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pouch containing the two nuggets around my neck, and begged a ride on a cart going into Bendigo. Half child, half young woman and alone in the world.
    ‘Foley’s Circus,’ I said to the carter, hoping I’d remembered the name correctly.

S CENE : Bendigo, Australia
A new family is found; a new talent is born
    Surely this squalid camp could not be home to Mr Foley’s Victoria Circus? My first instinct was to run after the cart that had brought me here. Perhaps the old carter had made a mistake? Oh, it looked nothing like what I had imagined. Two burly fellows were fighting with a mound of canvas that might have been a tent; large, battered wooden crates lay on the ground in no particular order; a pair of horses pawed at the barren ground where they were tethered under a tree. Next to them a goat chewed at a patch of scrub. But when I dragged my way closer to the animals, I saw that the goat had two heads: a normal one and then another sticking at an odd angle from its neck! The feeding head turned slowly; four goat’s eyes stared at me. I was both fascinated and horrified. Were those eyes laying a curse on me? I walked slowly towards the creature, not sure whether the second yellow-eyed head was real or some trick.
    ‘Oi!’ A voice from somewhere above stopped me in my tracks. Disembodied voices? Was I going mad?
    ‘Oi!’ The voice came again.
    There, above me, was a boy hanging upside down from a tree branch. ‘Hop it,’ the upside-down head said. ‘Circus ain’t open to public today. Yer’ve come too late, Miss.’
    I understood the general gist. In the few days since my parents had died, I’d begun to realise that the English language had been lurking unused and unneeded, somewhere inside my head. Nowthat I needed to understand, I could, after a fashion. A small and very helpful miracle. I smiled up at the inverted face, wishing he would come the right way up, like any normal person.
    ‘Madame Tournear?’ I asked. ‘Madame Tournear is here?’ It didn’t seem likely. The colourful bejewelled lady from the sailing ship would surely choose a more splendid place to live.
    The boy doubled his body effortlessly, reaching with one supple hand up to the branch from which he hung. Then he flipped up onto the branch and ran, monkey-like, on hands and feet along its length, until it bent beneath his weight and delivered him to the ground.
    ‘You a Frenchie?’ he asked.
    I nodded.
    The boy frowned. He was taller than me, with bright blue eyes and a freckled nose. His voice was an odd mixture of piping and cracked. I thought he might be older than he looked. ‘ Madame Tournear,’ he said, laying a sarcastic emphasis on the first word. ‘Who would she be when she’s at home? Maria Louise? Or do you mean Martha O’Neill?’
    What was he talking about? I stood there frowning.
    ‘Any road,’ said the boy, ‘she ain’t too chipper today. She won’t be keen on no one visitin’, I reckon.’
    By this time I was desperate. How could I persuade this fellow? I could think of no one else in the wide world other than Madame Tournear who might help me. I tried to smile. ‘Please. Oh please. At least to try.’
    I placed my small bundle on the ground, summoned the little energy I had left, and dived over it in an arching handstand, flipped to my feet, then flipped again without touching my hands to the ground. Looking back I can hardly believe my body obeyed my need. Desperation can produce dramatic results, especially for a performer.
    The boy whistled. ‘You circus folk, then?’ He imitated my two flips, then bettered them with ease, leaping in a reverse arch over the bundle.
    I did not dare attempt the manoeuvre. My legs were shakinglike trees in a wind. ‘Madame Tournear?’ I pleaded again.
    The boy tapped his chest. ‘Master Bird. Slack wire artist. Heard o’ me?’
    I had to shake my head, which did not go down at all well with Master Bird. Obviously he didn’t like to play second fiddle to Madame