The Girl Who Walked on Air (15 page)

Mr Wellbeloved didn’t take kindly to being roused from his bed.

‘What the BLAZES is going on?’ he cried, seeing me in the hallway with two thuggish types holding my arms.

‘We caught her messing with the rigging,’ said the watchman proudly.

Mr Wellbeloved glared at me. He wasn’t wearing his hat, though by now I was past caring.

‘Release her immediately,’ he said.

The men grunted in surprise. They let go of me and I swayed on my feet.

‘And the boy?’ Mr Wellbeloved demanded. ‘Was he with her?’

‘No boy, sir. Least there was one, but he went over the edge.’

I started to cry. Mr Wellbeloved breathed out through his teeth. It made a hissing sound.

‘Is there a body?’

‘No, sir, no body. River tends to spew ’em up further downstream. We’ll search the rapids first thing in the morning.’

I couldn’t bear to listen.

‘Until tomorrow then,’ Mr Wellbeloved said. And he sent the men on their way.

All I wanted was to get into bed and pull the covers over my head. I tried to sneak past Mr Wellbeloved, but he dragged me by the wrist back upstairs to his room. It was hot in there and smelled of sleep. Mr Wellbeloved leaned against the door, arms folded over his chest. My palms began to sweat. I didn’t like it when he blocked the way out.

‘Well?’ he said.

His eyes pinned me to the spot. I didn’t want to keep crying, but I really couldn’t stop. ‘We were only on a walk,’ I sobbed. ‘It was too hot to sleep, and then . . .’

Mr Wellbeloved rushed at me, seizing my face.

‘You silly little fool! A walk by moonlight, eh? How
preposterously
romantic.’

I tried to turn away but he held me fast.

‘And now Gabriel Swift is DEAD.’

I shut my eyes.

‘Look at me when I speak to you.’

I couldn’t do it.

‘Damn it, girl, LOOK AT ME!’

He yanked my chin towards him. As I forced my eyes open, at last I saw what his hat had been hiding.

Now I couldn’t look away.

He saw my shock and panicked. His free hand went up to cover his ear. It was too late; I’d already seen it. The top half of his right ear was completely missing. What remained was mangled. The edge of it was all wavy-shaped, like a person’s teeth might make.

Someone had bitten it off.

I didn’t get another look. Shoving me aside, Mr Wellbeloved snatched up his hat off a nearby chair and jammed it on his head. It looked ridiculous, especially as he still wore his night clothes. A muscle hammered in his jaw. But he didn’t come at me again.

‘So,’ he said, leaning back against the door. ‘What are we to do?’

‘It wouldn’t be right to perform, not now Gabriel is . . .’ I couldn’t bring myself to say ‘dead’. What I meant was that my heart wouldn’t stand it. But Mr Wellbeloved looked at me like I was speaking another language.

‘What, and let the ticket-buying public down?’

My face flushed hot. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘
Fair?
What has
fair
got to do with it?’

‘This isn’t my doing!’ And I wanted to say more, how
he’d
beaten every ounce of courage out of Gabriel Swift.
He’d
done that. Not me. But the words stuck in my throat.

Dismissively, he waved his hand. ‘Say what you will. Gabriel was too flighty. We’re better off without him.’

I stared at him. The man was a monster. A devil.

‘Don’t look so surprised. I’ve waited years for this.’ And he indicated the wall full of photographs.

I saw them properly now. How could I not have recognised them? Picture after picture showed a man with a pointed beard. Most of them I owned myself. They were stuck inside my scrapbook.

‘The Great Blondin,’ I gasped.

‘He had so many ways of wowing the crowds,’ said Mr Wellbeloved. ‘No one could better him. As a performer myself, I tried and I failed. But I never forgot him.’

He seemed almost wistful. And for a tiny, surprising moment, I understood how he felt. But I didn’t understand his jealous rage at Blondin and his daughter, or how he’d put Gabriel through a living hell. I shuddered uncontrollably.

‘Eventually, the crowds grew bored of him,’ said Mr Wellbeloved. ‘They wanted more danger. And he had none left to give. But I did, or at least my act did.’

‘How?’ I said, unsure I wanted to hear his answer.

His pale eyes glittered. ‘Two people on the rope – you know how hard
that
is, Louisa. It was my great idea. Then Blondin copied me.
He
copied
me,
the swine. Can you believe it?’

I couldn’t. Not any of it.

‘Anyway, my idea proved . . .’ he rubbed his jaw, ‘. . .
difficult
to arrange.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Eventually, to fulfil my dreams I had to cast my net further afield. It took years. I thought I’d found the answer in the Swift brothers. Alas, it wasn’t to be.’

I was more confused than ever. Hadn’t the trick that killed Albert Swift been copied from Blondin? Or was it the other way round? It was all too much. I shut my eyes. But the horror of it didn’t go away.

‘So, you’re my last hope, Louisa. Tomorrow I’m expecting somersaults galore. And at the end, you’ll challenge a young person in the crowd to join you on the rope.’

My eyes flew open.
Was he completely mad?

‘I won’t do it,’ I said.

‘Two people on the rope, that’s the deal.’

‘But . . .’ I could hardly get the words out. ‘The punters won’t like it. They’ll just leave. They won’t . . .’

He seized my face again. ‘You’ll do it.’ His tone was deadly. ‘Every last bit of it. This is
my
show and you will do as I say. You won’t go home to England until it’s done.’

A sob broke from my mouth.

Then someone knocked at the door. ‘Mr Wellbeloved, are you there?’

It was Mrs Franklin. I was ridiculously glad to hear her voice. Mr Wellbeloved rolled his eyes. ‘What is it?’ he said, letting go of me to open the door a sliver.

‘Two gentlemen of the law are downstairs wishing to see you,’ she said.

Mr Wellbeloved stepped out onto the landing. He still held the door handle, trapping me inside. From the wall, Blondin stared down at me. I couldn’t bear to be here. There had to be another way out of this room.

I tiptoed across to the windows, trying each one. They were all locked. In despair, I faced the door again, thinking I’d have to barge my way out and hope Mrs Franklin might save me. It was then I caught sight of the desk.

It was still a great mess of papers; contracts, I supposed, and letters of business. In among them was something red. It stood out like a scream. I glanced at the door.
Still shut
. With shaking fingers, I reached towards the desk.

It was a tunic. The fabric was silky smooth, of the type a performer might wear. As I held it to the lamplight, I went hot. Then cold.
It couldn’t be, could it?

The door swung open. I whisked the tunic behind my back.

‘To bed,’ Mr Wellbeloved ordered.

By some stroke of luck, he didn’t look at me again. He simply held the door open wide for me to pass.

First light, I drew back the curtains. My eyes were raw from crying and I felt oddly light, like I was hollow inside. Already down by the river’s edge there were men with dogs, searching for Gabriel. There was no Pip here to comfort me. No Jasper to offer kind words. I stepped back from the window, quite unable to watch.

Then I remembered the red tunic, and laid it out on my bed. There was a hole near the shoulder. Just as I’d suspected, it was shaped like a heart.
I fumbled under the pillow for my scrap of red taffeta and placed it over the hole. The fit, the colour were a perfect match
.

My eyes couldn’t make sense of it. My brain neither. This was Mam’s tunic.
My
mam’s tunic. When at last my head cleared, I saw what it meant. My hunch had been right, and here was the proof. I’d found her.

Or part of her.

Could it really be true?

Mr Wellbeloved seemed to know me from times gone by. And in tracking down Gabriel, he’d found me again by chance. With a shiver, I wondered how long he’d been looking, and why.

Maybe Mr Chipchase had been expecting him
and
my mam . . . The circus’s constant moving on, the clown suits, the plaited hair, they were all Mr Chipchase’s way of keeping me hidden. He had his reasons for not making me showstopper; I saw that now. It had little to do with do-gooders. He’d been trying to keep me safe from danger of a very different kind. Gabriel was right: he really did care.

For quite a while I simply sat, head in hands. It was too much to take in. More than ever, I just wanted to go home.

Yet things weren’t finished. I’d not come this far to turn my back on a dream. I’d walk that rope today. And walk it like a true showstopper. Not for Mr Wellbeloved and his twisted motives, but for me, for Gabriel and for Mam.

A soft knock at the door brought me up sharp.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s me, dear,’ said Mrs Franklin. ‘May I come in?’

My first thought was Gabriel: she’d come with news. As she bustled in with hot water and an armful of linen, I felt ill with dread. Setting it all down, she faced me. Something
was
wrong. She twisted her wedding ring, and opened and shut her mouth like a fish. I couldn’t bear it.

‘They’ve found Gabriel, haven’t they?’ I said.

She looked taken aback. ‘No, dear. There’s been no sign of a body.’

My legs went wobbly. I sank down on the bed. No body. No sign of him. So no proof that he’d perished. Yet.

The tiniest flicker of hope grew in me. Gabriel was a master of the tightrope. Perhaps . . . just perhaps . . .

Mrs Franklin hadn’t moved.

I sighed. ‘So what is it, then?’

She glanced at the door, then back at me. From her pocket she pulled out a long white envelope.

‘I have some information for you. I think you’ll be pleased, though what’s inside will be a shock to you.’

She handed me the envelope. It was addressed to ‘Mr Gideon Wellbeloved.’

‘Didn’t you collect this from the post office yesterday?’ I said, taking it from her.

She nodded. ‘Bills. Every month they send them. He never collects them himself, and he never reads them either.’

I’d no idea who ‘they’ were or what the bills were for. Clearly Mrs Franklin did, for she was twisting her ring again. It made me nervous.

‘All these years, he’s sworn me to secrecy. Said he’d make life hell for me if I told anyone.’ Her voice wavered. ‘But I never
liked
what he’d done. It wasn’t ever right. When I realised who you were, and what he’d brought you here to do . . .’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said. I’d not known Mrs Franklin, not until two days ago. How did she know who
I
was?

‘You’ve your mother’s fine looks,’ she said. ‘And I knew your first name. Goodness knows I’d heard it enough within these four walls.’

‘So was she here?’

‘Many years ago, yes. Then she went away. You have a right to know where she ended up.’

My mother.

All this time she’d been an image in my head. Now she was taking shape before me, and I felt overwhelmed.

I picked up the letter.
Courage, Louie.
I tore open the seal and unfolded a piece of white paper. The page was a list of dates and numbers. Some of it was written in red. At the top was a name: GOLDEN HILL RETREAT. Beneath it was a little ink drawing of a house. It looked a grand old place with tall windows and steps leading up to the door. It was all very nice. A bit
too
nice
.

I gazed at those three words in a kind of stupor. Golden Hill Retreat. It sounded like the name of a hotel. An awful nice hotel. The sort of place you’d never want to leave. My hand fell to my side.

So much for promises.

Mam said she’d come back for me. Mr Chipchase was expecting her. Instead, she’d found somewhere better and not given any of us another thought.

‘You’re upset, dear,’ said Mrs Franklin. ‘It’s quite a shock.’

‘Am I? Is it?’

I didn’t know what to think. Before I could make sense of it, the door swung open. Mr Wellbeloved strode into the room. He glanced suspiciously at Mrs Franklin, then at me. I’d hidden the piece of paper behind my back just in the nick of time.

‘Let’s not dally ladies,’ he said. ‘Louisa’s to be downstairs in ten minutes.’

With a touch of his hat, he left us again.

‘We’ll talk more of your mother later, dear,’ whispered Mrs Franklin.

I didn’t answer.

I was done with talking about Mam.

My costume, at least, was perfect: a sea-green bodice with short, puffy skirts, and tights that glittered silver. The red taffeta heart stayed in my room. No tarot cards or good luck charms could help me now. This was down to me.

The performance was scheduled for 2 p.m. First, I had to meet the press.

‘I’ll do the talking,’ Mr Wellbeloved said.

I was glad. Already too much was jammed inside my brain; if I had to speak I didn’t know what would spill out. Hand firmly on my back, Mr Wellbeloved steered me through the pleasure gardens. Everywhere I looked was a teeming mass of white frocks and best hats. There were freak shows, magic shows, performing dogs that’d put Pip to shame. The band played ‘God Save the Queen’, and the air, rich with burned caramel and sun-warmed grass, smelled of dreams. Not Mr Wellbeloved’s, which were the stuff of nightmares, but
my
dreams. I’d come to America for this moment. It should’ve thrilled me, but somehow it made me feel my own misery even more.

The press were waiting in a special tent. Every morning paper had been full of me: ‘CHILD TO BRAVE NIAGARA – LITTLE MISS BLONDIN BARES HER NERVES.’

There was no mention of Gabriel. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air. Which in a way he had; there one minute, nothing but mist the next. I could hardly bear to think of it. So it was a relief not to read it in the papers. I guessed Mr Wellbeloved had paid someone to keep it quiet. That would all change if a body appeared; thank heck it hadn’t yet.

Inside the tent there was a scramble for seats. Mr Wellbeloved led me towards two chairs on a little stage at the front. I took the seat nearest me. Perhaps it was the gazing at a tentful of strangers, or maybe it was that damp-grass smell and the glow of canvas in the sun – whatever it was, at that moment something stirred in me. My spirits began to rise. I was a showstopper. And come what may, the show must go on.

The first reporter to stand up was a man in a brown suit. ‘Charles Wheeler,
Chicago Tribune
,’ he said, then to me, ‘How ya feelin’?’

I smiled.
Alive.

‘She’s a little nervous,’ Mr Wellbeloved cut in. ‘Next question.’

Two rows back, another man. ‘Henry Mason,
Cleveland Morning Leader
. How long have you been in training?’

All my life
.

‘Long enough,’ said Mr Wellbeloved. ‘Louisa has a rare talent and great determination. She begged me for this chance. Next question.’

That’s not the whole story, not by half
.

‘Robert Cleaves,
New York Daily
. Who inspires you?’

No contest. Gabriel Swift.

‘Why Blondin, of course, hence the name “Little Miss Blondin”. Louisa chose it herself.’

Liar.
I shifted in my seat.

‘Oliver Gooding,
New York Morning Herald
. Wasn’t there also a boy in your act?’

Mr Wellbeloved hesitated. ‘He was taken ill.’

More lies. Big, stinking lies.

‘The performance will be every bit as marvellous. And at the very end there will be an extra surprise, mark my words.’

I bit my lip.
Madman.

It went on like this for another ten minutes. The reporters had stopped writing. This wasn’t the story they were after, I could tell, for they kept nodding at me, willing me to speak. So much so it gave me the bare bones of an idea. But I kept quiet all the same.

The questions were almost over, when a man said, ‘Benjamin Graham,
Buffalo Post
. Rumour has it Louisa’s mother was a tightrope walker. Can you confirm this?’

Bewildered, I turned to Mr Wellbeloved.

Tell them. Tell me. Is it true?

All the reporters were writing now. They’d seen my shock, there was no hiding it. Mr Wellbeloved’s jaw tensed. He was rattled. So was I.

Touching his hat brim he got to his feet, dragging me with him.

‘No further questions,’ he said.

Yet I had a million to ask. Mr Wellbeloved knew about my mam and even if it hurt to hear it, I wanted every scrap of the truth.

He marched me fast across the park, hand clamped on my arm.

‘Let go of me!’ I cried.

‘You took something from my room last night, young lady,’ he said, tightening his grip. ‘And I want it back.’

I dug my heels into the ground.

‘You took something of mine too,’ I spat. ‘And I want
her
back.’

He stopped dead and shook me so hard my teeth rattled. Then he marched on again, faster than ever. The crowds parted for us. Faces stared. At every step I grew more furious.

Finally, we reached the tightrope. He let me go with a shove.

‘We’re starting early,’ he said.

This wasn’t good. I needed to be calm and clear-headed to feel the magic again.

‘I’m not ready,’ I said.

He put his face close to mine. I recoiled.

‘Remember what I want from you, Louisa.’ He reached into his pocket. Pulling out a piece of paper, he mimed ripping it in two. The words ‘First Class: SS
Marathon
’ were obvious.

I blinked back angry tears.

Shut it out, Louie. Clear your mind.

The crowds had followed us over. People were now taking their places. There were murmurings about Gabriel’s whereabouts, especially among the girls, who twisted in their seats, hoping he’d show up at the last minute. He didn’t, of course. Mr Wellbeloved beckoned to his men. A few nods. A curt signal, and an announcement was made. I had seconds to compose myself.

Think only of the rope.

At the top of the wooden steps I turned and waved. Goodness, there were people EVERYWHERE. All the paid-for seats were full. Up in the trees, legs dangled off branches, faces peered through the leaves. And all along the gorge, people lined the path. The other side of the river was the same. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Focus, Louie.

I took a long breath in. And out. I shook back my hair. Straightened my shoulders. Waited for the magic to start.

Quietly now. Let it come.

I blocked out the crowd. Blocked out Mr Wellbeloved and Gabriel and Mam. Blocked out Jasper and Pip, and Chipchase’s Travelling Circus. It was all too heavy to carry with me. I had to be light as air. Then, only then, would the magic work.

Let it come.

The tingling started in my feet. Like heat, it spread up me until I was full. I stepped up onto the rope. Someone handed me the balance pole. Rosin coated my fingers. Behind me, a voice counted down.

‘Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .’

A gun fired. It was my signal to start. The crowd went silent. Only the rope mattered now.

The first few steps took me out over the trees. Guy ropes led off sideways like giant ribs. I went slowly, feeling with my feet, letting the rope get used to me. The trees gave way to rocks, then water. The air grew cool. I smelled river. The roar of water made my ears sing. A few more steps and I stopped. The balance pole dipped left, then righted itself as I shifted my weight to look about me. Blondin had done it blindfolded. Not me. I wanted to see it all.

Some thousand feet up ahead was Canada. To my right was the rail bridge, crammed full of people, all peering through the bars. Everything in between was water. Below me, it churned white over the rapids. To my left, it crashed over Horseshoe Falls. In the middle of it all was a steamboat,
The Maid of the Mist
, full of spectators. Raising my arm, I waved down at them, then did the same to the shoreline and the bridge. A cheer might’ve gone up, but I was deaf to anything but the river.

Out in the middle, the rope began to sway; I’d expected it. Slowing again, I used my legs and the balance pole to keep steady. The mist came up fast, drenching me to the skin. The pole grew slippery. My fingers went chill and the rope seemed heavier, stickier.

Keep moving.

A few more steps and the mist cleared. Sunlight fell on my face. The rope grew still. My knees relaxed, and suddenly it felt easy again. As my strides grew longer, I even imagined myself strolling down the street with Pip at my heels, and the thought made the magic flow faster. It was like walking on air.

Up ahead, the rock face looked blindingly white. Canada was perhaps only a hundred feet away now. I saw faces again. Mouths hung open. People clutched each other in terror and excitement. A little shiver went down my back. With all eyes on me, how could I resist? It was time for some tricks. I was a showstopper, after all.

First, I sat down. Then, one leg dangling for balance, I laid out on the rope. It trembled beneath me, cutting into my shoulders and the back of my skull. Slowly, I sat up again, breathed deep, turned, and went backwards. America looked a long way away now. A few more steps and I spun round, once, twice, three times, but it sent the balance pole whirling, so I had to stop. It was enough for the look on people’s faces. My heart beat wildly. I ran the last few yards.

Loud cheering and band music greeted me.

‘Sixteen minutes!’ a man shouted, clapping me on the back. ‘Faster than Blondin himself!’

A blanket was thrown around my shoulders. My teeth chattered madly but I couldn’t stop beaming. I’d done it. I really had done it.

No chance to dwell. I was rushed to a room in a smart hotel, where a lady gave me hot sweet coffee. Strangers marvelled at me. Told me I was a wonder. Dazed, I kept smiling. Then watches were consulted and my blanket and coffee cup were whisked away. It was time for Little Miss Blondin to walk home.

Going back was easier. My legs felt more used to rope-walking than to dry land. Waving farewell to Canada, I soon found my stride. The Falls were to my right now, the rail bridge to my left. A few turns, more waving, and I was back in the middle again. I slowed down.

Stay focused. Feel the rope.

I slid one foot forward. Then the other. The rope quivered. This time it didn’t sway. My hair stuck to my cheeks. It was hard to see anything. All around me was white, like snow. But it didn’t fool me. One wrong step and the river was waiting. I kept moving.

Four more steps and the mist lifted. Either side of me, the guy ropes appeared again. The river’s edge wasn’t far now. Up ahead, the crowd waited. Right at the very front was a man in a tall top hat. A few steps closer and I could make out his face. It was set with the most sickening smile. He was trying to tell me something and making a spinning action with his hands. I knew what he meant. He wanted his double somersault. It was Blondin’s daughter all over again.

And I was about to say no.

I flung the balance pole into the torrent below. The crowd cried out in horror, following it all the way down with their eyes. Next, I stood on one leg. When I swapped over, I wobbled on purpose, then strode forwards with great raking steps. The river bank was so close I could smell roasting corn from the food stalls. The officials stood alongside Mr Wellbeloved now. They looked concerned. Yet still Mr Wellbeloved nodded his head at me, turning his nasty hands.

He wanted more danger?

He could have it. In fact, I hoped he’d choke on it.

Right at the last moment, I made my foot slip on purpose. My arms flew up. The crowd gasped. People started screaming. An official shouted from the bank, ‘Get her back here, NOW!’

Hands reached out to me, and then I was back at the top of the wooden steps again. Despite the applause, I didn’t smile. My legs had gone weak. The sun was burning hot. I felt strangely light-headed and needed to sit down.

Except I wasn’t finished yet.

Mr Wellbeloved came up the steps, arms open wide.

‘Well done!’ he cried, though his eyes were like a snake’s.

Turning from him, I faced the crowd. The size of it hit me all over again, a great sea of hats, and hands shielding faces from the afternoon sun. I raised my arm for quiet. The music trailed off. People fell silent. Mr Wellbeloved froze in his tracks.

‘Do you believe I can do it all over again?’ I said, for Blondin himself had asked the very same question.

‘Yes!’ cheered the crowd.

He’d got the same answer too. I waited for the noise to die down.

‘Then who wants to come with me?’

Stunned silence.

‘If you believe
I
can do it, then surely one of you can too?’

Bewildered glances. Mutterings in the crowd. Looking down, I saw Mrs Franklin press a hankie to her mouth. The reporters had their notebooks ready as Mr Wellbeloved advanced up the steps.

‘Oh, look!’ I cried. ‘Here’s my manager. Has he come to take up the challenge?’

‘That would be selfish of me,’ he said, speaking softly so only I could hear him. ‘You must allow this young lady the pleasure.’

A child appeared from behind him. She clutched her rag doll tight to her chest. Her eyes were wet like she’d been crying.

When I could speak, I said, ‘Take her back to her mother.’

‘She’s an orphan. No one will miss her.’

I flinched.

‘Remember our deal,’ Mr Wellbeloved said, trying to give me the girl’s hand. ‘Two people. On the rope.’

‘You’re mad.’

‘Perhaps. But even Blondin never managed it here at Niagara. He only
carried
someone. Whereas this young child will walk with you. You see, I’ll beat him yet.’

I hid my hands behind my back. ‘I won’t do it.’

The crowd was growing restless. Stood between us, the little girl had started crying again. I didn’t know what else to do, other than carry on as if she wasn’t even there.

‘So, will
you
do it, Mr Wellbeloved?’ I yelled for all to hear. ‘Will you walk the rope with me?’

The crowd cheered.

‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘Blondin’s manager crossed Niagara on his back. Obviously, I can’t carry you, but . . .’

‘You’ve said enough.’

He’d driven Gabriel to his death. He knew something of my mam. He’d just watched me cross Niagara Falls. And still he wanted more.

He could have more.

‘Mr Wellbeloved,’ I said. ‘I’ve only just got started.’