only act that Granny Wesley seemed to enjoy, and she laughed freely, a laugh Harry never knew she had in her. Whatever the butterfly clown did, the other clowns had to do, too. They could not help themselves. If he scratched his nose, they did. If he yawned, they did. If he stood on his head, they did. The audience howled for more, longing for the clown-gang to get more of their come-uppance. The butterfly clown bent down and whispered to Ocky, who ran off and fetched a bucket, a red one marked ‘OOZE’ in big letters. She dragged it back and left it at the butterfly clown’s feet. The butterfly clown bent down and whispered something to Ocky who clapped herself enthusiastically and then resumed her sitting position. All this time the clowns were duly following the butterfly clown’s every move, bending down and whispering to chimpanzees that weren’t there, and fetching their red buckets marked ‘OOZE’. And when the butterfly clown picked up the bucket Ocky had brought him, of course the clowns picked up their buckets, too. The butterfly clown, a wide grin on his face now, showed the audience that his bucket was empty. He turned round and round so that everyone could see. Everyone knew what he had in mind now and willed him on to do it. ‘Yes! Yes!’ they roared. ‘Yes! Yes!’ He didn’t need much persuasion, but he pretended he did until the audience had insisted loudly enough and long enough. Satisfied now that this was really what they wanted, he lifted the bucket up above his head and turned it upside down, and so did all the clowns around him, covering themselves in a white ooze that dribbled over their heads and down their shoulders. As the clowns wiped their faces the audience roared their approval. They stamped and they clapped, Harry as loudly as anyone. Ocky clapped her hands with everyone else, and then led the butterfly clown in a lap of triumph around the circus ring.
As she passed by, Harry called and called to her but to his great disappointment Ocky never even turned to look. Harry gazed up at the face of the butterfly clown and tried to catch his eye, but he seemed to be looking into the far distance almost as if he was in a trance. Harry waved at him but he never waved back. The man sitting next to Harry was shouting as he clapped, ‘That’s him. That’s Mr Nobody, I know it is.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Granny Wesley over Harry’s head. The man was shouting louder, clapping all the while and pointing.
‘Him, that clown, that’s Mr Nobody. I seen him do the very same thing before the war. Famous he is, Mr Nobody.’
‘How do you know it’s him?’ Harry asked.
‘Well you always know with the clowns, son. They all of them wear different costumes, different make-up. Like a sort of trademark. No two clowns are ever the same. It’s him, I know it is. No one else like him.’
The lap of triumph had become the grand parade, the finale. The horses came by, and the elephants, the acrobats and the dogs; and the clowns still scooping the white ooze off their faces and throwing it into the audience or at each other. In front of them all came Ocky leading Mr Nobody by the hand. They were coming past him again. ‘It’s him. I’m sure it is. That’s Mr Nobody,’ cried the man beside Harry, craning forward. ‘It is you, isn’t it, Mr Nobody?’ The butterfly clown heard, smiled and nodded, but he hardly turned his head. Then he seemed to stumble in the sawdust and clutched at the ringside to steady himself, his hand gripping the rail right in front of Harry’s seat. His hair grew only sparsely on the top of his head, but was long and bushy and red around his ears. Except for that his entire head down to his neck was chalk white. His startlingly red lips, the same colour as his hair, were painted where there were no lips, but the two black moles above and below his mouth looked real enough. As Harry looked at him their eyes met momentarily and Harry could see why he had stumbled. Mr Nobody’s eyes were full of dreams. He was like a man walking in his sleep. And then he was gone, the parade was all over, the magic was broken and they were all leaving.
At the bus stop outside there was a long queue and Peter Barker was there. ‘Smashing, wasn’t it?’ he said and Harry nodded. ‘Don’t you like your toffee apple?’ he said. Until then Harry hadn’t even realised he still had it. His hand was sticky with toffee down to his wrist. He began to lick his fingers.
‘Still hurting, is it?’ said Peter Barker.
‘What?’ said Harry, knowing quite well what he meant, but not wanting Granny Wesley to find out anything about it.
‘Your hand,’ said Peter Barker deliberately loudly.
‘What happened to your hand?’ asked Granny Wesley.
‘I fell over,’ Harry said, ‘in the playground. But it’s all right now.’ He looked darkly at Peter who was about to argue but stopped just in time to avoid getting his shin kicked.
There was a long cold wait until the right bus came. Granny Wesley stamped her feet and grumbled about the buses, and when theirs came at last she complained to the conductor that it wasn’t right to keep people waiting on a night like this and that she was in a hurry to get home. The conductor winked at Harry and said he was sorry but there wasn’t a lot he could do about the smog, and that seemed to silence Granny Wesley for a bit. She kept looking at her watch, shaking he head and tutting all the way home.
Bill met them at the door smiling broadly. ‘I’ve got a son,’ he said, and he hugged Granny Wesley, who began to cry.
‘Can I see Mum, then?’ Harry said.
‘And you’ve got a little brother, Harry,’ said Bill. ‘What do you think of that?’ Harry wanted neither a brother nor a sister, but if he had to make a choice he’d have preferred a sister.
‘Can I see her?’
‘’Course you can,’ said Bill. ‘Just for a minute or two. The doctor says we mustn’t tire her. She’s had a rough time of it you know, Harry. She had us all worried sick, your mother did.’
Harry’s mother was propped up on her pillows, her fair hair all around her, like a halo, Harry thought. She smiled weakly at Harry as he came closer. There was a wicker cradle beside the bed. Harry’s mother held out her arms to him, and kissed him.
‘Did you have a good time dear?’ she said. ‘Billy said Granny took you to the circus.’ Harry peered down at the baby in the cradle. All he could see was a bright pink, wrinkled face and one tiny clenched fist. There was some dark hair which looked a bit wet. The rest of him was hidden under the blankets. Granny Wesley was beside him now, bending over the cradle, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Isn’t he the perfect poppet,’ she said. ‘He looks just like Bill did when he was born, just the same.’
‘What do you think of him, Harry?’ asked his mother. ‘Isn’t he the most beautiful boy you ever saw? Isn’t he?’ Harry didn’t know what to say because he certainly wasn’t beautiful, but he didn’t want to have to tell his mother that. So he said nothing.
‘We’re calling him George,’ said Bill, ‘after my father. Suits him, don’t you think?’
‘Oh that’s wonderful,’ said Granny Wesley. ‘Wonderful.’ And she cried some more.
Harry went over to the bed to sit by his mother. ‘Are you better now, Mum?’ he asked.
‘I’ll be fine dear,’ she said, and then her face filled suddenly with anxiety. ‘Oh, be careful with him!’ she cried. Granny Wesley had picked up the baby and was cradling him in her arms.
‘Oh, don’t you worry, my dear,’ she chortled, her crooked finger stroking the baby’s chin. ‘I’ve done this before, remember? I know what I’m doing. You can see the Wesley in him. Big forehead. Sign of intelligence.’
‘Please put him down, Granny,’ Harry’s mother begged, her eyes full of tears. ‘Please.’ Bill and Granny Wesley looked at each other.
‘You’re tired, dear,’ said Bill taking the baby from Granny Wesley and laying it back in the cradle. ‘You’d better go now, Harry. Kiss your mother goodnight and then off to bed with you. It’s late enough already and you’ve got school again tomorrow.’ Harry wanted to stay with his mother and he knew she would have liked that too but she would not say so. She never seemed to stand up for him these days. ‘You’d better