The Lampo Circus Page 6

  ‘I imagine you children cannot believe your luck, having a genius like Federico Lampo take you under his wing,’ she said. ‘As Patroness of the Arts, I know all about his company. If it weren’t for this wonderful little man, the artistic world would be as dead as my pet ermine and I should have nothing to be patroness of!’

  The loose skin of the Contessa’s neck swung when she was impassioned so that she resembled a frill-necked lizard. Her smugness was too much for Milli who could not curb her outburst.

  ‘The Lampo Circus was nothing but a sham! Nothing but a bunch of kidnappers!’

  Bombasta clapped her hands over Lampo’s ears, as if to shield him from the pain of such hurtful remarks, and sucked her lips in prunelike with disapproval.

  ‘Silence, you beastly juvenile! Such impertinence! One more word and I shall have you wrapped in pond weed and fed to the piranhas in my lake! What would be the expense of that, Ledger?’

  To everyone’s surprise, a weedy man in a grey suit appeared as if from beneath the bustle of Bombasta’s skirts. He was so diminutive he had been completely concealed behind the Contessa’s expansive haunches. But it was not Mr Ledger’s lack of stature I wish to draw your attention to. The important thing to tell you is that Mr Ledger was Bombasta’s accountant.

  Like many accountants who do not spend sufficient time in the sun, he was gingery all over, with pasty skin the colour and texture of lumpy porridge. He had sharp, ferret teeth, mottled ears and even his eyes glowed an unsightly orange. He had no mouth but simply a coin slot through which he now answered his employer.

  ‘There are the transportation costs of getting the child to the venue,’ he said, pushing buttons on his calculator and talking more to himself than anyone else.

  ‘The pond weed is, of course, complimentary but there is the problem of having to replace the offending child to compensate Mr Lampo’s loss. That should prove trifling, however. All in all, I think it would be very doable.’

  ‘And well worth the trouble if it means one less parasite in the world!’ Bombasta cried, clapping her hands. ‘Why anyone would refer to children as a blessing is a complete mystery to me.’

  The children could not help but shuffle a few feet backwards; firstly because the Contessa seemed quite genuine in her suggestion about the piranhas, and secondly because the amount of perfume she had doused herself with was so overpowering they feared they might keel over.

  Fortunately, it was in Federico Lampo’s interest to preserve them from piranhas for the time being.

  ‘Come now, Augusta,’ he placated her. ‘It may be prudent to wait until after the battle before disposing of the army. Then you may turn them into wall hangings for all I care.’

  ‘Well, that would be most appropriate.’ Bombasta snorted with delight. ‘I am, after all, Patroness of the Arts and one can never have too many wall hangings. Ledger, how sound an investment are wall hangings in the current climate?’

  Bored with their inspection, the Contessa and Lampo moved a few paces aside and became engrossed in their own private conversation whilst Ledger made frantic calculations. Oslo was left at a loss as to what was required of him next, so he stared fixedly into the distance.

  As the adults made no attempt to lower their voices, Milli and Ernest found themselves able to eavesdrop with minimal effort.

  ‘I am most put out. You have been neglecting me, Lampo,’ Bombasta said with a pout. ‘I shouldn’t like to set Muffy-Boo on you.’

  A snap of her fingers brought Mr Ledger back to her side.

  ‘Fifty-five pounds to have the carpet steam-cleaned once Muffy-Boo has finished,’ the accountant responded promptly.

  ‘I’ve been very busy, Your Grace,’ Lampo confessed. ‘The Master keeps me on my toes.’

  ‘Sixty-five pounds to clean up after the Master has been devoured,’ shrilled Mr Ledger, who was on a roll.

  Lampo yelped as though he had been stung by a jellyfish. ‘Jipperty-jippers, don’t talk about the Master like that! You never know where his spies may be.’

  Four ravens that had been perched on the camp gates flew off in unison and headed in the direction of the jade citadel. Lampo shuddered as he watched them.

  ‘Calm yourself, Feddy,’ Bombasta said. ‘The Master will be much pleased. Battalion Minor is well under way and the gladiator is training the brats off their feet.’

  Lampo took a deep breath and exhaled in relief. ‘I hope you are right.’

  ‘Of course I am right!’ Bombasta declared. ‘I am always right! I do so love it when we agree.’

  Just then an elderly woman shuffled out of the kitchens bearing a tray of refreshments for the visitors. It was Nonna Luna, Federico Lampo’s grandmother. Milli and Ernest watched her shake her head sadly at Lampo and Bombasta, put the tray down and make the sign of the cross behind their backs.

  Lampo did not acknowledge his grandmother, so engrossed was he in listening to Bombasta’s advice.

  When she could stand being ignored no longer, Nonna Luna became emboldened enough to draw a tub of homemade meatballs from her apron and placed it in her grandson’s hand. She tucked a bib into his shirtfront and presented him with a fork.

  ‘Not now, Nonna!’ Lampo hissed as he tried to shake her off. ‘You are embarrassing me in front of my friends.’ He pushed the container back at her and made light of the intrusion by feigning amusement.

  Contessa Bombasta wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘Haven’t you had that old crone committed yet?’ she demanded loudly.

  Nonna Luna shuffled away wearing a martyred expression and Lampo shrugged apologetically at Bombasta.

  ‘Save them for later,’ he called after his grandmother, not so much to make amends for his rudeness, but to ensure his meatballs did not fall into the wrong hands.

  Nonna Luna’s appearance had allowed the children a brief opportunity to confer. Finn and Fennel chewed absently on stalks of wheat, looking too detached for Milli’s liking.

  ‘Bombasta and Lampo are up to no good,’ she said. ‘It’s what they want with us that I can’t figure out.’

  ‘They’re always plotting something,’ the twins said lamely.

  ‘What about the authorities? Why don’t they investigate? You can’t kidnap children and keep them against their will without someone noticing.’

  ‘In the Conjurors’ Realm,’ Fennel explained, ‘those with power make the rules.’

  ‘But who ensures the rules are not abused?’ Ernest asked.

  ‘Oh, we have a police force but they’re under strict instructions to patrol only the Clover Fields.’

  ‘Why on earth are they doing that?’ said Ernest.

  ‘Because that is the most important job of all,’ replied Fennel matter-of-factly. ‘To protect the four-leafed clovers from being stolen.’

  ‘They hardly ever go near the city,’ her brother added. ‘If you report a robbery or a mysterious disappearance, they’ll more than likely tell you to buzz off. But a clover theft report…’

  ‘They’d be releasing the hounds,’ Fennel finished.

  ‘But that makes no sense!’ Milli objected.

  ‘No,’ Fennel agreed. ‘But we didn’t say it did.’

  Ernest was forced to reach a grim conclusion. ‘It means that if Bombasta chooses to feed the lot of us to her piranhas, there’s not a thing anyone can do about it.’

  Milli felt a tugging at her sleeve and, looking down, saw that a group of younger children had gathered anxiously around her. Milli knew several of them were under ten years of age and had been smuggled into the matinee by well-intentioned older siblings. From their tear-streaked faces and looks of confusion Milli saw that they did not have the resources to deal with what was happening. Finn and Fennel stepped back awkwardly as if unsure what to do with such small and vulnerable people.

  ‘When are we going home, Milli?’ one of them asked.

  ‘We don’t like it here,’ another stated firmly in case there was any misunderstanding about their feelings.

&nb
sp; Their questions then erupted like a flow of lava and Milli could barely keep up with them. ‘Why do we have to stay here? Where are our parents? Won’t they expect us home by now? There isn’t really going to be a war, is there?’

  Milli looked despairingly at the others. She could no more answer these questions than fly to the moon. Besides, she was equally as afraid as the little ones—but it would do no good to show it. Milli tried to imagine herself in their shoes and decided that the best thing to offer was reassurance. To explain their situation would take time and patience and there was little of either at Battalion Minor.

  The children needed someone to tell them that things were on course and would right themselves soon. Milli half-wished there was someone to comfort and reassure her, but she was acutely aware of her responsibility and knelt down before the children and mustered whatever remnants of courage and determination she could find.

  ‘Of course there isn’t going to be a war,’ she said comfortingly. ‘And there’s absolutely no reason to be frightened. This is all a game, you see. A game that Lampo, the Contessa and Oslo have decided to play with us. They present us with challenges and we have to overcome them. Sometimes it seems uncomfortable, but that’s just part of the challenge. All we need to do is follow what Oslo says and at the end there will be a big party with balloons and ice-cream cake to celebrate.’

  The children brightened at the prospect of a game that ended in a party.

  ‘Will there be prizes for the winners?’ they now wanted to know.

  ‘Certainly,’ Ernest contributed, deciding to help out his friend. ‘Prizes so wonderful that no one actually knows what they are!’

  Bombasta’s voice rising above its usual volume interrupted the children’s whispered discussion.

  ‘Well, I suppose we had better be off! There is no time to lose and patience is not one of my virtues. It isn’t the carefree life it’s cracked up to be, being Patroness of the Arts, you know.’

  ‘You heard the Contessa.’ Oslo snapped to attention and glared at his troops. ‘Back to work.’

  This was the part of the day that many had been dreading: what Oslo referred to as ‘real training’. But when Milli stole a glance around the rows of children, she did not see the worried faces she had expected. The children, it seemed, were waiting attentively for Oslo to announce the first challenge and their expressions were eager. They had privately made up their minds to try their very best.

  Milli hoped that if they could get caught up in the game at least for the days that followed, they might be able to put aside their longing for home. In the meantime, the older children would work on a plan to escape Battalion Minor and this new life of deprivation. Although Milli and Ernest were heartened by the children’s new enthusiasm, they could not extinguish their own apprehension as they made their way to the training ground where, no doubt, some new ordeal had been set up for them. Milli and Ernest had not been at Battalion Minor long but they could already see that it was wise to expect the unexpected.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Exploding Boils

  Ahuge catapult dominated the desiccated plain where Oslo led the children. The area around was dotted with wine barrels. These were filled with peculiar balls about the size of grapefruits and the colour of autumn leaves that have been quietly decomposing in the gutter for a while. The children were not able to determine exactly what the balls were made of, but the few that had spilled over from their containers squelched underfoot and made the ground slippery and pungent.

  The children hardly had time to wonder at all this before Oslo leapt from Fiend’s back and manned the catapult. At a signal from him, the pack of dogs that had accompanied the group formed a circle around them to prevent escape. The children soon learned that the globes were not Christmas decorations or equipment for the sport of shot put as they had secretly hoped, but in fact ammunition made up of compost. Oslo soon decided to discard the catapult altogether and, seizing armfuls of the smelly spheres, repeatedly pelted his stunned troops.

  Imagine being caught in a thunderstorm where hailstones have been substituted by mouldy tomatoes, decaying apple cores and scraps of last night’s pork belly meal. I know I’d take the hailstones every time.

  The children did their best to dodge the flying missiles and, being quick on their feet and familiar with ball games, initially did not do too badly. It was only when they accidentally tripped over one another and landed on their backsides that they found themselves in trouble. Oslo then rained the balls down on them so fast it was not easy to get back on their feet. Even Finn and Fennel with their acrobatic skills had trouble navigating their way around the slushy, slippery mess. If at any time a child strayed out of Oslo’s range, the dogs, mouths foaming, sprang up and forced them back into the fray.

  Some of the younger children ran to Milli. ‘Is this part of the game?’ they asked.

  Milli hastily assured them that it was while trying to dodge a ball heading straight for her head. Off they went, filled with renewed determination at the thought of prizes.

  It was Ernest who surprised everyone by his behaviour when a fishtail slipped down his tunic and he abandoned all dignity, leaping around and squealing at the top of his lungs. The little ones giggled with the satisfaction of having already eliminated one competitor.

  When the blitz ended, as Oslo was finally out of breath, no child had been spared. They removed sausage casings from their tunics, which were snaffled up by the dogs, and quietly picked eggshells from their hair. Oslo shook his head and made no attempt to conceal his scorn.

  ‘Welcome to rock-dodging class, weaklings, which, by the way, you have just failed. I can see we have work to do.’

  The rest of the morning passed with Oslo demonstrating how he could fight off an onslaught of compost balls by twisting his body, performing back flips and even catching some between his teeth. He explained that being struck by one in battle meant being reared [rendered] unconscious for a good twenty minutes due to the overpowering odour. For, he assured them, the ammunition employed in warfare would not be vegetable-based.

  After Oslo had completed his demonstration, it was the children’s turn to pair off and try it for themselves. They practised aiming between their partner’s eyes, as instructed by Oslo. He informed them that this was known as the ‘bull’s-eye’, made famous by a young man who had managed to defeat a giant armed only with a slingshot and a small rock. Oslo also boasted that he and this young man shared the same gene pool as he happened to be an ancestor on his mother’s side.

  During rock-dodging class, the gladiator trumpeted useless directions such as:’ somersault’, ‘duck’, ‘split’ and ‘dislocate shoulder’. His expectation was that they could learn something new simply by being told once how to do it. Failure frustrated him and he became increasingly fractious.

  ‘We’re only beginners,’ Milli reminded him.

  ‘Beginners are winners!’ Oslo boomed. ‘Except you beginners are bunny rabbits and I will not tolerate rabbits in my school! Now pull yourselves together and be lions!’

  Eventually, the children learned to accept Oslo’s unconventional teaching methods and tried to aggravate him as little as possible. Relief was only offered when a child grazed a knee or developed a headache. Oslo was incapable of offering comfort but also could not afford for anyone to be rendered useless due to medical reasons. He would brusquely direct patients to Nonna Luna, who was sitting crocheting doilies in the first-aid tent that had been erected nearby. The children soon discovered that much of the equipment from the first-aid kit had long gone missing. All that was left was an ice pack, cotton swabs, some iodine, a bottle of antacid so old the contents refused to move and boxes of assorted bandages. You could go to Nonna Luna with any number of complaints and emerge streaked in iodine and wearing a plaster.

  Despite her efficacy as a nurse being severely limited due to lack of resources, Nonna was the closest thing the children had to an ally. Her speciality was homeopathic remedies (she
and Aunt Bulb would have had much to talk about) but these could only be administered from the privacy of her kitchen. Nonna Luna also carried in her apron pocket a little tin of pea-sized sweets she called caramelle. These were rock hard (which meant your taste buds could enjoy them for a while) and came in various tangy berry flavours. One of these sweets worked wonders in raising a child’s spirit and ending a flow of complaints. A teary Gummy Grumbleguts visited Nonna’s tent halfway through the rock-dodging class complaining of a bellyache. He emerged with a bandaid plastered across his stomach as well as the smile of gratification that two caramelle dissolving on his tongue managed to produce.

  Milli noticed that Finn and Fennel were different to the other children. The latter complained readily at the smallest of mishaps; a bump to the head, a blistered finger. But when Fennel found a splinter the size of a toothpick lodged in the palm of her hand, she just grimaced and plucked it out calmly with her teeth before carrying on with the task.

  The children had worked up quite an appetite when lunchtime finally rolled around. Despite their hunger, however, they felt miraculously full once lunch appeared. The main meal prepared by the camp cooks was a dish that in classy Italian restaurants goes by the name of Carpaccio. Although I have never been foolish enough to try it, I am told that Carpaccio is a delicacy usually prepared by slicing raw beef into paper-thin slices. You arrange them on a platter and drizzle them with a dressing made from lemon juice, olive oil and crushed herbs according to preference. As far as I am concerned, you could not pay me enough to try such a thing. But that’s probably because I am privileged enough to choose from other items on menus that are usually extensive. I am not so sure any of us could say with certainty what our decision would be if we were faint from hunger after a gruelling training session and it did not look as if anything else was going to appear on the table.

  To make the decision even more difficult for the children, their Carpaccio had not been prepared in the customary manner. As a rule, one would use quality beef for such a dish (perhaps fillet or sirloin steak) that was devoid of any sinew or gristle. Unluckily for the children, Battalion Minor operated on a budget and the herb and olive oil dressing was about the only part of the recipe that resembled the original. The raw beef served up to them was sliced as thick as bricks, marbled with fat and clumped with roughly chopped herbs.