The Circus

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Book excerpt

Prologue

The year is 1985. In America, Ronald Reagan is beginning his second term as President of the United States, something which leaves the British public in awe, wondering how a B-list actor can find himself in one of the most important roles of his life, a sign that things are changing across the globe.

In the United Kingdom, teenagers are exploring new fashions, from padded shoulders inspired by the actresses on the drama 'Dallas' to tennis gear as worn on the courts of Wimbledon in the summer. In January of this particular year, British Telecom announced its plans to phase out the iconic red telephone boxes across the country, causing an outcry by the public, who saw them as a part of our heritage. The Royal family were in the news too, with visits to far off lands and rumours of marital troubles for Prince Charles and Princess Diana, a woman who had captured the hearts of every household with her demure looks and tireless campaigning for charities overseas.

The mid 1980's also prompted a change in one of the nation's much loved entertainments, the Circus. People were becoming more aware of the cruelty involved in trying to tame the lions and tigers who were forced to perform nightly in the ring, and the circus owners themselves were forced to look for new acts, with human performers, to replace the traditional animal ones. Enter the daredevil stunt riders, flying through rings of fire on their motorcycles, strong men able to lift three times their own bodyweight and everyone's favourite, the fortune-teller, peering into her crystal ball and conjuring up promises that she sensed her customers wanted to hear, as long as they crossed her palm with a princely sum of money.

It is this strange travelling troupe that I want to introduce you to now. Performers relying upon each other for companionship and support, knowing that night after night they would have to give their work every ounce of energy, smiling for the crowds that flocked to see, and retiring to their caravans and trailers long past midnight, exhausted, hungry and with ears still tingling from the cheers of their captive audience. And then of course, there were the secrets, things that were hidden from public view but secrets all the same!

Chapter One – Psychic Sheila

Lounging back against the vibrantly coloured silk cushions inside her caravan, Sheila Hannigan sucked deeply on a filtered cigarette. It was her fifth one that morning but she didn’t care as there was nobody around to reprimand her and no glaring eyes to shoot disapproving looks. She toyed with the idea of getting up to make a cup of tea, but couldn’t be bothered, and instead reached for the red wine that lay within her grasp on a narrow shelf. There were no glasses close to hand, so Sheila swigged the liquid down straight from the neck of the bottle, closing her eyes as she did so and letting the alcohol hit the back of her throat.

“Feck!” the woman shouted, as the caravan jolted, causing her to spill wine down her chin and on to her frilly white blouse, “Fecking Hell!”

Replacing the bottle on the shelf, Sheila pulled back the curtains and peered outside. She’d almost forgotten that the caravan was mobile, being towed along by a flat-bedded truck piled high with poles and tents, and now she could see that they’d left the main road and were heading down a bumpy country lane. Stubbing out her cigarette in a bone china ashtray, Sheila realised that they must be getting close to the next site, where over the next twenty-four hours everyone would work tirelessly to set up the big top and get ready for yet another opening night at the circus. This was her life and she wouldn’t change it for anything, although there were certain things that she might like to add to it.

After another ten minutes of bumping along, the convoy pulled on to a vast field bordered by traditional stone walls. They were close to the edge of a town, as they always tried to be, and throngs of children had lined the streets as the caravans, trailers, trucks and lorries rolled past, each little face lighting up at the prospect of being taken to see the amazing performers. Many of the spectators had waved and, as was their duty to the public, the travelling group had smiled and raised their hands in acknowledgment, all except for Sheila that was. It was illegal to travel inside a caravan whilst it was in motion therefore, in order to avoid police detection, she had kept herself hidden away behind the violet coloured curtains. The only hint of the occupant’s talents was the paintwork on the outside of her little home, displaying the words ‘Psychic Sheila’ in bold Italics, a talent for which she was both popular and renowned. It helped that she had the inherent gipsy fortune-teller looks too, with long curly black hair and dark eyes that had the ability to look deep into a person’s soul. Sheila had proved her worth over and over and now, every time they revisited a town, the same faces would appear at her door seeking news of their fate. Lucky for her they were willing to pay generously to hear what ‘Psychic Sheila’ had to say but, by the time she had given the circus owner his cut and bought her weekly indulgences, there was never enough left to make a significant impact on her retirement fund and so Sheila stayed on year after year.

Rap, rap, rap at the door.

“Wait a minute,” Sheila yelled, pulling off her blouse and grabbing a clean one, “I’m getting changed.”

“Come on woman,” a deep male voice with a Dublin accent shouted from outside, “We’re going to get something to eat before we set up. Are you coming or not?”

Sheila unlocked the door and peered out. She immediately came face to face with the rugged good looks of Roland, otherwise known as ‘The Great Rolando Circus Master’. He and his father, Roland Senior, were the only other Irish people in the troupe and Sheila felt a close kinship, although she disapproved of his reputation with the ladies.

“Well?” she said, putting one hand on her hip, “What’s the hurry?”

“There’s a café just down the road,” Roland smiled, “Reckon we should get there before the lunchtime crowd, otherwise they might not be able to fit us all in.”

Sheila snorted and reached for her purse, “You go on, but would you bring me a hot bacon sandwich?”

The man smiled, showing perfect white teeth, “Don’t be daft woman, I don’t want your money. You can pay me in kind later on.”

Sheila blushed. Roland always had this effect on her. “Go on with you,” she laughed, “See you later.”

Retreating inside, the gipsy woman stood with her back against the caravan door listening to the hunk of a man calling to someone across the field. It was fantastic how everyone got along, she thought, just like a proper family. It didn’t seem to matter where people came from, and they were a pretty international group, everyone was made to feel just as welcome as the next. Sometimes, but not very often, Sheila wondered what ordinary folk thought about the travelling circus. She would put a large bet on people thinking it was the best job in the world. Hadn’t her father once made a joke about everyone wanting to run away to join the circus? Sheila was certain he had, but it was so long ago that she couldn’t be absolutely sure.

Turning to look in the mirror, Sheila saw a pale face looking back at her. It was a pretty face, but without make-up she looked older than her forty-five years. She sighed and opened a drawer, revealing blusher pots, eyeshadow palettes, mascara, foundation and every shade of lipstick under the sun. This was her favourite time of day, where she could sit alone and transform herself from just plain old Sheila Hannigan into ‘Psychic Fortune-Teller Extraordinaire’. It usually took an hour, as besides the application to her face, there was a suitable outfit to choose, a bandana with gold coins attached to tie over her thick locks and her signature black lace gloves to put on. The end result was very pleasing, both to Sheila and to her fans.

By one o’clock Roland and his buddies had returned and, on seeing Sheila’s caravan door flung wide open, he stepped inside her home without knocking.

“One fresh bacon roll,” he grinned.

“Bloody hell,” she cursed, quickly pulling down her flouncy skirt, “Don’t you ever knock?”

“Sorry Sheila, how was I to know you were adjusting your stockings! The door was wide open.”

“Well, you ought to know better Roland O’Hare. Never enter a ladies chamber uninvited.”

“Ah Sheila, come on,” he soothed, “Any chance of a cuppa?”

“Not until you’ve earned it,” she scolded, “There are tents to put up and allsorts yet.”

Roland nodded and winked as he set the bacon roll down on the worktop, “Rain check darling.”

Outside on the field work was well underway. The trucks were being unloaded and men rushed here and there, hammering, pulling, constructing and shouting. The crew had setting up down to a fine art these days, but it was after many years of experience and the effort was still exhausting. They had a day and a half to get things ready for opening night and the checklists were endless. Besides the big top, there were smaller tents to construct for the sideshows, safety wires to install for the acrobats, candy floss and toffee apple carts to get going and seating to set up for the hundreds of visitors who would flock to the show over the coming week.

Sheila had a second responsibility to her fellow performers, albeit unofficial and self-appointed, she was chief seamstress, fixing ripped seams, making adjustments and generally making good on the wear and tear of the spectacular costumes worn to mesmerize the audience. Her trusty black Singer sewing machine could often be heard spinning its wheel as she turned it at full speed, while very often a half-clothed performer waited patiently for their last minute alteration to be completed. Although by no means the oldest member of the travelling circus, Sheila felt that her status as tailor gave her a motherly quality that the others looked up to. It also meant that during their time together in her caravan, the fortune-teller would often get to find out about the worries, indiscretions and troubles of her fellow circus family. As was her nature, Sheila always listened politely, giving sound advice when it was asked for and never reprimanding. Although, on occasion, she had been very tempted to intervene, especially when the goings-on affected other members of the group, but all in all Sheila was very good at keeping secrets.

The fortune-teller looked over at the pile of costumes waiting to be repaired and altered, enough to keep her busy for the next few hours, but first she needed to devour the warm bacon roll, make a pot of tea and smoke one more cigarette. It was the small pleasures in life that made Sheila content with her lot and God help anyone who threatened to stand in the way of her peace.

The Irishwoman switched on her portable television set while she waited for the kettle to boil, silently thanking Roland O’Hare for hooking her caravan up to the electricity supply the moment they’d arrived. Catching the end of the lunchtime news, Sheila listened intently.

“THERE IS NOW ONE EXTRA SECOND ADDED TO THE CALENDAR YEAR,” the presenter proudly announced.

“Well feck,” Sheila cursed, “What the Devil use is that?”

She stood munching the roll, listening intently as the story unfolded. Within minutes it was over.

“Sheila?” a shrill voice cried, accompanied by a light tapping on the door, “Are you in?”

“Of course I’m in,” she answered, inviting the visitor inside, “Where else would I be?”

A slim, beautiful woman stepped into the caravan. She was clutching a metallic gold leotard.

“Are you being busy?” the young woman asked, her English grammar slightly incorrect and tinged with an Eastern European accent.

“Nope,” Sheila shrugged, “I’m just standing here wondering what to do with an extra fecking second.”

“What?” a confused voice shot back, “I don’t….”

“Ah, never mind,” Sheila continued, taking the gold outfit from the woman’s hands, “What happened this time Luana?”

“Sergei, again,” the younger woman explained, shaking her head, “He try to catch me and grab my swimsuit instead.”

“Leotard Luana, it’s a leotard,” the fortune-teller corrected, holding the garment up to survey the tear.

“You can fix?”

“Yes, no problem,” Sheila sighed, tossing it on to her repair pile, “I’ll bring it over later.”

With plenty to occupy her time that afternoon, it was six o’clock before Sheila left her caravan to deliver the various items that had required her skill and attention. Firstly surveying the wet and muddy ground outside, she pulled on her rubber boots and mackintosh, no longer looking anything like a fortune-teller but more akin to a middle-aged housewife. Making her way across the field to where a cluster of trailers, caravans and camper vans were situated, Sheila was greeted at every step. It should have only taken  quarter of an hour to make her deliveries but such was the activity outside tonight that, after stopping to drink tea with the tent master, chatting to four or five performers along the way and then spending ten minutes watching the fearless motorcycle stuntman practising his new tricks, an hour passed before Sheila had even realised.

“I’d given up on you coming out of your cosy little den tonight,” a deep voice called as Sheila carefully made her way back across the field, trying to avoid the puddles, “Thought you might be avoiding me.”

She turned, wishing that her outfit wasn’t quite so frumpy, and smiled her best smile.

“Good evening Roland. Are you finished for the night?”

“Ah, no chance,” the burly man laughed, “Lots still to do before I can turn in for the night. Why, were you going to invite me over for a nightcap Sheila?”

“Don’t be silly,” she blushed, “You’ve more chance of the Pope calling in for tea.”

The ringmaster thrust his hands deep into his pockets and made to walk away, “You kill me sweetheart,” he chuckled, “You really do.”

Back in her caravan, tidying away the fabric remnants that she’d used to repair some of the costumes, Sheila smiled to herself. She’d become quite close to Roland over the past couple of years and it was a wonderful feeling when he paid her attention, although she knew there would be plenty of women he’d have his eye on as soon as the crowds started to arrive the next evening. Sheila had caught sight of a few indiscretions, young ladies leaving the man’s caravan in the early hours, and also heard the fiery arguments between Roland and his father that always followed.

By sunlight the next morning, the field had been transformed into the most wondrous hive of activity, with the big top up and coloured flags adorning every guide rope. Curious children from the town had been out early on their bicycles too, hoping to catch a glimpse of the clowns without their painted faces and cheekily daring each other to sneak into the main tent arena to see what was going on inside. The tent master always took great pleasure in chasing the local kids away but he did so in jest, pretending to wave an angry fist as he ran after them at a much slower pace than he would usually give chase. Of course the first night, or opening night, in any new town was always the most exciting for the circus performers. It was the night on which they would gage their audience’s reactions, trigger that first barrel of laughter and occasionally do that one off the cuff action that the town would forever remember them for.

In the home of ‘Psychic Sheila’ the day was all about hiding away her most personal belongings, setting out the tools of her trade such as lace tablecloths and candles and polishing up the most prized possession, her crystal ball. Unlike many traditional Romanies who plied the same trade, Sheila’s crystal ball hadn’t been handed down to her through the generations, nor had it belonged to a mentor, but quite simply she’d bought it at an antiques auction many years ago. Heavy and shimmering, with an enormous glass globe on the top, the base was made up of a mountain of silver bats, their rat-like faces showing sharp teeth, giving the impression that any sudden movement would cause them to bite. Sheila kept her crystal ball in a metal case, originally designed for carrying photographic equipment and now lined with dark purple velvet padding, a result of her own clever craftsmanship.

“Come to me my lovely,” the psychic cooed, carefully taking the item out of its case and wiping the glass surface gently with a soft cloth, “We have work to do tonight.”

Sheila leaned over the top of the globe until she could see her own reflection peering back at her. It was at this point on every performance night that plain old Irish-born Sheila Hannigan was transformed into the amazing and talented ‘Psychic Sheila’, the wondrous fortune-teller who could see far into the future with her mystic charm and magical crystal ball.

“Bloody hell,” she grumbled, looking more closely at her reflection, “I’ve got lipstick on my teeth! Now there’s a bad omen if ever there was one.”

Sheila carefully wiped at the red stain on her front tooth with a small piece of tissue and checked herself again in a large vanity mirror on the wall, still not content with the way she looked tonight.

“I’ll have to do,” she told herself, still frowning, “I can hear the footsteps of paying customers.”

Sure enough, a line of young women waited patiently outside. It was always the case, the girls came first, hoping to learn some nugget of insight into their future, while their boyfriends and husbands loitered around waiting to hear the results of their beloved’s fifteen minutes inside ‘Psychic Sheila’s’ caravan. Later on in the evening, swallowing their pride or sometimes just simply curious, a few of the males would knock on the door themselves, wanting to hear what fate had in store for them. Sheila always tried to be a little bit more sympathetic to the men who visited, as many were shy and others non-believers, therefore needing gentle persuasion to open up to her. That particular night, it was a pretty blonde woman in her mid-twenties who was first through the door.

“Hello my dear,” Sheila smiled, indicating to the chair on the opposite side of the table, “Please sit down.”

The woman smiled widely, showing a large gap between her front teeth, “Thank you.”

Sheila gently took the blonde’s hands in hers and closed her eyes as she found it useful to generate the right atmosphere and helped to clear her mind. She held tight for a few moments and then breathed deeply, pulling her crystal ball towards her as she did so. Those moments of reflection had enabled Sheila to feel a slight ridge on the woman’s wedding finger, indicating that a ring had recently been removed. She looked down into the glass orb and glanced up briefly for effect.

“I can see a young man walking away from you,” the psychic murmured, “Not so very long ago.”

The woman nodded but said nothing.

“It was a serious relationship,” Sheila continued, glancing up and noticing her customer’s tearful eyes, “But I see something else. I see another man, maybe a year or so in the future. He’s tall and handsome, and will make you very happy.”

“Will we have children?” the woman asked eagerly, obviously cheered up by the news of her new beau.

“The mist is unclear,” Sheila confessed, but then suddenly sensing the other woman’s stiffening poise she quickly added, “Yes, my dear, I believe you will.”

“Oh, thank you. I never thought I could be happy again without Kevin.”

“You will,” Sheila smiled, sitting upright again, “Happier than you’ve ever been.”

The young woman opened her purse and took out money to pay, the shoulder pads in her summer dress rustling slightly as she moved. Sheila thought how chic her client looked with additional padding in her frock and vowed to add some to her own clothes when she had a moment free, all thoughts of Kevin gone.

“Do you have a dog?” Sheila asked, tucking the note that the woman offered into her bra, “I sense a small brown puppy.”

The young gap-toothed woman beamed, “Yes, his name’s Ben. I got him for company a week ago.”

Sheila nodded, her senses never failed her, they just sometimes took a while to get going.

“Love him with all your heart,” she whispered, “He’ll be more loving and faithful than any man.”

And so the afternoon continued, with a steady throng of customers trotting in and out of the fortune-teller’s caravan, some of the readings being more accurate than others depending upon the vibes between client & medium, until early evening when it was time for Sheila Hannigan to pack away the tools of her trade and venture out to watch the show, as she had done every night for the past five years.

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