by George

by Wesley Stace

  The world paused. Acid rose in the back of my throat. I swallowed, but it wouldn’t go away.

  “Tell me about your father.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Yes, but tell me about him.”

  I shook my head. I remembered when I had imagined him an astronaut, a politician, an explorer; the Father of a Thousand Faces; a twisted wreck at the Abbey Curve.

  “Will you tell me anything about him?”

  I wouldn’t answer. I wouldn’t speak at all.

  “In your own time,” she said.

  Saturdays found me on my knees in our local library, where silence was requested and always welcome, researching names from the diary in the modest Nostalgia subsection of the Entertainment holdings. A selection of very old pensioners tutted as they hobbled towards me. They represented the right target readership, but their interest lay in the large-print novels beyond.

  Echo Endor was easily found (as was her son), Bobbie Sheridan all but forgotten. I finally located him as I scanned the forbidding columns of close type in a directory of entertainment war casualties. The cursory reference “Female Impersonator and Ventriloquist,” with dates, perhaps his only gravestone. Even his theme song had proved unfaithful to his memory, posthumously attaching itself to another performer.

  Bobbie was privileged to be a footnote. Most of the other acts had gone forever, bowed and not returned for an encore, tap-danced into eternity and left no footprints. For their final trick, the magicians had made themselves disappear. The index to the random memoirs of a retired comedian occasionally took me by surprise: “Tubby Jeans, that irrepressible dresser and bon viveur, died in Costa Rica in 1962, having made his fortune in coffee.” I searched in vain for obscurer names, but these books had nothing to tell me of Toots Lowery or Jack Heath. They had thrived only forty years ago, galvanized the nation through a war, yet now their whole world of entertainment was dead, done away by Mr. Television in the lounge with a microphone. Variety had lingered before being put out of its misery by the game show — the only vehicle left for an all-rounder. All that remained were the yearly panto, the odd TV show (like Bruce Star’s), the seaside summer season, and the forgotten corner of a branch library that was forever Music Hall. If I’d found anyone alive, I’d have written; perhaps they’d have been cheered by a reunion with their old comrade George. But there was nothing for me here. I was just joining the dots, purely for my own satisfaction, to pass the time, to keep myself occupied, to avoid taking the necessary steps.

  When I had exhausted the local library’s sparse selection, Brenda, who had watched the parade of memoirs, biographies, and photo histories that accompanied me with increasing amusement, suggested the British Television and Film Library on Charing Cross Road. Here I felt more scholarly as I dialled my way across sheets of microfiche. Bobbie Sheridan, real name Robert Plissey: three contemporary articles, a number of mentions in brochures (“the Fairy Godmother of Innuendo!”) and handbills (available in copy form only), and an essay in a university press publication called Homosexuality in British Pre-War Entertainment, a book so dry that the title was followed by a colon and Five Case Studies. Toots Lowery, yes; Duke Edwardes, yes; Max Large, yes. I looked for my family, as you will, and amid the expected columns of articles on Vox, Echo, Joe, Frankie, even Sylvia (Sylvia! I’d never managed to send her that postcard, though I had it written so perfectly in my head . . .), I was shocked to find me. Of course, it was my namesake.

  You could find anyone in the BTFL. So: why not him?

  I remembered the first time I’d seen that front page of The Express: the barrier rope, the oil drums and straw bales. The librarian, thinking it a treat for the curious nine-year-old, had taken me into a cavernous basement, where he showed me how the newspapers were filed, demonstrating how easy it was to find the specific date I had requested.

  At the BTFL, ten years of The Express careened in front of my eyes on microfiche. And there was the picture again: still no evidence of a human. Last time, I’d left the library and, ashamed, told no one. Now I felt nothing.

  It was nothing to do with me at all.

  Continual conflicts, none unwelcome, meant I was able to keep deferring my next trip to Dr. Hill.

  Three weeks after my trip to the library, Reg, Queenie, and I settled down in front of the television to catch my possible guest appearance on Star’s on Saturday.

  “Right,” said Star after the first break, smirking as he clapped to signal a change of mood. “Illusionist, ventriloquist, magician, mesmerist — he’s got the lot, and if he doesn’t have it, he will by the end of the show; so check your pockets! He had my watch at rehearsal!” (He regretfully showed us his bare wrist.) “And I have to get it back somehow, so here we present to you, Tower!”

  Joe’s books had never considered magic on TV, where, since camera trickery can fake anything, it was the magician’s extra burden to reassure the audience at home that he would not stoop so low. The new breed of conjurers exploited the humour of this irony in their patter — “This seems impossible, but it isn’t, and I’ll show you how I do it” — and much conjuring had gone the way of comedy. Elegance had disappeared with the arrival of the cheeky chap. Evidently, no one had told Tower.

  Dry ice crawled across a stage dimmed moody purple as atmospheric electronic music piped in. On strode the bearded Tower, a gaunt vampire against the stark background, the black bat wings of his cape flapping above the dense wreath of fog. He eased into a stylish, if predictable, routine, circa 1940; first, rings, chained, then effortlessly freed. From a hat, he produced a dove, which just as quickly became white silks, like the one I had in my pocket, bundling from his sleeves. These silks transformed into a white parachute, floating elegantly to the floor. He paused only for applause, saying nothing.

  “’Struth! Smooth, isn’t he?” enthused Reg.

  “Very nice. Very old-fashioned,” said Queenie approvingly. It was just her cup of tea: the same kind of tricks Joe had done, performed by a man roughly the same age he had been, in the same clothes. Tower picked out a particular audience member, whom he beckoned to the stage, firmly grabbing his wrist and depositing him on Star’s sofa. Plant, I thought.

  “Hello!” said Star, with the scripted panic of the calm showman. “Welcome to my show. Well, I say that. It was my show; I’m not sure whose show it is anymore!” There followed much business about whether the guest was Peter from Bilborough or Bill from Peterborough, the innocently awkward comedy of which caused me to revise my cynical opinion of his status.

  Out came a fresh pack of playing cards, for the trick that I felt sure was meant to climax with the eight of clubs. And perhaps it would — the man was a magician, after all. The gist was: Tower would telepathically communicate the identity of Peter/Bill’s chosen (and replaced) card to Star, who, despite the fact that neither he nor the magician had seen this card, would identify it on a piece of paper.

  Midway through Tower’s studied impression of thought transference, as he drummed the fingers of one hand dramatically on his forehead (his other hand posed Napoleonically between waistcoat and jacket, up to no good), the magician interrupted his own card trick (misdirection, it was clear) to reveal the reappearance of Star’s watch on the host’s wrist. To everyone’s surprise (even, apparently, Tower’s) this watch belonged to Peter, who was dumbfounded to have it returned before he had known it was gone. Star seemed genuinely excited: “Where’s my watch? Has it been stolen?”

  Tower, seemingly on an inspiration, marched over to the double doors, threw them open, saluted the fake guard, and retrieved Star’s watch, to the audience’s massive approval. But the magician did not linger in the doorway as he had in real life. Thanks to the magic of the cutting room, he immediately returned the watch to Star with a bow of apology. He was back at the table without the eight of clubs, as I fingered the corner of the missing card in my pocket guiltily.

  “Confident, Peter? I’m not,” said Star.

  Tower pointed at Star with bo
th index fingers, as if to say, Now! The host did as he was told and put the piece of paper into the envelope that Tower had provided.

  “Eight of clubs!” I had George say.

  “Go on!” said Reg. “You’ll be lucky.”

  I shrugged.

  Tower picked up the envelope and handed it to the guest. “Eight of clubs!” said Peter, nodding in wonder as he led the audience in mad applause.

  “Eight of clubs!” squawked Reg, as though I had turned water into wine. I considered the casual production of the card from my pocket. “Eight of bleedin’ clubs! Queenie!” He needed impartial confirmation.

  “He was at the filming, Reg,” said his independent observer.

  “Oh yeah, course you were,” said Reg, deflated. “That’s cheating, that.”

  “It’s all cheating,” she confirmed.

  “Incredible,” said Star as the applause died down. “But where is the eight of clubs?”

  In my pocket.

  But a good magician always has a Plan B.

  “I’ve got it!” shouted a voice somewhere in the television studio. Tower immediately focused attention to the left of the audience by the double doors, as the camera made a halting search in that direction for the culprit.

  “Hold on,” said Star, thrilled with this dramatic turn of events. “Live television as it happens! Maybe it’s that thieving security guard!”

  “Over here!” shouted the voice. “It’s here!” Star and Tower followed a movement with their eyes. My heart started to beat faster: it was as though Tower had thrown his voice into me. It was, after all, I who had the card, I who knew how he did it. There was a commotion by the side of the stage, and Tower strode over, confident he had cornered his prey. With his back to the audience, he lifted the wings of his cape as though trapping someone in his net.

  He turned around, raised himself to his full height, facing the camera, mouth shut. “I’ve got it!” said a voice that seemed to come from somewhere inside his mouth. It spoke again, more quietly: “I’ve got it!” Tower swallowed, smiled, and looked down at his stomach, from which there was a tiny final pianissimo peep: “I’ve got it.”

  He conducted the orchestra in a climactic chord, as Star announced him: “Tower! Illusionist supreme! And he’s appearing at the Magic Castle every Saturday and Sunday this month. Ladies and gentlemen, the Mysterious Mr. Tower!” The audience roared its approval.

  “That bloke was good!” said Reg, as the volume doubled for the adverts. “Couldn’t see you, George. Lucky, mind. Everyone would have thought it was you heckling. What did you think, love?”

  “Bit like seeing a ghost!” Queenie laughed. “Just like the old days. I know how he signalled that eight of clubs; same way we used to.”

  That was basic mesmerism from my grandfather’s books — but I knew how Tower had done practically everything. There was no wonder it reminded her of the old days.

  What left its mark, however, was not the tricks, their failure and victorious rescue, nor the silent presentation that had been in such perfect harmony with his sophisticated old-fashioned charm. It was the unintended coup de théâtre: when he threw his voice, no one was expecting him to speak at all, so no one suspected him. The camera, and the audience, looked where his eyes looked: the illusion had worked. In no more than fifteen minutes, the audience had been given a history lesson in twentieth-century conjuring, climaxing in a remarkable piece of reanimation that had caught everyone, including me, by surprise: for one tiny moment, to the wonder of all, ventriloquism had lived again. We had heard the distant voice. It was we who had seen a ghost.

  And that was when I knew, though I couldn’t work out how it was possible. I knew.

  One thing was certain: I would return Tower’s handkerchief at the Magic Castle.

  Things had gone quiet at Crystal Clear after the back lot guignol of Doctor Diabolicus. Horror season passed, and the next autumn presented a dull series of cold war thrillers: footsteps on gravel, gunshot, the squeal of tires, and sharp blows with blunt instruments. Lunches were spent in the pub as normal. Perhaps it looked funny, me reading with my pint, my rollies, and George — but I minded my own business, and no one bothered me.

  “Need a lift, George?” asked Brenda at the end of our Saturday, peering out at the shroud of grey drizzle. She sat idling the engine until I gave in, putting my box on the backseat. “Home?” I shook my head. “Well, where shall I take you? You’ll have to tell me.”

  I pointed straight ahead with both index fingers, just as Tower had denoted the card to his host. She drove. “Hope that new show works out well for your mum. Be nice to see her back where she belongs.” There was silence, as there was apt to be, and I gesticulated second right. “This isn’t really my way home, you know. Sir, wherever are you taking me?” We inched up Tottenham Court Road as she nattered on. Finally, one more right, and I made the sound of brakes. She stopped outside the Magic Castle and peered up at the awning. “Here? Doing your audition?”

  I wanted to thank her, so I leaned over to give her a kiss on the cheek. As she turned, I foresaw an awkward exchange where we now had to avoid each other’s lips, but this didn’t happen. She stayed where she was, moved a fraction towards me, and I found myself kissing her. Her lips were pillowy and wet: I didn’t pull back. Closing her eyes (I was far too surprised to close mine), she kissed around the perimeter of my lower lip, until second thoughts made her sit back.

  “Sorry,” she said, a chastened schoolgirl giggling at herself. Everything about her was generous — her laugh, her smile, even her age. I shook my head to dispel any worries, pleased that I hadn’t unwittingly offended her, surprised that my first kiss had come from this unexpected source, a woman I had known since I was fourteen. I leaned over and kissed her again, once, briefly, finally. She sighed as though she could fall asleep there and then, gave me a rather sad look as I got out, and put the car back in gear. It had started to pour.

  I looked down at my side and panicked. I wanted to shout at the top of my voice, but I felt momentarily seasick. As she pulled away, I stepped into the road and banged on the boot of her car. She slammed on the brakes and wound down the window. There was a polite toot of the horn from the car behind. I pointed at George’s case in the backseat.

  “Forget something?” The car behind honked again, and she had to shout to be heard over the traffic and rain, which made it sound less teasing than she had intended. “Oh, shut up!” she shouted over her shoulder. “Go round!” I stood in the rain with the box in my hand, signalling to the driver, whose horn now brayed continually, to pass. “That would have made a short audition. See you Tuesday.”

  I was getting soaked to the skin as I waved her off. I could still feel the weight of her lips on mine, the vegetable taste of her lipstick. The rest of the evening could hold no surprises.

  I made for the backstage door.

  The moment you walk in the front of a theatre, you sign an agreement to be a part of the herd — backstage access will be strictly limited, monitored; permission will be required. Tonight of all nights, that wasn’t a precedent I wanted to set. If Fisher genes had taught me anything, it was how to pass through a stage door unnoticed, or rather, to be perfectly well noticed but to be admitted. I stood a little taller, lifted George’s box in a rather arrogant gesture (“You know I’m important and you can see I’m in a rush”), and suddenly found myself beyond the limited security at the Magic Castle. I casually walked the length of the deserted corridor and found Tower’s dressing room at the far end nearest the stage. Taking stock of my bedraggled appearance in the mirror outside his door (my soaking hair, my just-kissed lips), I scribbled on a scrap of paper that I slipped into George’s top pocket. Too wet to wait, I knocked.

  “Avanti!” came the invitation. It was just like when the interrogators slap the suspect in one of those espionage movies — would he give himself away with some Bolshevik expletive?

  Mr. Tower was sitting in an armchair, reading a newspaper. “Ciao?” he
said. “Posso aiutarla? Can I help? Do I know?” I made a little bow, but he couldn’t place me. “Ah, you are surprised I am Italian?” I wasn’t at all surprised. He sipped on a whiskey, not yet convinced there was reason to rise. “Meester Tower, they call me here. The Eengleesh no like, eh, foreign magi, magician.” He laughed urbanely. “Neither the French. So in England, Meester Tower; in France, Monsieur LaTour; in Germany, Herr Turm. You understand. Tower, at your service.” I hadn’t even considered the coincidence of the name. He bowed the same fraction he had on television. Even offstage, his behaviour suited his clothes. “An autograph?”

  There was nothing else for it but to play my trump card. I opened the box, and as I produced George, Tower nodded. “Sì, in the studio at Shepherd’s Bush!”

  “Yes,” said George. “We came to return the silk.” Again, the illusionist, smiling in silent amusement, could not take his eyes from us. “And the eight of clubs. Hope it didn’t ruin the act.” Tower made the uniquely Italian gesture that said it did not matter. “You dropped it on the floor in your . . . surprise. After all, it was the first time you’d seen me in some while.”

  This he ignored, walking towards us so he could look closer, a prospective buyer examining the goods. “Yes. Marvellous. Romando, certo. I might be interested in buying; this is why you are here, yes? I can make a generous offer.” He walked to a desk and sat down. From his case he removed a chequebook.

  “No, no,” said George. “I’m not for sale! I’m not a present. I’m a way of life!” There was a moment’s silence. “Guess my name.”

  “How can I know?”

  “You know! Do a little mezzermerism.”

  “You tease me, Meester . . . er . . .”