Boy and caterpillar

More story.

Gina came out and joined them and all three watched the sun rise over Villa Zuid.
Walter was different around Gina. More relaxed, almost eloquent. His guardedness receeded under her honest appreciation and acceptance. Little legs learnt more about Walter in that couple of hours than he had in the entire time he had known him. Walter drunk on alcohol and happiness tearfully remembered his lost parents. Despite the sentiment it seemed clear that they were an inventive, caring and humorous couple, full of enthusiasm for life and though sometimes a little lonely Walter described a pretty well balanced childhood full of  love and experience. Holidays in New York, Goa and Berlin interspersed with cheap but creative homely fun often involving camping and art galleries.
“the picnics were great, often on the spur of the moment and in crazy places, once on a roundabout in Manchester, another time we took some sandwiches and a flask to the Guggenheim in New York and ate them in front of the Rothko’s”
“the wot” enquired a puzzled Little Legs
Eloquent though he had become Walter couldn’t raise the energy to explain
“some restful and colourful paintings”
The death of his foster parents was obviously a watershed moment in his life and though he had survived, developed coping skills and through sheer doggedness made the best of it, there was a gaping hole where unconditional love, support ,encouragement, direction and meaning used to be. Attacted to the feel of unconventional families his trajectory of sideshow, band and now the circus made sense.
Gina listened a little wistfully. She hadn’t lost her parents but she may as well have done, such was their lack of interest in her upbringing. Maybe the pressing needs of 5 other siblings did not help but Gina’s impression was that in the end they were simply more interested in themselves. Once the children passed the cute stage they returned to their old pastimes, the father drinking and gambling, the mother watching trashy dubbed Mexican soap operas, flirting with anything male that passed by the house and joining in with the censorious gossip of the locals from the small town near Arles in the south of France where they lived. Barely an eyelid was raised then when slowly she started coming home less and less until one day she just was not there anymore. No drama, no fanfare, just a sad uneventful slipping away. She started with sofa cruising amongst the parents of her mates followed by random crashing with people she met at nights out and finally squatting. Gina was a passionate defender of squatting, positioning it as more of a political movement than last ditch housing
“we are all, how you say, family from squatters. Your queen she live on stolen land ,yes?”
“Ha ha, nice one, I’ll mention that next time I pick her up in the cab” quipped Little Legs
In various squats in Arles she had picked up a bit of  juggling, rope walking albeit only a foot off the ground, some rudimentary fire eating skills and it wasn’t long before she joined Cirque Bidon a roving band of circus folk who eventually morphed into Archaos based in a disused glass factory in Arles.
“Many famous people they squat, Picasso, Modigliani they squat at Bateau-Lavoir in Montmatre, you know?”
Little legs had never heard of Modigliani but he was happy to think that when he spent 3 months living in his car it could be argued that there was a tangential link to Picasso. 
The night ended, the day began and the band sans Walter moved on , next stop Zurich.