With my bouquet of plastic daisies, I made my way to the side of Sweeney Todd and took a hesitant bow. The applause made my heart beat even faster.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, before your unbelieving eyes Little Magik Matchstick will cross in one piece, unscratched and completely unscathed, from this to the other side of Sweeney Todd through the horrifying Scylla and Charybdis of its overlapping blades, begging your indulgence, if I may, for my modest mythological flourish. Ladies and Gentlemen, I will now give you a small illustration of the truly mortal danger to which Little Magik Matchstick will shortly be subjecting herself. Voluntarily, I can assure you. Happily, even…’ Here he paused for a moment while he dug into the inside of his cape. ‘As you can see, I’m holding in my hand an ordinary cucumber fresh from the market. I am holding it in front of me, and I’m approaching Sweeney Todd. Now I’m poking it like so at the innards of this vicious machine, and I’m holding in my hand… half an ordinary cucumber, fresh from the market… Please, Ladies and Gentlemen, without further ado put your hands together for Little Magik Matchstick!’
‘STOP! Turn off that horrible abomination right now, or so help me, George, I’m going to the police.’
‘Auntie Ada!’ I mumbled to myself in astonishment.
‘This isn’t entertainment, this is cruelty and abuse,’ auntie Ada continued to boom, zooming down the central aisle to the foot of the stage.
‘Hear, hear!’ someone yelled.
‘Off, off, off!’ shouted another, and now everyone was shouting it: ‘OFF, OFF, OFF!’ Shouting it and stamping their feet…
A stagehand pulled the plug on Sweeney Todd, and its clinking and clanking screeched to a halt. At last it was OFF, and I let my posy drop to the floor.
Quick as always to think on his feet, Mr Magikoo was already by my side, and enveloping me with his cape, he filled the stage with fits of fake laughter. ‘Please, Ladies and Gentlemen, a warm round of applause for Little Magik Matchstick, our young practical joker who had you all fooled!’
That was my final performance, and the last time I toured with my bedroom and Mr Magikoo. When my father was away, auntie Ada was glad to stay over – the portable bed in our pocket-sized storeroom upstairs suited her seasoned English hardiness just fine. She didn’t live far – she had a small one-bedroom flat in Tufnell Park - and had few other commitments as far as I knew, other than her reasonably flexible job at the library in Kentish Town.
I was happy that the Sweeney Todd nightmare was finally behind me. But perhaps for some extra insurance, I decided all the same to go through with my original plan, and starting with a chocolate éclair and some Garibaldi biscuits the day after Croydon, I embarked on a lifetime of gorging on sweets. The effect would not be catastrophic. Yes, Little Magik Matchstick would soon be a thing of the past, but my fortunate metabolism meant that I would stabilise at just short of “plump”. And indeed it would be a just-short-of-plumpness, firm and well defined, that in later life would stand me in good stead: it gave me extra curve and made me a voluptuous woman.
As well as cleanliness and French cuisine, Mia-Mia’s arrival on the scene brought about a host of other changes. In the first place she forbade any more tours. After just a cursory inspection of my father’s books, she informed him bluntly one evening that the tours were a drain on his finances that he could no longer afford. If he concentrated all his efforts on Mr Magikoo’s Magik Shoppe, they might just about manage to save it. It had a steady stream of customers and quite a reputation, but suffered from inadequate accounting and shrinking profit margins.
‘You’ve had your fun with the tours, now it’s time for Mr Magikoo to call it a day, give or take the odd guest appearance. And what’s this about taking your daughter’s room away with you every time you’ve been on tour? That would never have happened if I’d been around, and I’m putting a stop to it right now. Why she’s put up with it for so many years is beyond me. I hope you’ve not been bullying the girl.’
‘Of course not.’
‘It can’t have been easy, raising her alone, but she’s a teenager now. Fourteen is a difficult age.’
‘Ada’s been helping. Jane’s more fond of her than she’s of me.’
‘Well I can’t say I’m surprised.’
Obviously at that stage Mia-Mia didn’t know what had happened either to my mother or to Little Magik Matchstick. Had she known, I imagined that she would have been even less surprised.
‘And all those filthy animals you keep in her room, dead or alive they’ve got to go, and they’ve got to go first thing tomorrow.’
‘But Jane might not want them to go. She’s especially fond of the rabbits.’
Liar! Mia-Mia was right, I had put up with it for far too long, and I was glad that I had found a second ally. Had it not been for auntie Ada, who knows what hideous fate had been in store for Little Magik Matchstick! But that was the only time my father had deferred to his sister on anything related to his magic. He must have known he was breaking the law, and when auntie Ada threatened him with the police, he didn’t have much choice but to give in. With Mia-Mia it was different. She had Mr Magikoo under her spell, and this was my chance to make the most of it.
‘No I’m not fond of the rabbits at all,’ I said, emerging from the darkness of the kitchen, where furtively I had delighted in my father’s dressing down. ‘You’ve only just met Mia-Mia and you’re already telling her lies. You’re asking her to let me keep the rabbits because you want to butcher them, not because I like them.’
‘You butcher rabbits? What kind of magic is that?’
‘It’s just a trick I used to do,’ my father answered sheepishly. ‘It was very popular, and there was very little pain involved, I promise.’
‘Oh yes, very little,’ I said, ‘only the pain of being cut into two.’
‘But it was very quick. It had to be, or the trick wouldn’t have worked.’
‘What was the trick?’ asked Mia-Mia.
‘Pulling a rabbit out of two different hats,’ my father explained.
‘Stop! If I hear any more I’ll be sick.’ Mia-Mia had her hand over her mouth.
‘Can we at least keep the budgerigars?’
‘Not in my room,’ I said.
The next day, when I came back from school all the animals were gone and the torture wall was bare. I celebrated in the kitchen with a slice of treacle tart and a piece of Rhubarb pie with ice cream.
Mia-Mia had been firm and decisive – manly, even. I had found her indomitable spirit inspiring. But soon she had reverted to being my father’s kitten. As for auntie Ada, my father told her he had made a financial decision to give up the tours, and all the animals had been donated to a charity pet shop. I thought it strange that she listened without asking any questions. Perhaps she had guessed Mia-Mia’s part in these momentous decisions, and had judged it an unflattering reflection on herself.
5
Men on the Moon
Six words that had turned my whole world upside down: ‘Let’s go upstairs to my room.’ If they hadn’t been said, my reaction to my father’s crude insinuations would have been to shrug them off. But they had been said, and the evening at Karl’s had not ended there.
‘Let’s go upstairs to my room.’ Looking at me over his shoulder, he had bent his body forward and was leaning on his knees with his hands, ready to spring up onto his feet. Clearly I had heard him correctly. Any doubt had been dispelled.
Instead of answering I looked at my watch, as though I couldn’t have envisaged any other impediment than time. I was petrified. Was it possible… no it wasn’t… was it? Well, why not? Why shouldn’t Karl be interested in me, even if I wasn’t quite as godlike as he was? My looks were not unpleasant, my body had shape, and Karl and I stood perfectly erect at about the same height. Hadn’t stranger things actually happened?
‘And even if I did believe in the Bible…’ The pitch of my voice on the edge of a shriek, I shrank back into silence, still embracing the cushion I had pressed
against my breast after telling him his music was uplifting.
Karl narrowed his eyes. ‘The Bible?’
‘My father,’ I managed to stutter. ‘If I believed in the Bible, probably I’d hate him even more. I’d choose an eye for an eye over turning the other cheek.’
‘I don’t believe in the Bible any more than you do,’ said Karl, snatching the cushion away from me and hurling it over to one of the armchairs – apart from the sofa (dark grey, speckled with burgundy), the living room in Cross Street was furnished with two matching armchairs, arranged around an oblong wooden table precisely at the centre of an oblong woollen rug (ultramarine, decorated geometrically in black). ‘Frau Angela doesn’t either but she likes going to church. Even if there isn’t a God, she thinks that religion is useful.’
‘I think religion is harmful.’
‘I think what Frau Angela means is that it’s good for business,’ said Karl, and it was probably the first time I had seen him roll his eyes. But then his face was placid again, and it edged towards mine as he turned his body round until our knees almost touched. ‘Forget the Bible. It just isn’t fair, hating your father for something that wasn’t his fault.’
‘It was his fault.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘He wired my mother up in an electric chair, and then he pressed a button and he electrocuted her.’
‘It was part of their act, you said they’d done it dozens of times.’ His gaze had become too intense; I could feel the heat of his breath; something was touching my knee.
‘Except this time he decided that he wanted bigger fireworks.’
‘Mami says that you must let the past go. But first you need to deal with what’s happened. Instead of grieving you’ve been blaming your dad, which is no good for either of you.’
‘I tell you things in confidence.’
‘I know,’ said Karl. ‘But every time you visit me you bring it up – out of the blue, like tonight. “Play something,” you said. And the next minute we’re at the piano and you’re telling me how much you hate your dad.’
‘And you’re always calling yours an arsehole,’ I wanted to say, but that would only have proved Karl was right. Hatred was too strong a word. ‘I blame your mother’s meatballs,’ I said. ‘They gave me indigestion.’
‘Very funny,’ said Karl. ‘Now come on, let’s go upstairs.’
For the second time I looked at my watch. ‘You should turn the TV on, I want to see the men on the moon.’
‘I’ve watched the whole thing live,’ said Karl.
‘But I haven’t. And you said they’d be showing it now on the news.’
‘They’ll be showing it on the news all week. It’ll be like the Kennedy shooting all over again.’
‘You watched Bobby Kennedy being shot?’
‘That was so unmemorable I’d forgotten all about it. No, I meant the President’s.’
‘But that was years ago.’
‘1963, November 22.’ The weight of his body was now against mine, and one naked arm had crept its way behind me.
‘You had a TV in 1963?’ I shook myself forward, and I turned to look at Karl from the edge of the sofa.
‘That same one,’ he said, flexing his head in the TV’s direction. ‘Six years ago and I remember it almost like I’m watching it now. Snap, and Jackie puts her arms around Jack. Then another snap that blows off half his head, and now he’s definitely down and Jackie makes a run for it, climbing on all fours over the back of the open limousine – I mean, where do you think she thought she was going?’
‘And they showed all that on TV? But how old were you in 1963, I’m surprised Dr Schmidt let you watch it.’
‘Mami’s very progressive when it comes to the news; we often watch horrible things. The news is real, she says, and it’s good if you can see what’s going on, as long as you know that they’re not showing lies. I’m not sure that she’s right, though. When I watch even horrible things on TV, I can’t get it out of my head that I’m watching a movie, it doesn’t feel like any of it’s actually real.’ And brandishing a finger at the television, ‘There’s something about TV that makes things seem fake, don’t you think?’
Rapt with admiration, I just shook my head. ‘I’ve only ever watched TV with you. We’ve never had one, dad says he doesn’t approve.’
‘Now there’s a good reason to hate him.’ While he stared into the distance, Karl had brought his hands down on his thighs, and the judder of the clap made me jump. ‘Sorry, that was out of order,’ he said, and through the denim of my jeans he was squeezing my knee – was I glad I wasn’t wearing a skirt? Then with his head against the back of the sofa, still stubbornly avoiding my gaze, ‘So, are we going upstairs or not?’
Just then the front door opened and Frau Angela walked in, practical handbag in one hand and bulging worn-out briefcase in the other. I thought about what Karl had said - that his mother was more brilliant than anyone might guess just by looking at her. Were all men the same, judging even their own mothers by looks?
Undeniably Frau Angela was not of the swinging ’60s, and it had nothing to do with her age. She was emphatically not psychedelic; it was as if style and colour had eluded her completely, but she looked neither old nor odd in her plainness. Taken one by one her features were not unattractive, but taken as a whole they became incoherent, adding up to a contradictory impression of severity overwhelmed by excessive good health. I hadn’t a clue what a Reichian therapist was, but I suspected Karl’s mother was probably a good one. All the same, without knowing why, I didn’t really like her.
‘Another time then.’ And letting go of my knee, Karl got up to greet his Mami with a kiss.
‘The TV isn’t on? Good evening, Jane.’
‘Good evening, Dr Schmidt.’
‘Please, you must call me Angela.’
‘You said you’d not be home till late,’ Karl said as he carried her briefcase to the dining room table. ‘Jane’s eaten all the meatballs, by the way. They gave her indigestion.’
‘Karl! It’s not true, Dr Schmidt.’
Frau Angela brushed away the air with one arm, while stretching out the other to switch on the TV.
‘I cancelled my last two appointments,’ she gasped as she fell into one of the armchairs, kicking off her sensible shoes. ‘It’s not every day we land on the moon, and as I missed it when it actually happened I’d like to watch it now.’
‘You cancelled your last two appointments again?’
‘My son is making fun of me, Jane.’
‘Mami got the times wrong,’ Karl explained. ‘They were landing late last night, but it was almost another six hours before Armstrong came out of the capsule and actually stepped on the moon, and by then it was four in the morning.’
‘July 20, they said. At a reasonable hour here in London, I thought. So I cancelled my last two appointments to get back home in time, and in the end I was falling asleep on the sofa, I couldn’t even manage to stay up for the landing.’
‘But yesterday was Sunday,’ I said.
‘My busiest day,’ sighed Dr Schmidt. ‘All the fun of Saturday is gone, Monday is looming, and suddenly the weight of the world seems so unbearably heavy. The mistake, of course, is how extremely we separate the week from the weekend; it’s very punishing. One must learn to make the best of it; that’s what I say to my clients. Karl also, he must know how to rest. Just listen sometimes, not learn but enjoy. And almost every Saturday we manage to find something. You should join us some time, I’m sure Karl would like that, no?’ And when Karl had nodded to say yes, ‘So I take the day off every Saturday, then I work in the afternoon and evening on Sundays and Mondays, then all day on Tuesday - tomorrow until ten, with the two missed appointments, and today I had to start in the morning, to catch up with yesterday’s two missed appointments. The moon has been a scheduling nightmare. But now it’s fine, we know that they are already there.’
The TV was warming up, and the buzz of the grainy black and
white filled me with an odd premonition of chaos.
‘How are things at home?’ It was Dr Schmidt, not Frau Angela or Mami, who had asked me the question while we waited for the picture to adjust.
‘I’ve already told Jane what you said.’
‘I see.’ After scowling at her son with a glare of disapproval, Dr Schmidt leaned forward in her chair to assault me with professional concern. ‘What happened to your mother was terrible,’ she said. ‘But so was what happened to you. Terrible, terrible…’
‘I’m all right, Dr Schmidt, really. It was nearly ten years ago now, I don’t even remember my mum very clearly.’
‘But here you remember, here you will never forget.’ Dr Schmidt had spread out both her hands, and with one over the other was thumping at the side of her breast with some force. She looked like she was giving herself CPR. I felt myself erupting in goosebumps. Was this how a Reichian therapist did things? And what on earth might a Reichian therapist do next? A vague apprehension took hold of me.
‘Anyway,’ I said, trying to change the subject, ‘dad’s been very happy since he met his new girlfriend. I quite like her, most of the time. She’s called Mia-Mia, and she works as a hairdresser in Chelsea.’
‘Yes, Karl did mention something, and I think it’s important that you like her.’
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