Authors: Katie M John
The travelling fair had set up shop in Hyde Park, not far from the menagerie gardens. Over a hundred gipsy caravans surrounded the
big-
top
. Each one
had
its own unique performance; fortunetellers, strong men, bearded ladies, the list was endless. Beautiful gypsy girls, wearing nothing except for cleverly tied silken handkerchiefs and almost their body weight in gold, skipped barefoot amongst the gathering crowds. Old mothers sat in groups around large black cauldrons
making bowls of hot ‘lamb’ stew,
which you could purchase for a halfpenny a bowl – if you dared.
Strong, sun-beaten gypsy men strolled through their tempor
ary empire in velveteen suits; thick,
gold-hooped earring
s peeped out
from under their oiled, black curls
. They did a good impression of an average swell but it was clear they were not gentlemen; everything they wore was just a little too flamboyant. Their suits were made of fantastical colour combinations, their walking canes overly carved, their top hats decorated with an exotic array of coloured feathers. Steptree wondered what it must be like to be so free of social stuffiness, to cast of the acceptable greys and blacks of Victorian etiquette.
Meg led them towards the animal wagons, each skilfully painted with the plants and animals of another world. There must have been at least twenty, each containing some rare exotic beast; striped horses known as zebras, scaly pre-historic looking crocodiles, and parrots, as brightly coloured as their owners.
The deep g
rowling-roar of the lion in his
cage set Elsie crying and Steptree thought how strange it was that
even at that age
she could sense the creature’s power.
As they walked past the Indian man
, with his huge turban and fat
snake wrapped around his neck, Meg dived into the comfort of her husband’s arm.
As if sensing her fear, the snake moved towards her, letting out a warning hiss that was followed by a small yelp from Meg.
Here in a world where all the rules of society were broken, he allowed his arm to remain around her waist
,
and she walked with her head resting on his arm as if they were young lovers once more.
“I want to take Elsie to the Big T
op. Are you coming?” Meg asked. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled.
“Think I’ll give
that
one a miss, darling.”
She laughed in response and held out her little gloved hand for the penny coins it would cost for entrance.
“Can I leave the pram with you?” She asked as
was
already unbuckling Elsie from her straps.
“Of course!” Impulsively he bent forward and kissed her on the top of her head, surprising himself as much as Meg. She smiled and laughed. “Have fun!
I’ll meet you by the
coconut shell in about an hour.
”
“
See you there,
Mr
.
Grumpy!”
He waved them off through the chattering crowds.
Several times, Meg turned to look at him. All at once, something told him to follow after them, to convince them to go home – return to safety. But he didn’t, he stood there and waved them off as they disappeared out of sight.
A cold shudder ran up the length of his spine.
He felt a little conspicuous pushing the pram – it was even more embarrassing given that
it
was empty. He wandered through the maze of caravans, hiding from the main crowds and hoping to find one of the old mothers who might look after it in exchange for a promised payment. This was what he c
onvinced himself he was doing, rather than admitting he was really
looking out for a caravan advertising tarot reading
. In truth, t
he playing card was the reason he had agreed to
the outing
. It had been left as a message, only he didn’t speak the language. Maybe someone here could.
When he had moved far enough away from the crowds for their noise to be only a dis
tant mummer, he found what he’
d been looking for.
“Can I help ye?”
T
he gypsy man was in his sixties. A
red spotted napkin tied at his neck and a simple woollen waistcoat told Steptree that he was of the old kind
;
country folk, connected deeply to the land and the seasons, not the new breed of dandy criminals that paraded out there amongst the circus.
“I’m looking for someone who can read the cards.”
“Aye.”
The gypsy’s eyes reminded Steptree of polished jet buttons. He coughed, unsure exactly how to proceed with the conversation.
“Do you know someone who can help me?”
“Aye, I do
.
”
He stood and spat o
ut the wad of shag tobacco he’
d been chewing before dipping his head through the low
,
arched roof of the van.
“
Come inside.”
Steptree scanned around, nervous about leaving the expensive pram without watch. The
man
must have noted his hesitation. “There ain’t
no
harm come of it out there.”
Reluctantly, he
pulled the pram up to the van and followed the man
, ducking his head under the curved roof.
Inside
the van
it was an Aladdin’s cave; bright polished silver and brass
hung from hooks and
patchwork quilts and throws made it look as if the whole of the inside of the caravan
were
made from jewels. Sat at a small table, reading a penny dreadful was a
woman. She wore a pair of gold-
wired spectacles low on her nose. Steptree guessed
that
she was the man’s wife. She didn’t look overly happy at being disturbed.
“Walt?”
“Fella wants to know t’
cards.”
She looked from
Walt
, to the cards and then to Steptree. When she looked at him
, he swore he saw
a
shadow slid
e
over her face. Steptree cursed his over
-
active imagination.
He’d been plagued
by ominous feelings all day, all of them defying reason.
“What’s he want to know the cards for?” she asked Walt, as if Steptree was an idiot and unable to speak for himself.
“I don’t want a tarot reading.”
Steptree
fished inside his pocket and pulled out the playing card, “I want someone to tell me what this means.”
The woman raised her eyebrow,
genuinely
curious for the first time since his arrival. He handed it out to her and she reached out
for it
.
“Where did you com
e by it?” The woman turned to look at Walt and a silent communication ran between the two of them. “It’s
not
a hand I recognise.”
“I found it – at a crime scene. I’m a detective.” Walt visibly tensed.
“I’m not here to cause trouble,
I just need to know what this means – please.”
Walt
nodded and left to take
his seat back on the back-
step of the caravan. The woman beckoned Steptree to sit.
“The card is the Queen of C
lubs:
t
he woman’s card. It is also the card of the serpent.” She clicked her tongue. “This is the calling card of a woman who is very powerful
,
or one who thinks she is.”
“The picture?”
“Vanity and boldness;
i
t is a portrait of its owner. If this woman is your enemy, you should be careful, she is confident of winning.”
“She might
have a
right to be,” Steptree said with sad humour.
“You need to be careful. This card reeks of the old world. There is the scent of death about it. You should watch out for your loved ones because she,” the woman tapped the image on the card, “is coming for them.”
Steptree felt sick and terribly out of his depth.
“Who is she?”
The woman shrugged her shoulders in response. “Whoever she is, she’s powerful. You must be strong. Keep your faith – whatever that may be.”
Steptree nodded a slight bow and turned to leave. The woman called after him,
“
Would you like me to read
your
fortune?”
“I might not like what it tells me?”
“Forewarned is forearmed.”
“No, thank you. You’ve told me
enough.”
Steptree reached in his pocket and pulled out
a
silver
six
-
pence, which he placed into her upturned hand. He turned to leave
,
but as he did
,
a question sprang
out of his mouth
, “Does this look like witchcraft to you?”
Before the old woman could answer, a thunderous crash was followed by an outburst of screams. Walt sprang to his feet.
“It’s the Big Top, it’s gone down,” he shouted before dashing off in its direction. Screams erupted everywhere and the word ‘Fire’ spread through the camp. Steptree dashed outside, saw flames licking at the sky. The gas lamps exploded one by one, causing flares of crisis. Animal roars and cries joined in with those of the humans. The whole of the camp burst into manic activity.
For Steptree, there was only one clear thought -- he had to rescue his wife and daughter. He rushed towards the site of the Big Top. There was already little left of it and the heat was coming off the remains in hostile waves. Men formed a human chain to pass along buckets of water but it was a futile attempt against the rage of the fire, which had now spread to the neighbouring vans and wagons. Steptree desperately searched around for Meg’s face amongst the crowds of survivors being led to safety.
She wasn’t there.
After a couple of hours stumbling through the chaos seeking her out, he returned alone to the main gates and looked back on the scene. The only people left were the Gypsy community, a couple of small teams of fire-fighters, some newspaper reporters and a row of unrecognisable corpses, inappropriately covered in bright squares of silks. The camp was mainly silent now, as if the whole place had descended into shock. For the first time in his life Steptree was utterly unsure of what he should do.
As he stood there, he became increasingly captivated by a black-clad figure strolling through the wreckage. She had a camera and was taking photographs of the destruction. Steptree assumed that she must be some kind of reporter – but a woman reporter would be a very rare thing indeed. He watched on as she approached the various corpses, turning back the covers. She was looking for someone – not a relative – her actions were too methodical and efficient. After checking all the bodies, she headed towards the gate at the far side of the park. She had not found who or ‘what’ she was looking for.
Steptree should do the same, search for Meg and Elsie amongst the dead – but he refused to believe that they would be there. He waited until the sun went down, and with nothing left to do, he went home. With every step, he prayed he’d find them there.
*
Steptree returned to a quiet house. He felt as if death had made its way into his mouth and fruited. Dread flooded over him and he could barely see for fear. He searched each room frantically, hoping to find his girls curled up together and safe. His heartbeat drowned out his heavy running footsteps. Every room was empty. He fell into his chair and placed his head in the bowl of his hands and cried. Steptree hadn’t cried since he was a boy. The feeling was raw and it hurt; hurt more than he could have ever imagined. The clock chimed.
Warm, living arms enveloped him. The smell of Meg’s lavender perfume filtered through his senses.
“Sssh, William, I’m here. We’re both here.” She stroked his cheek, bringing him back to her. “We were herded out of the North Gate. It’s like Bedlam on the streets. We had to walk the whole way.”
Steptree was too emotionally weakened to respond in words. He pulled Meg towards him as if she were a life raft cast to a drowning man.
16
SECRETS
It was late morning when Kaspian woke alone in a bed that was not his own. The la
st vestiges of autumnal sun
bled weakly through the window laces
. He smiled to himself and
flushed with the memory of
their lovemaking
. Then another memory bit at the edges, turning the sweetness sour. There had been
another girl;
one in a sailor suit with cupid-bow lips
that
tasted of cherries.
A
s his mind slipped into the darkness of guilt, somewhere amongst it
,
the sweetness returned.