The Peppers and the International Magic Guys

by Sian Pattenden

  Uncle Potty stopped pretending and sat down at the table with a giant “harrumph”.

  “I didn’t want to concern either of you with it,” Uncle Potty sniffled. “But yes, the IMG is about to experience the greatest test of its talent. If we don’t succeed in impressing the Pan-Continental Magic Corporation, then we’re done for! In all finality!

  “It’s not just me – all the IMG members are worried, including our esteemed president, Maureen Houdini,” continued Uncle Potty. “That’s why I wanted the trick of all tricks, but everything I do seems to result in a mess of baked beans, or spilt water… or a big explosion. Maureen has told us to keep on practising and practising until we’re the best we can possibly be, but the more tricks I do the less confident I seem to become.”

  Uncle Potty looked glum and glanced through the kitchen window. Outside, someone was mowing their lawn. Or maybe someone else’s lawn, you can never be quite sure.

  “If I may suggest a plan…” said Esmé, wondering whether Uncle Potty would be receptive to an outside influence. “Monty and myself have been thinking of a practical solution.”

  Uncle Potty raised his one furry eyebrow.

  “Practical?” Uncle Potty was a stranger to that particular word.

  “Yes,” answered Esmé. “We have thought of some tricks, using the Dr Pompkins book, that maybe you and some of your colleagues could use. If you like them, that is.”

  Uncle Potty stroked his chin with a long finger.

  “Hm,” he said.

  “Hm good? Or hm bad?” asked Esmé.

  “Hm… interesting,” said Uncle Potty, thinking hard. “The performers have to meet tomorrow to work out the programme – maybe I could suggest they come here, to Highwood Road. I haven’t looked at the Dr Pompkins book for a few years. I’ve been reading Gareth Treacle’s Magic Mayhem lately – maybe that explains the slight… problems I’ve been having.”

  “Dr Pompkins is brilliant,” said Monty. “It’s got some great tricks that the other club members will really love.”

  Esmé turned to Uncle Potty. “Look, invite the magicians over, we’ll guide them through our programme and we can all work on this together. We could even get Jimi to make some snacks for us when we get hungry. We have to save the IMG. We also have to do something before the house falls apart.”

  “Well, I suppose it can’t hurt,” said Uncle Potty.

  “We can make this the best International Magic Guys show ever!” Monty trilled.

  “We’ve got two days,” said Uncle Potty, now pacing the kitchen as if caught up in some deep inspiration. “Maybe we can be as good as those smart American clubs. Yes! We must work to pull off the show of a lifetime and save the IMG!” And before Esmé or Monty could say ‘abracadabra’, Uncle Potty had dashed off to start making phone calls.

  Place your left thumb over the right thumb, (see fig. 1) which you have judiciously bent so only the lower half is seen.

  Your left index finger hides the join. Move the left hand upwards and exclaim, “In all totality, my thumb has broken in two!”

  There are smart dressers and scruffy dressers in any walk of life, but as a magician, you’ve got to make an effort. Cutting a dash will give you the edge over other performers. Plan your outfit down to the last cufflink. Velvet is all very well, but what about satin? If you’ve had enough of tartan, why not try a houndstooth number? Spots look good with ruffles. The thing to remember is – always to make an entrance. Be noticed, be admired.

  Watch the laughter, savour the applause, enjoy the fame.

  In all totality,

  y midday the following day, a group of magicians assembled in the living room. They included:

  Deidre Lemons (animal tamer); The Great Stupeedo (human cannonball); Maureen Houdini (escapologist) and Clive Pastel (Uncle Potty’s stage assistant).

  Monty had been terribly upset when he was introduced to Clive, who was small and friendly. “But you have an assistant already, Uncle Potty – me!” he had wailed to his uncle.

  “Union rules,” whispered Uncle Potty. “He’s strictly for live shows. Children aren’t allowed in most of the venues we perform in.”

  Monty was disappointed, but there was nothing he could do.

  The magicians had a cup of tea and spent hours revising the programme for the IMG show with Esmé and Monty. By three o’ clock Deidre Lemons had already run through her act, which involved taking her large performing rabbit, Bernard, out of a hat. The Great Stupeedo – the human cannonball – was now drawing the arc of his trajectory, from cannon to landing point, in Esmé’s new notebook. For practical reasons he had not been able to bring his cannon into Highwood Road and so was rehearsing in theory.

  “That’s how I plan it, with a fifty degree curve,” he explained. “Then you’re sure to get the right amount of lift to begin with.” Somehow Stupeedo seemed familiar to Esmé although she was sure that they had never met.

  As Stupeedo and Esmé worked out angles, Clive Pastel spoke to Monty. “Let me have a look at Dr Pompkins then; it’s a rare book indeed.”

  Monty reluctantly handed Clive the book – still smarting a little at the fact Uncle Potty had a real grown-up assistant. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a first edition in such good nick as this,” Clive said, flicking through the pages.

  “It’s got some great ideas,” said Monty.

  “It’s fantastic – I might even want to borrow it sometime,” said Clive, whom Monty was warming to.

  Deidre Lemons heard this and agreed that Dr Pompkins was one of the world’s leading authorities on magic. “I think his tips on animal taming are still relevant. Pompkins suggests energy tablets for older animals. Is it worth getting some for Bernard, Potty? He’s six years old now, you know.” Deidre had faded blonde hair and tiny feet encased in tiny red Mary Jane shoes. She was in her sixties, but still sprightly. The rabbit could easily have weighed twice as much as her.

  “Oh, yes,” said Uncle Potty. “Reminds me of a performing seal I knew who, once he’d reached seven years old, wouldn’t go on stage unless he’d had two Mars bars, a can of cola and a packet of Lockets.”

  “Lockets?” asked Monty.

  “For the throat. He used to get very hoarse.”

  Deidre started telling Esmé and Monty all about working with animals.

  “In my heyday, I wore a bejewelled bikini for my act and used to go on stage with a white tiger called Dennis. Our best trick was when Dennis would appear from a box of chocolates, complete with a hat that had been made to look like a large coffee cream. We would dance a little, then he would climb back into his cage. I also had a baby lion called Ronson who could jump through a hoop wearing a nightie and sing the theme from Born Free, but he suffered a lot with his feet.”

  Esmé was especially interested, as she had been researching the fact that animals understood certain commands and words.

  “Did you ever have any trouble with your animals?” she asked Deidre.

  “Big cats are difficult,” she said. “It’s the reason why I now have Bernard. When Dennis accidentally leapt at my throat during a tricky pas de deux, he had to go to the Relaxed Paws Home for Retired Performing Animals.”

  “How frightening!” said Monty, who was certainly intrigued.

  “Yes, it was rather scary. The good thing is that rabbits won’t kill you. They might bite or sulk, but they’re not dangerous.”

  Deidre stopped and tickled the back of Bernard’s neck. Maybe she wished he were a young puma or maybe a small lynx, thought Esmé. “The only problem is that Bernard’s been a bit lacklustre lately,” admitted Deidre. “He keeps falling asleep.”

  “Props!” interrupted Uncle Potty from a corner. “I need a cage on wheels for the ‘Cage of Possibilities’ and a mouse costume. Quick, I’ll ring the mail-order place.”

  “And I’ll order those energy tablets for Bernard,” added Deidre.

  “I need some extra-strong touchpaper,” added Stupeedo. “Lithuanian, I think. I’ll be up
like a rocket. Fifty degrees, no problem.”

  Uncle Potty rang the mail-order company, Trix 4 U R Us, and told them what they needed.

  As he was doing so, the doorbell rang.

  It was Jimi, standing by his self-created Global Snack Tea Trolley. He not only had pakoras, but spring rolls, sushi, pizza slices and some mini pork pies. It was an impressive array and he wheeled the food into the living room.

  “Maureen not here?” asked Jimi. He had put by a couple of special vegetarian pakoras for her.

  “Not yet,” said Clive. “She sent me a text about an hour ago saying that she was running late.”

  “I could call her,” suggested Uncle Potty as he hung up on Trix 4 U R Us. “I need to know how to pull the cage upwards from behind the back curtain and operate the music. My trick relies on special effects.”

  “I need special lighting on the Basket of Doom,” said Stupeedo.

  “And I usually have dry ice for the rabbit trick,” rejoined Deidre.

  “And only Maureen knows these things?” asked Esmé, interested.

  “Yes,” replied Deidre. “Barry Houdini passed on the technical information to Maureen and made her swear not to disclose the workings to anyone else. The strobe lights could be in Timbuktu for all we know. The dry ice machine could be disguised as a pot plant. She’s the only one who knows how the levers and pulleys work at the IMG. It’s called the Houdini secret. Maureen won’t tell any of us – when it comes to loyalty she’s top notch, but without her there’s no actual ‘magic’.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Uncle Potty. “Without her, the show is not going to have any pizzazz.”

  Uncle Potty called Maureen and left a message. After an hour Stupeedo was still staring at the phone, wondering why Maureen was not ringing back. Esmé now realised where she had seen Stupeedo before – yesterday at CostSnippas, staring at light bulbs.

  “It’s no use, she’s not replying,” said Stupeedo. “Where is she?”

  Just then, there was a knock at the back door.

  Esmé went through to the kitchen and saw through the glass door the figure of a

  middle-aged woman with a heavy chain round her neck, holding an enormous padlock in one hand and a bulging plastic bag in the other. Maureen was almost exactly how Esmé had imagined, but with a plastic bag.

  “Hello! Maureen here,” said the IMG leader, handing Esmé the bag. By now it was almost half past four, but Maureen did not apologise for being late. “In that bag are a few badges. I haven’t got long, I’ve an awful great deal to do.”

  Esmé led Maureen to the living room.

  “So, we’re all set?” Maureen asked the magicians. “Everyone in tiptop condition? Deidre – you know where the top hats are? Stupeedo – got your helmet sorted out? Uncle Potty – know where the boiled eggs are?” Maureen stopped for a moment. “No, wait – Jimi – know where the boiled eggs are?”

  Everyone was too surprised by the sudden appearance of the IMG president to do anything but nod. Maureen was strident, forthright and rather rushed.

  “I for one have had my trunk cleaned, deloused, oiled and sprayed,” she announced. “I am, yes, I am, ready for anything. Raring to go. Happy as a sandboy. Just remember – Nigella Spoon is a mean-hearted lady and if she gets near your toes, just move out of the way. Now, I am a very busy woman and I have other matters to attend to.”

  Maureen started to waggle her arms in a peculiar way – Esmé would have to wait a day to see the like again– then stopped and said: “Oh, bother, this is just an ordinary house with no secret exits, isn’t it? Hah ha! Where’s the door the ordinary mortals use?”

  Esmé pointed to the corridor and watched Maureen as she strode past the big Buddha, opened the door and let herself out.

  Back in the living room, the magicians opened the plastic bag and found button badges with Maureen’s smiling face printed on each one. Gleefully, they pinned the badges on. Rather than being confused by Maureen’s brief visit, the magicians were buoyed with excitement. Miss Houdini certainly was a charismatic woman, thought Esmé; magician royalty, almost.

  Esmé took Monty aside while the IMG members busied themselves with their badges.

  “We still don’t know how the levers work,” she told her twin. “They seem to be quite important.”

  “But now Maureen’s made an appearance,” said Monty, “everyone is that little bit more confident the show will be a success.”

  Esmé was insistent: “Uncle Potty says his trick is nothing without the technical stuff.”

  “Esmé, you worry too much. Everything is ready,” said Monty, with no sign of doubt. “I’d bet my cape on it.”

  But Esmé was not so sure.

  Get yourself a pack of tapered cards (available from magic shops) and shuffle.

  Ask a friend to take a card and memorise it. Then take the card (face down) and put it back in the deck, but – importantly – the other way round.

  Shuffle the cards again and then ease out a card slowly. Your friend’s card will naturally rise out of the deck.

  Voilà!

  Despite what they might have you believe, there are only two types of audience: awake and asleep. Your job is to awaken them! I have heard one conjuror complain that his audience was “dull” or quite simply, “smelt of unwashed potatoes”. Tish, now! It is your job to put the audience in a good frame of mind, not to blame them if their response is lacking. Your audience might have had a tricky time getting to the venue, or are in the middle of digesting a heavy and rather revolting supper. Give them time. Give them space. Charm them.

  In all totality,

  aureen walked up the road as if she were a buffalo storming through a wild open field. It was now early evening and the blackbirds sang an enthusiastic melody in the trees above. Maureen marched across the pedestrian crossing, not listening to the birds, all the while concentrating on the task in hand. Tomorrow, she would have to face Nigella Spoon and the panel from the Pan-Continental Magic Corporation. Tomorrow, she had to fight to save the IMG. Tomorrow, she would need the trick of all tricks.

  Miss Houdini wanted to do some preparation ahead of the show. She had a very special trunk in mind for the finale – out of all the many chests her father had passed down to her it was the strongest and the hardest to escape from or get into – from which she would perform the ultimate escape. Number twenty-seven, the “Thai trunk” was built by her father in 1949 out of solid wood from the coconut tree. The trunk was big and cumbersome, a giant beast that could easily accommodate Maureen and the two-metre length of thick “Broadmoor” chain that she had saved for special performances. The chain was impossibly weighty and – to the lay person – would provide no easy means of escape. But Barry Houdini had taught Maureen all the tricks of the trade, from the moment she had learnt to write her own name.

  Performing was in Maureen’s blood, although she had gone through a short teenage phase of wanting to be an astronaut. The IMG building was like a home from home – in fact it was her home; she lived above the dressing rooms in a small apartment that had been taken over somewhat by wooden trunks.

  The club and headquarters had been created by Barry Houdini in 1951. A celebrated escapologist, self-publicist and champion of traditional entertainment, Houdini was once the most famous entertainer in Britain – maybe the world. But when Barry was elevated to a position of power and high status, one thing puzzled him. What to do with his oodles of cash and where to go on a Sunday afternoon? Or even a wet Wednesday?

  One day he was pondering this with his good friend and fellow magician Kenny Devant, over a pint of scrumpy cider in their local pub. The pub they were sitting in was rubbish. The scrumpy was flat, the seats were hard and the landlord – who didn’t like magicians and called them “deceptive types” – was always in a foul mood. And it was closed on Sunday afternoons and wet Wednesdays.

  “What you need, Houdini, old pal, is somewhere we magicians could all go, any time. Somewhere inviting, comfortable – with plush fur
nishings and perhaps a little statuette of yourself outside. What you should build, my friend, is a Magic HQ. A club.”

  Houdini was delighted with the idea. “I just need a name for us all,” he said, skipping over such invariably boring details as costs, paperwork, reputable builders and land registry charges.

  “Why not The Globally Recognised Team Of People Who Like Performing Deceptive Tricks On The General Public Hopefully For A Reasonable Fee? The GRTOPWLPDTOTGPHFARF for short, of course,” suggested Devant.

  Houdini thought for a moment, twining his legs round each other as if they were curls of thick rope.

  “Or maybe just – The International Magic Guys – IMG for short.”

  As she stepped into trunk twenty-seven Maureen glanced at the portrait of her late father on the dressing-room wall. It was painted by Picasso and executed in a way that was… almost… impressionistic. Or was it modernist? Or maybe just wrong? For Barry Houdini’s face looked normal enough, but his nose had been rendered bright yellow, and in a peculiar shape, so that it resembled a Dairylea cheese triangle. Had he sported that very nose in reality? Maureen could not remember any more.

  Maureen wanted to familiarise herself with the trunk before tomorrow’s show. She wrapped the “Broadmoor” chain tightly round her shoulders – the huge weight of each link was strangely comforting – and clicked the padlock, which again was a soothing sound. Next Maureen lowered her body and folded it into the trunk. Barry Houdini had last used the chest in 1975 for an impromptu show in Thailand. He was hoisted up a coconut tree and escaped in three seconds flat, appearing with a papaya in his teeth (which was quite difficult as he did not have a very wide mouth) and trousers made out of banana skins.

  “The greatest trunk in the world!” he had told Maureen. She had not used this trunk for a long time, but she was confident that, like all of Barry Houdini’s props, its secret mechanisms were strong. Once Maureen had secured herself inside and locked the trunk, she attempted to locate the secret panel again, but she couldn’t find it. She was sure that she had lowered herself in the right way round. Maybe the panel was by her shoulders instead. She started to push the sides with her elbows, but nothing was giving way, the chest was tight against her. Maureen flicked her fingers upwards – the chains surrounding her gave way easily enough, but when she tried to open the smaller lock from the inside – which was a key feature inside every one of Houdini’s trunks – Maureen simply could not locate it. Why had she thought that this was her favourite trunk? Maybe that was trunk number twenty-six... Dammit.