by Giles Ekins
‘You alright, Charlie?' Clarrie asks out of the corner of her mouth, taking another bow, ‘you look like shit,’ her voice seeping through the whisky fumes in his head.
He straightens up., ‘Touch of flu, is all.’
‘Distillers flu more like!’
‘Medicinal Clarrie, purely medicinal.’
‘Bullshit, you’re pissed and you know it.’
Charlie stands there immobile, seemingly unable to move, rooted to the spot
‘Get on with it, pal,’ a drunk shouts from the audience, ‘we want to be out of here before the snow sets in for winter.’
Charlie grimaces at the unseen heckler, mutters to himself under his breath. ‘You come and stand up here mate. See how you bloody well get on, eh? The great Tuesday matinee dead show; the dead playing to the dead!’ He turns away, back to the audience and hisses through his teeth, ‘Aye, you’re right, Clarrie, fuck it, let’s get this sodding farce wrapped up, we’ll miss out on the swords in the box and go straight to the disappear. Right?’
‘OK, Charlie, for the best I reckon.’ ‘Considering the state you’re in.’
‘Tell Bert in the pit, he’ll need to change his music. I’ll keep the buggers out there amused. Or at least awake ‘til you can cue me in.’
‘Right.’ She walks about the stage, posing and pouting, mouths ‘finale’ to the wings and then to the conductor in the as Charlie draws the attention of the audience, or at least that section of the audience that can still be bothered to watch, creating thunder flash explosions by throwing magnesium powder onto a brazier, so that it appears as though his hurling thunderbolts from his fingertips. He fans out a deck of cards in each hand, shot from his cuffs, drops them into a top hat, more cards magically appear to be dropped into the hat, Charlie managing not to drop them although coming close to doing so with the third deck that he fanned.
A drum roll starts up from the pits as two stage assistants carry out a three sided clear plastic box, about 24” square in section and 2’ 6” tall and place it on end, like a pillar, the open side to the rear. Next Clarrie brings a hinged black lacquered Chinese screen in three panels onto the stage, the screen large enough to go around the pillar and of the same height, placing it around the pillar so as to screen it form view. .The drum roll continues as the stage assistants’ next carry on a second box and place it on the stage in front of the screened pillar. It is a solid box, some 36” by 36” by 24”, brightly painted in spangley sparkling paint and decorated with cabalistic signs.
A clash of cymbals and Eddie Puttock, the MC resplendent in the red tail-coat, much like a circus MC, strides onto the stage, microphone in his hand.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen, the Seville Theatre is proud to present to you one of the most amazing feats of magic ever performed on any stage anywhere in the world. In the World! Here Tonight. Without the help of gadgetry, of trick camera work or any elaborate stage props, tonight ladies and gentlemen, BEFORE YOUR VERY EYES, The Great Santini will make his assistant, the very lovely Clarissa disappear. Vanish, As if in a puff of smoke’
Eddie stands back, well pleased with himself for remembering the intro at such short notice, he is another not averse to a sip or two of scotch at lunch and then forever after as the broken veins about his fleshy nose testify. ‘Vanish,’ he repeats, ‘Disappear. As if in a puff of smoke’
‘Can he do that to my old woman, then?’ someone shouts from the audience, earning a sharp elbow to his ribs for his trouble.
‘Now, now,’ says Eddie, ‘I’m sure your wife is a lovely woman.’
‘Yeah, in the dark,’ shouts another voice, with a nasal bray of laughter at his own wit.
‘Get a move on,’ someone else shouts, the audience is getting restless.
Eddie has been around too long to be fazed and spreads out his arms, making quieting gestures, letting the noise subside. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends. I must ask for your cooperation. The Great Santini must, must have total concentration. FOR IT IS BY THE POWER OF HIS MAGIC, by the power of his mind alone, that this dangerous feat is performed. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I give you…The Great Santini and his amazing, fantabulous VANISHING LADY. I ask for your silence, Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,’ and at that he makes his way off stage.
The lights dim. A spotlight spears through the darkness, picking out the spangled box. Clarrie steps into the spotlight and demonstrates that the box is empty, that it has a hinged lid. She removes her high heels shoes and daintily steps into the box and kneels down waving out towards the audience. The circle of the spotlight expands; the stage lights come up again.
The stage hands come back on stage and pick up the box and lift it, with Clarrie still inside and place it carefully on top of the pillar as Charlie creates more distraction with thunder flashes. The lights dim once more, leaving the box transfixed in the white light spot. Clarrie waves once more and settles down into the box, the hinged lid still open. To a rising drum roll, the lid of the box slowly, oh so slowly, begins to descend and finally comes to a close. The Great Santini covers the box with a black velvet cloth and then, with a flourish pulls away the hinged lacquer screen, leaving the box perched atop the thin transparent pillar. Cymbals crash, one, two, three.
A second spot now picks out The Great Santini., drum rolls reach a climax, cymbals clash again, echoing around the half empty theatre like a Chinese dragon.
Sudden silence, as startling as a gunshot.
The Great Santini, tall, imperious, eyes closed as if in deep concentration begins to chant an incantation. Suddenly he swirls. A cymbal crash. He removes the black cloth, tossing it to one side, passes his cape over the spangled box whilst releasing a catch with the other. All four spring loaded sides and the lid of the box fall away.
To reveal Clarrie!
She is still on her knees, struggling to get through the hole in the base of the box, she should have been out and away long ago, waiting in the wings to be brought back on stage when summoned by Charlie.
The illusion is simple, as soon as she is lifted on top of the pillar she is supposed to slide head first through the hole in the base of the box and into the pillar, before the lacquer screen in removed, so that she has vanished before the audience even realise that the trick has commenced. She exits through the open side of the pillar and out through the rear curtains whilst the lights are still dimmed. Or at least, that is the idea.
The Great Santini stands there aghast; his mouth gapes, working like a goldfish. ‘What the holy fuck has gone wrong?’ Someone in the audience sniggers, ‘Rubbish!’ another shouts.
‘Rubbish, bloody rubbish.’
The call is taken up, ‘What a load of rubbish. What a load of rubbish,’ in a sing song voice. Like a flash, the entire audience, take up the chant, stamping and clapping to the beat of the chant.
‘WHAT A LOAD OF RUBBISH! - WHAT A LOAD OF RUBBISH! -WHAT A LOAD OF RUBBISH! - WHAT A LOAD OF RUBBISH! - WHAT A LOAD OF RUBBISH!
‘Shut up. Shut up the lot of you’ Charlie shouts, red faced and angry, sweat tracks gouging through his make-up, but this only serves to keep the chant going. Steaming waves of anger surge through him, he turns to Clarrie, still crouched on top of the box, backside pointing squarely towards the audience; he stomps over to her and slashes at her buttocks with his silver ‘magic’ wand. She yelps in pain and the wand snaps in two, the broken end spinning away, leaving Charlie with the stump in his hand, lashing away two or three more times before realising he has no wand left and throws the stump away in anger into the wings, narrowly missing Eddie Puttock who is standing there, enjoying the farce unfolding on stage.
The crowd howls even louder and begins to throw things, screwed up programmes, sweet packets, plastic drink cups, empty cigarette packets, anything, whilst the chanting and stamping go on.
‘SHUT UP,’ Charlie screams in fury, ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP. SHUT THE FUCK UP.’
Clarrie slides off the box with all the grace of a stranded walrus, knocking ove
r the box and pillar as she does so and lands heavily on her hands and knees, almost popping out of her tight bodice so that she has to suddenly clutch at her chest,, to even more jeers and derisive laughter, whilst to the wings Eddie Puttock is holding his sides, aching from laughter. The curtains drop to another round of jeers and whistles. Charlie stares at the curtains, unsure what has happened. How had the trick gone wrong, they had performed it a hundred times , a thousand times without a hitch, so what had gone wrong? It is simple enough misdirection, the audience look at the box and the slowly descending lid whilst Clarrie is already gone.
‘Eddie, Eddie, get out there and try and keep them from tearing the place apart, at least until we can get Mandy on.’ Benny Marsden, the theatre manager comes running over, flailing his arms about his head as though trying to prevent even more disaster crashing about his ears. One of his cuff links catches in his toupee and nearly rips it from his head and he clutches at it sudden panic, the worst catastrophe that could happen to him. ‘Sam,’ he calls to a stage hand, ‘get Mandy up here toot sweet. Tell her to get her arse up here pronto. Eddie, what you waiting for, get the fuck out there.’
‘Right boss, still, at least it’s woken the buggers up.’
‘Well send ‘em back to sleep again, you’re good at that.’
‘Sarky bastard,’ Eddie mutters, ‘Hey, Charlie,’ he says as he passes him, ‘you should go into comedy, mate, that’s the funniest routine I’ve seen in years, a real thigh-slapper. Fucking Magic!’ seemingly unaware of the irony in those last words, but Charlie did not hear, still staring at the curtains.
Eddie, now audience side of the curtains, can be heard trying to calm down the raucous audience, striving to be heard above the chorus of whistles and jeers. The crowd is after blood, anybody’s blood and Eddie’s will do as well as the next.
‘All right, all right, calm down, you not at home now you know, you know. Sorry about that …er…slight technical hitch, seems as though The Great Santini forgot to get his wand charged up last night. Story of my life is that, not getting my wand charged up at night, ta-da.’ More boos and jeers. ‘All right, like that is it, suit yourselves. Suit yourselves. Now then, did you hear about the little lad who took his Grand –dad out onto the South beach, right here in Whitburn, lovely Whitburn on Sea, ain’t it grand, eh? Actually no, it’s the arsehole of the Western World. – ‘Anyhow, this little lad hands his Grand-dad his bucket, the one his Mum bought him for making sandcastles. ‘What’s this for then, son, eh?’ Grand-dad asks, ‘Well says the lad, ‘Me Mam says that as soon as you kick it, I can ‘ave a new bike. Ta-da. All right, all right, be like that; see if I give a tuppenny …furfurfur… fig.’
He gets the nod from the wings and can see Mandy Sweet, anxiously patting at her hair, nervous, apprehensive about having to face the baying crowd at such short notice. ‘Now then,’ continues Eddies, totally unperturbed by the hostile reaction to his feeble jokes, ‘now then, have we got a real treat coming up for you? Straight from her record breaking engagement in Lost Wages, otherwise known as Las Vegas, back by popular demand, will you please give a big hand and welcome… Miss Mandy Sweet.’
A chorus of cat-calls and jeers ring out as Mandy takes the stage, as jittery as a Christian facing the lions. ‘Come on, Mandy,’ someone shouts, ‘show us your tits.’
Meanwhile Charlie and Benny Marsden are at it, Benny dragging Charlie off into the wings and now giving full vent to his displeasure, spittle flying, spattering Charlie’s shirt crumpled sweaty shirt. ‘That’s it Charlie. That’s absolutely it, the last fucking time you ever work summer season in this theatre. Ever! Absolutely for fucking ever.’
Another chorus of jeers, the crowd are not to be placated, before she has even opened her mouth the audience are after Mandy, not prepared to give her a chance. Scenting blood. Benny anxiously glances across to Mandy on the stage before continuing his tirade against Charlie.’ The last time. And if I had my way, I’d make sure you never work in any other place an’ all, let alone here. A fucking disaster. A disaster and it’s not the first time, neither, not by a long fucking chalk.’
Charlie has come out of his brown study, Benny shouting at him, the little twerp, has snapped him out of it. ‘Come on Benny,’ he snaps, ‘It’s that fat bitch as got it wrong,’ pointing at Clarrie, ‘She should’ve been out the box and over the hills and far away long before the lid even begun to close, you know how the trick works.’
‘Don’t you call me a fat bitch, you bastard,’ she hisses at Charlie, her dander also well and truly up and turns to Benny. ‘He hit me. The bastard hit me. Right there on stage in front of everybody, they saw it and now I’m going to sue him. And you and this poxy theatre, none of you will have a pot to piss in, time I’m done with you.’
‘Calm down, Clarrie, eh?’ wheedles Benny as more cat-calls, boos and jeers can be heard from the stage as Mandy sings, or at least tries to, she can no more hold a tune than next doors cat on heat. She once had a minor hit when a song she recorded was used in a deodorant commercial, but that was a while ago and her career –what career?- has gone downhill ever since. Although she did in fact appear one time on stage in Las Vegas, using some of her record earnings to fly there and attempt to fulfill her dream of becoming a hit on the Strip but only stage she trod was a night club stage and the only thing she did there was to strip. And what she had to do to get even that job didn’t bear thinking about.
Benny glances nervously towards the stage as the cat-calls grow louder and Mandy flees in tears, jeers and boos following her off the stage. Eddie the MC, seeing Benny dithering about uselessly as usual takes it upon himself to announce the interval and the stage curtains drop once more. Benny turns back to Clarrie, ‘Just try and calm down a bit, Clarrie eh? I’m sure it was an accident, Charlie I mean, with the wand. An accident, eh? These things happen all the time don’t they, no point in getting all riled up over nowt, is there?’ and he reaches over to pat her on the arm.
‘You can get your sweaty paws off me an’ all.’
‘What you playing at anyway, Clarrie?’ Charlie interjects. ‘What’s with all the pissing about, not getting out of the box? You tryin’ to make a laughing stock of or what?’
‘You don’t need any help from me for that, you bastard. Just you wait ‘til I tell my Frank what you’ve done. Hitting me on stage like that, he’ll sort you out, no mistake.’
‘Now, now, Clarrie’ says Benny, trying to placate her again, being sued is the last thing the theatre –and Benny - need right now.
‘Rearrange your smarmy face for you,’ Clarrie continues, ignoring Benny. ‘Just see if he doesn’t. Bloody well hurt that did, I’m dead sure I’m marked,’ peering down, pulling aside her leotard and tights to try to see her outraged backside. Charlie points at her buttocks.
‘Look at it, look at all that extra lard. You been stuffing your face with cake and chips and bacon butties again, haven’t you? I told you, when I took you on, you’re only of any bloody use to me if you stay lithe and slim, don’t put on any weight. Jesus Christ, woman, you must have put on about 10 stone.’
‘Not one ounce. Not one single bloody ounce. Huh, as if anyone could afford to eat bacon on what you pay me, you tight arse shit.’ Straining her head as far back as she can Clarrie catches sight of a scarlet weal on her buttock. ‘Ooooooh, look at that. Look at that, you just wait ’til I show my Frank. He’ll do you proper, see if he doesn’t.’
‘I’ll turn him into a newt if he does,’ Charlie answers. ‘A newt! Nobody fucks with The Great Santini.’ Then the sheer absurdity of what he has just said strikes Charlie like a blow and he bursts out into hysterical, whisky fuelled laughter, giggling and spluttering. ‘Oh my god, a newt, hahahahahaha. A newt, a newt, my kingdom for a newt.’ He was bent over, tears streaming down his face, convulsed with frenetic mirth, ribs aching.
Hysterical laughter is contagious, catching, infectious and Clarrie soon catches it, snorting and giggling, ‘A newt, Jesus, he’s like that my Frank, god
knows he’s been as pissed as one often enough.’
They collapse into each other arms, still laughing hysterically, faces sodden with tears, gasping and wheezing, as if trying to prove that it was really that funny, watched by a motley crew of back of house staff, stage hands and performers, this was far more entertaining than anything ever seen on stage, as Benny glowered, ever indecisive, his anger steaming, the situation out of his control.
‘When you two lovebirds have stopped billing and fucking cooing at each other,’ Benny snaps, ‘Chilton, I want you in my office, now, this minute. Then I want you out of this theatre within ten minutes. And don’t bother coming back,’ raising a chorus of oohs and aahs from the back stage onlookers. ‘Ain’t you lot got nothing to do, we got a show to put on, salvage summat from this fucking disaster, go on, move your arses.’ Reluctantly they shuffle away. ‘Ten minutes.’ Benny repeats to Charlie, ‘out,’ jerking his thumb towards the stage door
‘I got a contract Benny,’ he responds, clenching his fists angrily, his whole day staggering from mishap to calamity.
‘I got a copy of your contract an’ all, Charlie Chilton. It says you’re supposed to perform magic tricks and illusions. I didn’t see no magic tricks, no fucking illusions out there today,’ pointing toward the stage, ‘ All I saw were some drunk, so pissed ’e’ couldn’t hardly stand up. You gotta contract? Well I got a contract and I got head office lawyers. What the fuck you got, Charlie. I tell you. Nothing. Sweet fuck all. So! My office this minute,’ and he stomps off, full of self-importance, adjusting his toupee as he goes.