The Peppers and the International Magic Guys

by Sian Pattenden

The trunk knocked twice. Maureen had realised that speaking was of no use and knocking was the clearest form of communication.

  “Is she all right?” Esmé whispered up to Uncle Potty through the woollen folds of the cape, which were – inexplicably – beginning to emit the smell of smoked mackerel.

  “Are you all right?” Uncle Potty asked the trunk, which again knocked twice.

  “It shows she still has oxygen,” said Esmé.

  Uncle Potty lowered his chin and whispered at his cape: “Come out, children. Maureen can’t see you.”

  Esmé and Monty appeared. It was somewhat of a relief: the mackerel smell was getting a bit much.

  “Is it once for yes and twice for no?”

  “I think it’s the other way round,” whispered Esmé. “I saw it in a survival show. More complicated to knock for yes. Proves you’ve not lost your mind in times of stress and reduced oxygen.”

  The three visitors stared at the trunk for some time, as if waiting for it to do something, although it quite clearly was not going to do anything at all.

  “Do you think she’s rehearsing, or do you think she’s stuck?” asked Esmé quietly.

  “I don’t know,” said Uncle Potty, his brow furrowing like a well-ploughed field.

  “Why don’t you ask?” Esmé nudged Uncle Potty.

  “Are you, ahem, stuck, Maureen?”

  The trunk knocked twice.

  Immediately, Uncle Potty started to fret. “The IMG president cannot be stuck in a trunk. We need her skills for the show.”

  There was a knock at the dressing-room door; Esmé and Monty rushed under Uncle Potty’s cape, as Deidre and Stupeedo entered the dressing room together.

  “Good news! Trix 4 U R Us have just delivered our order – your cage and the mouse costume are here. Stupeedo’s touchpaper and Bernard’s energy tablets have arrived safely too,” said Deidre brightly. Then she noticed the look on Uncle Potty’s face. “What’s going on?”

  “Maureen’s locked herself in the trunk,” said Uncle Potty.

  “Oh,” said Deidre. “Oh, dear,” and she rushed towards the ancient wooden chest and started to examine it. “Trunk number twenty-seven, the Thai trunk. It’s notoriously temperamental. Maureen, are you OK?”

  Stupeedo quickly became agitated. Normally he suffered with nerves before a show, but he was finding it hard to contain himself.

  “Deidre, I need the extra-long matchsticks and I’ve no idea where they are, whether they’re in a drawer or a cupboard or a secure lock-up off the Marylebone Road,” he babbled. “I need to polish my helmet with a really soft cloth... I need at least two cups of tea and half a packet of Jammie Dodgers plus some reassurance and maybe some nice-smelling candles. Those purple ones. And some rescue remedy mouthwash.”

  Stupeedo ran up to the trunk. “Maureen, can’t you possibly come out? Wiggle your toes and open the lock from inside?”

  The trunk knocked once.

  “She really is stuck,” said Deidre, who had now carefully examined each side of the trunk.

  Stupeedo started panicking, and small bits of spittle formed at the sides of his mouth.

  “I don’t believe it! The most important day in the IMG’s calendar and we’re ruined!”

  Deidre remained by the side of the trunk. “You must stay calm, Nigel. We’ve just got to think of a plan.”

  From her vantage point near the floor, Deidre had noticed Uncle Potty’s cape.

  It was moving.

  Deidre didn’t say anything at first, thinking that this might be a trick of the light. But what if Uncle Potty had Maureen hidden under that unusually long cape, and was pretending she was locked in the trunk as a practical joke? Deidre did not like practical jokes.

  “What’s in your cape, Potty?” she asked.

  “Er, nothing,” came Uncle Potty’s weak reply.

  In a flash, as if she had been plugged into the mains, Deidre leapt at Uncle Potty’s cape and pulled it open to reveal…

  “Esmé and Monty!”

  The children stepped out into the light of the dressing room, which was not that light at all.

  “You’re not allowed in here,” Deidre was exasperated. “It’s against the rules. Nigella will definitely fail us if she sees you anywhere within the IMG.”

  “I thought that the children might be of some help,” said Uncle Potty. “They were so good yesterday, and so keen to see the show…”

  Deidre gave Uncle Potty a stern look. “What were you thinking of? Maureen’s stuck in a trunk and now you bring two illegal children into the IMG.”

  Deidre addressed the trunk – she was not going to give up yet.

  “Maureen, we are going to do everything we can to make sure you’re out of the trunk before Nigella arrives. We also know that you know that there are two children in the IMG. Do not worry, I will get rid of them.”

  Esmé and Monty looked horrified.

  “Next, we will have to hack into the trunk with a hatchet––”

  “Deidre,” interrupted Esmé softly.

  Miss Lemons ignored her and carried on talking to the trunk.

  “If that doesn’t work we could use a small explosive…”

  “Deidre,” said Esmé again. “I have an idea.”

  Deidre turned to Esmé. “The rules do not permit children in the building. I can’t make any exceptions, not today.”

  “But listen to this: maybe the trunk has a spare key.”

  Deidre hadn’t thought of this – neither had Uncle Potty, Stupeedo or Monty.

  “Maybe you’re right, Esmé,” mused Deidre. “There is a box full of keys in the Secret Escapology room. Barry Houdini was always known for covering himself in all eventualities – it’s a good suggestion. The key to this trunk would be clearly marked ‘Houdini Number twenty-seven’.”

  “Great,” said Esmé, hoping that this might keep herself and Monty in the IMG for a little longer.

  “It’s such a shame you can’t stay for the afternoon…” said Deidre sadly. “But we will be in so much trouble…”

  Uncle Potty had to concede and told Deidre: “I’ll show the kids out through the back exit then head up to the Escapology room and look for the key.”

  “Be as quick as you can,” said Deidre. “The audience will be seated by now.”

  “Rightio,” replied Uncle Potty. “Your word is my commode.”

  Esmé was disappointed, but there was nothing she could do. She and Monty were not wanted in the IMG, they were too much trouble.

  Uncle Potty led the children through another dusty corridor to the back exit, which was filled with gadgets and magic props from the last 150 years, some in glass containers, others in display cabinets. Rather than rushing out, Monty kept stopping to look at each item one by one.

  “Look, it’s Ellie Baba’s famous biroscope! Look through it and it produces a drawing of you ‘innermost thoughts’ in ballpoint pen!”

  “Come along, Monty,” called Uncle Potty.

  “And here’s Kevin Kebabra’s revolving bow tie! Apparently, if you stare at it for long enough with half-closed eyes, it shows the word ‘bonkers’.”

  “Monty, I said hurry up.”

  “Look, Esmé, a stuffed baboon! The one that played the piano in Las Vegas with its toes —”

  “Montague Pepper, please refer to the rules I gave you… but, um, unfortunately did not write down!” shouted Uncle Potty.

  Monty felt the power of those rather wonderful museum pieces. He felt the seriousness of entertainment, the gravity of the glorious wonder of magic. He also felt a bit dizzy, and wondered if this had anything to do with having been sat inside Uncle Potty’s cape, which still smelt of smoked mackerel.

  As Monty caught up with Esmé and Uncle Potty there was a noise – someone’s voice? – coming from the back exit.

  Uncle Potty stopped at once and Monty nearly ran into him.

  “Oh, no!” gasped Uncle Potty. “Nigella Spoon!”

  “What are we going to do?” said E
smé in a low voice. “If she sees us…”

  “…she’ll go crazy, yes,” Uncle Potty finished.

  Esmé gasped and got back inside the cape. Monty looked panicked as he did the same. He wondered if Nigella would really use the guillotine on him.

  Uncle Potty walked towards the door, hesitant.

  “Ah, Nigell–– oh, Clive, what are you doing? Why are you so late?”

  “Sorry, overslept,” said Clive, hurrying into the backstage area, looking tired and frazzled. “I spent most of the night going over the cage trick. I twirled myself about in a cardboard box for hours and I still feel a bit light-headed. Everything OK?”

  Should Uncle Potty mention the fact that Maureen was stuck in a trunk backstage and that there were two uninvited children inside his voluminous cape?

  “Fine!” lied Uncle Potty, who didn’t want to worry his small assistant. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in one of the dressing rooms while I go up and, um, find a something, eh?”

  Before Clive could ask Uncle Potty if he was being deliberately vague, a shrill voice sounded out in the corridor.

  “Bernard! Come back here!”

  Uncle Potty turned round to see a rabbit, who had just been fed a few too many energy tablets in Deidre’s dressing room, speeding up the hallway and disappearing. Deidre ran along a few seconds behind.

  “Have you seen Bernard?” she asked Uncle Potty. “He’s out of control. Those damned tablets!”

  “No, I haven’t,” came a broad American accent from behind them. “Is he a conjuror or an illusionist? We can’t have any undisciplined magicians in the show.”

  Everyone – apart from Bernard, who was nibbling at leftover biscuit crumbs behind a standard lamp in the corner somewhere – stopped in their tracks. Nigella was wearing an expensive skirt suit in cream linen, black patent shoes – which were rather pointy, of course – and wore her brunette hair in a sharp bob. She removed her oversized sunglasses, put them in her handbag and peered at the magicians.

  “Er, Nigella! So nice to see you,” said Deidre, smiling falsely at the leader of the Pan-Continental Magic Corporation. “Did you travel well? I’m Deidre Lemons, animal tamer.”

  “We decided to come in the back way,” Nigella grimaced, equally falsely. She spoke with a cut-glass New Hampshire accent. “It wouldn’t do for us to mix with the general public.” Both women shook each other’s hand. Deidre gingerly moved her feet away from Nigella’s pointy shoes.

  “These are my colleagues: Mr Yentovitz, Mr Miracle and the Incredible Gladstone – who have come all the way from New York, Hong Kong and Tasmania respectively,” said Nigella. The men nodded in unison. Yentovitz was carrying an electronic tablet device, which was another thing that unnerved Deidre. He paused to make a note of something and looked up again.

  “Is this person, Bernard, OK?” asked Yentovitz.

  “Oh, yes, not a problem,” replied Deidre.

  Nigella spotted Clive and started to give him a list of her coffee requirements. Uncle Potty thought that now was a good time to nip to the secret escapology room. Perhaps, he reasoned, he could leave the children in there for a few hours until it was safe for them to leave.

  Deidre grabbed Potty by a tweedy shoulder and whispered loudly in his ear.

  “Have you found the key?”

  “I’m on my way there now.”

  “Have the children gone?”

  “Yes,” Uncle Potty lied. For the second time.

  “Thank goodness!” Deidre smiled. “That was one extra thing I couldn’t deal with.”

  Uncle Potty motioned to walk away, Esmé and Monty hardly daring to breathe under all that tweed. Deidre grabbed him again.

  “What am I going to do about Bernard, Potty?”

  “Excuse me,” Nigella interrupted. “Could you show me to my seat, please. And if you could let Maureen Houdini know I’m here, I’d like to see her before the show.”

  “Of course, madam,” said Deidre, overly polite. “Not a problem. Maureen Houdini, yes. Give me a moment…”

  Place a pencil on a flat surface in front of you.

  Now clasp your right wrist with your left hand, keeping your left index finger under the palm where it can’t be seen.

  Let your right hand hover over the pencil and magically it lifts up!

  When you let go, the pencil drops.

  What you are doing is holding the pencil with the hidden

  index finger, but your chums can examine the item

  afterwards and if they do not spot any glue, they will

  think you’re the cat’s pyjamas!

  They say that a cat has nine lives – well, a magician has many more. A trick might go wrong, props might fall over, lines may be forgotten, but every entertainer knows that the show must go on.

  It takes great experience to lock yourself in things or to swim with sharks. Unless you have been practising for twenty years or more, keep your tricks simple and safe. However, my point is that even if you are doing a trick with an old toothpick – if it goes wrong, carry on. Take it easy, smile, and move on to the next trick. Or just pretend to faint and some kindly person will drag you away.

  In all totality,

  eidre led Nigella and the panel to their specially selected seats in the auditorium, which was now full. Although they had never previously met, Nigella was already giving Deidre the creeps. The PCMC leader had the air of a headmistress who has just been given an extra-large detention book and a new biro at the start of the Autumn term. There was an element of smugness in her shoulders, a faint smile of indifference on her lips and the cool stare of a motorcycling fox. Deidre also worried that Nigella was going to step on her toes.

  Mr Yentovitz, Mr Miracle and the Incredible Gladstone were polite enough, but seemed confused by the International Magic Guys. Deidre had heard that some of the other Pan-Continental Magic Corporation clubs were all rather slick and had posh carpets. The Dubai Dibblers club was situated on the 293th floor of a skyscraper, for instance, and was said to have panoramic views of most of the Eastern hemisphere. In contrast, the IMG was eccentric and smelt a bit musty, but she hoped that the state of the building would not affect Nigella’s judgement today. She wanted Nigella to be “blown away” by the performance this afternoon, rather than the soft furnishings. However, Deidre was finding it hard to remain optimistic.

  “Deidre Lemons, my chair smells of mildew,” said Nigella after she had sat down.

  “In my opinion the carpets are also quite scruffy and the walls need painting. This could affect both the members’ morale and health and safety regulations.”

  “I’m sure Maureen will answer your queries,” replied Deidre, who knew only too well that Maureen was otherwise engaged.

  “You see, it could be a sign of a club gone sour.” Nigella said those last four words with an exhaustion born from overuse. Magic clubs, in Nigella’s world, were always going sour. It was the same with restaurants going sour, gym classes going sour, dreams going sour – plus parklands, train operators and newsagents, which could all go sour at any point. The only thing that never went sour in Nigella’s opinion was Nigella’s own opinion.

  “OK, I see.” A small piece of glass entered Deidre’s heart. Had Nigella already given up on the IMG before the show had even begun? Had she crossed the club off the list before even stepping through the door? Everybody knew that the IMG was not modern, but surely it had its charms? Of course, HRH Prince Keith had famously become a member when he was twenty-one, having swotted up on a paltry card trick that wasn’t really up to much. But his mother was the Queen, and Maureen Houdini had thought that she might be beheaded – or imprisoned in a tower or something – if she didn’t let him in, so he was duly given a certificate and badge and they never saw him again.

  “Got him!” Clive was in the hallway and had just caught Bernard.

  Deidre was stressed and needed to breathe, but Deidre didn’t have time to breathe, so she sucked a big section of air into her lungs a
nd held it in. Deidre had sucked in air once before at a swimming competition in 1987, and had won, so she felt confident that it would work this time too.

  “My chair is now creaking,” Nigella told Deidre.

  “I can assure you, Miss Spoon, it’s our finest available chair.” Deidre was not lying. All the other chairs were worse.

  There was a big splintery noise that sounded a bit like a tree tripping over a loose paving stone and then deciding to sue the council.

  “Arghhh!” came the accompanying human noise.

  All eyes turned on The Incredible Gladstone, who had fallen through his chair.

  “You see, Miss Spoon, our finest available chair.”

  Nigella looked despairingly at Deidre, who moved to pick up Gladstone. Deidre tried to reach his arm, but it was too far away, so she did something that most people would call “ill-advised” and “badly-timed” and “rather silly”. Deidre tried to pull The Incredible Gladstone up by his leg.

  No one would have been able to do it, not even a special leg-pulling robot or a truck or an elephant on steroids. Gladstone simply moved along the floor two centimetres closer and howled with pain.

  “Argh!” came Gladstone’s cry. “Even my time in the wilderness in Tasmania with the Tazzy Devils nipping at my elbows and the mosquitoes nibbling my knees and two hundred people to entertain with no magic wand and half a deck of cards while I wore a pair of shorts that were too tight was better than my time on this chair!”

  “Get the man upright, will you?” barked Nigella, and Yentovitz immediately snapped into action, gripping Gladstone under the shoulders and heaving him up in a swift shovelling motion. Gladstone – not a young man – stood still and looked bewildered. What could he sit on without fear of personal injury?

  Deidre took a few minutes to find him a solid-looking wooden stool from the office. They were all running late and she needed to get changed for the show.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” said Deidre, trying to feel relaxed, positive and in complete control. “I am confident and looking forward to you looking forward to the show, which we personally are all looking forward to.”