A giant for the circus part2

By this time we were playing to packed audiences in the Big Top and the show was going well. Bush had proved a huge attraction as he wandered around the site, but we were still finding it impossible teaching him to do tricks. On the other hand his strength was an asset when setting up or striking the camp. I began charging a pound a head, letting the punters into an enclosure to watch him working. They were told this was necessary because Bush didn’t know his own strength and they had to be kept safely out of his way.

We carried on in the same manner for most of the year. The money made from the Bush watching public more than covered the cost of his food. He was still grunting unintelligibly but seemed happy. The roustabouts were happy, for their workload was reduced; the performers enjoyed the larger crowds we were attracting, even though a large proportion of them came initially to see our giant. I was happy since we were making rather more money than usual. Everything had settled down into a comfortable routine until we picked up an Irish juggler.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against the Irish, he was a very nice chap and an excellent juggler. However he could speak Gaelic and thought that every now and then he could hear words he recognised during Bush’s grunting sessions. He spent a lot of his spare time talking to Bush but without making much progress language wise. However he did succeed in teaching him simple juggling tricks.

It was a little too late in the season to make any real difference to our current tour, but the sight of Bush juggling large rocks that other people could only just pick up, had to be seen to be believed.

Then all too soon the year was over and we found ourselves back in winter quarters in Bushmills. We settled down to the seasonal tasks of repairing, polishing, and painting the equipment where necessary.

Then one quiet still moonlit night about a couple of weeks after we’d arrived, I was woken by the sound of rough seas. The noise of the waves breaking on the shore, were interspersed with an extremely loud voice talking much as Bush did. I went outside to see the cause of the commotion. A colossal figure had waded ashore and Bush had run to greet it.

I found myself beside the Irish juggler. Together we watched Bush walking into the night with his huge companion. He turned and waved to us as we watched, and grunted happily.

“Bye-bye wee folk,” said my companion, translating quietly.

“Of course!” he said, “all the time poor little Bush was calling for his mother!”

Then holding hands with his 20ft tall mother, they both walked off home along the Giant’s Causeway.