by Wesley Stace
He had made one friend: Mr. Morris’s son, Patrick (also generally considered a mixed blessing), a shy child with a face blotted with freckles, who bore the burden of being related to a teacher with good grace and had been the first to extend a Sunday invitation. That night, George had returned with a glimpse of life beyond the chestnut trees. He began to feel a nudging sympathy for even those teachers he detested. Didn’t they have a wife, a fire, a TV? His greatest weapon against their hectoring was his sympathy. Who wouldn’t rather be at home? They didn’t want to be at Upside any more than he did, so best to play out the farce as perfectly as possible: they’d do their bit and he’d do his.
Lessons came and went. It was easy: the teachers just turned up on cue. You sat there and produced the appropriate textbook. George found his mind wandering as each period went on: he tried to make his telling contributions early, so the teachers, satisfied with his preparation, turned their radar elsewhere. Even games, the low point of the day, came to present themselves as an enjoyable conundrum. He had already worked out how to avoid any physical contact at all (yet give the impression of trying his hardest); next, he would try to hatch a plot to rid himself of the inconvenience entirely.
There were unexpected kindnesses. Campbell had proved that George was one of his twelve best friends by giving him a slice of birthday cake. And the headmaster had taken him aside at evening prayers one day, inviting him to his study at 7:00 p.m. on the dot, hastening to add, “Nothing wrong.” On George’s arrival in this nicotine den, the headmaster asked, “Well, boy. When did you last see your mother?” and pointed to the television, where at that very moment the compere of Variety’s the Spice of Life was announcing, “Now touring in Peter Pan, please welcome Frankie Fisher!” George sat down cross-legged, rather self-consciously, and watched Frankie sweep onstage to the cheering of the studio audience. Frankie disdained television but watched it a lot, and he knew how much her rare appearances meant to her. He didn’t check whether Hartley, behind him, was paying attention. Who wouldn’t?
“Peter Pan at the Clark Street Theatre,” said the headmaster, puffing a bonfire of Balkan Sobranie after her plucky bow. “The redoubtable Queenie . . .” (he put it in affectionate inverted commas: although it couldn’t possibly be her name, he would play along) “has asked permission for you to go. She can’t take you. But I think I can send someone in loco parentis. Perhaps you would like to invite Patrick Morris and Mr. Morris?” George nodded. “OK!” Hartley had a way of saying OK as if it were a very cool word, with it.
It was the general consensus that if George clicked his fingers, four large buses would appear to ferry the entire school to Peter Pan, where there would be concession stands at which the boys’ money was no good; further, that George chose to deny this for selfish reasons of his own. He came to be seen, by everyone except Patrick, as the withholder of this invitation to paradise. Campbell even alluded to his birthday cake, as though the two were comparable.
“You can have some of my birthday cake,” said George in mitigation.
“Oh, thanks,” said Campbell. Birthday cake suddenly meant nothing.
There was less than a week till half-term, but that didn’t dampen his enthusiasm or diminish anyone else’s pique. Every text he read seemed to contain some cryptic reference to the impending excursion. He loved to see Frankie in her element; never did he love her more. The moment she materialized onstage, a lump came to his throat: a physical muscular spasm that left him seconds away from tears and subsided only of its own accord, a combination of his love for her and his fierce pride. He would buy her a box of After Eight mints — he always did: a poor symbol for what he felt, dignified by the mock surprise with which she received them, as if they summed everything up. It was their secret joke.
They left frustratingly late. Mr. Morris’s car was short of petrol, so they had to make a detour, which coincidentally took them past the Duke of Athole, where Morris had to drop something off. George and Patrick waited impatiently in the back for Morris to down the swift half that would doubtless accompany the possibly fictional delivery. They arrived at the theatre much later than expected. George impatiently watched Morris make a hash of picking up the tickets at the box office, as though the man had never been on a house list before, and then took over himself, charming them from behind the glass in a matter of seconds. They found their seats only moments before the lights dimmed.
It was clear that Frankie knew not only that he was there but precisely where he was sitting. Her eyes sparkled in George’s direction, and she delivered a couple of her lines with extra verve, lines that had a special meaning. When she spoke to the children, she spoke to the child in every person; when she flew, she soared above them; and when she told them to make a wish, it was a certainty that it would come true. Unhappy thoughts were impossible. There was the lump in his throat, as usual, but this evening, it spared him tears in front of the Morrises, who applauded enthusiastically as the lights came up for the interval.
All around him, there was a buzz about Frankie and the production: how wonderful to get the real quality in Whitley, how lush the costumes, how adorable Peter Pan, how evil Captain Hook. Morris was just about to get choc ices all round, when an usher called from the end of the row, gesticulating towards George, “Just time to pop backstage, if you’d like to see Miss Fisher!” George, obeying a far greater power than Morris, danced down the aisle without bothering to ask permission. He followed the burgundy uniform that led him through the pass door and into the backstage maze, where all was breathless activity. They passed Nana, the large Saint Bernard, as she pulled off her head to reveal the face of the sweaty actor beneath. “This costume smells fucking awful,” he moaned.
Frankie was in her room, in her bra, pulling on a new top for the second half. They shouldn’t have kissed, because of her makeup, but Frankie couldn’t resist, leaving two lips’ worth on his cheek, which she pointed out to him in the mirror and he removed.
“It’s going well, isn’t it? How’s school? What does your teacher think? Could you dress up my coffee?”
There wasn’t time for answers, but this was normal. Elsewhere, in other dressing rooms, things would be more serene. George remembered the two ugly sisters in Edinburgh, who had been so relaxed at the interval, with their chatter and casual nibbling, that you might well have thought they’d been written out of the second half. With Frankie, though, you were always in the eye of the hurricane. There was the familiar wreath of good-luck cards around the mirror, George’s front and central.
Frankie sat down, talking as she reapplied her makeup, stretching her lips as taut as possible, barely pausing for breath: the other boys, his best friend, her missed note — had he noticed? She quoted a joke from one of his cards back at him, and they laughed. George fiddled with the flex as the tan plastic electric kettle, decorated with a chain of pink and purple daisies, came to a boil and turned itself off. A spoon of instant coffee was waiting in a cracked brown mug; he added two spoonfuls of sugar and some Carnation milk.
“Ooh, the glamour, eh?” She laughed, displaying her teeth to the mirror and picking off stray lipstick with the nail of her index finger. “No one makes it like you.”
“Beginners, Part Two, Peter; Beginners, Captain Hook,” a deep voice echoed down the hall.
“Thank you, Glyn. Go! See you at the end, darling. And don’t forget to make a wish.”
He made his way to his seat to find the Morrises agog that he’d been able to flit back so easily, as though he had the run of the place. The second half managed even to transcend the first. Although George had initially been put out that various members of the Upside common room were in attendance, as if they were all spying on Frankie, he realized how proud he was for them to see her in her splendid, shining glory. And when it came time to make a wish, George wished that he could get out of sports. After the bows and bouquets, George looked around for the same usher, but he was nowhere to be seen.
“Shall we perhaps go to see
your mother at the backstage door?” asked Morris. George didn’t want anyone else to see his mother at all, but things could play themselves out no other way. A rather harassed stage manager materialized as they were finally vacating the auditorium.
“George Fisher? Yes. Oh.” He dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief. “Could you go to the upstairs bar, please?”
“Rather,” said Morris, counting his blessings, though George thought this request odd. Perhaps Frankie wanted to meet them anywhere apart from the cramped backstage to make a better impression; somewhere away from the cracked mugs, purple daisies, foul-mouthed Saint Bernards, bottles of medicinal gin, and damp bras dangling from ironing boards.
Amidst greetings and congratulations, their group picked up hangers-on as it made its way through the foyer, until by the time they reached the mezzanine, they seemed, to George’s distress, to consist of most of the Upside common room and its other half. The bar was unmistakably closed, the upside-down bottles safe behind silver bars.
The last person George expected to see was Reg, who emerged through an anonymous side door, and he knew it meant trouble. He wasn’t dressed as a chauffeur anymore. His hair was spivved back with grease, a small quiff at the front.
“Hello, George,” he said, as the teachers milled around, anxious for the coming attraction and the subsequent pub.
“Reg? Is Queenie here? Where’s Frankie?” George resented Reg’s presence, the way it implied that Reg was somehow in control.
“She’s coming, George, she’s coming. Don’t worry.”
It was then he started to worry.
Seconds later, Queenie shepherded Frankie through the same door. Instantly, as Morris and the group burst into a chorus of congratulations, George knew what had happened. He ran to Queenie — he wouldn’t be able to get any sense out of Frankie — and she hugged him.
“Yesterday, George. In her sleep. Very peaceful. Just as she would have wanted.”
Yesterday? he thought. Yesterday? But what about tonight? The show? What about the interval? Frankie must have only just found out. He could hear her talking to Mr. Morris about the wonderful night, what a marvellous audience they had been.
“Queenie . . . ,” he cried. He hated himself for not having started reading the tatty green book Evie had given him. He hated himself for not having run away and seen her one last time before half-term.
“I know, darling, I know.”
“When did Frankie know?”
“Yesterday, of course.” And then, as if she could read his mind, “But the show must go on. It’s what she would have wanted.”
And on the show went behind George, as Commander Poole invited Frankie out for a drink, and she asked his party humourously pointed questions about her favourite boy’s progress at Upside.
“Look at you all! Now, whatever is the collective noun for teachers? A school, is it? A rule of teachers?” she teased to the laughter of all. “This is early for me, you know, though you’re probably all tucked up in your beds by now, aren’t you, children?”
She turned around to George, who felt a box of After Eights planted firmly in his hand by Queenie. He disentangled himself from the various layers of material that covered Queenie’s chest. As he handed his mother the After Eights, it was clear to all that he had been crying. In their excitement at Frankie’s arrival, they hadn’t noticed George’s beeline for Queenie, pleased only that he wasn’t delaying the star.
“Come on, bosun,” said Commander Poole in an unusually kindly manner. “Pull yourself together. For your mother.”
“No,” said Frankie. “I’m afraid we’ve had a death in the family — his great-grandma; and if a boy can’t cry in front of his mother, when can he?”
Approval for this laudable sentiment whispered among the troops, and a drink seemed less pressing.
“Well, perhaps we’ll . . . ,” said one.
“Yes, and it might be time for us to . . . ,” said another.
“Can we take George out for a quick bite?” asked Queenie.
“Well, we really ought to be getting back to Upside, George,” said Morris, who planned for the boys to be sitting in the back of the car with a bag of ready-salted while he caught last orders. “I think it’s bedtime after a wonderful evening.”
Queenie said firmly, “We need to talk to George. If you’d like to wait downstairs, we’ll bring him in a moment.”
“Absolutely,” said Morris, who had met his match.
Congratulations mingled cheerfully with good-byes; commiserations were tastefully murmured.
The four of them — Queenie, Frankie, George, and Reg — sat around a table that hadn’t yet been cleaned after the interval.
“A wonder she lasted as long as she did,” said Queenie. “But she clung on.” It was as though the news had just hit her for the first time.
“Grand old lady,” said Reg dutifully, but his mind was elsewhere. “I wish I could just slip my hand through there and have a nice drop of scotch and steal one of them packets of crisps. Send her off, like.”
“Scotch’d do the trick,” said Queenie. “Scotch and milk, her favourite.”
“A bottle of Teacher’s: maybe that’s the collective noun,” said Frankie. “Go backstage and get a drop.”
George couldn’t get over the fact that she hadn’t said anything during the interval.
“Back in a tick,” said Reg.
The three of them considered the oversize Red Barrel ashtray that occupied most of the table.
“George, one more thing. And you’re going to have to be very brave,” said Queenie. He had never seen her so awkward. “You can’t come home for half-term. Frankie’s everywhere from Plymouth to Morecambe, and I have to sort out a god-awful mess. Reg’ll drive me up to see you one day, but we can’t manage it at home.”
“But I can’t stay at school for half-term,” he said in astonishment. “They don’t let you. There’s no one there.” He had visions of his roaming the playing fields, foraging for nuts and berries, and running through the corridors to the kitchen, where, on a huge range that cooked for two hundred, he would fry the single egg he managed to pilfer from the local farm.
“We’ll sort something out, darling. We’ll sort something out. And we’ll have the best Christmas of all. I promise.”
“Any good?” asked Reg, waving a bottle of gin. He had three mugs with him and one paper cup. He poured a tipple into each, waving away George’s concerns: “Drink up. Don’t breathe on Mr. Morris is all. If he can smell it through his own, that is.” He chuckled and lifted his glass, remembering that he should make some kind of toast. “Well, God rest her soul. She never liked me much, but here’s to her.”
“Shh!” said Queenie. They bowed their heads. “A grand old lady.”
“My great-grandmother,” said George.
“No Grand. No Great,” said Frankie. “She hated them both.” She looked up with a sly wink. “Do you love me?”
“You know you do!” they chorused, and downed their gin.
In the car on the way back to school, George was still considering the horrors of a half-term at Upside. However, he had become self-conscious about his thought processes, a new feeling that amused him. In fact, he was slightly drunk. Patrick had fallen asleep on the backseat while they waited for George, who had been rather longer than Morris had expected, so George was sitting in the passenger seat. He hadn’t wanted to breathe too near Mr. Morris, but he couldn’t resist the lure of the front.
“Terrible news about your bereavement,” said Mr. Morris, magnanimously overcoming his tetchiness at missing last orders.
“We called her Evie, short for Evangeline, but that wasn’t the name she was known by. Oh, no.” Words weren’t coming out of George’s mouth quite as he expected.
“What was her name?”
“She was known as Echo. Echo Endor.”
“Echo Endor? That rings a bell. Wasn’t she a ventriloquist?”
“Ventriloquiste,” said George pointe
dly. “Yes. She was the greatest ventriloquiste who ever lived. Bar none.”
3
The House That Echo Built
Over the next month, I made a thorough analysis of Joe’s life from my resting place on the deep burgundy cushions. It wasn’t hard. He rarely ventured outside his room, preferring to sit surrounded by books in a pool of artificial light, writing in inky black and burgundy accounts ledgers, scribbling on cards that he filed in a mahogany cabinet. It was all part of a magnum opus, which already ran to volumes, on magical technique — it was to be his life’s work. He had mastered the various sleights of hand early; now he was deeply involved in the realms of “pure magic,” speculating on illusions that were possible only in theory, that yet-to-be-invented technology might allow. He had also delved back into the history of the dark arts for clues to the way forwards — this had led him to dust off distant voice.
When he wasn’t rapt in secret studies, I watched him watching himself at his dressing table, scrutinizing his reflections in the angled mirrors for any sign of extraneous movement. These exercises were thorough and tedious. He was after perfection all right, but where was the practical application of his genius? Rather than pick me up afterwards, he went back to his books. No one was invited to Prospero’s inner sanctum. His magic kept the world at bay.
Most of the world.
* * *
Echo was unconstrained by a closed door, and Joe lived in constant fear of her next invasion. She came often and unexpectedly, for the slightest of reasons, never failing to raise an authoritative finger in my direction and declare loudly that practice made perfect. Once, as he paid her no attention, she said: “And don’t forget, it’s good to move your lips just a little. That way they know it’s you doing all the work. Put that in your little magic books! Back late!”
He dismissed her with a wave of the hand and returned to his book.
