Page 29 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘No what?’

‘No, sir. I don’t think you lie.’

‘I’ll not say it again…’

The voices trailed away to strong whispers. Then, quiet.

Michel picked his way back to his tent, and saw it was lit up from inside with a torch, a figure moving around like a shadow puppet behind the canvas. Drawing back the flap, he was confronted with his night-time visitor.

Odélie.

Her face and rouged lips glowed in the light of the torch she had placed on the ground; she perched on his small bed, smiling at him. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I was looking—’

‘For me?’ she interrupted. ‘Come, sit with me.’

Michel sat on the edge of the bed and stared at Odélie, her eyes bright, her lips glistening. He smiled at her. ‘Cigarette?’ he asked, and took one from his trouser pocket.

‘Let’s share,’ she said, drawing in the smoke as he lit it for her.

Michel nodded and took the cigarette from her. ‘Is this allowed?’

‘Sharing a cigarette? I think that’s OK.’ She grinned and took the cigarette from his mouth.

As he blew the smoke out, she waited a second then kissed him, pushing herself against him so that he fell into the kiss and down onto the bed.

He pulled away. ‘We shouldn’t. I’ll get thrown out.’

‘You’ll stay,’ Odélie said, leaning down. She turned off the small torch, and in the blackness, he heard her remove her clothes.

‘You’ll stay,’ she said again, as she lowered her naked weight on top of him.

Michel woke at dawn, feeling relaxed and warm. He opened his eyes and Odélie was gone, but the scent of her remained. He dressed quickly, washing his face at the two barrels of water that had been placed near the dug-out latrines.

He did not breakfast but grabbed a cup of coffee to take with him before collecting Beau and leading him to a nearby field, away from distraction.

Michel let Beau loose to roam and feed. He sat in the long grass and sipped at his coffee, watching him move – the twitch of his tail, the ears that moved back then forwards – always alert, never relaxed. It was the kind of summer morning that inspired slowness, when in Paris, women would hang out laundry, then sit with their neighbours and wait until it was dry; when Bertrand would roll up his sleeves, pack a picnic and beg Michel to take a day off, and together they would spend a day boating, reading and drinking wine. Here, slowness was all around him; bees buzzed lazily, still tired from their night-time slumber, whilst birds dipped and chirped as they sought their breakfast. Even the camp behind him was slow to stir. Turning around he saw people walking towards the breakfast tent; some sat, smoked and drank coffee outside their tents. He looked for Odélie, for Jean and for Frieda, yet he could not pick them out.

Returning his attention to Beau, he saw how the stallion’s eyes still watched Michel, his muscles taut beneath the black sheen of his coat – ready to run, ready to disappear.

Michel knew how he felt – restless and scared. When his coffee was gone, he placed the cup on the ground and stood slowly, taking a few steps closer to Beau, every now and then crouching down slowly when Beau stared at him. The wind was gentle, weaving in between the blades of grass, causing it to ripple like water. It calmed Beau, and even Michel felt his heart slow, his limbs become lighter.

Suddenly, as if the two had spoken, Beau walked towards Michel, his head bowed, and nuzzled into Michel’s chest.

Michel clipped a lunge rope onto his bridle, and bit by bit gave him length. With a whistle and a gentle tug on the rope, Beau walked in a circle around Michel, then with a click of his tongue, and some more length to the rope, Beau began to trot.

‘You’ll need this!’ a voice rang out.

Michel turned to see Werner at the fence, waving a large lunge whip in the air. Beau caught sight of the whip and whinnied. He stomped at the grass, his ears backwards, his nostrils flared.

‘I don’t use them,’ Michel said.

‘Well, I do. Use it. Give him a quick flick and he’ll soon learn.’

‘It’s better my way. You asked me to train him.’

‘I did. I thought you knew what you were doing. Obviously, I was wrong. Take the whip.’