He had been looking forward to this for a long time, as had practically every other kid in the school. Three months ago the first posters had gone up in shop windows everywhere, advertising the thrilling fact that the Circus was coming to town – Boswell’s Circus, South Africa’s biggest and best.
Three months then had seemed like an eternity, as three months always do when you’re twelve and something exciting awaits at the other end. But the time had crept by and the great day was finally here. The Circus had arrived, and with it the allure of two hours of pure magic unfolding before eyes scarcely able to believe what they were seeing. His mind’s eye gave him a breathtaking preview: trapeze artists going through their death-defying routine high above the sawdust ring; elephants prancing like huge fairies in obedience to the crack of their trainer’s whip; the hilarious antics of the clowns; gorgeous ladies performing unbelievably acrobatic feats on all manner of ingenious apparatus; the troupe of lions going through their paces at the command of their tamer, surely the bravest man in all the world.
A dozen times at least Robbie put his hand in his pocket, just checking. Yes, it was still there: five rand, the admission fee for scholars under sixteen. In his other pocket was the fifty cents his mother had given him for sweets for minding his baby sister while she was having tea with Mrs Jones. That had been easy, of course, but earning the five rand had been much harder: fifty cents here, twenty there, for running errands, washing dishes, chopping firewood and so on. But it had all been worthwhile; the Circus was in town and he had the money to see it.
At last the bell rang, announcing the end of the day’s lessons. The class filed out into the school grounds and joined the general throng; not dispersing in all directions as usual, but heading in a common direction with a common destination. Down Madeira Street they went, turning right into York and then left into Cunningham, moving with the single-minded purpose of a column of army ants towards the brightly painted wagons, the lion cage with its man-eating cargo, the patiently waiting elephants and horses…
Running to catch up with Billy, his bosom pal in the class above his own, he noticed one boy obviously not sharing the general excitement. Ginger Harris, shabbily dressed, hands deep in his pockets, was slouching homeward on the other side of the street. His expression was vacant, his whole demeanour telling of apathy, hopelessness. Ginger lived in the “poor” quarter across the river on the edge of town, the son of a widowed mother who had long ago given up the battle against grinding poverty and resigned herself to the perpetual acceptance of charity to keep her family clothed and fed. Five rand to Ginger would have been as unobtainable as all the gold in the world.
Robbie’s run slowed to a walk, then to a crawl, then stopped altogether. He wrestled with his thoughts for long seconds, then decided. After all, he had seen a circus, two years before, and there would be another one in time. Poor old Ginger had never seen the inside of a circus tent and probably never would – unless … He crossed the road, caught up with Ginger and said, “Hey Ginge, I’ve just remembered I promised to help my mom with something this afternoon. Here, take this and go to the circus – and here’s fifty cents for sweets too. Tell me about it tomorrow, okay?” He thrust his savings into Ginger’s astonished hand, turned and walked homeward, against the stream.
(644 Words)
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