Fizzlebert Stump and the Bearded Boy Page 4

  The girl, who had tucked the violin and flowers under her arm, jumped and clapped her hands together.

  Lady Barboozul gave her her camera back.

  Once the audience had settled down Lady Barboozul took hold of the girl’s arm and guided her fingers into her beard.

  She pushed further and further into the fur, just as the bearded lady was urging her to, and soon her whole arm was in there.

  But it didn’t come out the other side.

  Instead, it came out of Lord Barboozul’s beard, even though he was standing six feet away.

  The amazed crowd clapped and roared their approval, especially when the girl waved and watched her own fingers all the way over there waving back at her.

  As the crowd died down she pulled her arm out, the hand vanishing from Lord Barboozul’s beard and reappearing on her wrist where it belonged, and he led her back to her mum, who was sat with her mouth open in the audience.

  Fizz was sat with his mouth open too. He’d seen women cut in half before (and, happily, put back together), and Dr Surprise could make his rabbit disappear inside his hat, but never had he seen someone’s arm travel between two beards. That had to be as impressive as sticking your head in a lion’s mouth, surely? Maybe even more. He was feeling a little worried now. Would the audience expect him to pull things out of Charles’s mouth later on? Would they be disappointed when he couldn’t?

  The music rose as the lights came up at the back of the ring.

  Wystan was stood there with the ladder. Silence fell as the audience saw what it led to.

  A cannon, Fizz thought. Oh no!

  (Fizz had once heard his mum and dad talking about a human cannonball who had been with the circus years ago. He no longer worked there because he’d been fired.)

  Wystan climbed the steps and strapped a helmet onto his head.

  A stage hand lit a long fuse at the rear of the cannon. It fizzed and sparked.

  Wystan climbed into the cannon’s mouth and lowered himself in feet first.

  Back in the ring Lord and Lady Barboozul faced one another. His beard reached out and took a hold of hers and as they backed apart the two tangled beards formed a woolly night-black ribbon of rippling fur between them.

  The audience didn’t know where to look. And now even Fizz wasn’t sure where to focus his attention. All he knew was that this was one of the best things he’d seen in the circus in his whole life. It was exciting, confusing, dazzling. He and Charles couldn’t compete with this. And he thought of his dad lifting giant weights and juggling concrete blocks, and realised there was no comparison there either. And clowns? What did clowns have on these magic beards?

  He was jealous and happy and amazed and upset, all in one confusing emotion. What would Wystan think of him when he saw how boring Fizz’s act was?

  A deep cracking boom made him look up as Wystan went flying out of the end of the cannon in a cloud of white smoke with arms whirling and legs dangling behind him.

  The boy landed in the middle of the Barboozuls’ combined beards, which stretched like an elastic band and poinged the boy back in the opposite direction.

  Once again he flew through the air, arms doing their cartwheels, and whooshed straight out the large curtains at the back of the ring. That was where the acts waited their turns to go on. Fizz wondered if anyone had got hit.

  From his seat at the edge of the ring he saw the curtain swish open and the short form of the undamaged boy, his newest friend, the wonderfully brave Wystan, come running out, holding his helmet up in one hand and waving to the audience with the other.

  Lord and Lady Barboozul met him in the middle of the ring and the three of them took their bows to a tremendous round of applause. The clapping seemed to go on and on. Fizz had hardly ever heard it so loud. There were even people standing up and clapping.

  To a certain extent Fizz agreed with them, the act had been . . . wow! The circus was lucky to have found these Barboozuls, he thought, especially with the Inspectors coming the day after tomorrow, very lucky indeed. It certainly meant the rest of the acts would be trying their hardest to look good alongside them, but he did have a worry at the back of his mind. If the circus had acts this good, then might the day come when they didn’t need him to stick his head in a lion’s mouth?

  Later on that night Fizz was just hanging around behind the Big Top with Fish watching Miss Tremble (who was in charge of the circus’s horses) singing to the horses (it calmed them down after the show and some of them refused to go to sleep if she didn’t do it) when a couple of kids and their parents saw them and wandered over.

  ‘Oh, you’re the boy who put his head in the lion’s mouth, aren’t you?’ said one of the boys.

  ‘Yes,’ Fizz said, always happy to be noticed. ‘That was me.’

  (Occasionally you get fans coming backstage and asking for your autograph when you work in a circus. It’s just one of the things that happens. It’s no big deal. The public are naturally awestruck and want a little bit of you take home with them, so they can remember you later on.)

  ‘We was wondering if . . .’ the other boy said.

  His mother nudged him and said, ‘Go on, ask him . . . he won’t mind.’

  Fizz noticed the lads had their autograph books and he reached into the inside pocket of the ringmaster’s coat he wore and fumbled around for a pen.

  ‘Yeah,’ the boy said again. ‘Um . . . do you know where the boy with the beard is?’

  ‘Oh,’ Fizz said, pulling his empty hand out of his coat. ‘No, I think he’s gone to bed.’ (This wasn’t exactly a lie. The Barboozuls had certainly gone to their caravan, and although Wystan Barboozul might not actually be in bed, the rule in a circus is that once a caravan’s door is shut for the night, you don’t disturb it (except in case of fire, flood or for a celebratory hot chocolate when someone’s unexpectedly given birth).)

  The kids sighed, scuffed the dirt and turned back to their parents, who said, ‘Thank you anyway,’ over the kids’ heads and wandered off.

  Fizz was left with the awful sound of Miss Tremble singing and the awful feeling of unsigned autographs. And then Fish burped and the atmosphere got even worse.

  It was a rather miserable end to a day and to a chapter, especially after the excitement of the Barboozuls’ act. I promise to not get so gloomy again, not for a few chapters anyway. The next one’s quite jolly, really.

  Chapter Six

  In which some football is played and in which a scream is heard

  The next morning Fizzlebert was sitting at the dining table (which was also the kitchen table (and the coffee table)) dipping his candyfloss into his bowl of cornflakes and nibbling them off. (His dad said this saved on the washing up. He didn’t like washing spoons. Very few people do.)

  Fizz had slept well and was telling his mum about the Barboozuls’ act for the third time, and how much the audience had loved it. (He left out the fact that he felt his act hadn’t gone so well.) His mum was usually all ears for circus gossip (she had a pair of huge plastic ones she put on if the gossip got especially juicy) and the idea that she might not want to hear how well the show had gone without her didn’t occur to him. At least, not until his dad nudged him in the ribs and gave him a special look which said, ‘Son, remember your mum’s lost her nose and wasn’t able to perform last night. Perhaps she doesn’t want to know how well everything went without her, hmm?’ It was quite a special look, but Fizz had seen it before and understood it immediately. He felt an idiot for having forgotten.

  He tried to be more sensitive.

  ‘It was good,’ he said. ‘But it wasn’t a funny act, Mum. I mean no one was laughing at it. It really could’ve done with a bit more slapstick.’

  ‘Really, honey?’ his mum said, playing with her coffee cup.

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ Fizz said. ‘I mean, what’s an amazing magic beard compared to a custard pie?’

  ‘Humph,’ she said, slumping in her seat.

  There was a knock on the door.<
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  It was Wystan.

  ‘Hi, is Fizzlebert there?’ he asked, in a bright furry voice.

  Mr Stump said he was, and Wystan asked if they could go out and play together.

  Fizz had never had a friend of his own age in the circus before. Nobody had ever come calling for him. He rather liked the feeling.

  He asked his mum if it was alright to go out.

  ‘Yes love,’ she said. ‘Of course you can. Just remember you’ve got a lesson with Dr Surprise at ten o’clock.’

  That was over an hour away.

  (It’s probably worth remembering that even children being brought up in circuses have to have lessons, and Fizz had his with the various members of the circus who knew about certain subjects. Dr Surprise was supposed to be teaching him History, although more often than not they ended up discussing magic tricks and books.)

  Wystan had a football and he and Fizz took it into the bit of park between the circus and the duck pond for a kick-about.

  ‘You were brilliant last night,’ said Wystan.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Fizz, wondering if his bearded friend was taking the mickey.

  ‘Sticking your head in the lion’s gob. Talk about brave! It’s madness!’

  ‘Oh,’ said Fizz, feeling slightly confused. He hardly considered it brave. He’d been doing the act with Charles for ages and it seemed perfectly normal to him. The lion had a set of rubber false teeth, he explained, so even if he did bite down on Fizz’s head, all he’d be able to do was suck him a bit. It wasn’t nice, but it didn’t hurt very much. Nobody’s ever been gummed to death by a lion.

  In a circus a lot of things are illusions like that, are tricks. As long as they look real to the crowd, they’ve done their job.

  ‘We’re thinking of putting magic into the trick,’ Fizz added. ‘Dr Surprise is going to teach me to pull Flags-of-all-Nations out of Charles’s mouth while I’ve got my head in there. That should liven it up a bit, don’t you think?’

  ‘I like it the way it is,’ Wystan said. ‘It’s a good trick. I wouldn’t mess it about too much.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Fizz said, modestly brushing the compliment aside, ‘but I reckon what you did with the cannon, now that’s brave.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s a trick too,’ Wystan said. ‘Watch from backstage tonight and you’ll see how it’s done.’

  ‘Cool,’ Fizz said. He liked knowing how tricks were done, and was always badgering people to show him new ones. He could do a number of card tricks and produce a bunch of flowers from his sleeve if you gave enough warning (an hour or two).

  It was odd, Fizz thought, but now he knew Wystan thought what he did was impressive, he had already begun to feel a bit better about himself.

  ‘Your dad,’ Wystan asked casually as they kicked the ball back and forth. ‘How strong do you reckon he is?’

  ‘How strong? Well, I’ve seen him lift a motorbike once . . .’

  ‘That’s pretty strong.’

  ‘. . . with the rider still on it, and he was one of those big guys, you know, with a fat belly and tattoos and a big beard.’

  ‘A big beard, really?’ Wystan said.

  ‘Yes. Oh!’ Fizz had almost forgotten his friend’s beard. Like sticking your head in a lion’s mouth, it’s strange how the strange can become normal simply by your being around it a lot. ‘I didn’t mean anything . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s okay.’

  The two boys carried on kicking the ball about until Fish got in the way, stole it and started balancing it on his nose.

  ‘He loves balancing things, doesn’t he?’ Wystan said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Fizz agreed. ‘It’s about all he can do. That and find fish.’

  At the sound of the word ‘fish’ Fish let the ball drop to the ground and waddled over to Fizz, expectantly.

  ‘No, no fish, Fish,’ Fizz said, shaking his head and holding up his empty hands.

  Fish snorted a salmon-flavoured snuffle and slowly, his head hung low with seafood-starved sadness, began the long waddle back to the circus.

  Wystan watched wide-eyed.

  ‘The poor thing,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, ignore him,’ Fizz said. ‘He’s just putting it on. He’s the best actor in the circus.’

  ‘I saw most of the show last night,’ Wystan said, running to collect the football which was rolling towards the water’s edge, ‘but I didn’t catch Fish’s act.’

  ‘Act?’ Fizz asked.

  ‘Yeah. Is it good?’

  ‘Fish?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, Fish doesn’t have an act.’

  ‘But he’s got a spangly waistcoat. And he had a top hat on yesterday, didn’t he?’

  ‘I think he just likes dressing up,’ Fizz said. ‘He doesn’t actually do anything. He’s a sea lion.’

  ‘But why’s he in the circus if he doesn’t have an act?’ asked Wystan.

  The truth is, no one knew where Fish had come from. He’d just turned up one day. He could balance things and honk enthusiastically, so he seemed to fit in with the circus crowd, but the one time the Ringmaster had tried to get him into the ring to do something, Fish had got halfway out and had frozen. It was a terrible case of stage fright, people said.

  (Unnecessary Sid, a clown, had nudged Bongo Bongoton when he saw this and said, ‘Fancy putting some chips on, to go with the frozen Fish?’)

  He had sat there, staring up at the lights and at the crowds and refused to budge, and a sea lion who doesn’t want to move isn’t going to be moved by the likes of you or me. They’re heavy things, and stubborn.

  Fizz’s dad had had to come out and pick him up and carry him out of the ring. He got a nasty nip on the ear for his troubles. (If you look closely you can see the scar.)

  Since then no one had suggested Fish try to become a star again.

  But they still threw him fish and he still balanced anything he could get his nose under. They liked him. After all, there was that time he’d chased away the burglars who’d tried breaking into the Ringmaster’s safe, and there was the time he’d rescued Fizz from Mr and Mrs Stinkthrottle, and there was that time he’d rescued the whole salmon from Cook’s worktop. But those are different stories.

  As Fizz explained all this, somewhere across the park a church bell rang ten times. Fizz was late for his class and ran off toward Dr Surprise’s caravan, leaving Wystan to carry the ball back to his parents’ caravan. They promised to meet up again later on.

  ‘Oh woe! Oh tragedy!’ moaned Dr Surprise, when Fizz knocked on his caravan door.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, as he climbed up the steps.

  Dr Surprise was sat on the edge of his bed with his face in his hands, moaning loudly. The Famous Performing Rabbits of the World duvet cover was all rumpled up and there were playing cards and plastic flowers spilt on the floor. The stuffed crocodile that hung from the ceiling was dusty, as if it hadn’t been cleaned for days. In short, the place was less tidy than normal.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear! Oh, woe is me! No, no, no!’

  The Doctor was almost entirely bald, expect for a few long strands that usually wound their way round the top of his head and flopped down pointily above his left eye, but this morning they were flapping uncombed in the air. His tight black suit, which squeaked ever so slightly when he moved, was covered in dust and straw, and his tie was undone. His moustache drooped down in a depressed dangle. (It was a plastic moustache. He had a collection of them, and wore whichever one best matched his mood.)

  ‘Oh, Fizzlebert,’ he said, looking up with a jump. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘Dr Surprise,’ Fizz asked anxiously, ‘what’s the matter?’

  The Doctor wiped his eyes and took a deep breath.

  ‘It’s Flopples,’ he said. ‘She’s not well. Not well at all.’

  Flopples was his rabbit, the one he did the magic tricks with. She usually lived inside his top hat. If you watched carefully, sometimes, when he was sitting down for dinner in
the Mess Tent, you’d catch him poking a carrot up inside. If there weren’t many people around he’d take his top hat off and put it on the table and she’d look out with her little paws on the rim and watch what was going on. Fizz had often slipped her a bit of lettuce (which she seemed to like, even when Chef had dipped them in a toffee sauce). It was a way of clearing the salad off his plate without having to eat it himself.

  Dr Surprise lifted his hat up from the floor, where it had been sitting between his pink fluffy bunny rabbit slippers.

  Flopples was curled up asleep at the bottom of it, and even Fizz, who was no expert on rabbits, could tell she wasn’t feeling well.

  For a start, she was green.

  ‘Take a look at this,’ the Doctor said, passing Fizz a plastic box.

  It seemed to be full of gravy. Fizz sloshed the brown soupy liquid around a bit. It had a few strands of grass in it and smelt unpleasant. He asked what it was.

  ‘Droppings,’ Dr Surprise said.

  ‘Droppings?’ Fizz asked. ‘You mean Flopples’ droppings?’

  Anyone who knows anything about rabbits is well aware that a rabbit’s . . . ‘leavings’ are small and dry and round. They’re firm, usually neatly piled, and easily confused with chocolate chips when baking.

  One thing rabbit droppings shouldn’t do is slosh, and another thing they should never do is splash.

  A rabbit with diarrhoea is not good news. It’s a much messier animal, for a start, and not, Fizz thought, the sort of pet a man would want to keep in his caravan, let alone in his hat. And, for another thing, it’s almost impossible to spell. You’d think as the author of this book I’d be able to tell you that Flopples had a much simpler illness, say, a cold. A cold only has four letters, and almost everyone knows which ones they are, but diarrhoea has loads and they look like they’ve been dropped on the floor. I’d rather he had a rabbit with bureaucracy, even, but the fact of the matter is, as your author, I can only tell you the truth, and the truth is that Flopples had the illness I mentioned before. The one that has too many vowels. Begins with D. I wrote it down before. I won’t do it again.