The Peppers and the International Magic Guys

by Sian Pattenden

  Deidre wished she hadn’t just said that.

  “Why, thanks,” said Nigella coolly, as Yentovitz wrote something down in his electronic note-taker.

  Meanwhile, Uncle Potty, Monty and Esmé ascended the stairs under the aromatic cape. Once they reached the first floor and were away from view, the children popped out again.

  “Look, a golden door!” gasped Monty. “The secret escapology room?”

  “No, that’s the cleaning cupboard,” said Uncle Potty. “Follow me.”

  The Peppers followed as Uncle Potty took a sharp left turn, then another, then a short walk down a thin corridor and another sharp left. They seemed to be back where they started.

  “The golden door…?” asked Esmé.

  “Yes, this is it! The secret escapology room. Let’s go right in.”

  Esmé decided not to mention the fact that a minute ago it was the cleaning cupboard.

  Inside, the room was large and piled high with hundreds of old-fashioned suitcases, some tightly closed, some with their contents spilling out of them as if they yearned to break free. Some cases were marked – one said “chains: light”, another “chains: medium heavy”, another “probably”. One was marked “padlocks”, one “string”, one “sewing needles: blunt”. There were cases of different sizes and many colours. One brown suitcase contained a pile of books, with titles such as Fifty Best Chains and Ropes I Have Known in it. Was there anything marked “keys”?

  “I’ll take the left side of the room, Monty the right and Esmé the middle,” instructed Uncle Potty. “Go through the cases quickly. We don’t have much time.”

  Esmé and Monty started scrambling for the suitcases. Some of the cases were piled precariously high and the children hoped that they would not topple over. After some searching, Uncle Potty soon spotted a large red attaché case that was – yes – filled with keys.

  “Aha!” he cried.

  “Well done,” said Esmé. “Now, let’s search for the right one.”

  With a flick of the lock the contents were revealed. Esmé and Monty gasped at the sheer amount of keys there were. They all leant over the case in wonder. The keys glistened like jewels, glinting and winking. The case was completely full and Esmé was confident that there would be something in the whole collection that would help rescue Maureen.

  “So many shapes, so many colours,” said Monty in awe.

  “Are any of them labelled?” asked Esmé.

  “Found it!” said Monty, excitedly picking up a large, ornate key and twirling it in his fingers.

  “My goodness, well done!” said Uncle Potty. “Have you read the inscription?”

  “Not yet, it’s very small writing,” answered Monty.

  “Let me look,” said Uncle Potty, taking the key from Monty. “Ah yes, it quite clearly, um, says… It is small writing, eh? Um…” Uncle Potty squinted, trying to make out the lettering. “Surely it says Houdini number twenty-seven and our search is over. Maybe? Probably.”

  “In all totality we’ve found it!” cheered Monty.

  Esmé thought that she should double check, took the key from Uncle Potty’s hand and turned it over twice.

  “It says ‘Designers at Debenhams’,” she announced sadly. “Why did you think it was this one, Monty?”

  “I felt the Pompkins mega waves,” said Monty matter-of-factly. Esmé wrinkled her nose.

  “Alas!” said Uncle Potty. “But chin up, Peppers, let’s look some more,” and again thirty fingers started scrabbling at the keys.

  After ten minutes they had drawn a blank. Nothing read “Houdini Number twenty-seven” – all the keys were either too big, or like house keys, or marked “safe” or “admin” or were made of coloured plastic.

  “None of these keys will fit the trunk lock,” said Esmé.

  “How do we know?” asked Monty. “We should try them all.”

  Bring bring! – a telephone. Uncle Potty walked over to a blue suitcase sitting in the corner on top of a pile of old magazines, opened it and answered the telephone that was inside.

  “Yes, of course. Down in a minute.”

  Uncle Potty replaced the receiver and turned to the children. “I have to go now – Deidre says they’re having a last-minute planning meeting.”

  Monty and Esmé were still surprised that there was a phone inside a suitcase.

  “Maureen thought it would be handy to put a telephone in here in case anyone needs assistance,” explained Uncle Potty.

  “Maybe she should have put one inside trunk twenty-seven,” said Esmé.

  Uncle Potty moved to the back of the room.

  “We’ll stay here and look for the key a little longer,” said Monty.

  “But no!” cried Uncle Potty. “You could be stuck in here for a whole day! I may not be able to come back until early evening.”

  “Are you sure?” Esmé asked her brother. “Maybe we should go with Uncle Potty.”

  “If we get hungry or thirsty,” noted Monty. “We could eat some chains, like the great El Gutso.”

  “Who was El Gutso?” asked Esmé.

  “The famous Yorkshire clown,” replied Monty, with some authority. “He’s mentioned in Dr Pompkins. He used to eat bicycles, spanners and once a very long bridge that went over the M1, although it took him around a month.”

  “What’s he doing now?” Esmé enquired.

  “I think he works in Boots,” replied Monty. Uncle Potty started waggling his arms again.

  “What are you doing?” asked Monty.

  “I’m trying to activate the lasers that make the trapdoor work,” explained Uncle Potty. “This connects to a chute that lands me backstage.”

  Esmé remembered Maureen had similarly “waggled” before she left for the “door the ordinary mortals use” at Highwood Road.

  “Go on, Uncle Potty, let us come with you,” implored Esmé. “We make a good a team.”

  Uncle Potty stopped waggling and thought for a moment. The Peppers certainly had a lot of good ideas. He didn’t like to see the children miss the show…

  “The chute is a way we can get backstage without being seen by Nigella,” added Esmé. “It makes sense.”

  “Aha,” said Uncle Potty.

  “Aha?” said Monty, quickly realising that it was better to go with Uncle Potty than stay and look for the key.

  “OK, let’s do it,” said Uncle Potty. “You’ve proved quite good at hiding. Monty and Esmé, join me and let’s waggle our arms together!”

  Esmé and Monty joined Uncle Potty and waggled furiously. Within seconds the floor fell away beneath their feet and the trio found themselves zooming down a long, winding tube in absolute darkness.

  Tell your friends you can blow a whole egg from one wine glass to another using just a straw. Sounds impossible?

  Well, not if you make two small holes either end of the egg and empty the contents first.

  Then blow the egg easily and astoundingly. No one will ever know!

  Not unless you tell them.

  So where do all these new tricks come from? I urge you, dearest amateur magician, to find new ways of presenting old tricks. Make yourself a different sort of wand from the traditional type, with tassels on, or buttons. Maybe you would like to make a live badger appear from a paper cup, not just a stream of confetti? Maybe blow a pebble from one glass to another? Customise the tricks you have already learnt! Use your imagination, friends.

  In all totality,

  hooahhhh!” Three people arrived in a heap on Deidre Lemons’s dressing-room floor.

  “Sorry,” said Uncle Potty. “Wasn’t quite sure where we’d end up.”

  Deidre had changed into a sequinned dress, high heels and was wearing a tiara.

  “You told me that the children were gone.” Deidre was confused and disappointed.

  “Um…” Uncle Potty could not think of a good excuse, other than he’d accidentally glued the Pepper twins to his arms and could not get rid of them.

  “Uncle Potty, have you
got the key?” asked Clive, popping his head round the door. “Deidre told me all about it.”

  “Its whereabouts remain a mystery,” Uncle Potty admitted.

  “This is a real disaster,” sighed Deidre. “No Maureen, no key, no special effects and two illegal children… While you were gone Stupeedo, Clive and I did some talking. If we are to make this show go with a bang, everyone needs to help out.”

  Deidre looked at Esmé and Monty. “Maybe the fact that you two are still here is a blessing in disguise,” she said. “It’s all hands on deck.”

  “What’s the plan?” asked Uncle Potty.

  “Right,” Deidre said. “I need you to play music during my act, to add atmosphere. Clive is going to operate the lights from the side of the stage.”

  “Where’s Stupeedo?” asked Uncle Potty.

  “He’s decided to do a bit of ‘warm-up’ before the show begins. He’s on stage telling a joke about a shrimp and a turtle.”

  Uncle Potty had heard Stupeedo’s jokes before and truly hoped that this one was better. Usually they had the effect of driving people away, not “warming them up”.

  Deidre turned to Esmé and Monty.

  “I propose that as you’re both still here, you can continue to try and get Maureen out of the trunk, just in case she can escape for the grand finale.”

  “But how?” asked Esmé.

  “I haven’t worked that bit out yet.” said Deidre.

  “What do criminals use on TV programmes to pick locks?” asked Monty.

  “Hairgrips!” replied Esmé, excited. “This is the answer!”

  All eyes turned to Deidre and her coiffured head, which contained more hairgrips than a West End musical.

  “OK, you can have some of mine…” she said, taking three from her static hair. “Do your best – try and get Maureen out.”

  “Now we’ve got a show to do,” Uncle Potty said. “No time to lose.”

  Deidre picked up Bernard’s hutch and she, Uncle Potty and Clive walked out of the dressing room ready for the show to begin leaving Esmé and Monty behind to deal with the trunk.

  Nigella Spoon had been waiting over fifteen minutes for the International Magic Guys show to start and she was becoming impatient. Nigella was not usually made to hang about this long.

  Just as the PCMC leader started yawning, a bald man clad in lycra, wearing an extremely shiny helmet, took to the stage. He then proceeded to tell a joke about a shrimp and a turtle. The joke was not funny, but some of the audience liked it and Nigella felt that perhaps – although this was a tiny perhaps – this was a sign that the club at least was trying to provide a broad sweep of entertainment.

  The curtains opened two minutes after Stupeedo’s punchline, revealing a smiling Deidre Lemons standing next to a small felt table with a huge top hat placed on it. The lights did not dim as everyone expected, but a strong spotlight suddenly hit the table and a tin whistle started playing a basic melody in the background.

  “Welcome to the greatest show on earth!” announced Deidre, who was a little bit nervous now she was in front of an audience.

  “I have before me a very ordinary top hat,” Deidre’s voice wavered and the sequins on her dress quivered along.

  The hat had been placed over a hole in the table; the top of the hat had a hole in it too, so Deidre could see directly into the secret compartment under the table that housed Bernard. The rabbit was looking a bit dozy. Deidre wondered if the energy tablets had completely worn off by now and that was why he seemed to be going to sleep. She hoped not.

  “A very ordinary top hat, but one that is very useful and good for wearing to high-falutin’ events.” Deidre picked up the hat, without revealing the hole in the top, and waved it around as if she frantically loved top hats and always wore one to high-falutin’ events.

  “When I was a child,” she said, her patter thoroughly rehearsed, “I used to dream of having a pet. A fluffy friend I could call my very own.”

  Deidre looked out, smiled at the audience for three seconds as she always did, then looked back at the hat. Uncle Potty carried on playing the tin whistle as if there was no tomorrow. However, its high tones and rasping dreariness were starting to grate on everyone’s nerves. Soon Deidre was the only one in the room who wanted him to continue – if he suddenly stopped playing she worried that someone might hear Bernard snore.

  “Did I want a dog? Did I want a cat? No! I wanted a lovely bunny rabbit!” she continued, smiling broadly, going through the motions.

  Deidre secretly wondered whether this fail-safe, traditional trick had actually become rather old-fashioned. How many people in the audience would care that as a girl she had once wanted a cutesy-wootesy bunny rabbit? Would it be better if she had once wanted an enormous panther?

  Deidre plunged her hand deep inside the top hat in an attempt to get Bernard out. The rabbit, however entirely asleep, was not budging. Deidre tugged, but he would not move.

  “Et voilà,” said Deidre, thinking French might help. “A lovely, fluffy bunny.”

  Deidre pulled more, but Bernard was not having any of it. He had grown so big he was impossible to move.

  “Come on, little bunny wunny!” yelled Deidre and she tugged at Bernard’s full girth.

  “Easy does it!” she added as the audience started to wonder what was going on.

  Deidre knew there was nothing for it but to yank Bernard out as hard as she could. She whispered, “Sorry to have to do this!” then grabbed Bernard and pulled him out with all her strength. As Bernard’s feet cleared the rim of the hat, he bit her on the hand.

  “Ouch! Bernard!”

  Bernard jumped down and scampered off the stage and on to the laps of the front row. Uncle Potty saw all this happening and started to play the tin whistle louder, faster and really quite badly. Stupeedo, who was standing by him in the wings, put his fingers in his ears.

  “My goodness! A rabbit!” said a surprised audience member, as Bernard hopped from lap to lap.

  Nigella thought the name Bernard sounded familiar. Wasn’t he the magician who had gone missing previously? She leant over to Yentovitz. “Coincidence, two entities called Bernard?” she muttered. Yentovitz made an electronic note.

  Deidre leapt off the stage, broke a heel, hobbled over to Bernard and pulled him from the front row. She ran back up to the stage lopsidedly, curtsied, while trying not to sob uncontrollably, and exited stage left.

  “That was an epic failure!” she wailed to Stupeedo, putting Bernard back in his hutch, then taking off both shoes.

  “I’m sure Nigella thought it was very original,” Stupeedo replied, trying to put a positive spin on events. Deidre did look ever so depressed.

  The Great Stupeedo’s trick – the Colossal Cannon Fire act – was a guaranteed winner, or so the human cannonball thought. It involved him being fired out of a cannon and into something mightily terrifying called the Basket of Doom. From a distance, the basket appeared to be made out of dangerous, coarse barbed wire – which of course would have been rather uncomfortable to land in. But when viewed close up it was clearly made of soft and yielding satin, stiffened into peaks when needed by spray starch. There was some orange silk that, when placed near a wind machine, looked like flames inside the basket. Clive had been instructed to make lots of pained expressions to the audience, pretending that he was scared for Stupeedo, as this made the trick far more effective. If Maureen had been around, Stupeedo would have asked for special lighting and the wind machine, but it was not to be and so he would have to cope on his own.

  Stupeedo was due on in seconds. Uncle Potty had been given the task of lighting the Lithuanian touchpaper on stage, so the human cannonball had given him some advice, which actually meant Stupeedo rambling on about the nature of the job.

  “Pulling a rabbit out of a hat must be a damn sight easier than shooting yourself out of a cannon twice a week,” he said. “It hurts your bottom, you know. And the explosives are getting more expensive too. The crowds keep expectin
g more and more. It’s not enough that you shoot yourself out of the ruddy thing – the audience always want you to land on something more sharp, more prickly and more life-threatening than ever before. The honest truth is that I’d love to go back to mini-cabbing, although it can be difficult working for yourself and having people be sick on your upholstery.”

  Uncle Potty nodded politely, while trying to guide Stupeedo on to the stage. Uncle Potty hoped that Esmé and Monty were getting on all right with the trunk.

  Clive was working hard in Maureen’s absence – he had cleared the stage, then set up the basket, wheeled in the cannon and moved the spotlight accordingly. Uncle Potty helped Stupeedo climb into the machine – which was quite tough as Lycra-clad Stupeedo had clearly been eating more pork pies recently and his middle was expanding.

  Uncle Potty took a deep breath, reached for the extra-strength Lithuanian touchpaper and lit a match.

  Back in the dressing room, when Maureen realised that two children – who were absolutely, irrefutably not allowed in any part of the International Magic Guys HQ – had been put in charge of helping her escape from the trunk, it was too late for her to care. If Nigella spotted them, so be it. Monty had managed to poke a straw through one of the breathing holes and now Maureen was enjoying some lemonade, so that was something.

  Esmé was concentrating on picking the lock.

  “Oh, bother!” she said, frustrated. The hairclips did not seem to be doing the job.

  “Do you think we’ll make it in time?” Esmé asked Monty.

  “I’ve been thinking,” answered Monty. “We could hack into the trunk with a large, mystical sword. Dr Pompkins uses one for several of his tricks.”

  “That might be a bit extreme,” replied Esmé.

  Esmé looked at the lemonade straw and it gave her an idea.

  “Maureen,” she addressed the trunk. “The breathing holes might be the weakest link in the whole trunk. Have you anything sharp like a penknife that I can pass through and you can make the holes bigger from the inside?”