Little People by Jane Sullivan

Author:Jane Sullivan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thumb, Tom, 1838-1883 - Fiction., Circus - Fiction., Dwarfs - Fiction.
Publisher: Scribe Publications Pty Ltd
Published: 2011-03-28T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 14

The flood receded, and we were off to Benalla in a flurry, and my heart felt as damp and crumpled and mildewed as all our costumes. My spirits fell still further as I saw Ned riding towards our convoy, shirt-tail hanging out, rolling in the saddle. From the coach window, I watched George run to him as he dismounted and reach up to embrace him, calling him his brave boyo, and Ned bend to pat him as if he were a puppy. Mr Bleeker climbed down from his coach, nodded curtly, demanded to know why Ned was not in Sydney distributing playbills, and Ned embarked on a long, slurred explanation. Shocking floods. Big river ahead. Bridge down. Put up in a miserable hole called Baddaginnie, and he’d already drunk them dry.

He was no longer clutching his animal hide. Had he sent it to the doctor, or bartered it for liquor? He had a lumpy canvas bag strapped across his back: perhaps it held more marvels for the collector.

George danced around, shouting of their adventures marooned on an island, but Mr Bleeker cut him short, asked Ned how they were to proceed. Ned took off his bowler, rubbed his brow and said they could wait for the river to calm itself down.

George jumped up and down. ‘Won’t do, won’t do! Mr B wants to make money sharpish!’ and Mr Bleeker frowned and said they should have been in Sydney a week ago.

‘They do say there’s an old crossing,’ said Ned. ‘A ford. But dangerous.’

‘Take me to someone who knows the ford,’ said Mr Bleeker. ‘And straighten yourself up, man.’

At the riverbank, we all got out to inspect an evil river of rushing yellow, topped with patches of dirty foam. Not quite as wide as the Yarra Yarra or the Goulburn, and much more wooded round about, but fiercer. At the edges, the water was halfway up the tree trunks.

Belly fluttered and stirred. It felt exactly like my own fear: sickness, tremors, dry mouth, a constriction in my throat, a thumping heart. But I knew it came from Belly. Was there a point when the little creature developed its own feelings? This fear had not existed when I plunged into the Yarra Yarra, or was kidnapped by ruffians. Perhaps Belly had sensed danger creeping like a miasma from the photograph that Franz had shown me. I shifted miserably on the bank. I could not reason with Belly, who sensed peril round every corner, behind every curtain, under every tide. I could do nothing but hold fast and endure the fear as if it were my own.

A bloated calf bobbed by, and then, tilted at a crazy angle, a handsome mahogany writing desk. I looked round for Franz. I had resolved to stay as far from him as possible, yet still I burned to see him. He stood well back from the group, away from the water. The other men, including the guide and the two drivers we had hired in Baddaginnie, stood in a row along the river’s edge.

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