Love, Let Me Not Hunger (21 page)

Deeter and Toby approached to where the girl was standing, a little smile still at the corners of her lips and her eyes shining. Toby could hardly believe what he saw, and for a moment he looked about anxiously to see whether Jackdaw Williams was there too.

Deeter drawled, “Well I’m blowed. So the cat came back!”

Toby stammered, “Rose! What the hell are
you
doing here?”

But Mr. Albert, his white moustache cascading over a most foolish and beatific smile, came up to her as though he was about to take part in some kind of vernal dance. He took her hands in each of his and swung her arms wide and then back again, crying, “Rosie! Rosie! You’ve come back to us! They’ve missed you, Rosie! Listen to ’em all. I just kept hoping you might. You couldn’t just go off leaving them like that. They didn’t understand.”

Toby asked, “What’s happened, Rose? Where’s Jackdaw?”

Janos had waddled over to the group, accompanied by his three dogs, who first sniffed her heels and then put up their heads to be fondled, the big Danes grinning and the fox terrier yapping hysterically. The girl was fixed in the centre of the interrogative gaze of the four men and felt frightened at what she had done.

Toby repeated his question, “Where’s Jackdaw?”

“I don’t know. On the train, I suppose.”

“What train?”

“From that city we went to—Madrid. He said he was going to Amsterdam. Maybe he’s there already.” Then she asked, “What day is this?”

Deeter replied, half mockingly, “Tuesday, sister. All day. Whatsamatter? You lost count?”

The smile faded and she looked dazed for a moment. “I walked a lot,” she said. “I didn’t have any money. I got a couple of rides, but mostly I walked.”

Her loss of the sense of time and distance told them more than anything about her condition and what she had endured to get back to them.

Toby asked, “Why aren’t you with him? Did he chuck you?”

Rose looked from one to the other of her inquisitors and then replied, “I left him.”

“Why?” Toby insisted. “What for? What made you come back here?”

It had all seemed so clear to her that Saturday morning in the noisy, smoky railway station in Madrid. The other performers had been booked for England, either by bus or train, but Williams had bought two third-class tickets for Amsterdam and the job in the circus which had been promised would always be open for him there.

It had happened as Williams had mounted the steps of the railway coach ahead of her and, having entered, turned around to ascertain that she was following him. But she was not. Something held her fast and prevented her from making the move that would cut her off forever from what lay behind her. The drag upon her to return was almost unbearable.

It consisted of the most extraordinary mixture of memory pictures, memory sounds, memory smells, all far more alive and vibrant within her than the stink of soft coal smoke, the clanging of bells and piping of whistles that filled the railway station. Toby—the animals—old Mr. Albert—and her home, the little living wagon, clean and sweet as she had made it, the bunk that was her own and all the trim and the curtains she had sewn—the thought of them back there, empty, untended, desolated her.

In her nostrils was the reminiscence of the strong, pungent smell of the tiger and the feel of the powerful head and rasping tongue and the rough fur beneath her fingers. Through her mind reeled the thoughts of the bear that begged, the kangaroo that cuddled, the monkeys that wrapped their spidery arms about her neck and gazed at her, their sad eyes filled with hopeless love, and Mr. Albert hovering about, fussing and flapping and approving all of the affection exchanged between her and the beasts.

And, Toby! Or only Toby! Nobody but Toby! Toby ever to despair and distraction, and wanting and loving. Was it home or the beasts or Toby or all three? She could now no longer tell, but only acknowledge the irresistible power of the pull.

She had set her suitcase down upon the station platform, looked up at Jackdaw standing above her on the train and said, “I’m not coming.”

For a moment he had regarded her silently, the corners of his eyes drooping, his thick, pendulous lips expressionless. “Why,” he asked, “what’s the matter?”

She had replied, “I can’t. I’m sorry. I don’t want to.”

And that was the end of it. It had been so simple and his reaction so like him, just as their whole relationship had been.

He had fallen silent again, and because she was a woman her instincts and gutter wisdom enabled her almost to read his thoughts and his weighings of the pros and cons of trying to persuade her and the conclusion he would be reaching. She had been useful to him and worth having on tour in the van which she had made comfortable and livable for him, a way of life to which he had become accustomed. But he, himself, had said at the parting from their rolling home with the prescience of the experienced trouper, “Christ knows when we’ll see that again.” From then on they would be living in digs or, if something went wrong with the Amsterdam job upon which he counted, they would have to journey on, seeking work to be able to eat and exist. She knew that he was thinking that a man alone could travel further and faster and hold out longer than two. And so it was good riddance to her then, and goodbye, and Williams need not even have the whisper of a conscience to jog him, not that he ever had much of one.

“Okay, Rose,” he said, “if that’s the way you feel. Goodbye.” And then he added, “Good luck to you,” but made no further gesture, such as perhaps to kiss her or enquire what she would do or whether she had so much as a penny on her.

The whistle of the guard had piped; the engine shrieked and began its slow
chuff-chuff.
The train had begun to move. Williams, still standing in the open doorway, suddenly went into the most extraordinary gyrations, slapping himself on the breast and then on the hips, and Rose, looking up at him anxiously, asked, “Is anything wrong?”

“No, no,” said Williams, one hand inside his breast pocket, “it’s all right. I’ve got your ticket. I thought maybe I’d given it to you. I can cash it in Amsterdam.” And with this he turned and vanished within the vestibule.

As the train crawled out of the station, Rose had picked up her suitcase and, not looking back either, had marched off the platform to the plaza outside and begun the long, hard struggle, friendless, moneyless, languageless, return to Zalano.

But now, encircled by the four pairs of eyes, she could not tell them any of this or speak of the strange tug upon her heart and person that had brought her back; home, the love and trust of wild things, the yearning for Toby. The living wagon that she and Williams had occupied was close by. Beyond, at the bottom of the enclosure, she could glimpse the flash of orange and black as the great tiger paced his cage, and the furry figure of the brown bear sitting on his haunches, his tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth. And there in front of her, filling her eyes and within touch of her hand, was the possessor of her heart—Toby. Yet not a word of this could pass her lips. She felt hopelessly imprisoned within herself.

It was Mr. Albert who broke into this gaol. He was dancing again with excitement at her return, at seeing her, and he seized her eagerly by the arm, pulling at her in the direction of the beasts. “Come on, Rosie. They’re waiting for you! Listen to ’em! Look at old Rajah!”

Rose began to laugh suddenly, out of the pure joy of being there, of being loved, and went flying with him down the enclosure.

The two men and the misshapen dwarf stood looking after her. Janos cried, “Hokay, hokay. That is good. Except how are we going to feed her?” He waddled back to the clown wagon and picked up his tin. Her presence would mean shorter rations for him. Toby and Deeter watched silently and saw the tiger hurl himself at the bars of his cage and then roll over onto his back, his paws waving ridiculously in the air.

The boy glanced at the ex-cowpuncher, and his lids narrowed suddenly, for Deeter was eyeing Rose and the merest suspicion of a tongue appeared momentarily at the edge of his thin lips, passed along them and disappeared. The gaze of the American shifted and Toby followed its line to Rose’s suitcase resting on the ground. He went over and picked it up and said to Deeter, “Take it easy, old boy.” And there was no mistaking his emphasis on the “old.” “Maybe you wouldn’t even be able to do much about it any more.”

For a moment, the horseman’s face turned dark with fury and he was left speechless, not so much because of the slur but because the boy had read his mind and beaten him to it with all the impudence and impetuousness of youth. And besides, he was no longer all that sure of himself. He twisted his lips into the semblance of a grin and said, “Okay, bub. A stiff prick ain’t the answer to everything. You’ll find out.” He turned on his heel and walked off to the horse tent.

Toby continued to the Walterses’ living wagon, put the suitcase inside the door, and came back again to stand in the centre of the enclosure, watching Rose. He knew that Albert would have sense enough not to let her go near Judy who was restlessly stamping her feet and “pounding rice,” which she always did when she had something on her mind. Rose was cuddling Congo. Mr. Albert was still doing his dance of ecstasy. After a little, Rose came walking back alone to where Toby was standing, and thus they faced one another for an instant without speaking. And because of their different emotions, clouding their senses and their vision, neither could see within or read or guess the mind of the other.

“Why did you come back?” Toby asked.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t help it.” Under his gaze she lowered her eyes and added lamely, “I thought maybe I could be of some help.”

Toby said, “You’re another mouth to feed. That bastard Marvel didn’t leave us much. Maybe if something happened and he didn’t get back here it might get tough.”

Rose looked up angrily and cried, “I wouldn’t care.” But then immediately was contrite and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I don’t eat very much. I’m not ever that hungry.” Then she concluded, “I’ll try not to be in the way,” and made to move in the direction of Jackdaw Williams’ van, but stopped as, searching for her suitcase, she saw that it was no longer there.

“Where’s my bag?” she asked.

“I took it,” Toby replied.

She challenged him now with her stubborn chin raised and her green eyes flashing. “Where is it?” she asked.

“In my wagon,” Toby Walters replied, and threw her challenge back at her insolently, possessively, and overwhelmingly, destroying the small pitiful defiance she had thought to put up. Thus they stared at each other yet another instant, the boy all male, aggressive, demanding, imperiously insisting.

The fire went out of her eyes and the starch from her spine. Her shoulders drooped, and when she looked up at him it was through narrowed eyelids, and she blinked as though what she saw was too bright and dazzling to be regarded unshaded, and she asked finally, “Kin I have a wash? I’m all dirty.” And she looked down at herself—anything not to be looking into that loved face.

“Okay,” Toby said and could not keep the shaking and the exultation out of his voice. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Up to that time, from force of habit he had been sleeping in his own narrow bunk on the top shelf of the boys’ side of the wagon. That had been his place as long as he could remember and he had stuck to it. But now they were gone, his quarreling prim-mouthed sisters, the mocking, know-it-all brothers, and the nagging parents. He was boss. He led Rose through to the compartment formerly occupied by his father and mother. They were old-fashioned and had slept together in a built-in bed that took up half the width of the caravan.

“You can shack in here,” Toby said.

The girl regarded him curiously. Then submissively she put her suitcase onto the bed.

“There’s a shower in that closet,” Toby said, “but there won’t be any hot water.”

“That’s all right,” she replied, and her weariness lay like a mantle over her—dust and fatigue and submission. “I’ll just have a wash and then a bit of a lie down.”

“I’ll get you something to eat,” Toby said.

“That would be nice.”

He went into the galley and lit the stove. There were bread, cheese, and tea, and he prepared to fry up some eggs. He heard the water running and his hands trembled so that he could hardly hold the frying pan and he pictured her standing beneath the shower, soaping her naked body, lifting her arms and with them her breasts.

How long was there still to wait until the evening, the dark when he could have her? “It,” the thing one did, was to him not for daylight. Night first must fall. Then it was going to happen to him. She was there. She had moved in, accepted without a murmur. A real little tart. Shack up with anyone who’d feed her. God knows who else and how many more besides Williams had had a slice off that piece of cake.

He had to tell himself this because she was actually so unlike this with her child’s mouth and innocent expression, and he was frightened in case in some way he might be wrong about her. Still the important thing was to know at last, to find out, to take advantage of this miracle of her return long after he had been resigned never to seeing her again, to become a man, cheaply, at no price, upon a body that would neither protest nor demand. He would be avenged for all the endless anguish and nightmares of his cravings that she had put upon him from the day he had first laid eyes upon her.

When the late summer’s darkness had at last come to Zalano and Janos, Deeter, and Mr. Albert had retired to their quarters, Toby waited trembling in his own compartment, listening through the partition to the sounds Rose was making as she undressed—soft sounds—just her breathing and quiet, unhurried movements. In his mind he stripped the garments from her until the tension of his passion was almost unbearable.

He restrained himself until he heard the bed creaking as she settled herself and that creaking in itself augmented the pain of his desire, for it was a remembered sound. He had lived with it for years, the creaking of the bed of his parents.

He undressed himself, fumbling and pulling at his clothes, and then, gently easing the door handle, he went in to her. A street lamp from the road cast a single ray through the window by which he could see the pallor of her face and the shine of an eye. She had the sheet drawn up about her body.