Acrobatic Lady

ACROBATIC LADY

by

Albert Woods

 

In the room, there were no visible clues, no mementoes, there was no aura - yet Stretch felt it must be the right place.

"Please take a seat," said the tidy and efficient-looking girl. "I'll go and tell Miss Conlon you've called."

"Thank you," smiled the visitor, his narrow features partially obscured by the chandelier. Miss Conlon, he mused - not altogether surprised that she had never married. The girl must have thought him extremely familiar when he'd asked to see the acrobatic lady. What if he was? They'd been close, at one time, after all.

Stretch waited for her to close the door then surveyed the seating. The armchairs were very low, too low for his seven foot-six frame; and the single hard chair looked altogether too fragile. He decided to plump for the settee, and carefully lowered himself at one end, his gangling giraffe-legs, which had been broken and repaired more times than he cared to remember, spread diagonally along its length; out of the way.

There was movement in the room above - a lot of bumping and scraping. Poor old Millie being helped into her wheelchair, Stretch imagined. How times had changed.

His mouth curled into a half-smile as he recalled the breathtaking sight of Millie - or Madame Oriole, as she was billed - soaring and tumbling through performance after performance, thrilling the children with her routine, and enthralling the fathers with her beauty. She was... magnificent! There was no other word for it. Probably one of the world's most accomplished female acrobats, in her day; likely the most accomplished. And while her contemporaries were all sensibly wired-up, she would take her life in her hands every night: no contraptions, no safety net - just Madame Oriole versus fate.

Stretch could see she'd done well out of it. This house had to be worth a couple of hundred thousand at least; maybe more. And here she was, now, with a helper in her employ. She had no pension; well not that he knew of. Nobody bothered about things like that in the old days. They were short-sighted, most of them: convinced that tomorrow would never come, and that they had a whole lifetime to make it big - which, of course, they would all do - sooner or later.

On the other hand, Millie possessed not only her rare skill, but another vital ingredient to augment it; charisma. Back then, the show-boss had employed a barer, less ritzy description. "The lass has pulling power," he would say. "Punters can't get enough of her."

There were only a handful of acts in that league, and only one in their troupe: her. And, it was she, alone, who’d had the business sense to exploit her position. She demanded a percentage of the profits and, judging by the frugal lifestyle she'd pursued, obviously stockpiled the takings for a rainy day. She'd been wise to do so, for when it did rain, it deluged; fell from the sky - hitting the ground with a sickening smack, leaving her paralysed from the waist down. Ironically, she had earlier announced that it was to be her last performance for some time, though she had not said why. It was generally assumed she didn't fancy the European tour.

Stretch had been the first at her side, imagining that the fall would have killed her. He would never forget the way she'd looked at him before she passed out. Her lips had been trying to form words around the rapid shallow breath which would not convey them the few inches to his cocked ear. He'd strained to catch them above the wails and sobbing from the audience, but they'd eluded him; and that was the last time he'd seen her. Next morning, the circus went abroad.

There never was an act to follow Millie. The 'tallest man in the world' stayed on, touring the Continent, strutting around the ring as a fill-in item, usually with a midget by his side. No nest egg for Stretch. It was as much as he could do to exist on the meagre few pounds they paid him - often fewer out of season - and it was degrading: prancing about, tipping his tall hat, and bowing to the sticky children whose eyes were trained on the ring-hands, craning their necks to see which apparatus was being made ready; which proper act was coming next. Still, he'd gone on with it. What else could he do?

Had Millie not had her fall, she would probably be retired, like Stretch. Most others, from the old gang, were long gone; spread around the length and breadth of the country and, doubtless, still on the move as their wanderlust dictated. Not Madame Oriole though. Her spirit might well be in flight, but her body must surely, now, be rooted to the spot.

The furniture, Stretch noticed, was hardly typical of the ex-showgirl. It was more stockbroker's wife; nouveau riche syndrome. Not that he knew much about the mores of suburban middle class existence: simply an opinion he'd formed when canvassing around the 'more select ' estates in the 'more select' areas trying to sell show tickets.

He wondered whether Millie actually used the room. Perhaps her incapacity kept her upstairs, and maybe she'd allowed somebody else to choose the decor. It really wasn't her at all. Millie's caravan, he recalled, used to be like a fairy grotto; twinkling in the amber light from the brass oil lamps - like those soft focus pictures they use to convey romance and warmth, mostly to sell expensive perfume or jewellery. There was always something magical about the atmosphere, in there, when he and Millie sat opposite each other over a late night supper: something that removed him from his life of foolery, took him completely outside of himself. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it was a sort of opulence; a brief taste of the total security which he, and other show people, had forsaken in pursuit of their trade: as though the surrounding array of knickknacks and souvenirs were, actually, gold ingots, the autographed photos, that festooned the walls, priceless masters; the nine feet by six living area a mere rug in the centre of a palatial hall where servants and minstrels waited in the shadows. And Millie was Cleopatra - which was how she was often dressed after a show; as she was on the night she told him that she had no relatives, and intended to will all her money, and possessions, to him.

Then there was the smell; pleasant, yet again, difficult to describe. To his knowledge, Millie had not squandered her money on toiletries - other than necessities, of course - but there was always a sweet, waxy scent that hung heavy in the van; particularly around her costume rack. Face powder, perhaps? - or, more likely, the fusion of a pomander with rosin. It was her smell anyway, and it was here again, now... though only just.

The telephone rang at the far end of the house. Stretch heard somebody running down the stairs to answer it. There was a muffled exchange, then the assistant came back into the room. "Miss Conlon is sorry to keep you," she said. "She asked me to say she's delighted you've come, and she’ll be with you as soon as she can. Her accountant has just phoned, and I'm afraid he tends to talk for a good while. She hopes you won't mind being patient."

Stretch said that he didn't mind in the least; after all, he'd given no forewarning of his visit, and Millie could hardly be expected to drop everything for somebody who'd simply turned up, unannounced, after an absence of twenty-odd years. But how was she, he wanted to know.

"Fine," the girl confirmed. "Extremely busy and overworked; but in the pink, nevertheless."

"She... works?" he frowned.

"Oh yes," the assistant nodded, then blocked Stretch's next question by offering him tea.

“Well,” he considered, aloud and dismayed, as he sat back for a further wait. He had never underestimated the woman, but working, for heaven's sake? Of course, there were lots of things that a determined paraplegic could do, and Millie was the determined type all right; or used to be. Maybe she'd taken to writing; instructional manuals or something. He'd ask, he decided: which is what he did when the tea was brought in.

"She's an acrobat," said the girl. "One of the most successful in the country."

"Good Lord," Stretch recoiled. "How on earth does she still manage to do that?"

"With a lot of hard work and effort," the girl told him, leaving the room yet again - and the guest in an even deeper state of confusion.

It must be the wrong house: one of those strange coincidences where like names in the telephone directory, like occupations and like smells in the lounge all add up to the wrong person. Millie's back was broken, Stretch had been led to believe; and, as far as he was aware, no miracle cure was yet available. Besides, she’d be in her late fifties now; hardly a time of life to be turning somersaults - even for the fittest. No; that was it, a dreadful blunder - and he would make his apologies to the assistant and leave.

Stretch finished his tea, placed the bone china cup on the mantelpiece, and made for the door; but stopped, almost involuntarily, by the oak settle. It was there; that smell - evoking memories which had hereto lain dormant, waiting for a catalyst to trigger them: the silkiness of Millie's hair, the whiteness of her perfectly formed teeth and... hah!... the taste of her lipstick. This was Millie's house. She must be one of those people who gave postal tuition or something. He put his ear to the door, assured himself that there was nobody outside, then stooped down and quietly lifted the upholstered bench lid. They were there: three, or four, pairs of her ballet-style shoes resting on sequinned capes; vivid pink plumes, fishnet leotards, and even the gold lame Cleopatra dress that had been his favourite. He was seeing her in it; almost feeling her; lost in fond recollection, when the door opened.

"I'm... I'm so sorry," he straightened up, instantly, allowing the settle to slam closed.

"That's perfectly all right," the assistant girl reassured him. "I quite forgot to mention that Miss Conlon thought you might find it interesting to go through that. Do help yourself... please."

Stretch thanked her, and reopened the compartment with near reverence. Now, he felt liberated; free to delve into the mine of relics, no longer bridled by the restraint of stealth. He laughed when his hand returned to the surface clutching a brace of satin 'G' strings. One night, he had begged her to wear something less immodest. She'd scoffed when he said that there were dirty old men in the audience who were not there to merely applaud her acrobatic prowess; though it had been innocent derision - not malicious. The strings were well faded now.

He thought there might be an old programme somewhere. It had been a long time since he'd seen his name in print. 'Stretch King', the original posters used to say. 'The tallest man in the world'. Latterly, he had become anonymous - his presence noted only by the impersonal heading of 'Supporting Company'.

There were no programmes, he was sad to note; though when he thought about it, Millie had not been one to hang on to paper. It didn't sparkle. His hand made a final sweep along the base of the coffer, and his fingers touched something cold. It was a flat metallic object which, when he withdrew it, he immediately recognised as her silver cigarette case; the one that bore the inscription, and had been presented to her on the occasion of her one thousandth performance for Guillio Brother's Circus. It was valuable too, and he had always admired it.

No time to think, or waste on self-reproach; this would be easier, and far less demoralising, than begging her for an advance on his inheritance. He slipped the box into his coat pocket, and re-flattened the paraphernalia in the trunk. Then he crept out of the room, and out of the house.

Walking through busy places was a nightmare. It used to be all right when he was on parade with a couple of clowns: then, it was in context. But, with his abnormal height distinguishing him from the rest of mankind, he felt exposed, ludicrous, and every bit the 'lumbering freak' that some cruel child had recently called him. So, as he had come to do as a matter of course, he marched purposefully along the streets, allowing himself no time to catch the cutting jibes, nor dwell on the bemused faces. He was out of breath when he fell through the door of his digs - the just about respectable residence where he owed three weeks’ rent.

He was relieved not to encounter the landlady on the stairs, and locked his door behind him as a token defence against the ugly world. There was just a twinge of regret when he placed the cigarette case on the table; but he dismissed it. Millie had plenty of money and, besides, if she thought much of the thing, she'd have it on display - not stuck away in the bottom of a chest. It was fine: hallmarked silver with a faint bloom which would soon come off with polish. It felt solid; worth a good bit. He turned it over, establishing which was the hinged edge. So precise was the workmanship that it was hard to tell. He discovered, eventually, gently easing his thumbnail into the barely visible groove to lift the lid. For a moment, he sat staring; doing a retake, then, cautiously, removed the enclosed envelope, pausing to allow his embarrassed flush to subside. The browning ink handwriting, which was plainly Millie's, despite its shakiness, simply said: ‘To Stretch King - the tallest man in the world’.

It felt old, and he was loath to tear it open; frightened as much of destroying the packet as what it might contain. But he did carefully peel the flap and remove the letter. It was dated 23rd April, seven months after her fall – and written from her deathbed.

That night, Stretch King cried; something he couldn’t remember doing since he was a boy. All he could think about, in the darkness, was what the woman had written in that final letter, especially her closing words. 'I tried to tell you', she'd put. 'I really did try.’

If only he'd stayed in England after her fall; given up the circus to see to things; it might have been different then. But it was too late now; too late to do anything about it. And the smell: it lingered on the paper; the one last trace of Millie which could still be perceived by any of his senses.

Or was it too late?

 

In the morning, Stretch selected his cleanest clothes from the wardrobe, took an awkward bath, and spruced himself until he gleamed. He knocked up his landlady, bade her an exceptionally pleasant 'good day', and assured her he would soon be able to settle his arrears. He donned his coat, and strode out into the thick of the busy thoroughfare, nodding, politely, at passers-by, continuing on, turning up the ring road, retracing his steps from the previous day.

"Good morning my dear," he chirped to the assistant when she answered his knock. "Is Miss Conlon at home?"

"Yes she is," smiled the girl. "She was so sorry to have missed you, yesterday. I think she was worried you mightn't return. She's upstairs, working out in the gymnasium right now. I'll tell her you're here. It's Mr. Stretch, isn't it."

Stretch nodded. "Well, King, actually," he said; "Stretch King. But you can tell her that the tallest man in the world would like to meet the acrobatic lady. He wants to assure himself that she's every bit as magnificent as the original."

He knew she’d have to be; after all, she’d been a miracle baby, and she’d possess all of Millie's courage and acrobatic skills - as well as her money. Surely, she'd not use a safety net. And she would probably be only too pleased to have him check out her rig for her before a performance; just as he did her mother’s.

And, unlikely as it was that she would have his long bones, she might, hopefully, at least have inherited their brittleness.

 

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© Albert Woods (2013)