Breadcrumbs

‘Ladies and gentlemen! Now for our grand finale!’

Ringmaster Romero liked to end the show himself. He enjoyed heralding his fellow performers and rallying the crowd but he loved the spotlight even more. Once a knife-thrower, always a knife-thrower.

‘This death-defying, stupendous culmination of your evening here at Utopia’s Travelling Circus will be delivered by yours truly!’

Cue an eruption of cheers which raised the canopy of the Big Top.

‘This act is known as the Spinning Wheel of Death!’

Ooooh! A mass intake of breath sucked the canopy back down again.

‘Of course, it wouldn’t be a showstopper without a volunteer!’

A thousand audience members shot their hands into the air, waving hankies, calling his name, chirruping like an aviary of birds. ‘Me! Me! Me! Me!’

But Ringmaster Romero was drawn to the VIP stall. A beautiful young girl had risen from her chair. She had golden hair and emerald-green eyes, with a blue reticule handbag worn over her white dress. He knew immediately that he was going to pick this enchanting angel for his act.

A beefy, red-face man was fiercely trying to yank the girl back into her seat. Judging from his attire, this ruffian appeared to be the town governor. No doubt he was a fearsome figure to these townspeople but tonight those people were at the circus and their applause had power. Even the governor couldn’t stand against a crescendo of clapping hands.

‘Yes! Young lady! You will do nicely!’ Romero declared and leapt up the stalls towards her, taking the steps two at a time. ‘What is your name, my dear?’

‘Adelaide, sir,’ she said, blushing.

‘Sir?’ Romero repeated for the audience’s ears. ‘That would make me a knight. In which case, you can be my fair maiden. Allow me to rescue you from your fire-breathing dragon.’

The crowd hooted with laughter. Romero took great relish in the venomous glare leveled at him by the seething governor. He took even greater pleasure in offering Adelaide his outstretched hand and leading her away from her tormentor.

As they walked down towards the ring, under the blanket of applause, Adelaide whispered, ‘You’ll have to excuse my husband.’

‘Husband?’ Romero said. ‘I thought he was your father. How old are you?’

‘Sixteen,’ she replied. ‘My parents offered the governor my hand in marriage two years ago. They had terrible debts. It was the governor’s idea.’

Of course it was, thought Romero. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be, kind sir. Your circus has been the greatest night of my life. My husband treats me like a caged bird but right now, to rebel, even for just a minute, is worth all the grief he will give me later.’

Romero was speechless, which was a rare occurrence. Eventually he said, ‘I wish I could help you with that. Instead, I will make you a star. The town will talk about this moment for years to come.’

They had reached the centre of the ring. Showtime.

Romero raised Adelaide’s hand in the air. ‘Once again, give a big hand for Adelaide!’

Thunderous applause.

‘And if you have enough life left in those palms of yours, put your hands together for the Spinning Wheel of Death!’

By now, the Spinning Wheel of Death had been carried into the ring by Thumper, the circus strong-man. It was a circular board, crudely hacked out of wood, painted with red and yellow lines which spiraled from the edges to the centre. This paint job was punctuated with large wounds where Romero’s knives had thudded into the board over the years. The board stood almost vertical like a human dartboard, which is exactly what it was.

‘I will now shackle Adelaide to the board.’

More ooohs, more aaahs. Some perched on the edge of their seats. Others watched through interlaced fingers. The governor scowled impatiently.

‘Come with me, my dear,’ Romero whispered. Adelaide went quietly enough. She was oddly serene. ‘Don’t be frightened. I have done this a thousand times before.’

‘Oh, I’m not frightened. I have worse problems than knives to contend with.’

Romero appreciated the truth in her words. Adelaide dropped her blue reticule bag at the foot of the board as Romero helped her up. He snapped the first metal cuff over her left wrist. As he did so, he saw the red finger-marks where her husband had grabbed her moments before.

‘That looks sore. Is he always so rough with you?’

Adelaide nodded, resigned. ‘My husband is a rough man, in every sense of the word.’

Romero found more bruises when cuffing her right wrist. Blues, blacks, yellows – some were fading, others were more recent.

‘Does he hurt you often?’ Romero said quietly, whilst snapping the clasps over her ankles.

‘Only when I misbehave. He treats me like a child.’ That’s because you are a child, thought Romero.

He had finished cuffing Adelaide to the board. She was spread-eagled like a star. He bowed his head for a moment before facing the audience. He was no stranger to sadness. After all, most of the circus performers were runaways and each had their own tragic story to tell. Even so, this poor girl and her husband, no, her warden... Well, it was a cruel, cruel world.

Romero turned to the audience and raised his voice, ringmaster once more. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Adelaide is now securely fastened to the Spinning Wheel of Death. I imagine you curious folk may be wondering, Romero, why is this contraption named the Spinning Wheel of Death? A fair question and one which I will answer now. Thumper!’

Thumper the strong-man nodded and began turning the metal handle at the base of the wheel. The bevel gears awoke and the board slowly creaked into life, like an ancient creature waking from a deep slumber. It started rotating in a clockwise motion. The rickety clacking sound was ominous and silenced the crowd.

‘Adelaide, my dear, before we can get busy, you may feel a little dizzy!’

As the wheel spun faster, the red and yellow spiral whirled, like a hypnotist’s trick. If Romero stared into it too intensely, he would find himself more disorientated than Adelaide. The trick was to focus on the girl and not the board and, after what he had heard, Adelaide had his full attention.

‘For this act,’ Romero announced, ‘I will require five friends. Let me introduce them.’ He whipped off his long motley ringmaster’s coat to reveal a bandolier strapped across his taut, tattooed torso. Hanging from the bandolier were four throwing knives. The blades were broad, the edges were sharp and the handles were shaped like the emblems of playing cards.

‘Their names are the King, the Queen, the Knave and the Ace!’ Romero tossed each into the air as he called their names and juggled them confidently as they dropped back into his hands. He only had nine fingers nowadays but that was more than adequate to make his knives dance.

‘And the fifth part of this ensemble is known as the Joker!’ The Joker was a throwing axe. He deftly unsheathed it from the back of his belt, mid-juggle, and added it to the mesmerising ballet of blades.

The audience applauded once more but soon shushed as the clowns slowly dimmed the lanterns inside the Big Top. The stalls were left in darkness. The only light remaining was to be found in the ring, illuminating the beautiful young girl helplessly awaiting her fate and the knife-wielding ringmaster who would deliver it.

Romero ceased the juggling and held up his first blade.

‘The first of my knives is the Queen,

Her emblem is that of the Heart.

Her blade may have a beautiful sheen,

But she could still cut you APART!’

Romero threw the knife at his spinning target. The blade flew straight as an arrow, covering the distance of twenty feet in less than a second. The entire Big Top held its breath but their ears were met with a reassuring THUD. The knife had struck wood – not flesh.

A nervous round of applause fluttered around the stalls but it didn’t last long. This was far from over.

‘My second blade married the first,

Ruler of Clubs, the tyrannous King,

Of all my blades, his temper is worst,

Though I promise you won’t feel a THING!’

Romero threw the King of Clubs. It launched towards the red and yellow and white blur – the white was Adelaide’s dress – and another clear THUD echoed around the Big Top. There was barely any applause that time.

Now they get it, thought Romero. This is not some cheap trick. This is life and death.

Thumper did his job well, turning the board slightly faster after each blade landed. It was a blur to most but Romero had conditioned his eyes after decades of staring into that swirl. He could make out Adelaide clearly. The King and Queen stuck firmly alongside each of her ankles.

Adelaide was doing good. Romero found her emerald-green eyes looking back at him. She stared back calmly. They normally close their eyes, thought Romero. But Adelaide wasn’t even blinking. And that’s when Romero knew: the poor girl wasn’t afraid because she welcomed death.

Romero shook his head free of those thoughts and launched into his third haberdasher rhyme.

‘Knife three is from the suit of Spades,

A cutting chap known as the Knave,

His edge is sharpest of all my blades,

So this may be quite a close SHAVE!’

As Romero turned towards the board, he noticed those emerald-green eyes again, fearless, unblinking. It filled his head with pity for this beautiful young girl and the Knave of Spades slipped from his fingers a split-second too soon. Rather than flying straight, it spun handle over blade over handle.

Romero watched wide-eyed as the blade tumbled into the swirl, entire inches off target. His heart stopped beating. Had he delivered the death that the girl welcomed so readily? Had he released her from her torment?

THUD.

Thank Christ for that!

He had struck the board but on the opposite side of the wrist for which he had been aiming – the side closer to her face. That truly had been a close shave. Romero wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and waited for his heart to start pumping again.

Hold it together Romero, he told himself. Forget about the girl, she is nothing more than a prop in this act. Forget about her vile husband. He might be a fiend but tonight he is just an audience member. Your only concern is ending the show with a standing ovation instead of a bloodbath. Now break a leg.

He grabbed his fourth blade.

‘My fourth blade is called the Ace,

The Diamonds are his suit,

I would hate to spoil your face,

So I’ll be careful when I SHOOT!’

Romero turned to the spinning board but, instead of throwing on his final word, he paused. He once again saw those sad, resigned eyes. He could end Adelaide’s misery right now. He could set her free. She would never have to walk back to her husband’s clutches ever again.

‘Ahem,’ Thumper cleared his throat. The strong-man looked concerned.

Romero snapped out of his reverie. He had been standing frozen in the ring, his knife arm raised. The audience watched in confusion, trying to work out if this apparent self-doubt was part of the act.

What was he thinking? Death is no release. Death is the end.

He swallowed his doubts and threw the Ace of Diamonds. It landed true. Just on the outside of Adelaide’s other wrist. He breathed a sigh of relief and picked up his throwing axe, sweat dripping from his brow. It was time to finish the show.

Romero held the axe high for the audience to see. Their eyes peered out of the darkness, terrified and excited and yearning for more. All eyes except those of Adelaide’s husband, the governor. He simply scowled, eyes narrowed with the utmost distaste.

Romero found himself meeting this villain’s gaze and glared back. The governor cracked his knuckles one at a time in harmony with the sound of the Spinning Wheel’s turns.

CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.

The hooligan was preparing his fists for when he got Adelaide home.

CLACK. CLACK.

She would have fresh bruises tomorrow.

CLACK.

He would beat the memory of tonight out of her. All the wonder, all the enchantment – it would be gone.

CLACK.

The circus would no longer be a bright memory for her. She would always remember this as the night when her husband broke her jaw.

CLACK.

Then Romero realised there was another way to set Adelaide free. He gripped the axe tightly and sized up his target.

‘My final friend is the Joker,

This blade is no mere knife.

You will not want to see him poke her,

Because it would surely take her LIFE!’

With a loud war-cry that alarmed the audience, Romero launched the axe at his target.

THUD.

The stalls squealed in fear and delight.

Of course, he had spared the governor. He had every confidence that he could have slayed the dragon at this distance. But what would that mean for the circus? Utopia’s Travelling Circus would be ostracised from the road when word got round that its ringmaster had killed an audience member. No community would welcome them in after that.

No, the show must go on.

Thumper slowed the Spinning Wheel to a gradual halt. It was no longer an alluring creature of death – it was just a round chunk of wood once more.

Adelaide was fine. The axe rested an inch above her golden head and the four knives stood prominently by each limb. The audience were on their feet, clapping their hands and whooping with appreciation as they saw the accuracy of Romero’s handiwork.

‘Are you okay, my dear?’ Romero asked, releasing Adelaide from her shackles.

‘Yes, thank you sir. A little dizzy but all in one piece, thanks to you.’

At that, she stumbled slightly and collapsed back onto the board. She crouched over, her back to Romero and he feared she was being sick. No, she was tougher than that. Adelaide was composing herself and simply reaching down for her blue reticule bag.

Romero, ever the knight, once again offered the fair maiden his hand and helped her down from the board. He escorted her to the centre of the ring where she belonged, the true star of this performance. He raised her hand into the air and the audience went crazy, throwing flowers and handkerchiefs down from the stalls.

Romero bowed and instructed Adelaide to curtsy. She was crying with joy at the adoration. She was the brave heroine of his show. Sadly, the audience would never know what she had to go home to and the true extent of her bravery.

* * *

Much later, Romero sat by himself in the ring. This was one of his rituals after a show. He liked to sit in silence reflecting on the performance, as his troupe tidied the stalls, trimmed away the wax of the candles and locked away the animals.

The stalls had eventually emptied and Adelaide had returned to her captor. As expected, the governor greeted her with a snarl and dragged her out of the Big Top. He wouldn’t start breathing fire until they were behind closed doors but the flames were coming.

My poor fair maiden, Romero thought. Some knight I turned out to be. I handed the maiden back to the dragon.

Romero eventually strolled over to the Spinning Wheel of Death to retrieve his knives. All magic had faded from the contraption. It was just a crude wooden prop once more, damaged and diminished. The magic of the circus always faded. Maybe that was its greatest illusion.

Romero found a few strands of Adelaide’s golden hair under the Joker’s axe-blade.

‘I wish I could have done more, fair maiden.’

Then Romero noticed something peculiar. There were only four blades stuck in the wood: the Joker, the King, the Knave and the Ace. He was missing a knife. Where was the Queen?

He then remembered Adelaide falling against the board as he released her from the shackles. He had thought she was being sick but she had just been composing herself. Apparently, he had been wrong about that too. She had been pulling at something. That’s why she reached for her blue reticule bag before she reached for his hand – she needed a sheath for her sword.

Romero repeated a rhyme from his show.

‘Her blade may have a beautiful sheen,

But she could still cut you apart.’

Romero smiled. The fair maiden would slay her own dragon tonight and the circus would have one more runaway before sunrise.

The Tick Tock Man

The clocks stopped for my son and his wife last Spring when they crashed their car. My grandson was left an orphan and so, of course, I took him under my roof.

He was so angry back then. I would often return from the Post Office to find his schoolbag thrown on the floor and the sound of screaming coming from his bedroom. His grief was terrible. I didn’t know what to do.

One day, it was more than just screaming. There was crashing and smashing and ripping and tearing. By the time my old legs had taken me upstairs, I found my grandson lying face down on his pillow amidst torn bed sheets and broken toys, his body heaving from exhaustion. When he looked up, his face was red and raw from the crying and his pillow was soaked with tears.

‘Go away!’ My grandson screamed at me. I was shocked. He was always such a gentle soul and I had never heard him raise his voice to anyone before, certainly not his old Grandpa. I silently retreated through the bedroom door and fought back my own tears.

But my generation are not quitters. My old mother had a motto: ‘Everything looks better after a bowl of treacle sponge and custard.’

It was whilst thinking about my mother and setting the egg-timer for the custard that I remembered the Tick Tock Man. At my age, the mind is like a babbling brook. Certain memories get carried under by the current, only to then resurface years later at the most unexpected times.

My goodness, I thought at the time. I haven’t thought about the Tick Tock Man for years. I was only a boy when that happened.

But it was a story that my grandson needed to hear.

I returned to his room brandishing the treacle sponge as a peace offering. My grandson sat up as the sweet, warm smell filled his room. I sat next to him on the bed, handing him the bowl and spoon. He sniffed back some tears and stared down at the pudding, as if he had never seen custard before.

‘Thank you, Grandpa,’ he said, barely a whisper.

I put my arm around him. ‘It’s okay son.’

‘I’m sorry I shouted. I’m sorry about the room. I’m sorry about everything.’

He poked at the sponge with the spoon but didn’t eat. His mind was wandering again. It never strayed too far from his grief.

So I offered him the only distraction better than a bowlful of hot custard: a story.

‘Did I ever tell you about the Tick Tock Man?’

My grandson looked up and stared at me with his father’s eyes, always so curious, always ready for a yarn, and I knew how to spin.

My grandson shook his head.

‘Well, we can all learn a lot from the Tick Tock Man. Let me tell you his story. Eat your custard.’

* * *

‘When I was your age, all skinny legs and dirty knees, there was a wonderful shop on our street which sold clocks. The shop was called The Swinging Pendulum and it was owned by a delightful old man with bushy white hair, spotty bow-ties and a gold-trimmed monocle. His name was Arthur Pennywise but we used to call him the Tick Tock Man.

‘Now, the Tick Tock Man loved his clocks. Over the years, he had amassed quite a collection and The Swinging Pendulum was the envy of auctioneers all over London. He owned mechanical clocks and electric clocks and crystal-powered quartz clocks and even a clock that ran on steam. He had clocks made of polished bronze and clocks carved from oak and others comprised entirely of glass, right down to the little cogs and wheels inside. There was a Lighthouse Clock crowned with a glass dome, a Congreve Clock which used a zigzagging ball instead of a pendulum and even an Astronomical Clock which chartered the position of the moon. There were traditional Japanese clocks imported from Tokyo, Kit-Kat Klocks with wagging tails from Oregon and even a creepy Doll’s Head clock, a tête de poupée, from France. Best of all, there were several cuckoo clocks from Switzerland, each housing its own brightly-coloured bird.

‘And it wasn’t just clocks. The Tick Tock Man owned a fine collection of watches: there were fob watches dangling from chains and pocket watches that snapped shut like golden clam shells and skeleton watches in glass casing so you could see the moving wheels inside. There were even some wrist-watches on leather straps used in the Great War. I would sniff the leather and smell blood and mud and the sharp tang of gunfire.

‘And there were hourglasses and sundials and candle clocks and an incense clock from China shaped like a fierce dragon-boat. The incense sticks would burn down, each indicating a different passage of time and it would make the shop smell delicious.

‘Anyway, like all children on my street, I would beg my mother, your great-grandmother, to take me to The Swinging Pendulum after school. She loved that little shop too and I know she was fond of old man Tick Tock. He fixed my father’s watch