Blood and Circuses pf-6 Page 22

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘Come again. You’ll make a good rider.’ She kissed Phryne and faded back into the darkness. Samson shook her hand and Mr Burton leaned down to allow her to kiss him. ‘Don’t forget that you’re part owner,’ Mr Burton reminded her. ‘You must come and see how your investment is going.’ Alan Lee stroked her gently on the cheek and smiled. ‘You won’t forget me,’ he stated.

  Bruno appeared, on a chain. Phryne reached into the big car and gave Bernie a whole tin of imported English gingerbread. She awarded the bear a handful. He licked her and stood up for a last waltz.

  Jo Jo stepped forward and they gave him room. ‘Fern, Fern, for you I shall yearn,’ he sang. ‘I’ll never forget you Fern, my Fern.’

  ‘I won’t forget you,’ she said, blinking back tears. ‘Jo Jo my dear.’

  She got into the car with Dot, who wrapped a rug around her. Mr Butler started the Hispano-Suiza and the engine roared like a lion. The others backed away. But Jo Jo jumped on the running board and brought something out from under his shirt with a flourish. He dropped it into her hands, then tumbled away.

  The Hispano-Suiza took the empty country road from Hamilton. Powerful headlights lit up trees and sheep.

  ‘Miss?’ asked Dot, worried by her silence. ‘How are you?’

  Phryne took stock. She was stronger. Her muscles had firmed and developed. Her hands were hard and calloused and her fingernails were broken. Her once-white skin was tanned. The silkiness of the carriage-rug lining made her realise all of a sudden how tired she was of rough cloth next to her skin, of eating Mrs Thompson’s skilly for lunch and sleeping in a tent. The clean scent of Dot’s soap and the leather-polish smell of the car made her aware that she, by contrast, stank of sweat and unwashed hair and greasepaint and horses. She felt how much she had missed silk and hot water and service and sleeping in a soft bed. How much, too, she had missed belonging. She had no place in the circus. She belonged to the comfortable world of telephones and eggs for breakfast, of coffee brewed in a pot and library subscriptions and handmade shoes.

  But she had been stripped of all her helpers and her luxuries and she had survived. She had triumphed. Phryne, all by herself, had conquered terror and violence and death. She had even learned a new skill. If all else failed, she thought as the great car rushed through the hot night, she could be a trick rider in a circus.

  She looked down to see what she had been cradling in her hands since she had left Farrell’s. Jo Jo’s last gift. She held it up to the light. It was a red satin heart with ‘Matthias’ embroidered on it. Jo Jo the clown had given her his heart. She pressed it to her breast, over her own heart.

  Lightning flashed directly overhead. Mr Butler stopped the car and got out to put up the hood. Thunder cracked and rumbled.

  ‘The weather’s breaking at last,’ commented Phryne and patted her maid’s hand. ‘I’m all right, Dot; just a bit dazed. But I’m glad to see you,’ she added. ‘And I’m glad to be going home.’

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