Mister Creecher (22 page)

‘Look,’ said Billy suspiciously. ‘No offence, but who the hell are you people?’

‘Ha! None taken, dear fellow. We are, collectively, Browning’s Carnival of Freaks.’

‘Carnival of Freaks?’

Browning laughed.

‘That’s right, my boy. We are a travelling brotherhood of the bizarre, a company of curios, a – well, you get the idea.’

Billy looked at Creecher, who was staring down at a midget, who had wandered over to have a closer look.

‘But you must travel with us, my friends,’ Browning cried.

‘I don’t know,’ said Billy. ‘We tend to travel light and go as we please.’

Browning nodded.

‘And how has that been for you?’ he asked, looking at Creecher. ‘No offence, young fellow, but surely your friend here attracts a bit of attention.’

Billy looked at Creecher and nodded.

‘A bit, yeah,’ he said. ‘But nothing we can’t handle.’

‘But why handle it at all? Come with us. We are all freaks in this carnival. Another one won’t matter.’

‘What about me?’ asked Billy.

‘You look like a boy who could turn his hand to most things,’ Browning replied. ‘What work have you done?’

Billy rubbed his face and sniffed.

‘Bit of this, bit of that,’ he mumbled.

Browning laughed.

‘No one cares what you were before you walked into camp. You could be a thief or a killer, for all we care, just so long as you do what’s asked while you’re here. You’ll get a roof over your head – albeit a canvas one – and all the food you want. What do you say?’

Billy looked at Creecher, and he could see that the giant was thinking the same thing: Browning was right. A travelling freak show was the best place to hide as they went north. It made perfect sense.

‘All right,’ said Billy.

‘Oui,’ said Creecher.

‘Excellent!’ said Browning, clapping his hands together and walking away. ‘Excellent!’

CHAPTER XXX.

The camp woke early. Billy and Creecher had been well fed the night before. Billy had eaten rabbit stew until his stomach hurt, and he wondered at how someone as huge as Creecher could get by on a bowl of rice and vegetables.

But already Billy was hungry again, and he joined a small crowd gathered round the fire for a bowl of porridge. He looked at the mix of carnival freaks and workers and, in the harsh morning light, Browning’s words came back to him: ‘You could be a thief or a killer . . .’ They looked like a set of escapees from Newgate and Bedlam.

Added to which, Billy could scarcely understand a word the carnival workers said. He was familiar with the slang of London – the thief’s cant and the flash talk – but this was something else altogether.

Seeing Billy’s confusion, one of the men told him it was a special slang used only by the fairground workers, a mix of English slang and some foreign words, mainly Italian. He told Billy he would pick it up soon enough.

After breakfast, the freak show began to pack up. Billy had imagined that this would be a disorganised affair, given the nature of the performers and the workers, but far from it.

Every person seemed to know what was required, and Billy was soon struggling to keep up with the barrage of orders that was being fired at him from right and left.

The tents were taken down with military efficiency and divided into all their various elements with practised ease. The canvas was folded, the rigging wound and boxed. All the trappings of the camp were dismantled into smaller and smaller pieces and then stored in marked crates and barrels.

Billy broke off from what he was doing to look about at the swirl of bodies around him. At first glance it seemed chaotic, but Billy could see that everyone had their allotted task and went about it with good-humoured efficiency. There was an endless stream of talk and calling and whistling and laughing and cursing.

Creecher walked past, carrying a crate that would have taken two men all their effort to drag. Browning stood nearby, gazing in admiration. He turned to Billy and grinned like a little boy. The grin was infectious and Billy joined in. He had never imagined being able to take pride in knowing Creecher, as he did now.

Where were they supposed to take all this equipment, Billy wondered, and how did they carry it from one place to the next? Surely they must need dozens of wagons to haul it – but he looked around and could see none.

Browning walked by and slapped him on the shoulder, smiling at the confused expression on Billy’s face.

‘It’s a wonderful sight, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘No matter how many times I see the carnival up stakes and move on, it never fails to move me. I think it is why I do this, you know. It is the idea of always moving, of never having to remain in one spot.’

‘But where are the wagons?’ said Billy.

‘Wagons?’ Browning repeated. ‘Wagons? My boy – this is the nineteenth century. We can do better than wagons!’

Browning grabbed his arm and pulled him in the same direction as many of the most heavily laden carnival men were heading. They walked through a gap in a stand of poplar trees and were instantly on the towpath of the canal.

Billy could not help but whistle appreciatively. Moored along the canal, stretching away into the distance, was a row of narrowboats, all richly decorated with
Browning’s Carnival of Freaks
written on the side.

‘These canals link all the great and growing cities,’ said Browning. ‘We will travel north this summer and be back down in London for the autumn. They are not the fastest way to travel, but they can take the heaviest load you could wish to put aboard.

‘These canals are like blood vessels, lad – veins and arteries that we move through like a drug.’

‘A drug?’ said Billy.

‘Oh yes,’ Browning replied. ‘We are like opium to those people of the mills and manufactories. Their lives are soulless, mechanical, and we give them magic and wonder. We let them escape the dull treadmill for an hour or two. We give them visions that would astound the most ardent of opium eaters, my young friend.’

Browning walked on to oversee the loading. Soon all that remained was to hitch up the horses and loose the great mooring ropes. On Browning’s command, the flotilla of narrowboats slowly moved on, huge horses, decorated with black plumes, pulling them through the inky waters.

At regular intervals, Billy would see groups of people standing and staring on the towpath or on the opposite bank. Browning was clever enough to keep the most valuable of his exhibits out of view, while making sure there were enough sights to arouse wonder among any onlookers.

Billy sat astride the roof ridge of one of the narrowboats, looking towards the prow and Creecher. The giant was sitting with his back towards him, his collar pulled up and his head bowed over a book, so that all Billy – or anyone else – could see of him was his hat.

Creecher seemed to be blocking everything out, curling up into his own world. Billy had thought he might find some sense of companionship among these other outcasts, but the giant seemed incapable of socialising. Apart from Billy, he seemed to have no need of friendship. It was as if he had given up on humankind – of whatever sort – and was determined to hold out for the mate that Frankenstein would build him.

Billy, on the other hand, was surprised at how accepting the carnival freaks were of Creecher. Apart from the initial appreciative stares when he first arrived, they barely glanced at him. It was as if there was an unspoken code that, among each other, no one would have to suffer unwanted attention.

If anything, the carnival folk stared at Billy more, suspicious, perhaps, of a stranger and his relative normality. He felt the freak here.

The boats were queuing up at a lock gate. Billy took the opportunity to stretch his legs and Creecher stood alongside him. Browning walked towards them, with Bradbury, the tattooed man, at his side.

‘I’m not sure I like these people getting a free glimpse of you, Mr Creecher,’ Bradbury said, pointing to the lock-keeper and his family, who were staring in awe from a safe distance.

‘No matter, Bradbury – it’s all publicity,’ said Browning, with a chuckle. ‘Now, what are we going to call you, my friend?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Creecher.

‘Oh, but you have to have a stage name!’ said Browning. ‘It’s crucial! No one would pay to see Bradbury, here, without us putting up a sign saying “The Illustrated Man”. Do you see?’

Browning turned away, looking up at the sky as though he might find inspiration there. Billy glanced at Creecher, who raised an eyebrow suspiciously. Billy grinned.

‘Of course!’ cried Browning, making Billy jump. ‘The French Ogre!’

Browning wrote the words in the air and stood back in admiration, viewing the imagined board in front of him.

‘But he’s Swiss,’ Billy pointed out.

Browning waved the objection away.

‘No, no, no,’ he said. ‘Swiss Ogre does not work at all. Take it from me – “The French Ogre” is perfect. Perfect!’

Browning walked away to instruct the sign-writer. Billy watched him go and then looked at Creecher.

‘Ogre,’ repeated the giant, looking down at himself.

‘It’s just a name,’ said Billy. ‘Don’t take it personal.’

But Billy could see that the name rankled the giant as he returned to his book.

CHAPTER XXXI.

The carnival was assembled in a field at the edge of a town Billy had never heard of. He had been so intent on the tasks allotted to him that he was taken by surprise when he finally turned round and saw the scale of it.

A huge tent stood in the centre, long trailing flags fluttered gaily and noisily from the poles that supported it. Around that were satellite tents and stalls.

‘It’s quite something, isn’t it?’ said Browning, walking up beside him.

‘It is,’ Billy agreed. ‘I mean, I’ve seen plenty of fairs in London, but putting up something this big so quickly – it’s amazing.’

Browning patted him on the shoulder.

‘I’ve taken this carnival to some of the greatest cities in Europe,’ he said. ‘When the season is over here, we will head south across France and then work our way through Italy. You could come with us, my friend. You and the giant would be very welcome.’

Billy shook his head.

‘Nah. Thanks for the offer and everything, but he’s got a particular need to head north.’

‘And you?’

‘Me?’ said Billy. ‘Something tells me you wouldn’t be interested in me without him.’

Browning grinned.

‘You may have a point,’ he said.

Billy laughed.

‘Thanks for not trying to lie, anyway.’

Browning put his thumbs into his waistcoat pocket and sat down on a barrel.

‘So why are you travelling with the giant?’ he asked. ‘You make an odd couple.’

Billy laughed again at that.

‘Once it was because I was scared of him,’ he replied. ‘Now it’s because I want to. It’s like I’ve started a story and I want to see how it ends. You know what I mean?’

‘I do,’ said Browning. ‘But stories don’t always end well, you know.’

Billy nodded.

‘I’ll have to take that chance,’ he said. ‘How about you? How did you come to be travelling with a load of freaks?’

Browning’s smile disappeared.

‘Freaks is a word we do not use with each other, Billy. It is a stage name – like “The French Ogre”. We are all strange, my friend. These people are simply strange in an obvious way.’

Billy shifted uncomfortably, annoyed with himself for having made a bad impression so soon. But Browning assured him that no offence had been taken.

‘Well, then,’ said Billy. ‘How come you are running this carnival of . . . obviously strange people?’

Browning roared with laughter and slapped Billy heartily on the back. He repeated Billy’s words to Bradbury as he walked by, but the tattooed man didn’t seem to find the remark as hilarious as Browning did.

‘I used to be a painter,’ said Browning. ‘I trained at the Royal Academy under a compatriot of your friend – a Swiss painter called Fuseli. You know his work, perhaps?’

Billy shook his head.

‘You must know
The Nightmare
,’ said Browning. ‘It’s incredibly famous. A woman lies on a bed, as if thrown there. A wild-eyed horse leans in through the bed curtains, while a grotesque imp sits on her chest. Wonderful – quite wonderful.’

Billy raised an eyebrow.

‘I’ll have to take your word for it,’ he said.

‘But these painters nowadays,’ Browning went on. ‘They wander about the countryside painting waterfalls and mountains. Nature – pah! Who wants to look at the natural when you can have the supernatural? Eh? Eh?’

Billy smiled and shrugged.

‘But, in truth, I was not going to be the great painter I hoped to be. My father was rich and my mother soft-hearted. It was a combination that meant I was indulged in my interests.

‘I travelled Europe, sketching and writing awful poetry. Then I met Bradbury and my life changed.’