The Flower Girl

by Maggie Ford

  She had been wrong, and certainly hadn’t anticipated the wrath her innocent words evoked, his voice rising, his face close to hers.

  ‘Do you see this as some sort of game?’ he thundered at her. ‘I shall require you to be here whenever I need you. That was the agreement, I believe.’ It was as if he owned her, and she wished she’d insisted on giving him back his money. She lifted her chin defiantly.

  ‘I know what it looks like, but I ain’t exactly promised to …’

  ‘Ain’t?’ His roar made her jump. ‘You know very well there is no such word.’

  Emma drew in an angry breath. ‘I don’t care! You don’t own me. I don’t have to do what you say. So don’t think you can tell me what I can do and what I can’t.’ She paused as his expression softened, the tight lips relaxing.

  ‘You are right, my dear,’ he said, lowering his tone. ‘I didn’t stop to think. You have a separate life, a duty to your family. I cannot force you.’

  But she still felt defiant. ‘I’ve got me mother to think of. If I don’t go out selling what she works so hard at making, we won’t get no money …’

  She heard herself, stopped and began again. ‘Or we won’t get any money,’ she corrected herself.

  When Theo replied, he seemed to be a different person. ‘If you stay with me,’ he said quietly, ‘there is no limit to what we can do. But you must be willing to work.’

  ‘And Friday?’ she reminded. ‘I can’t tell people about you yet. It may sound silly but I’ve got to be careful, and if I start talking about Fridays …’

  He nodded slowly. ‘We shall forget Friday. I made enough to keep me, modestly, until next Saturday, but I must keep going.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, contrite, until she remembered that he wasn’t destitute, he did have resources, somewhere. But she didn’t allude to it.

  He became unexpectedly gentle. ‘Come and sit here,’ he said, drawing his one chair towards him and sitting himself on the edge of his bed. ‘I shall explain what I want you to do from now on.’

  It seemed quite normal to be sitting so close as he explained what her role would be from now on. ‘For the time being,’ he said. ‘Once we make the theatre you will truly be helping me with all my illusions, as my assistant.’

  ‘Do not disappoint me, Amelia,’ he said, standing up as she finally made to leave after an exhilarating hour hearing what would be expected of her in the weeks to come. ‘Never, ever, let me down, my dear.’

  The caution sounded ominous, almost like a threat, and in the act of putting on her hat and jacket she turned to look at him. His expression had not altered but the tone had expressed all the disappointments that had come his way, the striving to reach what he’d finally attained, the setbacks, poor venues, unappreciative audiences, a wife who he felt had let him down, her death. But she felt that something more than that was buried deep, something she knew nothing about, and she remembered the vague warnings from Martin Page with a small shudder rippling through her.

  Seconds later Theo touched her arm, leaning towards her to drop a light kiss on her cheek. The fair, now well-groomed beard felt surprisingly soft against her skin.

  ‘I know I shall be able to trust you, Amelia,’ he whispered, his words like those of a lover yet containing a demand for loyalty.

  There was so much to learn – how to hand things to him as required, or take them from him, and do it beautifully; how to move among an audience, their eyes following and failing to see what he was doing – misdirection; how to deposit an object in a pocket without the owner being aware of it. This she found the hardest to do, and that was when she discovered Theo’s strange, innate temper, his regard for her evidently counting for nothing as she fumbled something that seemed to him to be simple enough. He did not rant so much as contain displeasure with such control that his whole expression would change – his eyes narrow, their blue more intense, his voice deepening like the ominous, rumble of distant thunder, his mouth tightening without thinning, until she wanted only to run from the place and never come back.

  ‘I’m doing my best!’ she’d yell in despair.

  ‘All I am asking of you is to hand me what I require,’ would come the controlled reply. ‘Doing that one simple thing without it resembling the movements of a carthorse!’

  Moments later, on the verge of walking out, he’d apologise – he understood it was difficult for her, new to the business, he’d go more gently with her in future. She’d forgive him – until the next time and the whole process repeated. She knew she should walk away, yet there was ever the promised lure of the fame, the money and the fine clothes; it was hard to combat.

  Every Saturday, with early autumn evenings closing in, Theo played the music hall queues, she was no longer required to stand by and watch, although in a way she still did. Prior to his arrival she’d take up a position outside the hall with her tray of paper flowers. He’d stroll up moments later and with a flourish open the large bag he carried and extract a folding table, don his opera hat and begin to set up the cups and ball trick. Everyone knew this game, as the three manipulated cups came to rest, betting a few pence on which one the ball was under. But this was different.

  The first two hopefuls, their wives or sweethearts trying to dissuade them from temptation, would be allowed to win, then without warning, the ball would vanish to reveal a coloured handkerchief in its place, rolled into a tiny ball. With a flourish, he’d throw the ball of material into the air and from it would waft half a dozen variously coloured silks to the gasp of those in the queue.

  There would begin half an hour of sheer magic – illusions so clever yet, Emma knew, they were so simple: the rabbit from the hat – a stuffed rabbit for street work – the disappearing salt, the glass of water poured into his opera hat yet never seeming to be empty and the hat not even damp – and so much else; money being tossed into the bag at the foot of the table until it was time for his audience to go in to see the entertainment they’d paid for.

  The dexterity of his fingers, his skill at sleight of hand evoked even Emma’s admiration as by October she realised just how much she had learned. When he’d told her she would take part in some of his illusions, she’d hardly been able to disguise her apprehension. Her admission had touched him. He told her there was no need to be afraid, speaking of audiences as a gullible lot whom he could make fools of every time. Although it didn’t make her feel easier, she couldn’t have backed out to save her life.

  Her mother still had no idea that she was now part of his act as she stood selling her flowers a yard or two from where Theo was, contented that she sold the whole stock despite the deteriorating weather. Her job now was to gaze at him in wonder as he called for a volunteer from among the crowd to help with a particular trick. Tonight, before any could step forward, he glanced in her direction, and seeming to have an idea, called to her in his penetrating voice, and, with a compulsive gesture of his arm, to come over.

  As rehearsed, Emma hesitated before moving shyly towards him as though bewildered by his summons. She felt his hand touch hers.

  ‘You look quite lost there, my dear,’ he said, his booming voice carrying over the heads of a growing crowd of the curious. ‘I wonder, my child, how would you like to assist me in my work and put a little zest into your obviously dull little life?’

  This brought sniggers from those watching. Emma even managed to hang her head as if with embarrassment, but her blushes were real enough, this first time as his secret accomplice, seen as a figure of fun if not pity. But one day these people would grin on the other side of their faces. She had a fleeting vision of herself a year from now, on a glittering stage, beautifully dressed, all eyes on her in wonder instead of mockery. The vision gave her heart to look up at Theo, her gaze trusting, that too not completely faked.

  Taking her tray from her, he placed it on the pavement. It was an effort to control her rapid breathing. It was one thing rehearsing in the privacy of his room, quite another to stand in front of this sea
of faces. She was more accustomed to being ignored as she sold her flowers, but no one would ignore her this evening. There wasn’t a single nerve in her body that didn’t quiver. What if some clumsiness revealed one of his tricks to them?

  Theodore was explaining to them. ‘Here I have an ordinary pack of cards,’ he began. ‘Whoever wishes can come and examine them.’

  Several men stepped forward, their blunt faces eager yet suspicious. They found the pack all he said it was. He even look the arm of one man to make sure he actually touched the pack to prove to himself that they were, normal, everyday playing cards. Emma had to tighten her lips so as not to smile at this simple yet skilful move.

  ‘Now, watch closely,’ instructed Theo as the men moved back to the edge of the crowd. With a flourish he cut the pack, the movement followed by dozens of pairs of watchful eyes.

  Placing one half on the table, he cut again, that portion also placed on the table, then twice more until all that was left were a bare half-dozen cards.

  With these, his other hand motioning broadly to alert everyone as to what he was about to do, he executed a throwing movement so swift that the eye could not see where they had gone, but gone they were. A few spectators were even still gazing at the thin air into which they’d vanished.

  ‘All gone,’ Barrington announced in a deep and commanding tone. ‘Ah, but see, my friends. Not all. What about this one?’

  His hand made a plucking motion and to gasps from the crowd, a card appeared between his slim fingers as if from nowhere.

  ‘And this one?’ Another plucking movement, another card appeared. ‘And this! And this!’ As each new one appeared he threw it on to the table, continuing to pluck, faster and faster. Mesmerised by the speed, misdirected by the continuing plucking motion that seemed to go on for ever, no one saw that the separated decks were no longer on the table, his free hand stacking these new cards as they appeared in his hand.

  When all were retrieved, he held out the complete deck at arm’s length for all to see. Eyes popped. Even if he’d had the whole pack up his sleeve, the fifty-two would have been hard to hang on to. It really was magic.

  ‘Ah,’ said Barrington as ragged applause rippled through the crowd. ‘I need someone to make sure they are all here.’

  Placing the deck on the small table, he fanned them a swift movement of his hand. Pointing to one of the men who’d earlier examined the deck, he said, ‘Sir, might I ask you to check them?’ Pleased at being picked out, the man stepped forward. ‘Are you a card player, sir?’ asked Barrington.

  The man nodded. ‘A bloody good one, mate!’

  ‘Then you will soon know if this pack is incomplete.’

  ‘On yer life, mate!’ came the man’s answer and deftly he collected all into their four separate suits. Suddenly he looked up, his eyes suspicious.

  ‘The six of clubs ain’t there, mate.’

  Barrington’s tone was incredulous. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘As sure as I’m standin’ in front of yer.’

  For a moment Barrington appeared puzzled, then turning to Emma, who’d been standing mutely by, he said, ‘Ah, young lady, now I shall need your help. I expect you were wondering why I asked for your assistance?’

  Emma gave a small nod of her head, and, asked to dip her hand into the top pocket of the man’s not too clean jacket, she gave a convincing gasp of surprise as she withdrew the missing card.

  ‘Hold it aloft, my dear, for all to see.’ Emma did as she was told, the card plucked from her by Theodore, who held it before the stunned man’s face. ‘Is this the missing card, sir?’

  Dumbfounded, the man could only nod, then finding his voice, turned to the onlookers.

  ‘’E’s right – it is the blooming six a’clubs what was missin’.’

  To resounding applause, the man stepped back to converse in awe with the woman he was with. Barrington gave a flourishing bow and waved Emma away. ‘You may go back to selling your flowers now, my dear, and thank you for your help.’

  To her joy, as she retrieved her tray, several people stepped towards her and bought flowers, perhaps as souvenirs of what they had seen so close to their faces and no sign of trickery.

  Others were dropping coins into the purple open-necked bag Theo had placed on the pavement in front of his little table. He acknowledged each with a small, dignified bow of his head as he put away the cards.

  Two weeks later she was again standing a few feet from him with her tray, this time outside the Hippodrome in the busy West End. This time it was afternoon, broad daylight, a far cry from the humble, out-of-the-way Apollo Music Hall. Being fine weather, the Hippodrome would enjoy a full house for the matinée with circus acts as well as single performers. A considerable queue for the gods already lined a grubby side street off Leicester Square, such queues inevitably tucked out of the sight of wealthier patrons.

  Early arrivals had brought sandwiches in preparation for a long wait, even a folding stool or two to sit on. Those who came late were probably in for a fruitless wait, all seats filled before they got to the head of the queue and even standing room full.

  Emma knew some of the type of acts the Hippodrome put on and as Theodore began setting up, she hissed to him in passing to take up her own pitch, ‘So long as they’ve not got a magician on.’

  ‘But they’ll see me first,’ Theodore whispered back with confidence.

  She had to admire the flamboyance with which he began laying out his paraphernalia, with great flourish spreading the blue-checkered cloth corner-wise over the collapsible table as though that in itself were a trick, opening his bag and bringing out various items, holding each up for the ‘audience’ to see. Eyes were beginning to be turned by this arresting personage.

  Emma took up her position as though she had nothing to do with him. Further along, a blind musician was treadling away at a portable piano-organ, his burly helper in ragged jacket and trousers, worn boots, grubby neck choker and stained cloth cap standing behind him. Towards the head of the queue she could see a man playing the spoons. A matinée queue, as she well knew, was the place to make a few pennies, provided there weren’t too many street entertainers to take off the cream.

  She cast a sideways glance at Barrington. He was ignoring her. They would do the trick with the card found in the pocket as they had done many times since the Apollo. Then she would leave, no doubt rewarded by people noticing her enough to buy a paper flower to take home as a souvenir. No fear of her being seen as his associate. The rest of her flowers she’d sell elsewhere and meet him later for another show outside another theatre to another queue for the gods, this time an evening one. No fear of meeting the same audience.

  The queue buzzing with chatter and mild vulgarity transferred its gaze from the blind musician to the posturing, self-assured figure in white gloves, opera hat and evening dress.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, a well-known trick,’ he was saying. ‘As you know, many are fleeced of their money by this trick, but I am not asking anyone to put any money down at all as to where they think the ball is.’

  He placed the ball under one cup, swirled all three around each other with deft movements, inviting several people to come and try their luck, adding, ‘I will say that while I ask for none to place any money bet, I will give a penny to whoever finds the ball.’

  There was an instant rush, forcing him to plead they behave soberly. Thus each in turn took their chance, Barrington revealing where the ball was and moving the cups about after each attempt.

  Not one was successful, each man retiring in disappointment. Finally as the last disgruntled gambler moved away, Barrington lifted all the cups to show not a ball in sight. There now came a rumble of discontent. There had been no ball at all. They’d been diddled even though no one had laid down any money.

  ‘I would not trick you,’ Barrington said, interpreting the low murmur. ‘Maybe a little magic has occurred.’ He looked towards where Emma stood with her tray. ‘My dear,’ he called to her and as s
he looked uncertainly at him, added, ‘Yes, you girl. May I prevail upon you to help me find this missing object?’

  With a show of reluctance she came at his bidding, put her tray down by the table and stood with her shy, embarrassed smile while they all looked expectantly at her.

  ‘Now, my dear, would you move among those who came up here to try their luck, and would you ask each one to feel in their trouser pockets?’

  There was a buzz from everyone as Emma did as she was told. She glanced at Barrington. ‘I never see who come up.’

  He’d specifically told her not to speak nicely. ‘That is reserved for the stage,’ he’d said.

  ‘No matter,’ he said now. ‘The first to try his luck was disappointed. He knows who he is. He will assist you, my child.’

  And assist he did, as she was a young, pretty, shapely girl, smelling nicely of the lavender water Barrington had provided, her hazel eyes noticeably shy and apologetic; the man was glad to put her at ease, his masculine dominance secure. Feeling in his trouser pockets, unsure of what he was looking for, he gave a yell, his eyes widening as he brought out a red ball.

  ‘It’s ’ere! It was in me pocket!’

  ‘Well done, sir!’ Theo called to him. ‘The young lady will bring it here so that I may examine it. Over here, my dear.’ Taking it from her, he went on, ‘This is indeed the one.’

  A woman from the now substantial crowd, queuing forgotten for the moment, shouted, ‘He must of pinched it!’

  ‘Impossible, madam. But to prove my point, this young lady here will move among four other gentlemen at random. Go on, my dear, over there.’

  He pointed her towards others in the queue. ‘They did not come to this table. Would you be so kind as to go and ask one or two of those kind gentlemen to examine their pockets – four will be enough.’