The Flower Girl

by Maggie Ford

  Despite opposition from the Pavilion, the illusionist there purporting to be Chinese but as Western as anyone could be, according to Theo, the Great Theodore was still the talk of the town, filling the Palace of Varieties twice nightly. When this ended he was booked for a three-month engagement at the Oxford at a salary far exceeding that which he was now commanding.

  He gently helped Emma into the back seat, getting in beside her, thus compelling Martin to sit in the front with the chauffeur. There he put an arm about her, drawing her close to him with a firmness that prevented her pulling away from him.

  They were at the theatre in plenty of time for his appearance, as always, allowing time to go over any move in need of checking and to be sure his apparatus was where it should be.

  In the dressing room Emma hadn’t felt too bad, installed on the chaise longue Theo had had brought in for her. But later, sitting on a chair in the wings at his insistence, she was feeling the effects of being out for the first time. Fighting down a wave of weakness, all she wanted was to be taken home and put to bed to sink down under the soft warm covers. It was always cold backstage, more so in winter, and she was shivering.

  Theo’s face was dark as they came off, even though it was to huge applause.

  ‘This is no good.’ He glared at Martin as the curtain fell and stagehands rushed to clear away his apparatus. ‘They are applauding, but what they want is my mind-reading act. The whole thing is useless without it.’

  Emma squirmed. Surely he wasn’t expecting her to go on stage so soon. She remained silent.

  Theo was pacing in the wings, ignoring the next act to go on, finally turning abruptly and making for his dressing room. Martin helping her to her feet, the two of them followed.

  ‘Amelia should be at home,’ he said as she sank down on the chaise longue. ‘She doesn’t look at all well.’

  Theo glanced at him through the small dressing-table mirror and for a moment his reflected expression was tight with hate. ‘And you would know about that, would you?’

  He broke off, but Emma experienced a prickling of foreboding that he knew more about her and Martin than was good for them. They had been careful not to let their feelings show, but he saw more than people thought – it was his stock in trade, after all.

  ‘I only know that she doesn’t look well,’ Martin was saying.

  Theo had turned back to his reflection. ‘Very well,’ he conceded. ‘Go and tell Robins to bring the car and take her home, then come back to wait for us.’

  He hadn’t once offered her any sympathy, nor as she was assisted away by Robins did he wish her better or bid her farewell.

  He arrived home earlier than she had expected, coming straight from the show. Normally he would have gone on to supper somewhere, to meet friends and drink well past midnight. Perhaps he hadn’t felt so inclined without her there, or perhaps he was anxious to get home and see how she was, sympathetic for once. But he didn’t ask her how she felt. He merely got into bed beside her, his back to her, without even bothering to murmur goodnight.

  She hadn’t expected him to. Her eyes tightly closed as he came to bed; no doubt he hadn’t wanted to disturb her. In fact, it was a relief. Even having his back touch her made her muscles tighten with loathing

  The following morning, feeling a lot better, she rested all day in a loose tea gown, not even dressing her hair. Her wish now was to visit her mother, who was probably wondering why she hadn’t been to see her, but she would have to take things gently for a few more days yet.

  Lunch was again taken in relative silence, Emma avoiding Martin’s eyes, and he hers. He went out just after lunch. So did Theo. Mrs Hart would be off soon, having washed up and tidied.

  ‘Will you be all right on your own, dear?’ Mrs Hart asked. ‘Is there anything I can do for you before I go?’

  Emma nodded her head to the former, and shook it to the latter, which appeared to satisfy Mrs Hart, who took off her apron, donned her hat and coat and departed with, ‘I’ll be back at five,’ to which Emma again nodded.

  Left alone, she felt much stronger and sat by the window taking in the busy Friday going on below the wide lounge window. It was then she heard a key turn in the front door lock. Mrs Hart must have forgotten something. But it was Theo who came into the lounge, his voice shattering her earlier peace. He studied her as she looked up at him, wishing it were Martin standing there, and she felt her cheeks glow at her thoughts of him. Theo saw immediately, and seemed to take it as meant for him. He smiled. ‘You seem much better, my dear.’

  Emma managed to produce a smile, presenting her cheek to him to kiss, hating the touch of his hands on her shoulders. ‘I think I’m over the worst,’ she said obligingly.

  ‘I am glad.’ He went to stare out of the window, his hands behind his back. There was something menacing about that stance. ‘I’m glad because I must have you back in the act, my dear. I thought about it last night. You slept well and I can see you’re recovered at last. You seemed more your old self this morning. I think you are ready to take your place once again.’

  Emma stared at the broad, perfectly still back. ‘Theo, I can’t, not just yet.’ His turning made her jump, it was so immediate. From his height his blue eyes bore into hers.

  ‘And how long do you think it will be before you deem that you can?’ It was a challenge rather than a question. Her voice came out small.

  ‘I don’t know, but …’

  ‘So my dearest doesn’t know,’ came the caustic interruption, each word carefully measured. ‘Then I shall enlighten her. To me she looks well enough recovered to appear before our audience this evening and enliven their interest with her glittering presence. I’m being asked from all quarters when you will be with us again. There is some fear you may have left us altogether. But that’s not the case, is it, Amelia, my dear?’

  Emma shook her head, angry with herself for doing so. She should have fought him but she’d lost the strength, and the will.

  ‘Fine,’ he concluded, interrupting her as she made an attempt to protest. ‘So tonight you will make your entrance.’

  ‘Theo …’

  ‘I take it you haven’t forgotten all you have been taught concerning our mind-reading act? Don’t worry, my dear, you have the rest of today to relax. I will make sure you are not interrupted.’ She was left stunned and aghast by the man he was becoming and by this new and overpowering hatred she now had for him.

  Martin came back later, unable to speak to her for Theo’s constant presence. There was now one thought in her mind. She would recover from this, go on stage, and tonight she would shine, but not for his benefit. Then she’d tell him she would never marry him even if he threw her out.

  Theo was right – she did feel well enough to be on stage. To give him his due, he was being considerate, the routine moderated so as not to tax her too much, using Martin in her stead for moves requiring the contortion of a body to fit into small, cramped spaces; the agility used in making swift disappearances or reappearance seeming miraculous.

  The mind-reading routine went without a hitch. Her few days’ rest seemed to have improved her memory, if not her physical self, which still felt a wee bit shaky. Seeing her perfect performance, Theo took heart.

  ‘I think you are up to the levitation on the scimitars,’ he said quite suddenly after their first appearance, and despite her protest, considered it reintroduced in the next act later that evening.

  ‘We will surprise them tonight,’ he announced. ‘We’ll delight them.’

  ‘Theo,’ she begged. ‘I don’t think I’m strong enough yet.’

  It was no good. Try as she might, he was adamant, eyeing her slim body up and down and saying she would be fine.

  She watched, numbed, as each turn went on stage and came off. Theo was hastily supervising setting up the necessary equipment backstage. This illusion had always been spectacular, holding the audience spellbound and gripped by fear as the girl slowly levitated and came to rest over the three gleaming
scimitars, her body lowering itself at his command on to their apparently deadly sharp points. The audience had seen how sharp they were, as one had previously been shown to slice cleanly and without effort through a sheet of paper before its point was thrown down to cruelly pierce a block of wood, leaving its steel blade to shiver dramatically. Yet the scimitars miraculously failed to pierce the tender flesh of the girl supported on a single one by only her neck as the other two blades were removed.

  Would she have the strength to hold her body rigid even on the thin, slender, steel sheet that, unseen by the audience, supported the rest of her body?

  She’d been trained to hold still and rigid and had always done it to perfection, her body strong; and the stiffness from the fall had quite gone. But those days of rest had made the muscles weak. They should have been worked on. Not only that, but her heart was no longer in it and strength of mind counted for a lot in this game.

  She no longer had strength of mind, nor the will, and indeed, was beginning not to feel well. The thought was turning what strength there was in her muscles to water as she watched him go about his preparations behind the scenes. Perhaps it would go well so long as she concentrated on what was required of her.

  Martin, watching the procedure, touched her arm. ‘You can’t let him make you do this. One false move and you could be badly hurt. Can’t he see you’re still not fully recovered? If you move just slightly and if that steel support slips …’ he didn’t finish that sentence. ‘Why are you letting him do this to you? You could refuse.’

  His words brought unexpected determination. She wouldn’t let Theo see her fear. He had put her through enough over the abortion, seen her at her weakest and had ignored it. He wasn’t going to see it again, ever.

  Once it was over and they left the stage to a thunderous applause, she would tell him that she was leaving – leaving him, leaving his act, she and Martin together. Martin need never know what Theo had made her do. He loved her. He had as good as said he wanted to marry her. They’d go away together and put all this behind them.

  That Theo was in love with her was beyond doubt, but it was a selfish love, a need to possess. He’d be devastated at losing what he’d assumed was his, and she would revel in it. She had money saved and Martin wasn’t hard up, coming from a well-to-do family who would be only too glad to have him leave this profession and rejoin the family business. Even if they did not see her as the proper wife for their son, Martin had said she was the only one he wanted and in time he’d get them to come round. Whatever, it would still be wonderful to live her life with a normal human being after Theo.

  She more or less knew the true reason he had sought to team up with Theo again. ‘I was drawn to you the moment I saw you,’ he’d told her some time back. ‘But you were so young then. When I saw you again, you’d grown up and I was swept off my feet by the sight of you. Do you think I’d have put up with him if it wasn’t for you?’

  He’d said how devastated he’d been when he found that she had consented to marrying Theo. ‘I had no idea you loved me,’ she’d explained, filled with regret. ‘Nor was I sure then of my own feelings.’

  She gave Martin a smile as the orchestra began building up for Theo’s dramatic entrance. As ever, striking a theatrical posture, he drew delight from his audience, waiting for such a one as this. The lights slowly dimmed to an eerie glow, a single spotlight concentrating on his impressive figure in its sombre evening dress and cloak.

  In a moment he would extend a dramatic hand towards the wings and she’d emerge, the dim light making her gown of shimmering green appear ethereal against his almost satanic image, but she’d reach out one slender arm and touch his face with a tender, loving hand. The audience would clap their appreciation and with the applause dying away a strange atmosphere would settle over the auditorium.

  ‘I shall be fine, my dearest,’ she whispered hastily to Martin as Theo held out his hand towards her for her entrance. ‘I love you.’

  ‘And I love you,’ Martin whispered in return as she moved away. As Theo received her apparently loving gesture, Martin too would come on stage to take up his place to one side as the back curtain slowly lifted to reveal the sinister props used by the Great Theodore.

  The first part went well, as always: the many sleights of hand; now including a fiery container and the sword piercing in which Martin took part, then the mind-reading at which she and Theo so excelled and which this evening brought the usual gasps and awed cries.

  The clapping died away, as did the music, and as Emma left the stage to change hurriedly into her diaphanous costume with its flowing skirts, Theo announced in deep, sonorous tones, that with the return of the delightful Amelia Beech to the stage, he was reintroducing the dangerous and sensational three-scimitar scene.

  With a back curtain of his own design, an Arabian scene, descending, preparations were made, the table covered in rich gold cloth brought in, the scimitars introduced, one of genuine steel and now embedded in a block of wood where he had thrust it to more gasps from the audience. Emma in her floating skirts came on stage, barefoot and with a veil hiding her nose and mouth.

  ‘Don’t do it!’ Martin had pleaded, now in an identical costume to hers, the trick being to appear from the wings seconds after her vanishing, to complete the illusion.

  ‘I promised,’ she’d gasped and he reached out to catch her arm but let it slide through his hand. Whether Theo saw it from where he stood, he gave no sign and she came out for this final dramatic illusion.

  She was having to fight against a wave of nausea. It had been a long evening and she was becoming almost too worn out to deal with this. Hardly out of her sick bed, she was a fool to agree to it. But she hadn’t agreed, Theo had just assumed.

  The lights dimming again, she stepped into the circle of the spotlight. No one applauded, everyone tense and waiting. Gracefully she would approach the narrow table, cross her arms over her breast and, apparently hypnotised, sink back into Theo’s arms to be laid upon on the table, face upwards.

  The strong, supporting metal sheet, hidden from the audience by her trailing skirt, would lift her body slowly and theatrically, seemingly under his influence, its single upright support concealed by his cloaked figure. A hoop would be skilfully passed around and around her suspended figure with the use of clever misdirection to prove that no visible support held her aloft.

  He would take the scimitars and again strike the edge of one of them clean through the paper to show its sharpness. Then, with the hilts balanced in their slots on the table, the points upwards, he would bid her rigid form to sink until only her crossed ankles, the middle of her back and the nape of her neck, rested on the points, appearing to be her only support. The one at her feet he’d remove with dramatic gestures, then the centre one, leaving her still rigid, apparently supported by that one single point at the nape of her neck, a miracle in itself. He’d then shroud her with a white silken cloth.

  Seconds later he would bring both hands up and strike downwards on the concealed form with both fists and with such force that some in the audience would leap up in terror as a piercing scream was torn from her throat to echo around the theatre. A patch of blood would appear on the white silk, bringing more cries from the audience.

  Then with a flourish, he would rip away the soiled silk to reveal the single scimitar standing on its hilt, the body gone. Instantly, Martin in an auburn wig, yashmak and Eastern costume would appear from the wings, with a low curtsey, his head lowered, and then retreat, so giving Emma time to regain her breath after running the length of the backstage to the wings to take her place and come out to receive her encore by a relieved and ecstatic audience. Theo would take her by the hand and parade her back and forth before a rapturous audience, Martin too, hurriedly divested of his disguise, would come out to take a bow also.

  The stunning illusion had been performed many times these past months, but tonight it didn’t happen. As she approached the table, the stage and its spotlight began to w
aver before her eyes. Desperately she fought it, but her physical weakness began to win.

  ‘Theo!’ she gasped. ‘Give me … one minute. I …’

  The words fell away as her breathing seemed to give out. She was falling, slowly, powerlessly, the stage rising to meet her, a hollow, rushing noise in her ears obliterating all other sounds.

  She regained consciousness in a hospital bed with Martin gazing down at her. While Theo spoke to the doctor, Martin told her that the curtain had to be brought down on the act and she herself taken off.

  The manager, going out front to calm a frantic audience, had told them in full and flowing terms that their beautiful, favourite and much acclaimed idol, Amelia Beech, had only that evening bravely returned to the stage after an illness – had left her sickbed prematurely and had fainted away.

  Amid prolonged applause well-wishers had yelled their hopes for her swift recovery, identifying with her for even daring that fearsome levitation.

  With Theo out of hearing, Martin managed to whisper to her that he had been beside himself with fear for her safety.

  ‘What if it had happened while you were up there or jumping down off that support? I love you so much, sweetheart. I couldn’t bear for something to happen to you. I want so dearly to marry you.’

  Before she could respond, Theo was stalking back, having been told that her collapse had merely been a faint.

  ‘You have made a fool of me, Amelia,’ were his immediate words. She saw Martin grow tense.

  ‘How can you talk to her like that?’ he exploded, sending fear through her that he might so easily betray them. ‘She didn’t do it deliberately. Can’t you understand she’s been ill? You made her come back too soon, and all you can think of is looking a fool! Haven’t you any decent feelings?’

  ‘I know that my finest illusion has become a laughing stock.’

  ‘And that’s all that matters to you.’

  Theo’s piercing blue eyes glittered. ‘I take it that your concern for Amelia is purely a polite one? It could lead a person to imagine you have more than a passing concern for the woman who will be my wife in a couple of months.’