Read Online Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft by Michael Bond - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Bond
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when the lights were on and there were people around it was all very different, but by daylight it simply looked tatty. Tatty and rather sad. The old Gustave Bayol
carrousel
had seen better days, although nothing would ever replace the quality of the delicately carved horses with their rosettes and tassels. It must have been someone’s pride and joy when it was new.
He wandered along through the fairground towards the circus tent, past the Dodgem cars and a heavily ornamented caravan belonging to a fortune-teller, its sides covered in paintings of stars and other heavenly bodies. Next to the caravan were two tents, one of which had a Jacques Courtoispainted canvas façade advertising the only bearded lady left in Europe, the other bore a picture depicting the smallest man in the world. Both tents had their flaps tightly closed. Next came a coconut shy, and after that a helter-skelter.
He could smell the circus long before he reached it; a mixture of sawdust and animals. It was the same smell he had noticed in the girl’s car.
Some Arab ponies were tethered to a tree, and near by there was a cage containing an elderly lion. It was fast asleep, enjoying the sunshine. Clearly, it suffered from the kind of affliction even its best friend wouldn’t have mentioned. But who would tell a lion? Seeing something lying on the ground, he stooped and picked it up. It was a small piece of fibreglass, newly sawn – the cut was still shiny. From force of habit he slipped it into his pocket.
To his right lay the entrance to the ‘big top’, fronted by a decorated pay-box. He made his way across the down-trodden grass. It was worth a try. But once again he drew a blank, and he was about to give up when he heard someone call out.
A man appeared from behind a lorry, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘What do you want? We’re not open yet.’
‘I was wanting a ticket for the circus.’
‘The
matinée
has been cancelled.’
‘Tonight will be fine.’
‘Tonight!
Pas de problème
! You can have as many as you like.
Vingt, cinquante, cent
…’
‘I want one only.’
‘Poof!’ The man raised his hands. Clearly he had better things to do than open up the box office just for the sake of selling one ticket. He pointed towards the fortune teller’s caravan. ‘You’d better see Madame Caoutchouc. She’s the boss.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way back across the fairground, threading a path through the stalls and sideshows until he reached the caravan. Signalling Pommes Frites to wait outside, he climbed the steps and knocked on the door. There was no reply. After a moment or two he turned the handleand pushed it open.
He found himself in a small area curtained off by black drapes hanging from rails fixed to the ceiling. In the middle there was a round, baize-covered table in the centre of which stood a large crystal ball. There were two chairs – one just inside the door, the other on the far side. A single shaded lamp suspended from the roof threw a pool of light onto the table.
Monsieur Pamplemousse called out, but again there was no reply. Pulling the curtain on his left to one side revealed a bedroom. A built-in bed occupied most of the space and to one side of it there was another door. It was reminiscent of a ship’s cabin or the sleeping-berth on an overnight express train – all polished wood and brass. Underneath the bed he could see what looked like a long leather bag. On top of the bed there was a red cushion embroidered with a piano keyboard.
He tried parting the curtains on the other side. It was a real old-fashioned Showman’s caravan and no mistake. A long bow-fronted sideboard ran along one wall. The top was covered with knick-knacks collected during a lifetime of travel, old photographs in silver frames, china and brass ornaments. They must all be stowed away when the circus was on the move and brought out again at each place of call. In the centre of the sideboard, looking totally out of place, there was
carrousel
had seen better days, although nothing would ever replace the quality of the delicately carved horses with their rosettes and tassels. It must have been someone’s pride and joy when it was new.
He wandered along through the fairground towards the circus tent, past the Dodgem cars and a heavily ornamented caravan belonging to a fortune-teller, its sides covered in paintings of stars and other heavenly bodies. Next to the caravan were two tents, one of which had a Jacques Courtoispainted canvas façade advertising the only bearded lady left in Europe, the other bore a picture depicting the smallest man in the world. Both tents had their flaps tightly closed. Next came a coconut shy, and after that a helter-skelter.
He could smell the circus long before he reached it; a mixture of sawdust and animals. It was the same smell he had noticed in the girl’s car.
Some Arab ponies were tethered to a tree, and near by there was a cage containing an elderly lion. It was fast asleep, enjoying the sunshine. Clearly, it suffered from the kind of affliction even its best friend wouldn’t have mentioned. But who would tell a lion? Seeing something lying on the ground, he stooped and picked it up. It was a small piece of fibreglass, newly sawn – the cut was still shiny. From force of habit he slipped it into his pocket.
To his right lay the entrance to the ‘big top’, fronted by a decorated pay-box. He made his way across the down-trodden grass. It was worth a try. But once again he drew a blank, and he was about to give up when he heard someone call out.
A man appeared from behind a lorry, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘What do you want? We’re not open yet.’
‘I was wanting a ticket for the circus.’
‘The
matinée
has been cancelled.’
‘Tonight will be fine.’
‘Tonight!
Pas de problème
! You can have as many as you like.
Vingt, cinquante, cent
…’
‘I want one only.’
‘Poof!’ The man raised his hands. Clearly he had better things to do than open up the box office just for the sake of selling one ticket. He pointed towards the fortune teller’s caravan. ‘You’d better see Madame Caoutchouc. She’s the boss.’
Monsieur Pamplemousse made his way back across the fairground, threading a path through the stalls and sideshows until he reached the caravan. Signalling Pommes Frites to wait outside, he climbed the steps and knocked on the door. There was no reply. After a moment or two he turned the handleand pushed it open.
He found himself in a small area curtained off by black drapes hanging from rails fixed to the ceiling. In the middle there was a round, baize-covered table in the centre of which stood a large crystal ball. There were two chairs – one just inside the door, the other on the far side. A single shaded lamp suspended from the roof threw a pool of light onto the table.
Monsieur Pamplemousse called out, but again there was no reply. Pulling the curtain on his left to one side revealed a bedroom. A built-in bed occupied most of the space and to one side of it there was another door. It was reminiscent of a ship’s cabin or the sleeping-berth on an overnight express train – all polished wood and brass. Underneath the bed he could see what looked like a long leather bag. On top of the bed there was a red cushion embroidered with a piano keyboard.
He tried parting the curtains on the other side. It was a real old-fashioned Showman’s caravan and no mistake. A long bow-fronted sideboard ran along one wall. The top was covered with knick-knacks collected during a lifetime of travel, old photographs in silver frames, china and brass ornaments. They must all be stowed away when the circus was on the move and brought out again at each place of call. In the centre of the sideboard, looking totally out of place, there was
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