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Tournear. ‘I take top billing. After the boss and Lucy.’ After a pause he added with a shrug, ‘And Mrs Bloody Foley, I suppose. What’s so special about Tournear?’
    Oh dear. If only the boy would stay still for a moment! He was now sitting with both legs around his neck and his hands flat on the ground. Trying to understand his queer, rapid speech was simply too much for me. Tears began to roll, unbidden, down my cheeks.
    At last this trying situation was brought to an end by a tall, booted fellow with a wide, waxed moustache. He stood by the two horses, waving his arms in an agitated manner. ‘Tommy Bird, get over here toot sweet! I need a hand with these animals.’
    Tommy Bird came upright quickly, and pointed to a shabby hut behind the pile of collapsed tent. It was a small wooden hut on wheels, a little like the sort travelling gypsies used back in France, but not pretty and painted. This little house looked as if it would not keep out rain: one wooden wheel was cracked, the window grimed with mud. ‘That’s her,’ said Tommy, grinning. ‘Good luck.’ And ran to give the tall man a hand.
    My feeble knock on the door of the hut was answered by a fulsome curse. The words were a mixture of French and some other language. I took heart and, hardly controlling my giggles at my own daring, answered back in the same vein. Maman would have been shocked to hear that I knew such words. The door was wrenched open and there stood a very different Madame Tournear. Her hair was dishevelled, her face chalk-white, and the shawl which she clutched around her shoulders, though brightly coloured, was in need of a wash and a darning needle. The deep scowl with which she greeted me changed to astonishment.
    ‘The child on the Esmeralda ! Lili Alouette!’
    I tried to smile through my tears. ‘You could maybe help me?I am alone now. Maman and Papa …’ I choked on the words, but took a breath to continue. ‘I can learn very quickly, Madame, you saw how I could balance and leap …’
    My tumbling words were halted by Madame’s raised hand. The lady clutched the shawl closer, looked around quickly to see who might be watching and then drew me inside and kicked the door shut.
    The riot of colour inside the little cabin was reassuring. I touched a string of glass beads and set it chiming. There was the wooden horse, crammed into a corner, next to the peacock-painted trunk. The bed was covered with a silken shawl woven in red and yellow. The single tiny window had a glass star glued to one corner; beads of every colour, hanging from a nail above the bed, clashed and sparkled in the disturbance caused by the slammed door.
    Madame Tournear fell back on the bed, groaning. She clutched at her belly, rocked back and forth. ‘Ah! Ah! Oh what a curse it is to be a woman! How are we supposed to bear all this? Oh Lili, what we artistes must suffer!’
    I never found out what gave Madame Tournear such misery. One might guess … Perhaps she had found a way to end the life of an unwanted or embarrassing baby. Perhaps it was a simpler affliction. But the mysterious ailment was to my advantage — and to hers. She told me that the circus was about to travel on to Ballarat and then to New Zealand. Mr Foley was a great organiser and had it all planned. He was not, however, one to carry passengers. When Madame Tournear, his ballerina on horseback, missed two performances in a row, and still seemed severely under the weather, he proposed to leave her behind and seek a more dependable replacement. Madame determined that I should be the replacement and she should train me up, since she understood the horses involved. Through her groans and writhings — she was really in pain, poor soul — she hatched the plan while I chewed on bread and raisins and made her a pot of hot sweet tea on the little spirit stove.
    ‘Eat, eat,’ she demanded. ‘You must regain your strength! MrFoley must be persuaded! And more to the point,’ she added darkly,