Mortlock (13 page)

She broke away from Josie and began to run down the lane, stumbling on the rutted ground.

‘C’mon, Josie, we can’t ’ang about!’ Alfie yelled, throwing the cloak and bonnet to the ground and charging after Arabella. Josie didn’t move. She watched the sail glide away from them. A broad expanse of marsh – tussocks of grass interspersed with reed-filled gulleys – stood between them and the channel the boat sailed along. The most direct route to it was across the mire.

‘We’ll never catch it on the road,’ she called after them. ‘Cut across here.’

Arabella ran on, out of earshot, but Alfie skidded to a halt, looking back and forth, trying to decide whether to follow her or to join Josie.

‘But the marsh is dangerous,’ Alfie said, then stopped, his mouth hanging open as he stared back at the house. Rookery Heights had erupted in a cloud of black. Hundreds of crows and rooks swirled and darted in and out of each other.

‘It’s going to become even more dangerous here,’ Josie gasped, watching the cackling thundercloud. ‘We’ve got to get on that barge.’

She turned for the marshes and ran. She could hear Alfie following. He came alongside her and she threw off the bonnet and cloak, leaving them to lie in the long, coarse grass. Behind them, the boiling, seething swarm of birds circled and swooped, getting bigger by the second as the red sail across the marshes became smaller.

.

.

Now the day being done and the night coming on,

Those two little babies sat under a stone.

They sobbed and they sighed, they sat there and cried,

Those two little babies, they lay down and died.

Pretty babes in the wood, pretty babes in the wood,

O, don’t you remember those babes in the wood?

‘Babes in the Wood’, traditional folk song

.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Lost in the Mist

The sound of cackling and angry cawing grew louder as Josie and Alfie struggled through the marsh grass. Josie’s legs burned with the effort of bounding through the clinging stalks that snagged and tugged at her skirts. She cursed the impractical clothing and hitched the hems up to her knees.

‘Alfie, can you see the barge?’ she panted. The ground undulated, making her stumble and stagger. One minute, hard tussocks met the soles of her boots; the next, soft yielding mud and thick reeds. Alfie had overtaken her, but even he struggled to move fast.

‘Think so,’ he gasped back. ‘But it’s gettin’ hard to see.’

He was right. A thin grey mist began to rise from the ground, blurring the horizon and making anything distant indistinct. Josie glanced back at the thickening cloud of angry birds swirling towards them: a thousand tiny specks that conglomerated into a vengeful monster. But some of the specks weren’t so tiny. The Aunts were in among the angry swarm, screaming their bloodlust.

‘What about Arabella?’ she yelled.

‘I don’t think they’re interested in her, Josie – hurry!’ Alfie yelled. ‘They’ll be on us in a flash!’

Josie leapt from one grassy hillock to another. Her lungs felt like they would burst with the effort as she caught up with Alfie. Each step squelched and water seeped into their boots, between their toes. Running became even more difficult. The rotten smell of marsh water filled their nostrils as they plunged on, trying to ignore the insistent cackling screeches that echoed close behind them. The barge had vanished from sight, forgotten in the scramble to survive and shrouded by the thickening mist.

Josie lost her footing and collapsed on to the wet earth. The grass seemed to open up and she gasped at the cold of the marsh as it engulfed her. Brackish, soily water filled her mouth, nose and ears, deadening the screams of the crows for an instant. She pulled her head up and found herself waist deep in a gully, coughing and spluttering. Alfie grabbed her under the armpits and began to drag her out of the pit.

‘No time for a bath,’ he panted. ‘Quick, come on . . .’

They struggled on but Josie had lost all sense of where they were heading. Cold numbed her and the water still stung her eyes. She gripped on to Alfie’s coat-tails, tripping and sliding blindly as he pulled her along. Mud smeared her legs as she slipped again, dragging Alfie with her. The noise of the crows deafened them as a few birds swooped. Josie lashed out with the back of her hand, swatting the first attacker aside. Even blinded by ditchwater she couldn’t miss.

A sudden chill bit into her. She rubbed her eyes and found the mist had solidified into a thick, freezing fog. Alfie was picking himself up, only a foot or so away, but he was no more than a shadow to Josie. He panted and his breath billowed into the freezing mist. Somewhere to their left, the raucous crows faded into the distance.

‘Hope we’ve lost them,’ Alfie said, his teeth chattering.

‘We could lose each other in this pea-souper,’ Josie said, shivering and hugging herself. Her wet clothes were no protection from the cold; they clung to her, numbing her to the bone. ‘What should we do? Wait?’

‘I don’t think we should,’ Alfie murmured, jerking his chin at something behind Josie.

She turned to see a dark figure, shadowy, some distance away, but moving towards them slowly. Josie could just see the outline of a long beak, the spiky head feathers. Frantic, she scanned right and left for a hiding place. The ground lay flat and featureless but for the murky pool of water she’d just slipped in. She grabbed Alfie and pulled him back to the pool, gasping as the cold water engulfed her again. She heard Alfie yelp as she took a deep breath. The massive crow-Aunt loomed nearer in the gloom. Josie pointed at the water, then ducked her head under, hoping that Alfie had the guts to do the same.

The freezing water hurt, making her ache in her very bones, between her eyes, in every joint, in every muscle. Her crushed lungs screamed for air and she could hear her heart drumming. Alfie gripped her shoulder, holding them both down, his cheeks puffed out and eyes screwed shut. His skin looked brown in the marshy water. Josie prayed he could stay under as long as she could. She glanced up, trying to see through the murk. A stark outline poked up into the sky from the edge of the pool. Aunt Mag wobbled and wavered as the water rippled. The urge to draw breath became an unbearable pressure in Josie’s chest and throat. She wanted to push herself skyward and suck in the sweet air above. The cold drilled into her teeth and jaws. Blackness began to seep into the fringes of her vision.

She glanced up again. The figure had gone. Josie couldn’t wait any longer. With a gasp that nearly filled her lungs with water, she broke the surface and clawed her way up the slimy sides of the pool. Alfie burst up, throwing himself on to the bank, where he lay half out of the pool, gasping hoarsely for breath. Josie couldn’t think, but could only breathe, drawing in lungful after lungful of air. The sound of the crows grew more distant and muffled.

‘Come on,’ she said through chattering teeth. She dragged Alfie right out, falling backwards in the process.

‘You’re about as frozen as me,’ he said, his voice stammering as he grinned down at her and offered a hand.

They staggered through the marsh, unable to tell whether it was day or night, or in which direction they were heading in the silent world of cloud. Everything lay still; only their chattering breath and the scrunch of their feet on the frozen grass disturbed the silence.

Josie stopped. ‘How long have we been walking?’ she said, hugging herself and shaking violently.

‘D-dunno,’ Alfie said. ‘But I’ve g-got to rest soon.’

Josie didn’t reply. In the distance, the strange light pulsed, faint and weak, but piercing the fog and beckoning them.

‘Head that way,’ she said, pointing at it, unable to tell if Alfie shivered from the cold or fear.

They stumbled on, propping each other up when they tripped. Nothing was said as they saved their energy, trying to stay conscious as the bitter cold stung their skin and threatened to overwhelm them.

The beckoning glow became all that they saw. Shadows flitted and skimmed past Josie, but still it called to her.

Slowly the mist thinned to reveal a flicker of flame. Square outlines of caravans wavered in the dancing firelight. The fog broke and Josie could make out figures huddled round a huge campfire, casting long, twisted shadows on to the grey canvas wall of a huge circus tent that loomed over them.

Josie increased her pace, pulling Alfie along. She felt almost delirious with cold but the warmth of the fire drew her. The small huddle of men, women and children stared at them as they entered the circle of heat.

One man peeled away from the group. He stood tall and looked impossibly thin, bringing images of stilt men to Josie’s addled mind. His battered top hat emphasised the way he towered above everyone there. He wore a long frock coat and striped trousers.
A ringmaster
, Josie thought feverishly. The glow from the fire drew dark lines on his gaunt, skeletal face, emphasising his cheekbones and deep-set eyes. A spectacular waxed moustache sprang across either side of his face, like the hands of a clock.

‘Come, children,’ the ringmaster said, his voice thick with a heavy accent. ‘You look tired and hungry from your journey. Sit and eat.’

Josie exchanged exhausted glances with Alfie as they slumped down on to the sea-bleached tree trunks that doubled as seats around the fire. Nobody spoke, but she didn’t mind. Warmth bled back into her body, making steam rise from her clothes. She closed her eyes and sighed, revelling in the heat. Someone pushed a bowl into her hands, and soon she was gulping down lumps of meaty stew and gravy-soaked bread, oblivious of her audience. Alfie wolfed down his own food, pausing to nod and mime his thanks with a sloppy crust. The ringmaster nodded back, smiling gently.

When the bowl lay clean and its heat had ebbed into Josie’s hands, she looked back up at the party seated round the fire. It was a rough mix of shawled women, shaggy-haired children with grubby faces, hawk-featured men with golden earrings and missing teeth. But they all looked grey; the colour seemed washed out of their skin and their ragged, worn clothes. Josie could see that their eyes held deep sorrow, despite their smiles.

The ringmaster gestured to the shadows. ‘You need sleep. I will escort you to your caravan,’ he announced.

‘We have a caravan?’ Josie said, staggering to her feet.

‘There is always room at Lorenzo’s Circus,’ the skinny man said, his eyes deep and sad. ‘Always room for the lost.’

.

.

Nine children you have borne.

Three were buried under your bed’s head,

And three under your brewing lead.

Another three on the playing green;

Count, Maid, and there be nine.

‘The Maid and the Palmer’, traditional folk song

.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Homecoming

Josie held her breath when she heard the name. She felt Alfie’s hand grip hers. All she could hear was the crackle of the fire and her own heartbeat.

‘Lorenzo’s Incredible Circus,’ Josie whispered. In her mind’s eye she saw the poster in Scrabsnitch’s shop: the ringmaster with arms extended, the lion clawing at the air and their mother, Madame Lilly.

‘Forgive me.’ The ringmaster bowed deeply. ‘I forget my manners. I am Lorenzo, master of this circus and your host . . .’

‘Then you’d know our mother, Madame Lilly,’ Josie said. Suddenly she felt so alive, full of curiosity and excitement. Lorenzo’s expression remained long and drawn. Josie looked around the circle; grim faces stared back at her.

‘You are Lilly’s children?’ He sighed and shook his head.

‘Yes.’ Josie beamed. ‘What was she like? Was she as beautiful as we’ve been told? How –’

Lorenzo held up a long, slender hand. ‘Child, save your questions for the morning. Let us find you a bed. You must sleep. Believe me, there will be more than enough time to talk about . . . the old days.’ Lorenzo turned his back on her and started walking.

Josie shivered, fatigue seeping back once more, and glanced at Alfie, who was keeping close behind her. Away from the fire, he looked pinched with cold, and pale. They followed Lorenzo, dragging their tired bodies through the cold night. Coarse marsh grass hissed and whispered in the gentle breeze. Alfie groaned and stumbled against her.

‘Are you all right?’ Josie whispered, feeling his weight on her shoulder.

‘I dunno,’ Alfie replied. ‘I feel exhausted.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ Josie sighed. ‘We’ll get some sleep soon.’

The caravans extended in a semicircle around the big tent, square shadows disappearing into the mist and dark. Lorenzo stopped at the first van and gestured.

‘You can rest here,’ he said. ‘And then maybe tomorrow you can meet everyone.’

Josie stood in the big tent, hurling knives. Blade after blade hit its mark in a breathtaking display. The audience cheered and applauded; she thought her heart would burst with pride. Lorenzo raised a hand towards her.

‘Artemis the Huntress!’ he cried.

Madame Lilly stood at the entrance to the ring, clapping her bejewelled hands, her dark features full of joy.

I’m home.
Josie grinned, bowing again and again.
I’m home . . .

With a gasp, she sat bolt upright up in bed. The covers lay cast to one side. The cold of the caravan had woken her. Her breath clouded the air as she dragged the blankets back over her, desperate to cling to the pleasure of the dream. Wide awake now, she scanned the tiny caravan.

Alfie slept in the bed opposite her, so close she could have reached out and touched him. Blankets were piled on top of him, his breath puffing out from beneath them. Pots and pans hung along the wall above him and the window of a small pot-bellied stove glowed red in the corner. Josie had no recollection of getting into bed. The last thing she remembered was dragging off her wet clothes.

Muffled voices from outside drew her to the tiny frosted window that let a little moonlight into the caravan. The tall, thin figure of Lorenzo stood talking to someone Josie could not make out in the darkness.

‘Will they perform?’ said a gruff voice from the shadows.

‘They have no choice,’ Lorenzo said, his voice sad.

‘They always have a choice,’ replied the voice.

The two figures moved away, the rest of their conversation lost as they disappeared into the night.

Her heart leapt. There was to be a performance! The happiness of her dream still fizzed faintly within her – that warm feeling, the roar of the crowd. That would be good, wouldn’t it? So why had Lorenzo sounded so despondent? Maybe he was always like that. Josie thought of Cardamom’s dark moods, his forlorn loneliness offstage. And what was all that about Josie choosing not to perform?
As if.
She smiled to herself and sat back in bed. Performing was in her blood.

At least the old wives’ tale Arabella had told them about the circus wasn’t true. This was a real circus, with a tent and performers. And at least here she and Alfie would be safer from the Aunts, who didn’t seem to have pursued them across the marshes.

She shook herself. She didn’t have to think about them. Instead, she imagined tumbling into the ring again, the brass band striking up a lively polka as she cartwheeled across the sawdust floor. Eventually, Josie’s eyelids drooped and she slipped back into a world of lights and music and cheers.

She awoke to the sound of Alfie rattling the stove as he put more logs into the firebox.

‘You awake, then?’ he said, dragging his trousers on and pulling his braces over his shoulders. ‘The stove’s just about dried these out. I hung your skirts up for a bit so it shouldn’t be too bad.’

Josie dragged herself out from under the warm sheets and pulled on her torn skirts and jacket. The seams felt damp but the warmth of the stove countered the cold.

‘Lorenzo’s Circus, Alfie,’ Josie said, excitement fluttering inside her. ‘Who’d have thought it? We can find out all about Mother and perform and –’

‘Yeah, right . . . Come on, let’s have a look around,’ Alfie said. He still looked tired, his eyes puffy and his face pale.

‘Didn’t you sleep very well?’ Josie said, pulling her hair back and tying it up. Her ribbon was one of the few items that had dried out properly, although her hair tangled and snagged in her fingers.

‘Like a log, but I still woke feelin’ like bloomin’ death,’ Alfie said.

They stepped out into the gloom of a cold winter’s day. A thin mist clung to everything, giving the caravans a ghostly quality. The horizon was invisible, the marshes lost. All that existed was this grey world. Everything huddled around the tent that loomed out of the fog like a mountain.

‘Just think, Alfie, a real circus.’ Josie clapped her hands. ‘And they’re bound to be our friends. If they knew Madame Lilly . . .’

‘I’m not sure. It just looks a bit, well, dingy to me,’ Alfie said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. ‘Look at the state of the caravans, all peelin’ paint an’ cracked windows.’

‘They’re probably over-wintering,’ Josie said. ‘They’ll give them a lick of paint in the spring.’

‘This mist sticks to everythin’. And did you hear Lorenzo last night?’ Alfie pulled a long face and put on a thick accent. ‘You can
rrrest
here . . . Cor, he didn’t ’ave to make it sound so permanent!’

‘He was just being hospitable, that’s all.’ Josie frowned at Alfie. Why was he being so negative? It wasn’t good manners to mock Lorenzo.

‘And listen . . .’ Alfie said, pulling a face.

‘I can’t hear a thing.’ Josie felt a stab of irritation.

‘Exactly. No birdsong,’ Alfie persisted.

Josie clenched her fists. She wanted to hit him. He was spoiling everything.

‘Well, at least there aren’t any crows either,’ she snapped. ‘You’re not thinking of Arabella’s old wives’ tale, are you? It’s just a circus, Alfie. If we hadn’t met them then we probably would have frozen to death by now. They fed us and gave us a bed for the night – you should be grateful!’

A flash of brown fur and a squeak made Josie start. A monkey scurried across their path and up on to the ropes of the big top nearby. An ox of a man in a baggy chequered suit lumbered close behind. Faded white make-up stained his unshaven face and he looked ready to strangle the creature.

‘Walnut! Come back here, you little demon,’ bellowed the man, grabbing at the monkey and sending it corkscrewing up the ropes on to the roof of the tent.

Josie could see Alfie shaking as the figure turned to them. She shivered, too, as the clown gave them a lopsided grin full of yellowed, crooked teeth.

‘The babes have returned home, then, eh?’ The man beamed, tucking his thumbs into his red braces. ‘I remember you. How could Old Ulrico forget? You and your precious mother.’ He spat at their feet and paced off after the monkey as it leapt from the side of the tent, scampering between the man’s feet and away.

‘Ulrico,’ she whispered. ‘From the poster – do you remember?’

‘Don’t think he liked us.’ Alfie shivered as the shabby clown wandered into the thick fog that closed behind him like theatre curtains. ‘Or the fact that we’re Madame Lilly’s kids.’

‘Well, every show has its rough diamonds,’ Josie said, pursing her lips at him. ‘I can’t remember a single cheerful clown back at the Erato . . .’ She waited for the sarcastic retort, but none came.

‘I was just sayin’, that’s all,’ Alfie said, looking hurt.

‘Well, don’t . . .’ Josie began, but three children came tumbling from a nearby caravan, making her jump back with a yelp – two boys, one girl, all with thick black hair, deep brown eyes and broad smiles. The eldest boy fell to his knees as the others cartwheeled over him, hands on his shoulders. As they landed, he sprang to his feet and went straight into a somersault.

‘Welcome! We have been much looking forward to meeting you!’ beamed the older boy. ‘I’m Nicolao, this is my brother Paulo and my sister Ashena.’ The other two bowed politely but they couldn’t keep still, constantly shoving each other or doing handstands. Josie managed a weak smile.

‘We are the Gambinis,’ Ashena said, grinning. ‘You will join us for some food, no?’

Josie and Alfie nodded. But Josie was looking at the children’s clothes, ragged and torn, their faces grey. They were just like everyone else they had seen in this place. She glanced over at Alfie, who raised an eyebrow. He looked no better, she thought, with the dark rings under his eyes and his haggard expression. Maybe it was living out on the marsh that did it. He swayed and stumbled drunkenly.

‘Alfie, what’s wrong with you?’ Josie said, grabbing his elbow.

‘Nuffin’, just a bit tired, that’s all. A bit of breakfast’ll sort it, for sure.’

Inside the Gambinis’ caravan a fire crackled in the stove, struggling to keep the cold morning air at bay. Josie, wrapped in an old blanket, began to relax as they shared the children’s thin porridge. At least it was something warm. They sat crowded around a small table, chatting.

‘I’m sorry we startled you,’ Paulo said, opening the curtains and sitting by Josie. ‘Tumbling is all we ever do.’

‘My guardian, the Great Cardamom, taught me to tumble,’ Josie said, spooning some porridge into her mouth. ‘We always filled the Erato theatre.’

‘Tell us more!’ Ashena cried, kneeling at Josie’s side. Josie forgot herself as she eagerly described Cardamom’s act, Gimlet’s cabinets and stage sets, and how the audience sat amazed and baffled at her guardian’s tricks.

‘Cardamom, he was here, with us,’ Nicolao said. ‘Such a happy man . . .’

‘But not a great conjurer.’ Paulo grinned. ‘Sounds like he practises . . .’

‘You knew him?’ Josie said, excited.

‘How’s that possible?’ Alfie frowned across the table at Josie, brandishing his spoon like a weapon.

‘No, no . . . we . . .’ Ashena said, her eyes wide. ‘Yes, we hear about him, from Lorenzo, yes –’

‘Anyway, tell us more. We love your stories,’ Nicolao cut in, smiling.

The Gambinis listened as Josie continued, weak smiles tracing curves across their staring faces. Alfie sat opposite her, his head nodding. Josie glanced over to him every now and then. He looked like he was napping, his eyes shut, his head lolling forward. She wondered why he was so tired.
He said he slept well
, she thought.
It doesn’t make sense.

‘So how long have you been performing?’ Josie said, shaking herself to attention. She scanned the Gambinis’ grubby faces as they huddled round her.

‘All our lives,’ Nicolao said, his voice sounding distant. ‘It is all we know.’

‘Our parents died when we were young,’ Paulo added, shuffling closer. ‘An accident on the trapeze.’

‘They said that when they fell, the audience nearly trampled each other in an effort to see the mangled corpses,’ Ashena said, gazing deep into Josie’s face.

‘That’s terrible,’ Josie said. ‘Who looks after you now?’

‘The circus looks after its own,’ Nicolao answered.

‘Even unto death,’ Paulo murmured.

‘Alfie, he performs, yes?’ Ashena said, her voice bright and loud, breaking the sombre mood. Alfie’s eyes flickered open at the mention of his name.

‘No,’ he mumbled and stirred his spoon around his untouched porridge. ‘No. I’m an undertaker’s mute.’

‘A what?’ asked Paulo, a puzzled smile frozen on his face.

‘An undertaker’s mute,’ Alfie repeated. ‘I help Mr Wiggins the undertaker. I help him run funerals.’

Josie felt cross with him. Why did he look so miserable? He should be glad they were safe. He just didn’t like the idea of her having more in common with the circus folk. He was jealous. That’s what it was.

‘He is a kind of actor,’ she said, narrowing her eyes at him. ‘He walks behind funeral carriages looking sad, even when he doesn’t know the person who died.’

‘You get paid for that?’ Nicolao took a mouthful of gruel and shook his head.