Oranges From Spain Read online

  They parked in sight of the tent. Frances wanted to run ahead but her mother restrained her enthusiasm with a sharp word. Louise welcomed the imposition of dignity on her younger sister – this was her treat and she wanted nothing to detract from it. They joined a long queue of other families and she felt comfortingly secure between her parents. Brightly coloured clowns appeared, working their way down the line, selling programmes and joking with children. One of the clowns was on huge stilts. He towered over the queue and seemed like a giant to Louise. Each time he took a step, she bit her lip at the thought of him losing his balance and tumbling to the distant earth in a mixture of broken wood and bone. However, her fear soon turned to laughter as he spread his rigid legs and the clowns ran between them. It was a tantalising preview of what was to come.

  In a few minutes they were seated in the big tent. Frances seemed unimpressed as she sat on the wooden bench.

  ‘It smells funny, mummy. It smells not nice.’

  The child voiced what Louise was thinking, but she was irritated by her younger sister’s constant craving to draw attention to herself. Louise felt that she was intruding into the spotlight reserved for her. The irritation soon passed. It was the animals she liked best. The tigers looked so fierce and frightening. They paraded around the ring in a stealthy prowl which combined pride and disdain. They seemed insulted by the paucity of the tricks they were asked to do, and yet she felt that beneath their bored exteriors burned a savage power. Somehow, the bars of the ring did not look strong enough to hold them if they chose to burst through. She snuggled up to her father for security.

  The lion tamer cracked his whip and snarled at the big cats with heroic bravado. Occasionally, one of the lions would turn on him and paw the air belligerently and then he responded vigorously by imposing his will on the defiant beast, confronting it with commanding gestures and movements. And yet all the time he conveyed a very real sense of danger and vulnerability. Louise admired his courage and thought he looked very handsome. He wore a black shirt and black trousers with a red braid down the leg. His hair was very black and shiny and his skin was brown and suntanned. He smiled a gleaming, white smile, and he used his face and eyes to show all the different emotions he was experiencing. Louise thought he was very brave and gave little squeals of fear whenever a lion seemed to threaten him, clapping enthusiastically when he bowed elaborately after each successful trick. As in all the acts, she felt he was performing just for her, in honour of her birthday, and she was swept along on a wave of excitement. Suddenly, two lions seemed to unite in gestures of aggressive defiance, pawing the air and snarling angrily. Jumping forward, the lion tamer cracked his whip at the delinquent creatures, snapping it about their heads with sharp flicks of his wrist. Enraged, the animals reared up rebelliously. The crowd rustled with concern and Louise gave a cry of horror, but the danger passed almost as quickly as it had come. Standing on his tiptoes and holding his whip like a matador’s sword, he hung over the beasts until they cowered like domestic cats. The applause reached a crescendo.

  Three brightly coloured clowns bounced and rolled into the ring, their outsized suits a blazing patchwork of gaudy colours. Red-nosed, white-faced and small-hatted, they clowned their way through a riot of cars that fell apart, buckets of water, pies in the face, tumbles and trips. Their crazy antics made her laugh openly and with some surprise she heard her laughter mingle with that of her mother and father. Then suddenly one of the clowns was chasing another to where they were sitting. At the last second the intended victim ducked and immediately everyone around her did the same as a full bucket of water headed in their direction, but to a roar of laughter, they were covered in nothing more than a spray of confetti. While they were still shaking the tiny pieces of paper out of their hair, there was a dramatic fanfare and a troupe of white horses cantered into the ring.

  With the horses came the most beautiful girl Louise had ever seen. Her hair was jet black and tied in a sleek ponytail with a pink ribbon. Her brown eyes flashed and sparkled like diamonds. The horses, too, were beautiful. They were completely white and pranced lightly round the ring, resplendent in their blue sequined saddle cloths and red plumes. The horses cantered and trotted in synchronised rhythm and wove a tracery of intricate patterns around the sawdust ring. The girl had a little stringed whip, but it was used only to direct and point, and was without menace. At a command, the horses faced inwards in a circle and rose up on their hind legs. Louise watched her reward them with pats and slaps. The horses seemed to love her and she, in turn, to love them. In the climax of her act she balanced on the back of one of the horses and performed graceful balances and pirouettes as the horses galloped round in a kaleidoscope of hooves and coloured plumes.

  Then, suddenly, in an inexplicable moment of knowledge, Louise knew that she had seen her face. She was sure, and she was sure that, having found it, she would somehow, somewhere, share in its beauty. Her soul rode wild and free on the pure white horses and happiness broke inside her like a wave. She wanted to tell someone but there was no one to listen and even if there had been, she did not know the words to use. It seemed as if on this, her thirteenth birthday, fate had brought her to this moment and this truth. The blue sequins sparkled and the white horses circled in a rhythmic dance that spun her soul round and round with exultant excitement. Everything else faded into oblivion at the matchless richness of this birthday gift. It was gold, frankincense and myrrh – it was her most precious of gifts. Louise watched transfixed as the white horses rounded the ring for the final time and then vanished.

  After this moment all the other acts blended into a blur. Acrobats and jugglers, strong-men and tightrope walkers paraded for her delight and she enjoyed them all, but nothing could break the spell of the white horses and the girl who had shown her her true face. When her father asked if she was enjoying herself she could not bring herself to trust her voice and replied by smiling and snuggling even closer to him. Frances, too, was engrossed by it all, only breaking her attention long enough to consume a pink cloud of candy floss, some of which stuck to her face and hands. Louise smiled at her and felt affection for her. She was glad her sister had shared her birthday treat.

  Gradually, the evening wore on and the remaining acts paled in comparison with what she had seen. She hoped in vain for some kind of grand finale where the girl and her white horses might reappear, but there was no indication that this might happen. She grew impatient and frustrated, and when the clowns reappeared, she found it hard to hide her disappointment. Their loud slapstick grew tiresome and she could not bring herself to laugh. Only one impulse was in her heart now, and the desire to see the face again grew stronger by the second. It grew until it became a hunger that had to be satisfied. Whispering an untruth to her mother and gently rebuffing any offer of company, she slipped quietly out of the row of seats and down the wooden-tiered aisle. Where exactly she was going she did not know, but she felt irresistably drawn to find the face she wanted for her own.

  Her hands plucked nervously at her party dress as she picked her way through a maze of caravans and trailers. Behind her, she could hear the applause of the crowd; in front she was vaguely aware of voices shouting but the words were lost in the noise. Everything was bathed in a strange yellow light that distorted shapes into twisted shadows. Meeting a passing circus hand, she stepped out with greater purpose in an attempt to convince him of her right to be there, but he seemed oblivious to her presence and preoccupied with the costumes he was carrying. She threaded her way through circus debris, skirting wooden crates and trailers. The sound of voices grew louder. Breaking into a floodlit clearing she reached the source. At the rear of an open horsebox sat a man she recognised as the lion tamer. Beside the box white horses were tethered in a line. Stripped of their glittering saddle cloths and plumes, they huddled together for warmth. Their grey tails hung lifelessly and flecks of sweat lathered their bodies and dropped on to the festering sprinkling of straw. As she approached, a shiver rippled through the li
ne and they shuffled their feet restlessly. Their owner stood facing the man lounging arrogantly on the open trailer. His shirt was open to the waist and he drank from a large green bottle, taking deep slugs and wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. Louise drew back into the shadows and watched.

  She was close enough to see the face she was seeking. The thick, cracked layer of make-up was bleached white by the cruel light and dark pools of mascara smouldered under the eyes. The no longer young face was ravaged by a bitter spasm of hate as her eyes slit into black knives that burned to lacerate the man in front of her.

  ‘You said that slut meant nothing to you!’ she screamed, her voice wild and piercing. ‘You said you’d done with her.’

  ‘I’ve told you a thousand times, it’s all over. Why can’t you believe it? Just once in your miserable drunken life, why can’t you believe the truth when you hear it?’

  There was a second of silence and then, like some wounded beast, the woman hurled herself against her tormentor with a howl of rage and pain. Louise pulled further back into the shadows. Standing up, the man repulsed the frenzied attack and then, with one arm, contemptuously flung his attacker to the ground. She lay on the filthy straw, sobbing and breathlessly firing curses into the air. Then suddenly, amid the diatribe, something touched a raw nerve, and as Louise stood trembling in the darkness, she watched the man leap down to the side of the horsebox. In a flashing green arc the bottle smashed against the metal side and showered green diamonds of light. The line of horses jerked and whimpered with fear.

  ‘Say another word and I’ll cut the throat of one of your precious animals. Say one more word and I’ll slash it from ear to ear!’

  And as he spoke, he brandished the jagged bottle in the air.

  Stumbling and almost falling, Louise ran as fast as she could, neither knowing nor caring in which direction she was heading. Hot, stinging tears welled up in her eyes and struggled to be released. She ran and ran, splashes of mud spotting her legs and dress. Her chest was tight with pain and her breath came in deep, heaving gasps. Still she ran. Above her, the sky tented in sequined blackness and from behind her burst a great crescendo of laughter. The clowns were performing. She felt ringed in an unbreakable circle of bitterness. New tears of anguish filled her eyes, for in her heart she knew they were laughing at her.

  The Fishing Trip

  The boat headed steadily out to sea. It dipped and rose gently through the swelling waves with a firm sense of direction that reassured him. In front of them stretched an empty expanse of distance that spread to the horizon; behind, the diminishing security of a familiar shore. He stood watching the white wake unwind itself easily and wondered where they were heading. The lighthouse blinked light and gulls wheeled effortlessly above, their cries drowned by the remorseless chug of the boat’s engine. His father stood hunched in the tiny entrance of the wheelhouse, holding his large frame steady with one outstretched arm. He could hear him laughing with the skipper, but all the other noises mingled to smother their words. It was strange to see his father so relaxed and at his ease among his men, men who were known to him only as a result of his father’s passing references. It was strange, too, how wrong the impressions he had formed had been. None of the men resembled in any way his mental picture of them. A little salted spray splashed his face. He wished he could hear what his father was laughing at.

  Gradually, the sea was growing rougher, and soon the shore seemed a long way off. There was no going back now. A few of the men began to bait and feather their lines. He watched them curiously. Out of uniform and away from the world of duty they looked as excited as schoolboys. Their jokes and banter seemed curiously similar to what he heard every day in school, as they flourished flamboyantly coloured feathers in a competitive parody of expertise. Some of them offered to help him, and he was pleased by the way they didn’t patronise him or show any obvious deference because of his father’s rank, and he accepted their help gladly, making a little joke of his inexperience. They seemed to accept him naturally as one of their own. It was strange for him to see how they related to his father – it was almost as if he was a different man from the one he knew. This newness intrigued him and swirled around his head as the growing swell bucked the boat.

  His father’s invitation to join the fishing party had surprised him. Now that he was seventeen, their leisure time activities rarely coincided. He had almost refused out of habit, assuming that any adult expedition would be boring. His father had seemed a little embarrassed when he had invited him, almost suggesting reasons for why his son might not want to go. Why he had actually accepted was not clear in his own mind, but he was glad that he had chosen to go. He felt surprisingly at ease among these men who served with his father. What they were like as people when they wore uniform he did not know, but as a team of men on a summer’s evening fishing trip, they were strangely childish and uninhibited in their pursuit of a temporary freedom. His father amazed him – he was like leader of the gang, shouting out a gibberish of nautical commands and advice that was markedly at odds with the quiet sobriety that characterised his usual speech and manner. The men responded with mock salutes and hearty ‘aye, aye, captain’s as if leading seamen in some pirate crew. There were many in-jokes and comic references to people and events he didn’t understand, but he found himself laughing all the same, and his laughter somehow made him feel part of them. A hip flask was produced and passed around, discreetly avoiding him as it moved about the boat. With some curiosity, he wondered if his father would take a swig – he had never seen him drink before – but he was never to know the answer as his father had vanished inside the wheelhouse. Realising that he had lost eye contact sent a momentary shiver of insecurity through him, echoing a childish feeling he had long forgotten. He laughed inwardly at himself and turned his face to the sea.

  A few minutes later his thoughts were disturbed by some activity at the rear of the boat. There was a burst of stifled laughter and frantic movements, the purpose of which he couldn’t follow. Then suddenly, like misbehaving schoolboys who hear the approach of the returning teacher, everyone involved sprang back to his original position. Bemused and intrigued, he watched their intended victim return to where his fishing rod was propped against the side of the boat. As he noticed that the line was dangling over the side, a voice shouted,

  ‘Hey, George, come quick – you’ve caught something!’

  All the men cheered, and shouted encouragement and ludicrous advice as George, a portly, good-humoured man, began sceptically to wind in his line. He joined them as they began to hum with exaggerated drama the music from Jaws. As George, playing to the gallery, swung the fish aboard, there was a volley of cheers which changed to uproarious laughter as he unhooked an obviously rubber fish. As soon as he did this, one of the men grabbed it and began to hammer it with a wooden mallet. It bounced and skimmed across the deck, ricocheting against the circle of spectators. He watched from its edge but shared in the joke, feeling slightly relieved that someone else had been the victim. George seemed to take it all in good spirit and the episode was closed when he rescued his catch and announced,

  ‘Sure with a bit of sauce it’ll not taste any worse than the rest of the wife’s cooking!’

  After this excitement there was a temporary lull. As the boat continued its dogged path, he watched the flanking gulls and wondered at their stamina and effortless aerobatics.

  ‘How’s it going, then?’

  Turning sharply round, he realised that his father had sidled up the boat and now stood at his shoulder.

  ‘Not so bad. I don’t know, though, if I’ll catch anything.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that – if this lot can catch fish anyone can. Before the night’s out they’ll be jumping on to your hook.’

  His father rested his arms on the edge of the boat and stared out at the sea. There was a moment’s silence between them. Made uncomfortable by it, he searched for a reply.

  ‘Are the men always like this?’ he aske
d.

  His father laughed and, turning round, surveyed the crew.

  ‘Only in their own time. When they’re working, they’re a good team – I’ve never worked with any better. Don’t let them fool you – it’s just a healthy way to let off steam. Some of them have gone through some rough times, seen things they’ll never be able to forget, no matter how hard they try.’

  His father fumbled with some hooks then looked out to sea again.

  ‘How’s school going?’

  ‘Okay, I suppose. It took a while to get used to it. It’s a lot different from the last one.’

  ‘I know it hasn’t helped having to move so often. I hope it hasn’t messed things up for you. If it’s any consolation, I think this move will be the last for some time – it looks like I’ve got on as far as I’m going to for a good while yet.’

  ‘Is getting on difficult, then?’

  ‘Hard enough, I suppose. It’s all a question of pretending to be an expert to some people and a know-nothing to others. Being in the right place at the right time helps too, of course.’

  There was silence again. He was vaguely conscious of never having talked with his father in this way before. A gull swooped low and parallel with the boat. Then he felt a soft wordless pat on his back and turned to watch his father return to the far end of the boat. He saw him joking with each of the men he passed and felt a new regret that they had never been really close. It wasn’t that they got on badly – rather it was a case of living lives that only crossed through domestic routine. Even then, there were weeks when his father was on night duty or something like border duty, when they only saw each other in passing. It had been like this for as long as he could remember. In times of tension or danger, his father relied on him to support and reassure his mother. It was an unspoken commission but both father and son recognised its value and importance. His father never talked about his work and discouraged too many direct questions. In one sense he could easily have been going to work in an office or factory. He never wore uniform going to or from the house and when asked what his father worked at, like all policemen’s sons, he automatically replied that he was a civil servant.