by Maggie Ford
On Thursday evening, weary from having worked hard to sell all the extra flowers Mum had made, confident that she could get rid of them too after having done so well previously, Emma stood in Theodore Barrington’s room. He had on an evening suit, somewhat musty from storage, but his fair beard was now thick, and trimmed short and neat. It became him and did indeed give him the appearance of King Edward except that he was tall and upright, and the King was old with receding hair, and, she’d been told, much shorter.
‘Tea?’ Barrington enquired casually as he closed the door behind her.
Without waiting for her to reply, he began spooning a few leaves from a bag into the only mug he appeared to possess, pouring hot water from the kettle that had already been heated awaiting her arrival. He ladled in a single spoonful of condensed milk, stirring it for her before handing it over.
‘There is no sugar, but the condensed milk is sweet.’ His deep voice filled the empty room.
‘Are you having some?’ she asked, resorting to what she called her posh voice, taking it that this was what he would require of her.
He gave a sharp shake of his head, seeming not to have noticed her efforts, and taking down a small tumbler and a small bottle, quarter-full of amber liquid, from a shelf over the bed. ‘I shall have this.’
With slow deliberation he poured a little of what she guessed was cheap whisky into the tumbler and as slowly, carefully, drained it as he stood. Putting bottle and glass back on to the shelf, he turned back to her.
‘Now. Sit down, Amelia,’ he said. ‘Drink your tea, and watch.’
All the paraphernalia she’d seen yesterday was back in the boxes, and from one of them he brought out a pack of cards still in its wrapping. This he removed, and placing the pack on the table, swiftly spread the cards into two fans, and gathering them up, cut the deck and expertly riffled it.
‘This illusion is performed before a large audience in a darkened theatre, five or six people each invited to draw a card, look at it and replace it back into the pack before my assistant passes on to the next person many rows and several seats away from the first. Now, you will take a card, look at it and place it face down in any part of the pack you wish. Do not let me see the card.’
Emma did as instructed and saw him hold the pack tightly, at the same time gazing deeply into her eyes as though seeing into her mind. ‘You chose the ten of diamonds,’ he announced.
Emma gasped. ‘How did yer know?’
He remained gazing at her while she itched to know. If she were to be his assistant, would she be allowed into the secret? She noticed a frown on his brow and knew immediately what she had said.
‘You,’ she corrected and saw the brow slowly clear. ‘How did you know?’ she repeated.
‘You have no idea at all?’ he countered whimsically. ‘Think.’
Emma thought, at a complete loss and shook her head.
‘You cannot guess? Not at all?’
‘No. Ain’t you – I mean, aren’t you going to tell me then?’
For reply he placed the whole pack, face up, into her hands. ‘Look at them,’ he commanded. Emma spread the cards a little tentatively and gave another gasp, this time one of accusation. Every card was a ten of diamonds, with the exception of the bottom one, which was two of clubs.
‘It was just a trick!’ she exclaimed, laughing at being duped.
‘Of course it is a trick. But before a large audience and in a darkened theatre, who is going to know what the other saw?’
He did not laugh with her. To him, his career was no laughing matter. ‘I merely ask those who take a card and then replace it at my assistant’s bidding, to stand up.’
This time the smallest semblance of a smile touched Barrington’s lips.
‘As the lights come up I hold the pack aloft, tap it several times, stare at each person in turn and then announce the name of the card.’
‘But they’ve all got the same card,’ Emma cried. ‘They’d know.’
‘Who is going to consult with complete strangers, separated by several dozen seats from each other? I’ve already swapped the pack without their knowing. My tapping and staring and holding the pack aloft is called misdirection. In other words, I am taking an audience’s attention from what I am really doing. By the time they recover themselves, I am on to another piece of magic. A simple pretence of mind-reading.’
Emma was stunned, longing to be part of this marvel. But he was asking her to watch again. Soon, cards, balls, kerchiefs, wands, were disappearing and reappearing before her eyes and from less than two feet away, all with such flourish that she couldn’t believe what she saw. His fingers flew and rippled so fast that her eyes could not even follow, leaving her overawed.
‘You’re not going to tell me how you did that, are you?’ she queried at one stage, to have him reply, ‘No,’ as he continued with hardly a pause.
The demonstrations coming to an end, he gazed intently at her. ‘One day I shall thrust swords through your body, cause you to rise into the air with no sign of support, sever your head from your shoulders, cause you to vanish in flames and reappear in the wings. I shall present you to your audience, and you will smile to show yourself to be utterly unscathed.’
He touched her shoulder, the hand resting there. ‘I will dress you in gowns such as you have never seen. We will dine in the finest restaurants in the company of polite society and I will introduce you to the famous, the celebrated, the distinguished.’ He was casting pearls before her radiant gaze.
‘Oh, yes!’ she whispered, her heart thumping like a steam engine. ‘I can’t ’ardly wait.’ She broke off, meeting his sudden frown. ‘Hardly,’ she rectified hastily, then hurried on, this time trying hard to guard her speech. ‘I just never knew you was …’
‘Were.’
‘Were,’ she said, sobering. ‘Were as clever as all that.’
Theodore allowed a smile. More at the effect his trifling demonstration of prestidigitation had had on her than being amused by her graceless effort to speak her tongue properly. Yet those eager attempts drew out something in his better self.
‘You will do well, I can see that,’ he said, his arm still resting on her shoulder. ‘But you must not allow your excitement to take hold of you too soon, my dear. First I need to experiment on a street audience. Nothing too complicated to begin with. My movements are not yet as nimble as they should be.’
He stopped her as she made to protest. Obviously she had been in awe. ‘Not to my satisfaction. I shall continue to practise, and you, my dear, must practise speaking in a manner to match your new life. As for myself, I admit I have some doubts as to whether I can do this after so long away.’
‘I’ll be with you though, won’t I?’ she said.
Her sincerity touched something within him and he drew her to him.
‘My dear Amelia!’ he whispered. ‘You have given me hope where once I had none. Before meeting you, I had fallen to such depths that I could see nothing but wretchedness ahead of me. That day we collided in the fog was the day I began to regain a purpose in life, and even now you give me reason to climb back to where I once was.’ He knew it was drama, but he meant it.
His arms about her, he breathed in the natural perfume of her hair, finding it surprisingly pleasant. Pleasant too, the way she remained still.
Too surprised to extricate herself from this uncharacteristic embrace, she caught the taint of the whisky, the faint fragrance of tobacco and soap. Soap – this hovel with nowhere to wash properly; he probably went regularly to the public bath-house. Someone once used to cleanliness and order would surely seek cleanliness despite all else.
Even as he released her almost immediately with a muttered, ‘Thank you for your trust, my dear,’ her mind was made up. Her life would soon be changed, thanks to him, and there seemed no need at all for confirmation.
Ben slouched towards The Flying Swan. He hadn’t been to that pub for ages even though it was his local. Afterwards he’d spend the rest of his
Saturday night somewhere brighter.
He had a mauve-coloured, swollen area around his left eye, a cut and swollen lip and his solar plexus ached abominably, but he had money in his pocket. True, he hadn’t correctly sized up the true weight of his opponent, and only climbing into the ring had he seen the error too late as the man dropped the robe he’d been wearing.
A real heavyweight, fourteen stone at least, a giant around the girth. Ben was around twelve even though he’d been leaner and younger and matched the man for height. Having to punch above his weight had taken it out of him, lasting nine rounds, by which time he’d been well tired, but so had his opponent. Yes, he’d taken a proper battering, but proving lighter on his feet and carrying the longer punch, he’d finally floored his man and come away with a purse of several quid. He intended to spend it all. The last time he’d been generous, Mum hadn’t blinked an eye in gratitude, so this time it was all his. He’d earned it. Painfully.
Mum hadn’t been pleased to see the state he was in. She thought he’d lost and he’d let her think that, incurring some of her anger, but what did it matter? He might drop a couple of bob on her table later, if there was any left. It all depended on how generous he felt or how broke he ended.
After a drink in The Flying Swan he’d look for a few of his mates in Commercial Road. Lively after dark, there were open-fronted shops with automatic sideshows, penny slot machines to play games on, others giving a peep into a domestic scene of girls undressing enough to get excited over; a penny in an automatic piano gave out lively popular tunes. There were sideshows and shooting galleries, and maybe in some alley they’d get in on a card game or pitch and toss, confident of the lookout on the corner, thumbs casually hooked in his belt, keeping an eye out for any copper nosing around. Tonight he felt lucky, might even make a killing.
Before finally going home he’d lounge around some bright and busy coffee stall past which girls would stroll, arm in arm. He’d gauge them like a crow spotting carrion, their way of looking at a bloke to show they were willing for a bit of fun. Some were obviously professional, demanding payment, but others were just silly little tarts ready to fall for any line. He was still seeing Clara on and off. After all these months going out with him from time to time, she was beginning to take it that they were courting. He’d have to put her right on that score, but she did come in handy when need be – very pretty and what was more, very willing. She obviously felt that he might not bother with her if she didn’t give him what he wanted. She was small too. Small frames melted easily into a bloke’s arms. It made him feel masterful.
He never saw her on Saturdays, preferring to be with his mates, and certainly never on Sunday, even though she’d asked. Sundays were for walking out with your intended on your arm and that would be just asking to commit himself. Clara was all right now and again, but for the rest of his life? He didn’t think so. Not yet, anyway.
Halfway along Mitre Street he noticed two people passing the end of the turning into Three Colts Street, going towards the main road. The man was carrying a large Gladstone bag while the girl had a smaller one.
It was the girl who held his gaze. It was getting dark and he only had a glimpse of her but he was sure it was Emma. What was she doing with a man? It was a man – a lad would be lighter on his feet, even if with the hunched shoulders common to the thin, East End lad. This man held himself upright, his bearing full of confidence, his build definitely that of a man.
The need for a drink forgotten, Ben sprinted the short distance to the end of the street. If it was Em, he’d yank her back home as sure as God had made little apples. He’d teach a girl of hardly sixteen to keep company with strange men! In his mind were those girls he’d paid a tanner or two for a bit of relief up some alley. Was she at that lark too? His own sister? If she was, he’d give her a right wallop when he got her home.
On the corner of the main road there was a beer shop, liquor mainly served through a hatch. Racing up to it, he surveyed a sprinkling of drinkers outside on the pavement in the hope of apprehending those two, but there was no sign of them.
Sprinting here after what he’d been through earlier that evening made the beer shop appealing. He was aware of a desperate thirst, and maybe it hadn’t been Em, but someone like her. He should have known, his sister wasn’t that sort of girl.
Lounging against the brick wall of the beer shop with his pint and an evening paper bought from a newsboy still shouting his lungs out on the corner, he sipped his beer and read in complete contentment now. If the glow from the beer shop window revealed stark signs on his face of a fight, making those around him sidle away, he couldn’t have cared less. He’d done his duty by his sister, realised it couldn’t have been her, but at least he was keeping an eye on her, he told himself.
Chapter Ten
With her tray of unsold flowers dangling from its string around her neck, Emma stood a little way off from Theo – he had asked her to call him that – watching him display his conjuring skills to the queue waiting patiently to be allowed into the Apollo Music Hall in Bethnal Green.
‘I merely require you to stand by and watch while you sell your own wares,’ he’d instructed. ‘That way you will learn and keep your mother appeased at one and the same time.’
Other than the few who bought a posy off her, her presence went unheeded, no one with any notion of a connection between her and him, and from her spot she could marvel how he made the playing cards, coins and kerchiefs disappear and reappear not three feet from the onlookers.
‘I’ve chosen the Apollo to make my debut,’ he’d said as he hailed a hackney cab in the Commercial Road. ‘Nothing too ambitious to begin with.’
She had been surprised at him paying out good money for a cab. ‘Can you afford it?’ she’d asked and saw him smile.
‘I’ve no intention of taking an omnibus attired as I am,’ he said. In cape, opera hat and white gloves, he’d seemed full of confidence, although he must have felt some nervousness about this first performance after so long away from it. She knew she did, even if she was only standing by doing what she had always done while he captured the wonder of those watching.
It was a strange evening. Returning home, he saw her to her street like a gentleman, and like a gentleman came no further to put her at any disadvantage. He stayed until she was safely at her own door before leaving, in her hand five silver sixpences, half a crown in all, plus her own takings.
It still felt wrong accepting his money, she had done so little. ‘This is your share,’ he said severely. ‘In time you will be required to do a good deal more than just stand watching, so do not be too eager with your scruples.’
He’d mentioned returning to the same pitch the following week, but with different tricks. ‘One must not use the same routine too often, even though the queues change. They must always be kept guessing, never given too long to think about one trick before another is there before their eyes.’
As they parted, he’d said softly, ‘I couldn’t have done this without you, my dear. You gave me strength. I think it went well.’
‘But I didn’t do nothing,’ she burst out.
There came the familiar disapproving frown. ‘That is ungrammatical, Amelia, a double negative.’ She had no idea what double negative was, but he’d taken her by the shoulders to stare deep into her eyes and explained, putting her right. ‘If you did nothing, then that is what you say. If you didn’t do nothing, it means you have done something. Think about it, Amelia.’
Left temporarily confused, she found herself sent on her way, vowing to please him and try harder to speak as he wished her to, to practise night and day if need be. The half-crown tightly clutched, she began practising immediately. Hadn’t done nothing – no, had done nothing. There, she had mastered that one already! She would remember that for next time.
Pleased with herself, she let herself in and hurried up the stairs, the money comfortingly warm in her grasp. Quickly she put it in her skirt pocket before opening the door. M
um mustn’t know. She’d ask questions and make life awkward. She’d tuck it away for the time being. When she had accrued more that would be the time to present Mum with it, and it would make awkward explanations about Theodore that much easier. Excitement gripped her.
It came to her that this was in fact her wages although he’d said nothing beforehand about that. But if she was to be paid, then she could look forward to having more money than she’d ever owned in her life. Who wouldn’t be excited?
There was only one thing wrong – he’d spoken of playing the queues on both Friday and Saturday night. Friday was awkward – according to Mum’s ritual, an evening for staying in and washing hair. Tight for money or not, she had maintained from the first that cleanliness was far more important than trying to make a living. ‘We have our pride,’ she’d say. ‘We might live in squalid parts,’ she’d say, ‘but that don’t mean we should let ourselves go filthy. I keep up me standards as best I can, and we wash our ’air regular as we’ve always done even if we can’t always afford the public baths. Yer a self-respecting gel and I ain’t seein’ yer with dirty ’air.’
That meant a basin filled from laboriously heated pans over the fire, her dripping, waist-length auburn hair having to be rubbed for an hour or more until bone-dry, but never, it seemed, dry enough for her to dare go out into the night air and catch her death. Mum would wash hers for her, rinsing it from an old white jug of plain water, then with vinegar, if she had any, to bring out the natural auburn highlights. She in turn would do Mum’s, the business of drying long hair taking up the whole evening.
She was going to have to tell Theo about Friday. As he requested, she went to see him on the Wednesday. ‘I wish to make clear what will be required of you as time goes on,’ he said, but her main purpose was to clear up this Friday business. After all, she’d hardly be needed, merely standing watching. He had proved he could do well enough without her for the time being, and of course, she wouldn’t expect to get paid, not being there.