‘Is she nice?’
‘Sharon’s lovely. She’ll be glad of the company, she said, and while I’m there I’ll give her something for the rent. She’s got a roomful of my clothes already, and she lives right above the salon, so it’s handy for both of us really.’
‘She’s single then, I take it,’ said auntie Ada.
‘Um,’ said Jack, ‘that depends on the night of the week.’
Still with her back to him, auntie Ada swung the chopping knife in circles through the air. ‘Swinging ’60s,’ she quipped, ‘it’ll all end in tears.’
Motherless, then fatherless, hadn’t it all ended in tears already? I refused to let the thought take hold. ‘Will you still be Mia-Mia at the salon?’
‘No more Mia-Mia,’ said Jack.
‘All those clothes,’ lamented auntie Ada.
‘Jumble sale,’ said Jack, and as he pulled out a chair he beckoned me to join him at the table.
‘They’re all much too modern for a jumble sale. And those shoes are monstrous.’
‘Oh, stop it, auntie Ada, who cares about the bloody clothes.’
‘Watch your mouth, young lady.’
‘They should stay where they are for the moment,’ said Jack.
‘But I liked Mia-Mia, you can’t just kill her off!’ With my arms folded over my chest, I was staring at the table ready to burst into tears. Neither the bad luck of swinging legs nor the tears of the ’60s had upset me, but to hear Jack pronounce the demise of Mia-Mia was like hearing for the first time that my father was dead.
‘She had a mouth on her too,’ said auntie Ada, ‘especially after visiting her brother’s bed-and-breakfast in Torquay.’
‘You don’t know anything,’ I said, lashing out at her viciously without looking up. ‘You think you’re clever and we’re stupid but it’s actually the other way around. For years you blamed daddy for what wasn’t his fault, but you throw a silly tantrum just because he hasn’t left you a note. He’s dead, auntie Ada, he’s dead and you’re still telling lies. You’re just bitter and selfish and you can’t get over messing up your life.’
‘Jane, you’re not being fair, that’s enough,’ said Jack.
‘You made daddy happy and she made your life hell, but you’re always defending her.’
‘I’m defending her because I know she loves you. Look at me, Jane.’ And when I let him lift my head up just a little, ‘Can you remember what you said to your dad? Last night, when you were trying to explain how you felt about losing your mum.’
‘But I couldn’t,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t explain it, it didn’t make sense.’
‘You told him that you didn’t have to say you didn’t blame him because you knew that he wasn’t to blame.’
‘He wasn’t, auntie Ada, he wasn’t.’
Jack took my hands into his. ‘Can you remember what you told him after that?’
‘That for everything else I forgave him, because the things that happened after we lost mum didn’t count, they were all part of a madness that couldn’t be helped.’
‘The madness of grief, isn’t that what you called it? His and yours but also Ada’s, that’s what you said to your dad. And it’s true now more than ever.’
‘But it made no difference, how can it be true if it wasn’t enough?’
‘If your father was here he’d say that it was more than enough, that no words in the world could’ve made him feel more loved or more grateful.’
‘But what about me, what about how I feel?’
‘Sometimes it’s enough to remember, because the madness has to end and there’s no other choice.’
‘I’ll not stay if I’m not wanted,’ said auntie Ada meekly, and I sought out her gaze to give her the briefest caress. Then I fell forward and covered my face with my hands, to weep for my father again.
The next few days were quiet, dulled by the concentrated drama of those terrible twenty-four hours. While she busied herself with making arrangements, auntie Ada wore her brooch every day, but her love for my mother remained undeclared, and the notes had stayed hidden. After my outburst I decided not to mention them again unless auntie Ada herself brought them up. And everyone had known not to allow my angry words to take root. It was as if they had never been spoken.
Jack called me every day. The ladies he coiffed were apparently delighted with his male incarnation, and glad to see the back of Mia-Mia.
‘They didn’t like her prickly sense of humour, apparently it grated on their nerves - and they are all rather nervous, my ladies.’ He was always making jokes, trying to cheer me up. ‘Whereas Jack, as you know, is unremittingly charming, and so incredibly handsome too!’
‘You mean you flirt with them,’ I said.
‘And my tips have trebled. Flirting’s proving much more popular than gossip, my ladies are lapping it up!’
‘Have you told them that Jack used to be Mia-Mia?’ I was fascinated with the transformation.
‘Even if I did at the beginning, they all seem to have quickly forgotten.’
‘But aren’t they curious about your other life?’
‘My other life’s always been private. I never discuss it, except in general terms.’
‘You must’ve discussed it with Sharon.’
‘In general terms.’
‘So she knows…’
‘That I’m gay? Oh, I think everyone knows that, it adds to the attraction. And we’ve talked about the riots, of course, which were much more important than landing a couple of men on the moon, but no one knows about your dad or Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘Gay?’
‘Apparently that’s how we like to call ourselves these days. Personally I’ve never minded “queer”.’
‘I prefer “gay”,’ I said.
‘So do most of the ladies who flirt with me,’ said Jack.
‘But I didn’t know there’d been any riots.’
‘Not here, in New York, end of June, just hours after Judy Garland’s funeral, and yet another brutal raid on a gay bar. Having already cried their hearts out for Judy, people felt raw, and they finally decided that enough was enough. I make jokes, but actually it was quite a big thing - and a long time coming, believe me. Now if Ada’s around I’d like a quick word.’ At the end of every call, Jack would always make a point of including auntie Ada, and not only for just a quick word. I would stay close by, and the three of us would discuss in a three-way conversation the arrangements auntie Ada was making.
We were all in agreement that Mr Magikoo should get a fitting send-off. When auntie Ada arranged for a notice to be placed in The Weekly Magic News, inviting friends and colleagues to his funeral at Hypnos Crematorium in Essex, for a couple of days the telephone didn’t stop ringing. Neither auntie Ada nor I had appreciated just how well respected and loved Mr Magikoo had remained right up until the end of his life. The numerous condolences were invariably overfilled with accolades: one of the few true greats; tragically cut down in his prime; sorely missed after retiring from the circuit prematurely; his brilliance undimmed even after tragedy had struck; bold; inventive; without the shadow of a doubt a true original.
Monsieur Legerdemain had been particularly effusive, and had charmed us into agreeing that the secular service should be part of a grand show of magic in whose spectacular finale Mr Magikoo would be cut into two, before being dispatched to be cremated.
‘Oh no, I don’t think we’d like that,’ a horrified auntie Ada had gasped. ‘He wants to cut your father in half,’ she whispered, covering the speaker with her hand.
‘I know,’ I whispered back. I could hear Monsieur Legerdemain’s every word: he spoke incredibly loudly, and auntie Ada always held the receiver away from her ear.
‘But, Madame, we’re illusionists, n’est-ce pas? It will be a special coffin, and the corpse will not be harmed, you have my word. And the word of Monsieur Legerdemain is his bond.’
‘It’ll be a special coffin, he says. Your father won’t be harmed, we have his word.’
>
‘I think daddy would’ve loved the idea, tell him yes.’
‘Hello, Monsieur Legerdemain, are you there?’
‘At your service, Madame.’
‘My niece and I both like the idea in principle, but we were wondering how much this special coffin would cost?’
‘But now you are insulting me, Madame. Mr Magikoo was one of us, a dear friend and a comrade, you will not be charged a single penny for any of our illusions.’
‘That’s very generous, Monsieur,’ giggled auntie Ada. ‘Thank you, then my niece and I are happy to accept your proposal.’
‘Excellent, excellent, and it is, I believe, what Mr Magikoo would’ve wanted. Naturally we shall all coordinate with Hypnos Crematorium, and I promise you a day to remember. Please convey my regards to your charming niece, and assure her, Madame, that we all share your pain most sincerely.’
When I told him the news, Jack wasn’t quite as thrilled as I had hoped.
‘A show of magic?’
‘It’s what daddy would’ve wanted.’
‘At his funeral?’
‘Yes. He wasn’t a conventional man.’
‘No, you’re right, he wasn’t.’
‘And he held Monsieur Legerdemain in very high regard, he always said so.’
‘But are you sure he’d have wanted him to cut him in half?’
‘He’s not really going to cut him in half. It’ll be a special coffin, I told you.’
‘With your father inside it?’
‘I suppose so,’ I said, but I wasn’t sure.
‘And the Hypnos people are okay with it?’
‘Why wouldn’t they be? We don’t have all the details yet, but there’s going to be a programme and everything. All the arrangements are being made…’
‘By Monsieur Lemonade.’
‘Please don’t make fun, Jack, daddy’s funeral isn’t a joke.’
‘You’re the ones who want to cut him in half.’
‘No we don’t! Monsieur Legerdemain is an illusionist, he’s not the local butcher.’
‘I’m sure that’s what the rabbits used to think about your dad.’
‘Well, there won’t be any rabbits at the funeral,’ I said. ‘There won’t be any animals at all, auntie Ada made that clear. Just a single white dove at the end.’
‘Oh God, in how many pieces?’
‘You’re just mean,’ I said, and I hung up, but Jack called back straight away and I answered.
‘You’re right, it’s just what your dad would’ve wanted.’
‘I really think so,’ I said.
True to his word, Monsieur Legerdemain had taken care of everything. The programmes were ready to be printed, Hypnos Crematorium had expressed some very minor reservations regarding noise and the use of pyrotechnics indoors, but they had all been ironed out, and yes, there would be a switch of coffins just before the cremation. By the time my father disappeared behind a curtain to be burnt, the coffin that transported him would be the solidly solemn Hypnos Triple Deluxe.
In a later call, Monsieur Legerdemain had insisted that the cutting of the coffin in half would be very much short of a spectacular finale unless people had seen with their own eyes that Mr Magikoo was actually inside it.
‘So during the performance, the top half of your brother’s special coffin will naturally have to stay open.’
This had come as a rather unexpected shock.
‘Oh no, I don’t think we’d like that,’ a horrified auntie Ada had gasped again. ‘He’s insisting on a half-open coffin,’ she whispered with her hand over the speaker. And then returning to Monsieur Legerdemain, ‘My brother’s been dead for almost a month, he’ll hardly be looking his best.’
‘But, Madame, I’ve just seen him, and I assure you, they’ve done a splendid job at Hypnos, our Mr Magikoo looks like an angel asleep. He has a beautiful colour, he’s so rosy it’s hard to believe that sadly he’s no longer of this world.’
Again I could hear every word, but this time I snatched the receiver out of auntie Ada’s crooked hands. The idea of my father’s bloated head, chemically embalmed then smeared with garish make-up and presumably bereft of its toupee, staring out of a coffin while Monsieur Legerdemain was pretending to be cutting it in half, had made my eyes pop. It was literally sacrilege, and I wouldn’t allow it.
‘Hello, Monsieur, this is Jane Hareman… that’s right, his daughter… yes, she did pass on your condolences, thank you… I wouldn’t say we’re looking forward to it exactly, no… Look, Monsieur Legerdemain, there’s no way we’ll agree to an open coffin, and if that means a less spectacular finale… your reputation, Monsieur? No, I don’t see why people need to see him in the coffin… but it’s his funeral, where else would he be?’
I would have rather had the funeral cancelled than agree to an open coffin, and in the end Monsieur Legerdemain had given in.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But this is not what your father would’ve wanted.’
‘What a hideous little man,’ auntie Ada screeched as soon as the receiver had returned to its cradle. ‘The truth is, I’ve never liked the French. They’re rude, and they deliberately lose their wars so that other people have to fight them for them!’
‘Auntie Ada, that’s not true. And anyway, the hideous little man isn’t actually French.’
‘He’s not?’
‘He calls you Madame and throws in the occasional “n’est-ce pas”, but to be fair to him he doesn’t even try to sound French.’
‘So where’s he from if he’s not French?’
‘According to The Weekly Magic News he’s from Wales. Monsieur Legerdemain is just a stage name.’
‘He’s from Wales?’
‘Aberystwyth,’ I said. ‘I thought you’d be glad.’
‘Glad? Why should I be glad? At least the French have class, what on earth do the Welsh have?’
‘Auntie Ada, you’re a snob.’
‘They did have Dylan Thomas, I suppose… Oh, I’m only pulling your leg. Of course I knew Monsieur Legerdemain wasn’t French. N’est-ce pas, my foot!’
Jack’s reaction to the suggestion of an open coffin had less of the “I told you so” about it than I had expected.
‘To be honest, Jane, I can’t say I’m surprised. These people are showmen…’
‘My father was a showman too.’
‘And maybe he’s right, this Monsieur Legerdemain. Maybe it’s what George would’ve wanted.’
‘To be displayed without his toupee as a prop, looking like a clown? I don’t think so!’
‘Because it isn’t what you want, nor is it what I want. And it’s too late to ask George, so I think that’s where the flaw is, pretending that we’re doing all this for him. We’re doing it for ourselves, but in the end it hardly makes any difference. What we’ll remember is your father and the fact that he’s gone, not how good the show was at his funeral.’
‘I miss you,’ I said. ‘You haven’t been to visit me once.’
‘I call you every day.’
‘It’s not the same. And daddy wanted you here.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘I don’t care about being fair.’
‘After the funeral I promise we’ll sit down and discuss things. I just need these few days to myself.’
‘And then you’ll come back?’
‘Only if you still want me to.’ Jack’s words had fallen short of reassurance. I suspected there were other factors too – auntie Ada, perhaps, or his job at the salon – that were weighing against what I wanted.
I clung to Jack’s advice – to let go of but also to learn from the past - and I tried to be nice to auntie Ada, which generally meant keeping out of her way. As the day of the funeral drew closer, instead of becoming more subdued, she seemed to almost revel in the petty distractions of detail. While I gorged on every scrap of paper that helped piece together my father’s career, preparing for the few words I wanted to say while my father changed coffins, she was either on the te
lephone or out – window-shopping for a funeral dress, checking up on the florist, running around on unspecified errands. Jack was right. When it finally happened, the funeral would last but a very short moment, followed by anti-climax and the eternity of life without my father. But for now it was keeping us busy.
With just forty-eight hours to go before the big event, while auntie Ada was out again I felt a sudden urge to take a look inside Mr Magikoo’s Magik Shoppe. Since going on a search party for auntie Ada I had barely stepped out of the house, and as I squinted at the brightness of the sun after I had double-locked the door, wondering if I should buy myself a pair of sunglasses before the funeral, the shifting, animated blur at the end of the road gradually began to take shape. It was Sergeant Morris, engaging Auntie Ada in what appeared to be a deep conversation. When auntie Ada moved, blocking my view of the sergeant, I unlocked the door to the shop and closed it very quietly behind me. After the Inspector’s warnings, I suspected that the sergeant was probably attempting to extract from auntie Ada the kind of “colourful” or “lurid” information he knew he would be able to sell. And no doubt auntie Ada was telling Sergeant Morris to sod off.
There was a pile of mail on the doormat, an untidy little mountain, unusually multi-coloured. The brown of officialdom was sparse, and as I scooped all the envelopes up, not intending to go through them until after the funeral but rather just to move them from the floor to the counter, I could see that the bulk of them had been addressed to “Mr Magikoo”, some in calligraphic handwriting, others typewritten, and quite a number of them in a childish scrawl. Like The Beatles and Santa Claus and Hollywood stars, my father had fans! Some of them might not even have heard that Mr Magikoo had passed on. Their letters would make painful reading, but I was determined to reply individually to all of them.
And then I saw it: the only envelope without a stamp, addressed simply to “Jane”, the four letters almost etched into the paper in Karl’s characteristically tight, left-handed scribble. His separated, non-cursive handwriting had always reminded me of musical notes - I would have recognised it anywhere. And as I did, all the other envelopes fell out of my hand, cascading like a waterfall of paper back into a pile on the floor.
The Madness of Grief Page 17