The Circus

Chapter One – Psychic Sheila-2

By sunlight the next morning, the field had been transformed into the most wondrous hive of activity, with the big top up and coloured flags adorning every guide rope. Curious children from the town had been out early on their bicycles too, hoping to catch a glimpse of the clowns without their painted faces and cheekily daring each other to sneak into the main tent arena to see what was going on inside. The tent master always took great pleasure in chasing the local kids away but he did so in jest, pretending to wave an angry fist as he ran after them at a much slower pace than he would usually give chase. Of course the first night, or opening night, in any new town was always the most exciting for the circus performers. It was the night on which they would gage their audience's reactions, trigger that first barrel of laughter and occasionally do that one off the cuff action that the town would forever remember them for.

In the home of 'Psychic Sheila' the day was all about hiding away her most personal belongings, setting out the tools of her trade such as lace tablecloths and candles and polishing up the most prized possession, her crystal ball. Unlike many traditional Romanies who plied the same trade, Sheila's crystal ball hadn't been handed down to her through the generations, nor had it belonged to a mentor, but quite simply she'd bought it at an antiques auction many years ago. Heavy and shimmering, with an enormous glass globe on the top, the base was made up of a mountain of silver bats, their rat-like faces showing sharp teeth, giving the impression that any sudden movement would cause them to bite. Sheila kept her crystal ball in a metal case, originally designed for carrying photographic equipment and now lined with dark purple velvet padding, a result of her own clever craftsmanship.

“Come to me my lovely,” the psychic cooed, carefully taking the item out of its case and wiping the glass surface gently with a soft cloth, “We have work to do tonight.”

Sheila leaned over the top of the globe until she could see her own reflection peering back at her. It was at this point on every performance night that plain old Irish-born Sheila Hannigan was transformed into the amazing and talented 'Psychic Sheila', the wondrous fortune-teller who could see far into the future with her mystic charm and magical crystal ball.

“Bloody hell,” she grumbled, looking more closely at her reflection, “I've got lipstick on my teeth! Now there's a bad omen if ever there was one.”

Sheila carefully wiped at the red stain on her front tooth with a small piece of tissue and checked herself again in a large vanity mirror on the wall, still not content with the way she looked tonight.

“I'll have to do,” she told herself, still frowning, “I can hear the footsteps of paying customers.”

Sure enough, a line of young women waited patiently outside. It was always the case, the girls came first, hoping to learn some nugget of insight into their future, while their boyfriends and husbands loitered around waiting to hear the results of their beloved's fifteen minutes inside 'Psychic Sheila's' caravan. Later on in the evening, swallowing their pride or sometimes just simply curious, a few of the males would knock on the door themselves, wanting to hear what fate had in store for them. Sheila always tried to be a little bit more sympathetic to the men who visited, as many were shy and others non-believers, therefore needing gentle persuasion to open up to her. That particular night, it was a pretty blonde woman in her mid-twenties who was first through the door.

“Hello my dear,” Sheila smiled, indicating to the chair on the opposite side of the table, “Please sit down.”

The woman smiled widely, showing a large gap between her front teeth, “Thank you.”

Sheila gently took the blonde's hands in hers and closed her eyes as she found it useful to generate the right atmosphere and helped to clear her mind. She held tight for a few moments and then breathed deeply, pulling her crystal ball towards her as she did so. Those moments of reflection had enabled Sheila to feel a slight ridge on the woman's wedding finger, indicating that a ring had recently been removed. She looked down into the glass orb and glanced up briefly for effect.

“I can see a young man walking away from you,” the psychic murmured, “Not so very long ago.”

The woman nodded but said nothing.

“It was a serious relationship,” Sheila continued, glancing up and noticing her customer's tearful eyes, “But I see something else. I see another man, maybe a year or so in the future. He's tall and handsome, and will make you very happy.”

“Will we have children?” the woman asked eagerly, obviously cheered up by the news of her new beau.

“The mist is unclear,” Sheila confessed, but then suddenly sensing the other woman's stiffening poise she quickly added, “Yes, my dear, I believe you will.”

“Oh, thank you. I never thought I could be happy again without Kevin.”

“You will,” Sheila smiled, sitting upright again, “Happier than you've ever been.”

The young woman opened her purse and took out money to pay, the shoulder pads in her summer dress rustling slightly as she moved. Sheila thought how chic her client looked with additional padding in her frock and vowed to add some to her own clothes when she had a moment free, all thoughts of Kevin gone.

“Do you have a dog?” Sheila asked, tucking the note that the woman offered into her bra, “I sense a small brown puppy.”

The young gap-toothed woman beamed, “Yes, his name's Ben. I got him for company a week ago.”

Sheila nodded, her senses never failed her, they just sometimes took a while to get going.

“Love him with all your heart,” she whispered, “He'll be more loving and faithful than any man.”

And so the afternoon continued, with a steady throng of customers trotting in and out of the fortune-teller's caravan, some of the readings being more accurate than others depending upon the vibes between client & medium, until early evening when it was time for Sheila Hannigan to pack away the tools of her trade and venture out to watch the show, as she had done every night for the past five years.

The atmosphere outside the big top was electric with sideshows warming up the crowd and excited children running to and fro pleading with their parents to part with their hard-earned cash for ice-creams, toffee apples and candy floss. The Irishwoman watched as a long queue of circus-goers filed into the main arena, everyone chattering with glee as they showed their tickets and rushed in to find their seats. Sheila pulled her shawl closely around her and walked to the rear of the enormous tent, where the Tent Master was keeping an eye on proceedings.

“Evening Jake,” she whispered, catching the man by surprise, “Everything running like clockwork?”

“Oh, Sheila! You'll give me a heart attack one of these days!” the fifty-year old complained jokingly, “All ready, just waiting for your Majesty to take a seat.”

It was an in joke with the circus crowd that Jake Collins had a soft spot for Sheila and lately he'd started calling her his 'Princess', much to the woman's annoyance.

Tonight though she was in good spirits, having had a decent amount of money cross her palm, and gave the worker a gentle punch on the arm before brushing past and making her way through the canvas door. Sheila's regular perch was right at the back of the crowd, close to the huge red curtains that shrouded the performers from view while they waited for their turn in the ring, and the rest of the audience didn't give her a second glance without her traditional gipsy costume and red lipstick. It felt empowering to be able to sit amongst the general public while the rest of her circus family performed but Sheila also believed that she could use her powers to protect them from mishaps and sat with baited breath as each act took their turn. As the music began, the woman wiggled herself to the very edge of the seat and awaited the entrance of the ringmaster himself, The Great Rolando.

In actual fact, Roland O'Hare had only been hosting the circus acts for two years. He'd taken over the role when his father had decided to take things more slowly after a mild heart attack, although Roland senior, better known as Roly, still very much held the reins and watched his son's performance with a critical eye. It was the older of the two men who now, quite unexpectedly, sidled along the back row to sit beside Sheila.

“Evening,” she said politely, continuing to stare straight ahead.

“Are you alright Sheila?” the man asked gruffly, his Irish accent much more pronounced than her own.

“Yes, I'm fine thanks Roly.”

“Look, I know you and I haven't really been close, but I do worry about you being on your own so much and I know for a fact that my Tammy wouldn't want you to be lonely, God rest her soul.”

Sheila blinked but still didn't turn to face the man at her side. It had been a few years since Tammy O'Hare had passed away and even though the two women weren't particularly close, they had shared some laughs and their friendship had been steadily growing. At last she found the words to reply.

“Really, you don't need to worry about me. I'm absolutely fine.”

“Well, if you're sure,” the man grunted, now straining his neck as his son walked into the ring.

“Yes, I am,” Sheila told him, although both their attention was now fixed firmly on the younger man.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Rolando's Circus! I am 'The Great Rolando' and will be your host for the evening.”

The ringmaster stepped forward and took a bow as the crowd clapped and cheered. He look resplendent in his red coat and long leather boots and, looking around at the faces of the women in the audience, Sheila could see that he was making quite an impression on the ladies. She noticed how Roland's muscular arms were stretching the fabric on the seams of his sleeves and gave an involuntary sigh as she predicted that they would need mending within the week.

“Ah, so that's your game is it?” Roland senior tutted, a look of disgust blatant on his face.

“What? No, how could you even think…”

“Don't give me that Missy, I saw the look on your face just now,” Roly growled, getting up to leave.

Sheila watched the rest of the show alone. She hadn't known what to make of Roland O'Hare senior's outburst but quite frankly the only thing she cared about was her own reputation. Being a single woman in such a tight knit community was no easy thing but she had hardly expected the older man to be so abrupt with her. Unless of course, he too had designs on her, which she found both a repulsive and odd prospect.

By eleven, the crowds had disappeared, their curiosity satisfied. Performers had retired to their mobile homes to get changed, wash, eat or simply sleep. The few people who still milled about outside were mostly workers who checked on the rigging and tightened the security ropes for the night but even those few men were exhausted and looked forward to settling down.

Sheila lay fully clothed on her bunk, sipping a glass of red wine, and still thinking through the various conversations that had taken place that day, both personal and professional. She hadn't eaten since devouring the bacon sandwich earlier and the effects of the alcohol were making her slightly light-headed. As she clambered off the bed to explore the contents of her tiny fridge there was a tap at the door. At first she ignored it, hoping that the visitor would think she was asleep but then realised that her lights were still on and opened the door. Jake Collins stood in the rain.

“What is it?” she snapped, being unintentionally harsh.

“I just wanted to check you were alright Sheila,” Jake countered, the frosty reception going right over his head.

“What the hell's the matter with everyone?” Sheila Hannigan cried, slamming the refrigerator door shut, “Why on earth wouldn't I be alright? And why all the sudden fecking interest?”

The tent master stepped back slightly, unaware of what he'd said wrong.

“Look Sheila, I don't mean to pry, honest I don't,” he began timidly, “But when I saw Roly talking to you in the tent this evening, I thought maybe he was making a move on you.”

The psychic let out a high-pitched cackle, something which emulated a witch and a sound that led Jake to believe that he'd been mistaken in his observations.

“Would you get out of here Jake Collins!” Sheila chuckled, waving her hands at him, “I've never heard such a ridiculous load of baloney in all my life! Go on now, go on.”

The man thrust his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans and turned to leave, glancing back only once.

“I'm sorry Princess,” he called, “It's only because I care about you.”

“Aye, and every fecker else,” Sheila muttered, slamming the caravan door.

That night Sheila Hannigan didn't sleep well at all and the hours in which she did manage to doze off were filled with dreams of her circus family trying to get her married off to one or other of the single men who shared their community. Eventually, at five o'clock in the morning, she drank a strong black coffee and then dressed in jeans and a thick sweater, intending to go for a stroll.

The countryside surrounding the circus campsite was quite breathtaking, and Sheila hadn't really been able to appreciate its full glory upon arrival. Neighbouring fields held flocks of sheep, their white fleeces fluffy like soft marshmallows against the landscape, and the low bleating of a ewe calling her lambs was the only sound to be heard as the woman turned onto a narrow lane. It had rained overnight, not an uncommon thing in Central England, therefore Sheila walked in the middle to avoid deep puddles near the uneven grass verge. She breathed in the fresh air, exhaling slowly through her nose and thinking through both the conversations and strange dreams of the previous night. Sheila made a mental note to apologise to Jake Collins, she knew he just cared about her wellbeing, but why couldn't anyone believe that she could be happy and single in her middle-aged years?

Sheila Hannigan sighed deeply, an action that triggered a bout of coughing and saw her leaning upon a fence post until the irritation passed. She made a quick mental note to cut down on the cigarettes.

“Are you alright?” a familiar husky voice called from behind her.

Sheila turned at the sound of Roland O'Hare's voice, wondering how long he'd been behind her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to keep the surprise out of her question.

“I'm just taking in the views so I am,” the young man smiled, “Bit early for you though isn't it?”

Sheila nodded, another coughing fit starting up, “I couldn't sleep,” she eventually managed.

“You want to lay off those fags so you do,” Roland lectured, “They do terrible things to your lungs.”

“Well, thank you Einstein,” Sheila shot back sarcastically, as she recovered herself.

“Come on, will you let me make you a cup of coffee?” the man asked softly, gesturing back towards the tents and caravans behind them, “You look like you need one.”

“Alright,” the woman conceded, “Although we'll have it at mine.”

Roland nodded, linking his arm through hers, “No funny business though, I've got work to do.”

Sheila laughed at that comment and looked up into the man's face. He had the same eyes as his father.

“You're a devil Roland O'Hare, that's for sure.”

As they approached the cluster of trailers, laughing and chatting, the pair could see that their circus family was beginning to stir. A few items of laundry hung out to dry on a washing-line, two dogs chased each other in circles while their owner drank tea on the step of his caravan and smoke gently curled from the chimney of another as the occupant cooked breakfast. A normal day in circus life, except for one curious action now taking place as the couple approached the main field.

The caravan closest to them was a colourful affair, painted with the stars and stripes of the American flag and emblazoned with images of a daredevil stuntman. It belonged to the newest member of the group, an Evil Knievel look-a-like who defied death on his custom-built motorbike. He stood outside the door of his mobile home at that very moment, stretching and yawning before picking up a very dainty red watering-can.

Sheila nudged Roland and giggled, “What's he up to?”

“Looks like Danger McDougall's got green fingers.”

“Well, I don't see any fecking flowers, do you?” his companion laughed, “Oh sorry Roland, there I go again, swearing, I'll have to wash my mouth out with soap.”

“You will my girl,” he scorned, “Far too much swearing! Now what's he up to?”

“Maybe he's got a few pot plants, that's all. Now are we having that coffee or what?”

The young man sighed & nodded, “We are, I'll race you to the kettle.”