, seeking the moment to rescue Clytie from the line of fire.

Too late. Vlad loomed down on her, his face livid. ‘What are you trying to do? Steal my thunder? I'm the star. You're nothing but the daughter of a has-been!'

Has-been.
Clytie wanted to claw Vlad's face for the ultimate insult to her mother. Instead she forced herself to turn to Gourlay.

‘I was just trying to please the audience. Give them the full act they'd expect from the Daring Harts. And I did! You heard their applause. But I'm sorry, Boss, it won't happen again.'

Gourlay's anger deflated slightly. ‘You were dead lucky. Take another risk like that and I wash my hands of both of you. Dolores isn't fit to perform tonight. She's on her last chance.'

‘It's not her fault – she's ill,' Clytie cried defiantly.

Confident that he had Gourlay's backing, Vlad drew her aside and laid down the law.

‘Dolores is out cold. You'll go on in her place. You know the routine. Just hand me whatever I need when I cue you. Keep smiling. And only take a bow when I tell you. No more impromptu stuff with the audience. Get changed pronto. I'm on in a few minutes!'

Zaza hurried behind the screen and helped Clytie change into the new costume. ‘I'm sorry I didn't warn you. I knew this costume was a surprise – but I didn't know what else Vlad had planned.'

The words seemed ominous.
Does she know he tricked Mama into drinking? Is there something else I don't know? Why am I always left in the dark?

There was no time to question her. The band was playing Vlad's entrance music.

Ringmaster Gourlay delivered the usual spiel about Vlad's world famous act.

Vlad burst into the ring garbed in the crimson balloon-leg trousers, a beaded bolero over his naked chest. The outsized gold ear-ring and brass amulets completed the illusion of Ali Baba.

Clytie entered, wheeling the trolley loaded with all his props, knives, clubs and swords – a collection of ancient weaponry. Concentrating on keeping a fixed smile in place, she followed Vlad's every movement, alert to the snap of his fingers that directed her to whichever props he needed next. He juggled a growing number of clubs and knives, first from a standing position, then without missing a beat, on bended knees, finally throwing them into the air to spin around before he caught them lying flat on his back under what looked dangerously like a hailstorm of knives.

Not content with the level of their applause, Vlad gestured to the audience to increase it, a command they obeyed instantly.

Arrogant bastard. He thinks he's God's gift to the circus.

On cue, Clytie placed a large bowl of fruit on a pedestal. She held up a piece of material to show the audience, then crossed to the man she had been told was Tribe, the Bank Manager, to inspect it. He confirmed he was unable to see through it.

She tied the blindfold to cover Vlad's eyes. With a roll of drum beats to guide him, he took twenty measured paces away from the target. Clytie angled his body to face the fruit bowl then handed him three knives. The drums beat faster – then stopped dead.

One by one Vlad threw the knives towards the target. The first one missed its mark, falling inches short into the sawdust. The audience let out a gasp of disappointment. In rapid succession the second and third knives landed in the fruit bowl. In triumph Clytie held up two
pieces of fruit for the audience's inspection – each one pierced by a quivering knife blade.

Vlad removed the mask and bowed. Applause rolled like thunder around the Big Top.

At Vlad's command Clytie asked the audience if any gentleman present would be prepared to sacrifice his newspaper. A young man volunteered. Asked to introduce himself he announced he was a regular contributor to
The Ballarat Star.

Clytie asked ingenuously, ‘Do you mind if your newspaper is ruined, Sir?'

‘
Nothing
could ruin
The Ballarat Star
, Miss,' he said confidently – a statement that met with audience approval and applause.

Clytie unfurled the newspaper and held it aloft for the audience to see it.

‘Forget to load it – and you're history,' Vlad hissed from the corner of his mouth.

Hands shaking, Clytie rolled the paper into a cylinder and tied it in the middle with a red ribbon. At Vlad's command she handed him the knife with the curved Saracen blade, then requested the audience to chant the numbers in a countdown from thirteen to one.

On reaching number one, Clytie threw the furled newspaper high in the air. Vlad sent the knife spinning after it – splitting the cylinder, which released a shower of confetti. The audience gasped that a black and white newspaper had turned to multi-coloured confetti. What else was this but sheer magic?

Vlad took a series of bows but made no gesture to include Clytie. She watched him intently, her smile fixed in place.

That should be the end of the act. What the hell is he up to now?

The drum beats increased in tempo – then stopped dead for the Ringmaster's announcement. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, tonight Hoffnung will witness a new feat which Vlad the Russian Knife-Thrower will perform for the first ever time on the Australian continent.'

Oh he will, will he? Why am I always the last to know?

The band struck up a military march as the stagehands rolled into the ring a large object covered by a cloth. With a flourish Vlad unveiled a vertical wooden spinning wheel. Painted on the wheel was the scarlet outline of a life-sized human figure, its arms outstretched, the feet planted wide apart.

Vlad at last acknowledged Clytie's presence. ‘This brave young lady has volunteered to assist me in my performance.'

Clytie knew what that meant. She hesitated for only a moment, instinctively looking across to where Rom Delaney sat rigid in the front row.

She accepted Vlad's chivalrous gesture in extending his hand to help her step up onto the platform. He positioned her upright against the circle so that her body covered the scarlet outline, her arms outstretched, feet planted wide.

Vlad held up for the audience's inspection a series of chains resembling the manacles and shackles used in the all-too-recent convict era. One by one he chained Clytie's wrists, ankles, waist and neck to the painted outline. She was incapable of movement, except for her eyes.

Is it better to die with my eyes closed – or open?

•  •  •

Seated in the front row, Rom felt his blood run cold. Despite the rigid smile etched on Clytie's face there was no mistaking the flash of fear he had seen in her eyes.
God help her, she's never done this before!

He noticed that Adelaide Hundey and Long Sam were also leaning forward in their seats, as acutely anxious as he was.

At the precise moment Vlad was ready to activate the spinning wheel, a shrill cry resounded from off-stage. A dishevelled woman in a Chinese dressing-robe burst through the canvas flaps and staggered across the ring, screaming as she threw herself at the Knife-Thrower.

‘Stop! It's too dangerous. I beg you, let
me
do it – don't risk my daughter's life!'

Despite her unkempt appearance, Rom had no doubt it was Dolores.

Vlad concealed whatever his true feelings were with an airy wave of the hand, a command to Gourlay who instantly signalled. Two clowns rushed forward. Pedro was no longer on stilts. Tiche the dwarf was dressed in top hat and tails, a giant cigar clamped in his mouth. Convincing the audience the woman's screams were all part of the act they pinioned her arms and feet, slinging her body between them as they carried her from the arena like a hunting trophy.

Rom instinctively rose in his seat. There was nothing counterfeit about Dolores's fear.
This was meant to be Dolores's act. Clytie must be scared out of her wits.

The ringmaster called for the audience to grant Vlad total silence – or risk the girl's life.

Clytie's eyes followed Vlad's every movement. Rom wanted to leap into the ring to rescue her, but knew any false move from him would be as dangerous as one of Vlad's knives.

Vlad flicked a switch at the base of the wheel causing it to spin slowly in a clockwise motion. The audience was hushed as Vlad walked twenty paces and turned to face the target. The drum beats ceased. He sent the first knife spinning towards the wheel. It landed with a quiver – a few inches from Clytie's left hand. Her eyes swivelled left. It was so close she closed her eyes – as the second knife spun towards her head . . .

One down, four to go – if I live that long . . .

•  •  •

Clytie ran from the ring, free to escape the applause that Vlad accepted as his due. Safe behind the curtain flaps that concealed the arena from sight, she found her path blocked by members of the troupe, dressed in readiness for the Grand Parade. They embraced her warmly, praised her courage in her baptism in this act, her loyalty to the circus and for covering for her mother.

Madame Zaza held her at arm's length. ‘You're a real little trouper. Your father would be proud of you.' Then, as if the words had been accidental, the old woman backed off to resume her place in the Grand Parade.

My father! So she did know him!

The Harts' door was padlocked on the outside but Clytie demanded a roustabout bring her the key to open it.

‘But you'll miss the Grand Parade,' he said in horror. ‘The Boss will sack you, sure as hens lay eggs.'

‘I promise I'll join the tail end. Right now my mother needs me.'

The wagon had the unmistakably pungent smell of some form of alcohol. Dolores lay slumped on the floor, a trace of blood on her forehead and on the door which she must have banged in desperation. Her dressing-robe had fallen open to reveal one naked breast.

Clytie felt her heart turn over at sight of her mother's eyes filling with tears of relief. Clytie cradled her, murmuring reassuring phrases.

‘It's all over, Mama. Vlad will never hurt you again, I promise. You see? I'm perfectly all right. Not as good a performer as you, but I did my best.'

Her mother's voice was slurred but the words held the chilling ring of truth. ‘If Vlad had hurt a hair of your head, baby, he'd be a dead man.'

‘Forget all that, Mama. Guess what, I did a forward flip-flap tonight. The way you showed me.'

Dolores held her at arm's length, her mouth loose with shock. ‘But you weren't ready. You'd never done it before!'

‘Never in public, Mama. I've been practising when no one was around, just in case –' She stopped short, annoyed she had betrayed herself.

Dolores gave a sigh of self-disgust. ‘In case I broke my promise.'

‘Mama, I don't believe you knowingly drank that vodka. I believe
you
.'

Dolores seemed to melt in her arms. ‘Thank you. I promise I will never let you down.'

Clytie drew her mother to her feet. ‘We've never missed a Grand Parade yet. Don't give Gourlay an excuse to dock our pay.'

Like an obedient child, Dolores allowed Clytie to lace her into her costume. Running hand in hand to their horses, they made it just in time. While the German band began the triumphal march that was the traditional finale, their friends made an unobtrusive break in the procession to allow them to slip unnoticed into their customary places.

•  •  •

Rom waited until the crowd dispersed, laughing and excited as they mounted their horses or walked home with linked arms. Making his way to the Hart wagon he passed small campfires where men were clustered, drinking and dissecting the night's performance. There was no mistaking the sound of Clytie's voice trying to calm Dolores. He gave a tentative rap.

The door was flung open by Dolores who shouted into the darkness, ‘I told you to leave us alone, Vlad!'

Startled at the sight of Rom standing politely, hat in hand, she eyed him speculatively. ‘Who the hell are you?'

‘Rom Delaney, at your service, Ma'am. I understand you taught your sister your famous equestrienne act. I was wondering if I might congratulate you both – in person.'

‘You did, did you?' she asked warily. ‘Well, thanks for your kind words. I'll be sure to pass them on to my sister.'

The door began to shut, but paused at the interruption of Clytie's whispered voice.

‘It's all right, Dolores. Rom Delaney is the lad who invited the circus here. We should be the ones thanking
him
.'

‘In that case you better come in for a few minutes. Clytie, make the gentleman a cup of tea – me too. It's been a long day.'

The irony of her words was not lost on Rom. He took his seat in the only chair while they sat together on cushions on the floor. Now was the time to make his ‘silver tongue' work overtime. He knew he had only as long as it took to drain a teacup to wangle himself into Dolores's ‘good books'.

He politely drew out Dolores about the generations of the Hart Family's circus acts.

Dolores softened. Pleased to be praising her parents and ancestors, she gestured with pride to the old Astley's Circus poster on which her grandparents' names had star billing.

All the while Rom felt Clytie studying him with a knowing smile.

At the end of a genuinely entertaining hour about circus history, Rom rose to his feet. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, ladies. I look forward to your performance tomorrow night. Meanwhile, I wondered if perhaps you both might care to see something of our lovely town. I would be most happy to escort you to our Mineral Springs and the Hoffnung Falls that overlook the whole Lerderderg Valley.'