‘RINGMASTER FELLED BY A FALLING FEATHER’, the headline screams.
If that doesn’t bring the crowd flocking in, nothing will. Sadly, it’s true. A death at a circus is often caused by an animal act gone wrong, but not this time. I toss the newspaper aside and march out in time to the music, to stand in the center of the sawdust circle under the big top. The spotlight follows me every step of the way.
I bow, and then sweep my arm wide, to each section of seating, acknowledging their attendance. The tent, slowly filling with people for tonight’s show, buzzes with anticipation. Some of the crowd will be hoping to see another tragedy, a slipped foot, two hands that don’t meet, a collision mid-air, at speed. The high-wire act is a big draw card, tonight more than ever.
The performing lions and elephants are always firm favorites, but our animals are aging and expensive to keep. The vet bills alone take the top off any profit. I’ll be glad when we can dispense with them. Public opinion is shifting, yet the children still demand to see them.
With the animal rights lobbyists becoming more vocal I’m seeking out other acts and the trapeze acts needed to lift their game. Their flights are becoming longer, passing each other, almost touching, with somersaults timed to the split-second. Although they practice with a safety net, for the actual performance they insist the net is removed.
I tug the Ringmaster’s jacket down. It doesn’t fit me that well. I buff up the silver buttons with my jacket sleeve and hope my excess weight doesn’t show. I’ve squeezed into the late Ringmaster’s uniform, but my own black trousers are a better fit than his. The false moustache is tickling my nose and I smother a sneeze. I haven’t run the performance for years, despite knowing it off by heart. I prefer to take a lesser role, ensuring the steady flow of acts as they line up down the canvas tunnel. Tonight, I’ve delegated. Curly the Clown is happy to give up a night of slapstick that often becomes brutally physical. He thinks it’s a step up – a bit of authority for a change and I see him standing tall, clipboard in hand at the tunnel entrance.
The seats are filling. I signal for the clowns, and they tumble their way around the ring, tossing sweets, popping balloons and terrifying the small children. Some of the children laugh, but many lips quiver, small limbs cling to parents, for reassurance. Who said clowns are funny? I personally think they are sad characters but what is a circus without clowns?
Everyone in this game has several roles to play, except for the high-wire acts. As specialists and stars, they consider themselves above the rest of the performers. It doesn’t make for teamwork, or a united family, but as the owner I do my best to keep everyone happy. Tonight, they will show their professionalism by flying across the roof of the big top, leaping from swinging bar, to hand, to swing and back. Concentration and split-second timing required, regardless of last night’s horror leaving one of their number injured and the whole team in shock. Overheard mutterings have put the blame for the slipped hand squarely on Felicity, the youngest in the troupe. Hardly out of school she’s been walking tight-ropes and swinging high on trapeze bars from the time she could climb the ladder to the platform.
I blame my son Harrison for the Ringmaster’s death. He and Felicity have a thing going, as teenagers do. I’ve seen the two of them holding hands, sneaking around in the dark and where there’s young love there is always distraction and inattention to detail. I’ve noticed her, often, looking to see where he is, searching below for his admiration before she leaps into space to do her routine. Last night that searching glance lasted too long, her outstretched hand a second late. Her brother’s fingertips slipped past hers and he fell – landing on top of the Ringmaster. The weight of the boy, the angle of the fall and the speed, broke the Ringmaster’s neck. Ironically, his body cushioned the fall for the young trapeze artist. Even so, the lad now has a broken leg and won’t be up in the big top again for several months.
I signal for the elephants to enter and crack the whip as I march around the ring, shouting the names of the animals, their age, their talent and how much we love them. Then I stand on Sheba’s bent knee and vault onto her back. She looks great under the lights, wearing her tasseled covers, the bells ringing as she sways. There’s nothing quite like riding an elephant. I’d forgotten how grand it feels and decide to circle the ring once more before I turn the act over the keepers.
After the elephants the horses arrive, dressed in their finery, high-stepping and then pacing in tandem. Bare-back riders, blond, tight bodices, short skirts; all tits and legs for the punters. The cheering rises to deafening levels then fades as the lions arrive.
Awe and fear still the crowd, especially when the cage doors open and the lions bound out, running in tight circles, tails thrashing. A collective sigh of relief sounds as the beasts climb onto their stools. I stride around the edge of the ring, whip cracking, while their trainer takes them through their tricks. Like all pets they know their job is to entertain and they roar, growl and yawn; swipe with fat declawed paws, knowing their evening meal is coming later – if they are good.
Finally, it’s time for the high-wire act that the crowd has come for. The tension builds as the ring clears. The clowns fight, throw things at each other, race through the seating, hopping from aisle to empty seat to aisle, chasing each other, all the time whipping up the tension and distracting the attention of the punters from the trapeze artists as they climb the four opposing poles, sited as the corners of a square holding up the big top.
The lights dim, a hush falls and the spotlights pick out the performers above us, crowded on ridiculously small platforms, leaning out, swings in hand. A gasp of awe and suspense ripples through the spectators.
I stand, peering up, hoping there will not be a repeat accident. After my introduction I intend to step further aside than the Ringmaster had. Earlier I’d offered a safety net and been scoffed at.
“Be it at your own peril,” I’d told them. “Don’t sue me for damages if anyone falls.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” I bellow, “let me introduce our death-defying troupe of high-wire artists. The best in the world, I’m sure. Certainly, the best you will ever see in this city. It’s a dangerous profession and these people have trained since childhood to perform for you tonight.” I wave my whip, crack it a few times and turn in a circle. Circus crew members planted in the crowd clap and cheer. The punters join in. I wait for the applause to subside.
“Let me say it again. This act is dangerous and deadly. Already, they have had one of their members injured in a fall… and our circus family last night lost a valued member. Show your appreciation for their bravery.”
The crowd responds and when the silence settles, I shout. “The one and only family of trapeze artists, still practicing their art in this country—‘The Flying Feathers’.
It’s an unusual surname, but one that suits this family, ideally.
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