The Lion Tamer

The Lion Tamer

The poster was the first sign. I spotted it taped to the inside of the shop window on my way home, its colours a shock against the dusty panes. "The circus is coming," I remember yelling as I burst through our front door, "Boswells is coming!" In our small Boland town of Worcester, this was monumental. Beyond the yearly agricultural 'skou', our lives ran on a quiet, predictable rhythm. The circus was a glorious interruption.

I remember the day the train would pull in, a great beast of steam and noise, hooting its arrival. The big, yellow-painted trucks would rumble down the ramps, the name ‘Boswells Circus’ emblazoned on their sides in bold red letters. The circus was no longer a promise on a poster; it was real and it was here.

In those early days, a grand parade would march right up High Street. There were strutting horses with plumes on their heads, clowns tumbling over each other, and stunning women in clothes that seemed to belong to another world. The whole procession snaked its way towards Boland Park, where the real work was just beginning. The erection of the ‘big top’ was a spectacle in itself. I’d watch, mesmerized, as men with 40-pound hammers drove colossal steel spikes into the earth. Then, with a coordinated heave from dozens of hands pulling on thick ropes, the massive canvas would slowly, almost magically, creep up the poles and take its iconic shape.

The area behind the main tent was a world of its own, a place of mystery and thrilling danger. That's where they kept the animals. The lions were housed in a large trailer cage, its steel bars a stark warning. You couldn't get too close; a simple steel railing kept the public at a safe distance. But at night, you could hear them. From our house in Langerug, the sound of their roars would carry on the wind, a wild and primal sound in our sleepy town. There were other animals too—mischievous monkeys, sturdy ponies, and I think I remember a camel one year, looking utterly unimpressed with its surroundings. Now and then, you’d see a figure dart from the shadows into a caravan. Was that the trapeze artist? The snake charmer? We could only guess.

One of the best things about having a circus poster in your window was the free tickets the shop owner would get for the opening night. My father came home for lunch one afternoon—shops still closed from one to two back then—and told us a story that made my eyes go wide. Tickey, the famous clown, had actually been in the shop that morning to look at some furniture. I spent the rest of the day imagining a grand bedroom suite squeezed into his tiny caravan. I later learned his real name was Eric Hoyland.

The afternoon of the show was always agony. My mother insisted I have a nap to be wide awake for the big event. I’d lie there in the semi-darkness, tossing and turning, my mind already under the big top.

When evening finally fell, the whole area was transformed. The tent was a glowing yellow orb in the distance as we parked the car. Strings of colourful lights were draped everywhere, and the smell of popcorn hung thick and sweet in the air. We’d make our way inside, the crunch of sawdust underfoot a sound synonymous with the magic to come. My mother, ever practical, always brought cushions for us to sit on, a small comfort against the hard wooden planks that served as seats. I never wanted to sit at the ringside; I was terrified of the knife-thrower’s aim or of a clown pulling me into the ring. Our seats, just behind the front row, were perfect.

Inside that tent, the space felt enormous, the air electric with anticipation. High above, a web of ropes and swings hung waiting for the trapeze artists—the ‘Flying Lombardos’ or some other exotic name from a place like Italy or Hungary.

But all our attention was fixed on the massive, 12-foot-high steel cage being erected in the center ring. Suddenly, the lights dimmed, a spotlight flared to life, and with a dramatic drumroll, the ringmaster appeared in his top hat and red coat. The show was starting. My father leaned over to me and whispered, "The lions are first. Don't worry, it's perfectly safe." I held my breath through the entire act, my heart pounding with a mix of terror and awe. I only truly started to relax and enjoy the rest of the circus once the lion act was over and the cage was dismantled.

The lion tamer I saw that night was a man named Carl Fischer. The peak of his act, the moment that was burned into my memory, was when he would pry open a lion’s massive jaws and stick his own head inside, just for a moment. Years later, I found out his real name was Albert Lloyd. He was an Englishman who had travelled the world with his incredible act and eventually ended up in Hollywood, training animals for Johnny Weissmuller, the actor who famously played Tarzan. He was a man who truly walked with lions.