[Brenda & Effie 00] - A Treasury of Brenda and Effie

by ed. Paul Magrs

  “Oh Effie,” I said. “I forgot about the demo today. I said I’d make a stand but what with last night and me touching that poster, it completely bypassed me.” Glancing across at Top Bun I had this sudden feeling that she needed my help.

  “Don’t worry, ducky,” said Effie. “We’ll go over now.”

  Top Bun looked remarkably alive and vigorous, although still hunched and huffy puffy, sporting a stripy knitted bobble hat and silvery crotched bolero. She looked positively glowing and energised by her mission.

  “We’ll be here all day,” she said. “Ah, here’s Midge with the tea,” nodding towards a sprightly looking pensioner carrying a tray of steaming mugs. I looked around and was pleased that the group was a good mixture of young and old. I’d been a regular at the Library since I first rolled up here in Whitby and I am a frequent borrower of the novels by Bella Chastise. They’re a good, rompy read but a bit naughty I have to say and the Librarian often raises his eyebrows when I check out Bella’s latest release. Though I did spy a dogged copy of Ripped Britches sticking out of his manbag behind the counter last week – so he can’t talk.

  The upshot was that we stayed for an hour. I still had this niggly feeling however that Top Bun needed me to do something and that it wasn’t anything to do with saving the Library. We had just enough time to pop into the Walrus and the Carpenter for tea and cake to mull things over before going home to get ready for the show.

  We’d both had enough experience dealing with the dead to know a thing or two about cavorting with corpses. I wondered if this Glenda knew what she was dabbling in, as Effie reencountered the tale of her Great Aunt Maud’s dalliance with a demon down a lane in Oxford.

  Ouija board and blind dates very rarely work out you know.

  “It’s not a sideshow business with spotlights and sparkles and topless hunks in tiny shorts run by a bimbo with bubble-gum for brains,” Effie went on.

  There did seem to be a sexy side to Glenda’s show. The poster featured a parade of scantily clad men assisting her with the show. Like Effie said, this contacting the dead business was serious and not really suited to being a camp showbiz spectacular. We paid the waitress and wrapped up warm with scarfs and knitted mitts before leaving. I had a feeling in my belly that tonight was going to be eventful.

  So here we were, two nights out in a row, all dolled up and heading out to the Pavilion again. It was another blustery, perishing night. I thought we’d go straight in and grab a coffee and have a chat to Chris, Robert’s boyfriend who worked behind the little bar. I like Chris a lot. His American accent makes me think of nostalgic American Christmases with snowy verandas and giant stockings hanging around fireplaces. Instead we were met by an enormous queue and had to wait for half an hour while everyone piled in. There was a buzz in the foyer which I hadn’t experienced before. Tonight there was a frisson of excitement – a palpable air of thrilling tension. We made our way to our seats. Effie was right, we were right up in the Gods like little pinheads at the top end back of the theatre.

  Down below the stage was decked out like a circus tent with glitzy tasselled draping curtains and in the centre, on a plinth, sat the ominous crystal ball with a central spotlight illuminating it from above. I reached out and gripped Effie’s arm. The mere sight of it sent my belly into spasm.

  Then the music started – a tinkly fairground melody coming up from the pit and that was it. “I’m going off again Effie,” I said, eyes rolling, feeling myself slipping away before Effie could pull me back.

  I’m in a tight little space alongside a girl with blonde hair pulled back into ponytail ringlets. We are punching out paper tickets and taking coins through a window-like hatch. Outside is a small village with cottages, a church and there are shadowy mountains in the background. The girl is all chatty and big smiles and fluttering eyelashes. I’m in a daze going through the motions. Then the queue in front of us clears and a hunchbacked old nun shuffles forwards handing over a jangling bag. The girl takes the bag and tips it out onto the counter with gold pieces spilling everywhere and we both sit there gawping. The old woman lets out a cackle and gives instructions.

  Next thing, two aged identical women with jet black bobbed hair turn up. Sounds like they’re the owners of this show. “Of course, Sister,” they coo eyeing up the mound of gold coinage. “It would be our pleasure.”

  The show has been booked out by the old nun but every seat is empty apart from a gaggle of shadowy figures sitting at the front, munching popcorn. It’s the Mother Superior from the nearby Sanatorium with her flock on a night out. I usually take a break at this time watching from behind the scenes, marvelling at the confidence and bravura of these travelling performers. People who have taken me in – my family. There’s my friend from the box office on stage. A blonde bombshell, dazzling as she sashays about assisting Dr Bombay with his magic and doves. She’s not wearing much apart from her basque and tassels but then she has got the figure for it. Then later, there’s an explosive uproar in camp. Torches are lit and the entire troupe led by the twin owners, take off up the winding track to the Sanatorium above. One twin, Frau Snr is hammering and hollering on the wooden door. Thank God we’ve got Jumbo who takes a few steps back and charges forward splintering the planks and smashing his way through. The old nun who paid up the gold is there in the courtyard screaming. The other twin, Frau Jnr knocks her flat out with a back hander.

  Clack, clack, clackety, clack. Clack, clack, clackety, clack. What is that noise? There it is again ricocheting through my mind.

  Oh! Effie is shaking my arm.

  “Brenda, the show’s about to start. What did you see?”

  I sat back shaken by my recent recall. What had I just seen? Me working the box office in a travelling show?

  “Ladies & Gentlemen, please welcome your hostess PSYCHIC GLENDA!” A fella in tight shorts with muscular thighs and a magnificent hairy chest was escorting Glenda arm in arm onto the stage.

  The audience erupted, clapping and hollering their excitement.

  But I’m still in a dozy state as I slip back into my flashback and see the troupe pile into the Sanatorium. I am standing out in the courtyard carrying the girl with blonde ringlets. She’s clinging onto me – starkers.

  “Brenda, its Glenda!” Effie elbowed me out of my dozy state again.

  There she was – Glenda, embracing the cheering crowd, waving and blowing kisses, wearing a diamante dress slashed to the thigh and skyscraper high heels. She had great posture and looked fab I had to admit standing there on stage next to her glowing ball.

  “Welcome darlings,” she called out waving and smiling. “It’s absolutely lovely to see you all here tonight. Thank you for coming to my show.”

  I heard Effie let out a huff as Glenda made her way around the ball caressing the top of the dome as she did so. It seemed like everybody in the audience leaned forward holding their breath. Then Glenda said, “Please welcome my first volunteer to the stage.” All heads turned as if watching the opening serve at a tennis match. An elderly gent shuffled up onto the stage and sat down on a pink chair assisted by two of the hunky himbos.

  Glenda turned to address the audience. “Ladies and Gentlemen, please may I introduce Trevor! Trevor is looking to contact his wife, Mary.”

  “Hmm,” I thought. “That’s not how this usually works.” I’d seen stuff like this on the telly with the psychic calling out to the audience, receiving random names from the ether. Some startled member of the audience would squawk and the psychic would pounce, winding in the crowd, revealing details unbeknownst to all but the startled audience member. This time, Glenda had a pre-selected volunteer and she knew his name and his wife’s also. She didn’t seem too psychic so far to me.

  “Please your hand on my ball, darling,” she said. Trevor placed a shaky hand on one side of the glowing globe. Glenda placed her hand on the other. The theatre was deathly silent, holding its breath in anticipation. I sensed that even Effie was on the edge of her seat. Then, the ball tr
embled slightly and started to rotate on its plinth, getting faster and faster. My immediate impression was that it was going to take off into the rafters but then it stopped abruptly. A beam of light unexpectedly shot out onto the wall behind between Glenda and Trevor like a cinema projection. The audience gasped in response. Images started to appear on the wall.

  “OH,” Trevor let out a small yelp. There on the wall was a moving image of a young boy fishing with another lad on a riverbank.

  “That’s ME,” said Trevor, “with me brother.” The audience inhaled in wide-eyed wonder. Then, another moving image appeared showing a couple stepping out from under a church lychgate into a shower of fluttering confetti.

  “That’s me and Mary,” said Trevor gawping at the image of him and his wife as she elbowed him into posing for pictures. The audience was silent. Even the ancient usheress with the confectionery trolley, in the back aisle behind me, had stopped sucking on her Kit Kat.

  Glenda worked her hand over the glowing globe with her eyes closed. Her bubble perm looking like a luminescent sunlit cloud in the spotlight.

  Next thing an image of a sandy beach appeared onscreen. Two ladies were sitting on a blanket having a picnic.

  “That’s Mary,” cried out Trevor pointing up at the woman on the left with the thatched pudding bowl haircut tucking into a scotch egg. “She liked a scotch egg,” said Trevor, “not a cheap one mind but a nice one from the deli counter. Mary, how are you luv?”

  “She’s having you over,” said Glenda. “She’s saying how she saved you from being on the shelf. Her sister Maureen agrees. She’s saying that you’re not a bad husband in that you pay all the bills on time, but apart from that she can’t see the attraction.”

  “What?” said Trevor. “Never, no one else would go near, what with her temper. She had me run ragged for forty years. She was great in the sack though, oooh!” He stopped and put his hand up to his mouth.

  The entire audience erupted into laughter and Trevor flushed pinker than one of the himbo’s little shorts.

  This is a bit embarrassing, I thought. Here’s Trevor wanting some reassurance about his dead misses, not some kind of humiliation at the hands of Glenda.

  But then Trevor said, “That’s not her sister Maureen, that’s her best mate Hilda.”

  Glenda opened her eyes sharpish.

  Trevor said, “That’s Mary on the Isle of Wight with her best mate Hilda, we always had a little holiday there together every year. I’m off somewhere buying ice cream.”

  “Oooo,” went the audience.

  Glenda spoke, “The spirits can be very difficult to decipher sometimes. Voices get lost in the void. Stories get squished between séances.” She closed her eyes again and gave the ball a good rub.

  ‘This woman Mary is with – I can confirm – yes, it is her friend Hilda.”

  “I know that,” said Trevor.

  “You do go on holiday together each year,” said Glenda.

  “Yes,” said Trevor.

  “As a threesome?” said Glenda.

  “Yes,” said Trevor.

  The audience leaned forward expectantly as if awaiting a juicy titbit like a sea lion clapping beneath a dangling fish.

  “The message is fading, falling back into the phantom realm,” cried Glenda. She flung herself back, arms flung up to the theatre roof. The image on the back wall faded and vanished. The spotlight dimmed.

  “Thank you Trevor – that’s all I have for you. Mary is happy; she’s on a beach with Hilda and she wishes you all the best.”

  “Ah – thank you,” said Trevor. “But Hilda’s still alive and living in Shanklin. So Mary can’t be on a beach with her? Unless, please tell me. She is dead isn’t she? I’ve cashed in the life insurance now and bought meself an i-pad.”

  “Thank you TREVOR!” proclaimed Glenda standing up and embracing the cheering crowd who erupted into spontaneous applause.

  “She’s good, isn’t she,” Brenda heard a woman in front of her say. “She even got that his wife liked a scotch egg – marvellous and miraculous!”

  “I wouldn’t say that exactly,” Effie had overheard too and leaned over and whispered to me. “That was a bit of an anti-climax to me. What do you think, ducky?”

  “She knows bits and bobs,” I said. “But she knew Trevor’s name coming in and also his wife so she could have done a bit of research beforehand. But how did she get those images up on screen. Moving photographic images. It was like they were being pulled directly from Trevor’s mind by him touching the ball. Oh…”

  Effie said, “Like your flashback Brenda, when you touched the poster ball yesterday and you saw yourself strapped down and felt something probing your mind?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s the ball that’s doing it Effie, whatever it is I can feel it now in my head. I’ve seen it before. I’ve touched it. When I saw it on stage when we first sat down I could feel another flashback coming on. Then that tinkly circus music started and I got thrown off course to another time and place. I was working in a box office at a traveling show.”

  “Really,” said Effie, staring at me, her eyes wide with enquiry.

  “Well, it was more of a caravanette actually,” I said. “Oh Effie, I have a terrible feeling about that ball. It can read minds, I’m sure of it but when I encountered it, it was being used for a diabolical purpose.”

  It was a two hour spectacular with a twenty minute interval when we popped out for a latte with a shot of expresso and had a quick chat to Chris. Turns out Robert had a new guest staying at the Miramar going by the name of Lou Lou Matrese. “Sounds like a drag queen to me,” laughed Chris as he served up the coffees and filled us in on all the news.

  The second act was much the same. Glenda was good and no mistake. But underneath all the razzle dazzle there were obvious mistakes and wrong footings, but just enough to convince she was the real deal. I leaned over to Effie and whispered, “There’s no doubt Effie, it’s the ball that’s doing it, not Glenda, but she does knows how to work it.”

  Afterwards, there was no hanging about. Effie caused a distraction in the foyer complaining about the state of the ladies’ cloakroom whilst I slipped backstage through a side door.

  There was Glenda’s dressing room. A couple of the himbos strolled past, mobiles out and with packets of ciggies in hands. I went up to Glenda’s door and knocked.

  “Entre.”

  I opened the door and stepped inside. The place was a tip with clothes and knick-knacks everywhere. Glenda was sitting at her dressing table reapplying her lippy and looked up as I entered, clocking me immediately. She swung around in her chair, legs crossed and clad in shiny gossamer tights. She paused, eyeing me up.

  “Brenda darling, how are you?”

  “Glenda?” I said. She knew my name? Did I know her?”

  Glenda reached over and pulled a vapourlite out of her silvery clutch.

  “Yes,’ she said. “It’s me, Glenda.”

  She stood up, eyes quavering, lip quivering and walked straight over to me, posture ramrod straight. I closed the door behind me and stepped forward.

  “Glenda, do I…?” I said.

  Then, THWACK! She reached up and cracked a left hander across my cheek. I hit the doorframe dumbstruck.

  “How dare you come back,” she screamed and came at me again, vapourlite glowing in one raised hand, with the second slap ready to strike.

  I instinctively grabbed her wrist to hold her back. She tried to shake me off for a second, then stopped, eyes bursting into tears with mascara like spiders in black stockings running down her cheeks.

  “Glenda, what? I don’t remember. I don’t know who you are. My memories are all over the shop. Who are you and how do I know you?” Then softly, “what did I do to you?”

  “You left me – that’s what. In the clutches of those two monsters. Oh you don’t remember do you darling? Very convenient that. Well I DO!”

  She stood there trembling and I released her arm. We stood there looking at
each other for a few seconds. She took a long drag from her vapourlite.

  “Frau and Frau?” I said.

  Glenda nodded. I took a tissue out from under my sleeve and gave it to her to wipe away the tricking mascara.

  “I remember,” I said.

  “Those beasts,” she said.

  I remembered in a series of snapshot photographs that erupted into my mind. Frau Snr and Frau Jnr, the travelling show, our cosy box office caravanette with the kettle and toaster in the corner, rescuing Glenda from the Sanatorium. She was the girl with the ponytail ringlets clinging onto me, starkers.

  “The Sanatorium!” I exclaimed.

  “Yes!” said Glenda. “You do remember, Brenda.”

  “Those nuns,” I said. “That place was a satanic hotspot.”

  “And the Mother Superior a handmaid from Hell,” said Glenda.

  “And you were in a wickerwork cage suspended over a green bubbling fountain in the courtyard.”

  “Starkers.”

  “Oh yes,” I said finding myself blushing at the thought. “Always starkers – oh Glenda.”

  “I was to be their Master’s eternal plaything.”

  “Oh yes and the nuns were all around the fountain in a transcendental state, all glowing between voids, when he appeared in the green waters summoned by the Mother Superior.”

  “I could feel my toes getting splashed as I was lowered in.”

  “And then the entire troupe came crashing in.”

  “Yes, and you ran over and hoovered up all the nuns with your new vac and sealed them in the drum with parcel tape.”

  “YES!” I said. “And before I could get to him, the fella in the fountain disappeared in a splashy plop like one of those goldfish in Dr Bombay’s magic show.”

  “YES!” said Glenda. ‘Typical fella, buggering off at the first sign of trouble.”

  “YES, YES, YES,” we cried in unison and then we opened our arms and grabbed each other, hugging and crying and yabbering on all at once.