Chance Developments (8 page)

It proved simpler than Mr. Beaulieu had imagined. The owner of the Great All-Canada Circus was Mr. Gregory Paul Vink, a stout, rather dyspeptic-looking New Englander. Vink had married a Canadian nurse, the sister of Mr. Beaulieu's client, and had moved to Ontario to help her ageing parents on their farm. He was no farmer, and he soon looked around for something else to do. He had bought the circus from its previous owner after he had lost interest in it. The purchase price had been tiny, but so had the audiences at the time, as the circus had very little to offer, most of the performers having long since abandoned it on the grounds of non-payment of wages. Vink changed all that. He used what little capital he had to buy a new big tent and to offer advance payment to a number of artists. These he chose well, as he had an eye for showmanship, and before long the circus had acquired a reputation not only in Toronto, but in a number of other cities to which it toured: Winnipeg, Saskatoon, Calgary. This led to the acquisition of another circus, this one based in New Westminster, at the western end of the railway line spanning the country. He ran the two as a single business, in spite of the vast sea of land that lay between them, exchanging performers to keep everybody's act fresh.

“Nothing like a different audience to keep you on your toes,” he observed.

When Mr. Beaulieu went to see him at his client's house, Vink was pleased to have a visitor.

“Sitting here all day,” he said, “makes me itchy. The doc says I have to do it—they removed half my stomach, you know—but it drives me up the wall doing nothing here. It's nice to have some intelligent company for a change—not that my brother-in-law isn't intelligent, I hasten to point out.”

“I've come about my boy,” said Mr. Beaulieu. “I have a son of twenty, you see, and he's very keen to join a circus.”

Mr. Beaulieu had not expected a laugh.

“Twenty?” chuckled Vink. “Usually it's ten-year-olds. I get letters every week. Kids have some row with their parents and so what happens? They write off to see if they can join the circus. It's what they do.” He shook his head. “Little devils.”

“He's very good at card tricks,” said Mr. Beaulieu. “He's also a conjuror. He's been praised for that, I'm told. There was a theatrical group passed through town six months ago—big variety act. And one of them said he had a future on the stage.”

“The circus ain't the theatre,” said Vink. “If you want to go on the stage you go to New York. Or maybe Toronto.”

“It's not theatre he wants,” said Mr. Beaulieu. “It's the circus.”

Vink looked thoughtful. “I might be able to interview him—see what he's like.”

Mr. Beaulieu knew the dangers of that. If Eddie were to be interviewed, Vink would be treated to a discourse on Pelmanism or the uses of the Tarot pack. He would be rejected out of hand.

He had come prepared. “I have a proposition to make,” he said. “I want to get my boy started…”

Vink interrupted him. “Oh, I understand that, Mr. Bowl…”

“Beaulieu.”

“Mr. Beaulieu…I understand that.”

“Thank you. I fully appreciate how tight things are in any business. So why don't we do this: I'll pay you his wages for the first three months. I'll wire you the money and you can pay him, so that he thinks it's coming from you. Then, after three months, you decide whether you're going to keep him.”

“And if I like him, then I only start paying from the end of three months?”

“Yes, but until then there's no risk for you. You needn't put up a dime until that point. The risk lies with me.”

Vink looked at him suspiciously. “What's wrong with this boy of yours?” he asked.

Mr. Beaulieu grinned nervously. “Why do you ask?”

“Because of the terms you're offering.”

He made a quick decision. Vink was clearly astute, and he would spot concealment. “He can go on a bit. He's a nice young man, but he goes on a bit.”

Vink laughed. “Is that all? I thought maybe he was on the run or something like that. Wanted by the RCMP maybe.”

“Oh no. He's one hundred per cent honest.” He said this with a conviction that showed.

“In that case,” said Vink, “I'll take him. I need a couple of new hands. We'll see how he shapes up.”

“You won't regret it,” said Mr. Beaulieu.

“Time will tell,” said Vink. “It tells most things if you give it the chance.”

“You're right there, Mr. Vink.
Time like an ever-rolling stream
…”

Vink took the reference. “
Bears all its sons away
…Oh, those old hymns have it, don't they, Mr. Beaulieu?”

“They sure do, Mr. Vink.”

They shook hands, and Vink went back to his operation and to the length of the section of intestine that had been removed. “Two feet,” he said. “Surgeon showed it to me afterwards.”

“A circus, Dad? Toronto?”

Mr. Beaulieu smiled at his son. “Actually, he said that he'd want you to start over in BC. They have a branch over there—place called New Westminster, just outside Vancouver. It's where the railway line ends.”

“Oh, I know all about New Westminster,” said Eddie, enthusiastically. “I've read about it. The Fraser River.”

“He said you could start straight away. He'll give you the money for your railway ticket. Three days from Toronto, isn't it? All the way across.”

“I'll make food for the journey,” said Mrs. Beaulieu. “You won't go hungry.”

“They have food on the train,” said Eddie. “I've seen pictures of folks eating as they go across the prairies…eating at tables like they were at home but they're actually on the prairies, you see…”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Beaulieu.

Eddie's smile faded. “It's a long way away, BC. Are you going to be all right back here? By yourselves?”

His parents exchanged a glance. “Eddie, you don't worry about us. You just seize this opportunity with both hands. Seize the day, as they say.”

“You sure, Dad?”

“I'm one hundred per cent sure, Eddie. This is your big chance.” He feigned a playful punch at his son's shoulder. “Work hard and justify the faith Mr. Vink has in you. Work hard and you get to the top.”

“The big top,” said Eddie. “That's what they call a circus tent. The big top, eh, Dad?”

They laughed. “Good for you, son,” said Mr. Beaulieu. “Your future is just beginning.”

In New Westminster he was given lodgings in a boarding house two blocks away from the circus warehouse. Two young port workers lived there too, and the three of them were looked after by an indulgent landlady who referred to “her boys” and who not only cooked for them but also took it upon herself to launder and repair their clothes.

On his first day at work, he was taken round by the circus manager and introduced to all twenty-three people who ran the circus, from the men who erected the tent to the trapeze artists, a couple of Russian exiles, morose chain smokers who, when not practising or performing, sat in their trailer and wrote letters to their friends in Paris. They spoke virtually no English, but pretended to understand what was said to them, nodding in agreement until they could return to their lengthy correspondence.

“Your job,” said the manager, “is going to be collecting tickets at the entrance, showing people to their seats, and cleaning up after each show. You're also going to be assistant to Frank—my second-in-command. You do whatever Frank wants you to do.”

Eddie hid his disappointment. He had seen himself performing, even if he had yet to work out exactly what he could do. It was difficult to do card tricks in front of a large audience, but he could do some conjuring. He could make things disappear—it was simple enough—and people loved watching that.

The manager picked up this disappointment. “You got a problem with any of that?”

Eddie decided to take a risk. “Mr. Vink promised I could put on an act.”

The manager frowned. “He didn't tell me nothing about that.”

“Anything,” said Eddie. “He didn't tell you anything about it. If he didn't tell you nothing, then he told you something.”

The manager stroked the side of his neck. “What can you do?”

Eddie pointed to a small Jack Russell terrier sitting nearby. “That dog,” he said.

“That's the human cannonball's dog. Jack—you'll meet him. Jack's mighty fond of that dog.”

“I can make him disappear,” said Eddie. “You want to see?”

“What do you need?”

Eddie pointed to a stack of small empty crates nearby. “Those boxes—can I use those?”

The manager nodded. “You make the dog disappear then. I'm watching.”

Eddie arranged the boxes in a circle. Then he fetched the dog, who seemed not to object to having an upended crate put over him. From within a few barks could be heard—then silence.

“Right,” said Eddie. “Tell me which box the dog is in.”

The manager snorted. “The one you put him under.”

“Yes, but which one is that?”

The manager stepped forward and kicked at the crate. “That one. I saw you.”

“Would you like to pick the box up?” said Eddie.

The manager shrugged. “There'll be a dog underneath it.”

He reached forward and lifted the box. There was nothing underneath it. “Well, I'll be darned,” he said. “How did that dog get out of there?”

A bark came from underneath another crate. The manager walked over to it, lifted it up, and was greeted by the dog, who rushed forward to lick his hands.

“There's your dog,” said Eddie.

The manager looked at him. “What else can you do?” he asked.

“I can saw a woman in half,” said Eddie. “Not really, of course, but they'll think I have.”

“I seen that once,” said the manager. “Cut right through this dame and then she jumps up out of a suitcase. Amazing.” He paused. “You'll need some stage clothes. I'll take you to Ruby. She'll fix you up.”

Ruby was a woman in her mid-thirties. She had a friendly, open expression and Eddie liked her from the moment he met her.

“Ruby has a ventriloquism act,” explained the manager. “She's the best ventriloquist in Western Canada.”

“Oh, come on, George,” said Ruby. “You don't want to be confusing this young man. I do my best, but I'm certainly not the best.”

“In my book you are,” said the manager. “Anyway, Ruby, this young man is Eddie Beaulieu from Kingston, Ontario. He's just joined us. He's going to be doing a conjuring act and will need some clothes. Can you run something up for him?”

Ruby moved Eddie into the centre of the small workroom in which they had found her. She looked at him appraisingly. “Shouldn't be difficult,” she said. “We've got a jacket that'll fit like a glove and I can take the trousers in a bit. Yes, I'll fix him up.”

The manager left. Ruby reached for a bag and took out a tape measure. She measured his waist, wrote some figures down in a notebook, and then looked at her watch. “I usually have a cup of tea at about this time. Over in my trailer. You can come and meet Frank.”

“Is he your husband?” asked Eddie.

“Gracious, no,” said Ruby. “I just make tea for Frank and some of the boys, if they happen to be around. I think the others have gone off to get some animal feed. It'll just be Frank.”

They walked round the side of the warehouse to where the trailers were parked. Ruby's was painted green and had a set of polished metal steps outside it. She ushered Eddie in.

Frank was sitting on a folding canvas chair. He was a man about the same age as Ruby, and had a large white hat balanced on one knee. Ruby introduced them.

“Frank,” she said, “you tell Eddie what you do.”

“I got a lion,” said Frank. “I show him. And I got a dwarf—a musical dwarf. I'm his agent. He can't look after himself because he's not quite…” He tapped his head.

“He plays great music,” said Ruby. “He has a tuba which is a bit bigger than he is. He plays it real well.”

“They like that,” said Frank. “They laugh fit to burst when Charles comes in. You should hear them.”

Ruby lit the gas stove under the kettle. “Some people say that it's cruel, but it isn't, you know. Charles loves the attention.”

“And he makes good money,” said Frank. “I take ten per cent—not a dollar more. And I look after him.”

Ruby was at pains to confirm this. “Charles couldn't do without Frank, Eddie. He gets into trouble with the cops, you see.”

“We don't talk about that, Ruby.” He turned to Eddie. “It doesn't happen very often, but sometimes Charles gets a bit excited and we have to square it with the cops. He doesn't really mean any harm.”

“If it wasn't for Frank,” said Ruby, “Charles could easily be in prison.” She paused. “Somebody said they've got a jail for dwarves up in the Yukon somewhere. You heard that, Frank?”

“Could be,” said Frank.

“Small cells,” said Ruby.

Tea was poured. Eddie told them about the act he was hoping to do. He went on to say a little bit about Pelmanism.

“Sounds interesting,” said Ruby, glancing at Frank.

“I reckon so,” said Frank.

Then Ruby said, “You'd better meet Harold.”

“Yes,” said Frank. “Harold is a very important fellow. He'll be dying to meet you.”

Ruby went to a large cupboard and opened the door.

“Here's Harold,” she said.

Harold was a ventriloquist's doll of classic appearance—rosy-cheeked, wide-eyed, and wearing a smart morning suit. She sat down with Harold on her knee, her arm up the back of Harold's jacket.

“So who is this young man?” asked Harold, in a high-pitched voice.

“This here is Eddie,” said Ruby.

Harold's eyes widened. Mechanically operated eyelashes fluttered. “Very pleased to meet you, young fellow,” he said. “You ever been kissed?”

“Harold!” scolded Ruby.

“I was only asking,” said Harold, his mechanical lips moving in time to his words. “A smart young fellow like him, all the girls going to want to kiss him!”

“Yes, but you don't have to spell it out,” said Frank.

“You shut your trap!” snapped Harold.

“Cupboard for you,” said Ruby, rising to her feet. She bundled Harold into the cupboard and closed the door.

“That's a great act,” Eddie complimented her. “I didn't see your lips moving at all.”

“That's why she's the best,” said Frank. “Everywhere we go, they love her. Edmonton, Calgary, down in Washington State. There isn't a place that doesn't love Ruby.”

“You're too kind to me,” said Ruby. “Why don't you go and introduce Eddie to Mackenzie King?”

“My lion,” said Frank. “Would you like to meet him, Eddie?”

He saw the look of puzzlement on Eddie's face. “Yes, same name as the Prime Minister. William Lyon Mackenzie King, except he—my lion—spells it William
Lion
Mackenzie King—Lion with an
i
.”

Ruby broke out laughing. “Frank doesn't give the audience the full name, you see—some of them might think it disrespectful. So he just introduces him as
King
, and nobody bats an eyelid.”

Eddie smiled. “Great joke,” he said.

“Well, I think so,” said Frank.

“He wouldn't hurt a fly,” said Frank. “Look at him. Lazy piece of work.”

Eddie approached the bars of the cage somewhat gingerly. The lion was lying on the floor of his cage, his eyes closed, his tail flicking at flies.

“I brought him up from San Diego,” said Frank. “He'd lived there for four years. He was born in Texas, they said. Down in El Paso. They live up to twenty years in captivity, these creatures. Out in the wild they only get ten, twelve years maybe. Depends on their luck.”

Eddie watched the lion. One of his eyes was opening now. It was a strange, tawny colour, thought Eddie: just the colour you would expect a lion's eye to be.

“I get him to jump on to a stool,” said Frank. “Then he leaps through a hoop. That's about it, I suppose.” He paused. “I never use fire. Some guys use fire—but that terrifies them, you know. A lion hates fire more than anything else. It's cruel to make them jump through burning rings. I've got no time for that.”

Eddie agreed. “That's a great name you've given him. It suits him.”

Frank smiled. “I never liked that fellow Mackenzie King,” he said. “Something about him. Don't know what it is.”

Eddie was silent.

“And you?” asked Frank. “You like him back east?”

Eddie hesitated. “I could tell you something,” he said.

“Oh yes? What?”

Eddie lowered his voice although they were alone. “He's in touch with the other side.”

Frank frowned. “With the Opposition? The Conservative Party? I guess the Liberals have to talk to them…”

Eddie shook his head. “No, not the other political side…
the
other side. You know? When you die you go over to the other side.
That
other side.”

“Oh, I see. You mean he's a…what do you call them folks? A spiritualist?”

“Yes,” said Eddie. “I'm not criticising him for it, of course. I don't think you should close your mind to things like that.”

Frank was suspicious. “How do you know? I never saw anything about that in the papers—at least not over here.”

“There hasn't been anything,” said Eddie. “I know because I've met the lady who tells his fortune.”

Frank still looked doubtful. “Lots of people make things up, you know.”

“Not her,” said Eddie. “I know her because she lives in Kingston. I met her at a fair—she was telling fortunes. She's called Mrs. Bleaney. I asked her to teach me, and she did. I went to her place a lot and I learned all about fortune-telling. She called me her young disciple.”

“And Mackenzie King goes there? To her place?”

Eddie nodded. “She says that he comes in private. She tells him what to do.”

Frank gasped. “Hold on—you're telling me that this fortune-teller in Kingston tells the Prime Minister of Canada what to do?”

“Yes,” said Eddie. He sounded defensive. “Except sometimes it doesn't work out very well. Fortune-tellers can make mistakes—same as anyone else.”

“And she did?”

“Yes, she said to me that she had told Mackenzie King he'd win an election, and he didn't.”

Frank clapped his hands together with delight. “They don't like that, those guys in Ottawa. They don't like that, do they?”

“She probably just misheard,” said Eddie. “Sometimes the people on the other side can be indistinct.”

Frank's eyes narrowed. “Really? You think that?”

“Oh, there's a lot of proof of that,” said Eddie.