She has never been in a theatre and is entranced. A weightless woman floats over the audience like a balloon until she becomes entangled with the chandelier and catches fire. The ‘World’s Strongest Man’ lifts a horse and then turns sheepish after he drops it with a crash. A singer with two heads – one male and one female – gets into a muddle carrying both treble and bass with the resulting cacophony getting him/her/them booed from the stage. A woman is cut in two with a saw, the bloody lower half charging off into the wings, chased by the so-called magician, while the upper half, still stuck in the box, waves its arms and weeps hysterically. Some of the effects could have been created by mirrors or holography but there was little either magical or human about the rest. If all is really lost, there could be a job for her here in this place, submitting herself for the amusement of a human crowd.
The compere is undeterred by the bedlam. ‘Et maintenant vos favoris,’ he announces, treading in his dazzling boots around the puddle of blood left by the last act. ‘Your very own, the ones you have been waiting for…’
The curtains sweep back to reveal a stage empty apart from the solitary figure of the same girl from earlier but now wearing a faded tricolour as a shawl, swabbing the boards with a mop. Her head is bowed and her dress is tucked into her drawers exposing bare feet. As she advances, she mournfully spreads the pool of blood. Is this her role here – to clean up after accidents?
Desiring continued quick satisfaction, the crowd is restless.
‘Cinderella n’est pas autorisé à aller à la ball,’ a voice recites from the wings. ‘Elle must work all nuit.’
The child wipes her forehead with her arm, leaning on the mop and gazing out over the heads with a poor-me expression. Even from up here in the gallery, a glistening tear can be seen to glide down her cheek.
She draws a flask from her skirt, ‘ABSINTHE’ written on an oversized label. She uncorks it and slurps and wipes her hand across her mouth, smearing a green glow into her cheeks. Her face slips into a contented grin.
From the side of the stage bursts her fairy godmother – the tall man from the park but now in an immense dress with a towering wig. His face is painted white with pink circles below his eyes and he holds a wand throwing sparks. However, even this is not enough to retrieve the audience’s attention who continue to behave as if the interval has already started.
The child’s acting is slapdash but she possesses charm in abundance. At the ball she yawns, falling asleep on a chair, promptly toppling off with a thud when it is dragged from under her, to land between the legs of the capering adults. Getting to her feet, she comes face to face with Prince Charming, a dwarf with a long beard. He claims her as his partner, throwing her around like a rag doll, repeatedly attempting to kiss her, despite her age. ‘Mais c’est passé mon heure du coucher,’ she screams in desperation, repeating herself in English: ‘for gawd’s sake it’s past me ruddy bedtime.’ Then, after he won’t let go, she pretends to doze while he continues to recklessly swing her about. The child breezes through the pretence like a pro. Drooping in an instant like she has been switched off and then opening her eyes and stretching in his arms as if she is waking with a drowsy sigh.
Evie finds it hilarious, but few are concentrating enough to be entertained.
The performance ends with a chase in and out of the wings, the child in danger of being trampled as she dodges between the legs of the adults in pursuit of a gaudy slipper.
As soon as the actors are off the stage, Evie leaves the gallery and runs down to the stalls.
She presses between the tables, dodging around the stiffly moving waiters. One, swivelling on his heel, strikes her on the chin with the rim of his tray, knocking her backwards onto a table, spilling the arrayed glasses into the laps of those around it. He doesn’t apologise, doesn’t even pause, just continues on his path, mechanically barging anyone out of his way. She clambers to her feet, full of contrition, but fortunately everyone seems to think it is part of the show.
Figures she would hesitate to call women sidle through the crowd. One is dressed as Snow White with creamy cheeks and teeny feet. Another has hair so long it drags along the ground and yet another mothers a baby doll, its dented head rammed to her breast. In the corner, soldiers, chests frogged with silver braid, snigger and leer, wafting parade-ground sweat and stale parfum.
Evie clambers onto the stage and slips through the curtains into the darkness beyond.
Entering the wings, she squeezes between the dusty props. The departing Cinderella cast are just ahead of her, climbing a flight of steep wooden stairs.
In the lead are the ugly sisters. During the show they had taunted the child, taking her by the arms and feet and tugging, before feigning exhaustion and dropping her from a yard up onto the wooden boards. Now, amid the bitter recriminations as to why they had bombed, they blame her loudly for her worthless performance. One reaches round with her long arm to swat her, but the child is nimble and steps to the side. Behind them, the fairy godmother drags off his wig and scratches at a scalp landscaped with craters and grey scabby stubble, and at the rear, just ahead of the child herself, Prince Charming slugs from the flask of absinthe, green fumes rising in a haze and soaking the air.
The craziness of her pursuit of the little pickpocket-actress dawns and Evie comes to a stop, her head spinning. She sits on the ground in the shadows behind the staircase to give herself a chance to regain her composure.
Evie is brought back to full alertness just minutes later, when the girl charges back down the same stairs and, passing where she sits, shoves open the exit door and bursts out.
Outside, she gathers her skirts and sets off at a trot along the alley towards the light from the street.
Only to be brought up short when the broad figure of the fairy godmother, still in the enormous dress, appears at the end. He marches angrily down on her, forcing her to retreat.
From her hiding place, Evie watches him block her escape.
‘Tu!’ the girl mutters and her small dog hides behind her legs.
‘I’ll be having what you took from that gent,’ he says. ‘The one that’s been inside complaining his head off about you. Saying the watch is a priceless heirloom.’
The child’s eyes narrow impishly, face momentarily sinister before reverting to syrupy sweet. ‘Pompie, je take nuffing,’ she mutters, adding viciously, as he takes another step towards her, ‘back orff,’ shifting her weight from one foot to the other like a boxer.
Evie watches helplessly from the shadow of the doorway, astounded by the girl’s provocative attitude and courage. Her apparent lack of fear, not even an ounce of unease, acts as a thrown-down challenge.
‘Give it me now, no more warnings,’ Pompie growls, the last of the polite, feminine manner from the stage cast away.
‘What you gonna do?’ the girl counters, maintaining her crazy smug innocence. ‘Je could scream.’
Moving far faster than his size would suggest possible, Pompie grabs the girl’s wrist, wrestling her arm behind her, and prises open her fist to expose a bone-handled knife with a silver blade.
‘Let go of moi,’ the girl shouts but she is reduced to attempting to kick his shins with her heels. Even so, she is slippery, an effort to restrain, and far, far stronger than her thin limbs suggest.
He shakes the knife from her palm so that it bounces point-first on the ground, and tightens his hold. ‘Give it to me,’ he tells her.
‘Je ne ave it,’ the girl pants, cheeks glowing pink.
‘But you know what I’m referring to.’ He grips her around her arms and reaches into her skirt – like Evie herself had earlier – bringing out a handful of small coins which scatter between his feet and disappear into cracks.