Pumping Up Napoleon (16 page)

Instead of burying Piet, they slide his body into the water. ‘It doesn't seem right somehow,' says Priscilla.

‘Believe me,' says Mort. ‘He won't mind.'

‘When they find out he's gone, they'll send someone new,' says Mort. ‘I think it's time for the circus to leave – and you should go with them.'

But Baby Joe is too afraid.

Piet's disappearance has the security guards on edge. They are glad to see the circus leave and will do nothing to stop Priscilla going with them.

When he sees that the giants won't stop her, when he sees Mort escort Priscilla to the gangplank, Baby Joe bursts into tears.

‘Stop crying,' says Mort. ‘It can't be helped now.'

A week later, Baby Joe wakes up in his usual bed wearing an eye patch. His back is sore.

‘What's happened to me?' he asks.

The nurse smiles and says, ‘You're fine'.

It's a while before they let him have visitors.

Mort is the first.

‘Go away,' says Baby Joe.

‘It's all right, Nurse,' says Mort. ‘You can leave us.'

Mort squats down next to Baby Joe's bed and looks him in the eye. ‘You can trust me,' whispers Mort.

‘Shut up,' says Baby Joe.

‘Just get better. And be ready to leave when I tell you.'

‘Why should I?'

‘What do you think will happen if you stay? The giants are going to eat you!'

It is another week before Piet's body is found, entangled in a rope hanging off the back of the island. Everyone goes down to watch him being hauled out of the water. There is much speculation. Surely Piet could swim – so did he throw himself off in a fit of remorse? Now that bits of Baby Joe are missing, no one can pretend they don't know what he's destined for. People are talking of leaving: perhaps someone gave Piet a push?

Nobody thinks that it might just have been his time.

‘Now,' says Mort. He makes Baby Joe wear a long overcoat over his purple all-in-one. ‘When you can,' says Mort, doing up the buttons on the overcoat, ‘ask Priscilla to take you shopping. You need some new clothes.'

In the park, Mort digs between the tree roots, down to the twigs and branches covering the hole. Kneeling, he whistles.

When Baby Joe sees Priscilla's face appear from below wearing a big welcoming grin, he starts to cry again.

‘Don't wait,' says Mort. ‘Go now.' He helps Baby Joe to climb down.

‘But aren't you coming?' says Priscilla.

‘No,' says Mort, looking down at them. He smiles. ‘I'll see you both later.' He piles the branches and twigs back over the hole. Earth and leaves fall on Baby Joe and Priscilla; they move away under the island, clambering over tree roots in the dark.

‘What now?' says Baby Joe.

‘Ssh!' says Priscilla. ‘The boat is over here. We'll have to wait quietly till night falls; then we can cross the water.'

They sit in the boat for some time without speaking. Baby Joe wonders how long Priscilla has been hiding there waiting to rescue him. She's shivering. He takes off the long overcoat and puts it round her shoulders.

She passes her arms through the sleeves and buries her hands in the pockets. ‘What's this?' she says, taking out a small slab wrapped in silver foil.

‘Give it to me,' says Baby Joe. He holds the slab to his nose. ‘Almost certainly,' he says, inhaling deeply, ‘this will be the last of the chocolate.' He breaks it in half. ‘Here.'

His one remaining eye is bright. ‘Good old Mort.'

When Big Joe's helicopter lands on the island, no guard lines up to salute him.

‘Where the hell is everyone?' says Big Joe.

‘Like I told you, sir,' says his assistant, ‘we've heard nothing from the island for twenty-four hours.'

‘Well, I want you to find them, wherever they are,' says Big Joe. ‘And then I want them all fired.'

‘Yes, sir,' says the assistant. He consults his map. ‘The warehouse is this way, sir.' The assistant leads the way.

The doors to the warehouse are wide open. The two men stop at the entrance, looking at the big rubber igloo. It squats in silence.

‘Do you want me to go in first?' says the assistant.

‘No,' says Big Joe. ‘I've waited long enough. You stay out here and keep watch.'

To enter the igloo Big Joe has to get down on his hands and knees; his assistant looks the other way as Big Joe crawls into the tunnel. It's a tight fit. What if no one's there? Big Joe panics, his breath comes in stutters, and then he wriggles out the other side.

Locking eyes for the first time with the boy on the throne, Big Joe tries to rise to his feet. His heart is a small fist punching the wall of his chest. He opens his mouth but no words come.

‘Guess who,' says Mort, raising his hand. ‘Don't get up, Joe. I've waited long enough. Now this is it.'

The Love I Carry

Christmas, and I carried my love to Cardiff. I took it with me round the shops, ready to give it to the right person – if only I should see him. The crush of people was intense, but the love I bore was so large, so evident, people moved out of its way.

The air was cold but freshly so; I liked it. And I was free to look about me and move at my own pace because I didn't have my head trapped between the items on a long Christmas list. Other shoppers had to hurry and frown because their lists were very long indeed and there was still so much to do before people far and near (and sometimes dear) could have their perfect Christmas. My list was very short: two items. I already knew what I wanted.

First I bought the miniature radio. A young assistant saw my love; his eyes shone on me as he took my money and handed me the bag. But I knew he would be frightened, were I to offer him my love right then and there: it would be too generous, too heavy, too much. So I took the radio and my love away with me and carried them along Queen Street and into Boots where I expected to find a present for my father. I had to take my love in with me. I could hardly leave it outside, tethered like a dog; anyone might want it, try to take it home. I wasn't ready for that.

A travelling shaving mirror, my mother had said. I looked for the mirror; I looked for the man. I found the mirror halfway down the shop; it took me a long time to get there. On the way I glimpsed men who were like him, in parts: a hairstyle, a coat, the height of him, never the right smell though – perhaps I didn't know it well enough, I had no memory of the scent of his neck. He was there, I could feel it, among the people, but all in pieces, while my love was solid and, all the time I carried it, quite heavy.

It hadn't always been like this. My love had been light, without form, diffused throughout my body. It had surged through my heart, riding the red blood cells, surfacing in my lungs like a fish. But I'd managed, by some alchemy of good sense, to compress love into a thing I could carry – this density of wanting. So I held it, ready to give it away. But not to anyone. It was mine and I liked the feel of it in my arms.

I found a mirror. There was only one left. Inside me the dehydrated carcass of my love for my father gave a feeble kick. I've tried many times to expel it, thinking it cannot be healthy to carry this shrivelled thing for so long. Yet I might as well try to rip out my own soul. I wished I could find a present that would nourish the old love and bring it back to health. But my father's not a man who needs anything much except now, perhaps, a shaving mirror.

The cardboard box it came in was unimpressive and a little battered from being opened and closed many times. I opened it too and took the mirror out. One side magnified my face. Around the edges of the frame the glass was marred by smears of glue. Still, it was the only one left in the shop. I thought about searching through the store for a small padded bag it would fit neatly inside. But the aisles were so full of people. Pushing my way through them, to go so far and to have to come back again, would take me beyond my threshold for pain-free shopping. I carried my father's mirror to the nearest till.

Of course there was a queue. But I tapped the small reserve of patience I had brought along for the purpose and remained calm. The woman in front of me was a long time at the checkout and seemed about to explode, for she had just brought a three-for-two deal down the crowded stairs only to find that one of the items was not included in the offer. She would have to pick everything up again – the two wire baskets filled with unwieldy gift-packed items and the three fat bags of things already purchased slumping at her feet – and struggle back upstairs. You could see from her face that she hadn't even liked the things she'd chosen. She'd settled for less than her ideal because she didn't know what it was – yet had to find something to give. On this, the last Saturday before Christmas, she still had names on her list to be accounted for, matched against items – unsuitable ones if necessary.

I paid for the mirror and took my two thin bags and my love out onto the street. At which point, having done all my shopping for Christmas, I was free to go where I pleased. I could have looked for the man in the places he was likely to be but I didn't. My love, sometimes so bold, felt inclined to be shy. Instead I went to a small shop filled with fine foods and people buying them. I bought Welsh honey and slabs of halva, and olives in a jar, things I can't get in my village.

Back on the street I allowed the worries of others to flow around me, while I fastened onto the excitement of lights winking in the dusk. Glitter and candles and velvet to conjure a kind of life in the dark heart of winter. I could already taste the regret I would feel at the end of the day, standing on a station platform among too many people skirted by bags. We would wait in packed rows, unable to sit down, since all the benches would be taken and besides we might lose our chance to board the next train, a train ten minutes late, a half-hour late, a train promised, a train which might never arrive. ‘Please stand back behind the blue line!' pleads the announcer. Is he afraid we will throw ourselves onto the tracks?

At last my two presents and my love and I will be carried away from Cardiff. On the train I will sway standing up all the way back to the place where I know, for sure, that the man is not.

At home I will set my love down and there let it rest for a while. A bit knocked about at the corners but still at the core quite intact; quite as lovely as ever. All ready for the New Year.

Acknowledgements

‘Pumping Up Napoleon' was published in
Mslexia.

‘The Love I Carry' was published in
New Welsh Review.

‘The Dancing King', was published in
My Cheating Heart
, (Honno, Aberystwyth).

‘Scary Tiger' was published in
Outercast 2: Insanity.

Seren is the book imprint of Poetry Wales Press Ltd

57 Nolton Street, Bridgend, Wales CF31 3AE

www.seren-books.com

© Maria Donovan 2007

ISBN 978-1-78172-130-8

The right of Maria Donovan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted at any time or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright holder.

The publisher works with the financial assistance of the Welsh Books Council.