Relatively Strange

by Marilyn Messik

  “Oh,” I breathed, “Like me!”

  The bouquet of blooms produced from empty air; the miracle of multi-coloured scarves all coming out of his mouth; the sawing in two of his assistant so both bits of her waved from opposite sides of the stage – it was almost more excitement than I could bear. Entranced, I applauded each new triumph longer and louder than anyone else. And, had he not asked for a volunteer from the audience to fly with him, the evening might well have remained one of wonder, revelation, undiluted magic and the happy conclusion that I wasn’t quite as odd as I was beginning to think. But he said he needed a lovely young lady from the audience and faster than you could shriek abracadabra, or in my parents’ case, “No!”, I was out of my seat and trotting busily down the centre aisle, hotly pursued by my panic-stricken mother whose restraining hand had grabbed a tad too tardily.

  Eyes closed, finger to forehead, the better to ‘Perceive vibrations with his inner eye’, the great man was slowly making his way along a catwalk extending into the auditorium. He was, he intoned, getting warmer and could see clearly a beautiful blonde destined to take to the air tonight. With a triumphant cry he swung round, pointing a dramatic forefinger at a giggling, jiggling, glamorous effort in low-cut top and tight slacks. She was just rising to her feet, reaching for his outstretched hand when I arrived, breathless but determined, at the foot of the catwalk and tugged urgently at his trouser leg.

  I was of course, blissfully unaware that the comfortably-upholstered young lady was a well-rehearsed and integral part of the act. However, presented with an eager, best party-frocked, curly haired moppet in front of some 2000 people chorusing “Aaahhh”, what was the poor chap to do? Piqued, but professional to his beautifully manicured fingertips, he released the blonde abruptly and leaning down, swung me up beside him, to a round of applause all my own.

  Of course, as soon as he touched me I knew and disappointment hit me like a punch to the stomach. He knelt to equal our heights. He wanted to know my name, my age – and this brought the house down – was this my first flight? And throughout the easy and effortlessly warm and amusing ad libs, he was furiously computing the risks of going ahead, against the damage if he didn’t. Close up, he didn’t look so good either, trickles of slowly sliding sweat were forcing shallow runnels in thick make-up and there was a strong, decidedly un-magical aroma of body odour. I could have cried and it was probably the sight of my trembling lower lip that spurred him into action. He rose and signalled to the conductor who was anxiously watching and wondering from the orchestra pit. The drummer started a roll, and the backdrop behind us rose, to reveal a shimmering expanse of blue-tinted silver curtain.

  As he led me, his newly acquired and somewhat truculent partner to centre stage, a distinctly worried-looking assistant appeared and draped each of us in Magic Flying Cloaks. The cloaks smelt even mustier than he did and as she’d arranged billowing folds, I’d seen very clearly the fine wire harness he was wearing – what a phoney. The drum roll intensified and as he stooped to lift me, I really don’t know which of the two of us was more peeved. He gathered me up, one arm under my knees, the other round my waist and told me tersely to hold round his neck and hang on for Christ’s sake. And then we were jerkily airborne, to a gasp of delight from the multitude of upturned, expectant faces. His assistant passed a large wooden hoop over and round us, with almost imperceptible sleight of hand to demonstrate no wires and as we rose higher, my new friend adopted a suitable, flying-through-the-air position, one leg bent, the other stretched elegantly behind.

  “Don’t wriggle kid and you won’t fall,” he hissed spittily in my ear. His thought, amplified by stress was, “If the little cow stays still, I might just do it. Shit, she weighs a ton.” Well, I may have been a bit of a solid six year old, but that’s not the sort of thing a girl of any age needs to hear. I didn’t like this man. I didn’t like him one little bit. Not only was he a rotten smelly fake, but he was now clutching me so tightly, his nails were digging uncomfortably into the flesh of my leg.

  I gently began to unclasp my hands from the instructed position behind his neck which had become unpleasantly moist. We were now suspended high above the stage and looking up, I could see a chap sitting on a wooden platform. Hidden from the audience, by the top drapes of the curtain, he was busy operating the winching equipment that was hauling us upwards. As I’d now taken my hands away from his neck, Mr. Magica was bearing all my weight and I suspect his fine wire harness was pinching painfully, in places best not pinched. It certainly wiped the smile off his face, or perhaps he just thought we were too high for it to matter. Eyes on his, I grinned, relaxing completely in his now quivering arms.

  “What the f…???” he started. Now that really wasn’t polite. So I left.

  As I rolled outwards and away, there was a gasp of excited shock from the audience although naturally this was as nothing compared to that from my companion and his mate up top – after all they knew the routine and this wasn’t it. For a few dramatic seconds I allowed myself to plummet, terror on my face, arms thrown out, flailing in a desperate bid to save myself. I think I may have even thrown in a “Help me, oh help me.” Every upturned face was frozen, including those of the orchestra, who were petrified in mid-play, making for a pleasingly dramatic silence.

  With the stage hurtling rapidly towards me, I let out a blood curdling scream then, with inches to spare, I changed direction and looped up smoothly again, blowing kisses to the crowd who were now raising the rafters with relief. Arriving back at the side of the riveted Mr. M. I stopped and hovered courteously, waiting for the next move. Unfortunately, he appeared to have temporarily lost the plot and was repetitively muttering,

  “Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod.” As professional patter it left a lot to be desired. Well, someone had to do something, we couldn’t hang around indefinitely. I took his arm and smiled encouragingly up at the man above, whose mouth was hanging open, I hoped he wasn’t going to dribble. I gave a little downward flap of the hand, indicating now might be a good time to begin descent. And swinging gently, we began to head down, although halfway, I couldn’t and didn’t resist a small impromptu swoop round my rigid co-star, I was really getting into this performance lark, although you can always be let down by your fellow artistes. Indeed, by this time, he’d completely dropped his one leg bent thing and was just letting both dangle in a very sloppy manner. He’d also turned a rather alarming and unflattering pasty colour which, hopefully, was only visible up close and personal.

  When our feet touched terra firma and we’d bowed several times, he managed to pull himself together enough to gallantly kiss my hand and lead me to the catwalk. His hands were shaking terribly badly and he was cherishing thoughts of kicking me headfirst and hard into the orchestra pit. At the same time, he was trying to work out how it had been done. He’d been had, that much he knew and he had in mind a rival or two who’d probably engineered it. It had been a bloody good trick, no denying, but he wasn’t laughing. The effing shock, he was thinking, could have put him six bleeding feet under. The audience loved us, no doubt about that. Mind you the thunderous applause was as nothing compared with the thunderous expression on the face of my waiting parents. They and Mr. Magica exchanged a long, pained look. We didn’t stay to see the end of the show, but left immediately and in some disarray through a side door.

  *

  I think my parents had, up until that point, chosen to deal with odd and worrying but hopefully passing aberrations as just that – passing! But that evening, round the kitchen table, fortified by strong tea and Bourbons they, as well as I, began the process of comprehending the depth and degree of my differentness.

  They’d known, of course about the flying. They were also unhappily aware of my knack of moving objects without touching. Was there, they asked, with trepidation, anything else I’d like to share? In this new spirit of openness, I was determined to be helpful. Could everyone, I inquired, hear what people were thinking or was that also just me?

  I
think they handled things remarkably well, under the circumstances. Although I do remember my father, who was teetotal, going to the sideboard in our hall to extract a dusty bottle of brandy for a medicinal tot. They did, after all, have a fine line to walk – making me feel that what I had was very special and a not a Bad Thing, at the same time impressing upon me the virtue of discretion, because other people, Mr. Magica for one or indeed Aunt Cynthia for another, might not have quite the same appreciation of my talents.

  My parents telling me not to use what I had – and they must have known it – was virtually impossible, like saying keep your right hand tucked away and make do with the left. I did try, but sometimes events overtook me and I simply reacted. Always in my favour though was people’s consistent and instinctive need to rationalise, to make what they saw or heard fit within parameters they understood. Time after time, that let me off any hook I might have inadvertently got myself stuck on.

  I do know however because, naturally, not much was secret in our house that my poor father and mother spent a huge amount of time thinking and discussing what, if anything, they could or should do about me. But most of these anxious confabs went round in circles and hit the same brick wall – who, if anyone, would be the correct expert to go to for advice? What, if anything would they actually want done? And in the long run – shades of Grandma here – might this not be a situation best kept under our hats?

  Chapter Six

  There is in every school career, alas, one teacher who terrifies above and beyond all others. Mine was Mrs Treason. Square-built, solid-legged with year-round biliously beige knitted stockings and fat-soled brogues, she was an immovable object. Her shock of white hair, cut mercilessly short, bristled with malign energy and she was possessed of and never slow to use, a parade-ground boom that made the insides of your ears ache. Thursdays were Mrs Treason’s dinner duty stints. Alternate Thursdays were tapioca pudding days – an ominous confluence.

  Technically we were not allowed to get up from the long dinner tables that possessed the school hall from 12.30 – 2.00 until we’d cleared our plate. Loosely adhered to by most teachers, this was a rule governed in the final reckoning by their own desire to salvage a portion of the lunch-hour for themselves. Not so Mrs Treason who was made of sterner stuff and took her duties all too seriously.

  It always seemed an absurd situation that, if you knew full well you hated something, you weren’t permitted to say no thank you and go on your way, dessertless but happy. Sadly, the system didn’t work that way, two courses were provided for us and two courses we had to consume. But, coming face to face with an off-white, gelatinous spawn, topped with a dollop of strawberry jam was an ordeal that even now, sends a surge of unease from stomach to throat. By the time, on that particular Thursday that Mrs Treason was standing over me, I was the sole occupant of the hall and desperation had me in its tearful grip. The tapioca, unappetising enough when hot was indescribable, stone cold and as I hung my head in defeat, the odd tear falling into the mess wasn’t helping. Mrs Treason said if I cried like a baby I’d have to be fed like a baby, but finish my portion I would, if she had to wait all night.

  As the noxious substance slid greasily down my throat, I sought frantically for a way out and lit on a solution to the problem that was so blinding in its simplicity, I almost sobbed with relief. Obviously I wasn’t in any position to properly explain the depths of despair to which she was taking me. But if Mrs Treason were to be made fully aware, for just one moment, of exactly what I was going through, how truly awful the stuff tasted, she’d surely view the matter in a whole new and sympathetic light. I promptly opened my mind and did a little sharing.

  Results were swift if not entirely expected. Mrs Treason began to turn an interesting shade of very pale green and suddenly seemed to lose all interest in me and my pudding. For a moment or two she gazed somewhere off into the middle distance, concentrating intently, it appeared, on some inner turmoil then,

  “Back in a minute.” she muttered thickly, “Don’t …” She didn’t finish, but swung smartly on one sensible heel and headed for the door at a brisk pace which in anyone else might have been called a trot, I think she may have had a hand clasped to her mouth. I waited for ages, but she didn’t come back. A kindly dinner-lady eventually taking pity removed my plate and said run along now, because they had to clear up. Mrs Treason didn’t come back at all that afternoon, someone else took her classes, nor do I ever remember any other show-downs over the tapioca. Empathy’s a great thing.

  *

  My closest friend in school from the earliest days was Elizabeth Mostroff, the younger daughter of parents who’d arrived in England from Russia in somewhat mysterious circumstances. They were apparently involved in something equally secretive once they were here – either that or they suffered from a similar strain of paranoia to my grandmother. Any inquiry about where they worked and what precisely they did was answered with a finger to the lips, a small smile and an admonitory shake of the head, causing much speculation on the part of Elizabeth’s friends’ parents.

  The whole Mostroff family were frighteningly clever, with both parents fluent in over ten languages, although if they were as hard to understand in those, as they were in English, I’m not sure what good it did them. Their older daughter, Dora, played the cello; Elizabeth, the violin and piano; Mr. Mostroff the flute and Mrs Mostroff any instrument not currently occupied by any other member of the family. They didn’t have a television or radio because, they said, they preferred to provide their own entertainment.

  Tall and angular with short curly brown hair, the slightly foreign intonation of her parents and an infectious giggle, Elizabeth invariably came top in exams because she was exceptionally bright. I also did well, because she was exceptionally bright. She was one of those rare people able to concentrate on the subject in hand to the total exclusion of any distraction. Consequently, whenever I got stuck and had to stop and think, there was Elizabeth, blazing loud and clear, not to mention correctly. I didn’t feel it could be considered cheating, since it was unavoidable. But on more than one occasion, our answers were so similar, suspicion was aroused and we were separated to either end of the classroom, to our mutual indignation. Such separation, of course, made no difference whatsoever, other than teaching me a little caution, but it was indeed a severe blow to my academic career, when in junior school we were put into different classes.

  Chapter Seven

  I was in the top class of the infant’s school when I was voted May Queen – an honour indeed, May Day being a shining highlight of the school calendar. Nigel Lawrence was to be my Crown Bearer, along with ten attendants, a boy and girl from each year, to carry my train – a slightly stained, blue satin effort, kept in the school dressing-up box and handed down to successive monarchs. My mother laboured long and hard and between stints on the typewriter, produced a full-length, blue-bow bedecked, white dress, worn over a hooped petticoat that swayed gratifyingly with each step.

  It was a thrill almost beyond description, to emerge from the doorway of the school in all my glory and our slow and stately procession across the playground to pass beneath a flower-decorated arch, was one of those moments of pure delight that should be tissue-paper wrapped and preserved. My throne was Miss Macpharlane’s study chair, elevated to grandeur by a swathe of red velvet and set in front of the flower garlanded climbing frame. I was crowned, with due ceremony by Mrs Ford, an elderly ex-head of the school, roped in as visiting dignitary. My parents and sister had front row seats and as I graciously raised my sceptre – bejewelled with glued-on coloured winegums – the afternoon’s activities swung into action.

  Each of the classes had prepared a song, short play or acrobatics and the traditional grand finale was maypole dancing. This involved a complicated in and out routine, resulting in an elegantly plaited pole or a hopeless tangle, depending on whether people undered when they should, and didn’t over when they shouldn’t.

  At the end of the afternoon, the maypo
le duly emerged for its annual airing in the arms of burly Mr. Jones followed by a scarlet-faced lad, staggering under the joint weight of the solid iron base and the responsibility of placing it correctly on the marked spot. With shuffling, nudging and self-important giggling, the children took their ribbons and positions. Mrs Gordon, on the piano and also in charge of a motley crew of tambourine, drum and triangle players nodded, hit the keys and the maypole dancers were off, teachers mouthing instructions and smiling relief as gradually the coloured ribbons wound a discernible pattern.

  They established later the trouble was at the base of the heavy wooden pole, where it slid into its iron support. It had been around for years and where time and damp had done their work, the wood had gradually deteriorated to the point of disaster. Now, the uneven but determined pull on the ribbons of twenty or so children, was a final straw. The pole began to sway unnaturally far, first one way then back the other, its seven foot height and weight putting a disproportionate strain on the twelve inches of weakened material held within the unyielding base. Parents and teachers one by one, seeing the danger were already starting forward. But, occupied in the complications of remembering who went where and when, the children were blissfully oblivious.