a while, except for a postcard from Moscow saying that she wanted me to post her a pair of
gloves, and that she was married, and that she’d tell me all about it as soon as she got home.’
‘And?’
‘Well, the circus was on a world tour, and a few months after that I got a card from Mexico City asking me to post her some tea bags, and saying that she was pregnant, and that it was the
most exciting thing ever, and she’d tell me all about it as soon as she got home.’
‘And?’
‘I heard nothing for a year or so, then one day, out of the blue, the doorbell rang.’
‘It was her?’
‘No. It was a camel. Holding a basket in its mouth. And in the basket was a postcard from Johannesburg saying that the circus world tour was the trip of a lifetime, but that travelling
conditions in Africa were not suitable for a young baby. Next to the postcard, in the basket, was a baby. You. The card said she’d be back soon to take care of you. But we heard nothing for
two more years, until finally, out of the blue, the doorbell rang.’
‘And this time it was her?’
‘No. It was the camel again, with a basket holding a black envelope and a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. The envelope contained nothing except a newspaper cutting from the
Auckland Examiner
, describing a trapeze accident that had led to the tragic death of an aerial artiste.’
‘My mother’s dead?’
‘Yes, Hannah, I’m sorry. Your birth mother is dead. But your aunt raised you, and she put her heart and soul into it, and even though you and she may not see eye to eye, she’s
been as good a mother to you as anyone could want.’
‘So my mother’s not my mother, but you’re still my granny?’
‘I’m your double granny, because I’m the mother of both your mothers. And what could be better than that?’
‘If my real mum was alive,
that
would be better,’ said Hannah, only just holding back a surge of sobs.
‘I’m so sorry, dear,’ said Granny. ‘We all tried our best for you.’
‘I know you did,’ replied Hannah, who at this moment felt as if her heart was being used as a trampoline. ‘And my father never came back for me?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘You never saw him again?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘You’re not sure?’
‘Well, like I said, your father could be either of those two chaps, but the one I didn’t like, the one with the moustache, I think we both may have come across him this summer. And I
think he might be an even worse fellow than my Cupcake Test told me.’
‘Not . . . ?’
‘Yes!’
‘Not . . . ?’
‘YES!’
‘Not . . . ?’
‘OH, YES! Armitage Shank. That was him. I recognised him instantly.’
‘And the other one? The nice one? Who was he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What was his name?’
‘I can’t remember. But he really did have lovely muscles. And he was so polite. It must have been him. I’m sure your father’s that one.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I think I’m sure. But your mother was a headstrong girl. Very unpredictable. I’m so sorry about all this, Hannah. It really is quite confusing, isn’t it?’
Hannah nodded, and a tingle at the end of her nose alerted her to the fact that her sobs could be held in no longer.
Granny fetched a box of tissues, rubbed Hannah’s back, kissed her seven times on the forehead, then began to rummage in a high cupboard. She returned with a small parcel wrapped in brown
paper.
‘This is the parcel?’ sniffled Hannah.
Granny nodded and opened it on the coffee table. Inside was layer upon layer of pink crêpe paper. Under the crêpe paper was a green rubber catsuit with a yellow lightning bolt
streaking across the chest and down one leg.
‘This is all we got back from the circus. It’s her trapeze outfit.’
Hannah lifted up the costume and stared. She had never seen anything so beautiful. She raised it to her wet, tingly nose and sniffed. An aroma of absolute perfect and exquisite rightness drifted
into her.
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley