Skylark by Jenny Pattrick Read Free Book Online Page A

the darling of Australian theatre — Mrs W.H. Foley!’
    Mrs Foley sailed into the ring, her arms high and proud, casting her brilliant smile this way and that. I watched carefully. Mrs Foley could draw applause from the crowd as easy as milking a cow. Like her or not, she was a true performer. Mr Foley bent an arm to her and she took it graciously. An hour ago they had been shouting and clawing at each other like two cats, but none of that was allowed to show in the ring. They stood near the biggest lamp, so that Mrs Foley’s handsome face was well lit. As she burst into ‘Villikins and his Dinah’, sung in a rollicking Devon accent, the crowd shouted their pleasure. Mr Foley joined in the chorus, jigging his feet and arms comically. Mrs Foley stood firm as a rock, letting her voice sail high and clear. I watched and learned. One day … One day …
    Then it was my turn. That night, Maria — Madame Tournear — was not well again. I performed alone. Mr Rossiter and Master Bird held the ponies while I mounted, one foot on each, and took the reins. At Mr Foley’s introduction, I set the two ponies gently moving, then, when my feet had the rhythm, urged them into a canter. I entered the ring smiling, reins in one hand, fringed parasol in the other, skirts swaying as my knees took thepitch and roll of the moving beasts. I cantered around the ring, then shifted both feet to a single back, pointed my toe and voilà ! Pretty Miss Tournear was balancing bareback on one foot! The audience gasped as I fell to the ground, feigning an accident, then cheered wildly to see me roll, leap to my feet, race after the gently trotting ponies and leap to their backs again. Oh, I was good, very good. I rode a circuit without reins, hands high in imitation of Mrs Foley. The audience clapped again.
    Remembering the man in the front row and the possibility of a coin or a trophy, I turned and smiled at him as I rode past. The fellow was applauding madly. At my smile the silly man leaped to his feet to shout his bravos. One of my sweet ponies startled and checked its pace. At this moment of triumph I lost balance and fell, alas in earnest. The crowd cheered and waited for me to recover, but this time I was badly hurt. I felt the sickening crack of bone in my ankle. The dread of any circus performer, and the reason we must practise for hours every day. There I lay, skirt bunched, sawdust in my hair, clawing at my leg.
    Mr Foley darted forward to bring the ponies to a stop and then came to my aid, but the tall man was already over the rail and at my side, his face as doleful as a hungry hound.
    ‘What have I done? Oh Lord, what a fool I am! Miss, dear Miss, let me help you up!’ He touched me lightly on the shoulder, and then in one quick move had me in his arms. Strong, as well as tall and handsome. My gasp of pain was covered by uncertain laughter and scattered applause from the audience. They could not be sure whether this manly rescue was part of the performance, or a real disaster.
    ‘Here.’ Mr Foley led the tall man from the ring, gave orders for the next act — Master Bird on the slack wire — to take over, then turned to the man. ‘Aha. I recognise you: the horseman at the Foxton performance.’ He frowned. ‘You startled my ponies. I would expect better from a horseman.’
    ‘Yes. Yes. I was carried away … foolish …’ The man smiled sadly. ‘How can I help?’
    Mr Foley looked around for his wife but naturally — her partin the performance over — she had disappeared. ‘Take her to Maria — Madame Tournear. She’ll know what to do.’ He chewed his moustache for a moment, still frowning. ‘If her foot is broken you’ll owe me for the damage. You’re a damn idiot, Sir.’
    The tall man nodded seriously. ‘Indeed, yes. Of course. My name is Jack Lacey, I’m …’
    But Mr Foley had returned to the glow of the ring, leaving me and Mr Jack Lacey in the dark outside.
    The pain was wretched. But I moaned also for my