Four days of magic and chaos later and Esmé was standing in the devastated kitchen, wondering just what to do. Some of the plastic floor tiles looked like they were curling up at the edges under all that water, not helped by Uncle Potty’s low quality mopping. Uncle Potty heard Esmé sigh again and reached into one of his many waistcoat pockets and brought out a bunch of silk flowers.
“To cheer you up,” he said. Esmé tried to smile, but the corners of her mouth were not having any of it.
Uncle Potty reached into another pocket with some difficulty and found a sweetie tube that contained a selection of nuts and bolts. He put it back and then found a five-pound note from another pocket. His waistcoat certainly had a lot of potential.
“Here, Esmé. I know I can’t replace everything, but you could at least get yourself some chocolate from the CostSnippas convenience store,” said Uncle Potty kindly. “Maybe even a new pencil from the stationery shelf.”
“And a homework book as well?” asked Esmé.
“Why not?” said Uncle Potty. “Monty and I will finish clearing up here while you’re away and everything will be shipshape when you come back.”
“OK, thanks,” said Esmé, reaching for her coat.
As she went for the front door, Esmé heard her brother say, “I’ve got a new trick, Uncle Potty,” he said. “What about turning a pineapple into a bicycle?”
Esmé sighed as she stepped out of the door and closed it quietly behind her.
Take a coin between the fingers of your right hand and announce that you will make it disappear.
Wave your left hand over the right, as if to grasp the coin with this hand [misdirection], while secretly keeping the coin in your right hand.
Shouting “Pompkins! Pompkins! In all totality!” might also help startle your audience, as you point your right index finger (still concealing the coin) to the left hand which opens up to reveal... nothing.
It also helps if you change
your name to Pompkins.
Traditionally, the magician adopts a stage name to inspire a certain appeal. My advice in this area: take stock of who you are, what your most interesting qualities might be, and devise a “persona” to fit.
When I became Dr Pompkins I took to wearing a stethoscope and many times was asked to perform vital surgery when out and about. I saved as many lives as those I tragically cut short… Just joking – everyone survived!
In all totality,
smé made her way to the shop, thinking how she had never had this much bother over a tangerine before. She wondered why she was always the sensible one, always buying cleaning products and worrying about her watch, while the rest of her family were singing odes to pot plants, or now making string appear from crisp packets.
While Uncle Potty did the magic, Esmé’s parents were self-confessed hippies – they were spiritual, enlightened, at peace with the rhythms of nature, but perhaps at odds with bringing up a very practical young daughter. They had gone on a woodland holiday as a chance to “reconnect with nature”, which meant incredibly long, arduous walks for hours. As Monty and Esmé were now, at the grand old age of eleven, finding these hikes less appealing, Uncle Potty had been given the job of babysitter for the week.
Jane and Roger Pepper had first met under the light of a May Full Moon, when they had both travelled to an ancient stone circle near Penge to celebrate the Goddess of Worms (or something like that, Esmé did not quite remember). Jane had a very prominent spiritual side that manifested itself in buying Eastern religious icons, small spears of dull-coloured crystal and a great many beaded skirts. (Mr Pepper had joined in recently by growing a beard.) There were wind chimes outside the front door and a large Buddha that sat in the hallway just to the left as you came in – it was from Thailand and it had taken a considerable amount of effort to get it all the way back to London.
Monty was entirely fine with the wind chimes and the Buddha – in this respect, Montague Pepper was his mother’s son – but Esmé had always thought that the Buddha could at least have been put in a corner somewhere, which would have reduced the risk of injury to visitors.
The way Esmé saw it, the world was an incredible place already, without the need for wind chimes and rambling walks. Her parents were spiritual people, which was fine, but Esmé liked facts. That scientists could communicate with a whale was impressive, and more so because it was based on solid evidence, nothing wishy-washy. Esmé imagined having a chat with a parrot, writing a letter to a kangaroo – even sending an email to a horse. Maybe one day she would visit a beluga whale and ask just exactly what the bottom of the ocean was like. Hopefully, the whale in question would have learnt to say more than “goggles”, as that could make conversation somewhat limited. Maybe by the time she got there it would have learnt to say, “I can help with your homework,” or “Would you like to be a marine biologist?” in a deep, whaley voice. Esmé really hoped so.
As Esmé approached CostSnippas, the International Magic Guys (IMG) HQ opposite came into view. The building itself was impossibly old and rather dark, with battered brickwork and leaded windows. There was a crooked spire that cast a deep shadow across the road, and ugly gargoyles were situated at points along the roof edge. The huge front door was made from oak, but had warped slightly. The windows were thin and narrow. The IMG looked mysterious and out of step with the modern world. Even the hedges looked dusty.
In front of the old oak door was a statue of Barry Houdini, the IMG’s founder. Houdini’s most celebrated trick involved him escaping from a large wooden chest that had been dropped into the middle of the ocean. Houdini would always be shackled and chained, sometimes with a mouth full of sewing needles or maybe some razor blades. Sometimes he filled the trunk with lead, to make the trunk sink faster in the water, adding more danger. Sometimes he dangled off buildings or was “buried” under six feet of soil. He would always escape. The bronze statue outside the IMG depicted the great magician dressed in his underpants, chains round his feet, holding an open padlock aloft in victory. It was an arresting pose.
Esmé enjoyed going to the CostSnippas shop, especially if she was allowed to go on her own. Music tinkled from the radio – pop songs about driving big cars and going out on a Saturday night – but most of all, Esmé liked the new stationery shelf.
Esmé picked up an A4 lined notebook, spiral bound and sporting a green cover, which shimmered slightly, reflecting the strip lighting above. She chose a chocolate-covered wafer bar, that had extra crunchy blue cracknel on the top, then, after a moment’s thought, she bought a cleaning spray, just in case they had run out at home.
Jimi Sinha ran CostSnippas and over the years he’d often helped Esmé out with anything from difficult maths homework to practical stuff like fixing her bike. Jimi knew Uncle Potty, and Esmé thought that he might have some good advice for her on how to cope with the squashed fruit, disappearing watches and the terrible, terrible mess. Jimi watched her, wondering why she was so different from the rest of the kids who came in here. Most of them just lingered by the sweets, although some of them came in just to steal lollies from the freezer cabinets. Esmé was happy buying paperclips and Mr Muscle.
He smiled at her as she approached the till. “Buying another?” he asked, pointing to her notebook. She had bought one only last week.
“My last notebook was ruined just now,” Esmé explained. “An accident with a bowl of water and a citrus fruit.”
“One of Potty’s tricks gone wrong?”
“How did you guess?” Esmé replied, genuinely surprised.
Everyone in the local area knew the Potty Magician. He had spent a lifetime at the International Magic Guys HQ, sometimes hanging out of the window performing card tricks on pigeons or trying to make the ornamental shrubbery round the building disappear.
“I don’t mind a few magic tricks now and again,” said Esmé, “but Uncle Potty can’t stop. Plus he keeps messing things up.”
Jimi looked extra pensive. He had looked through the shop
window on many occasions to see Uncle Potty trying to make traffic wardens levitate. He chuckled to himself. Uncle Potty was a “wild card” – a true eccentric.
“Could he be messing up the tricks on purpose, as part of a new routine?” asked Jimi.
“I don’t think so,” replied Esmé. “Yesterday he tried to produce twenty tins of baked beans from a long silk scarf. There were an awful lot of beans to clean up afterwards. The living-room carpet was ruined.”
Jimi scratched his left eyebrow pensively. “The tins were open?”
“Yes.” Esmé warmed to her theme. “And yesterday, Uncle Potty managed to get stuck in the bathroom for an hour while he worked on his ‘Underwater Sea’ trick and somehow fused the boiler at the same time, so we have no hot water. Plus he’s broken the door bell, my watch, damaged the Hoover trying to suck up the beans and spilt water over Mum and Dad’s laptop.”
“Oh, dear,” mused Jimi. “My brother could look at the laptop for you and maybe the vacuum cleaner, if you bring it in. The doorbell might just need a new fuse. Not sure about the boiler – maybe Potty knows a good plumber.”
Esmé shook her head. “I don’t think he knows what a plumber is.”
“Do you think he’s nervous about the IMG performance the day after tomorrow?”
“What performance?” replied Esmé.
Jimi lowered his voice, although the only other person in the shop was a man who had been staring at light bulbs for half an hour.
“Rumour has it that the show is being put on for the Pan-Continental Magic Corporation, who own and fund the club. If the IMG doesn’t make the grade it could face the axe.”
“If the IMG closes, Uncle Potty will be devastated!” said Esmé.
“I’ve heard the PCMC are very hard to please – in particular the boss, Nigella Spoon,” said Jimi, who seemed to know a lot about the matter. “She takes a great deal of pleasure in closing down a failing club. Nigella is as hard as nails. I met her once and she trod on my toe – although she claimed it was an accident, it is hard to forget. I’m sure that she meant to do it.”
Esmé was worried. If Uncle Potty’s tricks were anything to go by, the whole club could be in trouble.
“If the IMG closes, each and every one of the IMG members will face financial and emotional ruin,” Jimi added, looking grave. “From leader Maureen Houdini – the late Barry Houdini’s daughter – to Uncle Potty, the other members, their families… so many people will be affected. It will also be a sad day for the world of stage magic, and for humanity itself. It would also hit me hard as I do the catering for all the shows from my Global Snack Tea Trolley. I need to sell my pakoras and light Thai bites.”
“And when is the show?”
“Day after tomorrow,” replied Jimi.
Esmé suddenly realised why Uncle Potty must be trying to invent the “trick of all tricks”. He must have hidden the truth about the Pan-Continental Magic Corporation from the children so as not to worry them. But the International Magic Guys was in trouble. The club meant everything to Uncle Potty, and Esmé wanted to help because she understood it was so important to him. But what exactly could she do?
Esmé was no magician herself – she could not perform a trick or do a dance to save the IMG. But to every problem there is a solution, she thought, and there must be a way to ensure the IMG’s survival. Esmé decided to go back and talk to Monty. With his new-found knowledge of magic and her common sense they might be able to hatch a plan.
Drill a hole in one end of your wand, affix a bent paperclip and tie a rubber band round it, which you then tie round your middle finger. {See fig. 1}
If you hold your hand so as the audience will not see the rubber band, the wand inexplicably rises up.
Cue much applause.
Some of you may know that in the magic world, wands have a mind of their own and rabbits appear from top hats. Danger! I cannot state it more clearly, in all matters of health and safety, that using a wand can result in very serious injury if accidentally poked in the stomach. Animals, on the other hand, are easily available and an ideal way to create magic entertainment that poses no harm at all.
In all totality,
smé arrived back at Highwood Road, left her shopping bag next to the big Buddha in the hallway and ran upstairs to find Monty. He was standing in their shared bedroom with a stuffed toy elephant on his head.
“At last, my willing assistant Esmé is here,” Monty announced smoothly, as if he were a well-rehearsed TV presenter who had been churned into butter and spread thickly on toast. “Aloha, Miss Esmé Pepper. Welcome to the Hiding the Elephant trick. Come feel the weight of the elephant and let me hoist the heavy animal on to your shoulders, then see if I can make you both disappear.”
It was clear that Monty’s interest in magic had not abated since Uncle Potty’s disastrous trick.
“Where’s Uncle Potty?” asked Esmé.
“He’s downstairs fiddling with the laptop. Now, I must continue – let me hoist the heavy ani––”
“Monty, I have to talk to you,” said Esmé earnestly. “The IMG are in trouble. They might be closed down if we don’t help them. That’s why Uncle Potty’s getting all his tricks wrong. He’s a bag of nerves.”
Monty looked crossly at his sister.
“I think that Uncle Potty would have mentioned any nerves to me,” Monty replied, irritated that Esmé was interrupting his trick. “I am his new assistant, his trusted aide. I have access to the inner workings of the conjuror’s mind, and would be able to tell if my own uncle was nervous or not.”
“Oh, don’t be so silly,” said Esmé. “They have to do a big show for the Pan-Continental Magic Corporation the day after tomorrow. Jimi at CostSnippas has told me all about it.”
Monty took the elephant off his head. “And Jimi knows, because he does all the IMG catering.”
Monty sighed.
“I think we should try and help,” concluded Esmé.
“OK, fine,” agreed Monty at last. “The International Magic Guys cannot disappear, just like that. Why don’t we take out a TV advert where Uncle Potty explains the problems of the IMG, and appeals to people to donate their money to the club?” suggested Monty. “I saw something similar about sponsoring pandas.”
Esmé was slightly taken aback by Monty’s lack of media knowledge. “You do know it costs thousands of pounds to take out a TV advert?” she told him.
“Uncle Potty and I could write that book about magic ourselves, so if we do that we’ll get someone famous to write the introduction – like the Queen or one of Hunkatron, the boy band – then we will sell loads of copies and the money we make could pay for the ad.”
“It takes a long time to write a book, get it published and earn royalties,” explained Esmé, realising that her brother did not have a grasp on such realities.
Monty was thoughtful. “I could always sell my cape,” he said.
Esmé meanwhile had come up with a sensible idea.
“You’ve got the Dr Pompkins book, right? What we should do is collect the best, most fail-safe tricks and work on a programme that we can present to Uncle Potty. Right now he needs to focus. We can help him put together a show that can’t fail to impress the PCMC.”
Monty agreed enthusiastically, grabbed Dr Pompkins and set about marking its pages as Esmé crept downstairs to grab her new notebook.
Together, she and Monty started compiling the best tricks from the book, from a simple rabbit-in-hat trick to something called “The Cage of Possibilities”, which involved a box inside a twirling cage and a quick change of personnel. Leafing through the book, Monty saw a trick that he wanted to perform himself – the Dairy Creamer Eye Splurge.
“Wow!” he exclaimed. “This is amazing! It’s simple, but ever so good,” Monty eagerly told his twin. “It requires some acting skills, which luckily I have. It’s a bit gory – which people love – and it only takes one person to do it. I’m going to mark it with a special bookmark.”
; “Do you have a special bookmark?”
“I have a bit of fingernail, which, if I can chew it off in one piece, might do it.”
Esmé sighed and tore a few strips of paper from her new notebook for Monty to use as bookmarks. She and Monty wrote down the tricks that they thought were the best, then illustrated them with a few simple diagrams. Monty even managed to colour one of the diagrams in for further clarity, which he was quite proud of. While they were doing so there was a faint tremor from below, then a loud explosion and suddenly a hole the size of a digestive biscuit appeared in the floor less than a metre away from the Pepper twins.
“What was that?” yelled Monty.
“Uncle Potty, are you all right?” shouted Esmé, concerned.
She peered through the hole and saw Uncle Potty in the kitchen below, staring back up at her.
“What on earth…?” she asked.
“Sorry,” he shouted up the hole. “Little accident with the toaster.”
Esmé and Monty ran downstairs to help Uncle Potty.
“What happened?” asked Esmé.
“After looking at the laptop I became hungry,” replied Uncle Potty apologetically. “I decided to make some toast and it exploded.”
“It exploded?” repeated Esmé.
“Yes… the sandwich, and also the toaster. Peanut butter, wholemeal bread, bicarbonate of soda, touch of dynamite. Just went out of control.”
Uncle Potty, standing amid the toast crumbs, began to wring his hands and clench his jaw. His eyebrow wiggled and his ears started to turn crimson.
“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” Esmé remarked.
“No, not at all!” said Uncle Potty in a high-pitched voice.
“It’s the International Magic Guys, isn’t it?” Esmé was direct. “Jimi at CostSnippas told me all about it. You’re falling apart, Uncle Potty, your nerves are getting the better of you.”
The Peppers and the International Magic Guys Page 2
